‘The pick-up can be anywhere,’ he said. ‘The pick-up can be when you’re lining up to get on the ferry. But that might not be a voluntary pick-up, if you know what I mean. A driver might not even know about it. The lorry park at Saint-Omer is the place where you are least likely to get a knife in your ribs and where you are most likely to get paid for your troubles. You know why I got into this game? Because I once made it to the Watford Gap with a bunch of hairy-armed Afghans who were tucked up behind a load of German washing machines without my knowledge or consent. So I figured – if the great unwashed are going to hitch a ride, then why shouldn’t I get paid for it?’

‘Fourteen years’ hard time,’ I said. ‘How about that for a good reason?’

He looked wistful.

‘If it hadn’t been for those Essex boy racers losing control of their Ford Escorts, you would never have nicked me. You think I was the only lorry on that motorway last night with the Third World in the back?’

Whitestone shook her head, her face clouding.

Chinatown, I thought. She’s remembering Chinatown.

‘I don’t think we can trust Mr Hill.’

She was not trying to scare him. She truly meant it. This was always the trouble with Criminal Informants. By their very nature, they were duplicitous, two-faced liars. That’s exactly who you were relying on for information.

And sometimes it is just not worth the effort.

Whitestone nodded to the uniformed officer and turned away. The key rattled in the lock.

‘Wait.’

Hill still had my phone in his hand.

‘I’ll find him for you,’ he said. ‘I’ll look in the lorry park at Saint-Omer. And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll even look in the camps and risk a knife in my neck for the trouble. And I’ll look for his ugly mug in the bar on the ferry.’ He stared at the image on my phone. ‘And I’ll find him.’

Whitestone thought about it.

Then she nodded.

‘You get seven days,’ she said.

‘And then what happens?’ he said.

‘Nothing good, Mr Hill.’

I held out my hand for my phone.

‘Got a name?’ he said. ‘Nationality?’

‘All we have is that one photo,’ I said. ‘We know he does the Balkan run. We know he has brought at least one cargo through Dunkirk. And we know he does this.’

I snapped my fingers twice.

Click-click.

‘Then you don’t know very much, do you?’ Hill said, handing me my phone.

‘There was a woman who survived,’ I said. ‘She was in the cab with the driver. We found twelve bodies but thirteen passports.’

‘I’m not expected to find her, am I? A woman in the cab with the driver! She’s going to be long gone.’

Whitestone stared at him in silence.