Page 17

The woman looked up sharply as Helen entered, surprised by her unexpected appearance. Helen had spent her life walking into unfamiliar environments, where her presence was not always welcome, but in the past she’d had a warrant card to hide behind. Today she had nothing, except good intentions.

‘Can I help you?’

Her hostess was a tall woman with long, ebony hair, sparkling eyes and a gentle smile. Abandoning the box she’d been packing, she approached Helen, her hand outstretched.

‘Harika Guli. I’m the manager here.’

Helen immediately felt herself relax, accepting Harika’s handshake and running her eye over the threadbare, cluttered interior.

A few minutes internet research had singled out the Kurdish Welfare Centre in Woolston as her most promising port of call.

Set up ten years ago, it was a home from home for the Kurdish community in Southampton, a fount of knowledge about life in the UK.

The centre’s handful of volunteers gave their time freely to assist Kurdish migrants who were new to the UK, advising on immigration, the law, finances, education and more besides.

It was run on a shoestring, kept afloat by a steady stream of modest donations, its handful of volunteers giving up their time three afternoons a week to keep the place going, but its reputation was good and its reach significant.

If you lived in Southampton and were of Kurdish heritage, odds on you’d find your way here before long.

‘My name’s Helen Grace. I’m a former police officer and I was wondering if I could ask for your help?’

‘Former police officer?’ Harika enquired, her eyebrow raising just slightly. ‘So what are you now? A private investigator?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ Helen replied, quickly. ‘I’m here …’

She hesitated momentarily, trying to find the words.

‘… I’m just here as a concerned citizen.’

‘I see.’

Harika’s smile was still welcoming, but she was evidently confused, so Helen continued quickly.

‘I’m looking for a young woman, who I think is Kurdish. I don’t know her full name, nor why she’s in the UK, but she’s in real danger and I need to locate her urgently.’

‘Danger from whom?’

‘I don’t even know that, I’m afraid. But she was attacked last night by two men who bundled her into a van and drove off. I’m desperately trying to find out what’s happened to her.’

Instantly, Helen saw her companion react, confusion morphing to concern. Gesturing to Helen to take a seat, Harika replied:

‘Can you describe this woman?’

‘Late twenties, shoulder-length black hair, brown eyes. She has Deq tattoos on her face, a small cross on her chin, a gazelle on her forehead …’

Nodding, Harika exchanged a meaningful glance with the pair of middle-aged women at the rear of the shop, who’d ceased packing up donations to take in this exchange, before returning her attention to Helen.

‘Plus, she told me her first name was Selima. I’m wondering if you’ve encountered anyone matching that description? Or know of anyone who might point me in the right direction?’

Helen watched on hopefully as Harika turned from her, slipping into her native tongue as she discussed Helen’s urgent enquiry with her fellow volunteers.

Helen felt her stomach tighten, suddenly aware of how desperate she was for a lead, some insight into this awful crime.

She knew also that the women’s response now was crucial, given that Helen had no other obvious resources to exploit in her hunt for the missing woman.

When Harika turned back to Helen, however, her face was a picture of disappointment and frustration.

‘Selima is a common name, but I’m afraid none of us know anyone who fits your description. The tattoos suggest that she probably is Kurdish and it is true that a lot of our countrymen – and women – make the journey here, particularly from Turkey. As you know, the Kurdish community is …’

Harika hesitated, choosing her words carefully as she continued:

‘… perhaps one of the least favoured ethnic groups in Turkey, as far as the government is concerned at least. This, plus the problems our people have endured following the great earthquake, mean there are always people on the move, seeking ways to earn money for their families.’

Her tone was angry and defiant, her passion clear.

‘Many Kurds have made their way here in the last couple of years, particularly from the south-eastern regions of Turkey where the situation is worst, and it’s possible Selima comes from there.

But if we haven’t seen her, then I’m afraid it’s likely that she’s either just arrived in Southampton or been brought here illegally, possibly both … ’

She trailed off with a disappointed shrug, aware this didn’t get Helen any further forward.

‘Given what happened last night, I’m guessing the latter,’ Helen agreed, her heart sinking. ‘They treated her … well, they treated her worse than an animal. It was disgusting.’

Helen’s tone was bitter, provoking earnest nods from the three women. The women here knew they were the lucky ones, having the resources, education, connections and luck to relocate without having to run the gauntlet of the criminal gangs.

‘It’s horrible, I know,’ Harika responded. ‘But it’s only going to get worse. We had many problems in our community before the earthquake, but now …’

She didn’t need to elaborate, hundreds, perhaps thousands of rural Kurds seeking sanctuary in Europe and the UK, driven from Turkey by desperation, desolation and in some cases starvation.

It was a grim picture, a flood of anguished refugees walking straight into the hands of traffickers and gangsters, intent on capitalizing on their plight.

It made Helen’s blood boil and, by the looks of things, she wasn’t the only one.

‘We do what we can to help,’ Harika continued earnestly.

‘We’re working hard to set up safe, legal routes to this country, whilst trying to assist those who’ve decided to remain in Turkey.

Twice a year, we organize a charity drive to ensure that those who are suffering back home get at least the basics. ’

Helen ran her eye over the piles of children’s pyjamas, football shirts, sanitary products, toys and books that the three women had been diligently packing.

It was well-meant and heartening to see that charity was not dead, but in truth it was a meagre response to a dire humanitarian situation. As if reading her mind, Harika added:

‘It’s not much, but if our efforts can help even a few families …’

Her companions nodded in earnest, clearly sharing her zeal. Harika was about to elaborate on their sense of mission, but spotting Helen’s concern and impatience, she abruptly changed tack.

‘Could you not go to the police about this missing woman?’ she enquired. ‘Or maybe one of the local refugee charities? There’s one, Christian Aid, on Bridge Street, whom we often have dealings with.’

‘Or maybe the immigration authorities?’ another volunteer added.

The women were hitting their stride now, running through a list of local charities and government agencies, but privately Helen knew these were not avenues she could pursue.

She was out of the loop now, an exile from the forces of law and order, a woman with zero authority to be demanding cooperation from the police, local charities or council organizations.

The urgency of the volunteers’ voices, their emotion, compelled her to do something to help Selima, however.

And though it was true that she had few resources and a dearth of viable avenues to pursue, all was not quite yet lost.

There was one other person she could call on.