Find Them Dead

4 Monday 26 November

Shit, Mickey thought, his nerves shorting out as he obeyed the two Border Force officers’ unsmiling signals to pull over into the inspection lane. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Shit shit shit.

Be calm. Deep breath. Smile.

That was all he needed to do. But at this moment there was a total disconnect between his mind and his body. His ears were popping and his armpits were moist. A nerve tugged at the base of his right eye; a twitch he’d not had for years suddenly returned at the worst possible moment imaginable.

Stepping out of the office, Clive Johnson continued to observe the driver’s body language as the vehicle and trailer came to a halt. The man, who was wearing a black beanie, lowered his window, and Johnson strode up and leaned in. He smelled the strong reek of cigarette smoke on the man, noticing his badly stained teeth; the tattoo rising up above his open-neck shirt. He was wearing leather gloves. His skin had the dry, creased look of a heavy smoker, making him appear older than he actually was — probably around forty, he thought.

‘Good morning, sir, I am with the UK Border Force,’ Johnson said with consummate politeness.

‘Morning, officer!’ Mickey said in his Brummy accent. ‘Bit of a ride that was. Good to be on terra firma!’

The man had almost comically thick lenses, which made his eyes look huge, Mickey thought.

‘I’ll bet it is, sir. I’m not much of a seafarer myself. Just a few questions.’

‘Yeah, of course, no problem.’

The man’s voice seemed to have risen several octaves, Clive Johnson noticed. ‘I will need to see the documentation for your load. Have you come from anywhere nice?’

‘Dusseldorf, in Germany.’

‘And where’s your destination?’

‘Near Chichester. I’m delivering a vehicle for LH Classics.’ He jerked a finger over his shoulder. ‘They’ve purchased this vehicle on behalf of a client and they’re going to prep it for a race in the Goodwood Members’ Meeting.’

‘And what is the vehicle you are transporting?’

‘A 1962 Ferrari — 250 Short Wheelbase.’

‘Pretty rare. Didn’t one of these sell at auction recently for nearly £10 million, if I’m correct?’ Clive Johnson said.

‘You are correct. But that had better racing history than this one.’

Johnson nodded approvingly. ‘Quite some car.’

‘It is, believe me — I wouldn’t want to be the guy responsible for driving it in a race!’

‘Let’s start with your personal ID. Can I see it, please?’

Starr handed him his passport.

‘Are you aware, sir, of the prohibitions and restrictions of certain goods such as drugs, firearms and illegal immigrants for example?’

‘It’s only the car and me!’ Starr said cockily, pointing his thumb towards the trailer.

Johnson then asked him a number of questions regarding the placing of the vehicle in the unit and its security on the journey, which Starr answered.

‘Can I now see the paperwork for the vehicle?’ Johnson said.

Mickey lifted a folder off the passenger seat and handed it to him. Johnson made a show of studying it for some while. Then he said, ‘I’d like to see the vehicle, please, sir.’

Immediately he noticed the man’s fleeting hesitation. And the isolated beads of perspiration rolling down his forehead.

‘Yeah, sure, no problem.’

Mickey got out of his car, butterflies in his stomach, telling himself to keep calm. Keep calm and all would be fine. In a few minutes he’d be on the road and heading home to Stuie. He went to the rear of the trailer unit, unlocked it and pulled open the doors to reveal the gleaming — almost showroom condition — red Ferrari.

Clive Johnson ogled the car. Unable to help himself, he murmured, ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’

‘You what?’ Mickey said.

‘Robert Browning. That’s who wrote it.’

‘Oh,’ Mickey said, blankly. ‘I think you’re mistaken. David Brown — he was the man who created Aston Martins. DB — that stood for David Brown.’

‘I know my cars, sir,’ Johnson said, still inscrutably polite. ‘I was talking about Robert Browning.’

‘Dunno him, was he a car designer, too?’

‘No, he was a poet.’

‘Ah.’

Clive Johnson stepped back and spoke quietly into his radio. Moments later a dog handler appeared, with an eager white-and-brown spaniel on a leash with a fluorescent yellow harness.

‘Just a routine check, sir,’ Johnson said. And instantly noticed a nervous twitch below the man’s right eye.

‘Yeah, of course.’

The handler lifted the dog into the trailer, then clambered up to join it. Immediately, the dog started moving around the Ferrari, occasionally jumping up.

‘Make sure it don’t scratch the paintwork, I’ll get killed if there’s any marks on it,’ Mickey said.

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Clive Johnson said. ‘Her claws are clipped regularly, her paws are softer than a chamois leather.’

The handler opened the passenger door and let the dog inside. It clambered over the driver’s seat then, tail wagging, jumped down into the footwell and sniffed hard.

Its demeanour and reaction were a sign to its handler that the dog had found something.

Mickey watched it, warily. His boss had told him not to worry, they’d used new wrappers, devised by a Colombian chemist, that would stop sniffer dogs from finding anything. He hoped his boss was right. Certainly, the dog seemed happy enough — it was wagging its tail.