“You want to come in?”
“I should go.”
“I could cook.”
He looks at me.
“Or we could get takeaway.”
“Got any alcohol?”
“There’s an off-licence on the corner.”
I can hear him whistling his way up the street as I open the front door and check my answering machine. All the messages are for Hari. His girlfriends. I should double his rent to pay the phone bill.
The doorbell rings. It should be Ruiz—only it’s not. A younger man has come to the door, dressed in a pepper-gray suit. Clean-shaven with broad shoulders and Nordic features, his rectangular glasses seem too small for his face. Behind him are two more men, who are standing beside cars that are double-parked and blocking the street. They look official, but not like police officers.
“DC Barba, we need you to accompany us.” He makes a clicking sound with his tongue that might be a signal or a sign of nerves.
“Why? Who are you?”
He produces a badge. SOCA. The Serious Organized Crime Agency. The organization is less than a year old and the media have labeled it Britain’s answer to the FBI, with its own Act of Parliament, budget and extraordinary powers. What do they want with me?
“I’m a police officer,” I stammer.
“I know who you are.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Important people wish to speak to you.”
I look for Ruiz. He’s hurrying down the pavement with a half bottle of Scotch tucked in his coat pocket. One of the men beside the cars tries to step in front of him. The DI feints left and drops his shoulder, propelling him over a low brick wall into a muddy puddle. This could get ugly.
“It’s all right, sir.”
“Who are they?”
“SOCA.”
The look on his face says it all. Fear and loathing.
“You might want to pack a few things for the journey,” says the senior officer. He and Ruiz are sizing each other up like roosters in a henhouse.
I pack a sports bag with a pair of jeans, knickers and a lightweight sweater. My gun is wrapped in a cloth on top of a kitchen cabinet. I contemplate whether I should take it with me, but dismiss the idea as being too hostile. I have no idea what these people want, but I can’t risk antagonizing them.
Ruiz follows me to the car. A hand is placed on the back of my head as I slide into the rear seat. The brake is released suddenly and I’m thrown back against the new-smelling leather.
“I hope we haven’t spoiled your plans for the evening, DC Barba,” says the gray-suited man.
“You know my name, can I have yours?”
“Robert Forbes.”
“You work for SOCA?”
“I work for the government.”
“Which
“The part people don’t often talk about.” He makes the clicking sound again.
The car has reached the end of Hanbury Street. Beneath a streetlight, a solitary spectator, clad in black leather, leans against a motorcycle. A helmet dangles from his right hand. A fag end burns in his fist. It’s Donavon.
Traffic meanders at an agonizingly slow pace, shuffling and pausing. I can only see the back of the driver’s head. He has a soldier’s haircut and wraparound sunglasses like Bono, who also looks ridiculous wearing sunglasses at night.
I’m trying to remember what I’ve read about SOCA. It’s an amalgam of the old National Crime Squad and National Criminal Intelligence Service, along with elements of Customs and Excise and the Immigration Service. Five thousand officers were specially chosen with the aim of targeting criminal gangs, drug smugglers and people traffickers. The boss of the new agency is a former head of MI5.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To a crime scene,” says Forbes.
“What crime? There must be some mistake.”
“You are Alisha Kaur Barba. You are twenty-nine years of age. You work for the London Metropolitan Police, most recently for the Diplomatic Protection Group. You have four brothers. Your father is a retired train driver. Your mother takes in sewing. You went to Falcon Street Primary School and to Oaklands Secondary. You graduated from London University with a degree in sociology and topped your class at Hendon Police Training College. You are an expert markswoman and former champion athlete. A year ago you were injured trying to apprehend a suspect who almost snapped your spine. You accepted a bravery medal but refused a disability pension. You seem to have recovered quite well.”
“I set off metal detectors at airports.”
I don’t know if his knowledge is supposed to impress or intimidate me. Nothing else is said. Forbes is not going to answer my questions until he’s ready. Silence is part of the softening-up process. Ruiz taught me that.
We take the A12 through Brentwood and out of London. I don’t like the countryside at night. Even in moonlight it looks bruised and sullen like a week-old fall down the stairs.
Forbes takes several phone calls, answering yes or no but offering nothing more apart from the clicking sound in his throat. He is married. The gold band on his wedding finger is thick and heavy. Someone at home irons his shirts and polishes his shoes. He is right-handed. He’s not carrying a gun. He knows so much about me that I want to even the scales.
We continue through Chelmsford in Essex before bypassing Colchester and turning east toward Harwich along the A120. Convoys of prime movers and semitrailers begin to build up ahead of us. I can smell the salt in the air.
A large sign above the road welcomes us to Harwich International Port. Following the New Port Entrance Road through two roundabouts we come to the freight entrance. Dozens of trucks are queuing at the gates. A customs officer with a light wand and a fluorescent vest waves us through.
In the distance I see the Port of Felixstowe. Massive gantry cranes tower above the ships, lifting and lowering containers. It looks like a scene from
Now Forbes decides to speak to me again.
“Have you ever been here before, DC Barba?”
“No.”
“Harwich is a freight and passenger port. It handles cruise ships, ferries, bulk carriers and roll-on, roll-off vessels. Thousands of vehicles pass through here every day from Denmark, Sweden, Belgium, Germany and the Hook of Holland.”
“Why am I here?”
He motions ahead of us. The car slows. In the middle of the customs area a Scene of Crime tent has been erected. Police cars are circled like wagons around it.
Arc lights inside the tent throw shadows against the fabric walls, revealing the outline of a truck and people moving inside, silhouetted like puppets in a Kabuki theater.
Forbes is out of the car, walking across the tarmac. The ticking of the cooling engine sounds like a clock. At that moment a side flap of the tent is pushed open. A SOCO emerges wearing overalls and white rubber gloves that peel off his hands like a second skin.
I recognize him. George Noonan, a forensic pathologist. They call him “the Albino” because of his pale skin
