by J. D. Weston
But there was one stare he felt. It was almost laughable. He closed his eyes, gave a quiet sigh, and spoke.
“What is it, Fox?”
She hesitated, and in that tiny space of time, he guessed there were two sentences on her lips. The first of which would be to ask him if he was okay. But it was both surprising and relieving that she chose the second.
“I traced the shipping container. I was right.”
She could have the little moment of glory. It wasn’t like she was a bitch. She didn’t have a mean streak. In fact, if anything, she was too far the other way.
“Well done,” he said.
A little motivation would go a long way. He slipped down in his chair and opened his eyes to stare at the Styrofoam ceiling tiles. The pattern was generic, much like any office space might have. But the deeper he stared, the more hypnotic it became. There seemed to be a pattern within a pattern. It was like time and space had been printed on a ceiling tile. A swirl of heavy and light dots swirled and met with another. But it was the spaces in-between that were of interest. He’d heard it said that music was less about the notes and more about the spaces between them. It was the same for art. The beauty was in the empty space.
“Sir?”
Sadly, reality was more about the facts.
“Do you enjoy the research, Fox?”
“I enjoy challenges, sir. I always have.”
“Good career choice. If you’re looking for a challenge, or fifty, you’re in the right place.”
“It’s why I’m here.”
“Well,” he said, as he heaved himself up in his chair and pulled the chair closer to the desk. “Don’t let the challenges become about anything other than the case. That’s my advice. Take it as you will.”
“Sir, do you mind me asking you something?”
What would it be? Would she ask the question that she chose not to a while ago? Would she ask about his life? Why he chose a career that would kill him before he retired? He could answer the latter. The former, well, he’d need the shrink to help him with that.
He looked up at her, and for the first time, he saw something in her. There was a resilience in those brown eyes. He hadn’t been friendly with her. He hadn’t been rude, but he certainly hadn’t made an effort to make her feel welcome. Not like he probably should have. Perhaps she had grown hardened to people ignoring her or pushing her away as a result of her incessant desire to stand too close, to talk too much, and to be a part of something.
Maybe that was it? Myers had forged a career on the back of his ability to put himself in other people’s shoes. But those other people were usually either victims or suspects. He never empathised with his colleagues. Not once had he ever considered what they were going through, how they felt, or what was driving them. It was only a chance meeting with Carver that had given him food for thought, an insight into the man’s mind.
Just a ripple.
She was new in town, a country girl at heart, although she referred to Bristol as being her home city. Myers would bet all the money in his wallet that she was a country girl who maybe went to college in Bristol. It would have been the first time she had strayed away from home. He saw flashes of bright adolescent girls making her life a misery. She would have been singled out. Eating alone during breaks. Girls would turn their backs on her as she passed them. But she would have been the first to submit her coursework, or papers, or whatever they were called in college.
He considered her face. She was pretty. Her figure was great, and she would look great in a little dress. She had a chest, but not too much, and beneath the immaculate blouses she wore, her waist would be firm and lithe.
“Sir?” It was the former of the questions. “Are you okay, sir?”
He raised an eyebrow in question, still imagining her body. There was a good chance she was still a virgin. College boys would have tried and, since then, young men would have failed to impress the hardened, isolated mind enough for her to let their hands get anywhere near her.
“You seem distracted.”
He sighed.
“I’m thinking, Fox. It’s what we do here. Think. You can’t solve a crime by just talking about it.”
Her silence was enough for Myers to regret his tone just sufficiently enough to pull him away from his mental image of her taut, little waist. It was probably for the best. She was probably less than ten years older than Harriet.
“If you enjoy challenges, missy, see if you can find me the details of a…” He flipped open his little notepad. “Regency Leather Goods Limited. They sell bags.”
She noted the name of the company down, enthused by the fresh challenge and not in the slightest discouraged by Myers’ tone. A tough girl like her might do well in the force if she could learn to distance herself.
She finished writing and collected a bunch of papers off her desk.
“Now…” she began, and adopted the look of a know-it-all secretary telling her boss what appointments he had that day.
Myers’ opinion of her, which had been swelling the more he empathised, sank a little.
She had a lot to learn about being personable.
“About that container, sir.”
“Go on then. Thrill me with your intellect, Fox.” He rested his elbow on his desk, preparing to engage with her, but his face slipped into his hands and stared at the blank desk space between his fingers.
“It was delivered to a car garage in Canning Town. Looks like some kind of repair shop.”
“Superb,” said Myers, unable to conceal the sarcasm in his tone.
“Using John Cartwright’s import license.”
“Again, that is truly outstanding.”
“You don’t find that interesting?”
“What? That a shipping container was delivered to a car garage? No, Fox. Unless you can tell me that particular shipping container was full of something interesting.”
“I checked the records. I went back nearly three years.”
His flippancy raised its head, but Myers withheld it. She was a distraction, at least. “Go on.”
“Donald Cartwright imports anywhere between fifteen and twenty-two containers per year, all to serve his father’s businesses.”
“Seems fair, considering the amount of bars and clubs he owns. If he can save a few thousand by importing the booze, that makes good business sense.”
“This particular delivery is the only one that hasn’t been countersigned by Sergio and it’s the only one that was delivered to a different address. Couple that with the handwritten container number, the larger volume of whiskey, and the balled-up shipping note we found in the bin…”
“You found, Fox,” said Myers, offering her a little taste of success. “You found the shipping note.”
“I think all that makes for an interesting find, sir.”
He thought about the facts and whether she was reading too much into it. But, as usual, she had more to say.
“I have a theory.”
“A theory? Already?”
“Donald Cartwright’s wife was killed. But it was a mistake. It was supposed to be him that died.”
“Plausible,” said Myers. “Go on.”
“He used his father’s import license to do his own business. You saw him. He was cagey. He was defensive. He was using his father’s license to undercut him.”
“Or he was using his father’s license to import something other than alcohol.”
“I think he’s made enemies, sir. I think whatever was in that container fell into the wrong hands.”
Myers had to admit, it was the best idea they’d had.
“Or maybe whatever was in that container didn’t fall into the right hands?” said Myers, turning her theory on its head in the most agreeable manner he was in the mood for.
“I think Donald Cartwright is in serious danger, sir.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The upstairs warehouse office was empty. The Mercedes was gone. Whoever was running the show was
a coward.
For the second time that day, Harvey closed a door with little concern for the men he left behind or the destruction his presence had caused. The Old Ford Industrial Park was one of those parts of East London that people were blind to. Loose lips did more than just sink ships. Loose lips broke bones and destroyed lives. Nobody tolerated a grass and, as a result, nobody would be seen talking to the police.
So when Harvey walked past the neighbouring unit to his bike, despite there being a man outside talking to a delivery driver and despite there being several people in the distance scratching their heads over the van that had rolled into a few parked cars, nobody saw him.
He rode away with his helmet visor down and accelerated out of the park to re-join the A12 dual carriageway toward Canning Town. He maintained the speed limit, aware of his bloodied knuckles and swollen lip. A stop by the police could be catastrophic and, in Julios’ words, it would be the mistake of a lesser man.
The trick to being invisible was to blend into the surroundings. To ride fast would turn heads. To change lanes without warning would flare tempers. And to break the rules of the road would be like placing himself under a spotlight. But when an old Toyota overtook him and swerved into his path, Harvey had little opportunity to do anything but shine that spotlight.
The car came from his right and forced Harvey into the next lane where he had to brake to avoid hitting the back of a large articulated lorry. He moved across one more lane and onto the shoulder, and tiny stones seemed to jump up from beneath his front wheel and gouge his legs. He shot past the lorry and moved in front just one lane away from the Toyota. The lorry driver sounded his horn as the driver of the car peered at him through the passenger window and veered his way. The front wing caught Harvey’s leg and sent him into a wobble, from which he recovered just in time to swerve around another slow truck.
The lorry slowed, leaving just Harvey and the car. They were neck and neck. The road ahead was clear save for a few other cars faster than themselves, and the traffic behind them had seen what was happening and had all slowed.
Harvey chanced a glance at the driver. It was the man in charge. The man who had pinned Harvey down. His lip was curled in the cobra-like grimace of hatred and he pulled at the Toyota’s steering wheel to close the gap.
Tired of being on the defending side, Harvey swerved across the lanes until he was just a metre away. He accelerated when the man swerved his way and he braked to retake his place beside him, toying with the car’s lack of agility and coaxing the man into a rage. Harvey knew the roads like he knew the orchard on John’s estate. He was familiar with the bends and knew the sweeping curve of the next junction.
He also knew that a motorcycle stood little chance against a car. The only advantage he had was speed. He took the junction, teasing the driver to follow and staying just far enough in front to be out of reach. He slowed to take a slip road and the car followed with its front bumper grazing Harvey’s rear wheel. The move off-balanced Harvey and he fought to stay upright, then accelerated away. He leaned through a bend and joined the road for the Royal Docks with a screech of tyres not far behind.
The road was empty, and the Toyota’s engine roared behind him. The dockside was paved and retained the tall cranes that had once loaded ships destined for lands far away. Small, immature trees had been planted in two long lines with a clear run between them of empty pedestrianised space. The Toyota bounced onto the pavement and the driver floored the accelerator. Harvey’s bike was fast, but the Toyota wasn’t far behind.
He increased the speed, knowing that the dockside would end. He allowed the driver to pull alongside and he glanced down at the speedometer.
Seventy-five miles per hour.
He accelerated again and the driver did the same, matching him move for move.
Eighty-five miles per hour.
The window rolled down, and just as Harvey glanced across, he saw the dull, black muzzle of a handgun rise into view.
A single shot glanced off the petrol tank between his legs. He increased the speed a little more, but the long stretch of pavement was running out.
The second shot passed beneath his arms. The driver was grinning as he took aim for the third, which tore through Harvey’s jacket seconds later, missing his chest by inches.
Harvey slammed on the brakes and the rear end fish-tailed out from beneath him. He rolled to one side, brought his arms into his body, and the friction of the concrete caught him. He rolled too many times to tell, then slid on his side, letting his thick, leather jacket take the brunt of the grinding concrete.
He came to a stop forty feet from his bike, just in time to see the Toyota crash through the waterside barrier. He heard the futile rev of the engine and saw the brake lights flash on with little effect. Then the car splashed down into the water below.
Harvey lay still. He let his heart settle and moved his limbs and digits. Nothing was broken. His hip was grazed, and his jacket was hot from the friction.
Somewhere in the distance, Harvey heard the sound of the first sirens, but he needed a minute. He lay there and thought of Donny and why the men would want him. What had he done? It had something to do with the contents of the container. It had something to do with the boxes of alcohol. And it had something to do with the owner of a car garage whose address was on the delivery note, which was just a few streets away.
The time for trying to understand it was over. He’d faced a mad man in the safe house, a bunch of men in the warehouse, and a lunatic in the Toyota. He needed to stop it. He needed to find Donny and Julios.
He got to his feet and limped the first few steps until his body adapted to the sores and scrapes. He heaved his motorcycle upright and turned the key. With a little throttle, it started on the second try.
The sirens were edging closer, and on the far side of the water, Harvey saw the flashing blues racing along the road that ran parallel to the docks.
He waited for a full minute and no man surfaced in the water. The car had filled through the open window, upturned, and disappeared into the dark water leaving only a ripple on the surface in its wake.
The ride out of the docks was calmer and shorter. The garage was just a few streets away and he navigated the back streets, adopting his role of a courier looking for a delivery.
But beneath the leather jacket were bloodied scrapes. Beneath his cargo pants, his skin was red raw. And beneath his darkened visor, his face was resolute.
He stopped the bike at a T-junction just as three police cars raced past from right to left. He glanced right and saw the name of the garage printed in large, yellow letters on a flaking, wooden signboard.
And he saw a familiar man open a car door and peer into the premises.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The back streets of Canning Town where Myers had parked his car were the wild west of London. To his left was a row of shady garages built into the elevated section of road that crossed the docks. There was a boxing gym and a pub that had appeared to be closed as long as Myers could remember. Its boarded-up windows and graffitied walls offered little in the way of a nice, quiet drink.
But Myers knew it to be a resource. Deals were struck in the corner booths, allies and enemies were made with equal regularity, and all behind the closed doors of a seedy, little pub that nobody knew about.
The other businesses around it basked in the shade of the same crooked arm. Back in the eighties, the garages would have been cutting and shutting stolen and damaged cars into the early hours of the morning, and car identification numbers would have been ground away in a shower of sparks. Dodgy vans would have been loaded with the scrap parts and they would have been delivered to a no-questions-asked scrap merchant a few blocks away.
Men thrived in back streets like the one Myers was parked in. Men who were born and raised there could walk the streets and bathe in that shadow carefree. Even men like Donald Cartwright who thrived under the wing of his villainous father could walk carefree in the name of C
artwright. His father was a face, and lesser men would bend over backwards for a face.
But men like Myers were sniffed out in a heartbeat. Men like Myers were the black sheep. Men like Myers were outcasts.
Three police cars raced past with their sirens blaring and lights flashing. The noise faded and Myers climbed from his car. He looked up at the signboard. It was faded and the paint was flaking. There was a small forecourt outside the old garage with enough space to fit four or five cars. Parked in the corner were two old wrecks that looked as if they hadn’t moved since the eighties. The tyres were flat and brittle. The windows were smashed, and the paintwork was all but rusted away, leaving just very faint reminders that the car on the right had been a Blue Ford and the car on the left had been a red BMW.
He glanced back at his car and checked his pocket for the keys then ventured further. It was unlocked, but nobody would steal an old wreck like that. Besides, without a warrant, he’d just be a few minutes.
Three large, round industrial bins were in the opposite corner filled to their brims with folded cardboard and balls of plastic wrapping that Myers thought might have been wrapped around a pallet to keep the contents from falling off.
There was a single door to the right and a large concertina door to the left. Myers presumed that the larger of the doors was to allow vehicles in for repairs and the smaller door was for human access.
Both doors were shut, but the security shutter on the smaller door was raised. Even a local man wouldn’t leave his premises vulnerable to break-ins. Myers tried the door and found it unlocked. There was a small office on the right, or at least the remains of one. The desk had been upturned and there was paperwork scattered across the floor.
From where he was standing, the forms appeared to be motor test certificates. The drawers of the desk had been pulled out and the contents had been tipped on top of the paperwork: old cigarette packets, disposable lighters, pens, and a whole host of random objects that Myers himself might find in his own drawer at home.
