At the Welcome To Britain sign, she flicked on the radio.

‘Police continue to hunt tonight for the man who killed eight people in a major terror attack at Chilton Park,’ said a slightly too jolly voice. ‘Police say the victims were stabbed as they sat in a stationary roller coaster at the Dartford theme park. The killer, who is believed to have worked at the ride, fled the scene.

‘All the victims were black or Asian and Metropolitan Police counter terrorism officers leading the investigation say the attack appears racially motivated.

‘The incident happened shortly after 11.30 this morning on the Notorious roller coaster. Julie Reynolds reports…’

Braithwaite stopped listening and drove on into the gloom of the night. Her rendezvous was an industrial park on the outskirts of Brighton, far enough away from Newhaven to reduce the risks. Dave had told her not to use satnav, so instead she had directions on a scrap of paper on the seat next to her.

It took thirty-five minutes to reach the park, which had been built alongside an embankment climbing up to a busy dual carriageway on the road out to Lewes. She pulled up and switched off the engine and lights, but kept the fridge motor on.

She was fifteen minutes early. She wondered about opening up and letting the cargo out but thought better of it.

The cargo were a funny lot. She’d seen them briefly in Waterloo, Belgium, as they got in the back. Five Asian or Arabic men, she couldn’t be sure which, and a balding white guy with an outsized, straggly ginger beard. There was something rat-like about his face. He’d not said a word, but she didn’t like the look of him. His eyes were dull and he didn’t hide his disdain for her. Probably doesn’t approve of women working. Well, sod him, Braithwaite had thought.

At 6.31pm, the glare of headlights briefly swept across her cab. She checked the mirror to see a vehicle had pulled up. The lights went out. There was no flash of blue lights or sudden movement, so Braithwaite clambered out. It was a white Ford Transit and an Asian man stood by the open driver’s door.

‘You Dave’s driver?’ He spoke in a northern accent.

‘This way,’ and she led him to the back of the lorry, which she unlocked. The handle was stiff, and the door was a nightmare to open. The evening was cold, but as the door opened, a blast of even cooler air hit them in the faces. They must be freezing in there, thought Braithwaite.

The man flashed a torch on half a dozen pairs of anxious, blinking eyes peering out from behind the cellophane-wrapped pallets.

‘Out, and quick. Chop-chop.’ Braithwaite wanted this over quickly. The cargo crept out and dropped to the ground. They were wrapped in blankets and hats but were shivering and sluggish after their twelve hours in the fridge. The last to emerge was the white man with the ginger beard.