‘You mean girls trafficked into prostitution?’
‘Yeah – some girls in a brothel in Luton are talking. But also just ferrying illegals in across the border. Lorries of Afghans, Syrians, wherever there’s a war, basically, coming in through the ports. P&O Ferries, that kind of thing. You would not believe how leaky our borders are right now.’
‘Think I would.’
‘Anyway, it’s really interesting. Nice change from Fireman Sam.’
‘They charging anyone?’ asks Manon.
‘Not yet. Looking at a chap – an Afghan called Abdul-Ghani Khalil.’ Bryony has got up, taking their plates over to the sink. ‘Couple of the prostitutes mentioned him, and a neighbour said he thought Khalil was making a fortune bringing people in, but not enough to charge him yet.’
Manon’s mobile phone has begun to vibrate across the table. ‘Hang on,’ she says to Bryony. Manon stands and her insides swim with the wine. She is loose, but she must hold it together because Harriet is on the phone.
‘Harriet,’ she says brightly, a finger pressing her other ear shut against the tinny sounds of Top Gear from the next room and the clatter of Bryony stacking the dishwasher.
‘The body from yesterday, the jumper,’ says Harriet. ‘We don’t think it is a jumper.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s from Cricklewood, name’s Taylor Dent.’
‘Cricklewood? How’s he ended up in Ely?’
‘Exactly. Can you come in? Stanton wants a briefing.’
Harriet hangs up. She has no time for pleasantries at the beginning and end of phone calls.
‘Can you drive me in, Bri?’ she says as her phone thunks to the bottom of her handbag. ‘I’ve had too much to drink.’
‘Yes, sure thing. Just let me put my shoes on. Don’t want anyone at the nick to see me in these,’ says Bryony, slipping off her bright fur slippers with bunny ears – pre-teen pink, the colour of the sunset through Alan Prenderghast’s double-height windows.
‘Sit down, Manon,’ says Stanton, his back to them.
Harriet is already seated on Manon’s side of the desk, her crossed upper leg bouncing outwards. She is reading a brown file, which drips downwards at its corners.
Stanton is standing by the window, wearing a navy shirt with an ebullient floral pattern on it. Boden, from the looks of it – a Mrs Stanton purchase, Manon guesses, fresh from the packet for a New Year’s Day family lunch or knees-up with the neighbours. She imagines him dad-dancing, his teenage children rolling their eyes.
Manon has always liked Gary Stanton. He’s straight, in that suburban, slightly overweight, Kia-driving, golf-playing way. He can rub along with the boss class without taking umbrage. As a result, he has slid noiselessly up the ranks. No flashes of brilliance. No feuds, either.
Harriet hands Manon the file as Stanton turns, reaching back to scratch his shoulder blade.
‘Taylor Dent,’ he says. ‘What’s he doing in one of our rivers?’
‘He killed Edith Hind, then killed himself?’ says Harriet. ‘He was Edith’s bit of rough, her dealer? She owed him money?’
‘What if he’s the link between Tony Wright and Edith?’ asks Manon. ‘Tony’s gofer.’
‘We need to look at all of it. I want George Street and Deeping swept for his DNA. Annoying there are no cameras around Deeping. I want you two liaising with the Met on Dent’s background, links to Wright. I want interviews with the Dent family. Did he know Edith? Was there any connection through friends – a dealer, the Hind brother? Every avenue. Let’s look at routes from London to here, CCTV at King’s Cross around the time he disappeared, roads, ANPR any vehicles he might have had access to.’
Stanton looks depressed. Last thing he needs is a fresh murder enquiry clogging up officers’ time, slowing up the Hind investigation; more forensics and an expensive postmortem draining his budget.
‘Phone work,’ he says. ‘We need to check this Dent boy’s number against Edith’s phone and against Carter’s and Reed’s. Let’s see if he’s unknown-515.’
‘Will Carter’s alibi holds up,’ Harriet says to Stanton. ‘His return journey from Stoke was verified by the cashier at the Texaco garage in Corby. We showed her a picture and she said, “Oh yeah, he was lush.” ’ Harriet reaches for her bra strap but her arm stops mid-air and she lays it back in her lap, like a dead thing. Has someone – Elsie? – told her she’s a fidget? Still, her foot is going. Kick, kick, kick, as if the energy must escape from somewhere.
Manon has opened Taylor Dent’s file and is reading. Seventeen years old from Cricklewood, North London. Mixed race. Nigerian father, whereabouts unknown. Irish mother, Maureen Dent, known alcohol and substance abuser. Taylor Dent made his money the way lots did: bit of this, bit of that. Knock-off gear, cigarettes off booze cruises sold in markets or to nefarious newsagents. If he dabbled in drugs, he didn’t appear to partake in them.