Hope to Die

Maybe. Maybe not. Because something’s nagging at me.

I join Gis at the board. Because if there really is a ‘something’, it’s here. Somewhere.

I scan the accumulated ten days of work. Maps, photos, lists, theories, question marks. Trying to see it all for the first time, waiting for something to snag. A good half of me is wondering if I should get someone like Ruth Gallagher in here, purely for the sake of a fresh pair of eyes –

But I don’t need to. Because there it is. On a bloody Post-it.

I yank it off and hold it out to Gis.

‘This trucking company – what’s that about?’

He frowns. ‘I don’t get you.’

‘You said it was an all-female outfit, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So why’s it called Ronnie Harmsworth Freight?’

Gis nods. ‘Good point – certainly worth a look.’

We turn to Baxter but he’s heard us; he’s already on it. ‘I’m checking Companies House,’ he says. ‘Give me a sec.’

He taps his keyboard for a moment then scrolls down. ‘According to this, the MD and majority shareholder of Ronnie Harmsworth Freight is a Veronica Harmsworth, DOB 14 March 1974.’

‘Am I right in thinking you can still be a company director if you’ve been inside?’

The energy in the room jolts up a notch; they know where I’m going with this.

Baxter taps again, then nods. ‘Yup, you can. As long as it wasn’t for something like fraud.’

Hansen’s at his screen now too. ‘Veronica Christine Harmsworth,’ he says, glancing up. ‘Did three years in Holloway for ABH from 2009 to 2011. Went for her husband with a hammer – claimed he’d been beating her up.’

‘Did Sullivan ever work at Holloway?’

He does another check, then looks up and nods. ‘Eight years – 2008 until it closed in 2016.’

It’s as if the whole room is holding its breath.

‘Who spoke to Harmsworth Freight before?’

‘Ev,’ says Gis. ‘We thought it would be better coming from a woman –’

I turn to her but she’s already picked up her phone. ‘Get a list of all the drivers they have scheduled on ferry crossings, both last night and today. But keep it low-key – I don’t want a message getting through to Rowan.’

Quinn comes up to me. ‘You think Sullivan fixed it with this bird Ronnie?’

‘It has to be a possibility. And right now, it’s all we have.’

* * *

Rock warned her it might take a while. That it isn’t as simple as rolling off a car ferry, so not to rush to panic. So that’s what she’s telling herself. Don’t panic. These places are huge, there’s a ton of lorries to process, you know what the bloody French are like. Being stuck in this stuffy cab under the duvet isn’t helping. Nor is the smell. She’s going to have to get Rock to stop as soon as they’re through so she can dump the sick bag. As soon as they’re through, as soon as they’re through …

Voices now, close by; that hasn’t happened before. Someone outside talking to Rock. She tries to gauge Rock’s tone from the dribs and drabs she can hear. It doesn’t sound like she’s concerned. Some admin crap? There must be a ton of that to do. She’s just being paranoid.

Of course she is – because suddenly there’s the sound of the ignition. A rumble of engine noise, then the hiss of air brakes and – hallelujah – the truck shudders into life.

* * *

Adam Fawley

30 October

14.25

‘I spoke to the fleet manager’s secretary and she’s emailing me the list,’ says Ev, putting down her phone. ‘She said she’d do it straight away, but I can’t promise – I couldn’t afford to sound too keen.’

There must be a dozen of us round her machine now, watching for a bloody email like it’s a new Pope. The machine pings, but the way my luck’s going it’ll be HR banging on about changes to pension entitlements. But no – that secretary is as good as her word.

It’s one of those Gantt charts that give me a headache just looking at them. But Ev’s good at this sort of thing – she leans forward, scanning down the tiny type. ‘Looks to me like there’s three possibilities. There’s an A. Cameron on a boat that left Immingham at five this morning going to Brevik – don’t know where that is –’

She looks round quickly but no one else does either.

She turns to the screen again. ‘Well, wherever it is, it takes thirty-six hours –’

‘Scandi somewhere,’ says Baxter. ‘Taking that bloody long.’

‘Then there’s a J. Ford going out of Tilbury at ten this morning, due in at Zeebrugge at six tonight our time. And finally –’

She takes an in-breath. ‘B. Hudson on the Newhaven to Caen this morning, which left at eight fifteen.’

‘When does it get in?’

She glances at her watch. ‘Ten minutes ago.’

* * *

The truck’s picking up speed now, changing gear. Rock is singing along to the radio, tapping the steering wheel, slightly out of time. But who cares.

They’re moving.

She hears the clang clang clang as they go down the ramp, and then the dull rumble of concrete under the wheels.

Dry land.

Freedom –

* * *

Adam Fawley

30 October

14.35