‘As the regional representative of the Road Haulage Association, I’ve called this news conference to remind the public of the plight of Mike Spicer, the lorry driver from Berwick, who’s still being held in a Belgian prison.’
So, nothing to do with Thomas after all. He’d stumbled slightly over the driver’s name. I thought perhaps Harry needed reminding about the facts too.
‘Mr Spicer was accused of carrying illegal immigrants over the Belgian border. He has asserted from the moment of his arrest that he had no knowledge of the men’s presence. He had complied with all relevant national and EU regulations. The seal around his load was intact when he checked it in Bucharest.’
A lass with an untidy perm waved her hand. Harry turned to her with a show of patience.
‘Can you explain how the illegals got on board, then, Mr Pool?’
He gave her a disdainful look, as if to say that he’d been through this a dozen times before and if she’d been up to her job she’d have done some research beforehand.
‘We think a ratchet strap was used. The wagon in question was a tautliner, which is put together in sections. The strap is strung around the cargo. As the strap is tightened by the ratchet, the sections are squeezed until a gap occurs, allowing access to the load without the seal being cut.’
You could tell that the lass didn’t understand a word, and Harry didn’t care whether she did or not. They were all going through the motions.
‘This law-abiding citizen is being imprisoned for a crime he did not commit. We must maintain pressure on our politicians to fight for his release.’ He looked around, daring someone else to interrupt, then nodded his appreciation when they remained silent. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’
He walked down the stairs towards them. The metal clanged with his weight at each footstep. I expected some of the reporters to approach him individually with further questions, but they’d lost interest already. They started to move to the cars which they’d left in the street. Harry walked past me to a plum-coloured Jag with a personalized number plate, parked with its nose to the warehouse. He drove off, waving to the few remaining people as he passed through the gates. Then the yard was empty.
I waited for a moment. Now I wasn’t sure what to do. The plan had been to get into conversation with one of Thomas’s mates, take him out at lunchtime and buy him a pint in return for a bit of gossip about the company. Clearly that wasn’t going to work. There was no one here to approach. All the drivers seemed to be out. But there must be someone in the office. Harry Pool wouldn’t have left the place without a body to answer the phone. I climbed the metal stairs, trying to keep the noise to a minimum, and knocked on the door.
‘Yes?’
It was a grey-haired man who couldn’t be far from retirement. He wore glasses which had slid to the end of a thin nose. He looked at me over them. It was a look of appreciation. He didn’t get many young women knocking at his door. His eyes moved greedily over my body before resting back on my face. He saw I knew what he was up to and seemed a bit sheepish. He was a sleaze-bag, but a sleaze-bag with some decency.
‘I wondered if I could speak to you.’ I was wearing a short skirt. I sat where he could see my legs. Although I say it myself, they were looking good, still honey-coloured from the remains of the tan.
‘How can I help you?’ I knew already that I’d made his day.
‘I was here for the news conference, but I could really do with some more background.’
‘I don’t know. Mr Pool’s not here.’
‘Would it be possible to speak to you? I mean, I’d like to do a sympathetic feature but without a bit more information it won’t be easy. And you seem responsible for the day-to-day stuff.’ This role of reporter was coming to be second nature.
He sat at a crowded desk, one of two pushed together. There were piles of paper everywhere. A closed door led to another office. I guessed that belonged to Harry. He’d want his own space.
‘What do you want to know, like?’
‘I suppose the everyday details. I mean, that’s what brings an article to life. I’d like my readers to understand the pressures which might lead to some companies breaking the law.’
The phone rang before he could answer. It was a customer wanting a rushed load of children’s clothing to be delivered to Aberdeen. As my friend sorted it out I looked at him admiringly, as if I couldn’t help but be impressed by his efficiency. When he replaced the receiver he leaned across the desk and held out his hand.
‘Kenny Baxter,’ he said. ‘Now, how exactly can I help you?’
I didn’t give my name. ‘Just tell me about Pool’s company, about what goes on here. If you have time to talk, of course.’
‘This is always a quiet period, once the first loads have gone out. There might be some interruptions, mind. I’m here on my own.’ He lowered his voice. ‘That lad who was killed by druggies in Delaval worked here. I’m having to do his job as well as my own.’
‘No! What was he like?’
‘He was canny enough.’ His voice was wary and I could tell any more questions about Thomas would raise his suspicions.
‘It must have been dreadful.’
He nodded seriously and he started talking. An hour later I was still there, and I knew of more scams which went on in the transport business than you’d have thought possible. But throughout it all Kenny insisted that none of that went on at Pool’s. Harry was always legit. He was famous for it.
Kenny talked with the passion of the enthusiast. This could have been his hobby, not his work. You had the impression that he’d be here at eight every morning even if he weren’t being paid for it. I envied him. I’d felt like that about the secure unit.
‘What you have to realize – this is a competitive business,’ he said. He didn’t have any teeth at the side of his mouth and he spoke with a sucking noise. ‘And there’s a lot of cowboys. Owner-drivers, like. No one looking over their shoulders to see if they’re keeping within the rules. Not like I keep an eye on the lads. If the ministry inspectors come here, they know it’s all shipshape.’
And despite the piles of paper and the mucky coffee mugs, it did seem as if there was an order to his chaos. He showed me his system in loving detail. ‘These here are the vehicle defect forms.’ He pulled a floppy book of forms from a drawer. ‘Every shift the driver has to fill out one of these before he starts. Not just if he finds a defect, either. That’s what happens in some places. Not here. It’s every shift. Then there are the tachographs.’
‘The spy in the cab,’ I said.
‘The lads can’t drive for more than four and a half hours without a break.’ Obviously he didn’t think my interruption worth mentioning. ‘And not more than nine hours in a day. Or if they do they have to make up the rest time later.’
‘Isn’t it possible to fiddle them?’
‘They can try,’ he said grimly.
‘Would you always be able to tell?’
‘It’d have to be good to get past me.’ He paused. ‘But I can see the temptation. Especially on the international runs. You’re always boat-chasing. If you miss your boat, it can throw out your schedule by hours.’
‘I wondered why truck drivers are so bloody impatient.’ It was supposed to be a joke, but he wasn’t amused.
‘There’s a speed limit,’ he said. ‘Enforceable.’ He paused before admitting, ‘But sometimes they de-fuse the speed limiters.’
‘So the lorries can go faster?’ I wanted him to know I was interested. I was interested. I’d been intimidated like everyone else in a small car by trucks thundering behind me at more than seventy miles an hour.
‘None of my lads would try it,’ he broke in quickly. ‘But you can see why people do. Like I said, there’s a lot of cowboys.’