‘I am Aimar Hadeed,’ said the man, ‘and this is my wife Ranim. I apologise, but we do not speak very fine English. Our language is Arabic.’
‘We can get a translator if you like?’ said Banks. ‘It may take a while to set up, but if it makes you more comfortable...’
‘I think I can manage,’ Aimar said. ‘It is my wife who does not speak so much.’
Banks smiled at Ranim Hadeed. She gave him a nervous smile in return. ‘As you can imagine,’ Aimar went on, ‘we are both very upset.’
‘Understandably,’ Banks said. ‘Perhaps you can begin by telling me why it took you so long to come here?’
Aimar spread his hands. ‘We did not know. We do not read the newspapers. We do not have television. We are not ignorant people. We come from Aleppo, and we are thought to be very Western in many ways, but here we... we feel lost... We have a community. People like us, who speak our language. We do not drink. We go out very little.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Banks asked.
‘We came in 2017.’
‘And you’ve lived in Huddersfield all that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how did you find out about...’
‘His name is Samir,’ Aimar said. ‘Samir Boulad.’
‘How did you find out about Samir?’
‘A neighbour came yesterday. He told us of the boy who had been murdered in North Yorkshire. He showed us a photograph. It was Samir. And so we came here. Can we see him? Can we see Samir?’
‘Yes. Later,’ said Banks. ‘I would like you to identify him for us. We couldn’t find anyone who knew who he was.’
‘We did not know he was here.’
‘In England?’
Aimar nodded. ‘We did not know he had arrived. Such a journey can take a long time.’
‘Did you know he was coming?’
‘Yes. We knew he had left Aleppo. My sister send us letter, but it takes long to arrive. But we do not know what happens after that. Where is Samir. How he travels. There are many perils.’
‘Were you expecting him?’
‘We thought he would come to us. Yes.’
‘Did he know where you lived?’
‘My sister write down address for him, but... the journey... many difficulties. Maybe he loses a small piece of paper?’
‘And it’s a big country,’ said Banks.
Aimar smiled sadly. ‘Yes.’
‘Weren’t you worried when he didn’t turn up?’
‘We worry every day. But we did not know where to look for him or when he would come. You must understand, Mr Banks, that many people make this journey. Many people attempt, but not all arrive. It is always possible he is still in Greece or Italy. Or France. Many people live in camps.’
‘So nobody knew where he was living or what he was doing?’
‘No. These people who sail boats and drive lorries, they are bad men. They rob and they kill. When you set out, you do not know if you will arrive or if you will drown. Or where you will arrive. How long it takes. It’s a dangerous journey. Many rivers to cross. Many seas. There are many routes and many dangers on every one. Border checks, bandits. Samir wanted to come to show he was a true man and to light the way for his mother and father and sisters. To get money for them to come.’
‘They couldn’t afford to come?’
‘They could not all pay, no. These smugglers want much money. And Ranim and I, we could not help. We both work, we clean offices at night, but it is not good job, and not good pay.’
‘Samir’s family was going to follow?’
‘Yes. When Samir could send them money. But sometimes the men with boats, they make you keep paying. Samir very young. Only thirteen. They could make him work many months before they say he has paid them what he owes.’
‘Well, he got here,’ said Banks.
‘But what happened? The paper my friend showed me said someone stabbed him.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hadeed, but that’s true. Yes.’
An expression of pain passed across his face. ‘But why? He was only a boy. He never hurt anyone.’
‘We don’t know why. Until you came here today, we didn’t even know his name or his nationality.’
Ranim put her head in her hands and wept. Her husband comforted her. When her tears had subsided, Banks asked if they would like more tea, or coffee. Aimar asked for a glass of water for his wife and Banks fetched it. Annie sat next to Ranim and helped comfort her. Banks was beginning to feel sick and angry. Samir had come all this way, suffered God only knew what trials and tribulations in his rite of passage, only to end up dead in a wheelie bin, without even an identity.
‘I won’t keep you much longer,’ Banks said after handing the glass of water to Ranim. ‘Do you know if Samir travelled legally at any stage? Would he have been through the formalities when he arrived here?’
‘I do not know. But maybe I think not.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I mean, we are not from immigration. It’s just a matter of checking with authorities to see if we have any record of him entering the country. Was he an asylum seeker?’
‘He was scared young boy,’ said Aimar. ‘I think he maybe just get off boat and run.’
‘I want to try and arrange for his parents to come to claim his body. I can’t promise you anything, but I will—’
‘No!’ Aimar shook his head. ‘No. You do not understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
‘Ali, and my sister Lely. They cannot come here now.’
‘Why not?’
Aimar grasped Ranim’s hand. She was weeping again. ‘Because they are dead,’ he went on. ‘All dead. Mother. Father. Sisters.’
‘My God,’ said Banks. ‘How?’ But even as he asked, he knew it was a silly question.
‘Bomb,’ said Aimar, and with tears in his eyes and a kind of matter-of-fact finality, he made a flying and diving gesture with his hand, then mimicked the sound of an explosion.
Chapter 7
DC Gerry Masterson walked down Elmet Hill to talk to Granville Myers, who headed the local Neighbourhood Watch. She had talked to Myers before, while investigating the attack on Lisa Bartlett, and thought it was unlikely that he or any of his team would know anything about the death of Howard Stokes. It had taken place beyond the park, in what might well have been a foreign country. But the visit still had to be made. The residents of the hill area were already complaining about the lack of police presence — hence the Neighbourhood Watch — especially since Lisa’s sexual assault a month ago.
Elmet Hill was a strange area. For a start, on printed town maps the main road was always referred to as Elmet Street, but nobody ever called it that. The tree-lined hill that curved like a bow on its way from North Market Street down to Cardigan Drive was known to all as Elmet Hill, and along its path it radiated a number of winding side streets — a Close, a Terrace, a Crescent, a Way, among others — which made up the area locals referred to as simply ‘the hill’. It was not to be confused with The Heights, of course, Eastvale’s poshest enclave. Gerry had often thought how strange it was to have all three in a row, running downhill from east to west: richest, less rich, poor.
Beyond the small park at the bottom of Elmet Hill ran Cardigan Drive, and over the street stood the decaying and mostly empty streets of the doomed Hollyfield Estate. A popular pub called The Oak stood at the south-eastern corner of Elmet Hill and Cardigan Drive, on the edge of the park, and its beer garden looked out on the trees and the narrow tributary of the River Swain that ran through the park.
The people fortunate enough to live in the pleasant, leafy streets around Elmet Hill were grateful for the short green belt that separated them from Hollyfield, and most people in the neighbourhood were in favour of the new development, although the idea of Elmet Hill being extended through the park at the bottom to form a link with the proposed new shopping centre was a bugbear. Nobody really wanted more traffic running up and down the hill, and nor did they want to lose their park. There were counterproposals, and the local citizens’ committee were hopeful they could get some changes made to the present plan.