When the taxi began to move, Gray wound his watch forward an hour. The journey so far had thankfully proven uneventful. When he’d awoken this morning his throat still felt raw so he’d avoided eating. A drive to Dover, loading, a slow crossing of the North Sea, unloading, and a queue at Border Control, all on an empty stomach.
The whole way across, while the train whipped through the tunnel beneath the waves Gray hoped his sickness wouldn’t occur again. He reflected that Tom had taken this same route, though on the water rather than below it. Gray was following in his footsteps, just far too late. He didn’t trust himself to drive on the wrong side of the road, so he’d parked up on the French side and called a taxi.
The distance from the Eurotunnel terminal to Calais centre was short in comparison to the crossing and soon the taxi was pulling up at the Commissariat de Police on the corner of Place de Lorraine.
After handing over a few euros to the driver, Gray grabbed his briefcase and exited. The car was moving as soon as he closed the door. The station was a plain brown-brick building of a basic architecture which was typical of what he’d seen so far in Calais. No imagination had gone into the Post War construction. All the station’s ground-floor windows were barred, two doors, in and out. A huge tricolour flapped overhead.
As Gray entered, he passed a uniformed cop talking on a mobile who paused briefly and eyed him. In the reception area, the décor was as uninspiring as the outside. He waited at the front desk until an administrator, a young woman wearing severe glasses, was available.
Gray showed his warrant card. “Bonjour. I’m here to see Inspector Morel. He’s expecting me.” Which wasn’t true. He hadn’t been able to reach Morel.
“Will he know what it is concerning?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Okay, I will find him. Wait one moment, please.”
“Merci,” said Gray, now two thirds of the way through his back catalogue of French words. However, the administrator was already talking down a phone and missed his attempt at entente cordiale.
The woman covered up the mouthpiece with a hand. “Inspector Morel has no knowledge of your visit.”
“I assure you, we communicated by email.” Gray’s message from yesterday had gone unanswered. “Inspector Morel sent me some files. I need to speak to him about them.” He dug around in his bag for the paperwork and placed them on the desk before the administrator. She picked the pages up and flicked through them, then returned her attention to the phone, spoke briefly, and held the receiver out to Gray.
“Hello?”
“Sergeant Gray, how may I help you?” Morel’s accent was thick. He pronounced Gray’s name “Gree”. In the background was an idling engine, raised voices, and an occasional gust of wind.
“It’s about the bodies which washed up on our shores.”
“Pardon?”
“Khoury, Najjar, and Shadid. You sent their files to me.”
“Yes. You have them. Why are you here?”
“I was hoping you could fill in the blanks, Inspector Morel.”
“Blanks? Ha! Of those there are many, Monsieur Gray. But I am a busy man.”
“So am I, inspector. I came all the way from the UK to see you. I’m only here for a few hours before I get the train back.”
“That was your decision.”
“I would very much appreciate some of your time.”
“It is not so far, the UK.”
Gray said nothing, waited.
“Okay, I will give you a few moments. Although you will have to come and find me.”
“Thank you. Where are you?”
“The Jungle, or what is left of it.”
“I’ll be with you soon.” Gray wasn’t going to give in. He handed the phone back to the administrator and asked her if she could order a taxi for him.
“It will be here shortly,” she said.
***
The driver took Gray to the remnants of the Jungle on the eastern side of the Eurotunnel terminal and Calais itself. Gray had taken a circuitous route to find his man.
There was a small number of dull canvas constructions and a knot of people nearby. The group was composed of two opposing parties: immigrants and social workers, remonstrating with a handful of police, and several men in suits, probably local officials. Behind them, a bulldozer stood idling, its bucket pointed at the tents. A man sat in the bulldozer cab, chin in his hand, clearly bored. Beyond was a wire fence.
“Is this it?” asked Gray.
The driver nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Oui!” Irritation was creeping into the driver’s voice now.
Gray paid and got out, hearing shouting over the noise of the traffic running over the motorway above him. He made his way over, stepping carefully through rubbish strewn everywhere, trying to avoid the worst of the mud and puddles.
He hovered on the edge of the crowd, unnoticed, watching as a broad-shouldered man sporting an impressive moustache and glasses broke away from the group and walked over to the digger — unseen by the group intent on the slanging match. He crooked a finger at the man in the cab who leaned down, listened, and nodded. The driver, upright again, closed the cab door, revved his engine, and set off, aiming for the tents.
The arguing crowd paused; pointed fingers held in each other’s faces. They looked over at the digger as it approached the tents, the migrants futilely waving their arms, trying to stop its progress. The argument forgotten, the disparate groups of protestors and police alike, dashed over, but too late. The driver ignored any protests and flattened one tent after another. The man with the moustache calmly walked back towards Gray while the two groups began rowing once more.
When the man was a few feet away Gray stopped him. “I’m looking for Inspector Morel.”
The man didn’t reply immediately, looking Gray up and down. Then he said, “Monsieur Gray?” Gray nodded. “I am Morel.” He stuck out a meaty hand for Gray to shake. “Call me Jacques. I am not keen on formality. My office said you were coming over.”
“Then you must call me Solomon. What was all that about with the JCB?”
Morel sighed, the humour dropping away from his face. “A few months ago we cleared the Jungle and put a fence around it. We put the immigrants onto buses and moved them around the country. There were ten thousand of them at the time. And nearly a hundred more arriving every day, swelling an already big problem.
“Well, they keep coming back, trying to rebuild their shanty town. My men have to keep closing them down. The ones arguing,” Morel nodded to the dejected group standing to one side with the immigrants, “they are social workers. But I have no choice. Orders are orders. Their town cannot be rebuilt.”
“It sounds like an impossible task.”
“Maybe.” Morel brightened. “Come, let’s get a coffee, talk about why you are here.”
Morel led Gray back to a police car, the Frenchman careless of where he stepped as he sensibly wore wellington boots. Morel pointed to the passenger side, as Gray was about to get into the wrong side out of habit. In a couple of miles, Morel pulled into a petrol station and parked beside a truck. The sign on the wall outside said “Autogrill”. Morel cut through the service area, past the tills, and outside onto a sunny terrace, crammed with people and tables, which faced fields.
“We have the choice of sitting or standing,” said Morel. “Do you mind if we sit? I’ve been on my feet all day so far.”
“Fine with me,” said Gray. They took a table on the edge of the terrace.
Morel handed Gray a menu.
“I’m not hungry, thanks,” said Gray. His stomach still wasn’t feeling great.
“Are you sure? The food is very good here.”
“Certain.”
Morel perused the menu briefly, made a choice, and headed over to a counter to place his order. When Morel returned, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offered one to Gray which he declined, and lit up. Morel drew deeply on the stick and exhaled. The smoke was strong, acrid.
A waitress arrived at their table carrying a tray. Her hair was shaven close to her skull and her fingernails were painted black. She placed an espresso before Morel who spooned in a measure of sugar and stirred.
“What do you want to know?” asked Morel when she’d gone.
“About Khoury, Najjar, and Shadid.”
“That is not easy. They were largely unfamiliar to us, Solomon. They kept their secrets well. It is not so unusual for people wanting a fresh start, to leave bad things behind. What we know was on the paper you received from me. I am sorry to say I have nothing more for you.”
“You assumed they were from Syria.”
“An educated guess,” said Morel. “But we are pretty good at working out country of origin now. We have had plenty of practice.” Morel laughed, although it was without humour.
“One of them, Khoury, had been accused of several crimes. Assault. Theft.”
Morel shook his head sadly. “I was trying to persuade the man he allegedly beat to give evidence against him.”
“Is he a local?”
“No, he lived in the Jungle too. He’s gone now, shipped out during the rehousing. Animals, turning on their own.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Who else are they going to take their frustrations out on?”
Lorry drivers and holiday makers, thought Gray.
“We had people undercover in the Jungle,” said Morel, “and all they picked up was tiny pieces of information. Our trio spent all their time together, not mixing, barely speaking to anyone unless they had to. They were close. That’s why we know so little. Then a few days ago they disappeared. We assumed they’d relocated to another area too.”
“Maybe the UK?”
Morel shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“And you had no thought of providing us with this information?”
“How were we to know for sure?”
“It’s a decent assumption, though. With men like these, isn’t safe better than sorry?”
“The trouble is, Solomon,” said Morel flatly, “your government is only bothered by men like these, as you call them, when they become your problem. Most people I know have had nothing truly to do with the migrants. Usually they are just as frightened of us as we are of them. So many children separated from their parents. A long way from home and simply looking for a better life. They don’t want to be here either. Those three though, they were the wolves. But we should not condemn the whole migration movement on the basis of a few bad people.”
“Do you have access to any CCTV footage? To see how the men got out of the country?”
Morel snorted. “France is a liberal country so we spend very little time spying on our citizens. My men could investigate but it is best you assume we will not learn how and where they departed our shores for yours.”
Gray picked up his briefcase and took out a file. “Do you recognise this man?” He slid over photo of Regan Armitage.
Morel leaned over and studied the face briefly. He shook his head. “I have never seen him before. Who is he?”
“We found him washed up with the other bodies.”
“A smuggler then.” Morel shrugged.
“We don’t think so.”
“But you are not sure?”
“No,” admitted Gray. “What about this one?” It was an image of Larry Lost.
“Possibly. These men, though. They work in the shadows.” Morel checked his watch. “I do not have long either, so if you want to ask anything else, now is the time.”
Gray pulled out another photo. This time Morel picked it up, stared at the face for a long moment, and then raised his eyes to Gray’s gaze.
“That’s my son,” said Gray. “He went missing just over ten years ago.”
“I am sorry to hear that. What happened?”
“It’s a long story. However, some new information came to light recently that he transited through Dover to Calais.”
“Now I understand. This is why you are here.”
“Not entirely.”
Morel held up a hand. “I do not blame you. I have children, and I would go to the ends of the Earth to protect them. What can I do?”
“Could you search your records for any information on children brought through Calais around then?”
Morel pursed his lips. “That will not be easy.”
“Please?”
“May I keep the photograph?”
“I can do better than that.” Gray handed over a file. “These are some of his details.”
The Frenchman flicked through the documents. “More than ten years you say?”
“I know, it’s a long shot.”
“But we have to try, yes?”
“Yes.”
Morel checked his watch again. “Let me drive you to the Eurotunnel terminal,” said Morel.
“You’re busy, I can get a taxi.”
“My car is just here. It is not much out of my way, and I’m happy to.”
“Thanks.”
Morel raced Gray along the roads in a stop-start process of rapid acceleration and sharp braking. He drew up outside the terminal a merciful few minutes later.
“Thank you, Jacques,” said Gray. He held out a hand. Morel took it and shook.
“You are more than welcome. Call me if you need anything else.” Morel handed over his business card. “My mobile number is on there. Then you have a better chance of catching me.”
Gray got out, and Morel screeched away.
While Gray waited to board he considered his morning’s work. In terms of the Regan case Gray hadn’t learned a great deal more from Morel. However, it appeared there was nothing to know. Regan was anonymous in Calais. There seemed to be no connection between him and people smuggling. So what was his link to the immigrants?
Most importantly though, Gray now had a contact in France, someone who maybe cared and seemed to want to help finding Tom. The investigation to find his missing son was back on again.
And tomorrow he had a funeral to attend.