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The bugger, bugged

After a chance meeting with a former News of the World executive who told him his phone had been hacked, Hugh Grant couldn’t resist going back to him – with a hidden tape recorder – to find out if there was more to the story. . .

When I broke down in my midlife crisis car in remotest Kent just before Christmas, a battered white van pulled up on the far carriageway. To help, I thought. But when the driver got out he started taking pictures with a long-lens camera. He came closer to get better shots and I swore at him. Then he offered me a lift the last few miles to my destination. I suspected his motives and swore at him some more. (I'm not entirely sympathetic towards paparazzi.) Then I realised I couldn't get a taxi and was late. So I had to accept the lift.

He turned out to be an ex-News of the World investigative journalist and paparazzo, now running a pub in Dover. He still kept his camera in the car's glove box for just this kind of happy accident.

More than that, he was Paul McMullan, one of two ex-NoW hacks who had blown the whistle (in the Guardian and on Channel 4's Dispatches) on the full extent of phone-hacking at the paper, particularly under its former editor Andy Coulson. This was interesting, as I had been a victim - a fact he confirmed as we drove along. He also had an unusual defence of the practice: that phone-hacking was a price you had to pay for living in a free society. I asked how that worked exactly, but we ran out of time, and next thing we had arrived and he was asking me if I would pose for a photo with him, "not for publication, just for the wall of the pub".

I agreed and the picture duly appeared in the Mail on Sunday that weekend with his creative version of the encounter. He had asked me to drop into his pub some time. So when, some months later, Jemima asked me to write a piece for this paper, it occurred to me it might be interesting to take him up on his invitation.

I wanted to hear more about phone-hacking and the whole business of tabloid journalism. It occurred to me just to interview him straight, as he has, after all, been a whistleblower. But then I thought I might possibly get more, and it might be more fun, if I secretly taped him, The bugger bugged, as it were. Here are some excerpts from our conversation.

Me So, how's the whistleblowing going?
Him I'm trying to get a book published. I sent it off to a publisher who immediately accepted it and then it got legal and they said, "This is never going to get published."
Me Why? Because it accuses too many people of crime?
Him Yes, as I said to the parliamentary commission, Coulson knew all about it and regularly ordered it . . . He [Coulson] rose quickly to the top; he wanted to cover his tracks all the time. So he wouldn't just write a story about a celeb who'd done something. He'd want to make sure they could never sue, so he wanted us to hear the celeb like you on tape saying, "Hello, darling, we had lovely sex last night." So that's on tape - OK, we've got that and so we can publish . . . Historically, the way it went was, in the early days of mobiles, we all had analogue mobiles and that was an absolute joy. You know, you just . . . sat outside Buckingham Palace with a £59 scanner you bought at Argos and get Prince Charles and everything he said.
Me Is that how the Squidgy tapes [of Diana's phone conversations] came out? Which was put down to radio hams, but was in fact . . .
Him Paps in the back of a van, yes . . . I mean, politicians were dropping like flies in the Nineties because it was so easy to get stuff on them. And, obviously, less easy to justify is celebrities. But yes.
Me And . . . it wasn't just the News of the World. It was , you know - the Mail?
Him Oh absolutely, yeah. When I went freelance in 2004 the biggest payers - you'd have thought it would be the NoW, but actually it was the Daily Mail. If I take a good picture, the first person I go to is - such as in your case - the Mail on Sunday. Did you see that story? The picture of you, breaking down . . . I ought to thank you for that. I got £3,000. Whooo!
Me But would they [the Mail] buy a phone-hacked story?
Him For about four or five years they've absolutely been cleaner than clean. And before that they weren't. They were as dirty as anyone . . . They had the most money.
Me So everyone knew? I mean, would Rebekah Wade have known all this stuff was going on?
Him Good question. You're not taping, are you?
Me [slightly shrill voice] No.
Him Well, yeah. Clearly she . . . took over the job of [a journalist] who had a scanner who was trying to sell it to members of his own department. But it wasn't a big crime. [NB: Rebekah Brooks has always denied any knowledge of phone-hacking. The current police investigation is into events that took place after her editorship of the News of the World.]
It started off as fun - you know, it wasn't against the law, so why wouldn't you? And it was only because the MPs who were fiddling their expenses and being generally corrupt kept getting caught so much they changed the law in 2001 to make it illegal to buy and sell a digital scanner. So all we were left with was - you know - finding a blag to get your mobile [records] out of someone at Vodafone. Or, when someone's got it, other people swap things for it.
Me So they all knew? Wade probably knew all about it all?
Him [...] Cameron must have known - that's the bigger scandal. He had to jump into bed with Murdoch as everyone had, starting with Thatcher in the Seventies . . . Tony Blair . . . [tape is hard to hear here] Maggie openly courted Murdoch, saying, you know, "Please support me." So when Cameron, when it came his turn to go to Murdoch via Rebekah Wade . . . Cameron went horse riding regularly with Rebekah. I know, because as well as doorstepping celebrities, I've also doorstepped my ex-boss by hiding in the bushes, waiting for her to come past with Cameron on a horse . . . before the election to show that - you know - Murdoch was backing Cameron.
Me What happened to that story?
Him The Guardian paid for me to do it and I stepped in it and missed them, basically. They'd gone past - not as good as having a picture.
Me Do you think Murdoch knew about phone-hacking?
Him Errr, possibly not. He's a funny bloke given that he owns the Sun and the Screws . . . quite puritanical. Sorry to talk about Divine Brown, but when that came out . . . Murdoch was furious: "What are you putting that on our front page for? You're bringing down the tone of our papers." [Indicating himself] That's what we do over here.
Me Well, it's also because it was his film I was about to come out in.
Him Oh. I see.
Me Yeah. It was a Fox film.
[A pause here while we chat to other customers, and then - ]
Him So anyway, let me finish my story.
Me Murdoch, yes . . .
Him So I was sent to do a feature on Moulin Rouge! at Cannes, which was a great send anyway. Basically my brief was to see who Nicole Kidman was shagging - what she was doing, poking through her bins and get some stuff on her. So Murdoch's paying her five million quid to big up the French and at the same time paying me £5.50 to fuck her up . . . So all hail the master. We're just pawns in his game. How perverse is that?
Me Wow. You reckon he never knew about it?
Him [pause] I don't even think he really worried himself too much about it.
Me What's his son called?
Him James. They're all mates together. They all go horse riding. You've got Jeremy Clarkson lives here [in Oxfordshire]. Cameron lives here, and Rebekah Wade is married to Brooks's son [the former racehorse trainer Charlie Brooks]. Cameron gets dressed up as the Stig to go to Clarkson's 50th birthday party [NB: it was actually to record a video message for the party]. Is that demeaning for a prime minister? It should be the other way round, shouldn't it? So basically, Cameron is very much in debt to Rebekah Wade for helping him not quite win the election . . . So that was my submission to parliament - that Cameron's either a liar or an idiot.
Me But don't you think that all these prime ministers deliberately try to get the police to drag their feet about investigating the whole [phone-hacking] thing because they don't want to upset Murdoch?
Him Yeah. There's that . . . You also work a lot with policemen as well . . . One of the early stories was [and here he names a much-loved TV actress in her sixties] used to be a street walker - whether or not she was, but that's the tip.
Me and Chum MLTVA?!
Me I can't believe it. Oh no!
Chum Really??
Him Yeah. Well, not now . . .
Chum Oh, it'd be so much better if it was now.
Him So I asked a copper to get his hands on the phone files, but because it's only a caution it's not there any more. So that's the tip . . . it's a policeman ringing up a tabloid reporter and asking him for ten grand because this girl had been cautioned right at the start of his career. And then I ask another policemen to go and check the records . . . So that's happening regularly. So the police don't particularly want to investigate.
Me But do you think they're going to have to now?
Him I mean - 20 per cent of the Met has taken backhanders from tabloid hacks. So why would they want to open up that can of worms? . . . And what's wrong with that, anyway? It doesn't hurt anyone particularly. I mean, it could hurt someone's career - but isn't that the dance with the devil you have to play?
Me Well, I suppose the fact that they're dragging their feet while investigating a mass of phone-hacking - which is a crime - some people would think is a bit depressing about the police.
Him But then - should it be a crime? I mean, scanning never used to be a crime. Why should it be? You're transmitting your thoughts and your voice over the airwaves. How can you not expect someone to just stick up an aerial and listen in?
Me So if someone was on a landline and you had a way of tapping in . . .
Him Much harder to do.
Me But if you could, would you think that was illegal? Do you think that should be illegal?
Him I'd have to say quite possibly, yeah. I'd say that should be illegal.
Me But a mobile phone - a digital phone . . . you'd say it'd be all right to tap that?
Him I'm not sure about that. So we went from a point where anyone could listen in to anything. Like you, me, journalists could listen in to corrupt politicians, and this is why we have a reasonably fair society and a not particularly corrupt or criminal prime minister, whereas other countries have Gaddafi. Do you think it's right the only person with a decent digital scanner these days is the government? Whereas 20 years ago we all had a go? Are you comfortable that the only people who can listen in to you now are - is it MI5 or MI6?
Me I'd rather no one listened in, to be honest. And I might not be alone there. You probably wouldn't want people listening to your conversations.
Him I'm not interesting enough for anyone to want to listen in.
Me Ah . . . I think that was one of the questions asked last week at one of the parliamentary committees. They asked Yates [John Yates, acting deputy commissioner of the Metropolitan Police] if it was true that he thought that the NoW had been hacking the phones of friends and family of those girls who were murdered . . . the Soham murder and the Milly girl [Milly Dowler].
Him Yeah. Yeah. It's more than likely. Yeah . . . It was quite routine. Yeah - friends and family is something that's not as easy to justify as the other things.
Me But celebrities you would justify because they're rich?
Him Yeah. I mean, if you don't like it, you've just got to get off the stage. It'll do wonders.
Me So I should have given up acting?
Him If you live off your image, you can't really complain about someone . . .
Me I live off my acting. Which is different to living off your image.
Him Yeah, but you're still presenting yourself to the public. And if the public didn't know you -
Me They don't give a shit. I got arrested with a hooker and they still came to my films. They don't give a fuck about your public image. They just care about whether you're in an entertaining film or not.
Him That's true . . . I have terrible difficulty with him [points to pap shot of Johnny Depp]. He's really difficult. You know, I was in Venice and he was a nightmare to do because he walks around looking like Michael Jackson. And the punchline was . . . after leading everyone a merry dance the film was shot on an open balcony - I mean, it was like - he was standing there in public.
Me And you don't see the difference between the two situations?
Chum He was actually working at this time? As opposed to having his own private time?
Him You can't hide all the time.
Me So you're saying, if you're Johnny Depp or me, you don't deserve to have a private life?
Him You make so much more money. You know, most people in Dover take home about £200 and struggle.
Me So how much do you think the families of the Milly and Soham girls make?
Him OK, so there are examples that are poor and you can't justify - and that's clearly one of them.
Me I tell you the thing I still don't get - if you think it was all right to do all that stuff, why blow the whistle on it?
Him Errm . . . Right. That's interesting. I actually blew the whistle when a friend of mine at the Guardian kept hassling me for an interview. I said, "Well if you put the name of the Castle [his pub] on the front page of the Guardian, I'll do anything you like." So that's how it started.
Me So, have you been leant on by the NoW, News International, since you blew the whistle?
Him No, they've kept their distance. I mean, there's people who have much better records - my records are non-existent. There are people who actually have tapes and transcripts they did for Andy Coulson.
Me And where are these tapes and transcripts? Do you think they've been destroyed?
Him No, I'm sure they're saving them till they retire.
Me So did you personally ever listen to my voice messages?
Him No, I didn't personally ever listen to your voice messages. I did quite a lot of stories on you, though. You were a very good earner at times.

Those are the highlights. As I drove home past the white cliffs, I thought it was interesting - apart from the fact that Paul hates people like me, and I hate people like him, we got on quite well. And, absurdly, I felt a bit guilty for recording him.

And he does have a very nice pub. The Castle Inn, Dover, for the record. There are rooms available, too. He asked me if I'd like to sample the honeymoon suite some time: "I can guarantee your privacy."

-- Listen to the audio now --

This article first appeared in the 11 April 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Jemima Khan guest edit

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Law students had to help a man in debilitating pain fight being declared "fit to work"

Disabled claimants are increasingly vulnerable, with justice more difficult to access, and the need to be reassessed after being declared "fit to work", 

The first Paul Crane knew of having his benefits cut off was when his landlord called up to ask where the rent was.

It was the start of a harrowing time. After ten years of receiving support for debilitating pains – caused when gamma knife radiosurgery to repair a haemorrhage on his brain stem caused radiation damage to surrounding tissue – he had suddenly been declared "fit to work".

Paul’s life has never been the same since the operation, which repaired the haemorrhage but left parts of his brain and spinal cord permanently damaged. Every day he is haunted by stimuli – light, noise, crowded places – anything that sets off his "excitable nerves" will leave him in agony with migraines, cause numbness and dizziness, or leave part of his face sagging. Even sneezing or tiredness can cause a traumatic flare up.

He says: “Tiredness causes pain and pain causes tiredness. I don’t socialise much, I’ve let people down too many times. I go fishing, which is my only relaxation but even that sometimes is too much”.

Over a decade of suffering and being prescribed a cornucopia of drugs – none of which have fully worked – Paul has learnt to live with the pain. But a new regime at the Department for Work and Pensions, which he says was “like the difference between black and white”, has been hard on him. This was when the Employment and Support Allowance (ESA) replaced the Incapacity Benefit, and new work capability assessments (WCA) were brought in to test whether or not claimants were "fit to work".

“It was as if they were trying to fail me,” he says, “like the system was designed to make me fail. I realised how lucky I had been before. The ESA people looked at me as if to say, ‘Oh God another scumbag’”.

When the news that he had been refused ESA hit him, Paul says he found himself in “a very dark pit”, confused and afraid of what would happen next.

“How could they come to this conclusion? I answered as truthfully as I could and they failed me. I’d just spent two weeks either in bed or on the sofa.”

It’s a painfully common story. Disability rights campaign groups such as the WOWPetition and Disabled People Against Cuts (DPAC) have been pressing the DWP to take notice of the plight of people like Paul, and are fighting for a comprehensive impact assessment of how changes to the benefits system and wider government spending cuts affect people with disabilities.

In August, after months of pressure, the DWP released the official figures for mortalities following "fit to work" verdicts between December 2011 and February 2014, revealing that 2,380 died in that period.

And even more damning, the Avon & Bristol Law Centre (ABLC) revealed that, of a hundred WCA appeal cases taken on by volunteer law students, 95 had been successful.

Andy King, welfare benefits caseworker at the ABLC, says that the cases shocked him and the students as more details emerged: “We found people for whom working would have been a serious risk to their health. We found people being assessed who had some of the most serious conditions; just the process is extremely stressful and focuses on their inadequacies, which is destructive to their confidence and self-respect.

“We did very detailed case preparation because these are complex cases; if these people didn’t have the law students working for them, lots of them wouldn’t be able to do it”.

Labour’s shadow justice minister Andy Slaughter says that to have more appeals decisions overturned than upheld is unusual, but a 95 per cent success rate is “in a different league”.

He says: “In any other area of law, if you were getting 19 out of 20 of your decisions overturned, you would want to go back and look at your whole decision-making process again. I think the DWP needs to seriously look at this.”

A DWP spokesman says: 

“Eligibility for Employment and Support Allowance is based on an assessment of an individual’s disability or health condition and their ability to work – taking into account all of the evidence provided. 

“Everyone has the right to appeal a fit for work decision and people often present fresh evidence that wasn’t available at the start of the claim. In fact, only 14 per cent of all fit for work decisions are overturned.”

The 14 per cent figure quoted is of all work capability assessments decisions, but the figure for decisions which are taken to appeal is much higher – 58 per cent in the most recent available quarterly figure.

Recently, a coroner’s report cited a WCA decision as the trigger for a man’s suicide. It was the first time an official report had made that link, and a major breakthrough for campaigners.


It was a telling revelation, not least because it highlighted the fact that vulnerable people and sufferers of mental health problems are being exposed to the system. King says that, of the cases ABLC took on, more than a third of claimants had already been diagnosed with some form of mental illness before their initial assessment.

He says: “Generally, [appeals] tribunals are more thorough than capability assessments, and that often reveals details such as mental health problems that were not picked up in the assessment. A very large proportion of the claimants had mental health problems and a good number of them had suffered serious sexual and emotional abuse as children; these are people who have already been confirmed by their doctor as being the most vulnerable people in society”

Not only are there serious concerns that people with disabilities and mental health problems are being unfairly treated in parity with other jobseekers, but Slaughter says that the assessments heap huge masses of extra pressure on those sufferers.

“Going through the process is one of the most stressful things you can do,” he says, “and often the people are already in a stressful position. It must be hugely stressful with the process as complex as it is; of course they are going to struggle.

It’s a precarious time for people with disabilities and mental illness, especially with funding for mental health being cut in real terms by more than 8 per cent, the lack of legal aid support for people wrongly declared "fit to work", and a programme of wider social care austerity that WOWPetition campaigner Michelle Maher – who is herself disabled – says adds up to a total of 19 different cuts for the most severely disabled people.

She says: “When you see that brown envelope from the DWP you have a heart attack; even for someone like me who doesn’t have mental health problems your heart stops. It takes hours to open because you’re so frightened of what’s going to happen to you”.

An overhaul of the benefit assessment programme by Iain Duncan Smith, revealed in early September, is being treated with scepticism by campaigners, not least because only a couple of weeks before he had set out his ambition of getting another 1million disability benefits claimants back into work.

And King says that even if the system is changed, there is a strong case for law centres around the country to step in, and for going back over previous assessment verdicts and applying the same rigour retrospectively: “We are only representing 10-20 per cent of people in the Bristol area alone; there’s a huge number of people who don’t get guidance, and legal aid cuts have made it harder for people to get representation”.

For Paul, the trauma of being cut off is over, though his daily battle continues. He was awarded £700 in missed benefits payments – for the six weeks he was without support. But he’s very aware it was for the grace of the ABLC students stepping in when he was at his low point.

“They gave me the strength to carry on,” he says. “The stress was that bad – without the law centre I honestly think I might have ended up homeless or committing suicide”.

Benedict Cooper is a freelance journalist who covers medical politics and the NHS. He tweets @Ben_JS_Cooper.

Tomm W Christiansen
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The boys who could see England

Last winter, two bodies in identical wetsuits were found in Norway and the Netherlands. Police in three countries failed to identify them - and then the trail led to Calais.

Part 1: On dry land

A gale was blowing from the south-west as the elderly architect put on his jacket and rubber boots and went outside. Down in the bay, four-metre-high waves crashed against the cliffs and sent spray hundreds of metres across the grazing land at Lista, on Norway’s southernmost tip.

The first thing the architect noticed when he approached the sea was a wetsuit that lay stretched out on the small patch of grass between the rocks. It was rare for him or anyone else in the village to walk there. The wetsuit could have been there for a long time.

He could smell seaweed and the sea and a faint, sickly scent of something else.

The wetsuit was partially inside out and wedged inside the legs was a pair of blue flippers. Two white bones were sticking out of each one.



Sheriff Kåre Unnhammer from Farsund Police Station is an authoritative man with large, serious eyes, a big moustache and gold teeth that gleam when he speaks. It is a pleasant day in April.

In the waiting room at the station is a sign warning against boat thieves and a poster stating that the legal size for cod caught south of 60 degrees latitude is 40 centimetres. In the Middle Ages the people burned witches right outside this spot, but things are more relaxed now.

“This is a peaceful place,” Unnhammer says. He turns to his computer and reads from the log. “At 3.02pm, January 2 2015, a diving suit with human remains was found at Lista.”

Forensics experts from the county capital, Kristiansand, went to take photographs and scrutinise the body, but it had been in the sea for so long that there was not a lot left to examine. There was no sign of damage from propellers, stabbing or gunshot wounds. Unnhammer reckoned that it was somebody who had gone missing in the North Sea and that he or she would be identified quickly.

Sheriff Kåre Unnhammer. All photographs by Tomm W Christiansen.

Police looked at a missing persons report from the Stavanger area, on Norway’s west coast, where a man wearing a wetsuit had disappeared a year earlier. Neither that man nor anyone else who had been reported missing matched the description of the body found at Lista.

“From time to time, we get bodies floating in here, but we haven’t had one that we haven’t managed to identify before,” says Unnhammer.

There is a sea chart of the Lista area on the office wall. The currents are unpredictable and always changing. Not even professional fishermen can tell how the ocean will behave the next day. It is impossible to say where a corpse that floats ashore has come from.

In this case, there was not a lot Unnhammer could do.

“When we have so little to go on, we have to turn to DNA profiling to find the answer. And we can’t get that kind of thing done here,” he says.




Police Superintendent Per Angel has been identifying dead bodies for more than 25 years. He is the head of the identification unit at Norway’s National Criminal Investigation Service, known as Kripos. His team is called when there are simultaneous, multiple deaths – from the Partnair plane crash that killed 55 people off the Danish coast in 1989 to Anders Breivik’s killing spree in 2011 – or when an unidentified body is found. Angel describes Norway as a ­country made for accidents: it has heavy storms, a rugged landscape and many thousands of workplaces offshore and in the
polar region.

“We have become skilled in ID work,” he says.

The list of people who have gone missing in Norway since 1947 consists of 1,443 names. The list of dead people who were found in the same period and never identified by police is much shorter – just 16 bodies, several of which most likely originate in premodern times.

“The man in the wetsuit could be number 17,” Angel says. (DNA testing had shown the body was that of a male.) “This is a special case.”

When Kripos receives an unidentified body, forensics experts, pathologists, dentists and geneticists collect so-called post-mortem information. They create a DNA profile, take fingerprints and register details about teeth, jewellery, previous bone fractures, tattoos and any other characteristics that may help in identifying a body. They also try to establish the cause of death.

Post-mortem information is compared with data from missing reports, where family or friends have given details about a person they are looking for. The main requirements for identification are matching information on teeth, fingerprints and DNA. A single “match” is not enough to establish identity and has to be supported by one or more additional pieces of information that connect the body to a missing person. This may be the clothing the victim was wearing, medical history, phone ­records or their last known location.

No missing reports in Norway match the body found at Lista. Although DNA has been retrieved from the wetsuit, if Kripos is to be able to identify the body the man must for some reason have a registered DNA profile somewhere in the world, or a family member must have reported him missing and provided a DNA sample.

On 5 February, Kripos sends out an Interpol “Black Notice”, which is used to seek information on unidentified bodies. It contains the DNA profile and all the information pertaining to the remains found at Lista. Kripos receives a response the next day. The Lista body is not the only one that has drifted ashore in a grey-and-black wetsuit with the brand name “Tribord” on the right shoulder and on the hood.



“We call him the Wetsuitman,” says John Welzenbagh, an investigator with the Dutch special police unit for persons missing in the North Sea.

A 52-year-old former navy diver, Welzenbagh is fit-looking and wears a dark windbreaker jacket and sunglasses. On the ferry over from Den Helder, on the mainland, to the island of Texel in the northern Netherlands, Welzenbagh points to a sandbank and explains that he is still trying to ascertain the identity of a dead man who was found on a sailboat there in 1995.

Just a few weeks back, he had a breakthrough in another case and is close to identifying an older, probably French, woman who floated ashore here 15 years ago.

The Wetsuitman was discovered on Texel early in the morning of 27 October in a black-and-grey Tribord wetsuit, identical to the one that the architect stumbled upon at Lista 67 days later. The body was found by the water’s edge on the broad strand below the cafés in the small village of De Koog. It is a beach that is popular among windsurfers and tourists in the summer.

Welzenbagh and his team typically receive between 20 and 30 bodies for identification each year. Most turn out to be missing persons from the local area. Cases are usually solved quickly.

“This case is different,” Welzenbagh says.

How long had the Wetsuitman been lying in the water? Three days? Three weeks? The rate of decay is difficult to assess when a person is in a wetsuit in cold water. Where did he come from? It’s also impossible to say. Welzenbagh has found dead people from the entire North Sea and the Channel area: England, Scotland, France, Germany, Belgium and, of course, the Netherlands.

There were not many physical characteristics to go on. The only thing Welzenbagh noticed was that the body had very dark hair.

“I thought he might be from Spain. There aren’t many other places in Europe where you see that hair colour – in any case, not among ethnic Europeans,” he says.

At the time the Wetsuitman was discovered, four windsurfers had been reported missing in England. The main theory in the first days was that one of them had floated ashore. However, the windsurfers were quickly found. The Dutch police’s next assumption was that the body on Texel was that of a French diver who had gone missing off Normandy.

“This was of course wrong, but even at our meetings he [the body] was known as ‘the Diver’. I didn’t like that,” Welzenbagh says. “We had no way of knowing what kind of water sports [were involved]. I was afraid if we called him the Diver, we would overlook clues that could help us. I said, ‘From now on, we will call him the Wetsuitman.’”



The Dutch police were at a loss. It was impossible to reproduce fingerprints. There were no papers found with the body, and the DNA profile and missing persons report they had sent out through Interpol met with no response.

The only strong clue Welzenbagh had was the wetsuit: a five-millimetre-thick neoprene model with a hood, designed for diving and snorkelling in temperatures between 16 and 24° Celsius. In the North Sea and the English Channel, water temperatures rarely rise above 15° Celsius. At the end of October, when the body was found, the normal temperature is 10° Celsius.

“There was something that wasn’t quite right,” Welzenbagh says.



Radio-frequency identification, or RFID, chips are tiny and weather-resistant, and have numerous uses, from identifying pets to tracking goods from the time of production until they are scanned at a cash register and disappear into a shopping bag.

When Welzenbagh discovered the little RFID symbol on the tightly sewn tag that contained the wetsuit’s serial number, he knew he could find out where and when the suit had been sold. And – if there was a credit-card number on the till receipt – who had bought it. Here is what he found out.

At 8.03pm on Tuesday 7 October 2014, a customer had stood in front of the cash register of the Decathlon sports shop in the French port city of Calais and bought a Tribord Subsea five-millimetre wetsuit, medium size, for €79. He or she also purchased hand paddles – plates that swimmers use to provide more resistance when they train – a snorkel and a diving mask, flippers, water socks usually used for aquatic gymnastics, and a waterproof A4 plastic folder.

But there was more: the receipt showed the customer had bought two of each item listed on it. Welzenbagh knew where one of the wetsuits was – in the evidence store in the Netherlands.

When the serial number on the wetsuit was sent to Norway, it became clear where the other one had ended up: found by an architect during a winter storm at Lista on the southern tip of Norway, 890 kilometres from Calais, 87 days after it was purchased.

The customer paid €256 in cash. There was no CCTV footage from the shop.

Neither of the DNA profiles from the bodies in the Netherlands and Norway produced any hits internationally through Interpol. All leads in the case trailed off at the Decathlon in Calais, barely an hour after sunset on 7 October last year.

The wetsuit found on Texel in the Netherlands on 27 October.


Part 2: The Jungle

A biting wind whips up the sand, making it difficult to see. A few hundred metres away, in the grey-brown dirt between two hills, a handful of refugees walk in a cloud of dust, pushing a shopping basket filled with bottles of water.

“No camera,” one man shouts when he sees us. He gestures angrily at us to go away.

All around are sheets of blue, black and green plastic, the billowing walls of the hundreds of makeshift tents that are spread across a former dump site.

More than 2,000 illegal immigrants who have fled war, oppressive regimes or poverty live here. In the summer, that number will double. They have little water, no electricity, no heating and no security.

A tall and muscular African man in his twenties walks along the road towards the building complex where since January the refugees and migrants have been served one meal a day. The only tap in the area is here.

It is 11am. The man is drunk and is clutching a bottle of rosé from Lidl. He is crying loudly. His voice breaks. “I wanna go home. I wanna go home to Africa.”

This desolate, illness-infested unofficial camp in Calais has no name, but everybody knows what it’s called: the Jungle.



Calais (population 75,000) is located at the point on the French coast where the English Channel is at its narrowest. It is 34 kilometres across to England. On good days, you can see the limestone cliffs of Dover. Lonely Planet describes Calais as the place where the most people anywhere in the world have passed through without stopping.

From the Eurotunnel terminal a few kilometres outside Calais, large trains transport cars and trucks under the Channel. The ferry to Dover also leaves from the town. Reaching the UK – by going under or over the Channel – is the only goal for most of the refugees and migrants in the Jungle.

The latest tool in the effort to prevent them doing so is a four-metre-high, 20-kilometre-long barbed-wire fence, last used during a high-level Nato meeting in Wales last year.
It was donated by the British authorities – along with £12m – to increase security around the ferry and the Channel Tunnel.

At least 15 refugees and migrants from Calais died last year, including a 16-year-old girl. Most were run over on the motorway. One died when he jumped from a bridge on to a passing truck. One was found dead in the river; one fell from his hiding place under the axle of a wheel on a tourist bus. There are also those who are not found on official lists or in news items or on activists’ blogs. The ones nobody has heard about, has enquired of, or remembers.

The refugee theory emerged when John Welzenbagh and his colleagues in the Netherlands managed to connect the wetsuits to Calais. If the victims had a permanent connection to Europe, or were ordinary tourists, they would have been reported missing by family or friends. French police would have heard about it; but in this case they had no information about two people in wetsuits who had disappeared.

Another thing puzzled Welzenbagh: the equipment listed on the receipt, a mixture of competitive swimming, water aerobics and diving gear. He felt that nobody with a minimum of knowledge about water sports would have bought such a combination.

Was it possible that the victims were refugees who had tried to swim to England?



The Decathlon shop is on an industrial estate outside the centre of Calais. It stocks a wide range of sporting goods at low prices.

When the photographer and I arrive one morning at the end of April, a young woman is arranging merchandise at the end of a rack displaying surfboards and swimsuits. We explain that we are journalists from Norway and that two men have been found dead in wetsuits that were purchased here on 7 October last year.

“I know that,” she says. “The police rang here. I was the one at the cash desk.”

She says she must speak to the boss and will be gone a short while. When she comes back she says she cannot speak to us and that
we must not mention the name of the sports shop if we write anything.

We do a round of the shop and find her again some minutes later at the wetsuit rack.

“They bought two of these,” she says quietly and points to one of the wetsuits.

She appears nervous, keeps her voice down and makes sure that nobody sees she is talking to us. “I remember them, but only just. There were two young men, perhaps in their very early twenties. They were refugees and looked as if they might be from Afghanistan,” she says.

After finding the body on Texel, the Dutch police took pictures and sent them to a British expert in England who compiled an identikit of the man. We show it to the woman in the shop.

“I can’t answer if it was one of them. I don’t remember.”

“Did they say anything about what they were going to use the wetsuits for?”

“No. But what I heard is that they swim out to small boats that take them over to England.”

“Have refugees been in here buying wetsuits?”

“I’ve just heard it from others who work here. It happens around once a month. I don’t know any more.”



The refugee problem in Calais began in earnest in 1999. In an unused hangar right by the tunnel, the Red Cross opened the Sangatte refugee centre. It was intended to be a place of refuge for a few hundred ­Kosovar Albanians who had fled the war in the Balkans.

Three years later, Sangatte’s population had swelled to 1,600 refugees and migrants, mainly from the Middle East and Africa. Every night hundreds of them tried to get to the UK by hiding in trucks that were driving on to the ferry or through the tunnel. Accusations flew back and forth across the Channel about who was responsible.

At Sangatte, fights broke out between different ethnic groups. Refugees cut holes in the old fence and stormed the tunnel terminal. “Stop the invasion” was the headline on the front page of the Daily Express.

In December 2002 the then home secretary, David Blunkett, announced that France had agreed to the closure of Sangatte, and that the UK would accept 1,200 of the asylum-seekers registered at the camp. The refugees continued to come to Calais. The only thing that had changed was that they no longer had a place to go.

Some lived on the street; others set up small slum communities. Most settled on an industrial site belonging to one of Europe’s largest producers of titanium dioxide. That was the first “jungle” in Calais, the Tioxide Jungle.



It is afternoon in the new Jungle. Henok, 26, fled the repressive regime in Eritrea and has been here one month. He wears jeans and an old flannel jacket. He speaks slowly, says little and has tired eyes.

He takes us to an Eritrean area of the Jungle. Refugees mostly stay within their own ethnic groups.

“This is a dangerous place,” he says.“We are cold, have no water and there are snakes here. It is not a place for human beings.”

He explains that he left Eritrea eight months ago. First he went to Sudan, then through the Sahara to Libya, where he was detained in prison for three weeks. With $500 he bought his freedom. Then he sought out a gang of people traffickers in Tripoli, got money sent over from his family in Eritrea, and paid $1,700 for a place on a boat across the Mediterranean.

“I can get killed in Eritrea, get killed in Libya or drown in the Mediterranean. I must try all the same.”

Henok’s 21-year-old wife, Bethelem, and their son, Fire-Ab Henok, who is one, are still in Eritrea, he assumes. He hasn’t spoken to them in several months.

“I think about them all the time. Far too much. Every second,” he says.

Before we manage to ask Henok if he has heard about any refugees who tried to swim to England or about people smugglers who use small boats to make the journey, an Ethiopian man tries to rob my photo­grapher. The Eritreans we are sitting with become angry and the thief runs away. We are told to leave.

“He might come back with more people,” Henok says. “It is not safe for you here now.”

A few hours later a fight breaks out in the Jungle between the Sudanese and the Eritreans. We are told that they are fighting about whose turn it is to try to board the trucks. One of the few women living in the Jungle ends up in hospital with burn injuries after her tent is set on fire.



Like many refugees in Calais, Khalil Khaman Khalily, a 26-year-old Afghan, has scars that remind him of the perilous life in his home country. One is 20 centimetres long and goes from his navel up to his ribcage. “Taliban,” he says.

Khalily explains that he was employed by a construction company that was contracted by Nato from 2007, and that among other places he worked at Camp Bastion, the former Nato base in Helmand Province.

He says that five months ago he was kidnapped, locked up and stabbed when he went to meet a potential new employer.

“All Afghans who worked for Nato live dangerously.”

He fled when one of the guards got drunk and made his way through Afghanistan, Iran and Turkey. In Serbia, he travelled to the border town of Subotica, crossing through the forest into Hungary – and into the European Union. From there he travelled mostly on the train, dodging fares, to Paris and then on to Calais.

“I don’t feel safe here either,” Khalily says. “Look around you. The longer you are here, the more depressed you get.”

During his 20 days in Calais, Khalily has made 25 failed attempts to get to England, where he has a brother studying IT. He dreams about becoming a military surgeon and travelling back to Afghanistan.

“I must be careful on account of my wounds, but I will get to England when I can take bigger chances,” he says.

We ask if he has heard about refugees trying to swim. He laughs and shakes his head. “We barely manage to shower,” he says.

We show him the Wetsuitman identikit. “He looks Afghan. I haven’t heard of him, but I haven’t been here long. People come here, then they leave as soon as they can.”

Another group of Afghans approaches, offers us tea and takes us into the tent where up to ten men live at a time. They are eating a small meal of onions and potatoes. Nearby is a shopping trolley with rice and pasta and a campfire where they warm tea in a big pot. They are far from the first we encounter who have stories to tell about police violence in France.

One of them has his right arm in plaster. He says he is called Khalid and is 26 years old, and that he fell and broke his arm when he and several others were chased by the police in Calais.

“We didn’t do anything. The police here are like lions and we are the buffalo flock.”

Many of the refugees say that they have been hit with batons, kicked and doused with pepper spray when the police find and pull them out of the trucks.

Their stories echo those in a January report from Human Rights Watch, based on interviews with 44 refugees in Calais. The accusations were dismissed by the French authorities, which said that HRW had not verified the claims.

In June the organisation Calais Migrant Solidarity released a video, made on 5 May, showing policemen beating migrants and pushing them over the roadside fence.

The French authorities say they will investigate the events, and that police in Calais are considering buying GoPro cameras to prove that, at times, they have no choice but to use force to stop the refugees.

“The rest of the world has no idea how we are treated. Go out and tell them about the suffering of the people in the Jungle,” Khalid says.

Among the men in the tent he seems to be the boss. He says he lived for several years in England, but was deported after he “did something stupid”. Now he has been in Calais for four months.

We tell him about the case we are working on, show him the picture and ask if he or the others have heard something. They study the face.

“He looks like a Hazara. They are Afghans, but are originally Mongols,” Khalid says. “But I haven’t heard about anyone buying wetsuits or swimming and I am the one who is here the longest. It is sad if he came from here and nobody can find out who he was. That’s the way it is. Hundreds of Afghans could die and nobody cares.”

We thank him for the tea, wish them luck and go back out into the Jungle to look for the Hazaras. They used to have their own little camp here somewhere, but most of them are gone.

While we are showing the identikit to other refugees our translator interrupts and takes us aside. He used to be a refugee in Calais. Now he is a journalist and has started up an Afghan radio station in London.

“You have to stop showing them the drawing,” he says. “There are many talking about you now. They think you are police or people smugglers posing as journalists . . . We should go.”

The translator mentions the Afghans we drank tea with in the tent.

“I don’t know if you noticed it, but several of them had been in England. They had smartphones, English SIM cards and seem to be having an easy enough life. They are the top people.”


“It is hard to say. They are probably a contact point for smugglers and they help them to get people. There were several of them who did not want you around.”

Georges Gilles is a pensioner who has been a voluntary aid worker in Calais for four years. Every day he drives around in an old white Fiat van and gives out blankets, food and tarpaulins. It is never enough. We ask him if he knows anything about how the people smugglers operate.

“They are everywhere, but stay in the shadows,” he says. “They are often Kurds, Afghans or Albanians. Albanians are the worst.”

The refugees who can afford to pay the smugglers are taken tens of kilometres along the motorway outside Calais to avoid strict security. At night, at rest stops and petrol stations, the smugglers hide them in and under parked trailers.

“If I were you, I would have kept far away. If they see that you are taking pictures, you will be killed,” Gilles says.



Evening is approaching and the refugees are on the move. They put on dark clothes, pack their bags and start walking towards the tunnel and the ferry terminal. Just outside the Jungle, at the Jules Ferry day centre, where women and children refugees are allowed to sleep, dinner has been served, and it is now quiet. None of the helpers knows of any men who went missing last October, nor of anyone trying to swim across the Channel. Nobody can confirm that smugglers use small boats to cross to the UK.

From the beach in Calais, we see the Pride of Burgundy ferry gliding out of the harbour and setting course for Dover. England is a grey stripe on the horizon. Under the deck, hidden in containers or trucks, are likely to be refugees or migrants. They will have held their breath through the checkpoints, past the police dogs and into the ferry. They will have heard the heavy chains locking the wheels before the crossing, and finally the ferry slip closing. The sound of safety. In 90 minutes a new life will begin.

Lines of inquiry: identikit of the Wetsuitman.

Before we leave Calais, our translator says that there are Afghan groups on Facebook, where information about refugees is sometimes posted. He uploads a copy of the identikit and writes a brief description of the case on the sites.

Two days later, his report is seen by a French aid worker in Calais. She says she has been in contact with a Syrian who lives in England and who knows of another Syrian man there who has been searching for his nephew for months. The nephew was in Calais before he disappeared.

After three phone calls in broken English we hear the story of Mouaz for the first time.


Part 3: The long journey

In a strange land, thousands of kilometres from home, a young man stood and looked out to sea. He had been travelling for 142 days. As usual, the weather in autumn was bitter along the coast of north-west France.

The place the young man once called home, Damascus, in Syria, was no longer home. His family – mother, father and four sisters – had fled to Jordan. He hadn’t seen them since he left there five months earlier. Now it was 7 October 2014. He had been in Calais for only a couple of hours.

On his phone, he opened the WhatsApp messaging service and texted his uncle living in Bradford. “I can see England,” the young man wrote. He added that he thought it was possible to get out to a boat, or swim across the Channel.

The uncle replied that the Channel in some ways resembled the Sea of Marmara, an inland sea that separates Turkey’s European and Asian parts: you can see land on the other side, but it is much further away than you think.

“You must not try to swim. That wouldn’t work. Hide in a lorry,” the uncle texted.

“I will try today,” the young man replied. That same evening, one hour and 43 minutes before two wetsuits were sold in the Decathlon sports shop outside the centre of Calais, the young man sent a message to his sister and other family members in Jordan: “I miss you.”

Since then nobody has heard a word from 22-year-old Mouaz al-Balkhi.



The uncle’s name is Badi. He has slicked-back hair, a checked shirt and a warm smile that appears when he is looking for the apposite word in English. He came to England as a refugee in 2013, hiding in a trailer at Dunkirk, just north of Calais, and travelling through the Channel Tunnel.

Badi was granted limited leave to remain in England, and now lives with his wife and two small daughters in a red-brick house in a district of Bradford popular with immigrants.

Badi tried to ring Mouaz on 8 October. The phone was switched off. In the following days, he and other family members called several times a day, but the phone always went directly to an Arabic song that they heard countless times over the next eight months.

They feared that something had happened to Mouaz. They knew he had €300 on him and worried that he had been robbed and killed. After a week, two of Mouaz’s relatives who live in Scotland travelled to Calais, where they contacted the police. They were hoping to find that Mouaz had been arrested and was unable to answer his phone.

“The police said that they couldn’t help us,” Badi says.

A month later, the two relatives returned to Calais, but the police still had no in­formation. They took a picture of Mouaz and showed it to refugees in the Jungle. They visited the local hospital and the morgue, but nobody had seen Mouaz or heard anything.

In March, they turned to the British police for help. According to Badi, the relatives were told that it wasn’t really a matter for the UK, as Mouaz had gone missing in France, but they promised to do a search through Interpol. The relatives say that the only message they received from UK police was that Mouaz was not in prison in Bradford. They made further inquiries through a lawyer, the Red Cross and the immigration office, to no avail.

“Mouaz’s mother rings me every day to find out if there is anything new,” Badi says. “It is absolutely terrible to live with uncertainty and nobody was able to help us. When you rang was the first time we heard something concrete about what might have happened.”

Badi was searching for his nephew Mouaz, lost in Calais in 2014.

Badi wants to hear all the details about the bodies found in Norway and the Netherlands. He asks if we think one of them could be his nephew. A lot of the information Badi provides about Mouaz – dates, location, how much money he had, that he mentioned swimming – fits in with the details of the case. On the other hand, Mouaz was travelling on his own, according to his family. Would somebody have decided to swim to England with somebody they didn’t know?

We explain to Badi that the only thing that can provide an answer is a DNA test. We give him a pair of plastic gloves and a little cotton swab, of the kind you remove make-up with, and ask him to scrape it against the inside of his cheek. We place the swab in a small plastic bag. He also draws a family tree showing his relationship to Mouaz.

Back in Norway, we give the sample to the identification group at Kripos, which starts building a DNA profile to compare with the findings from Lista. Kripos also requests the Netherlands police to send the DNA records extracted from the body found on Texel.



Rahaf is Mouaz’s sister. She is 19 and lives  in the Jordanian capital, Amman, with the rest of the family. We talk to them on Skype. Rahaf translates while her mother talks about the son she hasn’t seen in more than a year.

Mouaz and his sisters grew up in Damascus. Their father was in prison for 11 years because he supported the opposition, but was released at the beginning of 2011. They lived in a multicultural neighbourhood. Shias, Sunnis, Christians, Jews, Alawites – Mouaz was friends with everyone. He never fought with anyone, his mother says.

“If somebody was fighting, he tried to make peace,” she says.

He liked to watch films and to swim. Every week before the civil war broke out in 2011, he went to a swimming pool in Damascus, Rahaf says. The family became one of the many millions that fled the conflict. They arrived in Jordan in 2013, but Mouaz stayed behind in Damascus to finish his electrical engineering studies. He was often stopped on the street by forces loyal to President Bashar al-Assad: it made no difference if you were a rioter or a university student. Sometimes he was taken to a police station and detained.

Mouaz held out for six months before fleeing to Jordan, too.

He couldn’t get a place at the university in Amman, and with his father struggling to find work, he felt increasingly responsible for the family’s welfare. He decided to travel to Turkey in the hope of studying there, and that his family would be able to follow. But his university application was again unsuccessful, his sister said. Mouaz now faced a conundrum: he couldn’t return to Jordan as a refugee because he had already left the country voluntarily. He decided to try to make it to England.

“They have good laws for refugees, he could study there and our uncle lives there,” Rahaf says.



On 17 August 2014, Mouaz took a flight from Turkey to Algeria. He then travelled through the desert for two days and crossed the border into Libya.

The family knows only that he was there for ten days before he got a place on one of the refugee boats that cross the Mediterranean. After three days at sea, the vessel was intercepted by the Italian navy and the refugees were brought safely to shore.

Mouaz made his way west through Italy and France by train, and on 5 September he arrived in Dunkirk. Over the next two weeks, he made ten failed attempts to hide in a truck heading for the UK. He often sent messages to his family. His parents and his sisters would ask how he was, whether he was keeping warm and whether he’d had something to eat. He always answered that they shouldn’t worry.

He went back to Italy after hearing that it was possible for him to board a plane from there to England. That proved to be wrong, so he returned to Dunkirk, where he made two more failed attempts to hide in a truck. On the morning of 7 October, he travelled from Dunkirk to Calais. His family does not know if he went with someone or alone, but says that the refugees he knew from before had moved on.

Mouaz’s sister Rahaf was the last one to speak to him. He told her that he would try to get to England from Calais, but he didn’t say how. He had mentioned a few times that he thought it would be easy to swim out to a boat or ferry near the coast and climb on board, though he never spoke about swimming across the entire Channel.

She received the last message just before 6.30pm on 7 October. He wrote that he missed them. “Mouaz would have told us if he had thought of doing anything dangerous, so we are certain that he didn’t try to swim. We think he is in jail in France or England and we are trying to get an answer from the police. They are the ones responsible,” Rahaf says.



Kripos informs us that the DNA sample we took from Mouaz’s uncle Badi in Bradford shows that there is no genetic relationship between him and the body found at Lista. For the body found in the Netherlands – the Wetsuitman – the results have been inconclusive.

It is rare that anybody disappears without trace from Calais. The details of Mouaz’s history – the date he disappeared, that he had talked about swimming, that he had enough money for a wetsuit but not enough to get the help of smugglers – lead us to contact the family again and suggest getting a new DNA test.

To avoid any doubt, we obtain sampling equipment from the Norwegian Institute of Public Health and send it to a contact in Jordan who takes Mouaz’s mother, father and one of his sisters to a clinic in Amman where two sets of tests are conducted. One sample is sent to Kripos, the other to police in the Netherlands.

Kripos rings first. None of the new DNA material matches that from the body found at Lista in Norway. We get an answer from the Netherlands a few days later. The samples supplied by Mouaz al-Balkhi’s father and mother reveal that they have a direct family link with the body that washed up on the beach on Texel. Investigator John Welzenbagh of the Dutch special police unit for missing persons says he believes the case is solved.



What do you hope for when a son, a brother, a nephew goes missing for eight months and the only alternative to a constant, nagging uncertainty is depths of grief? There is always hope in uncertainty. Notification of a death is an answer, but it is final. The telephone call you are waiting for, with the voice you’ve missed saying, “Mother, I’m alive,” will never come.

Twenty-two years is not a life. It is barely a beginning.

We don’t know how far he got. We don’t know what his plan was. We don’t know exactly where he took the first steps into the cold water or who was beside him. We don’t know if he was afraid.

But we do know his name. We know that he wanted to complete his engineering studies in England and help his family in Jordan. We know that he missed them.

In a graveyard on the island of Texel, in a corner of Field E between the tombstones of Anneke Molenaar van den Brink and Anna Cornelia Alida Boer, is a grave without a name. Beneath the daisies and dandelions rests the young man who could see England.

He is called Mouaz al-Balkhi and he was born on 6 November 1991 in Damascus and he dreamed of a better life.

This is an edited and translated version of an article first published in the Norwegian newspaper Dagbladet.

Anders Fjellberg and Tomm W Christiansen pursued the story of the second body and published their findings on 18 July. See:

This article first appeared in the 09 July 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The austerity war