‘But I don’t understand. If it originated from the UK then there’s no smuggling going on.’
‘Right, that’s what I thought until I looked through some more records and found a sister container which was loaded at Rotterdam. That container returned to Rotterdam without leaving the ship. Start and end port were the same.’
‘Perhaps there’s an error in the document.’
‘Not at all. Now, when they load the cargo I’m guessing there’s some kind of algorithm so they position containers according to weight and destination. You don’t want to have to unload cargo if it’s going to an onward destination.’
‘You’re losing me, Farakh.’
‘Hang in there, we’re almost finished.’ Javed pointed at the screen, his finger hovering over one of the cells on the spreadsheet. ‘That’s the location on the boat where the container is stored. Take a look at our original container from Felixstowe and the second container from Rotterdam.’
Javed flicked between locations on the spreadsheet. Figures swirled and changed and the beginnings of a headache began to throb right between Holm’s eyes.
‘I…’ He felt enfeebled, left behind. He knew he should have gone on more courses, but it was too late now. He closed his eyes for a moment and then blinked them open. ‘For God’s sake put me out of my misery.’
‘There. The loading locations on board the Excelsior. Container Alpha and container Zulu have location IDs which differ by only one digit.’ Javed turned from the screen. ‘I’m guessing that means they were slap bang next to each other on the boat.’
Late the next afternoon a swirl of dust at the end of the track signalled they had visitors. Silva got up from where she was sitting on the veranda and called into the house for Gavin.
‘Trouble,’ she said when he emerged. She pointed down the valley to where a red sports car was dodging the potholes. ‘What shall we do?’
‘Nothing,’ Gavin said. ‘That’s Mr Fairchild.’
Fairchild swung the car round in front of the house and clambered out. Lona, the woman Silva had seen with Gavin in Plymouth, was with him. She wore jeans and a tight top which emphasised her breasts. Her lipstick matched the colour of the car to a shade.
‘Who is she?’ Itchy whispered, awestruck.
‘Your wife’s got a kid on the way, Itch.’
‘Oh, yeah. My bad.’
‘Rebecca!’ Fairchild bounded up the steps. He turned to Itchy. ‘And you must be Richard. Heard all about you. Top bloke, from what Rebecca told me.’
‘Um…’
‘This is Lona.’ Fairchild gestured at the woman and she climbed the steps and moved forward to kiss them, Italian style, each in turn. Itchy’s eyes grew in size as she bent close. ‘Lona’s here to coordinate everything. She’ll be your CO on the op – right, Lona?’
‘Sure thing, Matthew.’
‘In my absence, what she says, goes.’
‘Mr Fairchild?’ Gavin had come across. He glared at Lona. ‘But we’re all set. Equipment in order. Everything ready. Good to go.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Gavin.’ Fairchild gave a half wave, dismissing any argument. He moved across to a wicker sofa and sat. ‘Now, drinks. A toast to the success of the operation.’
For a moment Gavin stood, impassive. Then he turned and went inside.
‘Don’t you think celebrating is a bit premature?’ Silva said. ‘Sort of counting your chickens?’
‘Oh, I have no doubt as to the outcome. On the morning of the sixteenth the news will be about Karen Hope. Stories will begin to emerge about her background. Questions will be asked. It will cascade onwards from there over the next few days, becoming an avalanche within a week.’
‘You’ll leak the material?’
‘Just so. Then all of a sudden the imperative will be to flip the situation. The death of Hope will be spun not as a tragedy but as a lucky escape. A staid but reliable candidate will step into the breach and be elected.’ Fairchild turned his head as Gavin emerged with a tray which held an ice bucket with a bottle in and several glasses. ‘Great. Richard, you’ll do the honours? You look like a man who knows how to handle a fine champagne.’
Itchy shifted uncomfortably. As far as Silva knew the closest he’d come to opening a fine champagne was twisting the top off a bottle of cheap Prosecco.
Gavin put the tray down on the low table and Itchy reached for the bottle and began to remove the foil covering. He loosened the wire and eased out the cork. There was a loud pop and the cork shot from his hand, skimming Fairchild’s shoulder and disappearing into the meadow.
‘Well, I hope Rebecca’s a better shot than you.’ Fairchild said. He pointed at the bottle where the froth was beginning to bubble out. ‘Well, pour it, man. I don’t like to see good fizz going to waste.’
Itchy sloshed champagne into the glasses and Fairchild reached for one and raised it to the light.
‘To a steady hand and a good, clean kill,’ he said. ‘Cheers.’
‘When are we going to tell Huxtable?’ Javed asked.
Holm shrugged. They’d worked on the info and had come up with a theory. The container put on the ship in Rotterdam had made the cross-channel journey six times, twice each month in May, June and July. It had joined the Excelsior at Rotterdam and gone to Felixstowe and back to Rotterdam. According to the manifests it never left the ship. The other container had done the same journey except it had joined at Felixstowe. The ship took the route weekly and every second week the two containers were on board. They were, without fail, next to each other on the boat.
‘This is how it goes, yes?’ Holm said. He’d just about got the gist of it now. ‘At Felixstowe container Alpha is loaded onto the Excelsior. The boat departs for Rotterdam. Meanwhile, somewhere in mainland Europe, container Zulu is loaded with whatever it is that’s being smuggled. It goes by road to Rotterdam. No border checks, nothing. It’s loaded onto the Excelsior alongside container Alpha. At some point on
