Until Death (33 page)

Georgie shrugged. ‘We do what we can. And we try to do it better than the criminals.’

‘I hear the price of cocaine has halved in ten years.’

‘And global trade has tripled. There’s always a cost to success.’

‘Yet I bet the numbers of people doing your job are down.’

‘Which is why we rely more and more on information people like you give us.’

He pulled out his packet of tobacco and began making a roll-up.

‘I’m sorry, there’s no smoking in here.’

‘I’ll save it for outside.’

She watched him finish the roll-up and pop it in his shirt pocket. He was in no hurry. Georgie wondered if prison did that to you, made you a master at stringing out any event, to alleviate the crushing boredom. Her brother Matt had not coped well with his four months on remand. She knew she must seem impatient, eager to get results. She didn’t think this was a bad thing.

‘So, how did it work?’

‘In the beginning, if the cans were damaged or open, we’d just help ourselves. Hardly sophisticated, but effective. We’d sell what we got, sometimes we busted them open ourselves, just for shits and giggles. I guess I got a reputation, because later I was paid to let certain containers on certain ships through, and to make others drop off the system. It was newly computerised back then and easy to make things disappear.’

‘Who paid you?’

‘Guys who wanted stuff done. It was never just one. What I don’t think you lot – I mean customs – realise is that the more complicated the paper trail, the more checks and balances, the easier it is to make things fall through the holes. It’s human nature: the more secure the system, the less people look.’

‘When you went to jail, who took over? Unofficially, of course.’

He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know. Someone more important; someone further up.’

‘But you were just saying you worked for yourself.’

‘Precisely. That’s why it turned out as it did.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I went to jail for a murder I didn’t commit.’ There was silence. She sensed Ricky was used to it, the sceptical looks, the hidden sighs of disbelief, the frustration at his special pleading. ‘Someone had put a lot of thought into it. About the gap that would be created after I’d gone.’

‘Care to name a name?’

He shook his head. ‘If it was as bent as I think it was at the bottom, it was probably that bent at the top too.’ He paused. ‘What’s the company that you’re investigating today?’

‘Malamatos Shipping. Ever heard of it?’

She watched him closely, gauging his reaction. He gave a tight smile. ‘It sounds familiar.’

She pressed on. ‘It’s run by Christos Malamatos.’ His gaze was steady on her. ‘Greek family originally, lives in London, got a wife called Kelly. He has a problem with illegally harvested Brazilian rosewood on one of his ships.’ There seemed nothing shifty about his reaction to what she was saying.

‘So what’s the connection to Southampton?’

‘We don’t know yet. We got a tip-off, that’s all. Back in the day, you ever come across any hardwood – tropical hardwood?’

Now she saw a strange look cross his face. ‘I used to know someone who used to do wood …’ He trailed off. ‘But it can’t be.’

Georgie was on it immediately. ‘Can’t be what?’

Ricky shook his head. ‘No, sorry, it’s nothing. The guy died a long time ago.’ He paused. ‘Illegally harvested hardwood? That’s much more valuable than it used to be.’

‘Uncut. Raw state, illegally harvested Brazilian rosewood.’

This surprised him. ‘Uncut?’

‘Still got the bark on it.’

‘Those trees must be huge.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘Tropical hardwood is incredibly dense. Particularly with the bark on it. I assume you’ve used a detector—’

‘Of course. The density comes back as uniform. There are no holes in which something’s been hidden.’

He tapped the arm of his chair. ‘What are they – two metres across?’

‘Some of them are more.’

‘Maybe the wood is thick enough to hide whatever’s inside so your scanners can’t pick it up. With the smell and the density, I’d say it’s a possibility.’

‘How do you know so much about wood?’

‘I spent eight years in jail. All I did all day was read. I know a lot about the things prison governors decide are good to have in the prison library. Have you looked between the bark and the wood? You could get liquid heroin up in there.’

‘We’ve done all the standard checks.’

‘Then I’m not sure I can be much use.’

‘What’s the cleverest way you’ve ever seen to hide something?’

Ricky paused, thinking. ‘In plain sight, hiding in plain sight.’ He smiled, a rather sad and small smile. ‘I’d really like to see that wood.’

‘Let’s go back to that hardwood connection you were talking about—’

Georgie was interrupted by Preston opening the door.

‘He’s coughed up the wood address.’ Preston looked excited and she heard the commotion of other people behind him.

Mo appeared in the doorway. ‘G, I need to talk to you out here.’

‘Excuse me.’ She got up and left the room and stood with Preston and Mo in the corridor.

‘Ian Scanlon is claustrophobic. He took one look at that holding cell and started to blabber.’

‘He claimed that’s why he became a truck driver, to enjoy the open road,’ Preston interrupted.

‘The cans of wood go to Cranleigh House, a mansion in Hertfordshire,’ Mo continued. ‘A year ago he met the contact at Casson Street, but he had no truck with him. The guy said it had broken down and they needed to go in Ian’s rig, because the delivery had to be that day. So can you believe it? He drove straight there, unloaded the can on the driveway, and he drove away.’

Angus came up to them and opened the door of the meeting room where Ricky sat. They all crowded in after him. ‘You and Mo go there right now,’ he said to Georgie.

‘Let’s go,’ said Mo.

Georgie gathered her things and picked up her bag. She turned to Ricky. ‘Thank you for coming all this way, but we’ve got to go now, something’s come up. I could drop you at a station on the way and talk in the car, though.’

‘Could I wait around here? Could you show me the wood when you get back?’

Mo and Preston were talking behind her, she could hear phones ringing, Mo pulling on his jacket. ‘We might be hours.’

‘It’s no bother. I saw a shopping centre on my way in, I can kill an afternoon. I like water, the docks.’

‘Georgie and Mo, get out to that house before dark.’ Angus’s voice was behind her in the room.

‘All I can offer you is that I’ll phone you when we’re back,’ she said to Ricky.

‘Come on,’ Anguish was urging, ‘let’s look lively now.’

She was swept down the stairs with the boss, Preston, Mo and Ricky. ‘The shopping centre’s that way and there’s a walk you can do along the harbourside down there too.’ Her colleagues were already moving away to the car pool and her last sight of Ricky was of him standing outside the customs building pulling a roll-up from the pocket of his shirt.

Georgie and Mo were in the car driving up the A1. ‘Woronzow’ was the name registered at the address.

‘Sounds Russian,’ Georgie said.

‘He’s Brazilian,’ corrected Mo, ‘with a French wife.’

The satnav directed Mo to turn off when they reached a sign to Welwyn Garden City and they passed a series of roundabouts and then drove down smaller and smaller roads, until the countryside in the grey afternoon light felt as remote as a road through the Scottish Highlands. It was the commuter belt. How Georgie would love to live out here, deep in the quiet and shadow, cycling to the train station every morning, around nice people who wanted to get on and contribute to society. She couldn’t wait.

‘I’d love to live out here.’

Mo shuddered. ‘I
knew
you were going to say that. You’re not a Home Counties’ girl, Georgie.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think you’ll ever do it. You’ll stay near your roots longer than you think. There will always be something pulling you back.’

Georgie smiled and shook her head. ‘You’re wrong, Mo, you’re wrong.’

They followed a country road along an ancient brick wall and then slowed and came to an entrance with grand wrought-iron gates. She directed Mo to keep going for a while before she realised she’d missed it and they turned round and drove back. Mo pulled in and they saw a camera almost concealed on an ancient stone post with a doorbell. They had come to the right place. A woman answered and the gates rolled open without so much as a squeak or a rattle. They drove up a winding drive and over a slight rise. The gravel stopped in a circle of thick trees and hedges and they got out of the car. The air was cold, the smell of wood smoke drifting, the pleasing crunch of gravel underfoot. The silence was a heavy curtain around them. They walked along a stone path and came out in front of Cranleigh House. It was a substantial three-storey Georgian building with a curving front section in a honey-coloured stone. A vine travelled up one side of the big black door, set with a brass knocker and a spy hole and an expensive-looking security system.

Georgie rang the doorbell. It ding-donged pleasantly and a moment later a middle-aged woman in a maid’s outfit opened the door, warm light pouring from the hallway beyond her on to the stone steps outside. Georgie and Mo showed their IDs and the woman looked a bit surprised but ushered them in, closed the door behind them and smiled, asking them to wait as she walked away.

Georgie heard Mo mutter an exclamation under his breath. The entrance hall was more than beautiful. It was stunning, like something you’d see in an interiors magazine, only here it wasn’t just photos on glossy paper, it was in front of her and above her and all around her. The floor was dark wood and highly polished, covered with tasteful rugs with some kind of abstract pattern. A modern chandelier hung from the high and gleaming ceiling, casting everything in a romantic glow. There was a sofa in the hallway in some kind of soft fabric that looked like if you sat on it you’d never want to get up.

Georgie took a few steps into the house. She saw stairs leading away at an angle to the upper floors, balustrades gleaming. It wasn’t stuffy or formal, it was a house to put you at ease, a house to enjoy. It even smelled beautiful. A large vase of unusual-looking flowers sat on a beaten metal table beyond the sofa, in front of an antique mirror. Georgie couldn’t resist walking over and giving them a sniff. Fresh flowers in October – she knew how many thousands of miles they had been airfreighted. But they weren’t giving off the smell.

The maid came back then, and they could hear a woman calling out for them from a room off the entrance hall. They followed the voice into a large living room with a big bay window, through which were views of a large garden and beyond that a pool that was covered over for the winter. In the room pieces of sculpture stood on marble podiums.

‘Hello, I’m Mrs Woronzow, however can I help you?’ Mrs Woronzow was sitting on one of two huge sofas facing each other at right angles to the fireplace. She wore a blue silk bathrobe and had bare feet, her toned and tanned legs visible below the shimmering fabric. She was at least fifty, with dark hair, good skin and a sheen of wealth Georgie felt she could almost touch with her fingers. ‘Come, sit. Maria, I think tea, yes? We’ll take tea.’ The maid left the room before Georgie or Mo could utter a refusal.

Mrs Woronzow saw Mo staring at the large picture propped on the mantelpiece. ‘I see you’re looking at that one. It’s a Warhol. It’s lovely, isn’t it? A real extravagance but I justify it because I’m an interior designer, my work has to be my life. My clients live all over the world, but if they come here I want them to feel the wow.’ She threw her hands up to emphasise how much ‘wow’ she meant.

‘Is your husband here?’ asked Georgie.

‘He’s in Basle. Back tomorrow, then it’s Milan, I think.’ She smiled. ‘What can I help you with?’

Georgie unzipped her coat. It was hot in this room. No draughts from badly fitting windows here, no damp penetrating the hundreds-of-years-old brickwork. She walked towards the large fireplace that dominated the room. Feathery grey squiggles ran through the creamy pale marble. The fire crackled and popped pleasingly before her.

She had things to do, but she wanted to enjoy the house for just a little longer, to have something to dream about tonight, the fantasy of perfect bricks and mortar. She thought of Dad in the recliner, Ryan, Karl and Matt squished on the sofa, her more often than not lying out on the rug. Sky TV blaring, the gas fire in the lounge making condensation stream down the insides of the window from their breath, and the heat fleeing as quickly as they created it through gaps in the single-paned window. This one room was bigger than her entire house, and it was so quiet. All Georgie could think of was the empty bedrooms, the unused bathrooms, all this space and privacy. And it was much warmer than her house, too. Next to the fire was an alcove stacked neatly with logs. It was so beautiful it was like a piece of art in itself.

Georgie stepped closer to the pile. She lifted a piece of wood and put it to her nose. She closed her eyes. The aroma of roses, so rare in October. She could hear the hiss and the crackle of the fire in the Carrara marble fireplace, the immaculate pile of logs in the stylish grate burning and crumbling to ash, and smoke curling away, up into the flawlessly proportioned chimney and the cold afternoon sky.

‘My God – you burn it?’ She dropped the piece to the floor with a clatter and turned. ‘Where’s your wood store?’

Mrs Woronzow looked at her, confused. ‘Outside in the barn. What’s the problem?’

Georgie ran out of the front door and round the long side of the house to a weathered barn a short distance away and pulled open the door. A light came on automatically to counteract the afternoon gloom. Along one of the walls, stacked to head height and several feet deep, were hundreds of faultlessly cut logs of Brazilian rosewood. She took a step back and stared at it all, stupefied.

Mo and Mrs Woronzow came up behind her. Mrs Woronzow had pulled on a pair of wellingtons with a rim of fur at the top and thrown a pashmina over her shoulders. ‘Is there a problem?’