At first Peter would do the loading. A driver would be paid such and such to stop his lorry in a lay-by in Belgium, Peter and a few cronieswould hop in the back, and they’d stash what they could where they could. Away the lorry would go, another stop in Kent, and Bob’s your uncle. These lorries were back and forth all the time—it’s a daily schedule, isn’t it? Has to be, because of fresh flowers. So it was perfect.
They just had the odd driver here and there and that’s how it worked at first. Until the penny dropped and they bought one of the nurseries. The business ran as usual, but Peter was on hand to “inspect” every shipment as it went out, and to add that little special something to each one. So now they had three lorries a day traveling through Zeebrugge, and they could do what they liked with them. Clever, really.
Peter would spend all his time at the nursery, and the young lad who ran it was paid to turn a blind eye. They’d play cards and chat, and whatever else you do all day in Belgium.
(Off subject for a minute, but there was a notice pinned up the other day about a trip to Bruges, and I thought of signing up. Joanna went a few years ago and her verdict was “It’s too twee, Mum, but you would love it,” so I might take the plunge. Would Elizabeth like it?)
That’s by the by, because here’s what happened next. There was an error—no one knows how or why, or at least Peter doesn’t—but the upshot was that a small florist’s shop in Gillingham accidentally took delivery of two kilograms of cocaine alongside their begonias, and promptly reported it to the police.
The police, who are no fools at times, didn’t rush straight in and arrest the driver. They followed him instead, and saw where he was headed, and saw what was what. There was a whole team on it eventually, and one by one they worked out who was doing what and arrested everyone they could.
The way Peter told it, he and the young lad running the nursery had seen the police coming a mile off (Belgium is as flat as Holland, says Peter), and they hid in a field of sunflowers for six hours as the policestripped the place bare. In Amsterdam, one of the Liverpudlians was killed by a Serbian shortly afterward, and that was that.
You can see where it’s going, I’m sure. Peter had never really risen through the ranks, he wasn’t really the type, but he’d made a bit of money, and he had learned an awful lot about flowers. And he saw them at their most beautiful, of course. He described the colors and so on, and got quite lyrical. Elizabeth had to hurry him along eventually.
So, now, every day, one of those big lorries pulls up on Pearson Street and Peter gets in the back, like he always used to, but this time he just unloads his flowers and carries them into his shop. And the lorry continues on its rounds and heads back to Belgium, to the nursery run by the young lad he’d played cards with, and hidden in a sunflower field with.
So that’s a nice story. I bet the Liverpudlians and the Serbians are still shooting each other left, right, and center in Amsterdam, but Peter has his beautiful shop on that lovely street, where everybody knows his name. Or doesn’t know his name, but you take my point.
And the benefit of going straight was that no one has ever come looking for him, no one has ever arrested him and taken a closer look at that passport, so Peter Ward had left his past behind and found some peace, which is not easy to do.
Just to satisfy Elizabeth’s curiosity, Peter took her to the Flower Mill and showed her the CCTV from the day Tony Curran was murdered. There he was, plain to see, behind the till. Which I think rules him out. He is sure that Turkish Johnny is our man. Tony had betrayed him to the police, and Johnny had stolen from Tony in turn. That would do it, I suppose.
Elizabeth and I talked about it on the train. And we had half an hour at Ashford International, where, believe it or not, there are no shops. Perhaps there are shops beyond passport control. There must be, surely?
So that’s Bobby Tanner. Time for bed, Joyce. I wonder what Ron and Ibrahim were up to today?
I know I was going to say something about Bernard, but it hasn’t really formulated, so I won’t.
I bought him some freesias from Peter Ward’s shop. I wanted to buy something, but I couldn’t think who to buy them for, and I thought perhaps Bernard would like the freesias. Do women give men flowers? Not where I’m from, but perhaps that’s not where I am anymore. So they’re in the sink, and I will take them over tomorrow morning.
Bernard would like Bruges. Don’t you think?
83.
The path is uneven, but by shining a torch at the ground he is able to make his way up to the allotments, the residents’ garden plots, without drawing attention to himself. It is late and everyone will be asleep, but why take a risk? He reaches the shed. There is a padlock, but it’s a cheap one; his wife’s hat pin soon springs it open.
The shed is shared by all the residents who have an allotment at Coopers Chase. A select band. There are a couple of folding chairs for nice weather, and there’s a kettle for colder weather. There are bags of fertilizer and mulch along one wall. These are bought with funds from the kitty, and Carlito carries them in whenever the minibus comes back from the garden center. Pinned above the fertilizer are the rules of the Coopers Chase Allotment Users Association. They are lengthy, and they are enforced with vigor. It is cold, even on a summer night. The torch continues its circuit. There are no windows, which makes it easier.
The spade rests against the back wall inside the shed.
One look tells him all he needs to know. All he already knew, if he was honest, as he walked up the path. But what to do? You have to try.
He lifts it by the handle but is quickly beaten by its weight. When did he get so weak? What happened to his body? It was never much to write home about, but to think he could now barely lift a spade? Digging was out of the question.
So what now? Who could help? Who would understand? It was hopeless.
Bernard Cottle sits in a folding chair and weeps for what he has done.
84.
Chris and Donna are sitting in the Jigsaw Room with mugs of tea. Opposite them are Jason Ritchie and Bobby Tanner.
Bobby Tanner, who detectives across eight forces had failed to locate. Elizabeth has repeatedly refused to say where or how she found him.
Elizabeth and Joyce have both seen evidence that Bobby was busy elsewhere when Tony Curran was murdered. Chris had wondered if he might see that evidence, and Elizabeth had told him he certainly could, the moment he produced a warrant.
Bobby’s deal was that he would tell them everything he knew and then slip back into the crowd, never to be seen again.
