Hopping from foot to foot, Ryan watched as the clerk checked and rechecked his list with an exaggerated caution that suggested a task considerably more complex than the daily Cockpit Yard refuse-collection rota. Every day they went through this same mini-pantomime before Ryan was allocated his truck for the day. Downstairs, his crew would be getting annoyed by the delay. The sooner they started, the sooner they finished. Working on a ‘task-to-finish’ basis was one of the perks of the job, along with a?4,000 annual ‘productivity bonus’ for undertaking the weekly recycling collection.
Ryan’s five-man unit — a driver and four loaders — was one of twenty crews working out of this Camden depot. Their route took them from Covent Garden in the west, to the edge of the City of London, emptying the oversized green bags full of old newspapers, glass and plastic bottles that households had left out for them. In the three months since he’d been promoted to driving the truck, Ryan had managed to get their daily run down to just under five hours. That meant that, with a bit of luck, he could be home in time to catch a CSI rerun on Sky before taking his afternoon kip. They were showing series six at the moment, which suited Ryan fine. He only watched up to series nine; after that, it wasn’t worth watching. In his opinion, the whole thing had taken a nosedive once William Petersen had left.
Ryan believed in time management, especially when it came to getting his truck out of the depot. A good start was essential; they had to get in and out of the West End while most people were still in their beds, otherwise they would get snarled up in the morning rush-hour.
‘Come on, Dan, we’re ready to go.’
‘Patience, patience.’ Danimir didn’t look up as he scratched the tip of his nose with the end of his blue biro.
Bloody bureaucrat! Ryan glanced at the row of keys lined up on the desk. Each was attached to a key-ring. Each key-ring had a number. ‘Give me number six.’
‘Six needs to go to the garage.’ Danimir tapped his left index finger on the top of the desk for a moment, weighing up all the options before coming to a decision. He picked up a key and tossed it to Ryan. ‘Take number four. It was fixed last week.’
‘Great.’ Ryan caught the key with a sigh. Once a truck went into the garage, it was pretty much guaranteed never to run properly again. He thought about making a grab for one of the other keys. ‘What about. .?’
‘What about you get outta here?’ Danimir waved him away with an angry frown. ‘Take four, like I tell you.’ He fixed the young Englishman with a hard stare. ‘Why are you never happy with what you get? Now, leave me to sort out the rest.’
None of the other crews have managed to turn up yet, thought Ryan, frustrated by his boss’s pedantry, so what does it matter which one I take? But the clock on the wall told him that it was almost 6 a.m. He had to get going right now or the whole day would be buggered.
Danimir gave him a searching look. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Ryan agreed, turning and reaching for the door handle.
‘And don’t miss out Doughty Street this time,’ Danimir called after him. ‘I don’t want that bloody woman at number twenty-nine ringing me up again. Pain in the arse says she’s going to write to the bloody Mayor.’ Danimir shook his head at the injustice of it all.
‘A lot of good that will do her,’ Ryan laughed.
‘Bloody woman! Just make sure you empty her bag properly, put it back where she left it, and don’t leave a mess.’
‘Sure thing, boss.’ Ryan grinned. He would make sure to tell the lads to leave number 29’s recycling untouched for another week.
Halfway down the outer stairs, Ryan pointed towards the hulking Dennis Elite 2 parked at the end of a row of trucks on the far side of the yard. ‘We’ve got number four,’ he shouted to one of his loaders, Steve McKitten, a Camden veteran with more than twenty years on the bins. Giving his driver a thumbs-up, McKitten jogged over to the truck indicated.
Ryan nodded to two of the other loaders — a Hungarian and a Welshman — and headed for the driver’s cab. Grabbing the door handle, he was just about to pull himself up when McKitten popped his head round the side of the vehicle. ‘Ryan!’ he yelled. ‘You’d better come and see this.’
I knew it! Ryan thought angrily. That Serbian twat’s given us a knackered truck. Jumping back down on to the tarmac, he jogged round to the rear.
‘Look.’ Steve pointed at the pair of legs sticking out from under a pile of soggy cardboard boxes in the loading hopper.
‘Holy shit.’ Ryan realized immediately that there would be no early start for them today. He wouldn’t be getting home in time to catch a CSI rerun, even if it was one of the proper ones with William Petersen in it. He scratched his head, wondering what to do. ‘Stay here,’ he eventually told McKitten. ‘Don’t touch anything. I’ll go and tell Dan.’
‘She’s never done anything like this before.’ Alison Gillespie stared at Joe Szyszkowski as if daring him to contradict her.
‘No.’ The sergeant glanced at WPC Hall, who was sitting next to Mrs Gillespie on the sofa. At this time of the morning, the sergeant decided, she didn’t look quite so cute. With nothing else to do, he stared at his notes.
Hannah Gillespie. Fourteen. Five foot two. Eight stone or thereabouts. One sister, safely tucked up in bed. Attends St Marylebone C of E, a good school. Good student. No obvious problems. No boyfriend (according to her parents). Went out to see a friend but never turned up. Not answering her mobile. A list of other friends who she hadn’t gone to see either.
Joe sighed. His handwriting really was terrible.
So, what about young Hannah? It was probably something and nothing. On his way over, he had checked whether the kid had turned up at a local A amp;E or police station. Nothing. She was probably just partying somewhere with a boyfriend that her parents didn’t know about.
The parents seemed a fairly nondescript pair. Their anxiety was real enough, however.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Roger Gillespie asked for the third time in the last ten minutes.
Joe held up a hand. ‘I’m fine, sir, thanks all the same.’ Flipping his notebook closed, he replaced it in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘And thank you for your time. We have all the details and we will now see what we can do. I’ll be in touch as soon as possible. Of course, if Hannah does turn up, let us know straight away.’ A familiar look of dismay passed across the faces of both parents, and he offered them what he hoped might pass for a comforting smile. ‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,’ he added gently. ‘We see this kind of thing all the time. Maybe Hannah’s staying with a different friend and her mobile’s simply died.’
‘But. .’ Roger Gillespie wanted to protest, but he didn’t quite know how.
Joe beckoned to Hall. As the WPC jumped to her feet, he handed the father a business card with his mobile number on it. ‘Let us know immediately if — when — Hannah comes home,’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’ Gillespie stared intently at the card as if in search of something — hope, maybe.
‘Good.’ Stifling a yawn, the sergeant stepped towards the door. ‘Otherwise, I will give you a call later in the day for a catch-up.’ Ducking into the hall, he quickly opened the front door and disappeared down the communal stairs before they could think of anything else to ask him.
TWELVE
Sitting in the back booth of Il Buffone, Carlyle yawned expressively. The tiny 1950s-style Italian cafe was located on the north side of Macklin Street, in the north-east corner of Covent Garden, just across the road from his own small apartment in Winter Garden House. Daughter Alice had left for school and he was enjoying the rare opportunity for breakfast with his wife.