Extradited (2 page)

I
was born in 1988 and raised in Enfield, north London. Life began in Palmers Green – a leafy, suburban area, home to one of the largest populations of Cypriots outside of Cyprus itself. For that reason, I’d never really felt like part of an ethnic minority growing up. I’m of Greek Cypriot origin but both of my parents were born and bred in London, so we’re as anglicised as you can get.

Greek was hardly ever spoken in my household either. It’s unfortunate because I’ve always considered it to be such a great language – soft enough to sound pleasant to the ear, but abrupt enough to give emphasis to well-timed punchlines and sarcasm. Although Greek wasn’t spoken in my house, my grandparents would speak it all the time. The language would fly out of their mouths without them having to put in any effort. I definitely envied them it, even though they spoke it in its colloquial ‘Cypriot-village’ dialect. I attempted to learn modern Greek, but found the grammar to be complicated and difficult to grasp. At least I’d picked up the important key words and phrases, so I was fluent in what I’d call ‘Greenglish’ – English with the odd bit of Greek thrown in!

When I was a teenager I would make up excuses for my struggle to learn, ‘Why do I need to learn Greek? Everyone speaks
English!’ In fairness, it was true. Even my relatives in Cyprus could speak English. One day I asked my granddad if he was bothered by the fact that I couldn’t speak Greek very well. His answer was, ‘As long as you’re happy, it doesn’t bother me at all!’

We didn’t know it at the time, but being fluent in Greek would have served me very, very well.

It’s strange how fragile normal, everyday life can be. You could be spending a perfect, sunny afternoon in blissful ignorance – completely unaware of the life-changing event that’ll happen in just a moment’s time.

A year had passed since our holiday in Zante, and although I’d started university in Bournemouth, it had been an awful year. I’d been torturing myself with thoughts about my friend Michael; eight months had passed since we’d lost him to leukaemia. He was only twenty years old at the time and I hadn’t yet come to terms with it. We’d grown up together; he was like family and his death devastated me. I’d acquired a pessimistic, ‘what’s the point any more’ kind of attitude. My mind was flooded with negative thoughts and anger. I’d started to focus only on the bad things in my life and disregarded the good. Nothing could have measured up to what we’d lost.

I remember driving home from Chris’s house and thinking,
it’s only a matter of time before something else shit happens
. Little did I know that it would be in less than an hour’s time.

I walked into the house. Nobody was home. I glanced at my watch – 6 p.m. My sister Sophie and my mum, Helen, would be home at any minute. I didn’t have long to get ready – I was meeting the boys that evening to see the new James Bond film at
the cinema. I quickly boiled up some ravioli for dinner – ‘Cypriot style’, with a chicken stock cube and grated halloumi.

The doorbell rang. We had a video entry system, allowing us to see who was standing at the door before opening it and on the screen I could see a group of tall, suited men who I spoke with via the intercom system.

‘Is this no. 41?’ one of the men asked.

‘Yes, it is…’

‘We’re officers from Scotland Yard. And who may I be speaking to?’

I was startled by one of the officers who I caught staring at me through the window at the front of the house. I didn’t say anything for a short moment, lost for words. ‘Andrew,’ I said.

‘Well, it’s actually you who we need to speak to.’

I had a feeling that I knew what it was about. Chris and Charlie had told us about the incident with the police in Greece, and I was aware that they’d been forced to sign something with my name in it. I wasn’t worried though. I was happy to answer any of their questions. I hadn’t witnessed any violence on my holiday in Zante – I’d only been told of Chris and Charlie’s experience in the police station.

I asked the gentleman on the intercom to show me his badge and he held something up to the camera. I couldn’t really make out what it was – it could have been a library card for all I knew! I opened the front door and saw my mum and Sophie walking up the driveway behind them. My mum looked at the officers, her jaw dropped and her eyes squinted in confusion. Before she had the chance to question what was happening, one of the officers said, ‘We’d better go inside.’ They made their way into the house and I sat down on the sofa in our living room.

‘We have a European Arrest Warrant here. You’re under arrest for the murder of Jonathan Hiles; you have the right to remain
silent; anything you do say can be used as evidence in a court of law. You have the right to a lawyer…’

It’s very difficult to describe exactly how I felt in that moment. It was too much information to take in at once, and I couldn’t even begin to comprehend how much my life was about to change. It was a numbing sensation. I found it far easier to ignore my surroundings, so I stared at the television screen and watched blurred coloured images move around while the officer continued to read me my rights. I felt like a frozen statue, and as soon as I moved a muscle I’d have to accept it as true – that I was being arrested for murder.

I was snapped out of my frozen state by the sound of my frantic mum attempting to talk the officers out of it. ‘Let’s all sit down, I’ll make everyone a cup of tea and we can talk about this! Who would like a tea?’ She ran into the kitchen to put the kettle on, as though the officers would have a cup of tea then leave us alone. I picked up the bowl of pasta, continuing to eat it as though they weren’t really there.

‘You have to put the bowl down, Andrew,’ an officer said to me. He took the pasta out of my hands and placed it on the table.

My mum then realised that the officers had no interest in delaying their job for a cup of tea. She picked up her mobile phone and called the solicitor we’d spoken to almost a year before. When Chris and Charlie had told us about their terrible experience at the hands of the Greek police, we’d eventually decided to speak to a solicitor and ask for his opinion. After all, I may have been implicated as being involved in a serious crime! The solicitor advised us that we (myself and the people I had been with on the night in question) should make statements of our whereabouts that night. We’d also collected photographs of the night – just in case anything were to happen.

Floods of tears ran down Sophie’s face as they forced my wrists
into handcuffs. Our eyes met for a moment and hers reflected the desperation in mine. I flicked my attention to one of the officers. ‘Do you know what’s disgusting about this!?’ I managed to blurt out. The reality of the situation had started to kick in, as did the trembling nerves and tears.

‘That someone’s dead?’ replied one of the officers.

‘That someone’s dead, the killer is out there walking the streets and you’re here arresting the wrong person!’ I cried.

‘Andrew, we need to take you down to the station,’ he said calmly, ignoring my assertion.

‘How long will I be there for?’ I asked, wiping my eyes with both of my handcuffed hands. I hoped the answer would be ‘not very long’, naively believing that they would take me in for a few questions and release me. I had nothing to do with the crime – to take it any further would be ridiculous.

‘You’ll be there all night.’

It felt as though my heart was drooping lower and lower into my body. I could hear my mum on the phone to the solicitor. She passed the handset to me and I held it with my cuffed hands against the side of my head. ‘Remember, Andrew, don’t say anything!’ he said.

Not saying anything made no sense to me. I had nothing to hide and desperately wanted to tell them exactly what had happened to Chris and Charlie at the police station in Zante. I couldn’t see what would be so wrong with telling them what had happened.

I asked Sophie to take my mobile phone out of my pocket. ‘When Riya calls, explain what’s happened – OK?’ My then girlfriend had no idea what was going on.

The officers escorted me to the Ford Mondeo that was parked on our driveway. They allowed me to put a jumper over the handcuffs so the neighbours wouldn’t know what was going on. All
five of us squeezed in, and I was put in the middle seat in the back. I didn’t say a word. I blanked out all of my surroundings. I was numb, my mind was empty and my heart continued to sink deeper into my stomach.

‘You know, the father of the boy who died has really been pushing for this,’ the officer driving said.

‘I would do exactly the same thing,’ I managed to say without choking up.

‘They gave your friends a hard time over in Greece, didn’t they … the police?’ another officer asked.

‘Yep.’

Following that comment, we sat in silence as we made our way to Edmonton Police Station.

It was my first time in a police station. I stood intimidated as they took mug shots, scanned my fingerprints and sampled my DNA before putting me in a holding cell. ‘You’ll go to Westminster Magistrates’ Court tomorrow morning, we’ll wake you up at 7 a.m.,’ said a female officer before the heavy metal door thudded on impact. She turned the key and forced the lock into place – I instantly buried my face in my hands and filled them with warm tears. I held a copy of the European Arrest Warrant in my hands that the officer had given to me. ‘
Murder, maximum twenty years
.’ Those were the only words I could see out of the whole document. I repeatedly read them and tormented myself, unable to prevent the streams of tears running down my cheeks. I just had to be patient, calm down, think as positively as possible and attempt to rest.

I lay down on the blue gym mat. My eyes flickered between the light brown painted ceiling and dark brown tiled walls. It felt like hours had passed. I closed my eyes, allowing my exhausted mind to run free. Somehow I managed to drift off to sleep. That night, for the first time, I dreamed of my friend Michael.

T
he heavy metal door swung open. I opened my eyes, disorientated and in a state of confusion. Still wearing the same clothes as the day before, I looked into the eyes of the female police officer. My mouth was dry and I could taste that my breath may have had an unhygienic whiff.

‘It’s 7 a.m. Come on, you’re leaving for court now.’

The reality came flooding back and I was struck with overwhelming nerves. She escorted me to the front of the police station in handcuffs.

‘So, are they sending you back to Greece?’ she asked.

‘I hope not,’ I replied as she guided me into the Serco police van. They sat me down at the end of the vehicle and removed my handcuffs. I was locked in an isolated box, enclosed within white plastic walls and with little space to move. They shut the door behind them, leaving me with a small window and tiny holes to look through. I peered outside and watched the streets of London pass me by. I saw people living out their typical weekday mornings – some waiting at bus stops, others pacing to the nearest train station while jabbering on their mobile phones. I felt peculiar and insignificant; my life was falling apart but the rest of the world was carrying on as normal.

The journey seemed to take hours. I was sitting just above the rear wheel of the van on a hard, plastic seat. The vibrations of every bump trembled up my spine – and the poor maintenance of some of London’s roads didn’t help. The officers were listening to Johnny Vaughan’s Capital FM breakfast show on the radio, chuckling as they had heard him say something funny. I tried to listen, desperately needing something to focus on so I could forget about where I was – but I failed in the attempt.

We progressed further into central London and I watched the neighbourhoods change: suburban family homes became office towers and greenery became concrete. We stopped off at one point and I assumed that we’d arrived, but they were just picking up another person for court. He was placed in his own box on the left-hand side of the van. It’s funny how you take one look at someone walking into a police van and automatically assume that they’ve done something wrong. It turns out you think just the same, even if you’re sitting in the van yourself!

It was around 9.30 a.m. when we arrived at Westminster Magistrates’ Court. The Friday-morning traffic and the off-route pick-up made the trip from Edmonton seem like a day’s travelling. On arrival I was put into a cell again, and I could hear people in other cells angrily banging their fists on the walls and shouting. The door slowly opened. I stood up ready to be taken to court, but another young man was put into the cell with me. There was a sudden stench of body odour. He wore blue overalls that were covered in paint and black elasticated plimsolls – the kind that primary school children wear for PE.

‘You fucking wankers! Give me back my money! Give me back my money!’

He clenched his fists and pounded on the door. He forcefully ripped the plimsolls off his feet and threw them against the wall.

Time passed slowly and we sat in silence. I tried my hardest
not to watch him force his finger into his nose and dig for buried treasure. When finding a bogey, he would pull it out of his nostril to examine the result. It took about five picks before seizing a big, fat one that he was satisfied with. He repeatedly rolled it in between his thumb and index finger until it was a little ball.

Squash and roll. Squash and roll.
The guy was so engrossed in what he was doing that he completely disregarded the fact that someone else was sitting there watching. I couldn’t help but stare, even though I didn’t want to. He constantly made tutting and moaning noises.
Squash and roll. Squash and roll
. ‘Fucking tossers,’ I heard him mumble to himself.

There must have been at least an hour of awkward silence. Within this time a woman had opened the cell door and handed us some food that I’d started to eat.

‘So why are you going to court?’ I asked him.

He cleared all of the mucus from his sinuses, bringing it all into his mouth and spitting it on the floor. I looked at my microwave meal and put it to the side. He responded:

On the cell door there was a slit that could open up like a letterbox to communicate with the detainees. The slit opened and I could see a man in his thirties with a side parting and suit standing behind it. It was a lawyer that my family had hired. ‘The judge is going to ask you if you’ll allow them to extradite you to Greece; you have the opportunity to appeal and therefore you say
no
,’ he said. ‘You got that? Say
no
. Whatever you do, do
not
say yes!’

‘OK, got it.’

Another hour seemed to have passed. The boy finally flicked his bogey, which landed on the floor next to him.

‘So, what’s your name?’ I asked. Why did I ask? I didn’t care what his flipping name was. I needed to prevent my mind from jabbering its way into insanity.

‘Um … Tom,’ he said after a delayed moment.

My new pal Tom and I sat there in silence until he was finally summoned to face his fate. Tom was a strange boy and I’ll never know what happened to him.

The cell door opened. ‘Come with me,’ said the woman behind it. I followed her up a steep staircase and through a narrow corridor.

Just say no
, I repeated to myself.

She led me through a door and before I knew it, I was sitting in the defendants’ dock overlooking a courtroom. My entire body trembled. I looked to my left and could see my family with my godfather Lef and auntie Teresa in the public gallery. My dad, Frank, gave me the thumbs up and smiled, attempting to raise my spirits and say, ‘It’s all going to be fine.’ I remember the judge being old and wrinkly with grey hair and thick glasses. We were all asked to rise – I wanted to cry. All I wanted to do was tell the court that I was innocent so I could be left alone!

‘May you please state your name.’

‘Andrew Christopher Symeou,’ I answered.

The judge asked me if I would allow the state to extradite me to Greece.

‘No.’

The hearing lasted around half an hour. I remember the judge insinuating that I’d left my holiday earlier than the others in my group, which wasn’t the case at all. I told the court that my friends
Chris and Charlie were on a different package holiday from us. I could prove that my tickets were booked from the 8th to 22 July, which was a Sunday.

‘But these package holidays are Saturday to Saturday!’ the judge responded.

‘No,’ I replied.

After putting my mum on the stand to find out about our family’s finances, I was released on a promissory bail for £20,000. A bulky security guard escorted me to the court’s main foyer where I was able to hug my family. We couldn’t say anything for a few moments; there were no words to describe our feelings. We just cried in each other’s arms. I remember my godfather Lef grabbing me with his huge hands and pulling me towards him. It was the first time that I’d ever seen him get emotional.

‘When will this be over?’ I remember stuttering to my dad.

‘A few months,’ he answered. I could sense uncertainty – there was no way he could have known.

We flagged down a black cab on Horseferry Road, still in the state of a dominating silence. My mum had a run-down, pale and emotionless face. Sophie was still in tears, her dark mascara running down her cheeks. I hadn’t spoken to my girlfriend Riya since this had happened. Sophie told me that she had explained everything to her and handed my mobile back to me. I was comforted by the texts that Riya had sent. Unable to muster the ability to speak at the time, I replied saying that everything would be OK.

I couldn’t process any logical thought; only images of what could happen were running through my mind. For a few moments I closed my eyes and lost myself in the sound of the taxi’s engine. Pressing the side of my face against the cool glass window, the vibrations were soothing like the feeling of a pulse – a reminder that I was still alive.