by M. G. Cole
“Get in touch with them.”
“Oh, sir,” Fanta said admonishingly. “Again?”
Garrick saw Harry stiffen slightly. He was old school and liked the formality within the force, but Garrick was rapidly enjoying Fanta’s cheeky irreverence. It was refreshing, and she was getting more done without the pomposity. Just to emphasise the fact, an image of the driver’s passport appeared on the screen. He was bald and overweight, with eyes too small for his face, giving the impression of a snarl.
“The driver is Mircea Secareanu,” she fumbled haltingly over the unfamiliar name. “Fifty-seven, Romanian national. Born in Cluj-Napoca,” again she was tongue-tied over the pronunciation. “He’s been a lorry driver for most of his life. We’re waiting on their local police force for any criminal convictions.”
Since leaving Europe, communication with forces on the Continent had become slow and erratic. Not impossible, but the smooth transfer of information had been lost, which had a hugely detrimental effect when the clock was ticking.
“And best of all,” Fanta continued. “He’s still in the UK. I ran the plate and picked him up on the M40 southbound.”
Traffic cameras across the country didn’t store every licence plate that drove past them, that would be a step towards a Big Brother state that would have people rioting in the street. But plates could be flagged up and identified when they passed a camera.
“He could be homebound,” said Chib.
Garrick nodded. “If he is, then that’s great news for us. All we have to do is wait for him to enter Kent and we can stop him.” Working with other forces wasn’t too much of an issue, but people could get territorial, and it would just save the hassle if the driver could be stopped in Kent.
“I’m monitoring it,” Fanta assured him.
“That is some outstanding work. Well done, Pepsi.”
She shot him an irritated look, but there was a sparkle of pride in her eyes that made Garrick’s spirits soar. What a terrific little team they were. At this rate, he wondered if they wouldn’t crack the case before the weekend. That, of course, was ignoring the many unanswered questions still fluttering in the breeze…
The door-to-door enquires around the housing estate where the body was found drew up no leads. The woman’s fingerprints were found on the clothing recycling bank, adding credence to Garrick’s idea that she was looking for fresh clothing.
He spent the morning behind his desk as activity swirled around him. Fanta put Mircea’s passport, and a still of the girl entering the Truckstop, on the evidence board. She gave constant updates as the TransServio lorry left the M40 and stopped in an industrial estate in Slough. Each update made Garrick feel increasingly tense with anticipation, and with it came a pounding headache that made him feel nauseous. He burped in reflux, his mouth once again tasting of the bacon sandwich. It wasn’t so nice the second time around.
He re-read the forensic reports on both victims. There was still nothing connecting them other than the skinning ritual, but that was strong enough on its own. What was Galina’s connection to Mircea Secareanu? Other than her being a sex worker, which they had yet to prove, there was nothing. He had the nagging suspicion that he was missing something obvious. Something right in front of him, but the throbbing headache was clouding his judgement.
He took a break from his screen and headed to the toilet. Not for any biological work, but just to soak in the solitude of the cubicle. He scrolled through emails on his phone, which comprised more spam each day. He stopped at a reminder from HeartFelt that he hadn’t responded to his nudge. Impulsively, he accessed the app and tapped on the woman’s profile. She was called Wendy, and her profile picture was simply one of her with a hiking jacket, giving an adorable, dimpled smile to camera. Garrick had seen many profiles trying too hard, but found hers sparse and appealing. Hiking, cinema, and good food were all she had down as interests. The idea behind the site was for users to discover more by actually communicating with one another, rather than analysing pages of information, most of which was usually complete fiction. His finger hesitated above the reply button long enough for somebody to enter the bathroom, have a pee, wash their hands, and leave.
Finally, he tapped and rapidly typed: Who doesn’t like a good bike? Would love to know more.
He pressed send the instant he spotted that the autocorrect had swapped bike for hike. It was a lame response in the first place, but now he looked like a cretin. Before he did any further damage, he put the phone away and returned to his desk. On the way, he was struck by a thought.
He called up the ANPR records for the Truckstop. They had given logs covering the last twelve months. He searched from the Romanian licence plate. It had been in the Truckstop six times in that period. That last time was in November.
The same period Galina had been murdered.
“Son of a bitch,” he murmured under his breath.
“He’s on the M25, heading anti-clockwise!” Fanta declared from across the room.
Garrick made a quick calculation. In steady traffic it would take him about an hour to reach the M26, the short stretch that connected to the M20. With only a couple of exits, it would be the best place to intercept him.
“Notify Highways. Get a Traffic Officer to escort him.”
Traffic Officers covered the UK’s entire motorway network in a fleet of green and yellow vehicles almost identical to the police, save the words TRAFFIC OFFICER on the back. Their principal role was to prevent blockages and remove hazards from the roads. They were often the first on the scene of any accident. Although they had the powers to stop and divert traffic, they could do precious little when it came to upholding the law.
Garrick called up Google maps and scrolled around the area before identifying a suitable site. “Junction four on the M20. There’s a good sized industrial estate in Larkfield. He can park up there and we can bring him in for questioning.”
“Chib, Harry, you come with me. Take a car, I want this to look as frightening as possible. If there is anybody else available, another pair of hands to search the lorry would be useful.”
There was only one police car available, which Harry Lord and PC Sean Wilkes took, forcing Garrick and Chib to take his Land Rover. Arriving at the industrial estate, they selected a space on the imaginatively named Perimeter Road, and waited. At least the rain had stopped.
Fanta texted them updates, confirming that the target had been intercepted on the M26 by the Traffic Police. The officers wouldn’t have any need to talk to the driver, instead an LED screen on the rear window flashed the message FOLLOW ME. Even if the Romanian’s English wasn’t perfect, he’d still get the message.
Seventeen minutes later, the Traffic Land Rover – a model generations ahead of Garrick’s own – turned onto Perimeter Road, the lorry flowing close behind. It was pulling a bright red trailer, the canvas buffeting in the wind.
PC Lord had appropriated a Vauxhall Insignia and switched the blue lights on as the lorry approached. Both uniformed officers stepped into the road with their heavy weather coats on and flagged the lorry to stop at the side of the road. As it did, Garrick and Chib joined them.
Lord motioned for the driver to cut the engine and exit the vehicle. For a moment, Garrick thought he would not comply… then the engine stopped. It started to rain again, fat drops pattering from the vehicles.
“Come out,” Lord shouted, beckoning to the driver who they could just make out behind the mosaic of raindrops on the window. Mircea Secareanu didn’t seem to want to move, and it was making Garrick feel anxious. He hadn’t considered that the man might be armed.
“What do we do?” whispered Chib.
Garrick felt the gaze of his team on him. He stepped forward and reached for the door. To his surprise, it was unlocked and opened easily enough. Inside, a frightened Mircea Secareanu sat with both hands on the wheel.
“Mister Secareanu, Kent Police,” Garrick held up his ID card. Mircea gave it a cursory glance. Garrick gestured with h
is other hand. “Come down please, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
For another breathless moment, Garrick was worried his request would go unheeded. Then Mircea nodded and climbed down, clutching a folder. He was, if not fat, dumpy. At about five-six, Garrick’s six-foot frame towered over him.
“Thank you. Do you speak English?”
“A little.” Mircea held up his thumb and index finger to make his point.
Garrick gestured to the back of the marked vehicle. “Would you like to sit out of the rain while we talk?”
The driver gave a bewildered nod and followed Garrick to the car. Chib and the officers took the chance to examine the lorry. Only when Garrick opened the back door of the Vauxhall and pointed inside, did Mircea stop in his tracks.
“Am I arrested? I have papers here.” He held up the folder.
“No, you are not under arrest it’s just drier inside. Out of the rain.” Garrick mimed, and thankfully the driver got the message and sat in the back of the car. He offered Garrick the folder, but he didn’t take it. With close to seventy pages of documentation needed in the hassle-filled world of import/exports, Garrick didn’t have the patience to look through it all.
“When did you arrive in the country?”
Mircea held up his fingers. “Three days. I take ferry.”
“And what are you transporting?”
“Paint.” He offered the folder to Garrick again.
“I don’t need that at the moment.” He glanced up to see PC Wilkes opening the back of the trailer, while Chib and Harry were now inside the cab. Mircea couldn’t see any of that from his seat. “Are you going back to Romania now?”
Mircea shook his head. “Lyon, then home.”
“That’s a long trip.” Garrick smiled, which seemed to calm Mircea. “Do you come to the UK often?”
“Yes. It is nice here. I arrive a lot.”
“And when were you last here?”
“I cannot, uh, remember.”
“You come here a lot, but you can’t remember the last time you came?”
Mircea shrugged. “I drive all over.”
The man’s hands were clasped tightly together, but his thumbs tapped together with nervous energy. While he was projecting a relaxed attitude, his jaw muscles were working overtime.
“Do you have any friends over here?”
Mircea laughed. “I am too busy for friends.”
“Sir!” Chib beckoned to him from the lorry cab.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Garrick shut the car door, effectively trapping the man, as he’d be unable to open it from the inside. He jogged over to Chib.
“Found something?”
She raised an eyebrow and gave a rare smile. “Most definitely.”
8
The clock was ticking. They had twenty-four hours to keep Mircea detained. If they didn’t charge him within that time then he would be free to go – which would mean that he would be on the next ferry into Europe and, if they later found evidence, it would take a lengthy extradition procedure to bring him back for trial.
The moment Mircea realised that he was being arrested, he lapsed into a sullen silence and didn’t say a word as they escorted him into the interview room for questioning. He sat bolt upright, with his arms folded.
“I want lawyer.”
Garrick cursed American television for drumming that notion into every would-be criminal in the world. He assured the Romanian that one was on the way and tried to cajole him to talk while they waited.
Mircea tapped his finger on the table to emphasise each word. “I want lawyer now.”
It took an hour to find a solicitor who looked as if he was fresh out of law school. Yet again, Garrick wondered why everybody was younger than him.
After just a few minutes with his new client, the solicitor then complicated matters when he insisted his client wanted an interpreter. Luckily, DS Okon was ahead of them all on that point, and had found a Romanian student, Alina, in Kent University, who had her name down on several lists when emergency translations were needed. However, it still took close to ninety minutes as she didn’t drive and had to be picked up. And then she had to sign various wavers and release forms before she could participate in the interview.
So it was almost three hours since Mircea had arrived at the station before the interview could begin. With Garrick, the solicitor, Alina, and Mircea in the room, it was already feeling claustrophobic.
What little English Mircea claimed to know dropped to absolute zero when it came to confirming his identity. Now everything was translated through Alina, and Mircea didn’t seem in a hurry. Formalities out of the way, Garrick slid a picture of Galina under the driver’s nose.
“Do you recognise this woman?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” the solicitor said automatically. Garrick shot him a look, but bit his lip as Alina translated. Mircea shook his head.
“You’re sure?”
“My client has already answered.”
“How about her?”
He placed a picture of Jane Doe next to Galina’s. Mircea hesitated before shaking his head.
“For the record, he’s shaking his head.” Garrick tapped the second picture. “So it would surprise you to discover that we have video footage of her entering your lorry when it was parked in Ashford. And you would be shocked to learn that she was later found murdered.”
Alina nervously stumbled over the translation as it dawned on her just how serious matters were. She slowly leaned back to distance herself from him. Mircea said nothing, but there was a flicker of a reaction.
Garrick sat back in his chair, leaving the pictures of the dead woman in place, hoping that they may guilt him into speaking.
“Fine. Then let us talk about what we found in the cab of your lorry. Drugs.”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“It’s impressive how much your English has improved over the last five seconds. You didn’t even need to wait for the translation. Maybe if I go for a crap, you’ll be fluent by the time I get back.”
Mircea’s eyes narrowed, flushing away any pretence of innocent ignorance.
“I never said you took drugs. I said there was evidence of them in your truck.” Garrick had to pick his words with care, after all, the accusation was not strictly true.
“They’re not mine.”
“Perhaps they belonged to her?” he tapped the picture of Jane Doe.
Mircea opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.
“You know, Mircea, while you were stalling us, asking for your solicitor, and then insisting on having a translator you clearly don’t need, my team had time on their hands, so a forensics team searched your vehicle.”
Alina clarified the word forensics, while the solicitor acted indignant.
“You can’t just search the vehicle without a warrant!”
“I can if I have reasonable ground to do so. And please, feel free to advise your client, not me.” He turned his focus back to the trucker. “So imagine everybody’s surprise when they found a space under the passenger seat where there shouldn’t be one. And imagine their further surprise when they discovered that space contained an airtight metal storage unit. Something so secure it forms a vacuum when sealed. Which means sniffer dogs can’t detect it when it’s closed.”
“I don’t know about this. There were drugs inside?”
Smooth bastard, thought Garrick.
“We found traces of cocaine. You know it had been removed. You were not smuggling drugs out of the country, you smuggled them in.”
The solicitor raised his hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You found nothing in there, but are accusing him of smuggling drugs?”
Garrick’s temper was fraying when he rounded on the solicitor. “You know it would be very rude of me to tell you to shut up.”
Mircea chuckled and folded his arms. This time he was smiling.
“I don’t know about this box. Or your drugs. Or these girls.” He gla
nced at his watch. “So I can go. I have ferry home to take.”
“I don’t think you’ll be catching that ferry home. We have a nice uncomfortable cell for you tonight. I’m sure it will make a change from your lorry.”
Garrick took some satisfaction that his mocking grin infuriated the Romanian.
“He’s as guilty as hell,” Garrick fumed as she sat back at his deck.
Chib had been outside, watching the whole thing over a webcam mounted in the corner of the room.
“You have an interesting interview technique, sir. Just sit and make them furious. They don’t teach that in training.”
“Is that sarcasm, Chib?”
“Perish the thought, sir.”
“When people are really angry, their common sense barriers and filters fall away. Did you see how he reacted to the second picture? He recognised her for sure. And before we arrested him, he told me he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been over, despite the fact his numberplate had been logged in the Truckstop the same time Galina had been murdered.”
“The license plate does not necessarily mean he was driving.”
“He was, I checked with Customs in Dover,” Fanta chimed in from across the room where she was eavesdropping.
Garrick smiled. “And he’d paid his Truckstop fees with the same company card assigned to him. Don’t look so shocked, Chib, it’s almost like I’ve done this detective malarky before.”
“Sorry, sir,” she looked away, embarrassed. “I was playing devil’s advocate.”
Garrick sighed and slouched in his chair. “No, I’m sorry, Chib. Keep doing it. There’s always going to be something we overlook, something stupid. Ask Berkshire if they can send someone down to the warehouse he visited in Slough and trace his moves. And his delivery schedule was in those papers of his. He may have dumped the drugs at one of these stops.”
“Or anywhere along the way.”
