by Nick Oldham
Henry arched his eyebrows.
Troy knew that what he was saying was pure bollocks. He spat a ‘Tch!’ and his mouth twisted down at the corners.
‘How’s the drug dealing going?’
Troy’s face became bland and expressionless. He chose not to be baited. Henry sighed, recalling how not very long ago he had confiscated a revolver and a bag of drugs from Troy, which he had subsequently, and illegally, disposed of. Henry said, ‘Next time I find you with dope in your hands, I won’t be so lenient. You understand that, don’t you Troy?’
Troy merely looked bored, feigned a yawn.
‘So now we come to our present predicament.’
‘You bastards will suffer for this,’ Troy said gleefully.
It was Henry’s turn to look indifferent. He sighed. ‘OK, battle lines drawn . . . what can you tell me about Roy? Such as where can I find him, for a start?’
‘Dunno.’ Troy’s thin shoulders rose and fell.
‘OK . . . how come he was in a stolen car from Manchester?’
Troy squirmed ever so slightly and fourteen years of harassing him suddenly seemed to come good for Henry as he knew he could read Troy’s body language like a large-print book. Henry smiled slightly. ‘Is there something you’d like to tell me, Troy?’
‘Nope.’
‘Did Roy go to Manchester last night and come back in a stolen motor?’
‘How the bleedin’ hell should I know? I’m not his keeper.’
‘But that’s exactly what you are, Troy. At the moment you are head of the Costain household. You said so yourself.’
‘Look,’ Troy said, beginning to get uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know what he’s been up to, all right? He comes ’n’ he goes as he pleases. He’s bloody fourteen for fuck’s sake.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Erm . . . tryina think . . . em . . .’ Troy’s mind was whirring now as he tried urgently not to drop himself in anything smelly. ‘Probably about six last night . . . tea time . . . yeah, that was it.’
‘Hm, interesting.’
‘Why?’ Troy asked worriedly.
‘If you saw him at six, the car was only stolen at seven in Manchester – he made bloody good time to the city.’
‘Didn’t he just . . . well, maybe someone else stole it and—’ Troy began, but stopped himself on a sixpence.
‘Good theory. Go on,’ Henry urged him.
‘No, nothing,’ he said with a wild back-pedal.
‘OK – so where do I find him, Troy? You know we have to talk to him sooner rather than later, don’t you?’
‘Henry, if I knew where he was, I’d tell you.’
‘Not a terribly good answer.’
The wind screamed into the port of Hull from the River Humber and beyond from the North Sea, carrying with it stinging particles of sleet. It was bitter cold and driving hard, making Karl Donaldson burrow down even more deeply into his thick reefer jacket, tug up his collar and wish he’d had the foresight to put on a further couple of layers. The sea was running high as the weather deteriorated and Donaldson felt as though his recently acquired tan was being stripped from his face. It had been difficult to hear the voice down the mobile phone, but eventually Donaldson confirmed everything twice, then hung up. A slight change of plan, but not drastic.
He squinted out across the murky sea, but could see nothing other than low cloud and high waves. His ship had yet to come in, though he knew it was not far away.
With a judder, Donaldson turned his back to the wind and made his way to the permanently sited Portakabin on the quayside adjacent to the customs channel through which all vehicles rolling off the ferries must pass. There was some warmth in the hut provided by the meagre portable gas fire, but this was having to be shared around the six people inside, all attempting to get a few therms for themselves.
Donaldson nodded at a few of the raised pairs of eyes, but none returned the greeting. They were all miserable – and Karl Donaldson was responsible for their plight.
He edged over to the kettle, flicked it on and selected a coffee from the mouth-watering selection of freeze-dried drinks on offer. As he poured steaming water into it, he saw there were no spoons so he stirred it with a pen, then took a sip. It tasted dreadful, but at least it was hot.
He took a few moments to look around the ‘building’. There was a real cocktail of people therein, a genuine multi-agency approach, and yes, he was the one who had brought them all together to the salubrious Port of Hull.
There was a pair of surly individuals from the Immigration Service, a customs officer, a cop (a rather deliciously attractive female, Donaldson noted innocently), a social worker and some low-ranking bod from the Home Office who had come close to being punched by Donaldson on two separate, but recent, occasions. Nearby and on call was a customs search team with dogs and all manner of specialized equipment. They were housed in the main customs building where there was real heat and coffee to be had.
And they were all there because of him.
Donaldson, an American, worked for the FBI’s Legal Attaché Department at the American Embassy in London. Much of his time was spent in liaison with law-enforcement agencies in the UK and Europe and it was acting upon information he had personally sourced that this pleasant bunch of people had been mustered. The information was that a particular lorry would be landing in Hull and would contain a number of illegal immigrants and a large stash of drugs. It had taken Donaldson a lot of cajoling to bring them together because these days there was a fair degree of apathy in response to such information. Illegal immigrants? So what? Hundreds came across every day. It was easier to let them in. Drugs? Not sure if we have the resources. Get in the queue, our priorities are not your priorities. These were the types of responses he’d had to field. Eventually he’d shamed the other agencies into pooling their resources in this ragbag team who probably wouldn’t scare the skin off a rice pudding. They had been sent along merely as a sop to the Feds.
It didn’t help matters that the boat carrying the expected illicit cargo did not land the previous day when expected due to extremely rough seas. At the last moment the team were all forced to find accommodation in Hull for the night. It wasn’t the most sociable of evenings and Donaldson, exasperated, had retired early for a restless night.
Donaldson stood awkwardly in one corner of the hut, concentrating on his coffee and thinking through why he had engineered this operation. The hope was, of course, that illegal immigrants would be prevented from entering the country and that a haul of drugs would be seized and there would be some arrests too. But even as he stood there, he concluded that was not enough for his purposes. It would not go deep enough into the organization he was looking to destroy. It would be a minor blip for them, nothing more, but it might just open up some alleyway into their structure that he could then begin to widen into a six-lane highway . . . his thoughts were interrupted by the woman detective who stood up and sidled across the room to him, rubbing her chilly hands together.
Donaldson gave her a weak smile. She returned it with a warmer one.
‘Not long now,’ she said hopefully.
‘No.’
She dropped her voice conspiratorially. ‘You went to bed early. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you.’
‘Needed the shut-eye.’
‘Hm . . . what’s it like working for the FBI? Dead exciting, I bet.’
‘I’m mainly office-bound, to be honest. I used to be a field agent – over in Florida – but I’m too old for that now, on a regular basis, that is.’
‘What made you come over here?’
‘Love and marriage.’
The detective seemed to be taken aback by this remark. She was about to say something, but the cabin door opened and a high-viz-jacketed customs official stuck his head in and announced, ‘Your ferry is due in ten minutes.’
There wasn’t quite a groan from the assembled team . . . but almost.
‘Hold on,’ Donaldson said
before any of them moved, ‘the target has changed . . . I’ve just had some up-to-date information . . .’ He reeled off the new gen to them and they listened as though they were having needles stuck into their eyes.
When he had finished, Donaldson tossed his plastic cup into the bin, excused himself and eased past the female detective who, he thought, purposely did not make his passage easy. He wanted to watch the ferry dock.
Donning a hi-viz jacket himself, he walked out to the quayside of King George Dock and waited, peering into the low cloud.
Suddenly a ro-ro ferry, the Nordic Pride, emerged like a bull elephant out of a thicket, huge and impressive, the dark shape looming larger and larger as she approached port.
From that point on it took only minutes of well-rehearsed manoeuvring before she was moored, the ramp lowered and the vehicles starting to spew out on to dry land. It was a very smooth operation.
‘You definitely know which one you’re going to pull,’ one of the pair of sulky immigration officials said into Donaldson’s ear. ‘Only I wouldn’t like to think I’ve wasted my time. I’m very busy, y’know. I’m working on the cockling disaster.’
Donaldson nearly snapped something back, but held his tongue.
‘They’re out of control – immigrants. Bugger all we can do about them, if truth be known. They outnumber us by the thousand. I’ll bet when we stop your lorry and there’s, say, twenty on board, another hundred’ll get through just from this landing. Happenin’ all over the country,’ the official moaned. ‘Hundreds of the fuckers every day.’
‘I know,’ Donaldson sighed. ‘Bit of a problem.’
‘A bit!’ he blurted, flabbergasted. ‘It’s a major social and political scandal, compounded by the ineptitude of a weak-kneed government which cannot get its own bloomin’ house in order . . .’
Donaldson held up a hand with a very sharp gesture. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘We have work to do here.’
Open-mouthed, the officer watched the American muscle past and make his way towards the ferry. ‘Twat,’ he said quietly.
The heavy lorries had just started to roll off.
Henry Christie worked out that he had been on his toes for about thirty hours and that he was no longer a fully functioning human being. The morning had been spent in a whirl of hastily arranged meetings and briefings both to deal with the inevitable media onslaught and to get the bones of the investigation set up. He had even given two press interviews, one for local radio, one for TV, and he cringed when he thought about how he must have come across. Like some half-brained dimwit, he imagined. At least they were done and out of the way.
Attempts were in hand to trace Roy Costain, who had gone well to ground, and to encourage the Costains to hand the little bugger over. Troy had been unshakeable in his unhelpfulness towards Henry, who felt that whacking him might not be the best approach under the circumstances. But Henry was not impressed by his informant and could tell he was lying to his back teeth. As a result of Henry’s frustration, he had let Troy walk back from the hospital.
At one p.m. Henry decided he had had enough.
He called Dave Anger to let him know where he was up to.
‘Henry, we’re just talking about you,’ Anger said on hearing his voice.
‘I thought my ears were burning.’
‘They should be,’ Anger said darkly.
‘Anyway,’ Henry said, clearing his throat, ‘I’m calling it a day. I’m off home to bed for a few hours, but I’ll be ready for on-call at six. If that’s OK with you.’
‘Yeah . . . you’ve done a pretty good job actually,’ Anger said reluctantly. ‘Oh, Jane Roscoe’s here. Do you want to say hello?’
‘I’ll pass,’ Henry said, feeling his stomach grind over. ‘I’ll be back on at six.’ He ended the call and stood there thoughtfully, his nostrils flaring. Jane Roscoe, not really a name he wished to be associated with any more, particularly as it seemed she and Anger were gunning for him.
What worried him most, though, was that they had a smoking gun and lots of ammo for it.
The crossing on the Nordic Pride had been rough and unpleasant. Whitlock, the lorry driver, was surprised they had been allowed to sail – but perhaps it was more that he would rather not have sailed with his current cargo.
As the ferry docked at Hull, Whitlock dragged himself reluctantly back to his vehicle in the belly of the ship and clambered into the driver’s cab, aware that for the first time in his life he did not want to get in.
He loved driving. He loved his lorry. But not today.
He wondered how the people stuffed into the container were doing as he turned on the ignition and started the engine.
The massive doors which formed the bows of the ferry opened with painful slowness, revealing the Port of Hull, a place Whitlock had passed through on hundreds of occasions.
With trepidation he wondered if he would actually pass through it today.
Seven
The problem with a trial of such magnitude was that you never could tell when you were going to be ambushed.
It seemed to be going well, had been for six weeks now, but there was always the possibility that something unexpected could come up – or, even worse, something that had been buried could rise from its grave like a zombie and screw the whole thing up.
Detective Superintendent Carl Easton gazed around the magnificent Shire Hall courtroom at Lancaster Crown Court within Lancaster Castle, an absolutely splendid setting for such a major trial. It was rarely used as a court venue these days because of the new Crown Court built in Preston and there were good facilities in other locations, too. However, a logjam of cases coupled with a desire to hear these proceedings as far away from Manchester as possible – but yet remain within a reasonable distance for witnesses – had made the powers that be plump for Lancaster.
Easton folded his arms as he squinted at the huge, ornate room, taking in the unique display of heraldic shields adorning the walls, whilst his mind wondered if that ‘something’ he was dreading would pop up.
So far, so smooth and in a couple of days all the witnesses would have been through the mill, prosecution and defence, then it would be time for the final address, the summing up, the deliberation by the jury, then the verdict.
Guilty. He crossed his fingers.
‘All rise in court,’ an usher shouted as the spectacularly robed judge regally entered the court and sat down at the high bench. It was Her Honour Mrs Ellison, approaching eighty years old, but definitely still with it, ruling the proceedings before her with a rod of iron, allowing nothing to get past her. Behind the pince-nez, her little grey eyes sparkled with cunning and intellect.
She sat as the prisoner was led into the dock from the holding cell underneath the courtroom. He was book-ended by two towering security guards from one of the private companies now contracted to perform prisoner-escort duties. In terms of sheer presence, though, the guards were completely overshadowed by the man between them, even though he was much smaller in stature. His eyes flickered quickly around the courtroom, resting fleetingly, but obviously, on Easton. The prisoner allowed himself a knowing smirk, bowed graciously to the bench then sat on his seat in the dock, waiting for the jury to be wheeled in.
His name was Rufus Sweetman. He was thirty-three years old. He was dressed smartly and expensively, oozing wealth but restraint. As an individual he looked mild-mannered but at the same time exuded an aura of confidence that made him very special and a little scary. A lot scary, actually, especially to people who got on the wrong side of him.
He was in court charged with murder.
The usher announced that the Crown Court was now in session.
Detective Superintendent Easton settled himself down and waited for proceedings to commence.
He was feeling pretty confident in the way that things had gone. A life sentence for Sweetman would be just the ticket he needed career-wise, both inside and outside the job. Getting rid of Sweetman from under his feet would be very good all
round.
Easton had expected the prosecuting council to rise to his feet and was puzzled slightly when the defence QC stood up instead. The judge looked slightly perplexed too. She pulled her glasses down her nose.
‘Your Honour, if I may . . .?’ the QC said politely. His name was Sharp and his way of operating reflected this. He was good and costly. The judge nodded at him. ‘As of this morning we are in receipt of new information concerning these proceedings. Could I please approach the bench . . . together with my learned colleague, that is?’ He nodded sourly in the general direction of the prosecution.
Both berobed, bewigged men made their way across no-man’s-land to the high bench.
Easton leaned forward, straining to catch any snippets of the hushed conversation. He glanced at Sweetman, who was sitting comfortably cross-legged, his fingers tightly intertwined, thumbs circling, looking extremely smug.
Easton’s attention returned to the conflab at the bench. Suddenly he had a very queasy feeling in his stomach.
The sweat and pounding in his heart made Whitlock think he was about to have a cardiac arrest. His breathing was shallow and stuttering, his vision swimming, unfocused.
There was some hold-up ahead. He had only reached the lip of the ferry’s ramp where he was now poised in the queue down to the quayside. A lot of activity was going on, lots of people in yellow jackets strutting about. More than usual, he thought.
‘Oh God,’ he murmured. ‘I am fucking dead.’
The thought of dropping out of his cab, doing a runner and leaving his lorry behind entered his head.
The two counsels backed respectfully away from the bench and retreated to their respective tables, a smug expression on the countenance of the defence QC, who also managed to catch Detective Superintendent Easton’s eye.
‘What’s happening here, boss?’ the detective sergeant sitting next to Easton in court whispered harshly.
