The lorry stood in almost total blackness. The light from the restaurant and shopping complex five hundred yards away died just short of it, leaving the two Thames Valley wooden tops standing watch as little more than dark shapes. As Thorne and Holland got nearer, their torches picked out the reflective bands on the officers' uniforms, and the fence of fluttering blue crime tape that had been erected around the vehicle.
Pleasantries were exchanged with the two officers, who gratefully accepted the offer to go inside and get themselves some tea. Thorne and Holland walked slowly around the outside of the truck. It was a white Mercedes cab, fitted with what looked like a twenty-five, or thirty-foot solid-sided body. Dirty, dark green. No company logo or markings of any sort.
Thorne climbed up to the passenger door, gingerly took hold of a handle.
"I think the Thames Valley boys have been over a lot of it already," Holland said.
Thorne pulled open the door. "Well, I hope they were careful. We'll need to get SOCO down here."
"They're on their way."
Thorne shone his torch around the cab's interior. There were papers scattered across the seats and in the foot wells Whoever had gone through it hadn't been too careful. It was unclear whether that was the fault of the officers who had discovered the abandoned vehicle, or those responsible for hijacking and then dumping it.
"What was it carrying?" Thorne asked, jumping down from the cab. "What was it supposed to be carrying?"
"Well, the manifest they found in the cab says DVD players. Full load, top of the range, well worth nicking."
"Well, whatever was in there, I wouldn't bet against Billy Ryan already having his hands on it. Looks like he's decided to hit the Zarifs where it's really going to hurt them. What about the driver?"
"No sign. Not so much as a Yorkie bar."
"What d'you reckon?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Holland said. "Maybe the hijackers took him."
Thorne was on his knees, shining his torch underneath the truck. Oil, dirt and nothing else. "Or maybe they just beat the shit out of him and he's gone running back to the Zarif brothers. Either way, I don't fancy his chances."
A couple of teenage lads who'd obviously seen the torch beams came wandering down from the direction of the restaurant carrying burgers and Cokes. Thorne shone his torch towards them. They shouted and put their hands up to shield their eyes.
"Go and tell them to piss off, will you, Dave?" Thorne watched Holland walk towards them, then turned back to the lorry, thinking that, for once, the old cliche about there being 'nothing to see' was absolutely spot on. The rear doors were obviously not locked, but had been pushed together. After trying and failing to open one of the huge doors with one hand, Thorne put his torch on the ground, grabbed hold with both hands and pulled.
The stench of piss hit him immediately. He bent to retrieve his torch and pointed it inside, jumping slightly as Holland stepped around from the side of the truck.
"Fuck."
"Sorry," Holland said, grinning. He added the light from his own torch to Thorne's, revealing, little by little, the interior of the empty box. "Smells lovely, doesn't it? Tramp's been in there overnight, I reckon. Kids maybe."
Thorne lifted a leg and reached up. "Give us a hand, will you?" Holland locked his fingers together, making a cradle for Thorne's foot. Thorne stepped into it and heaved himself up into the back of the lorry. The smell was even worse inside.
"Jesus."
"Maybe somebody was very pissed," Holland suggested. "Thought it was a new kind of Portaloo. Makes a change from doing it in phone boxes."
Thorne played the torch across the scarred metal floor. The light caught slick trails where the liquid had run, puddles where it had pooled.
Having seen quite enough, he turned, ready to jump down, when the Maglite caught something. There were markings high up on the side of the box, near the driver's cab. Thorne trained the beam on the spot and moved slowly towards it.
"Has anybody else been in here?" he shouted. He knew the answer already. Nobody could have missed this in daylight.
"I'm not sure," Holland said. "I think they just opened the door, saw that it was empty."
The scratches were recent, Thorne was sure of it, the marks bright against the dull, dark metal.
Holland was leaning into the truck, fixing his torch on Thorne. "What's the matter?"
It was a single word. The language was unfamiliar. Scored in broken lines deep into the side of the box with a knife. A nail maybe.
UMIT.
"It wasn't tramps or kids in here," Thorne said. "And the Zarifs aren't smuggling dodgy videos." He turned towards the open doors and the figure of Holland standing in the darkness. "They're smuggling people."
"What? Illegal immigrants?"
"It could be trafficking for prostitution, but I doubt it. I'm guessing these people were perfectly willing. Paid their life savings on the strength of some gangster's promise." Holland said something else then, but Thorne couldn't make it out. He spun around slowly on the spot, the circle of light from his torch dancing lazily across the dirty walls. Miserable, remembering. The woman on the tube, that first day. A baby and an empty cup. Arkan Zarif's words.
Bread and work.
It was well after midnight by the time Thorne turned into Ryland Road and pulled up behind a dark blue VW Golf. He felt wiped out. He was walking past the Golf towards his flat when he noticed a man asleep in the driver's seat. Thorne slowed his pace and leaned down to take a closer look. There was some light from a lamp-post twenty feet away, but not a great deal. The man in the car opened his eyes, smiled at Thorne and closed them again.
Thorne continued on towards his door, reached into a pocket for his keys. Perhaps he'd rattled Billy Ryan more than he'd realised. Hendricks had already made up the sofa-bed and was lying there reading a paperback with an arty-looking cover.
Thorne filled him in on the day's events.
As far as work on the case went, Hendricks had not been involved practically since the post-mortem on Marcus Moloney, but it was important that he remain part of the team. Besides, Thorne was certain that his particular skills would be required again before it was all over.
"There's a message on the machine for you," Hendricks shouted through to the kitchen. "Sounds interesting." Thorne wandered in with his tea, pressed the button, sat on the arm of the sofa-bed to listen. The message was from Alison Kelly. She asked if he was free the following evening and left a phone number. Hendricks put down his book. "Was that who I think it was?" Thorne turned off the living-room light and walked towards his bedroom.
"Hard to be sure," he said. He was smiling as he opened the bedroom door. "I don't know who you think it was, do I..?" A few hours later, Thorne padded back into the living room, as awake as he'd been when he'd left it. He moved slowly towards the window. As he edged past the end of the sofa-bed, he banged his foot against the metal rail.
Hendricks stirred and sat up, woken by the impact, or the swearing.
"It's four o'clock in the morning."
"Yes, I know."
Though there was no one left in the room to disturb, the darkness dictated that they spoke in whispers.
"What are you doing?" Hendricks moaned. Thorne was feeling irritable, and the throbbing pain in his foot was not helping matters. "Right now, I'm thinking that it's getting a bit bloody crowded in here." He stepped across to the window. "How long can it possibly take to get rid of a bit of damp anyway?" Hendricks said nothing.
Thorne pulled back the blind and looked out into the street. The Golf had gone.
18 May 1986
AH and I went into town today. We just hung around really. AH bought a bag and a couple of new tops and I got some LPs. Afterwards we got a burger and sat on a bench outside the library. A couple of lads were messing around and they were both staring. I started joking around with AH, asking her which one of us she thought they fancied. It's only the sort of thing I would have said to her before. (AH was always the one lads fancied, by the way!) She looked uncomfortable and threw her burger away, and I know I should have left it, but I was just trying to make her laugh. I told her that it was obviously true what they say about how good-looking girls always hang around with an ugly mate, and then she started to cry.