‘No.That place is pretty rundown, the security basic, plus they wouldn’t give it to me anyway.’
Helen sat back in her chair, a heavy sigh escaping her lips.
‘Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day,’ Christopher responded kindly.‘If you think she’s Kurdish, that’s a good place to start.If you can find out her full name, perhaps you can begin to work out what’s happened here, where she might be.’
He held out an encouraging hand and Helen squeezed it briefly.Simple acts of intimacy weren’t really her thing, but shewas genuinely grateful for his support when the odds seemed so stacked against her.
‘You’re right, I’m not going to let it go.Ican’t.’
Christopher smiled at her indulgently, but Helen meant every word.Just because she wasn’t a police officer anymore, it didn’t mean that she could sit by in the face of blatant criminality and danger.The rest of the world might have chosen to believe that no crime had been committed last night, but she was determined to prove otherwise, to do what she could to shed light on Selima’s fate.
She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t.
Chapter 16
He pulled on the smoldering cigar, letting the bitter smoke play over his tongue, before expelling it with a satisfied sigh.Matthijs Visser was not a patriotic man by any means, but he generally favoured Royal Dutch cigars, loving their elegant look, their aggressive, peppery taste.He always carried a pack with him, reaching for them whenever he had something to celebrate.
Today’s operation had not gone entirely to plan, thanks to an unforeseen hold-up on disembarking the ferry, but this hardly mattered when the outcome had been so pleasing.Another Dutch lorry had suffered engine trouble, meaning the final few cargo vehicles were delayed leaving the ship, but eventually they had departed, pushing into the familiar environs of Southampton docks.This was always the point of maximum danger, when Visser’s heart was in his mouth.What if one of his concealed charges had somehow smuggled a mobile on board, dialing 999 in a desperate bid to escape their fate?What if one of them suddenly panicked, hammering on the walls of the lorry, revealing their presence?What if the Border Force officials were employing dogs or, worse, thermal imaging equipment?Everything had appeared normal this morning, but still Visser had gripped the steering wheel tightly as he crawled forward, his eyes fixed on the Belgian lorry forty metres ahead.
He needn’t have worried of course.The border officials in the UK were horribly overstretched and, besides, he’d made preparations.Preparations which paid off handsomely as a clutch of plain clothes law enforcement officers sprang up from nowhere, descending on the startled Belgian haulier.A brief hold-up ensued, as the drivers behind were diverted around the incident, but the delay was brief and Visser was soon on his way.He kept a straight face as he glided past the unfortunate Peeters, spread-eagled on the ground with a police officer’s knee in his back, but as soon as he was clear of the docks, speeding around Southampton’s ring road, Visser allowed himself a small whoop of triumph, tugging a cigar from his breast pocket in celebration.
Sometimes it really did feel like taking candy from a baby, the over-stretched British authorities powerless to stem the flow of human cargo across the channel.Yes, transporting illegal immigrants was complicated and potentially risky, but it was a doddle compared to the drugs game.Visser had spent thirty years of his working life in that business, acting first as a spotter at the docks in Rotterdam, before graduating to transporting the goods himself, and for a time he had enjoyed it.For a boy who’d had nothing as a kid, who’d been a genuine street rat, the money that cocaine smuggling afforded him was dizzying.But the prizes on offer had attracted others too, the drugs scene in the Netherlands transformed by the arrival of the Moroccan gangs.Competition had spiked and with it the violence, the scars on Visser’s chest and legs a testament to that.He had come close to losing everything, so in recent years had pivoted, opting for a less hotly contested trade instead.How easy, how calm, his latest incarnation seemed to him, loading up migrants who wanted to follow orders, who were motivated to make it to the UK undetected.Lambs to the slaughter they might be, but as long as they were docile whilst under his care, that wasn’this concern.So long as they were alive when he flung open the doors at the remote Hampshire farm, he would get his money.
Placing his cigar gently in the ashtray, he angled a look at his satnav.Could he make it to the end destination without allowing himself a comfort break?It would be pushing it, as he’d been on the go for hours, but it was tempting to try.Finding somewhere out of the way to stop was a headache and he dare not risk a service station, as he could never be sure that one of his charges wouldn’t make a run for it, now that they’d reached the UK.Such a breach in security would result in loss of earnings, or worse, detection by the authorities, a thought which made Visser shudder.He had no desire to spend his middle years behind bars, caught in some nightmarish extradition process, with only the promise of a long prison stretch in the company of former gang members or competitors to look forward to.No, it was too risky, so best press on.There was no point taking unnecessary risks.
Teasing the accelerator, Visser checked his side mirrors.There was always a chance he was being followed, but given the spectacle at the docks today, he doubted it.The road seemed clear, his path ahead set fair, so he snatched up his cigar, smiling at his good fortune.The sun was shining, life was good and he’d soon be rid of his cargo, placing them in the care of their new owner.He had not always been a fan of this itinerant lifestyle – it was fraught with danger and had wrecked his marriage to Suzanne – but all that had changed.
Helovedhis visits to the UK now.
Chapter 17
The woman looked up sharply as Helen entered, surprised by her unexpected appearance.Helen had spent her life walking into unfamiliar environments, where her presence was not always welcome, but in the past she’d had a warrant card to hide behind.Today she had nothing, except good intentions.
‘Can I help you?’
Her hostess was a tall woman with long, ebony hair, sparkling eyes and a gentle smile.Abandoning the box she’d been packing, she approached Helen, her hand outstretched.
‘Harika Guli.I’m the manager here.’
Helen immediately felt herself relax, accepting Harika’s handshake and running her eye over the threadbare, cluttered interior.A few minutes internet research had singled out the Kurdish Welfare Centre in Woolston as her most promising port of call.Set up ten years ago, it was a home from home for the Kurdish community in Southampton, a fount of knowledge about life in the UK.The centre’s handful of volunteers gave their time freely to assist Kurdish migrants who were new to the UK, advising on immigration, the law, finances, education and more besides.It was run on a shoestring, kept afloat by a steady stream of modest donations, its handful of volunteers giving up their time three afternoons a week to keep the place going, butits reputation was good and its reach significant.If you lived in Southampton and were of Kurdish heritage, odds on you’d find your way here before long.
‘My name’s Helen Grace.I’m a former police officer and I was wondering if I could ask for your help?’
‘Former police officer?’Harika enquired, her eyebrow raising just slightly.‘So what are you now?A private investigator?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ Helen replied, quickly.‘I’m here …’
She hesitated momentarily, trying to find the words.
‘… I’m just here as a concerned citizen.’
‘I see.’
Harika’s smile was still welcoming, but she was evidently confused, so Helen continued quickly.
‘I’m looking for a young woman, who I think is Kurdish.I don’t know her full name, nor why she’s in the UK, but she’s in real danger and I need to locate her urgently.’
‘Danger from whom?’
