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‘I’m busy right now,’ I say, glancing at Evie.
‘Yeah, so am I. No excuses.’
23
Cyrus
Two dozen detectives and uniformed officers are gathered in the foyer of Birchin Way Custody Facility. Some I recognise from the incident room or on the beach at Cleethorpes.
Carlson emerges from the stairwell, shrugging on his jacket.
He spies Evie. ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘She was with me.’
‘Leave her here.’
‘No.’
He thinks about arguing but changes his mind. ‘She’s your responsibility.’
I could have sent Evie home in my Fiat, but I don’t want her being alone – not today, not after her diagnosis. And I’m not sure if she should be driving or if she has fully processed the news.
Carlson quickly briefs the waiting officers before two vans and four unmarked police cars set off in convoy, pulling through the electric gates and heading west along the A180. Fifteen minutes later, we cross the Humber Bridge and turn east along the northern bank of the permanently brown estuary, which marks the southern boundary of Yorkshire.
Evie and I are in the back seat of a car being driven by a uniformed constable who keeps sneaking glances in the mirror, wondering what Evie is doing on a police operation. Carlson is on the phone, issuing instructions and receiving intel from the incident room. Whenever a piece of information annoys him, he drops the F-bomb, and the driver glances at Evie as though wanting to cover her ears.
The main road turns back on itself and uses an underpass to reach the historic docks, some of which have been demolished and built upon, creating retail parks and factory outlets. Other sections are abandoned and overgrown, waiting to be repurposed.
A small container ship is propped within a dry dock, which is separated from the estuary by large metal gates that are sealed. Water has been pumped out, and wooden beams are braced against the sides of the vessel to stop it tipping over. Beyond that, past a rusting fence, railway tracks appear and disappear beneath mounds of rubble and waste.
We pass through an unmanned security gate, marked by rusting drums and a makeshift boom gate. The cars and minibuses pull up. Officers pile out and disperse across the docks. There must be more than thirty buildings, most of them abandoned or derelict. Bolt-cutters and battering rams are needed to enter some of them.
Evie and I wait with the vehicles. The radio squawks as information passes between the teams. It’s hot and I look around for some shade. A nearby building has an awning. As we get nearer, a security guard appears from around the corner, hitching his belt. Puffing. Overweight. Annoyed.
‘You’re trespassing,’ he says belligerently. ‘This place is off limits.’
‘We’re with the police,’ I say.
‘I don’t care. You need a warrant.’
I motion to his unzipped fly. He zips it up, embarrassed but still protesting.
‘We’re looking for a trawler with a damaged prop shaft,’ I say.
‘No fishing boats here. You got the wrong place.’
Evie takes an interest. ‘You haven’t seen a trawler?’
‘No.’
‘You’re lying. Is it that way?’ She points.
‘You’re talking out of yer arse.’
‘What about that way?’
‘Are you deaf? There is no trawler.’
