and up the 200-foot chimney. The surgeon pointed up and Shaw craned his neck; the ceiling was glass too, giving them a view up through the mesh floors of the furnace.
‘What?’ Shaw’s voice buzzed with frustration. ‘He had someone on him?’
‘Yeah. But he went for a pee. They told him chummy was out sparko — couldn’t lift a finger. When he got back he’d gone, plus the dusty suit. Last seen legging it over the car park.’
‘Get a description out through Paul — let’s find him before he goes to ground.’ A tiny detail, but Shaw hadn’t missed it. Valentine could have given him the name of the DC who had bungled the job, but he’d kept it to himself. There’d be a quiet word later, a warning, nothing bureaucratic, no paperwork, just a note added to the Valentine memory banks.
‘I’ll be at the briefing,’ said Valentine, cutting the line before Shaw had a chance to check on his progress with ex-DS Wilf Jackson out on the coast.
There were two engineers in the room monitoring a bank of dials and LED displays. But Peploe affably took charge. He tore off a foot of printout. ‘So, you want to know how the drugs fit in…’
He tapped the printout. ‘When a consignment’s due we put aside an hour in the schedule. That’s what they pay for — and they pay by the minute. The drugs arrive with a certificate from the Home Office lab which lists the contents of the batch. The drugs are in sealed metal containers — old fashioned, but effective and simple. The seals are wax. They’re signed over to us downstairs.
He tapped the printout again. ‘This shows the chemical composition of what’s going out of the top of the chimney… This is state-of-the-art technology. Every drug has a chemical signature. As it burns we can match it up with the printout. These are very sensitive machines. If any of these emissions breach EU guidelines, for example, the furnace shuts down. It’s that strict, there’s no margin for error. Half a mile away the cars on the ring road are churning out carbon monoxide like there’s no tomorrow — a self-fulfilling prophecy if ever there was one. But here — a few milligrams of toxic gas slips through the filters and we’re out of business.’
‘And it is a business,’ said Shaw.
‘Of course. Every penny we make goes back into the NHS. But this kit costs millions, so, like any business, we have to sweat the assets. We run it twenty-four hours a day. Shutting down’s too expensive, so we need to make sure we can generate income full-time. We have several contracts — vets, private hospitals, doctors’ surgeries, pet cremation — and then the whole range of law-enforcement seizures — police, customs and excise, British transport police, the lot. And not just West Norfolk, of course, but several other forces without access to this kind of facility. But it doesn’t matter how busy we are, Inspector — what goes up in smoke is what goes on the belt. Believe me. You can watch it yourself…’
‘The gases come in about thirty feet above our heads,’ said Peploe. ‘What’s left behind is lifeless ash.’ They could see the pipes, the gases churning out, colourless but distorting, like a fairground mirror.
‘You mentioned the head of security,’ said Shaw. ‘Name?’
‘Nat Haines.’ Shaw knew him — a retired DI from Norwich he’d once worked with on a migrant workers case — an illegal gangmaster running a prostitution business from a chicken farm.
‘When was the next consignment due?’ asked Shaw.
‘Tomorrow — five p.m. That’s not Norfolk, actually — it’s Cambridgeshire. There’s a manifest.’
‘How much notice do you normally get?’
‘Ten days,’ said Peploe. ‘Usually longer. This isn’t a cheap form of disposal, but bulk cuts the price. So most forces stockpile seizures for a month, maybe six weeks, then we burn a job lot.’
‘Would Judd have known the consignment was coming?’
Peploe nodded. ‘Yes. Bryan Judd’s job is to coordinate the waste disposal, so he’d be told in order that he could make sure there was a gap, and also ensure that anything that needed to go up went up before the security van arrived. So, if there was something radioactive from
A seagull crossed the circle of sky above. ‘Bryan Judd was a registered drug addict — was that sensible?’ asked Shaw. He’d disguised the question by keeping his voice light. Peploe climbed back out through the door and Shaw wondered if he was buying himself time.
‘I’m sorry — your question again?’ asked Peploe.
Shaw repeated it, though he was certain he didn’t need to.
‘Well, at the time, it seemed to be sensible. The trust has responsibilities as an employer,’ said Peploe. His pager buzzed and he read the message.
‘You need to go?’ asked Shaw.
‘No. No — it’s fine. I need to get up to the theatre. But this is important.’ He gathered his thoughts, looking down at his shoes. ‘We give opportunities to those with criminal records. Judd was one of those. Given the fact that drug disposal is so closely monitored, none of us saw any potential danger in letting him work the conveyor. It’s not a pleasant job down there. He did it well.’
‘I’ve got a note of the annotation on the metal tag on the bag we found with the victim. Can you trace it back for us? Our forensic lab is testing the waste itself, but we’re pretty sure it’s a human organ. But this would help.’
He showed him the note marked
‘That can’t be right,’ said Peploe, putting both hands in the neat white pockets of his house coat.
‘Why?’
‘But there
Peploe nodded. ‘Well. Then we’ve got ourselves a problem, Inspector. A very serious problem.’
17
Shaw took the ten-thirty briefing in the murder incident room at Junction 24. It was as much for him as for the team, a chance to lay some of the jigsaw pieces out flat, to step back, and see if they saw the same picture he did. The mood was electric, because they all knew these were the crucial few hours — the first day that could make or break the whole investigation. Voices buzzed with adrenaline and a wave of laughter ran through the team like mains electricity.
The clock flipped its digital numbers to 10.30. There was still no sign of Valentine but Shaw binned a paper cup of Costa Coffee espresso and stood. Behind him was a perspex display board, bare but for an enlarged print of Bryan Judd’s face: their victim. Dark Celtic features, heavy swollen flesh, the curly hair unkempt, the skin blotched.
‘OK — listen up, please.’ The room was silent anyway. They all knew Shaw’s reputation, a high-flier, going places. None of them would object to catching hold of his coat-tails. Getting on to the squad was the first step. Now they had to perform. Get noticed. Stand out from the crowd — without showboating, because they all knew that was fatal.
Shaw tried hard to ignore the rows of disembodied arms, legs and hands lining the wall at the back of the room — and the sets of eyes, each in their own pigeon
‘We have a scenario, and it works. That doesn’t mean it’s the right scenario. And it is most certainly not the
‘Our victim…’ He slapped his hand on the portrait. ‘Character: the silent type, morose even, nervous too, but a dry sense of humour — like he was secretly laughing at the world. According to his colleagues — and the youngster who spotted his body inside the furnace — music was his life: New Country, Johnny Cash. He’d wear an iPod, even though it was against the rules, and he’d sing with it. Wife made him lunch, so he didn’t go to the canteen, but he’d go down to the staff bar once a week with the rest of them for a beer. Recently, according to the foreman, he stopped that too.’
‘According to his younger brother he’s a drug addict, a user. And not any old stuff — Green Dragon, skunk dunked in pure alcohol. He gets his stuff from this man…’ He put a mug-shot of Aidan Holme up on the board,
