‘Good evening, brother,’ he said in a West Country accent that was a perfect fit with his stout, yeoman’s mug. ‘Nasty accident back there. These boy racers, eh? How can I help you?’

‘Get out of the cab before I drag you out.’

I waited for him to lower his considerable bulk on to the ground. He walked round the cab and faced me, still smiling. He had his driving licence and insurance documents all ready for me. I glanced at his licence. His enormous cropped head stared out at me. Lee Hill.

‘Where have you come from?’

‘I come from Augsburg, bruv. Over there in Germany.’

‘I know where Augsburg is. Where did you enter the UK?’

‘Dover, bruv, off the ferry from Dunkirk. Nice journey, if a bit choppy near the white cliffs.’ He was the picture of benign innocence. ‘What’s all this about then?’ he said.

‘What’s your load?’

He pursed his lips like the class dunce trying to remember an answer he really ought to know.

‘I’m carrying car batteries, bruv, bound for a warehouse in Birmingham.’

‘What else?’

‘Bruv?’

‘Let’s have a look in the back.’

The lorry doors had swung shut.

I indicated to Lee Hill and he pulled them open.

Beyond the crates of car batteries, a young woman in a hijab held her newborn baby to her breast. She looked at me without fear or expectation, as if I was just the latest in a long line of unfortunate events.

‘You and your baby are safe now,’ I told her. ‘Do not attempt to leave this vehicle.’

I looked at Lee Hill and I waited.

‘They must have sneaked on board at Calais,’ he said. ‘You have got no idea what it’s like, bruv! Every run! Every time! They light fires now to slow us down. Every Paki, blackie and Iraqi on the planet wants to hide in the back of your lorry!’

I stared at him and wondered if there was any possibility that he was telling the truth.

I knew it happened.

I knew that there were plenty of innocent lorry drivers who entered the country every day with human cargo they knew nothing about, and had absolutely no desire to be transporting.

‘Let’s have a look in your cab,’ I said.

A used condom sat in the footwell like a burst party balloon. There was a coat on the passenger seat, a worn coat that looked as though it had done service in far too many winters.

I looked at the driver, snug in his leather jacket.

‘Who does this belong to?’

‘Me, bruv.’

One of the worst things about my job are the lies that you hear every single day of your working life. It would not be so bad if they were good lies – credible lies, half-believable lies. But usually they are rubbish lies.

‘Then put it on,’ I said.

He looked appalled.

‘The … condom?’