‘They could have been dead for a long time, Karl,’ Henry said softly. ‘You shouldn’t punish yourself.’ He could see Donaldson was going through that cop-type thing — blaming yourself for something that was impossible to prevent.
‘I know, I know, but it’s so hard not to.’ He could clearly envision the opening of the rear of the container, could not eradicate it from his mind. ‘It was awful. . I’ve seen a lot of bad things in my life, H, but this is up there in the top five. Twenty dead bodies, suffocated because of an electrical failure. . just imagine their suffering.’ He took a mouthful of the JD. Henry noticed Donaldson’s right hand was quivering ever so slightly. He was in a bad way, Henry thought.
‘What has the driver to say about it?’
Donaldson blew out his cheeks. ‘Nothing — yet. He’s terrified and probably with good cause, because I have a damned good idea what was in the bag which was stolen from him.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Millions of pounds worth.’
‘So he failed on both counts. . didn’t deliver the human cargo, nor his other package. Do you think he knows much?’
The American shook his head. ‘Doubtful. Just a mule, a fool. . or maybe a man who didn’t have a choice.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘Will he talk?’
‘Maybe, but my guess is he’ll say nothing.’
Henry poured some of his cold, sweet drink into his mouth, wishing it was Stella Artois. It was approaching ten p.m. and so far his evening had been quiet. Roy Costain was still on the loose and the husband-murderer from the night before was tucked up in bed, ready for court next day. He hoped it would stay like this, because he needed a full night of beauty sleep.
‘Hope you didn’t mind me turning up out of the blue,’ Donaldson said glumly. ‘Been a bad day in more ways than one.’
‘Not at all. You can crash out in Jenny’s bed if you want. She’s out for the night at a pal’s.’
‘Appreciated. . I was gonna go to a Travelodge. . you saved me that agony at least.’ He tipped his head back and downed his third JD.
‘So what drove you to Hull in the first place?’ Henry asked.
‘Same old, same old.’
‘Ahh,’ said Henry knowledgeably, tilting his head and looking down his nose at Donaldson. ‘If I’m not mistaken, your friend and mine. .’
‘Mendoza,’ they said in unison.
‘Can I get you a refill for that?’ Donaldson said, pointing at Henry’s light-green drink.
Detective Superintendent Carl Easton had convened an emergency meeting of his team at a pub not two miles away from the Greater Manchester Police Training Centre at Sedgeley Park. Easton knew the landlord and he was allowed to use the upstairs function room. Easton arrived first, together with DS Hamlet. They quickly set out a few chairs to accommodate the others who would be arriving soon.
Easton and Hamlet reflected on the day. One that had gone very badly. They were worried men.
‘I know I keep saying it,’ Easton pondered, ‘but it is not good, not good at all.’
Hamlet took a deep swig of his pint of Boddington’s Bitter, wiped his mouth and agreed. ‘Puts us in a very delicate position.’
Two men wandered in through the double doors, pints in hand — two members of Easton’s close-knit team. They acknowledged each other and, sombre-faced, seated themselves. Within minutes, four more arrived, all equally worried-looking, then a woman, then finally the last member of the team, who ensured that the doors were closed properly.
‘OK, thanks for coming at such short notice, everyone,’ Easton began. ‘By now you all know what’s happened at Lancaster Crown Court today. . it’s across all the papers and on TV.’ They all nodded or murmured. ‘Sweetman is back out on the streets again, a free man.’ He let the words sink in and tried to catch everyone’s eye. ‘This is a very bad thing.’ He inhaled deeply. A couple of the team lit cigarettes. Smoke rose languidly in the still air. ‘It affects us on two fronts. . firstly because Sweetman is back out there, it means we have to be very careful about how we operate. I don’t want anyone to think they’re safe, because they’re not. Sweetman will want his revenge and so will his backers. . and I was called in to see the chief constable this afternoon. To say he was pissed off is an understatement. I argued that any inquiry into this matter at court should be kept internal. . but he wouldn’t have it.’
‘Shit!’ was one reaction.
‘Bollocks!’ was another.
‘Another force will be coming in to investigate us,’ Easton announced.
A collective groan filled the air.
‘Who?’ someone asked.
‘Our Chief has asked the Chief Constable of Lancashire Constabulary. He had already done that before I saw him, so it was a done deal. He’s taken this measure because it was such a high-profile case and he needs to be seen to be doing things right. I can appreciate this point of view.’
‘So we’re going to be investigated by a bunch of fuckin’ country bumpkins,’ one of the detectives ventured. He laughed. ‘We’ll run rings round the fuckers.’
‘No doubt we will,’ Easton said cautiously, ‘but we have to be seen to be cooperating as much as possible, and that means we have to get the house in order as of now. We need to have answers ready for the questions we’re going to be asked. And not only that, we need to ensure that every door that needs to be closed is closed, that every report is sanitized. . outside detectives sniffing around in our dirty washing makes us very vulnerable indeed.’ He looked knowingly at his team. ‘And not just because of what might be uncovered in relation to the way Sweetman was investigated.’
It must have been the time on remand that did it. That was all Rufus Sweetman could put it down to, but he was finding that as he probed and thrusted himself into Ginny’s willing body, he could not come.
‘Fuckin’ prison,’ he blasted, sitting up on the edge of the bed. ‘Screws your mind, does your head in. . my mind’s all over the place.’ He stood up and crossed to the en suite, where he relieved himself and stepped into the shower. Just too many things going on in his head, competing, making him feel disconnected and slightly spaced out. He knew he needed to make an effort to calm down and think normally again, if there was such a thing as normal in the world of Rufus Sweetman.
So immersed was he in his thoughts that Ginny had to knock hard on the shower door to attract his attention. It did not help that the power shower was pulsing hot jets of water into his tensed-up shoulders and back muscles. He switched it off and opened the door. She held out a mobile phone.
‘Grant,’ she said distastefully.
‘Thanks.’ Sweetman reached for a towel and skim-dried himself before taking the phone from her. ‘It’s me.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘So-so.’ He glanced at Ginny. She was sitting naked on the edge of the bed, filing her nails.
‘Got news for you. . in fact, have you seen the news on TV?’
‘No, been a bit tied up, if you know what I mean?’
Ginny looked up and giggled.
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘What’s the news?’ Sweetman asked.
‘The consignment’s gone.’
‘What do you mean, gone?’
Sweetman started to look round the bedroom, finding the TV remote and aiming it at the portable.
‘It’s been taken, is what I mean.’
Sweetman perched on the corner of the bed, his breathing shallow. ‘Tell me,’ he said quietly, the undertone dangerous.
‘The lorry got robbed on Birch Services. The goods were stolen. . and that’s not all. . the cargo is no longer alive. . all dead. It’s very big news.’
‘Murdered?’
‘Suffocated.’
‘Christ! And the shit’s all gone, has it?’
‘Yeah. . look, it’s all over the TV. . watch News 24. . it’s massive. . well, the deaths of the immigrants is. . there’s no mention of anything else, obviously.’
‘But it’s gone for sure?’
‘Yeah.’