by Candy Denman
She could feel her cheeks flush with anger at his suggestion that she might be an FNM supporter.
“I am not in the least bit upset that the rally was disrupted, although a man was injured and that might have been avoided, I am more interested in whose idea it was to drop that little bombshell into the interview guaranteeing that the disruption occurred.”
Morris hadn’t, of course, been injured by the scuffles that had broken out between factions, rather by his own attack on Claybourne, but she wasn’t about to let the MP off the hook.
“I think there would have been a counter demonstration no matter what, but I agree it was probably larger as a result of the idea that someone had actively killed those young men by sabotaging the boat. Perhaps you should ask the journalist where he got the idea from.”
“I have,” she said. Although that also wasn’t true, but the moment he suggested she do that, she was completely sure that he had indeed asked for the question to be added to the interview. In fact, she was pretty sure that the whole interview was set up, simply so that he could make sure of getting the idea out that someone, possibly from the FNM, had deliberately killed the refugees.
Callie looked him directly in the eye and saw that he knew that she was lying about speaking to the journalist, but he also understood from her look that she knew what he had done. A small smile played on his lips.
“Then you know that if he won’t tell you, there’s nothing you or I can do. I understand the information was false anyway. Perhaps he made it up to spice up the interview.”
He glanced at his wife, who had managed to compose herself and immediately stood up. It was obviously a well-rehearsed signal.
“I’ll see you out, Dr Hughes,” she said and Callie found herself being ushered out of the office, with a smile and a dismissive wave from the MP, but at least she was sure now that the source of the fake news was the MP himself, and not Lisa. What she was going to do about it was another matter entirely.
Chapter 14
Callie whizzed through her visits and still had a spare hour before evening surgery. Deciding against calling in to see if there were any further patients she could help with, Callie walked down to the seafront. It was a lovely day and there were plenty of holiday makers taking advantage of the rare sunshine to have picnics on the beach. Callie bought an ice cream and strolled along with them, walking away from the pier and stopping outside the amusement arcade. There was a surprising number of people playing on the slot machines. By the ride-on toy car, a child was wailing and demanding to be allowed another go. His embarrassed parents were trying to reason with him and explain they had no more change, but he refused to be consoled until, spotting Callie’s cone, the mother suggested an ice cream. That did the trick and the toddler raced along the pavement towards the ice cream seller.
Callie looked inside the arcade, which seemed quite dark in contrast to the bright sunshine outside, making it hard to see anything other than the brightly flashing machines. She was pretty sure that she couldn’t see Councillor Claybourne in the place, but then, he was hardly likely to hang about in the arcade, or sit in the change booth. He probably had an office upstairs, or in the back of the building, or somewhere else entirely for all she knew.
She finished her ice cream and wandered round the room, checking to see if any of the penny drop machines, her personal favourites, looked ready to drop. The trouble was, they all did, that was part of their attraction, but she knew it was a lot harder to get money out of the machines than it looked. That was how the owners made their money, after all. Having made sure that Claybourne wasn’t lurking anywhere, hiding behind the laughing policeman or one of the slot machines, Callie approached the change booth.
“Hiya,” she said to the plump and pimply young girl sitting in there, looking bored. Callie expected a surly response from the girl.
“Can I help?” the young girl asked politely, making Callie kick herself, she must stop being so judgemental, she told herself.
“Is the owner in?” Callie asked.
“Mr Claybourne? No, sorry. He pops in, several times a day, to check on things, though.”
“You don’t know what time he’s likely to be here next?”
“No, he likes to vary his routine,” the girl explained. “Keeps us on our toes.” She smiled, revealing twin train tracks of braces on her teeth. No wonder she didn’t smile often.
Callie guessed Claybourne also liked to make sure no one was cheating him. She could see domes on the ceiling, suggesting CCTV coverage, not just of the change booth, but also dotted around the room. He would also vary the routine for dealing with the money collections, if he didn’t want to get robbed. The sorts of businesses that relied so heavily on cash were easy prey, she knew.
Callie thanked the girl and headed back to work. She would have to find another way of getting to meet Claybourne, hanging around the amusement arcade on the off-chance he visited didn’t seem like a good use of her time.
* * *
Billy was working late, catching up with his normal workload now that the bodies had stopped washing up on the beach, so Callie was meeting Kate at their usual haunt, The Stag. It was music night and there was bluegrass in the back bar making conversation a little hard. As it was a warm evening, they decided to sit out in the garden where the music volume, not to mention the whooping and hollering of the music fans, was less, but ready to move back indoors if their peace was disturbed by flies, mosquitoes or particularly noisy children. They were discussing Callie’s meeting with Ted Savage and her suspicion that he had primed the reporter in advance of his interview.
“It’s sort of a variation on the lawyerly rule of ‘never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer’,” Kate commented. She was wearing layers of linen, comfortably creased. Callie wished she could be that relaxed about her style.
“Yes, but one step further.” Callie smoothed out an imagined crease in her skirt and picked at a bit of fluff.
“Exactly. If you have an answer you want to get out there, make sure you tell them what to ask. You have to admire him for it.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he managed to do exactly what he wanted. He ramped up the protest movement by planting the idea that the deaths were a deliberate act of murder by the FNM, or whoever sabotaged the boat, and it disrupted their rally.”
“And got Hastings even more bad press. Something it really doesn’t need right now.”
“That is also very true.” Kate sipped her beer and stretched out her legs. “But at least it brought in some work for yours truly.”
“What do you mean? Surely you aren’t defending any of those people?”
“Why not? You wouldn’t refuse them medical treatment, would you?”
“That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t. Anyway, I can’t afford to have principles, Callie. I have bills to pay and a few hours of legal aid work on a couple of affray charges that will probably be dropped for lack of evidence anyway, will do me nicely, thank you. And” – she did a little drum roll on the table – “I have a very nice case involving cigarette smuggling.”
“I can’t see that there’s much money in a bloke bringing in a few extra packets, much as I’m pleased he got caught.”
“This is more than just a few extra packets, let me tell you. This was a vanload of counterfeit smokes. And a big van at that. Not that he’s admitting it’s anything to do with him, of course.”
“Counterfeit? You would think it was enough just to smuggle them in and avoid the tax.”
“But if the cheap ones from goodness only knows where, have been made to look like genuine brands, they can be sold for an awful lot more profit. The EU decree that all cigarette packets should look the same and branding be removed has made it much easier for the fakers.”
“Bet they didn’t foresee that.”
“Exactly.”
“And they could have all sorts of dangerous chemicals in.”
“I rathe
r think all cigarettes do, don’t they?”
“You know what I mean.” Callie smiled despite herself, pleased to know that a vanload of harmful toxins had been kept off the streets and out of her patients’ lungs. “I’ve heard stories of arsenic, mould and even asbestos in them.”
“That’s probably just to try and scare people off buying them.” Kate was trying for dismissive but didn’t seem overly confident in her words.
“I do hope you don’t get this man off.”
“Not much chance of that, not unless he decides to give the police the people who are actually behind it, or where they are distributing them and even then−”
“The CPS don’t do deals.”
“Not like they do in America, anyway, but it would at least help at sentencing to be able to show that he was cooperating.”
“Where on earth do these counterfeit cigarettes come from, anyway?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment, but Poland, Romania and Ukraine have been sources in the past, so I am told.”
“Well, you have a pretty reliable source from what you’ve been telling me.”
“If only I could get him to talk to the police.”
* * *
Next day the local papers were full of news of the arrest of a man suspected of smuggling cigarettes. Thousands of cartons of counterfeit cigarettes had been found in the back of a van that had been the subject of a ‘routine stop’. Callie smiled to herself, that was almost certainly code for a tip-off, she thought. Kate was right, it would keep her in work for months and the fake cigarettes were safely off the street.
There was a picture of a van, full of cardboard boxes presumably containing the confiscated cigarettes, and a larger picture of one of the packets displayed next to a skull and crossbones motif and a warning from Trading Standards that they could contain poisonous substances. The public would be able to tell if they had bought a packet, always supposing they didn’t know full well that they were buying illegal cigarettes, because they were a darker green than they should be and the health warning was in an Eastern European script. Callie took a closer look at the picture; it looked suspiciously like the ones in the carton she had seen David Morris carrying the day she saw him coming out of the convenience store. Callie read the full text that went with the report. The packs were described as being a dark green, whereas real cigarettes all have to be in packs that are a regulation lighter, browner green colour.
Callie was the first to admit that she was no expert on makes of cigarettes, never having been a smoker, but as she tried to picture them in her mind, she was pretty sure she was right. The carton David was carrying that day definitely looked like the ones in the picture. He had been very quick to hide them behind his back when he saw her. She had thought at the time that it was because he didn’t want his doctor to know he was smoking, but now she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps he knew they were illegal.
Callie went back over her surprise visit to David’s home as well. Had she seen any cigarettes then? There had been a packet that he’d chucked in the kitchen, out of her sight, and she was again sure that it had been dark green, just like in the report.
During her lunch break, Callie took a short walk to town and along the road to the shop where she had seen David Morris come out with the carton of cigarettes he was so keen to hide. It wasn’t a shop she had ever been in before and it was hard to see inside because the door and windows were covered to stop exactly that. She knew that the shopkeeper would be able to see out even if she couldn’t see in, so loitering outside wasn’t an option. If she wanted to see what was inside, she had to go in.
At that moment, a man came out and, seeing her hovering by the door, held it open for her.
“Thank you,” she said as she grasped the handle and went inside.
It was laid out much like every corner shop, with the counter by the door so that everyone would have to walk past it to leave the shop. There were cheap tins and packets of food crowding the shelves. Many of the labels were in foreign languages, and were for foods that Callie had never heard of, but more familiar British brands were there as well. Along with a large variety of alcohol, in bottles and cans, stacked at the back of the shop.
Aware that she was being watched by the woman behind the counter, Callie made for the chill cabinet and picked out a bottle of water. She hesitated over the ready-made sandwiches, before picking out a cheese and pickle one. She went to the till and put them on the counter. She could see a display case for cigarettes behind the assistant, but it was covered with brown paper so that she couldn’t see the brands. For once, Callie was dismayed that the law meant she couldn’t see the display.
“That all?” the woman asked in heavily accented English.
“Yes, erm, no. Do you sell cigarettes?” Callie could have kicked herself for asking such a foolish question, but she smiled and hoped the woman wouldn’t think she was too stupid.
“What make?” the woman asked.
“What’s the cheapest one you have?”
The woman gave her a look and reached into the cabinet behind her and slapped a packet down on the counter. It wasn’t the dark green pack that she had seen with Morris or that was pictured in the paper, but the woman was already ringing up her purchases on the till, so Callie handed over a twenty-pound note and got little change in return. Either she had bought a very expensive cheese and pickle sandwich or smoking was a more expensive habit than she had realised. She hoped it was the latter as she chucked the unopened packet of cigarettes in a bin as she passed. She hesitated, then fished them out again; safer to dispose of them at home, she thought. Just in case a child found them in the bin and decided to try them out.
* * *
All afternoon, Callie dithered about what she should do about her suspicions that the shop she had visited was dealing in counterfeit cigarettes. For a start, it was just a suspicion, it wasn’t like the shop had actually sold her one of the counterfeit packs.
Her first thought was that she should mention it to the police, but they had their hands full trying to track the people smugglers and with identifying the refugees. Another body had been found further along the coast and Callie sincerely hoped it would be the last.
She knew that she really should inform Trading Standards as they were the organisation who were investigating the scam, but then Kate wouldn’t be able to persuade her client to tell them and help himself.
In the end, as Kate was busy in court, presumably defending her smuggler, Callie left her a message saying that she had information that the cigarettes were being sold from a particular shop and that she would hold off telling Trading Standards until the next day, to give Kate a chance to get her man to tell them first. Neatly getting round her lack of proof and helping her friend, all in one go.
She allowed a short moment of smug satisfaction at how she had handled it and a mental pat on the back.
Chapter 15
Callie was still feeling pleased with herself. Her plan to put pressure on Kate’s client had worked and he had agreed to co-operate.
“They are going to raid the shop as soon as possible, but they were his only contact,” Kate told her. “He wasn’t able to help with who was organising it all, although he did say he didn’t think it was actually the people who ran the shop who were in charge.”
“Might be someone back in Eastern Europe, or wherever they came from,” Callie said.
“Possibly, although he seemed to think that it was someone here in Hastings. Anyway, Trading Standards have promised to put in a good word for him if it all pans out, so hopefully he won’t get too long a sentence.”
“Maybe they should stake the place out, see if they can catch whoever is organising it.”
“I don’t think they have the manpower, and the police can’t help, not with everything else that’s going on and it’s unlikely the person would actually go to the shop anyway, isn’t it? They’d probably want to keep as much distance between themself and there as possible.”
&n
bsp; “True. I do realise that cigarette smuggling has got to take second place to people smuggling,” she agreed, but something was niggling at Callie and she called the incident room after she had said goodbye to her friend and agreed to meet for Saturday brunch as usual.
“Er, hello, Dr Hughes,” DC Nigel Nugent answered the phone.
“Hi, Nigel, quick question if you have a moment?”
“Of course. Is it about the identification of the bodies?”
“Well, yes, but also about the investigation of the people smugglers.”
“Okay, what do you want to know?”
“Has there been any progress?” she asked.
“I’ve just finished touching up a photo of body nine, I’ve managed to make him look a bit less frightening.”
“I thought Lisa, the crime scene photographer, was doing that for all of them.”
“She touched them up to look clearer, but the subjects are still obviously dead and the Super said we couldn’t release any of them to the public domain. I’ve photoshopped the eyes open and tried to make the face seem, well, alive.”
He was clearly proud of his achievement and Callie had to admit, it must have been a pretty hard job to make the picture less likely to put people off their cornflakes.
“That’s good, are you going to release it to the press?”
“I’m just waiting for the DI to agree to that.”
“He will do, won’t he?”
“I think so.” Nugent seemed less sure. “I’ll show it to him when he gets back.”
“Back from where?”
“Calais. He’s liaising with the French.”
Callie realised that she shouldn’t be surprised at that, everyone had assumed that the migrants had come over from there, either in the RIB the whole way, or brought part-way on a bigger boat; in either case, the French were involved.
“What about Sergeant Jeffries?”