Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies (2 page)

‘I hope it works out with him,’ said Coatsworth. ‘With two boats we make twice as much money.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Rainey. He started the engine.

The door to the restaurant opened and Bell jogged over to the car and climbed in the back next to Mercier. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Better to do it here than at sea, right?’

Rainey edged the car out of the car park and on to the main road to Dunkirk. Bell wound down the window and let the breeze play over his face.

‘You’ve never been a smoker, Andy?’ asked Mercier.

‘Nah,’ said Bell.

‘You should take it up, now you’re on this crew. We smoke like chimneys.’

‘I think I’m getting a nicotine high from the secondary smoke,’ said Bell.

They drove to a garage that had closed for the night and parked behind it. ‘Where the fuck are they?’ asked Coatsworth. He looked at his watch and scowled.

‘I’ll call him,’ said Rainey. He pulled out his mobile phone but before he could make the call a large white Renault van pulled on to the garage forecourt and switched off its lights. It drove slowly around the garage and stopped next to the Mercedes.

Coatsworth climbed out, dropped what was left of his cigarette on to the tarmac and ground it out with his boot. Mercier and Bell joined him.

The driver of the van was a middle-aged Frenchman wrapped up in a sheepskin jacket and a thick red wool scarf wound several times around his neck. He climbed out of the cab and hugged Coatsworth, his breath reeking of garlic and brandy. ‘We have a problem,’ said the Frenchman as he broke away.

‘I pay you so I don’t have any problems,’ said Coatsworth.

The Frenchman looked pained. ‘One of them, he didn’t come up with the money.’

‘He’s in the van?’

The Frenchman nodded.

‘Why the hell’s he in the van? You know the deal, Alain. No money, no passage. If he doesn’t have the cash, he doesn’t get in the van.’

‘It’s complicated,’ said the Frenchman. ‘He’s with his family.’

‘Do I give a shit?’

‘He said he wanted to talk to you. I didn’t see the harm.’

‘You mean you want me to do your job, is that it? Well, how about you give me back the commission for the whole family? How about that?’

‘Ally, my friend, come on …’

‘Don’t give me that, you fat French fuck. I pay you to make sure that everything goes smoothly, not to bring the problems to me.’ He shook his head. ‘This ain’t right, Alain.’

‘He’s got kids.’

‘Yeah? You’ve got kids and I’ve got kids, we’ve all got kids. Having kids doesn’t get you a free pass in life.’

The Frenchman held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right.’

‘I know I’m right,’ said Coatsworth. He gestured at the van. ‘OK, get them out.’ He turned to Bell and Mercier. ‘You need to search them. No weapons and no drugs. One bag each. They know that’s the deal so don’t take any shit from them.’

The Frenchman pulled open the rear doors. There were sixteen people sitting on the floor of the van: men, women and children.
‘Sortez!
’ he said. ‘Get out!’

The first man out was a young Somalian, tall and with a wicked scar running down his left cheek. He was carrying a Manchester United holdall.

‘Over there,’ said Coatsworth, pointing to the front of the van.

Three Middle Eastern men were next out, all in jeans and pullovers and wearing heavy overcoats. ‘Where is the boat?’ asked one in a thick accent.

‘We search you, you pay, then we go to the boat,’ said Coatsworth.

‘We want to see the boat first,’ said the man.

‘No, you pay me first. Or you can fuck off. I don’t care which.’

The three men talked among themselves as they walked towards the front of the van. The one who had done the talking looked over his shoulder but looked away when he saw that Coatsworth was glaring at him.

A man and a woman climbed out of the van with a small boy who couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old. The boy was holding a toy dog and looking around excitedly as if he were on his way to a fairground. The woman had a black headscarf and the man was wearing a Muslim skullcap. The man was carrying two suitcases and the woman held the boy’s free hand.

‘Come on, come on,’ said Coatsworth. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

Three Somalian teenagers climbed out and stood looking around. They were carrying supermarket carrier bags stuffed with clothes. They were all tall and gangly, well over six feet. ‘What’s their story?’ Coatsworth asked the Frenchman.

‘Their father’s already in London. He sent them the money to come over. They’re OK. Good kids.’

Coatsworth pointed for the teenagers to go to the front of the van where Bell was patting down the three in the big coats. Mercier was on his knees, going through a suitcase.

‘This is the guy,’ said the Frenchman. ‘He’s Iraqi.’

A middle-aged man in a heavy leather jacket climbed out of the van. He held up his arms to lift down a small boy, then offered his hand to help down a teenage girl. His wife then handed him three large blue nylon holdalls and one by one he placed them on the ground before helping her down. The wife and daughter were wearing long coats and headscarves.

‘Does he speak English?’ Coatsworth asked the Frenchman. The Frenchman nodded.

Coatsworth pointed at the man. ‘I want a word with you,’ he said. The man hesitated so Coatsworth grabbed him by the arm and frogmarched him over to the Mercedes. ‘Where’s my money?’ he asked.

The Iraqi reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. Coatsworth snatched it from him. It contained hundred-euro notes and Coatsworth flicked through them. ‘There’s only fifteen thousand euros here,’ he shouted. ‘That’s not what we agreed. You have to pay twenty thousand. What game are you fucking playing?’

The man’s wife was looking at them anxiously. Her son began to cry and she picked him up and whispered into his ear. The young girl slipped her arm through the woman’s and bit down on her lower lip as she watched Coatsworth argue with her father.

‘I gave him the deposit,’ said the Iraqi, gesturing at Alain. ‘Five hundred euros each. Two thousand euros.’

‘The deposit gets you on the list,’ said Coatsworth, waving the envelope in the man’s face. ‘The real money gets you on the boat. The fee is four grand a head. Four thousand pounds. Or five thousand euros. That’s the fee and you were told that before you signed on for this.’

‘My son is only three years old,’ protested the man. ‘He is a child.’

‘Four thousand pounds a head,’ said Coatsworth. ‘He’s got a head, hasn’t he? Four heads, sixteen thousand pounds. Or twenty thousand euros.’

The man held out his hands, palms up. ‘I don’t have twenty thousand euros. I have fifteen thousand. That’s all I have.’ There were tears in his eyes and his hands were trembling.

‘Bollocks,’ said Coatsworth. ‘You’ve got money, you’re just trying to cheat me and I’ll tell you now that’s not going to work.’

The man’s wife shouted something in Arabic and the man turned and shouted back at her.

Coatsworth put a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t talk to her, talk to me,’ he snarled.

‘I don’t have twenty thousand euros,’ he said. ‘Not in cash. It’s in a bank. I can pay you when we get to England.’

‘Yeah, my cheque’ll be in the post and you won’t come in my mouth,’ said Coatsworth.

The Iraqi frowned. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘Then understand this. No money, no trip. You’ve enough for three people so I’ll take three of you. One of you will have to stay behind.’ He looked at the watch on the man’s wrist. It was a cheap Casio. ‘Does your wife have any jewellery? Any gold?’

The man shook his head. ‘We were robbed when we were in Turkey.’ The man’s wife walked towards them, the boy in her arms, and said something in Arabic to the man. He replied, and she started talking faster, her free arm waving in the air.

‘Bruno, get over here!’ Coatsworth called to Mercier. Mercier closed the suitcase he was searching and jogged over.

The Iraqi was speaking to his wife in Arabic. Coatsworth turned to Mercier. ‘What’s he saying?’

Mercier moved closer to Coatsworth. ‘She’s saying she thinks they should wait. And find another way to England. Says she doesn’t like you.’

Coatsworth laughed harshly. ‘Doesn’t like me? Doesn’t fucking like me?’ He pointed his finger at the woman. ‘You can fuck off back to Arab-land for all I care,’ he shouted. ‘There are plenty of people more than happy to pay me. You and your whole family can just fuck off and I’ll get someone else to take your place.’

The woman glared at him defiantly. Her husband stepped in front of her and began talking animatedly.

‘What’s he saying now?’ Coatsworth asked Mercier.

‘He’s calming her down,’ said the Algerian. ‘He says they’re to go ahead and he’ll follow once he’s got the cash.’ He listened for a few seconds and then nodded. ‘They’ve got family in Milton Keynes. Her uncle and her aunt. He wants her to stay with them until he gets over. Says he’ll get the money from the bank and come on the next run.’

Coatsworth nodded. ‘Finally he sees sense.’ A small group of men and women were still inside the van, watching what was going on. Coatsworth pointed at them. ‘Get the hell out now and bring your bags with you.’

The Iraqi man finished talking to his wife and came over to Coatsworth.

‘My wife, she is very upset,’ he said. ‘You have to understand, her brother and her cousin were killed this year. Her brother worked for the Ministry of the Interior and the Taliban weren’t happy about what he was doing with border controls. Her cousin was a teacher and she was killed because she taught a lesson about female political leaders. The Taliban shot her in the face. We had to leave, you understand?’

‘I hear sob stories like yours all the time, mate,’ said Coatsworth. ‘I’m not a charity, I’m a business. You pay, you go, you don’t, you stay. When you’ve got the extra five thousand euros I’ll take you.’ He gestured at the road. ‘Now on your bike.’

‘My bike?’ The Iraqi frowned. ‘My bike? I have no bike.’

‘Get lost,’ said Coatsworth.

‘But how do I get back to Calais?’

‘That’s not my problem,’ said Coatsworth.

‘You have to help me,’ pleaded the Iraqi.

Coatsworth reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun, a small semi-automatic. He pointed it in the Iraqi’s face. ‘I don’t have to do anything,’ he said. ‘Now fuck off.’

The Iraqi looked over at Bell but Bell just folded his arms and stared back at him. Mercier said something to the Iraqi in Arabic and the Iraqi opened his mouth to say something back but then he had a change of heart and walked away, his head down. Coatsworth turned to look at the woman. She put her arms around the two children. ‘Up to you, you can go with him or you can come to England. I don’t care either way.’

The woman nodded slowly. ‘We will go with you,’ she said. There was no disguising the hatred in her eyes, but she managed to force a smile. ‘Thank you, for what you are doing. We do not want to cause you any trouble.’

Coatsworth nodded curtly and put his gun away. ‘Finish searching them,’ he said to Mercier. As the Algerian went over to the refugees, Coatsworth turned to watch the Iraqi walking down the road towards Calais. ‘Stupid bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.

Bell and Mercier finished searching the refugees. They had found two kitchen knives in the suitcase of one of the Arab men and all the Somalians had been carrying knives. Bell tossed the knives into the boot of the Mercedes.

‘Line them up and tell them to get their money out,’ Coatsworth said.

Mercier shouted at the group in rapid Arabic, French and English. ‘Line up and get your money out now!’

The refugees did as they were told. Coatsworth walked along the line, taking the money from them and checking it. Once it was checked, he handed the notes to Mercier, who put them in a black backpack. When he reached the Iraqi woman and her two children, Coatsworth grunted and waved at the van. One of the Somalian teenagers helped her up.

When he reached the three Iraqi men, the one who had asked about the boat the first time had his chin up defiantly. ‘We want to see boat,’ he said.

‘Do you see any water here?’ asked Coatsworth.

The man frowned. ‘Water?’ he repeated.

‘The sea? Do you see the fucking sea? We’re two miles from the coast. When we get to the coast you’ll see the bloody boat.’ He held out his hand. ‘Now give me the money or you can walk back to Calais with that other prick.’

The man frowned, clearly not understanding what he was saying, so Coatsworth gestured at Mercier. ‘Tell him what I said and get them in the van.’ He took the backpack from Mercier, thrust in the last of the cash and took it over to the Mercedes. He tossed the backpack on top of the confiscated weapons and slammed the boot shut.

He got back into the Mercedes and watched the refugees climb into the van. The Frenchman slammed the doors shut and got back into the cab. Rainey offered him a cigarette and he took it. Rainey lit it and then lit one for himself.

Bell and Mercier got into the back of the Mercedes. Rainey gave Mercier a cigarette and then put the car in gear and followed the van down the road. There was no traffic and they reached the small harbour in just five minutes. The van pulled up next to a line of fisherman’s huts that had been locked up for the night. Rainey brought the Mercedes to a stop behind the van and switched off the headlights.

Two teenagers in heavy jackets and wool beanies walked over. Mercier wound down the window and spoke to them in rapid French. They answered. ‘All good,’ Mercier said to Coatsworth.

‘Let’s do it, then,’ said Coatsworth. ‘Open the boot, Frankie.’

Coatsworth climbed out of the car and went around to the back. He pulled out the backpack containing the money. Bell and Mercier joined him and retrieved their own bags.

Rainey got out and tossed the keys to one of the teenagers.

Coatsworth gestured at Mercier with his chin. ‘Tell them no joyriding and they’d better be here when we get back.’

As Mercier translated Coatsworth’s instructions, Rainey went around to the boot to get his bag, a Nike holdall. He slammed the boot shut.

The Frenchman had opened the van doors and the refugees climbed out and gathered together in a tight group like worried sheep.