At Risk

32

Tell us again about the Germans,” said DS Don Whitten, smoothing down his moustache. This time Bob Morrison was sitting next to him in the interview suite. Both Whitten and Kieran Mitchell had chain-smoked their way steadily through the last hour’s interrogation. A wavering blue-brown pall now hung in the strip-lit air over the interview table.

Mitchell glanced at his lawyer, who nodded. Mitchell’s eyelids drooped, and against the dour backdrop of the interview room he looked cheap and gangsterish in his designer clothes. To Liz, watching through the one-way glass screen, it was clear that he was desperately trying to hold things together, to display a helpful patience rather than the snappish exhaustion that he felt.

“Like I said, I know nothing about the Germans. I only know that the organisation was called the Caravan. I think the cutter was crewed by Germans and I think that Germans organised the runners’ transit from mainland Europe to the point when me and Gunter picked them up off the Norfolk coast.”

“The runners being the migrants?” said Whitten, glancing at his Styrofoam coffee cup and finding it empty.

“The runners being the migrants,” Mitchell confirmed.

“And the boat’s point of origin?”

“I never asked. There were two boats, both converted fishing cutters. I think one was called Albertina Q, registered port Cuxhaven, and the other Susanne something, registered Bremen… Breminger…”

“Bremerhaven,” murmured Liz. On the chair beside her in the observation suite, Steve Goss was opening a greaseproof-paper-wrapped clutch of double Gloucester cheese sandwiches. He nudged the packet in her direction and she took the smallest. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but she sensed that Goss would feel self-conscious munching through all four sandwiches in front of Mackay. Was there a Mrs. Goss?

“To be honest,” Mitchell was saying, “the name of the boat was the last thing on my mind. And it was Eastman who always called them the Germans, or the Krauts. If they’d been Dutch or Belgian I wouldn’t have known the difference. But I do know that the organisation was known as the Caravan.”

“And the Caravan paid Eastman?” asked Whitten.

“I assume so. He was responsible from the pick-up at sea to the delivery point in Ilford.”

“The warehouse?”

“Yeah, the warehouse,” said Mitchell tiredly. “I’d drive in, there would be a head count, and I’d sign them over. There’d be another crew waiting there with documents, and they’d take them on to… wherever.”

“And there would be how many again in each consignment?”

Whitten was repeating earlier questions, checking the answers against his notes for inconsistencies. So far, Mitchell’s answers seemed steady.

“If it was girls, it went up to twenty-eight. Ordinary runners twenty-five, tops. Gunter’s boats couldn’t take more than that, especially if there was a heavy sea.”

“And Eastman paid you, and you paid Gunter?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me how much again.”

Mitchell’s head seemed to slump. “I got a grand per head for girls, one-five for runners, two for specials.”

“So on a good night you might be pulling down forty grand?”

“Thereabouts.”

“And how much did you pay Gunter?”

“Flat rate. Five grand per pick-up.”

“And Lakeby?”

“Five hundred a month.”

“Nice profit margin there!”

Mitchell shrugged and looked philosophically around him. “It was risky work. Can I take a piss?”

Whitten nodded, rose, spoke the time into the tape recorder, clicked it off, and called for the duty sergeant. When Mitchell had left the room, accompanied once again by Honan, there was a moment’s silence.

“Do we believe him?” asked Mackay, rubbing his eyes and reaching into the pocket of his Barbour jacket for his mobile phone.

“Why would he lie to us?” asked Goss. “He’d just be defending the person who murdered his partner, wrote off a nice forty K-a-month earner, and basically got him nicked in the first place.”

“Eastman could have asked him to feed us disinformation as part of a damage-limitation exercise,” said Mackay, stabbing the message button and pressing the phone to his ear. “Mitchell wouldn’t be the first career criminal to take the drop for his boss.”

Liz pressed the intercom button connecting the two suites. “Could you take him through the Fairmile Café stuff again?”

“As soon as he gets back,” said Whitten. He nodded at the Cona jug on the table. “Anyone want the last cup of coffee?”

Liz looked around at the others. It was 1:45 a.m., and in the indirect glow of the strip lights they looked grey-faced and drawn. The coffee, she could tell, was cold.

“Tell me about Gunter again,” Whitten began, when Mitchell was once more sitting opposite them. “Why was he in the cab of the lorry with you?”

“His car had broken down, or was in the garage or something. I said I’d drop him off at King’s Lynn. I think his sister lives there.”

“Go on.”

“So he got in, and we drove to the Fairmile Café, to drop off the special.”

“Tell us about the special.”

“Eastman told me he was some Asian fixer who was being brought in from Europe. He wasn’t a migrant, like the others; he’d paid to be brought in and then, in a month’s time, to be taken out again.”

“A month’s time?” interjected Mackay. “You’re sure of that?”

“Yeah, that’s what Eastman said. That he was due to go back to Germany with the cutter bringing January’s runners.”

“Had this happened before?” Whitten asked.

“No. The whole special idea was new on me.”

“Go on,” said Whitten.

“Ray and I picked up the runners at the headland-”

“Wait. Did the boats from Germany always drop off there? Or were there other places?”

“No. I think they considered other places, but in the end decided to stick with the headland.”

“OK. Carry on.”

“We picked the runners up, loaded them into the back of the truck, then I drove to the Fairmile Café, where the special was being dropped off. Ray let him out of the back-the special, that is-and followed him into the toilet.”

“Do you know why Gunter followed him?” asked Whitten. “Had he said anything to you about needing to use the toilet?”

“No. But the Paki guy, the special, had a heavy rucksack. Small, but good quality, and whatever was in it was heavy. The guy wouldn’t be separated from it.”

“So you saw him close up, this Pakistani guy? The special?”

“Yeah. I mean, it was pretty dark on the beach and there were a lot of people there and quite a few of them looked, you know, the same. Pakistani and Middle Eastern types, thin faces, cheap clothes. They looked… they looked beaten.”

“And the special was different?”

“Yeah. He carried himself differently. Like someone who’d been someone at one time and wasn’t going to let anyone grind him down. Not a big guy, by any means, but hard. You could tell that about him.”

“And what did he look like… physically? Did you see his face?”

“A couple of times, yeah. He was quite pale-skinned. Sharp features. Bit of a beard.”

“So you’d recognise him again?”

“I reckon so, yeah. Although you’ve got to remember, like I said, it was dark, everyone was very jumpy, and there were a lot of these guys milling around… I wouldn’t want to swear to anything, but if you showed me a photo I’d… I’d probably be able to say if it wasn’t him, put it like that.”

Behind the glass, Liz felt the steady drip feed of adrenalin. She felt weightless. Glancing at Goss and Mackay, she could see the same rapt attention, the same close focus.

“So why do you think Gunter followed him?” Whitten repeated.

“My guess is that he thought he had something valuable in the rucksack-the rich ones bring in gold, bullion, all sorts-and wanted to… well, take it off him, basically.”

“So Gunter hadn’t sussed him as a hard nut, then, like you had? He thought the Pakistani would be easy to rob?”

“I don’t know what was in his mind. He’d probably seen less of the guy than I had. I was the one who brought him ashore.”

“OK. So Gunter follows the guy into the toilets. You hear nothing. No shot…”

“No. Nothing at all. A few minutes later I saw the Paki walk across to a car, and get in. The car then drove off out of the car park.”

“And you saw the car?”

“Yeah. It was a black Vauxhall Astra 1.4 LS. Couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman at the wheel. I took its reg number, though.”

“Which was?”

Consulting a scrap of crumpled paper handed to him by his lawyer, Mitchell told them.

“Why did you take the number?”

“Because I hadn’t got any form of receipt for the guy. I hadn’t signed him off, and in case there was any trouble later I wanted something to show that I’d brought him in. He was worth two grand to me, remember.”

“Go on,” said Whitten.

“Well, I waited ten minutes, and Ray didn’t show. So I got out of the cab and walked over to the toilets and…”

“And?”

“And found Ray dead. Shot, with his brains all over the wall.”

“What told you he’d been shot?”

“Well… the hole in his head, apart from anything else. Plus the hole in the toilet wall where his head had been.”

“So what did you think?”

“I thought… it’s illogical, because I’d seen the guy drive off, but I thought I was next. That the Paki had done Ray because he’d seen his face in the light and was going to do me too. I was crapping it, frankly. I just wanted to get out of there.”

“So you drove away.”

“Bloody right I did. Straight to Ilford, no stops, and dropped off the other runners.”

“So when did you ring Eastman?”

“When I’d finished in Ilford.”

“Why didn’t you ring him straight away? As soon as you found the body?”

“Like I said, I just wanted to get out of there, to get clear of the whole business.”

“What was Eastman’s reaction when you rang?”

“He went totally spare, like I knew he would. I rang him in the office and he was like… he just went totally off his head.”

“And since then? What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Waiting for you blokes, basically. Putting my house in order. I knew it was just a matter of time.”

“Why didn’t you come straight in? Give yourself up?”

Mitchell shrugged. “Things to do. People to see.”

There was a pause, and Whitten nodded. As he walked to the door to call the custody sergeant, Honan touched Mitchell’s elbow, and the pair got to their feet. Opposite them, Bob Morrison glanced at his watch. Frowning, he hurried from the room.

“Off to ring Eastman, do you think?” Mackay murmured, touching his forehead to the one-way glass.

Liz shrugged. “It’s not impossible, is it?”

Don Whitten swung heavily through the door of the observation suite. “Well?” he asked. “Do we buy the story?”

Goss looked up from the notes he’d been studying. “It’s logical, and it’s certainly consistent with the facts we know.”

“I’m the newcomer here,” said Mackay. “But I’d have said the guy was telling the truth, and before the local uniform sit down with him tomorrow I’d like him to spend a few hours going through photographs of known ITS players. See if we can get a provisional make on the gunman.”

“I agree,” said Liz. “And I’d say that we need to get on to that black Astra as a matter of urgency-details to all forces, national security priority, et cetera.”

“Agreed, but what do we tell people?” asked Whitten. “Do we link the search for the car to the Fairmile murder?”

“Yes. Put out a nationwide alert that the car has to be found and placed under observation, but that under no circumstances are the driver or passengers to be approached. Instead, Norfolk police should be contacted immediately.” She raised an eyebrow at Steve Goss, who nodded, and turned back to Whitten. “Do you know where Bob Morrison went?”

Whitten shook his head uninterestedly. Yawning, he shoved his hands deep into his suit pockets. “My guess is that our shooter’s still on our doorstep. Otherwise why did he have himself dropped off outside that transport café rather than going on to London with the others.”

“The car could have taken him anywhere,” said Goss. “Perhaps he was heading north.”

Mackay leaned forward. “More than anything else, we need details of this Caravan organisation. These Germans that Mitchell told us about. Is there any reason why we can’t just haul Eastman in right now and sweat him for twenty-four hours?”

“He’d laugh at us,” said Liz. “I’ve got to know Mr. Eastman pretty well over the years, and legally speaking he’s very switched on indeed. The only way we’re going to get him to talk-as with Mitchell-is to deal from a position of strength. Once we’ve got enough information to put him away we can bring him in and break him, really give him a bad time, but until then…”

Mackay looked at her speculatively. “I love it when you talk dirty,” he murmured.

Whitten sniggered, and Goss stared at Mackay disbelievingly.

“Thank you,” said Liz, forcing a smile. “A suitable note to end up on, I think.”

She kept the smile going until she and Mackay were in the Audi. Then, as they pulled their seat belts over their shoulders, she rounded on him, pale with fury.

“If you ever-ever-undermine my authority in that way again, I will have you off this case, and I don’t care if I have to move heaven and earth to do it. You’re the learner here, Mackay. On sufferance-my sufferance, and don’t you forget it.”

He stretched his legs in front of him, unperturbed. “Liz, relax. It’s been a long night, and I was making a joke. Not a very good joke, I admit, but…”

Gunning the throttle and snapping her foot off the clutch so that he was thrown backwards against his seat, she swung out of the police station car park. “But nothing, Mackay. This is my operation, and you take your lead from me, understand?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said mildly, “that’s not strictly true. This is a joint service operation with joint service sanction, and with all due respect to your achievements to date, it’s actually the case that I outrank you. So can we please loosen things up a notch? You’re not going to catch these people single-handed, and even if you did, you’d have to share the credit with me.”

“Is that really what you think this is about? Who gets the credit?”

“If it isn’t about that, what is it about? And that was a red light, by the way.”

“It was still yellow. And I don’t give a toss about your rank. The point I’m making is that if we’re going to have one tenth of a chance of catching our shooter, then we’re going to need to keep the local uniform and the Special Branch a hundred per cent onside. That involves getting and keeping their respect, which in its turn involves your not treating me like some bimbo.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Like I said, Liz, I’m sorry, OK? It was meant to be a joke.”

Without warning, the Audi screeched hard leftwards off the road, jolted over two puddle craters, and came to an abrupt halt.

“Bloody hell!” gasped Mackay, straining against the taut lock of his seat belt. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” Liz said breezily. “It was meant to be a joke. Actually, I’m pulling into this layby to make a couple of calls. I want to find out who hired that black Astra.”