Find Them Dead

by Peter James

  Always car-sick, Laura sat in the front. After Nick had done a long spell at the wheel of their VW camper van, Bessie, Meg had taken over from her husband, who then sat in the back with their fifteen-year-old son Will, and had slept. As she’d slowed for roadworks on the M1, an uninsured plumber, busily texting his girlfriend, had ploughed his van into the back of their vehicle, killing Nick and Will instantly. She and Laura had survived, and their injuries had healed, but their lives would never be the same again – there was no going back to normal family life. Meg would have given anything to have even the most mundane day with her family one more time. Of course, friends and relatives had rallied around her and Laura in the days and months after the accident, when it felt as if they were living in a surreal bubble, but eventually and inevitably life went on, grief had to be dealt with, and as the years passed people stopped talking about Nick and Will.

  Not one day went by when she didn’t think of them and what might have been.

  Meg had stayed home to be with her daughter on what was to be their last night together for several months. This summer, Laura had saved up for this gap-year backpacking trip, with her best friend, before she went off to study Veterinary Science at the University of Edinburgh.

  Nick, who had worked for the same company as Meg, had often jokily discussed with her what life would be like one day as empty-nesters when Will and Laura eventually left home. A positive man, they’d made all kinds of plans – perhaps to take a gap year themselves, which neither of them had done in their teens – and head off to travel Europe, and maybe beyond, in their beloved Bessie.

  Laura was a good kid – no, correct that, she thought – a great kid. One of the many things she loved about her bright, sparky daughter was the way she cared about animals. Meg was charged now with looking after Laura’s precious pet guinea pig, Horace, and her two gerbils, as well as her imperious Burmese cat, Daphne.

  When she came back home tonight to their small, pretty, mock-Tudor semi close to Hove seafront, Meg was painfully aware she would be truly alone. Home to a new reality. A real lengthy period alone. And when Laura returned from her gap year, she’d then be getting ready to move to university. No more music blasting from Laura’s bedroom. No more questions on homework to help her daughter with. No more running commentaries on who was going out with who, or the geeky boy who had been trying to chat her up. A big, lonely, empty nest.

  God, she loved her daughter so much. Laura was smart, fun and incredibly streetwise. Above all, Meg always knew she could trust her to take care of herself when she went out into town with her friends. Every night, apart from when she had to spend time away from home, travelling on business, they would sit down and have supper together and share their days.

  But not any more. Tonight, she’d be alone with her memories. With Laura’s beloved pets – hoping and praying none would die while she was away – and with the photographs around the house of Nick and Will with her and Laura when they were a family of four. You have children? people would ask. Meg would reply, ‘I have two.’ It wasn’t true, but she did, back then.

  ‘I am a mother of two children, and I am a wife. But my son and my husband are dead.’ She never found those conversations any easier.

  And to add to her concerns, her employer for the past twenty-odd years, ever since she had left uni, would be moving next year from nearby Horsham just forty minutes’ drive from here, up to Bedfordshire – a two-and-a-half-hour grind. No date had been fixed yet but, when the time came, she would have to make the choice either to stay on or take the redundancy package on offer.

  Meg showered, got herself ready then went down into the kitchen to make some breakfast and a strong coffee. Daphne meowed, whingeing for her breakfast. She opened a tin and the cat jumped up onto the work surface, barged her arm and began eating, though she had barely started scooping the fishy contents out. ‘Greedy guts!’ Meg chided, setting the bowl on the floor. The cat jumped down and began to scoff the food as if she hadn’t been fed for a month.

  Moments after Meg sat at the table, beneath a large framed photograph on the wall of Colin’s Brother passing the finishing post at Plumpton Racecourse half a length ahead of the next horse, she heard soft footsteps behind her and felt Laura’s arms around her. Laura’s face close against hers, wet with tears. Hugging her. She ignored the five earrings cutting into her cheek.

  ‘I’m going to miss you so much, Mum.’

  ‘Not as much as I’m going to miss you.’ Meg turned and gripped both of her daughter’s hands. Laura’s dark hair was styled in a chic but strange way that made her think of garden topiary. She had a scrunchie on one wrist and a Fitbit on the other and was dressed in striped paper-bag trousers and a white T-shirt printed with the words, in an old-fashioned typeface, YOU MAKE ME WONDER.

  Meg smiled through her own tears and pointed at it. ‘That’s for sure!’

  Her daughter had changed so much in these past few years. And recently seemed to be changing week on week with new piercings appearing. From nothing a year ago, she now had, in addition to her ears, a nose ring and a tongue stud, and, horror of horrors, she’d had her first tattoo just this past weekend – a small hieroglyphic on her shoulder which Laura said was an ancient Tibetan symbol for protecting travellers. Meg could hardly argue with that.

  Laura’s expression suddenly darkened as her eyes darted to the right. Freeing her hands, she pointed at a pile of plastic carrier bags. ‘Mum, what are those?’ she chided.

  Meg shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I’m not Superwoman, I forget things sometimes, OK?’

  Laura shook her head at her. ‘OK, right, we’re meant to be saving the planet. What if everyone forgot to take their own bags to the supermarket every time they went shopping?’

  ‘I’ll do my best to remember in future.’

  Laura wagged a finger at her then leaned forward and kissed her. ‘I know you will, you’re a good person.’

  ‘What time are you leaving?’ Meg choked on the words.

  ‘Cassie’s mum is picking us up at 6 a.m. to take us to the airport.’

  Cassie and Laura had been inseparable for years. She’d been the first to get a piercing and of course Laura had to follow. Now Cassie had three tattoos – God knows what Laura was going to come back with after their long trip.

  ‘You’ll keep in touch and let me know when you’ve landed?’

  ‘I’ll WhatsApp you every day!’

  ‘You’re all I have in the world, you know that, don’t you, my angel?’

  ‘And you’re all I have, too, Mum!’

  ‘Until you meet the right person.’

  ‘Yech! Don’t think there’s much danger of that. Although maybe when we get to the Galapagos next year, I might kidnap a sea lion and bring it back.’

  Meg smiled, knowing she was only half jesting. Over the years, Laura had brought all kinds of wounded creatures into their house, including a fox cub, a robin and a hedgehog. ‘Be careful in the water, won’t you – don’t forget about those dangerous rip tides and currents?’

  ‘Hello, Mum! Didn’t we grow up on the seaside? I’ll be careful! You’ll look after all the animals – don’t forget the gerbils?’

  ‘I’ve got all your instructions.’

  Laura had written a detailed list of their food and the times they liked to be fed.

  ‘And special hugs and treats for Master Horace?’ She was struggling to speak now, her voice choked. ‘Don’t be sad, Mum. I love you so much and I’ll still love you just as much when I’m over there.’

  Meg turned her head and looked at her daughter. ‘Sure, I know you will,’ she said.

  And the moment you get on that plane, you will have forgotten all about me.

  That’s how it works.

  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.

  5

  Monday 26 November

  As the dog handler led the spaniel back down from the rear of the trailer, he exchanged a knowing glance with Clive Johnson, who climbed up and peered into the car. Looking at the spoked wood-rim steering wheel. The dials. The gear lever with its traditional Ferrari notched gate. He opened the door and leaned in, sniffing, and that was when his suspicions increased. Authentic classic cars had an ingrained smell of worn leather, old metal and engine oil.

  This car did not smell right.

  He removed a wallet stuffed with £50 notes from the door pocket. Sniffer dogs were trained to smell not only drugs but also cash. Was it going to turn out to be just an innocent wad of cash in a wallet, after all this? Hopefully not.

  He jumped back down onto the shed floor, turning to Starr. ‘I’m seizing the wallet and its contents pending further investigation as the cash could be evidence of criminal activity.’ He sealed the wallet into an evidence bag in front of him.

  Mickey could feel his anger and anxiety growing. ‘What are you doing, is that really necessary?’

  Johnson ignored the question. ‘Is the car driveable?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mickey said, pointedly.

  ‘Good. What I’d like you to do, please, is reverse the car onto the floor. I need to weigh it.’

  ‘Weigh it?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The butterflies now raised a shitstorm inside Mickey’s belly. He tried not to let that show. ‘No problem.’ He began removing the wheel blocks.

  The sound of a classic Ferrari’s engine starting was more beautiful than any music to Clive’s ears. It was a sound that touched his heart and soul. Poetry in motion. But the engine noise resonating around the steel walls of this shed had little of that music. Just like the smell of the Ferrari’s interior, the engine noise was also not quite right. He stood behind, waving the car down the ramp, watching the wheels, the tyres. The way the car sank on its haunches as the rear wheels reached the concrete floor.

  He walked around the car, having to force himself to focus on his task and not simply be blown away by its sheer animal beauty. Yet the more he looked at it, the more something else did not seem right. He guided the driver, smiling pleasantly all the way, along the shed and over to the left onto the weighing platform built into the floor. He made the driver back up, move over further to the left, go forward, reverse again then stop and get out of the car.

  Clive looked at the readout. And his excitement began to rise. He had checked earlier, when he’d received the manifest, the kerb weight of a proper
1962 Ferrari 250 SWB. It should be 950 kilograms.

  This car weighed 1,110 kilograms.

  Why?

  Many classic cars were rebuilt, or even faked from new, some using chassis numbers from written-off wrecks while other rogues brazenly copied existing numbers. And not always with the original expensive metals. Some were rebuilt for an altogether very different purpose. Was he looking at one now?

  In a few minutes he would find out.

  He walked over to the driver’s side of the Ferrari, smiling, giving the impression that everything was OK. Instantly, he could see the change in the driver’s demeanour.

  Mickey smiled back, relief surging through him. Got away with it! Got away with it! Yesssss!

  He was so gleeful that he wanted to text Stuie. He would be with him in a little over an hour, on the empty roads at this time of morning. But he decided to wait until he was well clear, to get out of here as fast as he could in case the officer had a change of mind.

  Then the Border Force officer stepped up. ‘Just before you go on your way, sir, I’m going to have my colleague drive it through the X-ray gantry.’

  Mickey felt a cold flush in his stomach. Be calm, deep breath, smile.

  Clive Johnson stood in front of the X-ray’s monitor, watching as the vehicle was driven through the scanner, until he had the completed black-and-white image. Almost immediately, he could see an anomaly: the tyres should have been hollow, filled with air as all tyres normally were. Instead, the scanner showed they were solid.

  Johnson was excited, but still mindful of the value of this car if it was genuine, despite his suspicions. The least intrusive place to start, from his past experience, would be with the spare wheel.

  He opened the boot and, joined by two colleagues, removed it. They lifted it uneasily out of the vehicle, alarm bells ringing at the weight of it. One of the officers rolled and bounced it. He then spoke to his colleague, who produced a Stanley knife.

  Mickey watched in horror as the man ripped through it.

  ‘For God’s sake, that’s an original that came with the car!’ Mickey shouted, desperation in his voice. ‘Do you have any idea what you might be doing to the value of this Ferrari?’