‘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?