‘True, but she’d need documentation, which seriously ups the chances of getting caught. And in any case, remember what my old governor used to say about the simplest possible explanation?’
He smiles. ‘Osbourne’s Razor.’
‘Right, so let’s rule these crossings out first before we go looking for any more trouble.’
As soon as the door closes I reach for my phone. It’s a bloody antisocial time to call anyone, but I don’t have much choice.
‘DI O’Neill? Adam Fawley. Sorry if I woke you. I need you to check something for me. Got a pen? Yes, it’s about Andrea Sullivan. Can you see if she has any links to the haulage industry? Brother, father, mate, anything.’ A pause. ‘In one – we think she could be on a lorry.’
* * *
It’s pretty basic, as accommodation goes, but after all those years inside, one-star counts as deluxe, and a three-foot divan feels like queen size. She tosses her bags on the floor and flings herself down on the bed, feeling her shoulders start to relax. There’s a stain on the ceiling, and a vague smell of diesel, and a throbbing sound from somewhere nearby, but she doesn’t care. It’s her own space, for as long as she’s here. Hers alone. There’s even a bathroom en suite, Sullivan made sure of that. She sighs at the thought of a proper bath, all to herself, that she can stay in all night if she chooses. And with that special bath oil Sullivan gave her –
A knock at the door. She sits up, feeling her heart rate go into long-learnt overdrive. Stop it, she thinks, it’ll be nothing. Just some routine check or shit like that.
She slides to the edge of the bed and gets to her feet. Another knock, more insistent. The sound of someone just beyond the door.
She moves as quietly as she can to the door, and slips the chain on. Then she takes a deep breath and opens it a crack.
She’s never seen this person before, but she’s seen pictures; she knows who they are.
A raised eyebrow, a half-smile.
‘I think you’re expecting me?’
* * *
Adam Fawley
30 October
02.47
I was going to go in the spare room, but when I get home there’s a light on in the nursery. Alex is sitting in the old chair her mother gave her when she was pregnant with Jake, Lily nursing quietly in her arms, the lamp on the table throwing gentle golden shadows.
I stop in the doorway and just stand there, watching. She looks up and beckons me over, but I shake my head; I don’t want to break the moment. ‘You look like a Vermeer.’
She smiles. ‘Wonderful what soft lighting can do,’ she whispers.
‘How is she?’
‘Fine, the health visitor came today and was really pleased with her.’ She looks down at her daughter and reaches a hand to touch her cheek. Lily gazes up at her, her eyes huge in the half-dark. I remember reading a description once of what newborn babies can see. Not in one of those childcare manuals, it was a novel. Something about how eyes unfocused and washed with newness see the world only as a kaleidoscope of colour and shape, but can still recognize, from a sense even deeper than sight, the warm glow of their mother’s face and the halo of her hair.
And then I remember Noah. The first Noah, who would have been twenty-one now, who barely got to see his mother except through the glass wall of an incubator; and the second, whose last sight of the woman who bore him was as the suffocating black plastic closed over his face.
* * *
‘There’s a bed, and a telly, though obviously keep that off until we’re through. Some people find it claustrophobic in there with the partition shut, but it’s never bothered me. Figure you’ll probably be the same, eh?’
It’s a fair assumption about anyone who’s been inside. As Rock evidently has. Rowan didn’t need to see the tatts to know that.
They’re sitting on the bed at the B&B, eating McDonald’s. It was the only place open this early; it’ll be at least an hour before it gets light. Rowan has a breakfast flatbread, Rock has a double sausage and egg McMuffin. Twice. Rock has a big appetite. In fact, most things about Rock are big. The hands, the gut, the shoulders under the Iron Maiden T-shirt.
‘What time do we need to leave?’ Rowan asks, checking her watch. Again.
‘Sevenish, I reckon. We’ve a way to go yet.’
‘Doesn’t bother me. Sooner the better.’
Rock laughs. ‘That figures too.’
‘You don’t think there’ll be a problem?’ She tries to make it sound matter-of-fact but if this goes wrong –
Rock watches her face. ‘It’ll be my fat butt hung out to dry as well as yours if there is.’
Her heart rate is still painfully fast. ‘But what if they want to search the cab?’
Rock gives a snort, sending a spray of crumbs over the bedspread. ‘They won’t. Trust me, they can’t be arsed to do that, not without good reason. Coming back, now, that’ll be a different matter. Specially with a full load. But that’s my problem, not yours.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ She pauses. ‘And thanks again. I couldn’t do this without you.’
Rock shrugs. ‘Don’t thank me, thank Sullivan. The boss owed her one.’
Rowan finishes her food and starts clearing up. Rock eyes her, then reaches for a napkin. ‘Though I guess you’re the one who owes her now, right?’
* * *
By the time the rest of the team get in, Gis has already been there an hour. He managed not to wake Janet last night by the simple expedient of sleeping in the spare room, but he still got a bollocking this morning. ‘You’ll get an ulcer at this rate, haven’t you got DCs to do the late ones?’ But being up first and doing breakfast (egg and bacon for the two of them and pancakes for Billy, which he loves but Janet hardly ever does because of the time and the mess) means he got off pretty lightly, all things considered.
It’s an interesting exercise, watching the team arrive. Bradley Carter at 8.15, always on the alert for brownie points; Ev and Sargent soon after, coffees in hand from the same shop, which leaves Gis wondering if Ev gave her a lift; then Baxter, moaning about traffic, then Hansen, and finally Quinn, in that Luther-style greatcoat of his, with a silk scarf and an almond croissant from the posh place in Jericho.
‘What time did you get away?’ he says, coming up to the front, where Gis is pinning the latest on to the board.
‘Must have been two-ish in the end. Boss left just after.’
‘Fuck.’
Gis makes a face. ‘That’s one word for it.’ He looks back over Quinn’s shoulder. ‘Looks like we’re all here. Eyes down for a full house.’
Quinn starts to unwind his scarf. ‘You’re not waiting for Fawley?’
Gis shakes his head. ‘He said to carry on if he wasn’t here by eight. He’s up to speed on most of this, anyway.’
He turns to the rest of the team and raises his voice slightly. ‘OK, so here’s where we got to overnight. Essex Police have found the Vauxhall Nova – and yes, I did say Essex. Looks like Rowan left it on a side street somewhere and hoped it would go unnoticed, at least for as long as it took for her to get away. Luckily for us,’ he continues drily, ‘the local joyriding fraternity had other ideas.’
He points to the map. ‘This is where it was found – place by the name of Bromness. Obviously we don’t know exactly when or where Rowan dumped it, but it’s a fair bet it wasn’t that far away and, that being the case, we made an educated guess that she could be on a ferry either out of Felixstowe, here –’ he points again – ‘or Harwich, here. As you can see from the list I just circulated, there were four sailings last night, one from Harwich to the Hook of Holland, one from Harwich to Rotterdam, and two from Felixstowe to Rotterdam.’
‘Hang on,’ says Ev. ‘Those were all passenger ferries?’