I look round the room. ‘Seems we may not be looking for a hairy-arsed bloke after all. We’re looking for a woman.’
* * *
Voicemail
DI Brendan O’Neill
Mobile
Transcription
Just to say still nothing useful from Sullivan. We’ve asked her about any contacts in haulage but she just smirked and said No Comment. Again. Though one thing I did notice was that she kept checking the time. I think you may be right about a ferry.
* * *
Adam Fawley
30 October
14.15
‘Sir – do you want to join us? I think you’ll want to see this.’
It’s Hansen, at my door.
I get to my feet. ‘I’m coming through.’
The office is crowded now, and buzzing. People on phones, someone from the press office. Harrison, of course; talking to Quinn, of course.
I nod to him. ‘Sir.’
‘Good work, here, Fawley. Very impressive.’
‘She’s not in custody yet, sir. But thank you. The team have done very well.’
I turn to Hansen, just to emphasize the point. ‘So where are we?’
‘We’ve identified a driver she could be travelling with.’ He turns to his screen and brings up the DVLA record. ‘Woman by the name of Teresa Grant. She was at Heathside for eighteen months for social security fraud, released late last year.’
‘Did she ever share a cell with Rowan?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, not as far as we can tell. But she would have known Sullivan, that’s for sure.’
‘Who does Grant work for now?’
‘Company called Ronnie Harmsworth Freight Ltd – it’s an all-female outfit and makes a big thing about giving opportunities to ex-offenders.’
‘You’ve spoken to them?’
He nods. ‘Grant was booked on this morning’s ferry from Newhaven to Dieppe –’
‘Was?’
‘It left at ten and it’s a four-hour crossing.’
I check my watch. ‘Shit, it’s gone two already –’
Gis looks up from his desk and indicates his phone. ‘I’m on to them now, boss. We were lucky – the weather on the Channel was shite this morning so it’s only just docked.’
‘We’re in time?’
He makes a face. ‘Still waiting to confirm – I’m not making much headway – this bloke’s pretending he doesn’t understand me –’
‘Want me to try, Sarge?’ says Sargent. ‘My French isn’t too bad.’
‘Be my guest,’ says Gis heavily, handing her the phone.
* * *
They’ve been docked at least fifteen minutes now, and the nausea is finally starting to ease down. The last couple of hours were grim. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t throw up – that those paper bags Rock left in the pocket by the bed were just for wusses – but in the end she had no choice. Jesus, it was bad. She doesn’t know how Rock does this, week in, week out. She’s clearly even tougher than she looks.
There’s a clanging now, a groaning of metal against metal, and then a draught of cold diesel air as the cab door swings open. Rock says nothing, but there are probably other drivers about. Rowan pulls the duvet over her head, more from instinct than anything else – it’s hardly going to stop anyone spotting her, if they decide to search the cab. But Rock says they won’t, Rock says they won’t …
* * *
Adam Fawley
30 October
14.22
Sargent’s been talking to the port official for a full five minutes and I can tell you one thing: her French is a hell of a lot better than ‘not bad’. Trouble is, you don’t need much grasp of the language to realize it’s bad news.
‘Vous en êtes sûr? Il n’y a aucune possibilité d’erreur? Je vois. Merci beaucoup. Je vous rappellerai dès que possible.’
She puts the phone down and turns to me. ‘I’m sorry, sir, nothing doing. They pulled over Grant’s truck as it disembarked and carried out a full search. There was no one there. And Grant’s claiming complete ignorance. French police are holding her just in case but it’s looking like a dead end to me.’
Gis shakes his head and walks off up to the whiteboard.
‘I’m sorry,’ begins Sargent, but I hold up my hand to stop her. One thing this isn’t is her fault.
‘What a fucking disaster,’ mutters Quinn, turning away. ‘She’s run bloody rings round us.’
Maybe. Maybe not. Because something’s nagging at me.
I join Gis at the board. Because if there really is a ‘something’, it’s here. Somewhere.
I scan the accumulated ten days of work. Maps, photos, lists, theories, question marks. Trying to see it all for the first time, waiting for something to snag. A good half of me is wondering if I should get someone like Ruth Gallagher in here, purely for the sake of a fresh pair of eyes –
But I don’t need to. Because there it is. On a bloody Post-it.
I yank it off and hold it out to Gis.
‘This trucking company – what’s that about?’
He frowns. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘You said it was an all-female outfit, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So why’s it called Ronnie Harmsworth Freight?’
Gis nods. ‘Good point – certainly worth a look.’
We turn to Baxter but he’s heard us; he’s already on it. ‘I’m checking Companies House,’ he says. ‘Give me a sec.’
He taps his keyboard for a moment then scrolls down. ‘According to this, the MD and majority shareholder of Ronnie Harmsworth Freight is a Veronica Harmsworth, DOB 14 March 1974.’
‘Am I right in thinking you can still be a company director if you’ve been inside?’
The energy in the room jolts up a notch; they know where I’m going with this.
Baxter taps again, then nods. ‘Yup, you can. As long as it wasn’t for something like fraud.’
Hansen’s at his screen now too. ‘Veronica Christine Harmsworth,’ he says, glancing up. ‘Did three years in Holloway for ABH from 2009 to 2011. Went for her husband with a hammer – claimed he’d been beating her up.’
‘Did Sullivan ever work at Holloway?’
He does another check, then looks up and nods. ‘Eight years – 2008 until it closed in 2016.’
It’s as if the whole room is holding its breath.
‘Who spoke to Harmsworth Freight before?’
‘Ev,’ says Gis. ‘We thought it would be better coming from a woman –’
I turn to her but she’s already picked up her phone. ‘Get a list of all the drivers they have scheduled on ferry crossings, both last night and today. But keep it low-key – I don’t want a message getting through to Rowan.’
Quinn comes up to me. ‘You think Sullivan fixed it with this bird Ronnie?’
‘It has to be a possibility. And right now, it’s all we have.’
* * *
Rock warned her it might take a while. That it isn’t as simple as rolling off a car ferry, so not to rush to panic. So that’s what she’s telling herself. Don’t panic. These places are huge, there’s a ton of lorries to process, you know what the bloody French are like. Being stuck in this stuffy cab under the duvet isn’t helping. Nor is the smell. She’s going to have to get Rock to stop as soon as they’re through so she can dump the sick bag. As soon as they’re through, as soon as they’re through …
Voices now, close by; that hasn’t happened before. Someone outside talking to Rock. She tries to gauge Rock’s tone from the dribs and drabs she can hear. It doesn’t sound like she’s concerned. Some admin crap? There must be a ton of that to do. She’s just being paranoid.
Of course she is – because suddenly there’s the sound of the ignition. A rumble of engine noise, then the hiss of air brakes and – hallelujah – the truck shudders into life.