He scanned the other packs on the table. All were exactly the same, and all of them were cellophane sealed, so they couldn’t have been tampered with. Each bore the same health warning: “Smoking seriously harms you and others around you”.
Yeah right, thought Trevor, and apparently it can get you chased by the police and mad people with guns too. What could be worse for your health than that?
He stuffed the cigarette packets back into the Jiffy bag and resealed it as best he could. Clutching it to his chest, he took a long drink and wondered why anyone would want to make so much fuss over a few fags. He’d no idea how much a packet cost these days, but it couldn’t have been much more than six or seven quid, and thirty-odd quid’s worth hardly amounted to tobacco smuggling.
Milly’s whimpering from inside the van interrupted his ponderings. Despite her substantial sausage snack, she was making it clear to Trevor that it was way past time for her evening meal. He returned the Jiffy bag to the locker above the sink and opened a tin of dog food. Spooning the chunks of meat into her bowl, his rumbling belly tried to persuade him to save some for himself and only narrowly failed.
He spent the next hour sitting outside, drinking beer and trying to figure out a rational explanation for the contents of the Jiffy bag and what his next course of action should be. Eventually, however, he realised his brain was far too tired and addled to come up with anything even remotely coherent and decided that his best option now was some much-needed sleep.
Promising himself he’d get up early and head straight for the nearest café and a slap-up breakfast, he left the picnic table and chair where they were and set up the bed in the van. He grabbed a pillow and a duvet from a shallow cupboard above the cab, and although his mind and grumbling stomach seemed intent on preventing it, he was asleep within seconds with Milly curled up beside him, snoring softly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Trevor had no idea how long he had been asleep when he was awoken by a tapping noise. It took him a few moments to reconfigure his brain cells into consciousness, and then he heard the sound again. Someone seemed to be knocking on the side of the van. The events of the previous day came flooding back to him, and his immediate instinct was to panic. He glanced at his watch. It was just after eight o’clock.
‘Mr Hawkins?’
He didn’t recognise the man’s voice, but that didn’t mean a thing. He knew of at least three people who were after him, and quite likely there were others.
‘Mr Hawkins?’ The voice was louder this time.
‘Er… yes?’ Pulling the duvet around him, he sat upright and wriggled himself towards the foot of the bed.
‘I wonder if we could have a word.’
Oh God, thought Trevor. That sounds like police talk. Surely the fat slob with the sausages hadn’t really reported him. But even if he’d gone to the campsite manager, there’s no way they’d call in the—
‘Mr Hawkins.’ It was more of a statement than a question now, and whoever was speaking was getting impatient.
He pulled back the curtain on the side door and slid back the window. The broad chinned face of a man with slicked back dark hair was smiling in at him and holding up some kind of identity card. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Logan from the Metropolitan Police and this is Detective Constable Swann.’
Trevor peered over Logan’s shoulder at the face of the woman who was standing behind him. She too was smiling.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ said Logan.
‘What about?’
‘I’ll explain at the station.’
‘Station?’
‘The local police station, sir. Now if you wouldn’t mind getting dressed…’
Milly’s face appeared next to Trevor’s at the open window, and she surveyed their early morning visitors as if trying to decide whether they presented a sufficient threat to merit the effort of barking. She apparently concluded that they didn’t and contented herself with panting and dribbling.
‘This your dog, sir?’ said Logan.
Trevor scowled. ‘Yes.’
‘Cute,’ said the woman detective.
‘It’ll take me a few minutes to pack up the van if you want me to follow you.’
‘That won’t be necessary, sir. We’ll give you a lift and drop you back here afterwards,’ said Logan and almost inaudibly added, ‘All being well.’
Trevor closed the curtain and threw on his clothes. The marching band had taken up residence in his chest again, and his brain was turning somersaults. This has got to be about that bloody Jiffy bag, he thought, and he looked up at the locker above the sink. Perhaps he should just hand it over right now and have done with it. No, said another voice in his head. Find out if that’s what they’re really after first. Anyway, they might think you’re trying to bribe them. – What, with half a dozen packets of fags?