The Secret Fear

by Solomon Carter

  “Describe him for me,” said Hogarth.

  “Medium height to tall. He was a white man. And he was wearing casual clothes. A hooded top and such. Red, I think. He wore the hood up around his head.”

  “A hoodie? Like a scallywag? Sounds more like a shoplifter than an armed robbery, to me...”

  “No. He was more serious than that. I could feel the danger. Jay, my assistant said so, too. He walked in then out again a few times. Then he stared at us for about ten minutes before he disappeared again. I was sure he was going to come back with a weapon. We both were.”

  The man looked at Melford as the young shop assistant nodded. Hogarth saw the man give Melford a look. It was as if something unspoken was being said between them. Hogarth hadn’t the patience to attempt mind reading. He was quietly seething.

  “But then he went, and he never came back...? And nothing happened?” said Hogarth. The staff didn’t contradict him. “So this man came and cased your shop for shoplifting then decided against it and went on his merry way. Well done, gents, sounds like you scared him off. He knew you were on to him.

  “No. He was too old to be a shoplifter,” said the manager, with emphasis.

  “In my experience addicts are never too old,” said Hogarth.

  “He didn’t look like a junkie to me,” said the younger man.

  “Inspector Hogarth,” said Melford, irritation in his voice. “We had the warning yesterday, and this fits. Whether the robbery was aborted or not, that man was clearly a threat. That’s—"

  “Intimidating shop staff. Very unpleasant, I agree, sir,” said Hogarth. “But it’s not a robbery. I came to assist, sir, but it looks like everything here is well in hand. I need to get back to the Sen case. We have a lead suspect. We also have another development.”

  “I see,” said Melford.

  The shop man gave Melford another of his meaningful looks. Hogarth frowned.

  “You needn’t be so dismissive of this incident, Hogarth. This could have been serious. I think this could be more than it appears.”

  “Yes, sir. So can a lot of other things.” Hogarth shut his mouth before any further opinions slipped out. “I’d better go, sir.” He walked away slowly at first, speeding up as he reached the door. In the car park, he gazed up at the sky and mouthed a silent swear word. Nursemaiding DCI Melford’s latest behaviour or witnessing the fag end of some petty police corruption – either way – Hogarth really didn’t want to know. Not now. He had bigger fish to fry. Starting with the Basildon warehouse. He would deal with Melford once the Baba Sen murder had been solved. But with the return of the Atacans confirmed, Hogarth had the distinct feeling that would be easier said than done.

  Seventeen

  Palmer sat in Hogarth’s front passenger seat, watching through the window as the A127 rushed by in blur of grey and green. Hogarth was quiet, but she knew him well enough to sense the stresses simmering under his skin.

  “What is it, guv?” she said.

  “Eh?” said Hogarth. he made a show of turning down the radio. He was listening to a station for rock music fans who were twenty years past their glory days. The music wasn’t loud in the first place, but Hogarth couldn’t turn down the volume on his thoughts.

  “You’ve been quiet since Thorpe Bay, guv. I know Melford’s getting you down, but—”

  “It’s not Melford. We’ve got a lot else on our plates.”

  Palmer nodded. “Baba Sen and those strange payments...”

  “Dodgy as hell, those,” said Hogarth.

  “But Orcun didn’t know about them. I’m sure.”

  “Sure? You trust lover boy, do you?”

  Palmer wasn’t having it. “He’s not lover boy, guv. He might have fancied me but it wasn’t reciprocated.”

  “Really? A couple more rakis and I think I might have found you belly dancing.”

  “Guv. You might just about get away talking to me like that, but anybody else would tell you where to stick it.”

  Hogarth sighed. “Then it’s a good job you’re so broadminded, DS Palmer.”

  Palmer gave Hogarth a sarcastic look and he broke into a thin smile.

  “No offence,” he muttered.

  “None taken,” said Palmer. “But don’t go thinking there is anything between me and Orcun Sen.”

  “Fine. Park it there, then. So, we’ve got Sens’s financial secrets. Then we’ve got the Yuksel family, and they are worse than dodgy. I didn’t like them at the start, but now I’d have the place fumigated.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “The Atacan connection.”

  Hogarth nodded. “And not just that. But the fact no one had a bad word to say about them – none of their customers—"

  “Not from calling about twelve different takeaways.”

  “And our survey said – five stars, wonderful, love them like my own family. Not a bad word to be found. I don’t believe it, Sue. That kind of feedback isn’t genuine. It’s not realistic.”

  Palmer frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Fact one. The Yuksels know the Atacans. Fact two. Miray Atacan is living above their shop, and she’s working with them...”

  “But Ferkan Atacan is dead.”

  “But the others aren’t. I don’t know what their connection is, but I’d surmise that the Yuksels have taken up some of the Atacans’ tricks of the trade.”

  Hogarth looked at Palmer and saw her grappling with his suggestions. He needed to explain.

  “The old man gives it the large. Plays the wide boy. I thought it was an act or a character trait imported from the old country. But I’m beginning to wonder. He threatened me, Palmer. He made veiled threats and some pretty blatant ones too.”

  “So? Can he back them up?” said Palmer. “He’s got to be in his late sixties, early seventies?”

  “I get that. And his son Izmir couldn’t scare a cat...” Hogarth looked away. “But I think the old man might have ways. PCSO Kaplan heard it all began at the warehouse, whatever it is, let’s just hope we find out.”

  Palmer felt a slight chill spread through her chest. A slow bloom of anxiety at what they were about to face. Hogarth had managed to track down the most likely warehouse by calling around the bigger logistics firms at Basildon. The ones who dealt with imports from Turkey and the near east. Most had never heard of Yuksel. But a couple had been hesitant – as if they had known something but preferred not to say. It was a pattern which Hogarth might have expected. The last person he’d spoken to dropped the name of a firm called Bratton’s, a firm which ran a warehouse near the Peacock Industrial Estate. Hogarth tried to call Bratton’s under guise of wanting to drop off a shipment intended for the Yuksels. But Bratton’s didn’t pick up the call. There was no answerphone, either. Odd for any business. But Bratton’s was the only name he had, so Bratton’s it was. Somewhere in the traffic behind them, Simmons and Kaplan would be speeding along after them. The boy was probably cruising, having the time of his life. Poor PCSO Kaplan.

  “Were the Atacans all like Ferkan, guv?”

  Hogarth snapped out of his thoughts and looked at the road.

  “Ferkan? No. There were not many like him. Ferkan Atacan was a true brute’s brute, a villain’s villain... But don’t get me wrong. All those Atacans were scumbags of the worst kind, every single one of them. Different shades of bastard, that’s all.”

  Palmer listened and nodded. She felt the chill getting stronger.

  “You remember telling me to be careful?” said Palmer. She kept her eyes on the road ahead as she spoke.

  “What of it?” said Hogarth.

  “I think you should be careful too, guv,” said Palmer.

  Hogarth nodded and spoke a moment later. “You know me, Palmer. Careful to the bitter end.”

  Hogarth’s eyes gleamed. He didn’t bother to add a smile. Hogarth flicked on the car’s fan heater, turning it up half way. It seemed the chill was spreading.

  Bratton’s was nothing more th
an a sideshow to the vast ugly buildings that lined the wide, damp concrete of the Peacock Industrial Estate. Overweight truck drivers sat in their lorry cabs, parked up along the sides of the great long lane as they gorged on paper-wrapped bacon butties and slurped cheap instant coffee from polystyrene cups. The whole endless road of the estate seemed a world of grime, diesel fumes, concrete, and grease. Hogarth’s lip curled in faint disgust. Peacock was an edge land of grimness, hardly a redeeming feature in sight. Tucked in one corner at the foot of the endless road, Bratton’s had one in/out lane leading to a vast rusted green corrugated shed. The shed looked about forty years old, maybe more. The Bratton’s logo had been painted on it a long time back. The white paint had faded, peeled, and become shrouded with dirt. Nearby yards creaked and clattered as they worked with stock and manufacturing. Somewhere a loud angle grinder whined as it cut. Noise and grime filled the senses from every direction.

  “This makes the Grange Estate look like Torremolinos,” muttered Hogarth. He parked outside the building, taking care to leave a country mile between himself and the nearest parked truck. They got out of the car and looked at the gate. Bratton’s was wide open. The lights were on inside – their dull shine pushing through the murky air – but no one was home. They saw endless stacks of pallets in the front yard. Hogarth recognised a stack of red and white vegetable oil cans tucked inside the front of the shed. He clicked his fingers and pointed. The cans were the clincher. Excitement, fear, adrenaline – the full cocktail filled Hogarth’s veins.

  “This is it. This is the place.”

  “How do you know?” said Palmer.

  “I saw those cans on sale in Yuksel’s Cash and Carry,” said Hogarth.

  Palmer nodded. “This is it then. Shouldn’t we wait for Simmons and Kaplan?”

  “The place looks like a ghost ship. But we could take a looksie while we wait.”

  Palmer nodded and they walked into the yard. A well-rusted forklift truck sat in the yard alongside batches of shrink-wrapped pallets containing boxes, cans, and packets of food as well as equipment of all shapes and sizes. Hogarth gazed into the vast warehouse door.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” he called. No reply. He walked back to the first pallet and trailed a finger over the labels. Some were in Turkish, but some looked different. Like they were in a different language altogether. The words made no sense. Romanian perhaps? But that didn’t fit either. Odd. From the little he knew, it didn’t look Slavic either. They had a different alphabet.

  “This isn’t all from Turkey, is it?” said Hogarth. Palmer joined him and walked around one of the pallets, staring at the labels. She stopped at the third pallet.

  “No, guv. Most of this looks Albanian. The oil, the tomatoes, all the food products for sure. Maybe we haven’t got the right place, after all.”

  Hogarth frowned. He stomped off under the massive square archway of the warehouse entrance and stopped by the red and white oil cans. He frowned as he saw packing labels beneath the cans which bore the name Shqipëri. He walked around the pallet and found the same Shqipëri word beside the name Albanie.

  “These tins are Albanian too, Palmer. But the funny thing is they look exactly the same as the ones at Yuksels...”

  Palmer walked around the stock filled pallets in the yard, eyeing the labels, perusing the stock. She saw hardly any Turkish at all. Then she stopped. Her eyes trailed over a plastic bound bundle of knives buried halfway down one pallet. She peered closer and blinked at them. Steel blades. Moulded black plastic handles, cheap looking products. They were from Albania. The packing label said so. And the knives looked the spit of the one at Authentic Kebab... Palmer frowned in thought.

  “I don’t get it,” said Hogarth. “One of the plastic wraps on this pallet has been torn open...” He walked over to the pallet and saw a single catering can had been extracted. Hogarth turned his head and saw the missing can on a dirty wooden bench alongside a sheaf of papers with damp-curled corners. He found the can bore a familiar label. The label said Produce of Turkey. The sheets were filled with labels bearing the exact same text.

  “Bloody hell,” he said. “They’re faking all this stuff as Turkish, Palmer. Why bother with that? Turkey was already cheap as chips, last time I checked.”

  Palmer joined his side and picked up the sheets. “It is cheap, guv. But Albania’s bottom of the pile. It’s the poorest country in Europe. Virtually third world.”

  “Oi! You’re nosing around in things you shouldn’t,” called an echoing, disembodied voice. The voice was local – with an estuary English accent and a nasally twang. Hogarth snapped around to see a shambolic man slowly wandering between the shadows of two enormous shelving units. His feet scraped the floor and echoed along with his voice. He emerged into the dull light, and they saw he was a man in his late middle years. He was pink-faced and wore a cap and a boiler suit with fingerless black gloves. A roll-up cigarette was stuck to his lip, with the merest hint of smoke trailing from it.

  “Smoking in the workplace,” said Hogarth. “That’s illegal you know.”

  The man stopped and folded his arms like he couldn’t have cared less. He looked between them and the sheets of labels on the bench.

  “You been labelling these up, have you?” said Hogarth.

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “Well, I think it is,” said Hogarth. He took his ID wallet from his jacket and showed it to the man, studying his face. The man’s weather-beaten features barely registered any change at all. But for Hogarth, the man fitted a type. Based on his accent, his few words, the nature of his work, the fingerless gloves, and the flinty little eyes, Hogarth saw room to take a risk. But he needed to be sure.

  “I already had you down as old bill. But what do you want in here? Nothing bad happens in here. We shift stock, that’s all we do.”

  “You shift it. And you label it. But do you know where it comes from?”

  “None of my business. I move it. That’s all.”

  Hogarth nodded. “Just a middle man, eh? See no evil, hear no evil. And these product origin labels just magically appear here by themselves.”

  “They might as well. I don’t know where they come from. I don’t make ‘em.”

  “Do you know how much they pay for this stuff?” said Hogarth.

  The man shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “My bet is that it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than what they’d pay in Turkey. And rebranding it like this makes it illegal. It’s fraud. And it isn’t just the police who’d care about that. Customs and Excise would love this. And depending on how this stuff gets over here, maybe Europol too...”

  The warehouseman shifted on his feet. Sparked a lighter, relit his cigarette, and stuck it back on his lip.

  “Pleading ignorance won’t protect you from any of that, you know.”

  “I ain’t pleading anything at all. I don’t have to. But I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Hogarth looked at Palmer, then he glanced back at the man.

  “Cheap bastards like this,” said Hogarth. “The kind of people who paste labels on poor produce and pass it off as good stuff. I bet they’re not the kind of people who pay very well. Am I right?”

  The man blew out a tendril of smoke and listened.

  “Just you here, is it?”

  “Today, yes. The Yuksels called off a delivery this morning, so I sent the driver home.”

  “Did they now?”

  “Yep. Called it off for a few days. Know why do you?”

  Hogarth dabbed a finger at one of his eyebrows and let loose a mischievous smile. “As a matter of fact, I think I do.”

  He put away his ID and stepped forward. “You strike me as a realist. And here we are. Police, looking at these faked labels. The Yuksels called off a delivery, and chances are, with us interested in them, they’re only going to mess you about again. Which means, I suppose, you won’t get paid.”

  The man blinked.

  �
��So? What’s your point?”

  “Money talks, doesn’t it, eh?” said Hogarth. He pulled his leather wallet from his blazer pocket and opened the notes section. He had drawn enough cash to see him through a few days of shopping, a new bottle of malt, and two late evening visits to the Naval. No more than eighty quid in total. But there were enough notes to look the part. The old man looked at the notes, then studied Hogarth.

  “What exactly is it you’re after?”

  “The Yuksels are a sinking ship, pal. You might as well tell me what you know and then you can have all of this.”

  The man thought it over. “I don’t do those labels. I’ve got nothing to do with that or where any of this stuff comes from. But I do know it’s cheap. Very cheap. It’s a whole damn sight cheaper than they’re claiming they paid for it. And it’s a fortune cheaper than what they’re charging those mugs out there in Southend.”

  Hogarth broke into a wide smile and took the notes from his wallet. A case well-closed would have been worth every penny.

  “Not here,” snapped the man. “Come with me over there at the back. If we hear anyone coming you can go out there and walk back around. No one can see or hear us back there.”

  “Fine,” said Hogarth. Palmer swallowed, her heart starting to beat faster. As Hogarth followed the man. Palmer looked out into the grey yard. Trucks rumbled on down Peacock Road but there was no one coming. She turned and followed Hogarth into the shaded aisle.

  Hogarth and the man sat down on two dirty fabric chairs. The foam stuffing had burst from the front of each one. Palmer stood before them, listening to their conspiratorial chatter as she listened out for anyone approaching.

  “So? What do you want to know?”

  “A little dickie bird told me that something started here. See, I’m looking at a bitter feud between two families, a violent feud, which has spilled out onto the streets in Southend. You have heard about what happened down there, have you?”

  The old man blinked. “That town? Stuff’s always happening down there.”

  Hogarth nodded. “You can say that again.” He declined to mention the murder. The M word had a way of shutting even the most open of mouths. He needed to keep the man talking.