Thorne leaned towards the recorder. 'Mr. Rooker slams his hand on the table. For emphasis.' He flashed Rooker an exaggerated smile. 'I'm saying that just in case anybody thinks that was the noise of me hitting you with a chair or something.' Rooker grunted.
'So, what happened when you turned Ryan down?'
'He wasn't happy.'
'What did he say?'
'He said that he'd find somebody else to do the job. I remember him saying exactly that when I got out of his car just before he drove away: 'There's always somebody else.' And Thorne could picture Ryan saying it. He could picture Ryan's face as he said it, and he felt something tighten in his stomach, because Ryan would have known that it was true. Bitter experience had taught Thorne that it was one of the few things that you could rely on. There's always somebody else willing to do what another won't. Something darker and more depraved. Something inexplicable. Unimaginable.
Thorne announced, for the tape, that he was formally suspending the interview.
Then he punched the red button.
'We'll carry on after lunch,' he said. Thorne was just shy of Newbury when he turned off the M4 and pulled slowly into the car park at Chieveley Services. A car flashed its lights as he approached and Thorne parked the BMW next to it. Holland got out of a car-pool Rover, leaned against it and waited for Thorne to join him.
Thorne had received the call just after seven on the M3 as he was heading home from Salisbury. He'd turned off at the next services to pick up a sandwich and consult the road atlas. The traffic had been heavy on the A road that had taken him across to the M4, and even worse for the journey back west.
Holland offered Thorne a bulky torch. Thorne took one look at it and plumped instead for the Maglite he kept in his boot, taking his gloves out at the same time. Torches sweeping the ground ahead of them, they began to walk towards the farthest corner of the car park.
'How did we get hold of this so quickly?' Thorne asked.
'Swift and harmonious cooperation between ourselves and the lovely lads from Thames Valley.' Holland smiled at the incredulous look on Thorne's face. 'I know, hard to believe. They found the lorry this morning, ran the number plate and at the end of a very long paper-trail half a dozen different companies whose name should pop up? A flag on their computer system alerts the Thames Valley lot, tells them it's a name we're very interested in, and Bob's your uncle.'
'What, they just called us?'
'Amazing, isn't it, forces working so well together? Someone should get hold of Mulder and Scully.'
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
