Pristine lawns, an army of cleaners... this is the ghost hotel that shames the unholy alliance who sabotaged Rishi Sunak's Rwanda scheme

Late afternoon in the grounds of what appears as a palatial hillside residence, and a gardener is needlessly clipping the top of a hedge that is already pristine.

He mops his brow with his floppy hat and scans the two-and-a-half acres of lush lawned gardens. A feathery breeze carries a faint trace of hibiscus. Close your eyes and you can almost hear the knock of croquet mallet on ball.

Far from the shires of England, though, we are in fact 4,000 miles away in Rwanda, East Africa. Welcome to the Hope Hostel.

Though it is lavished with the same care as a grand old National Trust house, this is the establishment booked for two years by the British Government to house deported migrants.

Its tall gates are pulled shut and, leaving behind the clamour of the capital Kigali, we are ushered into an oasis.

Our arrival coincides with Rishi Sunak's decision to call an election, potentially bringing an existential crisis to the Hope's door.

For the hotel stands as a symbol of an unholy alliance of lawyers, judges and obstreperous civil servants who have sabotaged the Sunak government's policy of deporting illegal migrants, ending Channel crossings and regaining control of Britain's borders. 

With the General Election campaign now under way, the PM has said no migrant flights will leave until after polling day. Sir Keir Starmer has said he will scrap the Rwanda deal if Labour wins.

The hotel's small army of gardeners, cooks and cleaners are untroubled by such machinations. If they execute tasks with robotic ease, it is unsurprising. They have had plenty of time to practise.

As Mr Sunak wrestled with legal challenges, the Hope's staff turned up for work every morning, as if in a kind of alternate reality.

So far, £20million of UK taxpayers' cash has gone on maintaining this ghost hotel without a single migrant – or indeed any guest – passing through its doors.

That it might all have been in vain is a prospect manager Ismael Bakina refuses to countenance – just as he dismisses the suggestion that staff must be bored rigid.

Like his hotel, the 37-year-old is immaculately turned out and demands high standards from his staff. 

'Nobody here is bored,' he says. 

He likens himself to a football coach preparing for the World Cup. 'We have now spent a lot of time together and it has made everyone better at their jobs.'

All are perfectionists, he says. At the first sign of sprouting, weeds are expunged from the gardens which, incidentally, are swept of leaves moments after they fall. Inside, staff work with equal gusto. 

The Hope sleeps 100 and its 50 twin rooms are cleaned daily.

Meanwhile, the chef has only tested his dishes on the staff. Mr Bakina says it has given him time to hone his technique.

Still, two years without guests seems an awfully long time.

'We have to be ready to offer the best welcome,' says Mr Bakina. 'The call could come at any time to say [the migrants] are at the airport.'

It feels reminiscent of one of those far-flung Eastern Bloc residences maintained during the Cold War on the off-chance a dictator might visit.

What goes on at the Hope seems at once commendable and barmy. To enter we must navigate airport-style security and pass two guards with hand-held scanners. 

It takes seconds, but since weeks can pass without either guard getting the chance to deploy their gadgets, they confer, and it is agreed that one will scan the legs while the other gets the arms and torso.

From reception, Mr Bakina gestures to a room outside his office. Shutting down talk of whether the election might spell the end of the Hope, Mr Bakina says he answers only to his own government.

He seems happier talking about facilities. There is a five-a-side football pitch, a basketball court, and widescreen TVs in communal areas. 'We want to make everyone feel at home,' says Mr Bakina. 

The passing of the Safety of Rwanda Act, which became law on April 25, and a new treaty with Kigali which Ministers thought had overcome objections raised about the Rwanda policy by the Supreme Court, brought the prospect of hotel guests tantalisingly close.

Last week, though, a committee of MPs said that the Home Office has no 'credible plan' for making the deportation scheme work. 

Whatever happens on July 4, the deal has helped Rwanda's president Paul Kagame burnish his credentials as a friend of the West, despite crushing the press and clamping down on dissent.

After the 1994 genocide – when more than 500,000 ethnic Tutsis were killed by Hutu militias in 100 days – Kagame oversaw reprisal attacks in which Hutu villagers were killed. 

Since then, wars in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) have sent tens of thousands across the border to safety in Rwanda.

'Opponents of your Government's scheme say it isn't safe here for these illegals and complain about their rights,' a former Rwandan civil servant says. 

'But what about Congolese asylum seekers who languish in refugee camps that don't receive millions from the West?'

At one camp, the Nkamira Transit Centre, a two-hour drive from Kigali, Vumilia, 27, says she fled to Rwanda after seeing her husband being hacked to death in January in Eastern DRC. 

'I don't have a mattress and food isn't enough, but at least I'm safe,' she says.

Back at the Hope, Mr Bakina waves us goodbye. 'Come back when we're full up,' he says. 'And tell the migrants that they won't be disappointed!'