He took a cigarette and allowed Duggan to light it for him before replying. “The fact that it wasn’t made public and it is so unimportant to you, is its great significance now, because it gives credence to what this witness has to say.”
Duggan placed a glass ashtray on the breakfast bar. “Which new witness is this?”
“At the moment, I can’t tell you that.”
Duggan looked angry.
“But what I’d like you to do,” Souter added quickly, “is contact the police – specifically try to see Detective Chief Inspector Strong at Wood Street.”
“And say what exactly? That I’ve had some journalist come and pester me about a new witness?”
Souter exhaled and flicked ash into the tray. “I understand your … annoyance, Mr Duggan, but if you saw DCI Strong and told him what you’ve just told me about your arm all those years ago, it would probably persuade him to take what my witness has said seriously.”
“And you think this would help find Mary?”
Souter held his gaze. “I do, Paul. I honestly do.”
Duggan stood up and turned away, holding his head in his hands. “Christ, there’s never a day goes by when I don’t think of our Mary.” He turned back again. “She was only eight years old.”
“I know.”
“Answer me this, Mr Souter. Honestly. Do you think she’s alive?”
Souter stood. “No,” he said, “I think she’s gone a long time ago.”
Duggan’s eyes filled with tears and he leaned against the bar before sagging back down into the chair.
Souter placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Paul, but you asked me to give you an honest answer.” He stubbed out his cigarette and made to leave, pausing at the back door. “You will contact DCI Strong?”
Duggan nodded and Souter departed feeling like shit for knocking the stuffing out of the man.
29
With a towel wrapped around her head, Veronica came into the living room and was about to plug in the hairdryer when the phone rang. She looked at it for several seconds, nervous of who might be on the other end. She’d had visits from the police and then she’d had that thug call round on Friday night. If he’d gotten their address, then he could easily obtain the telephone number. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what she’d bargained for when she’d moved in to share Steve Chapman’s bed. She knew he was no saint, but she never thought he’d bring her trouble like this. Bad enough the police; she’d never been visited by them before. But there was something threatening, subtle, but still real, about that character looking for Steve.
She snatched the handset. “Yes,” she said, as sternly as she could.
“Veronica, it’s me. Is everything okay?”
“Steve! What the Hell’s going on? You disappear in the middle of the night, don’t tell me anything. Where are you?” Instinctively, she looked out the window to see if anyone was watching the house.
“It’s best I don’t tell you. But I’m safe.”
“You’re safe. Well that’s all bloody right then. What about me? I’m here answering questions from the police about where you’ve got to.”
“I thought they’d be round. What did you tell them?”
“What could I tell them? You’d pissed off and I’d no idea where. Anyway, never mind the police, I had some other man here on Friday, just after the coppers left, asking where you were.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t say. But he frightened me, Steve.” She sat down on the sofa. “Said something about an arrangement and needing to talk to you. What arrangement? Because whatever it is, I don’t want you to bring me into it. I’m twenty-four years old and this is the first time the police have ever found their way to me. I’m not having it, you hear me?”
“This other man … what did he look like?”
She hesitated for a second, aware he’d just ignored her rant, focussing on her mysterious visitor. “Tall, about six foot, filled out his jacket well enough. Round face and a slight accent.”
“What kind of accent?”
“I don’t bloody know, do I? … Foreign.” She could hear her boyfriend take a deep breath. “Steve,” she continued in a level tone, “what have you got yourself involved in?”
“It’s just spiralled. I was only helping Gaz. It’s all to do with his brother, Chris.”
She could feel the colour drain from her face. “You mean …” She hadn’t made the connection before. Not paying too much attention to Steve’s annoying, slightly simple friend, she never picked up on his surname. “That man who was murdered in Garforth last week?” The question went unanswered. “Oh Christ, Steve.”
“Look, don’t worry. It’ll all blow over. We’ll just keep a low profile for a while.”
“Don’t worry? It’s not you here frightened to answer the door. Crapping myself when I hear creaks and groans in the night.”
“I’m sorry Veronica. I didn’t know this would … Can’t you go and stay with your sister for a while? Just while …”
“Why? Why should I?” She stood up. “Just because someone I was stupid enough to … No. You’re quite right, Steve. I’m leaving. Don’t bother looking for me. I won’t be coming back.”
“No, listen Veronica, I didn’t …”
She put the phone down. A few seconds later, she picked it up again and dialled 1471. Number withheld. She began to sob uncontrollably, letting her feelings gush out. Finally released from her pent up worries about Steve, her relief turned to anger. He’d put her through hell. Not knowing what had happened to him, where he was; that worry had carried her through the visits from the police and the stranger; it had made her stronger. Now the little shit had called. He was safe somewhere, saving his own skin and she would be left to pick up the pieces. Well she wasn’t having that. She came to a decision. Wiping her eyes on the towel, hair forgotten, she strode into the bedroom. From under the bed, she retrieved a black holdall then threw open the wardrobe doors. She looked at her collection of clothes and began to carefully fold them up and place them in the holdall. She wasn’t going to be beholden to her sister though. She’d sort something out. She’d speak to her friend at work tomorrow. She packed most of her clothes and left the last few bits for when she knew exactly what she would be doing. Finally she zipped up the bag and threw it on the floor by the front door, ready for a quick exit.
30
Monday
Eleven o’clock on a bright sunny morning and Strong caught his first tenuous sight of Felixstowe. Crossing the Orwell Bridge on the A14 at Ipswich, he looked to his right and spotted the dock cranes on the horizon, like some pre-historic arachnid.
It had been late Sunday afternoon before the owner of the Lexus had called Stainmore back. He’d been away in the vehicle for the weekend and certainly had no intention of exporting it. He also told her he’d contacted Olympia Insurance for a quote six weeks ago but had not taken it up.
“Flynn was okay with this then?” Stainmore had asked on the journey south.
“No real objections, Kelly. Even suggested Sarah Wagstaff to sign the warrant.”
“Is that the old girl from Sandal, wears her grey hair in a severe bun and looks like she’s sucking on a lemon?”
Strong chuckled. “No, Sally’s a lot younger, wild blonde hair, looks like Bonnie Tyler on a bad night. Not like your typical magistrate at all.”
After a short while, Stainmore had taken up the conversation again. “I had your friend call in to see me on Saturday,” she said.
“Which friend would that be?”
“That Yorkshire Post journalist, Souter. The one involved in the Calder Street shooting back in February.”
“And did he have a young girl with him?”
“You know about it then?”
“Her missing friend, yes. Any thoughts, Kelly?”
Stainmore considered her response. “First reaction, I’d have said that it was par for the course for young girls to move around in that game.”
“But? …” Strong questioned.
“But the young girl, Sammy, she seemed genuinely concerned. They have a lot of history together and it appears to be totally out of character for her friend, Maria, to fail to return and not make any contact. It’s over a week now.”
“So a girl working the streets, another involved to some extent in the sex trade … what’s the likelihood of a connection?”
“Too early to say, guv, but I’ve got Luke instigating another missing persons for Maria.”
Fifteen minutes after crossing the bridge, Strong and Stainmore approached the docks complex and realised the enormity their task could have been. Hundreds of containers stacked about eight high and God knows how many deep lined one area visible from the road.
Detective Sergeant James Cowling met them at the dock gates and escorted them to a small portakabin office used by security as a base. Cowling checked the warrant Strong had brought with him and showed them the paperwork accompanying the containers they held in a shed used for routine inspections.
“The lads are still on a high from last Toosday,” Cowling explained in his Suffolk burr. He’d amused Strong earlier when he referred to his ‘compooter’ in the same fashion. “Yes, second biggest haul of cocaine we’ve ever uncovered,” he went on, “Hidden in the hollow sections of the trailer’s chassis.”
As he was talking, Strong was studying the documents for the two vehicles. “This is good,” Strong finally said, indicating the V5 registration for the Lexus. “This is very good, but it’s a fake.” He was comparing the details with those he’d brought with him in a file. “And so is this,” he continued, referring to the Mercedes document. “Whoever’s produced these has done an excellent job. They’ve managed to reproduce the watermarks, all the coloured sections as they should be but the VIN numbers and engine numbers relate to the stolen vehicles which, I’ll lay money will be what we’ll find on the cars in those containers. The registration marks are from the cloned vehicles, so any checks here would show everything to be in order.”
Cowling picked up the vehicle registrations and held them up to the light, turning them over and looking closely at the type. “You’re quite right,” he said, “these do look genuine.” He looked at Strong, then walked to the door. “Shall we have a look?”
Strong rose to his feet and followed the Suffolk man outside, Stainmore close behind.
Gulls screeched overhead in the warm sunshine as they made their way along the concrete road towards the large shed about a hundred yards away. Strong breathed deeply, enjoying the salty, ozone-laden air.
“Get some of that in your lungs, Kelly,” he quipped.
Stainmore glanced across to Cowling. “Sorry about this,” she said, “my boss doesn’t get out much.”
Cowling smiled. “We don’t do too badly down here weather-wise. Only trouble we have sometimes is if the wind whips in off the North Sea and the cranes have to stop working. Then we have to implement Operation Stack on the A14. Wagons parked up for miles.”
They entered the warehouse through a single door, Cowling exchanging pleasantries with colleagues. “Okay, Simon,” he said to one of them, “let’s open them up and see what we’ve got.”
Inside the large well-lit hangar were a number of articulated lorries and vans in various states of undress. White boiler-suited inspectors, some with instruments and a couple with dogs, pored over them, searching every possible void. Towards the rear stood two maroon-painted containers. They headed in their direction.
Simon released the catches and lifted the levers before turning them to release the door. As the light flooded in, they could see the distinctive rear end of the dark blue Lexus 400.
Stainmore had managed to obtain spare sets of keys from the owners of the stolen vehicles and Strong pulled a set from his pocket and pressed a button. The door locks clicked and the orange indicator lamps flashed several times. He turned towards Cowling. “I’d say that was the one we’ve been looking for.”
“I’ll get a forensics officer to check it out.” Cowling then addressed his colleague, “The other one now.”
Simon repeated the unlocking operation on the second container. Just as the seal broke, it was as if the air was sucked into it.
Strong shivered. He felt his pulse quicken and an unease descend upon him. A faint but distinctive aroma seeped out.
“Oh, Christ,” he muttered and began fumbling in his pocket for the other set of keys. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Kelly.” He pressed the fob and the indicators flashed on the white Mercedes inside. He put on a pair of latex gloves and slowly stepped into the container. As the others looked on, his hand carefully reached for the boot’s catch. He squeezed the button and the lock clicked. Gradually, the lid rose and the odour grew in intensity. Then he saw her, head wrapped in a clear plastic bag, lying on her back. His eyes pricked and he turned away. He answered Stainmore’s questioning look with a shake of the head. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to an exit door and burst out into the fresh air.
Stainmore followed a minute later and joined her boss on the dockside.
“It’s her,” he said, staring out to the North Sea through a gap between two huge ships.
“DS Cowling’s arranging for a forensic team from Ipswich.”
Strong automatically reached inside his jacket, then patted his side pockets. “Shit,” he said.
“Looks like you chose the wrong month to quit smokin’,” Stainmore said in a mock American accent.
Strong flashed a quick smile at his colleague, then grew serious. “Helena was a lovely looking girl, Kelly. Not much older than Amanda. Not unlike Amanda to look at too.” Stainmore said nothing. “You know I’ve lost count of the number of bodies I’ve seen in my career. I used to think it would get easier. But it never does.”
“If it did, you wouldn’t be able to do your job, guv.”
“They come here for a better life, to escape persecution and exploitation by bigoted bastards and hardened criminals in their own country. And she ends up like that. Discarded in a car boot. In a foreign land.”
“You want me to let Jim Ryan know?”
“No, Kelly. I’ll do that. He’ll have the difficult task of breaking the news to her sister. She’ll have to come down and identify Helena.”