Poirot is a hero 2

 

When Barney woke up the next morning he pulled on his oldest clothes, forgoing the fashionable slacks and shirts usually wore. He hadn't shaved and searched for a pair of manky sunglasses he had found on a bench in the park. He walked to Meadow Close. First, he walked through the street, only clocking where number 61 was; what kind of house it was, and anything else he could clean from the neighbouring houses. To his delight he noticed a coffee shop cum greasy spoon opposite to number 61. He completed his first circuit and turned back for another go. This time he wore his sunglasses disguise. He had read somewhere you only needed to change a little thing in order not to be noted. He desperately wanted Aggie to be proud of him. Solving their last mystery, that of the ice cream shop, had awakened the sleuth in him.

He went into the cafe and ordered a coffee. He thought that his character would probably like a bacon buttie so in order to stay in character he ordered a bacon buttie. Besides, Barney being Barney liked bacon butties too. The coffee was instant and so weak that it had the colour of medium tea. The buttie that arrived slightly later smelt, looked and tasted great.

Barney unfolded his paper. He’d been careful to buy a tabloid, not his usual broadsheet. To say that it was something of an education would be an understatement. A long exposure about Kim Kardashian (who the fuck was she?) was followed by a gushing review of Meghan Markle, or the Duchess of Sussex, who had published a book with recipes from Grandma's kitchen, retailing for the princely sum of £54.95.  Among the more serious pieces of news was that the number of small boats reaching the UK had increased again.

He needed to strike up a conversation with the owner of the café. If there is anything to get people to talk, it's immigration, he thought.

‘Have you seen this, pal,’ he said, keeping his voice neutral. ‘Another top day for the boats. There were 40 landings yesterday. More than 200 illegal immigrants added to the pile.’

 Barney winced inside, not believing that words like that could pass his lips.

‘There are many worse things than that,’ said the proprietor.  ‘They shouldn't be made to risk their sorry ass to reach this country. As far as I'm concerned, they should have a doorbell in France or wherever they hail from. They should be able to ring the doorbell, state who they are and what intentions they have. The gatekeeper should ask him what they can do to work, and if they want to work and fit to work and I would say let them. This country is crying out loud for folk that want to work. In agriculture, care, hospitalities and factories. Who are we to deny them a better life? My mother is in a care home, nearly fully staffed with African nurses. A hoot they are. My mom is in stitches all the time, she's got so much fun.’

‘Whoa, mate,’ said Barney, I agree with you. All this scapegoating of immigrants is horrible. And racist.’

 ‘I know, Mr Student. You don’t fool me with your shabby clothes and your attempt to speak in vernacular. You were surprised, were you not, that the owner of a greasy spoon is a rabid left winger? Got you.’

So much for my disguise, thought Barney.

‘So why are you here? I know I make a mean bacon roll but mind you, it's a long way away from uni.’

Barney went with his guts. ‘Do you know anything about the people living at number 61? I know that there are two black sisters living there, but who else?’    

‘Number 61? I wouldn't know son. I know two black girls going out for work early in the morning and coming home late at night. They always have their minders with them. Never alone. I think it's also a knocking shop. Punters visiting from 2:00 PM to late at night. I think there are two girls on that side of the business. But I've never met them or seen them without their minders. But why do you ask? Are you with the Polis or something?’

‘Or something,’ Barney replied. ‘If what I assume is correct, then there are vulnerable trafficked women living there and held captive. They are being made to work. Once I know that for certain the police will get involved.’

‘Wow,’ said the barman, ‘like slaves or anything?’

‘Yes, they are in effect enslaved.’

‘What can I do? Nobody should live in slavery, whether they are an illegal immigrant or not.’

Barney scribbled his number on a paper napkin. ‘If you see anything out of the ordinary, phone me. Especially if they seem to be shifting the women. And have you got an old purse here somewhere, maybe something that another customer has left?’

‘I have just the thing for you, pal.’ He rummaged under the counter end unearthed a battered, brown leather purse. ‘This any good?

‘Perfect, mate. I'll go and meet the minders.’

‘Go canny now, pal. I'll keep an eye out for you and my hands on the phone.’ Stuck away in a pocket Bernie found a 5-pound note. He put it into the purse, making sure that it was visible. He checked whether there was any identification for the former owner in the purse but apart from a train ticket to Aberdeen it was empty.  He put his sunglasses back on and crossed the road to 61 Meadow close. The bell wasn't working so he banged on the door. After a while it was opened.

‘Whit d’you want?’ The minder was in his 40s, with a stocky built, a bald head and enough tattoos to cover half the sailors on the HMS Glasgow.

‘Have you lost your wallet?’, Barney asked, ‘or someone in your house mebbe? It was just chucked in front of the door.

‘Nothing to do with me.  Fuck off and don't expect a thank you.’

The door was closed none too gently. At least Barney had seen a face. A face he wouldn't forget.