‘Why do you think Carl and Will were killed?’
Laura eased the pool car around a mini-roundabout beside the entrance to a supermarket, accelerating as the road widened.
Urban sprawl gave way to countryside, the hedgerows encroaching onto the slim pavement that petered out within another half a mile until the properties on each side gave way to a panoramic vista over the Kentish landscape.
Gavin thumbed through his emails as she drove, calling out updates from the team while she kept a lookout for the turning.
‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually, and lowered his phone as she indicated left. ‘But I wonder if Carl was the target, and Will was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Laura checked her rear-view mirror then slowed a little. ‘Okay, so here’s the industrial estate where Kay and Barnes were. According to Phillip we need to head up this road for another five minutes. Ready?’
‘Yes.’ Gavin shifted in his seat to look at her. ‘But let’s make a deal, all right? If we think we need to turn around and wait for back-up, then we do. No heroics, okay?’
‘Sounds good.’
Her eyes moved from the twisting lane to her rear-view mirror as they passed different properties.
She pulled into the verge to let a tractor pass, wincing as an overgrown hawthorn hedge scraped against the door mirror, then shoved the car into gear once more and accelerated away, a nervousness clawing at her chest.
As they passed the industrial estate, her gaze shifted to the signage above the unit for Alan Trentithe’s catering business and she wondered if he was there now, keeping a watchful eye on his workers or perhaps lying in wait for them at their next destination.
Despite the bravado in her suggestion to Gavin, she wondered if they should have waited until Kay and Barnes returned to the incident room before venturing out.
Without the support from her senior and more experienced colleagues she felt exposed, and fought down a pang of fear that was starting to gnaw at her concentration.
The lane narrowed beyond the industrial units, and save for a handful of stone cottages that huddled behind a low wooden fence leaning precariously towards the road, there was no-one else in sight.
Half a mile down the lane, she slewed the car over to the verge, the sudden manoeuvre kicking up dust and small stones that peppered the wheel arches.
Gavin’s chest pressed against his seatbelt and his mobile phone fell from his hands, tumbling into the footwell.
‘Jesus, Hanway…’
He leaned forward, rummaged around and located the phone under his seat, muttering under his breath.
She ignored him and peered through the windscreen.
‘Look.’
A concealed track stretched beyond the end of the asphalt road, lined on both sides with thick conifers and ash. A metal five-bar gate blocked the entrance and a mixture of mud and stones spilled out over the road in front of them.
Rust nibbled at the edges of a sign that had once issued orders to keep out, the lettering faded under the alternating assault of several winters and bright sunlight.
On the other side of the gate, the carcass of an old school bus was parked under the trees, its wheels missing and the paintwork covered in rust and moss.
Gavin squinted through the windscreen. ‘Is this the place?’
‘Must be. There’s nowhere else to go – this is the end of the road.’ She turned in her seat to face him, noting the determined expression he wore. ‘Shall we phone in for some back-up?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t worry – we’ll just take a quick look. We might be wrong about this, after all. Park back by the cottages though.’
Five minutes later, they approached the track on foot and Laura paused to take a series of photographs on her phone in case she needed to log them into HOLMES2 on their return to the incident room.
A rattle of metal against metal reached her ears after she snapped an image of the rusting sign and she turned to see Gavin cradling a padlock and chain in his hand.
‘It was unlocked,’ he said, hooking it over the top bar of the gate and pushing it open.
She closed the gate and eyed the abandoned bus with a mixture of disgust and intrigue. ‘That’s been here a while.’
‘Yes, but these tyre tracks are new – look.’ Gavin pointed to a series of crisscrossed lines that were carved into the dirt, all different tread marks churning up the ground.
She bit her lip and trailed after her colleague as he set a brisk pace along the right-hand edge of the track, making sure they avoided standing on the tyre marks.
Part of her wanted to be the one to find the breakthrough in the investigation, the other half was fighting the twist to her guts that reminded her they were at least thirty minutes away from any back-up should something go wrong.
On each side of the dirt track, lined up like an ailing honour guard, were a mixture of cars, panel vans and an old Bedford army truck in various states of disrepair and rot.
‘This must have been a scrapyard at one time,’ she said, keeping her voice low as her eyes swept her surroundings for any sign of activity. ‘I wonder why they didn’t get rid of them…’
‘Scenery, perhaps,’ said Gavin. ‘A way to make it look as if there’s nothing going on down here.’
‘Maybe.’
The track continued past an iron shed, twisting left before widening out into a stony yard cluttered with discarded plastic hubcaps, rusting carburettors and other vehicle parts.
At the far end and nearest to the concrete motorway bridge were three steel shipping containers, the doors facing the track and resolutely closed.
The roar of traffic filled the air, and Laura raised her gaze to see a series of articulated trucks with German and Hungarian lettering along the sides tear past the reinforced safety barriers that hugged the motorway. A lone siren passed on the opposite side, a pitiful bleat that faded into the distance within seconds.
‘Let’s have a look around,’ said Gavin.
He crossed to the left side of the yard, hands in his pockets as he stooped to peer at some of the junk discarded around the fringes, before he moved forward once more and disappeared from sight behind the remains of an old pick-up truck.
Laura swallowed, then wove between the carburettors and abandoned radiator grilles, her eyes skimming over the vehicles.
Exhaling, she turned her attention to the three shipping containers, wondering whether to phone Parker and tell him the information from the delivery company was wrong, that there was nothing out here.
Her breath caught in her throat at the sound of an approaching motorbike engine, and she spun on her heel.
‘Gavin! Someone’s coming.’
She heard the sound of running footsteps and then a muffled curse and a clang as her colleague tripped over an engine exhaust pipe.
‘Here.’ He beckoned to her, and she ran across to join him beside an industrial-sized waste bin filled with empty cardboard boxes that were flattened and squashed under the protruding metal lid.
She ducked behind it as a moped trundled into view, its rider fighting to keep it upright while weaving his way around the potholes and deep ruts.
Gavin’s breath tickled her hair while they peered over the bin, and she frowned as the rider brought the moped to a standstill next to the two nearest shipping containers.
He climbed off the bike and flipped up the visor to his helmet before removing it to reveal the acne-ridden face of a teenager.
The rider then flipped open a large plastic box fitted to the back of the moped, reached in and extracted a set of squashed nylon bags.
He let the lid fall back into place on the box and shook out the bags before he ambled over to the container farthest from where Laura stood and rapped his fist against the dark-blue surface above a metal handle.
Laura couldn’t prevent her sharp intake of breath as the door swung open and a cloud of steam escaped through the gap.
The aroma of frying oil, garlic and more wafted on the wind to where they hid, and she heard Gavin’s stomach rumble in protest as a woman in her thirties handed the teenager two pizza boxes.
‘Good job we’re not on a surveillance job,’ she hissed.
‘Sorry. Hang on, there’s someone else coming.’
She craned her neck so she could see past him and back along the track.
Sure enough, a second moped was bobbing and weaving its way towards them, the rider wearing a full-face helmet with the visor flipped up, his face one of determination while he tried to maintain his balance.
A third rider appeared before he reached the yard, and within minutes Laura counted six moped riders milling about in front of the three shipping containers.
‘This is Alan Trentithe’s real dark kitchen,’ Gavin murmured. ‘These are all delivery riders, aren’t they? This is the start of their shift. Look – there goes the first rider.’
The moped zipped past, the rider flicking down his visor before he reached the track and then drove away.
Laura turned her attention back to the shipping containers at a shout from the third container set farther back from the others in time to see the door swing shut.
She frowned, wondering whether the shout was one of warning or otherwise and then emitted a surprised snort as the door opened once more and a broad man emerged with a huge bag of frozen chips slung over his left shoulder.
When he turned to shut the door behind him, Laura slapped Gavin’s arm.
‘Bingo,’ she said. ‘That’s the bloke Ann O’Connor identified from the CCTV footage. That’s Barry.’