DCI Ian Bergen had a somewhat distracting habit of twisting the ends of his moustache as he spoke. A rather impressive affair that clearly required a lot of care and attention, it made Warren want to go downstairs and buy him a cup of the foamiest latte they served, just to see what it would look like coated in milk. That was probably why Bergen stuck to plain, black coffee.
It had taken Warren several minutes to convince Grayson that he was fit to continue the case. In the end, the DSI had relented, probably from practical necessity as much as anything. Nevertheless, Warren had felt the man’s eyes boring into his back as he left his office.
‘This white van that you have been tracking is a potential goldmine for us, Warren,’ the man gushed. ‘It doesn’t appear anywhere on our database.’
He passed over his laptop, a paper-thin machine that doubled as an extra-large tablet. Judging from the quality of their hardware, it was plain to see that Organized Crime enjoyed a more generous equipment budget than Warren’s own department; his laptop was so old the latest version of Windows had slowed it to the point that he could now make a cup of coffee whilst he waited for it to boot up in the morning.
Bergen’s enthusiasm was in stark contrast to Warren, who had been deeply disappointed when Jorge Martinez had returned from Welwyn with the news that Organized Crime were unable to shed any light on the ownership of the vehicle they now believed delivered the missing nail technicians to the massage parlour every morning.
Bergen continued. ‘These confirmed sightings of the van each day are consistent with our belief that there is a gangmaster supplying illegal workers to businesses in and around Middlesbury.’
He pointed to a location on the map displayed on the computer’s screen. ‘This camera here is within two hundred metres of a hand car wash we’ve had our eye on for some time.’
Warren was familiar with the car wash, although he’d never used it himself. He said as much.
‘They’re dodgy as anything. Next time you drive past, look at the prices they’re charging, then look at the length of the queues, the number of workers that work on each car, and the time it takes them to do the job. Then do the maths and tell me how they can afford to pay minimum wage? And that’s not taking into account the business’s overheads. The only way the owners can make any profit is by paying illegal workers two-thirds of fuck-all.’
For the first time since meeting the man, Warren saw a flash of something other than cheerful enthusiasm.
‘So why don’t you shut them down?’ asked Warren.
Bergen sighed. ‘If only it was that simple. The buggers always seem to be one step ahead of us. Whenever we swoop in and do a raid, there are only a couple of workers there – all legal and swearing blind that they’re paid minimum wage. We just don’t have the resources to mount the surveillance necessary to gather the evidence we need to prosecute.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Unfortunately, this sort of thing doesn’t even make the top ten of my priority list.’ He swept his arm in a vague, encompassing arc. ‘The sad fact is that out there, in this pretty little market town, there are young women – girls – being forced to turn tricks for the bastards who trafficked them into the country. There are vulnerable people that have had their homes taken over by teenage drug dealers from London so they can set up a local supply point. Car washes and nail bars are the least of our worries.
‘And even, just suppose, we did try to take them to court, they’d simply pack up and disappear. Two months down the line, another business will set up in their place, supposedly run by somebody different, and we’ll be back to square one.
‘The only way we’ll ever be able to justify mounting an operation to gather enough evidence to satisfy the CPS, is if one of the workers comes forward as a whistle-blower.’
‘How likely is that?’
It was a rhetorical question; nevertheless, Bergen answered.
‘Why would they? They’d be biting the hand that feeds them – and probably houses them. The gangmasters aren’t stupid; they pick their workers very carefully. There’s a reason they employ illegal workers who don’t speak English. They take their passports if they have one, fool them into signing a “contract” that means they think they owe the bosses outrageous sums for housing them five to a room in some flea-infested hovel, and tell them if they come to the attention of the authorities, they’ll spend six months in Yarl’s Wood awaiting deportation back to whatever country they escaped from. Mrs May’s “hostile environment” is hardly helping matters.’
‘So, you think these nail technicians are part of the same group as these car wash workers?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. Car washers, nail technicians, private cleaners, farmhands, you name it. Wherever there are low-skilled workers working cash in hand, there are exploited people.’
He pointed to the laptop screen.
‘There’s little point raiding these places; it’s just a mopping-up exercise. What I really want, are the people in charge.’
‘Such as Northern Man,’ supplied Warren.
‘Exactly. From what your witness has told you, at the very least he’s some form of fixer. If we can track him down, we might be able to bring some sort of prosecution.’
‘And I might get access to these two nail technicians, who are potential witnesses to Stevie Cullen’s murderer,’ responded Warren. ‘We’ll pass over everything we’ve got, but I warn you now that the van hasn’t been seen since McGhee gave his statement, and he’s now dead. I suspect that it’s been disposed of. I doubt we’ll see it again.’
‘Do you have any idea where it is coming in from each day?’
‘Not really,’ admitted Warren, ‘we pick it up on a fixed ANPR camera coming in from the north of the town via the A506, and it leaves the same way, but once it’s left the town’s limits there’s not much we can do to track it. There are a couple of safety cameras on the way out to Cambridge, but it hasn’t been caught speeding. It’s semi-rural out there, with lots of small roads and tiny villages. They could be going anywhere.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Wilson and her two nieces can shed some light on the situation. Perhaps the threat of a fine and some jail time for employing illegal workers might loosen Mrs Wilson’s tongue some more?’
Warren doubted it. Wilson was looking at a lengthy spell for perverting the course of justice, and her two nieces had been charged with murder. He couldn’t imagine Bergen could threaten them with anything more than they were already facing.
Still, it couldn’t hurt.