Nineteen

Tim bounded up the stairs to his office bearing Florence Hoyle’s notebook. He was impatient for Juliet to arrive. Despite her regard for authority, he knew that she would find the prospect of working through the journal so fascinating that she would ignore Superintendent Thornton’s instruction if he told them to abandon the ancient cold case, even if it meant studying Florence’s musings in her own time. Unlike Tim himself, Juliet was not a formally-trained historian, but she shared his interest in human psychology and far surpassed him in her ability to draw accurate conclusions from documentary evidence and forensic detail.

Tim made himself a cup of tea. Through the glass of the kitchen cubicle he caught site of Andy Carstairs, red-faced, hefting his sports bag up the stairs. Andy had recently embarked upon a fitness campaign, although its effects had yet to be made manifest. Tim held up his mug and pointed at it. Andy grinned and nodded. Tim made more tea and carried both mugs through to the open area where Andy and Juliet, when they were both in the office, occupied facing desks.

“Have you made any progress with the fake passports?” Tim asked, after they’d exchanged a few pleasantries.

“I’ve been in touch with an expert in the Home Office. Her report came in yesterday. It appears that the stationery that we found at Laurieston House was authentic – the real stuff that is used for making British passports.”

“Inside job?”

“Possibly, but the Home Office expert, a fearsome woman called Veronica Something (by the way, I doubt if she’d ’ve deigned to talk to me at all if she hadn’t worked with Juliet in the past), thinks not. Apparently part of a consignment of the stationery was stolen about eighteen months ago. Intercepted en route, they say, though they don’t really know how it came to be lost. You may remember the internal report about it. It was played down at the time because the Home Office thought that we’d be more likely to catch the thieves if it didn’t make the press . . .”

“Didn’t want to be caught with egg on their faces, more like,” Tim interposed. Andy grinned.

“Whatever. I suppose that may explain why this Veronica is so prickly. Anyway, she thinks that the stuff used to make the passports may have come from that consignment. It’s quite difficult to establish if she’s right, but she’s asked the manufacturers to carry out more checks.”

“Underworld job, then?”

“Yes, but it had to be really, didn’t it? The standard of those passports was excellent. They’d never have been spotted as fakes if they’d included the photographs and personal details of the holders.”

“You’re right. There can’t be many forgers with that sort of capability. I suppose you’ve checked out all the ones known to us who might have the skill to do it?”

“I’ve started on it. I need the Met to help and they’re a bit snowed under at the moment.”

“The real question that we need to ask ourselves is how a set of high-class fake passports found their way into the basement of a rich Lincolnshire businessman’s house in Sutterton. It’s not the usual sort of place for forgeries like these to turn up.”

“Agreed,” said Andy. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Though I can think of plenty, most of them too far-fetched, one of them seems more than just a possibility. They might just be intended for use in this country by people who shouldn’t be here.”

“Illegal immigrants, you mean?”

“It’s a hunch worth looking at. If it’s correct, someone would still be running a considerable risk to get them into the country in the first place. There’d have to be something in it for them. Cheap labour, for example. An illegal immigrant with a kosher passport wouldn’t actually look illegal to a prospective employer. Quite literally, it would be the passport to a job.”

“And the supplier of the passport takes a cut of their wages?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe pays their wages – at way below the national average. In return for services rendered.”

“Kevan de Vries owns a lot of businesses. Most of them are run on low-tech manual labour.”

“Precisely,” said Tim. “I’d like you to start checking out the payroll of his businesses. All of them. Find out the workers’ names, when they started work, where they live, how much they get paid. If Thornton allows it, you might get Katrin to help. She’s good at that sort of thing.” He looked at his watch.

“Where is Juliet? It’s not like her to be late. Do you think I should call her? See if she’s OK?”

“I’d give it until this afternoon,” Andy replied. “She may just have had a heavy night.” Tim grinned. Neither of them thought this likely. “Or overslept,” Andy finished lamely. “There’s bound to be an explanation. It doesn’t seem fair to breathe down her neck so soon, especially as she’s never been late before.”

“You’re right,” said Tim. “I’ll wait a couple of hours.” He picked up the journal. “In the meantime, I’m going to see Katrin. There’s a job I need her to do. I’ll mention the de Vries stuff while I’m there.”

“Right,” said Andy. “If your job’s what I think it is, may I suggest you should be careful? It wouldn’t be right to drag her into your defiance of Superintendent Thornton. Sir,” he added. There was a silence. “I’ll get on with studying the de Vries payrolls, then, shall I, until I hear whether she can help?”