Quinn frowns. ‘Yeah, OK,
‘Actually,’ says Hansen, looking up from his screen, ‘I had a thought about that. I checked a couple of websites and apparently commercial driving’s a popular job option with ex-cons. As long as they haven’t been done for dangerous driving –’
I stare at him; everyone stares at him. And no wonder: it’s been right under our noses this whole time.
‘Call Heathside – we need the names of all prisoners released in the last three years and then cross-reference that list with DVLA – and tell them it’s urgent. I’ve got a contact there if you hit a jobsworth.’
He opens his mouth to ask why but I get my answer in before the question. ‘You can’t drive an HGV without an advanced driving cert, Hansen, con or no con.’
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 –’
‘
‘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.
‘
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.’