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He pulled on the smoldering cigar, letting the bitter smoke play over his tongue, before expelling it with a satisfied sigh.

Matthijs Visser was not a patriotic man by any means, but he generally favoured Royal Dutch cigars, loving their elegant look, their aggressive, peppery taste.

He always carried a pack with him, reaching for them whenever he had something to celebrate.

He needn’t have worried of course. The border officials in the UK were horribly overstretched and, besides, he’d made preparations.

Preparations which paid off handsomely as a clutch of plain clothes law enforcement officers sprang up from nowhere, descending on the startled Belgian haulier.

A brief hold-up ensued, as the drivers behind were diverted around the incident, but the delay was brief and Visser was soon on his way.

He kept a straight face as he glided past the unfortunate Peeters, spread-eagled on the ground with a police officer’s knee in his back, but as soon as he was clear of the docks, speeding around Southampton’s ring road, Visser allowed himself a small whoop of triumph, tugging a cigar from his breast pocket in celebration.

Sometimes it really did feel like taking candy from a baby, the over-stretched British authorities powerless to stem the flow of human cargo across the channel.

Yes, transporting illegal immigrants was complicated and potentially risky, but it was a doddle compared to the drugs game.

Visser had spent thirty years of his working life in that business, acting first as a spotter at the docks in Rotterdam, before graduating to transporting the goods himself, and for a time he had enjoyed it.

For a boy who’d had nothing as a kid, who’d been a genuine street rat, the money that cocaine smuggling afforded him was dizzying.

But the prizes on offer had attracted others too, the drugs scene in the Netherlands transformed by the arrival of the Moroccan gangs.

Competition had spiked and with it the violence, the scars on Visser’s chest and legs a testament to that.

He had come close to losing everything, so in recent years had pivoted, opting for a less hotly contested trade instead.

How easy, how calm, his latest incarnation seemed to him, loading up migrants who wanted to follow orders, who were motivated to make it to the UK undetected.

Lambs to the slaughter they might be, but as long as they were docile whilst under his care, that wasn’t his concern.

So long as they were alive when he flung open the doors at the remote Hampshire farm, he would get his money.

Placing his cigar gently in the ashtray, he angled a look at his satnav.

Could he make it to the end destination without allowing himself a comfort break?

It would be pushing it, as he’d been on the go for hours, but it was tempting to try.

Finding somewhere out of the way to stop was a headache and he dare not risk a service station, as he could never be sure that one of his charges wouldn’t make a run for it, now that they’d reached the UK.

Such a breach in security would result in loss of earnings, or worse, detection by the authorities, a thought which made Visser shudder.

He had no desire to spend his middle years behind bars, caught in some nightmarish extradition process, with only the promise of a long prison stretch in the company of former gang members or competitors to look forward to.

No, it was too risky, so best press on. There was no point taking unnecessary risks.

Teasing the accelerator, Visser checked his side mirrors.

There was always a chance he was being followed, but given the spectacle at the docks today, he doubted it.

The road seemed clear, his path ahead set fair, so he snatched up his cigar, smiling at his good fortune.

The sun was shining, life was good and he’d soon be rid of his cargo, placing them in the care of their new owner.

He had not always been a fan of this itinerant lifestyle – it was fraught with danger and had wrecked his marriage to Suzanne – but all that had changed.

He loved his visits to the UK now.