Later, she thought. I’ll deal with it later.
“So,” she began, when they had settled themselves at a quiet corner table with their drinks, “this 7.62 round.”
Goss nodded. “That’s why I’m up here. It looks like a military-spec rifle was involved. An AK or an SLR.”
“Have you ever come across a weapon like that used in an organised crime context?”
“Not in this country. Far too bulky. Your average UK gangster tends to go the handgun route-preferably tooling up with a status weapon like a nine-millimetre Beretta or a Glock. Professional hitmen prefer easy-carry revolvers like snub-nosed.38s, because they don’t spray used cartridge cases around the place for forensics to pick up.”
Liz stirred her coffee. “So what’s your take on the whole thing? Unofficially?”
He shrugged. “My first thought, given that Gunter was a fisherman, was that he was involved in drugs- or people-smuggling and had a falling-out with someone. My second, which I’m still inclined towards, was that he stumbled into someone else’s operation-some heavy-duty Eastern European mob’s, perhaps-and had to be silenced.”
“If that was the case, though, why do it ten miles inland at Fakenham, in a busy place like a transport café?”
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” He looked at her assessingly. “Does your presence here mean that your people think there’s a terrorist connection?”
“We don’t know anything your people don’t,” said Liz.
Technically, given that she had reported Zander’s call to Bob Morrison, this was true. Goss glanced over at her, but any suspicions that he might have been about to voice were silenced by the arrival of the toasted sandwiches.
“Has the murder caused a big stir?” she asked, when the barmaid had withdrawn.
“Yeah. Major chaos when the body was found. We had to clear the place, get all the HGV drivers out and behind the tape barriers. You can imagine how well that went down.”
“Who actually found Gunter?”
“A driver called Dennis Atkins. He drove down from Glasgow last night and parked up at the Fairmile about midnight. He was due to make an eight thirty delivery of precision lathes to an industrial park outside Norwich. The café had just opened and he was going for a pre-breakfast wash.”
“And all that checks out?”
Goss nodded. “It looks kosher enough. Atkins was pretty upset. And the CID have spoken to people both ends and confirmed that he is who he says he is.”
“Much press interest?”
“The locals were there within the hour, and the nationals weren’t long after.”
“What did the DS tell them?”
Goss shrugged. “Man discovered dead as a result of a shooting. Statement as soon as we know more.”
“Have they named Gunter?”
“They have now. They spent several hours trying to locate his only relative, a sister who lives in King’s Lynn. Apparently she went out to work last night and has only just got home.”
“What’s the sister do?”
“Kayleigh? Not a lot. Takes her clothes off a couple of nights a week at a membership club called PJs.”
“And that’s what she was doing last night?”
“Yeah.”
“And the dead man-do we know what he was doing last night? Apart from being shot?”
“Not yet.”
“And none of the vehicles in the car park were his?”
“No-the police have identified all of them as driven there by other people.”
“So we’ve got him ten miles from home in a transport café without any transport.”
“That’s about the shape and size of it, yes.”
“Was Gunter known to the CID? Did he have any form?”
“Not really. He was involved in an affray after a pub lock-in in Dersthorpe a couple of years back, and there was talk of him having set light to a vehicle there at some point too, but no charges were brought. The car belonged to a small-time local drug-dealer.”
“Was Gunter a dealer himself? Or a user?”
“Put it this way: if he was, it wasn’t on a big enough scale to come to our attention.”
“But a bit of a local bad boy?”
Goss shrugged. “According to the CID, not even that. Just a bit mouthy and free with his fists when he’d been drinking.”
“I take it he was single,” said Liz drily.
“Yes,” said Goss, “but not gay, which was one of the first things that occurred to me when he was discovered in the toilets at the Fairmile.”
“Is it a gay pick-up place, then, the café?”
“It’s every kind of pick-up place. They get very frisky, these long-distance HGV boyos.”
“Could Gunter have been there to pick up a woman?” Liz asked.
“He could have been, and there were certainly a few toms who worked the place, but that still leaves the question: how did he get there without a car? Who brought him? If we can answer that one I suspect we might get somewhere.”
Liz nodded. “So what do we know about the shooting?”
“Not a lot, frankly. No one heard anything, no one saw anything. Unless we get a forensic break I’d say our best hope is the CCTV.”
“Were the cameras definitely running last night?”
“The owner of the café says they were. It’s a new system, apparently. There was a spate of thefts from rigs last year and the drivers threatened to boycott the place if he didn’t install some decent security.”
“Fingers crossed, then.”
“Fingers crossed,” agreed Goss.
They talked on, but soon found themselves retreading old ground. Liz remained studiedly neutral in these exchanges. The Special Branch were police, and information had been known to leak from police stations to journalists-usually in return for cash. Goss seemed like the better sort of Special Branch officer, just as Bob Morrison was without doubt the worse sort, but Liz was relieved when the local detective superintendent rang to say that the CCTV footage was back from Norwich.
“It’s pretty rough, apparently,” said Goss, returning his phone to his belt. “It’s going to have to be enhanced if we’re to get any useful information off it.”
Liz looked down at the remains of her lunch. Half of the sandwiches were uneaten, languishing alongside an untouched mound of Branston’s pickle. And she’d been right about the coffee. “I’ll go up and pay,” she said. “This one’s on Thames House.”
“That’s very generous of them,” said Goss drily.
“You know us. Sweetness and light.”
As Liz got to her feet, a phone began to ring behind the bar. The barmaid picked up the receiver, and a few seconds later her mouth opened in a speechless gasp. She’s just heard about the murder, Liz guessed. No, she already knew about the murder but has just found out that the victim was Gunter. She must have known him. But then everyone in a place this size would know each other.
Liz was beaten to the bar by a young man in a leather jacket and a lilac tie. Journalist, thought Liz. Almost certainly tabloid. That particular blend of the metropolitan and the downmarket was unmistakable.
“Another pint, love,” he demanded, placing a glass and a ten-pound note on the bar. The barmaid nodded vaguely and turned away. A minute later, still visibly dazed, she delivered the drink and rang up the price on the till. As she handed over the change, Liz saw the man’s eyes briefly widen.
“Excuse me,” said Liz, addressing the barmaid. “I think you’ve made a mistake. He gave you a ten-pound note. You’ve given him change for a twenty.”
The barmaid froze, the till still open in front of her. She was a heavy girl of about eighteen, with flustered gypsyish eyes.