Find Them Dead

7 Monday 26 November

As dawn was breaking outside, Clive Johnson sat in his office with the bag of white powder he’d removed from the spare tyre, listening on his borrowed police radio to the update from the Road Policing Unit. He was wearing forensic gloves, video recording what he was doing and ensuring that he was protecting possible traces of DNA, fibres and fingerprints. He slit the bag open and performed a brief chemical analysis on a sample of the contents. It tested positive for cocaine — and a very high grade.

He knew that the current street value of this drug in the UK was around £37,000 per kilogram. Which meant, if he was right in his calculation, judging from the weight of the Ferrari, there could be close to six million pounds’ worth of drugs inside that beautiful vehicle, maybe even more.

And the car wouldn’t be looking quite so beautiful by the time every panel had been removed and its bare entrails exposed.

Twenty minutes later, cuffed to an officer, Mickey was frog-marched back into the shed and up to the Ferrari where the Border Force officer who had first questioned him was now, once again, standing. He had a piece of sticking plaster on his bent glasses, one lens of which was cracked, and was not looking as friendly as before. ‘Decided to come back, did you? Very obliging of you.’

‘Haha,’ Mickey said, sourly.

‘I won’t keep you too long, Mr Starr,’ Johnson said. ‘But as a formality I do need you to witness our continued examination of this vehicle.’

Much too late, Mickey knew, he tried reasoning with the man. ‘Look, see — I just got hired to transport the car — I didn’t know there was nuffin’ in it.’

‘Is that so?’ Johnson said. ‘Did you not have the slightest inkling?’

‘Honest to God, no. I’m just a driver, right, hired to transport the car. I don’t know about any drugs. I’m totally innocent.’

‘Which is why you assaulted me and ran away, is it?’

‘I — just got scared, like.’

‘I suppose I do look a bit scary, don’t I?’ There was a hint of humour in the Border Force officer’s voice. But not much.

Clive Johnson stared hard at Mickey. ‘Mr Starr, I believe these packages contain controlled drugs. I am also arresting you on suspicion of being knowingly concerned with the illegal importation of a Class-A drug.’ He cautioned him. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Clear as mud. I need a fag. Can we go outside so I can have one?’

‘I’m afraid not, and I’m not one to preach,’ Clive Johnson said, ‘but you really ought to think about quitting. Smoking’s not good for your health.’

‘Nor is being arrested. You should try prison food.’

‘Well, if it’s not to your taste, have you ever thought about making better career choices?’