Read Online Death in a Far Country by Patricia Hall - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Hall
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they apply to university.’
‘We’re circulating the drawing there too,’ Mower said shortly.
‘How was she killed?’ the girl asked.
‘She was attacked and pushed, or maybe fell, into the canal,’ Mower said.
‘Because she was black?’ the girl asked.
Mower hesitated for a moment before replying as the girl twisted her hands into a knot, the knuckles showing white.
‘We don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘We’ve no reason to think that, but we simply don’t know at this stage. Until we know who she is…’ He shrugged. ‘Is there much racism on the campus?’ he asked.
‘Since the London bombings we have all felt at risk if we’re not white,’ the girl said flatly. ‘We advise students – Asian and black students as well, some people don’t seem to make any distinction – not to go around the town on their own. We’ve got a leaflet we give them when they arrive. You should know what it’s like. We’re all under siege if our skin’s the wrong colour.’
‘I can imagine,’ Mower said. ‘The registry didn’t tell me any of this, though.’
‘They wouldn’t, would they? Their priority is protecting their precious image. This place relies heavily on overseasstudents. If they stop coming, it might have to close down.’
‘You’ll put as many copies of the picture and the police phone number up as you can, then?’
‘Of course,’ the girl said. ‘I hope you catch the bastards that did it.’
‘We will,’ Mower said. ‘Believe me, we will.’
The young woman hesitated for a moment as Mower turned away.
‘You could try the churches and mosques,’ she said. ‘Most Africans are more religious than the white population. So are West Indians, come to that. But remember, if she comes from West Africa she could be a Christian or a Muslim.’
‘Good idea,’ Mower said. ‘Thanks for that.’
The Sergeant made his way back onto the street feeling more depressed than when he had come in and with none of the confidence with which he had tried to reassure the young woman he had just left. The hilly street outside was buzzing with young people of all races, chattering excitedly in the pale sunshine, but he knew that this was not typical of Bradfield as a whole. Londoners might talk complacently about their harmonious multiracial society but in some of these northern towns different groups kept themselves more clannishly to themselves, and since the bloody arrival of Al Qaeda-inspired terrorism in Britain, suspicion had burgeoned and racist incidents had spiralled almost out of control. There were hundreds of thousands of second- and third-generation immigrants in this part of the world, he thought, and it took only a handful of fanatics from Leeds to jeopardise years of patient work towards racial harmony. He hoped that the girl whose picture he was distributing did not turn out to be thevictim of a racially motivated crime, but he knew it couldn’t be ruled out, and the thought made him angry. He was dark-complexioned enough himself, the son of a Cypriot father he had never known, to have felt the lash of racist abuse more than once in his career. It was not pleasant, and as far as he could see it was as far from being rooted out as ever.
He turned up the steep hill, making his way a little further from the town centre, and pushed open the door of a shop-front with opaque windows and no indication of its business. The room inside was divided by a wooden counter and a couple of people sat on chairs, as if in a waiting room. There was a bell on the counter, which Mower rang, and a pale, fair-haired young woman in a brightly patterned peasant blouse over her worn jeans came out from the back of the shop and offered a slightly nervous smile.
‘This is Refugee Aid?’ Mower asked, flipping open his warrant card in the young woman’s direction, at which she looked slightly reassured. She nodded.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked. ‘I’m Rosemary Bennet. I’m a volunteer here.
‘We’re circulating the drawing there too,’ Mower said shortly.
‘How was she killed?’ the girl asked.
‘She was attacked and pushed, or maybe fell, into the canal,’ Mower said.
‘Because she was black?’ the girl asked.
Mower hesitated for a moment before replying as the girl twisted her hands into a knot, the knuckles showing white.
‘We don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘We’ve no reason to think that, but we simply don’t know at this stage. Until we know who she is…’ He shrugged. ‘Is there much racism on the campus?’ he asked.
‘Since the London bombings we have all felt at risk if we’re not white,’ the girl said flatly. ‘We advise students – Asian and black students as well, some people don’t seem to make any distinction – not to go around the town on their own. We’ve got a leaflet we give them when they arrive. You should know what it’s like. We’re all under siege if our skin’s the wrong colour.’
‘I can imagine,’ Mower said. ‘The registry didn’t tell me any of this, though.’
‘They wouldn’t, would they? Their priority is protecting their precious image. This place relies heavily on overseasstudents. If they stop coming, it might have to close down.’
‘You’ll put as many copies of the picture and the police phone number up as you can, then?’
‘Of course,’ the girl said. ‘I hope you catch the bastards that did it.’
‘We will,’ Mower said. ‘Believe me, we will.’
The young woman hesitated for a moment as Mower turned away.
‘You could try the churches and mosques,’ she said. ‘Most Africans are more religious than the white population. So are West Indians, come to that. But remember, if she comes from West Africa she could be a Christian or a Muslim.’
‘Good idea,’ Mower said. ‘Thanks for that.’
The Sergeant made his way back onto the street feeling more depressed than when he had come in and with none of the confidence with which he had tried to reassure the young woman he had just left. The hilly street outside was buzzing with young people of all races, chattering excitedly in the pale sunshine, but he knew that this was not typical of Bradfield as a whole. Londoners might talk complacently about their harmonious multiracial society but in some of these northern towns different groups kept themselves more clannishly to themselves, and since the bloody arrival of Al Qaeda-inspired terrorism in Britain, suspicion had burgeoned and racist incidents had spiralled almost out of control. There were hundreds of thousands of second- and third-generation immigrants in this part of the world, he thought, and it took only a handful of fanatics from Leeds to jeopardise years of patient work towards racial harmony. He hoped that the girl whose picture he was distributing did not turn out to be thevictim of a racially motivated crime, but he knew it couldn’t be ruled out, and the thought made him angry. He was dark-complexioned enough himself, the son of a Cypriot father he had never known, to have felt the lash of racist abuse more than once in his career. It was not pleasant, and as far as he could see it was as far from being rooted out as ever.
He turned up the steep hill, making his way a little further from the town centre, and pushed open the door of a shop-front with opaque windows and no indication of its business. The room inside was divided by a wooden counter and a couple of people sat on chairs, as if in a waiting room. There was a bell on the counter, which Mower rang, and a pale, fair-haired young woman in a brightly patterned peasant blouse over her worn jeans came out from the back of the shop and offered a slightly nervous smile.
‘This is Refugee Aid?’ Mower asked, flipping open his warrant card in the young woman’s direction, at which she looked slightly reassured. She nodded.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked. ‘I’m Rosemary Bennet. I’m a volunteer here.
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