Page 47 of The Honeymoon Affair

There’s no such thing as eternal happiness. If one of my authors wrote that in a manuscript, I’d tell them that our time on earth is finite, and that strictly speaking our happiness ends with the end of our lives. They’d probably argue that it could carry on in the afterlife, and then we’d have an existential discussion about it and I’d still insist on them editing it out.

However, despite me and Charles no longer being romantically involved, we’re still good friends and professional partners. I’ll be behind him every step of the way with his new book. He wouldn’t expect anything less from me and I wouldn’t expect anything less from myself either.

Chapter 13

Iseult

Half my life is an act of revision.

John Irving

I’m standing on my plinth, freezing in the biting easterly wind that whistles around the buildings and the cargo crates of the port, when the final truck rolls off the ship. It’s a six-axle articulated lorry and the container is painted green with the logo of a transport company I’ve never heard of. I hold up my hand to tell the driver to stop, and I can feel his irritation as the air brakes engage.

‘Hello,’ I say as he lowers the window. ‘Where have you come from?’

He’s a heavyset middle-aged man with a weathered face, and he gives me an irked look from below the black baseball cap pulled down close to his eyes.

‘UK,’ he says, and then nods back at the ferry. ‘Where d’you think?’

I keep my voice pleasant. ‘And what goods are you carrying?’ I ask, although I already know the answer because I’ve seen the manifest. It’s machine parts.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I picked it up, that’s all.’

You’d think he’d be fully aware of what the load is, but a lot of the documentation is sent electronically now, and sometimes drivers are the last in the chain. Brexit has made things a million times more complicated. We’ve taken on more staff simply to deal with the digital paperwork.

‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘Would you mind driving into the next lane and they’ll direct you. We need to do an additional check.’

‘Why?’ he demands. ‘I’ve driven all over Europe and nobody ever stops me. Only here in this little island. Who do you think you are?’

‘I’m a customs official,’ I reply. ‘And I’m doing my job.’

‘And I’m doing mine.’ He glowers. ‘I don’t need to be delayed.’

‘We’ll be as quick as we can,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

When the last of the vehicles has left the port, I walk over to the large covered shed where the lorry is now parked. The driver is talking to Katelyn, who tells him she needs him to open the container. He grumbles as she breaks the seal, but says nothing more. There’s a certain frisson of tension in the team as he swings the doors open to reveal dozens of tightly stacked crates.

‘Are you going to check them all?’ His tone is sarcastic.

‘No,’ says Katelyn.

The driver taps his foot, then rubs his arms. Despite some drifting flakes of snow, he’s only wearing a gilet over his Meat Loaf T-shirt, and he must be cold. The customs team, me included, are all well wrapped up in thermal fleeces, hats and boots, as well as our hi-vis jackets. We talk quietly among ourselves as we wait for Fish and Chips. When they arrive, Brad signals to Chips to jump into the container. Tail wagging enthusiastically, the dog climbs onto the crates, although his lack of interest in them makes us exchange anxious glances. But after a good rummage around, he sits down and barks, indicating he’s detected something.

‘X-ray?’ I suggest. The crates would be a nightmare to unload and open.

Ken nods, and I tell the driver to move the lorry to the mobile X-ray unit. I like the X-ray unit. I like looking at the images, figuring out what they might be and deciding if there’s anything worth investigating further. With Chips having indicated for drugs, I’m sure we’ll find something. The question is whether it’ll be a big haul or just a spliff the driver has managed to drop in the container. I ask him if he has a jacket to put on while he waits in the designated area for us to X-ray the container. He grabs a fleece from the cab, grumbling all the while.

Mateusz Bernaki, another team member, is already in the unit when I open the door and walk in. He begins the scanning process, and the contents of the truck start to appear on the screen. We both study the image, changing the colour and contrast in an effort to spot anomalies. There’s no shading that would indicate anything that shouldn’t be there, and yet there’s something not quite right.

‘See that?’ I point to the roof of the container.

‘Yup.’

‘Any chance we’re talking lead-lined?’

‘Could be.’

I use my walkie-talkie to ask Robbie if he or Ken saw anything that might have been a false panel in the container.

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