17
The traffic was at a standstill. A perfect sky, green fields rolling away into distant woodland on both sides. Seven-thirty on a Thursday morning, but no one was drawing inspiration from the majestic Yorkshire countryside now, not if they were on the Harrogate Road. Joe joined the back of the queue. The oncoming lane was empty, but some cars and vans were turning around, stop-starting, backwards and forwards, getting in each other’s way as they manoeuvred themselves into the opposite direction. He pulled onto the verge, slapped a POLICE notice on the dash, and set off at a jog.
He rang Gwyn as he puffed his way past the long line of vehicles. As he got closer, more of them had switched off their engines. There was an eery quiet, drivers out of their cars, standing there, contemplating the silent tragedy ahead. Twenty, thirty seconds and it could have been them.
‘Are you here?’ he said, breathing heavily into his phone.
‘Yeah. Bad ’un. It’s Churchill.’
‘Alive?’
‘Just.’
The accident had been phoned in forty minutes ago. A black Mazda sports car, wrapped around one of the concrete columns of a bridge about seven miles north of Leeds. No other vehicles involved. The car’s registration had immediately flagged up Churchill’s name, and with it the Ana Dobrescu file.
Joe quickened his pace. Ahead of him he could make out the scene more clearly now. Ambulance, police cars, three fire service units, all parked at odd angles near the bridge. Orange suits, green, yellow. People everywhere.
Gwyn was over by one of the patrol cars.
‘You ’ad yer brekkie?’ he asked Joe, glancing across at the mangled car, its front end collapsed almost to nothing, as if the concrete pillar had devoured half of it in a single bite. ‘No airbag.’
‘It didn’t work?’
‘Bloody thing’d been taken out.’
‘Really? Was he alone?’
Gwyn nodded.
‘Right,’ Joe said. ‘Let’s get the car down to forensics as soon—’
‘Flatback’s on its way.’
‘Good.’
Five paramedics crowded around a large space on one side of the car where its side panel had been cut out, along with part of the roof. They were passing things to a colleague who was kneeling on the passenger seat. Their movements were urgent but controlled, bodies leaning into one other until they touched, as if the intense human proximity of their work might have been enough to save a life.
‘Shit,’ said Joe. ‘Ana’s coming in at nine. Bringing somebody with her. You think she was gonna be talking about him?’
‘You jokin’? This is her. Gotta be, one way or t’other. Screw talking. Drag her in on bloody suspicion.’
Joe paused, phone in his hand.
‘She’ll be coming in anyway. I’ll ring to confirm. Won’t mention the accident.’ He searched for her number. ‘You reckon this is about Churchill’s money?’
‘When’s it not about money, Joseph?’
‘When it’s about sex.’
‘Aye. Sex and money. Jesus! Poor bloke!’ Gwyn said, looking towards the bridge.
Ben Churchill’s body was now being lifted from the wreckage. Neck brace, oxygen, drip, full-body cradle beneath him. They watched as he was inched free of the car, so slowly that he seemed not to be moving. Yet out he came.
Joe studied his phone.
‘Ana’s number? Showing as unavailable.’
‘Why does that not surprise me for one friggin’ minute?’ Gwyn said, before taking a deep breath and striding out towards the remains of the car.
18
Batley. She pulled off the main road, the Land Rover bumping across a large expanse of open ground. The morning sun hung above the horizon, blazing down on the M62, the rumble of traffic bouncing around the sky, familiar, constant. It never stopped, day and night.
She parked amid a pool of soapy suds next to a strip of tarmac that served as the washing area. There was a dark green Portakabin not far behind it. The rest of the area, perhaps the size of a football field, was a combination of concrete and bare earth, gouged up into muddy ridges by lorry tyres. Way off in the far corner was a truckers’ café in an old bus, a white plastic table and chairs outside. All-day breakfasts, it announced.
She’d kickstarted the day in there a few times over the years. Full English and double fried bread, sweet tea, couple of fags for afters. She resisted the urge, swung herself down from the Landy, lighting up a tab end she’d found on the dash.
Two young men in orange tabards were clearing away hoses and buckets.
‘It’s here,’ one of them said to her, pointing at the car wash area.
‘Wash this?’ she said. ‘Yer must be joking. The muck’s the only thing holding it together!’
He nodded, carried on working, no eye contact. He spoke to the other one, but not in English.
‘Haven’t seen you two here before,’ she said.
‘New,’ he said.
‘Today? What, both of yers?’
He nodded again.
‘Right couple of chatterboxes, an’ all. Mr Morgan about?’
She didn’t wait for an answer, went over to the Portakabin, threw the door open. It smelt of damp, aftershave and farts. She dropped the rollie on the ground outside, didn’t want to add to the sorry mix.
‘Dale Morgan Esquire! How yer doin’?’
Fifties, thickset, flabby, in a mid-blue shirt with white collar and cuffs, like he was off to a fancy dress as Gordon Gekko. He was counting loose change, putting the coins in stacks in front of him.
‘They’ve already been,’ he said.
‘Hey, pleased to see you an’ all, Dale! Who’s been?’
He stopped.
‘Your lot. About the glassing. How is the lad?’
‘He’ll live.’
Dale got up, pulled a thin cardboard folder from a drawer and let it drop onto the table, then slumped back down into his chair.
‘Bit quick with the paperwork there!’ she said, leaving the folder where it was.
‘The whole crew pissed off. I got back from dinner yesterday, they’d gone.’
‘Stefan’s lot?’
‘Aye. Five Romanians. Don’t bother trying to find ’em. The house they lived in’s empty. I called round last night. They left in a rush, neighbours said.’
She took the folder, leafed through it. Five DWP records, all Romanian names.
‘Did you show this to Slater’s lot?’
‘Yeah. They weren’t that interested.’
‘There’s no record for Stefan Nicolescu in here.’
He shrugged.
‘You know how it works.’
‘Them two outside?’
He sighed.
‘They’ve just started working today. Syrian. It’s a few quid in their pockets. Helping me out. They’re claiming asylum. Please?’
She looked around. The walls were covered in old matchday posters for the Batley Bulldogs, plus some older ones, from when they were called Batley Football Club, which she’d never understood, since they were a rugby league side. There was also a massive colour photo of the Mount Pleasant ground, a few faded team photos, plus a large glass frame full of old newspaper cuttings.
She’d known Dale Morgan since she was a kid. His family lived on the same estate as the Scannons. Rugby league mad, all the Morgans were. Dale signed for Batley as a young man. Never made it out of the reserves. Wasted his best years trying.
‘Your Nick doin’ all right?’
‘On remand in Wakefield.’
‘What! Prison? I thought he were playing somewhere. Featherstone, wasn’t it?’
He blew out his cheeks.
‘Nah. It fell through. He had a lock-up full o’ plasmas as a friggin’ back-up, though. You didn’t know?’
‘I’ve been working in Leeds. Has he got a decent lawyer?’
He patted the stacks of pound coins in front of him.
‘Doin’ what I can.’
She read a few of the headlines from the cuttings on the wall, looked at the dates, tried to remember if she’d been to any of the matches. Years ago her brother Carl had been in the juniors with Nick Morgan. Big lads, both of ’em. They were called juniors, but that just made ’em keener to prove they were men. The matches were brutal. She’d been to plenty, although her memories of Mount Pleasant were basically the balti pies and the fact that it was always raining. That, plus eighty minutes of absurd, unrelenting violence.
Carl never made pro. Then he went and got himself killed.
‘Them Romanians? Been working here long?’
‘Few months. Pretty reliable. Were.’
‘Where did you get ’em? I mean, if I want illegal workers, where do I go?’
‘Bloody houses full of ’em round here. Asylum seekers, refugees, illegals from Europe. Give one of ’em a job, they’re all here asking. An agency’s less hassle, though.’
‘You pay the agency direct, and they sort you out with the paperwork?’ she asked, opening the folder and spreading the contents out on the desk. ‘If I ask them lads outside now, they’re tell me they’re Romanians, right?’
‘Aye.’
‘These IDs?’ she asked, quickly taking a photo of each sheet. ‘Get ’em from a Romanian agency, do you? Know anyone called Ana? Romanian girl?’
‘No comment.’
‘Come on, don’t be a twat, Dale. Where d’you get ’em?’
She closed the file, tossed it back across the desk to him. Then she turned, looked at the cuttings on the wall again. Found a report of a juniors match, Nick Morgan in the lineup. Carl S...
