Cold Summer, page 18
So much he didn’t know. Hypotheses? H1, Coniston escaped as an end in itself, could be discounted. H2, Coniston escaped as a means to an end. What end? Revenge against Khetan seemed the most likely option. But how, now Khetan was hiding somewhere in Asia. Then, H3, escape forced on Coniston by an organised crime group. TBR had bribed Yates to slow the investigation, his motive unclear. Darren Back not in that league.
What did he need to know? More on Elly Simmonds. An account from Darren Back. The whereabouts of Coniston – if Rick had that, he had everything.
‘Good effort,’ said Hazelhurst. ‘We’ll move on to people-smuggling.’ He flicked forward another slide. It showed a crowd of Asian women and children, sparsely clothed and scared-looking. One young girl in a faded yellow dress stared at the camera. Hooped earrings, bracelet, a fat lip. ‘What’s the difference between smuggling and trafficking?’
Kasim cleared his throat. ‘Smuggling is getting people from A to B. Transport. Trafficking is using them when they get there. Exploitation.’
‘Spot on,’ said Jim. ‘You want to watch him, Mr Castle. He’ll be after your job.’ He forwarded another slide – six young white girls climbing out of a horsebox in a motorway service station. ‘People-smuggling is similar to importing drugs, but more of a political hot potato. Plenty of opportunities for cross-selling so a people-smuggler might also be a trafficker, might also be exploiting children. Almost certainly, they’ll be laundering money. Money is at the root of everything, and there’s a lot of money to be made.’
Rick wandered off again. The whereabouts of Coniston. Heading to the coast and a small boat. A light aircraft? Europe, then Nepal? He’d need money and help. Rewind to TBR. Surveillance? Rewind further. Coniston exits from Hartford with Simmonds. What would they want first? Food. Cigarettes. Coniston smoked. Worth a speculative trawl of all the local newsagents. But, then what? A sighting was almost worthless. Would he hire a car? So far, Coniston had used a bicycle and taken the train. Second guessing him was hard. Respect to him – again.
‘What can you do for us?’ said Hazelhurst. ‘We need information, intelligence, and informants; the three Is. What can we do for you? Deal with your intel. We can run proactive operations as well as turn up and deal with your prisoners.
‘Questions?’
Maybe, Rick was crediting his opponent too much. With or without Williams and Elly Simmonds, Coniston couldn’t leave the country. He or they would come to notice. The ports, the major railway stations, even the private airfields were on high alert. He would just have to wait. He stared at the final slide – a reprise of the lorry from the video. The slide was black and white and looked like a print in a museum. The light-coloured lorry, tent, empty road and hooded forensic officers against the backdrop of the dark sky.
The lorry.
And there it was, staring him in the face.
‘Do they smuggle anybody in the opposite direction?’
Hazelhurst nodded. ‘It does happen. Last year, a nominal from an OCG tried to leave the UK by hiding in the back of a lorry. He was wanted for supplying drugs and attempted murder. Border police at Folkestone found, and arrested him. There’s not much demand, and prices are lower.’
Rick nodded. So it was possible that the two of them, or the three of them, were going to be smuggled out of the country. Or had been. Which meant the end. The end of the Coniston investigation, the end of his vague hope to nail Khetan on the back of it. The end of his effort to get his old job back. Along with his self-esteem. His stomach lurched like the final throw of a washing-machine.
But it wasn’t the end, not until he knew Coniston had left the UK.
‘Couple more questions, Jim.’ Rick had fifty. What did the NCA know about people-smugglers in Manchester, their collection and drop-off points, the fixers, the drivers, the nominals behind it? Names and places. The hard intel.
*
Rick ate lunch in the back of the surveillance van in the yard. The superintendent’s black Range Rover stood in its marked bay. Wing mirrors folded inwards, bodywork gleaming. Behind Robbo’s car pigeons perched on the razor wire of the perimeter wall. The yard was deserted save for two PCs smoking at the back door of the station.
He was multi-tasking. Maggie would laugh.
The sky cerulean blue, and looking up he could have been in Nepal. Even if it was only 14C, at least it looked like the summer.
The PCs shared a joke, stubbed out their cigarettes, and buzzed back into the building.
Rick finished the vending machine bap and balled the excess of cling film. He bit into an apple.
He wanted to be alone and figure his next move with Coniston. Hazelhurst had refused any smuggling intel until he’d spoken to his boss. None would be forthcoming. The squads were all the same: they sucked up divisional intel but disseminated next to nothing. And what they did, was out of date.
The station door opened, and Robbo stepped out. He waddled across the yard to his car, and clicked it open. He leant inside and took something from the dashboard. Rick lifted his binoculars. Robbo wiggled out a sweet from a packet of wine-gums. Rick lowered the glasses. Robbo walked round to the back of the car. He lifted the rear windscreen wiper, then looked around the yard. The yard was empty. Rick realised he had neither corroboration of the broken front wipers, nor a witness to the shit on the bonnet. He lifted his camera.
Robbo flexed the rear wiper back and forth.
Rick rested a finger on the camera’s shutter release; if Robbo damaged his own car, Rick would be DCI before the end of the day.
The superintendent folded the windscreen wiper down. He checked both sides of the car, and walked round the front. He glanced across the yard, locked the car, and walked back to the building.
The pigeons returned to the razor wire. Rick finished the apple, the whole thing. Chomped through the core, and chewed up the pips.
Finally, he spat out the stalk. He’d decided; he had to do something. Another tip from his SIO course: If you’re stuck reactively, go proactive. He phoned Hunter.
‘I want you to start surveillance on TBR.’
‘Not Back?’
‘Out of interest, if I’d said Back, would you have said, “Not TBR?”?’
‘No.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You got me,’ said Hunter.
Rick ended the call, then phoned Gary again. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Is your mum okay?’
Hunter said nothing.
‘Gary?’
‘Old girl passed a couple of days ago.’
‘Gary, I’m sorry.’ Rick retracted his pen in and out. ‘Forget the surveillance and go home, you shouldn’t be here.’
‘After we’ve got Coniston back, maybe.’ Hunter paused. ‘You don’t think it’ll affect you, and then, well, then it does.’
‘Yes,’ said Rick. He put the phone quietly down beside him. It explained Hunter’s erratic behaviour, but wished it hadn’t.
A police car with a flat tyre drove into the back yard and parked alongside the marked bays. The barrier clanged down. Behind it, Jenny, one of Maggie’s basketball teammates, crossed the entranceway.
Rick climbed out of the surveillance van, and ran after her. He ducked under the barrier and called out. She turned around and wheeled back up. Her mass of black frizzy hair sported flashes of silver.
‘Hello Rick.’ She beamed. The smiliest person he knew. ‘How’s Maggie?’
‘We had a bit of a falling out, and I wanted to ask a couple of questions about racing wheelchairs – if you’ve got a minute.’
‘For you, Rick, anything.’ She winked.
‘I had a look on the internet, thought it would be like buying a bicycle.’
Jenny cackled. ‘About as similar to a bicycle as a lawnmower. How long you got? Don’t answer that, Maggie’s told me about you. Bicycles work by turning a crank to makes the wheels turn. A relatively indirect transfer of power. Technically, racers don’t have a drive wheel which continues spinning when your hands stop pushing.’
‘Which explains why racers don’t have gears.’
‘Attaboy. And also explains why racing is more like running than cycling as in order to maintain speed going downhill, you have to keep pushing. But unlike running, a racer’s hands only push the rims between two o’clock and seven o’clock so you lose a lot of momentum.’
‘Going uphill is hard work – and not helped by not having gears.’
‘She said you were a smart cookie.’
‘I’m thinking of buying one.’
Jenny hooted. ‘You! You can’t sit still.’ She paused. ‘Sorry, I can see you’re serious. Bit more you should know, then. Moving a racer is like swimming – you have to learn a stroke, and it’s pretty uncomfortable. To maximise power generation, the racer must fit you exactly.’
‘Explains why I couldn’t find any second-hand.’
‘Be like wearing their pants – you’d always feel awkward.’ She laughed. ‘To buy one you need to go for a fitting – and, Rick, beware: it takes ages.’
Rick kissed her. ‘Thanks.’
‘People will talk,’ she said, laughing as she wheeled off. ‘Got the hots for you, boy, she has!’
Rick ducked back under the barrier and walked across the yard. Jenny’s bonhomie was infectious and he felt more optimistic about a future with Maggie.
But not about catching Coniston.
Or Khetan.
He picked up a pebble and hurled it at the taunting pigeons.
35
Rope, tape, buckets. Two hammers.
Hant slammed the van doors and climbed into the front with Ram. The DIY store hadn’t been busy and there were few vehicles, but still their van sat in the correct bay, not one for cars or vehicles with trailers. Hant followed the rules, told Ram to obey God and follow the rules. Unless the rules didn’t suit.
Staring through the windscreen, Ram unwrapped another toffee, and chewed in moody silence. A painter in spattered overalls loaded tins of paint into a trailer. Two women bickered at the boot of their car. A store assistant smoked by the sliding doors of the entrance. Jumbo sacks of gravel lined up.
‘You want to come England,’ said Hant. It was true, but it had suited him, too. The packet of sweets was his blatant attempt at amity.
The painters drove away. One of the women climbed in her car and locked the doors. The other woman banged on the window.
‘I want—’
‘What?’
Ram shook his head. He was a teenager. He was in a strange country. He was scared. The woman drove away, the second woman running after her, yelling. The boy smiled – finally. Ram was family, technically his nephew, but after Hant’s brother had been seized by Maoists – and never returned – more like a son.
‘Work me six months, maybe twelve. Make lot money, then go home Nepal. Build guest lodge, live dharma. You many children. Thik chha?’ Okay?
‘Thik chha.’
Hant started the engine, and slapped Ram’s leg. The boy’s body language told a different story. He drove out of the car park, past an artic being unloaded of wheelbarrows and timber. He could smell the dogs, hear the whispering, see the fright of the hidden migrants. Only a few days before the next delivery.
Grey clouds trundled across a hazy sky. Rain a possibility at any moment in Manchester. Hant missed Nepal, the harsh sunlight and the sparkling mountains, the predictability of the weather. They queued at a traffic light. In the car next to them two children in the back watched films on headrest consoles. Multicoloured lights flicked across their faces. Ram watched them watching, all three mesmerised. The lights turned green, the vehicles shunted forward, and Hant headed back to the Okay car wash.
They drove past a swimming pool, a caravan hire centre, a veterinary clinic, and reached a roundabout. A police car turned in behind them. The van was clean, the lights worked. Hant was driving under the speed limit. The van was insured and taxed. The boy oblivious of the police, of the danger. Hant braked, and stopped unnecessarily at a pedestrian crossing for a man pushing a disabled child. Not only was the van legal, but he was a considerate driver. He drove through another roundabout, the police car still following.
Police sirens blared. Blue flicker in the mirrors.
Hant slowed, pulled over, expecting the police car to pass. Hoped it would pass. The boy leant forward to watch in his wing mirror.
‘Bandar ko chaak!’
Hant stopped the van. ‘Chaina Nepali, Ram. Chaina English. Chaina.’ No Nepali, no English, nothing.
Two police climbed out of the car. Laughing, they approached along the pavement. Hant lowered the passenger window and one police peered in. Without moving and in silence, Hant prayed to God, and itemised the supplies in the back. Tape was tape, and hammers were hammers. You could torture with a car battery, kill with a beer bottle.
‘No seat belt.’ The police scowled.
Hant gripped the arms of his seat, heard a faint ringing in his ears. The boy had one thing to remember. One thing.
‘Cannabis, Pete?’ said the first police to the second police. He sniffed the air like a cartoon character. It was a barefaced lie. He kept his eyes on Ram and Hant. He wore white shirt sleeves, his tie tucked under an epaulette. A gold-coloured chain hung around his neck. He opened the passenger door. ‘Out, both of you.’
The second police waited by Hant’s door. Hant climbed out, and the second police followed him to the pavement.
Ram glanced at Hant. He was scared, sorry, awaiting guidance. Hant shook his head.
‘Where’re you from?’
‘Manchester,’ said Hant.
‘Where were you born?’
‘Westbury.’
‘And my Aunt Fanny’s a coalminer.’
The first police sniggered. ‘What’s in there?’ He squatted and pointed to a metal box near the rear wheel arch. Secured with a number code.
‘Spare key.’
Hant muttered a few words to God as the police lined him and Ram up against the van. Face the van, hands on the van, feet apart. Like criminals. The second police patted him down. He smelt of women’s perfume. He felt up the inside of Hant’s legs, squeezed his balls. Found nothing except the two hundred pounds cash in Hant’s pocket. He sealed it in a plastic bag. ‘Evidence.’
Then it was Ram’s turn. The first police patted him down. Turned out the toffee papers from his pocket. They whirled to the ground, and blew away. The first police kept patting.
‘Aye, aye, what have we here?’ The first police backed off and took out his baton. The second police handcuffed Hant.
Hant twisted around in the cuffs. The ringing in his ears strengthened.
‘Dekhanunu,’ said Hant.
The second police yanked Hant’s cuffs. ‘English.’
‘Show him.’
Ram unzipped his trouser flies, and delved inside.
‘Slowly,’ shouted the first police.
Ram produced a mobile phone.
The first police laughed, and the second police laughed with him. They laughed like idiots. Ram looked like a half-drowned dog.
‘Open it,’ said the first police, pointing with his baton at the metal box. Hant had hoped they’d forgotten, had hoped God was listening. He offered a silent prayer.
The handcuffs made the number dials tricky to turn. The first police prodded him with his baton. Hant kept fiddling. God, where are you?
Another prod from the baton.
‘I trying. Swear father’s life.’ His father was dead, killed by a British soldier in the Falklands War. By David Coniston. The Ghurkhas and the British were meant to have been on the same side.
A police radio crackled.
‘Got a shout.’ The second police ran back to the car.
The first police unlocked Hant’s cuffs, and whispered in his ear. ‘Best you fuck off to where you’ve come from.’ Behind him, the police siren briefly buzzed, like an angry wasp.
The two police drove away, lights flashing and sirens wailing, and taking Hant’s two hundred pounds. Ram sat on the kerb and cradled his phone like a new mother. He started crying. Hant snatched the phone and slapped him. He pulled the boy to his feet, opened the van door and pushed him inside. He walked round the front, climbed in and locked the doors.
‘God was listening,’ said Hant. He said another prayer.
Ram stopped bawling and started sniffling. Hant inspected the phone. The last call, a week ago. He checked the messages.
Two days ago, a text from an unknown number. Okay
It was a reply to Ram’s text sent earlier the same day. Hello callixx arrive Dover
Callixx?
‘Calix Coniston?’
Ram nodded, but kept his head down.
‘Bandar ko chaak!’
Hant tossed the phone into the back of the van. It bounced off a seat, landed heavily and slid along the floor until it hit the rear doors and fell silent. Ram glanced into the back, and across at him. Without warning, Hant jabbed the boy in the face. Then turned on the radio and pulled out into the traffic.
36
Rick worked the case. Sitting at his desk, he pounded the streets and knocked on doors. Modern policing. Interrogated databases, made phone calls, typed reports, issued taskings.
He circulated briefings for every patrol in Manchester. Descriptions and the latest intel on Coniston and Elly Simmonds, and Darren Back. He sent a fresh CHiS tasking. The hundred or so Manchester informants would be tasked with similar information, and paid for results. He called Oliver. Favour for a favour on credit, Rick promised. The phone crashed down. He reviewed the files and drank three cups of coffee.
He phoned Hunter.
‘Any movement from TBR?’ said Rick.
‘I said I’d call you.’ Hunter might or he might not, that was the problem.
‘Well?’
‘Two of his goons have turned up, Starfish and Thompson. They brought a litre bottle of whisky, so maybe they’re having a quiet night in.’
