‘What if you’re wrong?’ Javed said. ‘What if they stop off en route?’
‘They won’t.’ Holm turned his head. The truck was somewhere back there, miles behind them. ‘The captain of the Angelo mentioned the UK, didn’t he? Plus we know the container keeps appearing on the manifests, and if Latif and his mate wanted to go somewhere in mainland Europe they could have done it in a car.’
They reached Rotterdam early on the second morning. The app on Javed’s phone showed the truck hadn’t reached Germany so Holm took an executive decision.
‘We’ll get a room somewhere.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. It was greasy and he could smell his own body odour. Always a bad sign. ‘We need a wash and a bed and some proper sleep.’
‘A room? A bed?’ Javed smirked. ‘Didn’t know you cared, boss.’
‘Two single beds. We’ll clean ourselves up and get our heads down. We should be able to manage a few hours’ kip before the lorry turns up.’
They found a cheap hotel on the outskirts of Rotterdam. The receptionist looked at them a little oddly. Two men wanting a room on the spur of the moment at nine in the morning. Holm mentioned they were British police officers on a case.
‘What was that about?’ Javed said.
‘She thought we were… well… you know? I think I put her straight.’
‘Straight? I doubt it, boss.’
Holm ignored Javed. He was too tired to care what the hell the receptionist thought. He needed to sleep.
In the room Holm was pleased to see the single beds were a good distance apart. He dumped his bag in the corner, kicked off his shoes and lay down on one of the beds. The last thing he remembered was asking Javed to set an alarm and the first thing he saw when he woke was the young man leaning close.
‘What the fuck?’ Holm put up his hands. ‘Get off!’
‘It’s five p.m., boss.’ Javed stood. ‘I’ve showered and had something to eat at the cafe next door.’
‘The truck…?’ Holm sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘We haven’t missed it?’
‘Kowlowski’s just crossed the border into the Netherlands. He’ll be a couple of hours yet.’
‘When does the Excelsior depart?’
‘It’s sails this evening. They’ll start loading shortly.’
‘Good.’ Holm swung his legs off the bed but paused before standing. ‘We need flights to the UK. We need to be there before the ship arrives back in Felixstowe.’
Holm had a shower, grabbed something to eat at the cafe and then they made for the port.
Kowlowski arrived about an hour later. The Pole swung the truck in and coasted down to where containers were already being plucked from the dockside by huge cranes. Holm got out of their car and went across to the customs building.
‘You again.’ It was the same officer as before. He nodded over to a small Portakabin. ‘The toilets are over there. If you can be bothered.’
As they left the officer was speaking to a colleague and laughing, an accusing finger pointing at Javed. The story of the urinating Englishman had obviously done the rounds.
‘God knows what kind of reputation British intelligence is getting thanks to you.’ Holm shook his head. ‘Come on.’
They sauntered along the dockside down a narrow corridor of containers, trying to look like a couple of jobsworths.
‘We’re not really interested, right?’ Holm pulled the collar of his coat up against a wind that was funnelling between the stacks of containers. ‘The last thing we want to do is make ourselves any more work. We just want to tick the boxes and get on home to a cool beer and a warm woman.’
‘I might remind you that I don’t like either of those things.’
‘There. Kowlowski’s done.’ Holm glanced sideways while pretending to inspect the doors of a nearby container. At the end of the row the crane grabber had positioned itself over Kowlowski’s truck. The arms lowered and clamped themselves in place. The container soared upwards and outwards in a manoeuvre Holm found strangely balletic. ‘The stowaways are on board. Let’s go back to the hotel and book some flights from Schiphol for early tomorrow morning. With luck we’ll be in Felixstowe for breakfast.’
Javed gave Holm a smirk. ‘Not much on the menu there, boss, right?’
Thanks for reminding me, Holm thought.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Silva rose early. She climbed from her bunk, dragged the kettle onto the hob and lit the gas. Flipped the radio on as a presenter read a news summary. Train drivers were on strike and there was countrywide commuter chaos. Overseas, the Pope had condemned the killing of a foreign dignitary on Italian soil, pleading for all religions to work together for peace and understanding. Back in the UK a fifty-seven-year-old man had been stabbed in north London. Another murder in the capital. The victim was one Neil Milligan, the owner and editor of the well-regarded Third Eye News agency. Police enquiries were continuing but so far no arrests had been made. The end of the piece noted the agency had, coincidentally, been struck by tragedy earlier in the year when noted foreign correspondent Francisca da Silva had been killed in a terrorist attack in Tunisia.
The kettle whistled out a warning and Silva turned off the hob before slumping down at the saloon table in shock. Milligan was dead, taken out by either Weiss or, more likely, Jawad al Haddad. Her mother had been close friends with Milligan. Not lovers – at least Silva didn’t think so – but confidantes. His death meant another part of her mother’s life was erased for good, another link to the past broken.
She sat for a few minutes and then got up and peered out of the companionway; she thought about Fairchild and his warning. The estuary was grey and almost still, just a slight movement as the tide began to ebb. Three boats
