Page 50

Rachel Firth lived in a penthouse flat atop a luxury new development in Ocean Village.

Walking along the quayside, feasting her eyes on the sparkling white yachts, listening to the gentle thrumming of the rigging, Helen couldn’t help but be impressed.

Life in this part of town was opulent, pristine, expensive, the towering apartment block peering imperiously out over the marina, the boats and the lapping water, confident in its luxury, status and authority.

Helen had had little idea that industrial cleaning and waste disposal paid so well, but the boss of Regus certainly appeared to have landed on her feet.

It was a sunny Saturday lunch time and the quayside was crawling with pleasure seekers and holidaymakers.

Sidestepping them, Helen walked quickly to the entrance of the towering apartment block, pushing inside and gliding across the central lobby.

This impressive development was more hotel than flats, right down to the smartly dressed receptionist on the front desk, carefully positioned to keep ordinary mortals at bay.

‘Good morning, madam,’ the smartly dressed young man said, almost managing to bury his Eastern European accent.

‘Rachel Firth, please.’

‘Is Ms Firth expecting you?’ he enquired politely.

‘Not exactly, but I’m sure she’ll see me. It’s Detective Inspector Helen Grace.’

The words tripped off her tongue effortlessly, but Helen felt an odd pang offering them up.

Was this because of the gross dishonesty in trading on her former glories?

A fear of being found out? Or just a stab of regret for the loss of her old self?

The receptionist barely noticed, however, pressing a button to connect his phone to the top-floor apartment.

A short period of theatrical whispering followed, before he turned back to Helen once more.

‘Ms Firth is curious to know what it is regarding?’ he asked, striving to sound more English than the English.

‘It’s about the illegal immigrants she employs to clean South Hants hospital,’ Helen replied, loud enough for Firth to hear.

There was a moment’s shock, a brief whispered conversation, then he responded:

‘Ms Firth will see you now. Eighth floor.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t chat for long, as I’m meeting friends for lunch. Hopefully we can sort out this confusion quickly and be on our way.’

Rachel Firth cut a striking figure, matching her opulent surroundings.

Immaculately dressed in Boxfresh jeans and a sharp bolero jacket, her short blonde hair framing her perfectly oval face, she seemed the epitome of the elegant modern professional, dressing down expensively for the weekend.

She had a confidence and attitude to match, casually attaching drop earrings with one hand, whilst tossing her keys and purse into her handbag with the other.

She seemed unperturbed by Helen’s surprise visit, suggesting she was either entirely innocent or a very good actor.

‘I won’t keep you then,’ Helen said politely. ‘We’re looking for a van which we believe is being used to transfer illegal immigrants to and from their place of work at South Hants hospital. The van is registered to your company.’

Helen knew that with no warrant card in her possession, no legitimate reason for being here, she had to start on the front foot, praying her confidence would carry the day. Fortunately, her hostess seemed unconcerned with formalities and unruffled by her accusation.

‘I hardly think that’s likely,’ Firth responded easily.

‘All our workers are carefully selected and assiduously assessed, applying all the official protocols and procedures. I can assure you, Inspector, that not a single member of our significant workforce is in this country illegally. They are all bona-fide workers with verified employment histories. What’s more they enjoy good pay and excellent benefits.

There is no question of any form of exploitation. ’

‘Yet the fact remains that this van was seen transporting a dozen young women, women who were clearly being held against their will …’

Firth looked up from her handbag, a puzzled frown on her face.

‘What’s more, when we tried to intercept the van, the driver took off at high speed, disappearing somewhere to the east of the city.’

‘And you’ve got evidence of this? Footage of this alleged “chase”?’ Firth enquired, her tone one of pure mystification.

‘We have eyewitnesses,’ Helen responded quickly, ducking the question.

‘But I thought all police vehicles had dash cams these days?’

‘Not in this instance,’ Helen covered. ‘But we have a concrete ID on the van registration, plus a detailed description of the driver.’

Helen was reaching here, but kept up the attack, refusing to show any indecision.

‘I’m happy to share these with you, if you felt they would be helpful in identifying—’

‘Well, of course I’m happy to help,’ Firth interrupted.

‘But I’m not sure it’d do any good. Regus is a company with wide-ranging interests in many different sectors, the vast majority of which are sub-contracted to smaller firms. The disposal of medical waste at South Hants hospital is one such contract.

Recruitment isn’t handled directly by me, or indeed any of my leadership team, even though we insist on the very highest of standards.

I’m afraid I probably wouldn’t recognize one of our individual service providers if they walked past me in the street. ’

Helen had to suppress a smile. This young executive was typical of the modern management class, spouting meaningless jargon, in which cleaners were ‘service providers’, seemingly ever ready to distance themselves from any semblance of accountability.

Who cared where the workers came from? Who cared what they endured, as long as the profits rolled in and the share price continued to rise?

It was a problem endemic in the water industry, the hospitality industry and, it appeared, the waste disposal industry too.

‘And these sub-contractors who handle these contracts for you, they use your vans?’ Helen enquired.

‘Sometimes they lease them from us. In other instances, we’ve been known to sell the vans to them, if it’s going to be a long-term, rolling contract.

I suppose it’s possible that one of our sub-contractors lent a van to someone or sold it without formally changing the registration.

That would obviously be very foolish, not to mention illegal, but that might explain what’s happened here … ’

It was offered helpfully, earnestly even, but Helen knew this was a concerted attempt to end the conversation. Ignoring her, Helen persisted:

‘As I said, I’m specifically interested in the sub-contractor who handles the disposal of medical waste at South Hants hospital. Who runs that contract for you?’

And now Rachel Firth paused, her smile fading slightly as she replied cautiously:

‘Look, Inspector Grace, I really do have to go. As I say, I’m happy to help, but I would need to have your request in writing first, just to keep the lawyers happy, you know?’

It was offered cheerily, but was a concerted pushback, nevertheless.

Did Firth suspect Helen was on shaky ground?

Or was she covering herself in case there was a serious problem with her contractor at South Hants hospital?

It was hard to tell, though it was clear that her cooperation was at an end, their interview over.

As if underlining this, Firth now escorted Helen to the lift bank, shaking her hand warmly, before bidding her farewell.

‘Thanks for your visit, DI Grace. It’s been a real pleasure.’

Descending to ground level, Helen pondered their conversation.

The young executive had appeared cool, calm and collected, keeping Helen at a safe distance throughout.

Was her subtle probing of Helen’s case, the evidence, necessary circumspection or evidence of a guilty conscience?

Helen heavily suspected the latter, but at this stage it was impossible to prove either way.

She was still pondering this as she stepped out into the cavernous lobby, her phone pinging in her pocket.

Tugging her mobile out, she flicked opened her messages, to find a text from Christopher.

‘Can we meet? I need to talk to you.’

A moment’s hesitation, then Helen responded in the affirmative. There was nothing to be gained by snubbing her lover and, having had a few hours to calm down, she was rather looking forward to calling him to account.

Rachel Firth was not the only liar she’d be confronting today.