Yvonne isn’t listening. Her attention is focused on the lovely pale liquid. She seizes her glass with a shaky hand and takes a large mouthful. Then another.
The relief!
Eleven
Thursday, 2.35 p.m.
The nearest thing the Major Investigation Team has to a conference room is at the end of the corridor. Random pieces of unwanted furniture and junked computer monitors tend to end up there. There’s a large wooden table in the middle and a mismatched selection of chairs. Megan watches Ingram and Garcia looking around. There’s a whiteboard which could do with a proper clean. They’re probably used to something much more posh and high-tech.
Slater takes the chair at the head of the table. Chief Superintendent Rob Barker sits down next to her. But it’s Slater’s meeting.
‘Okay,’ says the DCI. ‘I hope you understand, Danny, that May into June is a difficult time for us down here in the South West. There’s a real pressure on resources. We have one murder investigation ongoing and my DI is dealing with that. CID can’t spare anyone. So I shall be asking Megan to step up.’
Ingram shrugs. He doesn’t look at Megan. ‘No problem with that. I’ll let Sasha fill you in on what we found out from the woman on the beach.’
‘Fine. Go ahead,’ says Slater.
Sasha smiles. She seems totally comfortable. No hint of nerves. It’s the kind of self-possession that Megan envies.
‘Her name is Ranim, she’s Syrian and comes from Idlib, where her husband was a businessman. He was killed in an air strike. But he’d put money aside, in dollars, for her and her two children to escape. They got over the border into Turkey and were able to pay people smugglers.’
Ingram chips in. ‘This is where it connects to the intelligence we’ve gathered from some of our European partners. The people-smuggling market is huge and diverse. It’s like a lot of things, it caters for all budgets. We’ve been following the online marketing put out by an organised crime network, who specialise in a premium, bespoke service. Summer is high season for them too.’
‘Jesus,’ says Barker. ‘Sounds like they’re bloody travel agents.’
‘They’re a criminal enterprise that makes millions every year,’ says Ingram. ‘We think they’re operating between Spain and the West Country. They deliberately avoid the usual routes.’
‘Ranim isn’t willing to tell us what she paid,’ says Sasha. ‘But we think it could be up to twenty thousand dollars each.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Slater. ‘Sixty grand for three of them. Do illegal immigrants have that kind of money?’
‘Some do,’ says Ingram. ‘Some were quite well off before the war and they’ve managed to liquidate assets. The smugglers have identified a gap in the market.’
Megan watches the interplay between Ingram and Garcia. They make a slick team, riffing off each other.
‘These are people,’ says Garcia, ‘who are not rich enough to buy a fake passport and visa. That would set you back much more. But they don’t want to risk dying at sea in a leaky dinghy or freezing to death in a refrigerated lorry. This lot offer them a door-to-door service. They collect them in northern Spain, drive them up the coast of France to Brittany. The crossing is at night in some kind of luxury yacht. They’re picked up on the beach and driven to their nominated address in the UK. Probably a family connection. The smugglers’ USP is safety. That’s what people are paying top dollar for.’
‘All right until it all goes wrong,’ says Megan.
‘Yeah. And we’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this,’ says Garcia gleefully. Ingram tries to subdue her with a look. This amuses Megan. As if they hadn’t already realised his brilliant sidekick is a heartless bitch.
Ingram steers the discussion in another direction. ‘We think that the boats they’re using are based at marinas here on the south coast of Devon and Cornwall. They may be owned by a shell company. Or leased from someone else.’
‘Makes sense,’ says Slater. ‘They come into one of our bays at night, offload their passengers using jet skis or dinghies, then return to their moorings. Nothing shows up on CCTV.’
‘Problem is,’ says Barker, ‘this is a hell of a lot of coastline to put under surveillance. We simply don’t have the manpower. I can give you Megan, maybe a DC, plus one surveillance unit from Exeter – they’ve got a couple of drones they can deploy – and a few uniforms.’
‘I appreciate that, sir,’ says Ingram. ‘We know this has to be intelligence-led. But our breakthrough today came from a good old-fashioned bit of legwork by your sergeant.’
He smiles at Megan. She wonders what Slater’s thinking. Probably the same as her. Danny Ingram is a politician.
There’s a tap on the door. Brittney comes in.
‘Sorry, boss,’ she says to Slater. ‘I thought you’d want to know that the coastguard have spotted a body. Below some cliffs down the coast from Blackpool Sands. It could be a child.’
‘Thanks, Brittney,’ says Slater. ‘That tells us pretty clearly who these people are, I think.’
‘It does,’ says Ingram.
The mood in the room is sombre. No one says anything for a moment or two.
‘Right,’ says Barker, standing up. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Twelve
Thursday, 3.50 p.m.
The path to the hidden cove is steep and rocky. It’s quite a scramble. As local liaison, Megan leads the way, even though she has no idea where she’s going. Luckily the track is obvious. A small ravine dips down; clumps of pink and purple sea thrift cling to the stony hillside and patches of bluebells are still in evidence. Garcia follows her and Ingram brings up the rear.
Since there’s no vehicular access, CSI have lugged their gear down to the beach by hand. An impressive feat in Megan’s view. But speed is of the essence if they’re to recover the body ahead of the rising tide.
‘Wow! This is so beautiful,’ says Garcia. ‘You could be in Italy or even Greece. It’s so unspoilt.’
Megan bristles. She feels defensive of her adopted home. Why would that be better? It is beautiful. Devon is beautiful. Why can’t the stupid woman settle for that instead of making some snobby comparison?
They pause on a ledge above the cove. The last part of the descent is the steepest. Loose scree makes the path treacherous.
Garcia sits down on a rock to check her phone.
Ingram takes his cap off and wipes his face. ‘Phew!’ he says. ‘You need to be a bloody goat round here.’
Megan ignores him. She’s thinking about Ranim. Her own longing for a child was the ghost in her marriage. Paul always insisted it didn’t matter to him. But now he’s the one with a baby; obviously it did. The only consolation for Megan is she will never feel the kind of pain Ranim is feeling.
Garcia gets up and moves up the hill in an attempt to get a better signal.
Ingram turns to Megan and smiles. ‘I think you and I got off on the wrong foot,’ he says.
Megan shrugs. ‘I assume from what you said in the meeting that Ranim confirmed they were transferred from the boat by jet ski.’
He nods. ‘Twenty passengers. They wanted to get them off as quickly as possible. She sat behind the jet ski driver, holding her daughter in front of her. The boy was on the back with his arms round her waist. There were some big waves, he fell off. They tried to find him but couldn’t. He did have a life jacket. She thought he could’ve survived. That’s why she refused to leave the beach.’
Megan finds it hard to imagine that kind of despair, sitting on an alien shore, waiting for the sun to come up and hoping against hope that somehow your child is alive.
‘What’s next?’ she says.
‘We need to press her for more information. But not right away. If this is him, I don’t know how she’ll react.’
Megan nods. She can feel Ingram scanning her. She finds it unnerving.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘I know I come over as a dick at times.’
Megan says nothing.
&
nbsp; He grins. ‘Yeah, well you probably agree.’
She folds her arms. What the hell does he want?
He ploughs on. ‘I treated you like a gofer, which was rude. It’s clear you know what you’re doing. Very much so.’
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Apology accepted. Can we move on?’
‘Let me buy you dinner. Peace offering.’
Megan stares at him. More politics.
‘I appreciate the gesture,’ she says. ‘But I’m not much of a vegan. I’m more burger and chips.’
‘And a cold beer, yeah, me too. You pick a venue, text me, I’ll meet you there. Deal?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ says Megan.
She starts on the trail down to the beach.
They scrabble and slide for a couple of hundred meters until they reach the cove. The sand is coarse and red, matching the soil.
A stiff easterly breeze is driving the crashing waves onshore and the tide is rapidly rising. Megan recognises Hilary Kumar, the Crime Scene Manager, up to her knees in the waves. She and two colleagues, all in protective gear, are lifting a small body from the sea. They’ve spread a plastic sheet on the sand. They lay the child down on it. Dark hair, bare feet; he’s still wearing a yellow life jacket, which is too big for him.
Hassan.
As Megan watches the small corpse being carefully arranged in its plastic shroud, she thinks of Ranim. How will she survive this?
She becomes aware of Ingram standing beside her.
‘For Chrissake!’ he says. ‘Doesn’t matter how many times you see it…’
He’s right about that.
Megan glances at him. The baseball cap is pulled low over his face concealing, she suspects, the tears in his eyes.
Thirteen
Thursday, 8.10 p.m.
Megan doesn’t intend to arrive late; that’s not her style. But when she got home she found Debbie in a strange mood. The kids were hungry and no one had walked the dog. Megan, Amber and Scout took a circuitous route to the fish and chip shop.
Once she’d settled the family in front of the television with the takeaway, Megan went to get ready. The problem was she didn’t know what she was getting ready for. Dinner with a colleague? Or colleagues? She’d selected an upmarket burger joint in Torquay. She had no idea what Sasha was going to eat. But they probably did some kind of soya-based veggie burger.
Megan’s wardrobe is not extensive. Before leaving London, her old home and her marriage, she’d thrown most of her clothes away. She’d lost weight. Many things didn’t fit. And the colours jarred. She used to like bright, sassy outfits. But she’d realised that standing out in a crowd was not something she wanted any more. She’d chucked all her party dresses out. But dinner with a couple from the NCA was hardly a party dress occasion. In the end, she opted for low key rather than low neckline. Skinny black jeans. Garcia wasn’t going to have the monopoly on cool. And a white shirt with a black and grey geometric pattern.
As she was about to leave the house, she asked her family’s opinion.
‘Is it a date?’ said Debbie.
‘No, absolutely not!’
‘You look really fit,’ said Amber. ‘I’d fancy you.’
It’s a hassle to park. Torquay is busier than Megan expected. The season is beginning and the promenade is busy. It’s nearly dusk, the lights are twinkling on the water and a mild evening is encouraging many people to take a stroll.
Megan arrives at the restaurant, flustered, to find a queue. She knew she should’ve booked. But then she sees that Danny Ingram has already secured a booth at the back. He gives her a wave. He appears to be on his own.
As she approaches the table, he gets up.
‘No Sasha?’ says Megan.
‘Past her bedtime, don’t you think?’ he says with a grin. ‘This is an outing for the grown-ups.’
Megan sits down opposite him. He has a half-drunk Pilsner glass of lager in front of him. A smart shirt. He looks freshly showered and shaved.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ he says.
She indicates his glass. ‘A beer’s fine.’
The waiting staff are buzzing between the crowded tables but Ingram obviously has the knack. He catches the eye of a passing waitress and orders two more beers.
They face each other across the table. He smiles but it feels awkward. Megan wonders what the hell she’s doing there. She smiles back and picks up her menu.
‘I hear you’re from the Met,’ he says.
‘Yeah,’ she replies. ‘What about you?’
‘Manchester. Laura Slater mentioned you worked undercover.’
Laura Slater is a blabbermouth.
‘I just did a bit,’ says Megan. ‘No big deal.’
Ingram chuckles. ‘Okay. I see. I’m not trying to ask any awkward questions.’
They both stare at their menus in silence for several minutes. The waitress comes and they order. Megan is trying to calculate how quickly she can eat and leave without being rude.
‘I’m surprised that someone with your kind of experience and ability isn’t a DI,’ he says.
What the hell would he know about her experience?
He continues, ‘Strikes me your bosses think that too. Have you taken the exam?’
‘Nope,’ she says. ‘I’m crap at exams.’
‘Me too.’
‘So what rank were you before you joined the NCA?’
‘I was a DCI. And I know what you’re going to say. But I’m still crap at exams. I left school with three GCSEs and one of those was woodwork.’
He grins. Megan scans him. His hair is short and mousy and receding at the temples. He was probably blond as a kid. But the most arresting thing about him are the eyes. Cornflower blue. He has a habit of tilting his head when he smiles. It gives the impression of a detached but wry take on life.
‘Sasha has a double first from Oxford,’ he says. ‘I’m supposed to be teaching her the ropes. She’ll probably end up with my job before too long.’
‘She seems extremely capable.’
‘She’s certainly clever. But she’s never been in a back alley in Moss Side facing a fifteen-year-old crackhead with a shiv. As a result she tends to fixate on facts and results. She’s a bit short on empathy.’
‘I thought you and her were, I dunno, good friends?’
He laughs out loud. ‘My God!’ he says. ‘You think I’m shagging her.’
‘It’s none of my business, I’m sure.’
Megan feels self-conscious. Is he laughing at her? And the way he’s looking at her is way too direct. She doesn’t usually have a problem with eye contact. But Danny Ingram is not turning out to be what she expected.
‘Megan,’ he says, chuckling. ‘Sasha’s got her eye on you. You’re right up her street. Bit older than her; tough, cool and contained. Intriguing history.’
Intriguing history?
‘Sasha’s a lesbian?’ says Megan.
Ingram throws up his palms. ‘I’m not going to label her. I wouldn’t dare. She doesn’t “do” labels. Queer, pansexual, bisexual or something, I dunno. She thinks I’m beyond the pale. Didn’t you see the look she gave me when I assumed your boss was a man?’
‘I thought it was a private joke.’
‘Yeah. I’m the joke,’ he says with a shrug. ‘But, hey. She’s educating me as much as I am her. And that’s not a bad thing.’
Megan smiles. ‘You can tell her I’m straight.’
‘That’ll just encourage her. She’s been round half the straight women in our office, and probably a few of the men. I mean, seriously, you know what she looks like. Drop-dead gorgeous. There’s not many that say no to her.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Megan says with a smile. This is turning into a very peculiar evening.
He laughs, tilts his head. Then he says, ‘That was a smart piece of police work this morning. The jet ski thing.’
She’s relieved to get on to a safer topic.
‘Just luck really. A witness rem
embered something.’
The waitress arrives with their food. They’ve both ordered burgers. But Megan has ordered salad instead of fries.
‘Wow!’ says Ingram. ‘This looks good. I’m starving. But, hey, share my chips.’
He places the small metal tub on the table between them.
‘I’m fine.’
The blue eyes are staring right at her. ‘C’mon,’ he says. ‘You know you want to. They’re triple cooked.’
She looks straight back at him. It hits her. That fluttery feeling. No!
He’s an NCA officer, down here on a job. She’s not going to be stupid about this. Keep it professional. That’s what she tells herself.
Fourteen
Friday, 9.05 a.m.
As she drives, Megan wonders if she has a special talent: knowing you’re about to do a really stupid thing and doing it anyway. She and Danny had breakfast in bed, which is why she’s late now. His hotel room is enormous, with a bay-fronted window overlooking the sea. As she snuck out past the concierge, she prayed she wouldn’t bump into Sasha. As far as she’s aware, she made her escape unseen. She also narrowly avoided getting a parking ticket.
She feels an odd combination of confusion, embarrassment and elation. She wasn’t drunk – she only had two beers – so she can’t use that as an excuse. And it’s no exaggeration to say that Danny Ingram is nothing like her usual type.
How did it even happen? This is the conundrum she’s struggling to solve. He turned out to be amusing and self-deprecating. He asked her opinions about things and listened to the replies. He was easy to talk to. They laughed a lot. And he insisted she ate half his chips. By the time they shared a dessert – sticky toffee pudding and ice cream – she felt every nerve ending was primed. Her whole body was zinging. The last time she’d had sex was in another life. But she knew she wanted this. She was ready.
Close to the Bone: An addictive crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Megan Thomas) Page 5