‘You want us to go back to the Sunday night footage now?’ says Brittney to Slater. She sounds weary.
‘Yeah, but take a break first,’ says Slater. ‘You must all be getting square-eyed.’
Brittney nods and retreats to the techies’ corner.
Slater turns to Megan. ‘And you take a break too. Go home. Get some sleep.’ She looks at Ingram. ‘It’s going to take time to crack through all the material we’ve got.’
‘Okay,’ says Ingram. ‘What do you want from me?’
Slater’s lips are pursed, she glances at Megan then back to him. ‘Make sure she gets something to eat.’
Megan smiles to herself. Even when she means well Slater can come over like a prissy headteacher.
Fifty-Five
Tuesday, 7.45 p.m.
Megan lounges full length in the sunken bath. Ingram’s hotel bathroom is huge and faced with marble. The taps are chrome and chunky. It all dates from another era. The nearest thing Megan has ever seen to it was an old-fashioned Turkish bathhouse in London.
Ingram connected his phone to the sound system, selected some mellow music and left her to it. There’s even a dimmer switch on the recessed lighting. Megan isn’t used to the luxury of hotel living or any luxury really. About ten years ago she treated her sister to a spa weekend. But apart from that she has nothing to compare it with.
On the drive from Plymouth they spoke little. They shared a wry chuckle over Slater’s awkward manner. But Ingram pointed out she was being kind and acknowledging Megan’s important contribution to the inquiry. A good manager takes care of their staff.
Megan tops up the hot water and lets the tension seep out of her. It’s not an easy task. Her brain is still nattering with questions she feels she has to answer. She’s finding it hard to adjust to being a team player. But maybe that takes time. She always feels burdened by the responsibility of getting the job done, or taking care of others. She finds it hard to remember a time when her life wasn’t like this. After her father left and her mother started to crumble, Megan stepped up to the plate. And it’s been her default setting ever since.
When she finally climbs out of the tub her whole body, from the pores of her skin to the soles of her feet, feels warm and open. Ingram is sitting at his laptop. He turns and smiles at her.
‘You look more comfortable,’ he says.
‘I can’t remember the last time I had a bath,’ she replies. ‘Well, I have a shower every day to keep clean…’
He laughs. ‘And you swim in the sea.’
She looks at him. The thought she can’t get out of her head is, Why is this man being so nice to me? What does he want? Sex? Probably. She remembers her mother saying, in one of her rare lucid phases, ‘When you meet a bloke always ask yourself this: what’s it going to cost me?’
Megan’s father cost her mother everything. Her health, her sanity, her happiness. Then years later he turned up with another family, behaving like a responsible adult instead of the selfish arsehole he was. Megan thought about it but decided not to forgive him. They haven’t spoken since.
She scans Danny Ingram. Divorced, but then so is she. Left his wife and child. Does that automatically make him an arsehole?
‘What are you thinking?’ he asks.
‘You don’t want to know,’ she replies.
‘Well, Slater told me to feed you, so I’ve ordered room service. It’s nothing fancy. But I’m reliably informed that the hotel dining room is like an episode of Fawlty Towers.’
‘Probably best to give it a miss then. Also means I don’t have to dress for dinner.’
A waiter wheels in dinner on a trolley and leaves them to it. It’s locally caught sea bass, salad and a bottle of white wine. Megan finds she’s surprisingly hungry.
After a couple of attempts at other topics they drift back to discussing the case.
‘What do you think the chances are of nicking the Lopezes?’ says Megan.
‘Slim,’ he replies.
‘Why?’
‘This is a slick operation. They’ve thought it all through. They don’t strike me as stupid people.’
‘Pretty stupid to fall out with Greg,’ says Megan.
‘If in fact they did.’
‘What if Greg was having a thing with Elena?’ she says. ‘Lovers’ tiff. She simply lost it and brained him with a hammer.’
Ingram chuckles. ‘Remind me not to fall out with you.’
‘Come on, Danny, smart people don’t always do the smart thing. Emotions become involved. Anger being the one that most often leads to murder.’
‘I liked your idea about the flats,’ he replies. ‘I gather it’s a very upmarket development so he would’ve needed investors. He could’ve taken the unwise decision to try and shaft them. But what would Penny have said about that?’
‘Penny’s the one I can’t make sense of,’ says Megan. ‘She knew her sister had a crappy marriage and she does seem to be trying to protect her. But then she does all this stuff with Greg.’
He smiles. ‘You’ve got a sister,’ he says. ‘You know what a tangled web it can be.’
They drink the wine and once the bottle is empty, they make love in its afterglow. Megan is extremely tired and, sinking into the opulence of the king-sized bed, she’s soon asleep.
It’s still dark when she wakes abruptly. Ingram has switched on the torch on his phone so he can see to get dressed.
‘I was hoping not to disturb you,’ he says.
She peers at him. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Garcia called me. Some kind of incident in the Channel last night. I don’t know the details. But a fishing trawler pulled two half drowned illegal migrants out of the water. They’re bringing them into Berrycombe.’
Megan throws back the covers. ‘Wait for me. I’m coming too.’
Fifty-Six
Wednesday, 5.50 a.m.
Megan and Ingram are on the quayside in Berrycombe when the trawler comes in. Dawn is leaching into the eastern sky. Vish is directing the paramedics, who’ve just arrived in an ambulance. Garcia is talking to the coastguard beside their Mitsubishi Land Cruiser.
Even though it’s early, the port is bustling. It’s the busiest part of the day. Refrigerated lorries are arriving and manoeuvring to load up. Boats small and large are landing their catch and white-coated owners, agents and fish merchants are milling around waiting for the fish market auction to start at six a.m.
The police presence attracts a few curious glances but no more than that.
As the trawler edges alongside the dock to tie up, Megan sees the two forlorn figures crouched on the deck, wrapped in yellow oilskins. Two males. They both look young and scared. Vish jumps aboard and starts to talk to the skipper. The gangplank is slotted into place by the trawler crew. Vish beckons the paramedics who follow him on board.
Megan and Ingram watch and wait while they all do their jobs. Garcia joins them.
‘Coastguard were contacted by Border Force,’ she says. “I’m trying to get a patch through to the captain of HMC Fleetwood, the coastal patrol vessel in the Channel last night. At the moment we’ve only got a rough idea of what might have happened.’
‘Were they in a dinghy?’ says Ingram.
‘No,’ says Garcia. ‘The trawler crew pulled them out of the water. All they had were life jackets. They were lucky. It was a relatively calm sea. The story seems to be Fleetwood had two unidentified boats come up on its radar. It tried to contact them and get them to heave to.’
‘Heave to?’ says Megan.
‘I’ve got an uncle who sails,’ says Garcia. ‘Basically in boat terms Fleetwood tried to pull them over. But they were quite a distance away and they made a run for it. Back towards the French coast.’
‘And we think these two came from those boats?’ says Ingram.
‘Yeah,’ says Garcia. ‘Unless they were trying to swim the Channel.’
The paramedics have replaced the oilskins with silver space blankets. They are helping th
eir charges ashore.
‘Let’s go and talk to them,’ says Ingram.
As Megan, Ingram and Garcia approach, the young men turn to face them. Their heads are bowed, their eyes full of fear.
‘Are they all right to talk to us?’ Ingram asks one of the paramedics.
‘Bit hypothermic,’ she replies. ‘But they seem fine.’
One of the young men steps forward. He’s a teenager; wispy traces of beard, wild, dark eyes.
‘Are you police?’ he says. There’s a tremor in his voice but his English is good. ‘We are Kurds. From Syria. We wish for asylum.’
‘What’s your name?’ says Ingram.
‘I am Adnan Ghazi, sir.’ The boy dips his head in deference. ‘My cousin is Omar Ghazi.’
‘How old are you, Adnan?’ says Ingram.
‘I am seventeen, sir. Omar is sixteen.’
‘Well, Adnan, we have a process for asylum claims and you will be able to apply for that. But we are the police and we need you to tell us what happened last night on your journey here.’
Adnan shoots a nervous glance at his cousin. The other boy stares down at his feet. He has one sock on, his other foot is bare. They both seem reluctant to speak. Megan wonders at the desperation that has forced them to make such a trip. They’re in shock. Who wouldn’t be? And hardly more than children.
‘Whatever you tell us about how you came here will not affect your asylum claim,’ she says. ‘We just want to know how you ended up in the water.’
The boys exchange looks again. The younger, Omar, seems close to tears. He meets Megan’s gaze nervously. She smiles and says, ‘Do you speak English too, Omar?’
The boy nods. ‘My father say we must learn. We must come here. He pay extra to keep us safe.’
‘But it all went wrong, didn’t it? Tell us what happened.’
Omar’s lip trembles.
‘It’ll be okay,’ says Megan.
‘They have gun,’ he blurts it out. ‘They shout. And shout. Everyone panic. One woman they shoot, push over side. Shout more. So then we all jump. People so frightened, they jump. We swim.’
‘How many boats?’ says Ingram.
‘Two,’ says Adnan.
‘And how many people in each boat?’
‘Maybe ten adults. In our boat four, five children.’
Megan feels a lump in her throat. Two survivors from more than twenty people forced into the sea? The horror of the whole thing is hard to imagine but it’s beginning to dawn on her.
‘And they threw everyone over the side?’ she says. Like pirates.
Adnan nods, wipes his nose with the back of his fist.
‘Do you know why they did this?’ says Ingram. His tone is tight and professional. He’s holding it together. But Megan can feel the anger fizzing off him.
‘They see the patrol boat,’ says the boy. ‘They don’t want to be caught.’
Ingram turns to Garcia.
‘Show him the picture.’
Garcia pulls out her phone, clicks through to Javier Lopez’s mugshot. She holds it out.
‘You know this man?’
Adnan nods. He dips his head to hide his tears.
Fifty-Seven
Wednesday, 7.15 a.m.
Megan drives back to Plymouth with Vish. She remains in a daze. Two murders have suddenly escalated to possibly two dozen. The casual brutality of it is something she’s finding hard to get her head around.
She watches Vish; he grips the steering wheel, his jaw rippling with tension. Anger is something they’re all feeling. But for Danny Ingram it was also an explosion of guilt.
Just before they parted company in Berrycombe he turned to her and said, ‘I should’ve stopped these people, Megan. That’s my job. It’s why I’m here. But I took my eye off the fucking ball because I was having too good a time with you.’
She watched him and Garcia walk away. She wanted to argue with his conclusion but he gave her no opportunity.
As they pull into a parking space outside the MCT office, they see Slater locking her car. She waits for them by the main door. There’s no preamble.
‘You spoke to these two boys?’
‘Yes,’ says Megan. ‘They’ve been taken to A & E to be checked over by a doctor but the NCA’s bringing in a special interviewer to debrief them properly.’
‘Any idea how many bodies we should be looking for?’
‘Could be over twenty, boss. Including some children.’
‘For Chrissake!’ says Slater. ‘What is wrong with these people? They just tossed them all overboard?’
‘They got spotted by HMC Fleetwood, decided to dump their cargo and make a run for it. That’s the theory.’
‘Did Fleetwood pick up any survivors?’
‘NCA did have a conversation with the captain over the radio,’ says Vish. ‘They weren’t aware of what happened. They were too far off.’
Slater sighs. ‘And this was Lopez?’
‘One of the boys ID’d him,’ says Megan.
Slater heads into the building. ‘Superintendent Barker will be here at nine,’ she says briskly over her shoulder. ‘He’s already initiated a search and rescue operation liaising with the coastguard.’
Megan and Vish follow Slater up the stairs.
‘I want every trace we can find of these people,’ she adds. ‘Every scrap of evidence against them.’
In the incident room, there are discarded coffee cups and pizza boxes, the evidence of an all-nighter. But Brittney and Kitty are the only ones left in the techie corner. Most of the other desks are empty. Across the room by the window Jim Collins is sitting in one of two battered armchairs, drinking coffee and reading the Daily Mail. He ignores Megan and Vish when they walk in.
Vish wanders over to join Brittney and Kitty.
Megan heads for the coffee station. Yet she finds herself eavesdropping on their conversation.
‘How was it?’ Brittney asks Vish.
‘To tell you the truth,’ he says wearily, ‘it was fucked.’
He towers over Brittney by more than six inches. But he leans forward and lays his head on her shoulder. She strokes his hair to comfort him.
Kitty rummages under her desk and comes up with a cardboard box. ‘We saved you a doughnut,’ she says. ‘It’s the one with peanut butter filling.’
He raises his head and smiles. ‘Awesome.’
He takes the doughnut from the box and demolishes it in three bites.
Megan sips her coffee and watches. She’s reluctant to gatecrash their circle. She knows she doesn’t belong. She glances across the room at Collins. His face is completely concealed by the newspaper. His hand reaches out to lift his coffee mug. She wonders why he’s even there. He doesn’t appear to be doing anything.
Megan thinks about the two Kurdish boys; an example of the advantages of being young and strong and lucky. They may find other survivors but she doubts it.
It’s about to become a day of bodies and media and mayhem.
The door opens and Slater strides into the room. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Let’s have a review of what we’ve got.’
Brittney hands Vish a tissue to wipe cream from his mouth. Collins folds his paper and regards the room with a jaundiced eye.
Brittney steps forward and says, ‘We’ve got a timeline for Sunday evening, boss.’
‘Okay, let’s hear it,’ says Slater.
‘Barry Porter left the Seamew at 7.34 p.m. Nothing happened for three quarters of an hour, then at 8.14 p.m. the Lopezes turned up. Javier and his two sons. The sons took the Seamew. That left its moorings first. We got some additional footage from the outer harbour. The Seamew and the Seahawk passed the outer wall at 8.31 p.m. and 8.34 p.m. respectively.’
‘No sign of Elena?’ says Slater.
‘She didn’t come down to the marina,’ says Kitty. ‘But we figured if they arrived at 8.14 she may have dropped them off.’
‘Surely there was an information marker on their vehicle to track it on ANPR,�
� says Slater. ‘Didn’t it ping in the control room?’
‘Well, yes,’ says Brittney. ‘It was logged but they were short-handed so there was no follow-up.’
Slater huffs. ‘You mean we could’ve stopped these people?’
Megan watches Slater’s face. A window of opportunity. Missed. The realisation they could’ve stopped this is searing.
‘As soon as we realised she dropped them off at 8.14, we went to the ANPR and tracked it back,’ says Kitty. ‘We took it back through Torquay and up towards Dartmoor, a similar route to the one they took before. Which suggests they came from the same place.’
‘And that’s the problem,’ says Brittney. ‘The timelines do and don’t fit.’
Slater sighs. Megan can feel her confusion and annoyance. ‘You need to explain that,’ she says.
‘The Lopezes took the boats on Sunday night, that’s clear,’ she says. ‘Ample time to cross the Channel, make a fresh pick-up and return last night. That’s the bit that does work.’
‘Is the bit that doesn’t work them kidnapping and killing Barry Porter?’ says Megan.
‘Yeah,’ says Brittney. ‘They didn’t have time. Barry left. We don’t know where his car was parked and we don’t know where he went.’
‘You couldn’t track it back from where it ended up with him dead in the back?’ says Slater.
‘We might eventually. But it ended up completely off the grid,’ says Kitty. ‘So we’ve got a gap. Tracking back how it got on the moors is guesswork.’
‘Okay,’ says Slater. ‘Carry on.’
‘The thing we do know,’ says Brittney, ‘is where the Lopezes were. At 7.30 they were clocked on the A38. And they just continued towards Torquay.’
‘So someone else got hold of Barry Porter?’ says Slater.
‘Elena was still around after she dropped them off,’ says Megan. ‘Where did she go?’
‘He was a big bloke,’ says Vish. ‘It’s hard to imagine her doing it on her own.’
Close to the Bone: An addictive crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Megan Thomas) Page 24