Читать книгу The Fish Kisser - James Hawkins - Страница 8

“Zo, Mr. King. I wish you to tell me once again, your story about the missing man,” said the Dutch inspector, straight-backed—no-nonsense, his nationality barely discernable from his accent.

Nosmo sighed, “Look I’ve told you and told you. I’ve never seen him before. I don’t know his name. He paid me two hundred pounds to drive his car off the ship. Then I got arrested. That’s all I know.”

“And you met this man in ze ship’s bar. Is zhat what you said?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“And somebody stole the money from …”

Nosmo interrupted, “Not all the money. I’ve still got a hundred.”

“Oh yes,” continued the inspector with a sarcastic sneer, “I forgot. Somebody must have stolen some of the money because now you have only one hundred and seventeen pounds and four pence. Is zhat correct Sergeant?”

“Correct, Inspector,” barked the sergeant, taking notes across the desk from King, a role that seemed a complete waste of his enormous physical attributes.

“And finally, Mr. King, just for our records please, the man who fell overboard, the man whose car you were driving, the man who is now missing—who is he?”

“I told you, I don’t know. I didn’t even know if it was his car. He paid me to take the car, and then he must have jumped off the ship.”

The sergeant threw up his eyebrows and gave a one-nostrilled snort, as if to say, “A likely story.”

But the inspector’s straight face gave nothing away. “Well Mr. King, I think you are in a lot of trouble. I cannot believe a man would pay you to take his car because he is going to die. It is not sensible.”

“Well that’s what happened. You’d better ask him if you don’t believe me.”

Impatience took its toll; the desk took a pounding. “Tell me where he is, Mr. King. Tell me where he is and I will ask him.”

King started to smile, regretted it, and straightened his face, “I guess he’s out at sea somewhere. Let me know if you find the poor bastard.” He started to rise, “Can I go now please?”

A fierce look from the monstrous sergeant intimidated him back into the chair, but he kept a bold eye on the inspector.

Getting nowhere, unsure if anyone was actually missing from the ship, and handicapped by the absence of witnesses, the inspector played for time. “We have enquiries to make zo you will stay with us in prison …”

King tried protesting, “But I didn’t…” then he let it go and slumped into the chair, washing his face in his hands in frustration. Twenty-four tension-filled, sleepless hours had taken their toll. Then he had an idea. “Can I speak to the English detective, the one who stopped me?”

The inspector picked up the phone and prattled in Dutch, leaving King to wonder whether he was ordering lunch, a firing squad or Bliss’ presence. Leaning menacingly over the back of King’s chair, he said, “I have asked for the detective to come. Perhaps you will tell him the truth, Mr. King.”

Nosmo snapped his head back, looked the inspector straight in the eye and lied, deliberately, “I am telling you the truth.”

Seconds later a muffled knock brought the sergeant to his feet and his boots clunked across the flagstone floor with a noise familiar to King: Steel tipped toes and heels—an old army trick—much more impressive than leather hitting the parade ground. And the sharp toe-piece could make a nasty mess of an uncooperative prisoner’s shins.

“This police station’s huge,” said D.I. Bliss, standing in the doorway, stunned by the height of the ceiling and the enormousness of the windows. “How old is it?”

“The Bosch built it,” spat the sergeant, inflating himself to full size, making it clear the Nazis would have thought twice if he’d been around at the time.

“Thanks for coming, Dave,” said King.

Bliss continued his inspection of the ceiling.

“It was a military barracks,” added the sergeant, “Defences for the Rhine.”

King tried again, “What’s happening, Dave?”

The sergeant, in full historical flight, glared at King and finished his lecture. “When the British came in 1944 they made it their headquarters.”

“Very nice,” said King, applauding, “Now can you tell me what the hell is going on, Dave?”

Bliss snubbed him—don’t get familiar with me sonny. “You asked for me, Inspector. Can I help?”

“Mr. King actually asked to speak to you but you can help, yes. Perhaps you can explain to him that our laws are very strict in Holland. He can go to prison for life for murder. Would you explain that to him please.”

“I didn’t do it,” yelled King, leaping to his own defence. “I haven’t killed anyone.” He turned to Bliss, eyes pleading, voice cracking. “You know it wasn’t me, Dave. It couldn’t have been me that threw him overboard, could it?”

“How do I know? You’re the only one who claims to have seen him go, and you certainly stole his car. Right now I’m not about to believe anything you say.”

King was miles away, malignant thoughts of Motsom burning into his brain—the bastard set me up.

“Nosmo—are you listening?” said Bliss, prodding him.

“Sorry, Dave …”

“I said, why should I believe you?”

“Because I told you what happened. I told you I didn’t see who went over.” Dropping his face into his hands in exasperation, he pleaded innocence, “I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to push the guy over, then try to save him, would I?”

“You might have …” started Bliss, pausing to think of countless analogies: Firemen setting fires then dashing heroically to the rescue; masked bandits ripping off their disguises and joining the pursuit; child abductors painstakingly searching the back woods and, most appropriately, murderers leading the hunt … “See, it couldn’t be me … I wouldn’t be helping if it was me …” “You might have,” he repeated without explanation.

“What, and then be daft enough to pinch his ruddy car?”

The Dutch inspector didn’t wait for Bliss. “Then explain how you got his car key?”

It was true. Motsom had given him keys to the Renault, together with instructions to drive the car ashore if LeClarc failed to turn up. “If he has gone overboard,” Motsom had said, “he’s probably long dead, or, if he ain’t dead, there’s bugger all anybody can do to save him. Plus, if he ain’t dead, I want to make sure our people find him, not theirs. So, we’ve got to get his car off or they’ll know he’s disappeared. O.K.?”

Nosmo’s fervent prayer that LeClarc would turn up when they reached Holland wasn’t answered. Now he was being accused of murder, car theft at the very least. And where was Motsom?

Billy Motsom had hidden his own car amongst hundreds of others in the port parking lot, and walked to a bar in town. The bar, a stones throw from the police station, doubled as a meeting place for leather-faced trawlermen—a few, the younger ones, still holding on to all their fingers. The stink of stale fish vied with smoke from a dozen pipes, but the smell of brewed coffee was overweening and Motsom took a cup with him to the payphone in the corner.

“Get me a boat, a big one,” He spat into the mouthpiece. “King’s been arrested, but he’s safe, he doesn’t know the plan … The fat boy? … How should I know? Swimming I hope … Just get the eff’n boat.”

Slamming down the handset, he turned to the room and realized he had brought everything to a halt. Like characters in a still from a forty-year-old black and white movie, everyone was now glaring at him: Cups, pipes, cigarettes, and hands frozen in mid-air. He smiled, a false toothy grin, jerked his shoulders as if to say, “Oops, sorry,” and the room gradually restarted.

Just two streets away the imposing facade of the police station gave D.I. Bliss and his two colleagues a window on the entire dock area, and the giant slabsided ferry on which they had arrived.

“It’s bloody mayhem down there,” said Smythe, with a hint of glee. “I bet they’re pretty pissed off. First we’re two hours late, then every bloody car and truck gets pulled to pieces. They could riot.”

Bliss continued gazing out of the gargantuan window, captivated by the enormity of the situation. “Nothing else we could do,” he shrugged. “He’s either in a car, truck, or container, or he really did go for a swim.”

Wilson stepped in, “What about the vehicles that have already gone? He could have been in one of them.”

“Possible,” mused Bliss. “But the locals have set up road blocks on the two main roads. They’re checking everything that could have come off the ship.”

“No point in starting a big sea search until we’re sure,” ruminated Wilson, staring at the grey horizon— sea and sky as one, thinking: helicopters, lifeboats, rescue Zodiacs, coastguard cutters.

Bliss was on the point of saying, “Correct,” when a Dutch constable approached. “The captain is ready for you now, Sir.”

Another equally vast room; a hurriedly assembled group of Dutch officers, two women and eight men sitting on long, brown leather, settees—five either side of an enormous low table scattered with coffee cups, cigarette packets, and the debris of some hastily eaten pastries. Each officer, note-pad at the ready, eagerly followed Bliss to the head of the table where Captain Jahnssen met him.

“Call me Jost,” said the captain, ramrod straight, greeting Bliss like a foreign dignitary. Eager to impress, he continued effusively, “I have been to the headquarters of the British police at Scotland Yard,” as if in doing so he had worshipped at a great shrine—The Vatican or Taj Mahal, perhaps.

Introductions were brief, though Bliss wondered why they bothered. All the men seemed to be called Caas or Jan, and both the woman were Yolanda.

“Right,” Bliss started, feeling it was expected of him, knowing that neither of his officers were in a state fit to talk. “I know some of you have been involved with this case for the last few days but I’ll quickly give you a . . “ He stopped, mid-sentence. One Yolanda and a couple of Jans were attempting to write down everything he said. He lowered his tone and made eye contact with the female, a Scandinavian blonde with huge blue eyes that seemed to trap him—snake-like: Kaa captivating Mowgli in the Jungle Book. “I’ll tell you when to take notes.”

Continuing, he broke the attraction by focussing on D.C. Smythe who’d started snoring, exhausted, at the back of the room. “In the past three years we have lost eight of our top computer experts,” he explained, personally shouldering responsibility for the entire population of the United Kingdom. “Eight of our most valuable assets in the field of computer technology have either been murdered, committed suicide, or simply vanished.” Pausing for effect, he checked the face of each man in turn, skipped the blonde, and ended with the captain. “I won’t bore you with unnecessary details,” he added, “but you might want to take a few notes.” Then he looked up, found Yolanda’s eyes and lost his momentum. “Um … eight … um … eight computer experts …” he mumbled, froze, then got his act together by carefully checking his thumbnails. “We’ve lost eight and the Americans have lost some as well … The first one was …” he paused again and looked at the captain, “Maybe I won’t bother with names, they’re irrelevant really. The first one disappeared without trace. Brilliant man—just developed a new process for making chips …” He stopped, briefly examining their faces. Did they understand? Unsure, he interpreted: “Computer processors.” Yolanda’s wide blue eyes signified comprehension. Damn! Trapped again.

“He went for a ride on his bicycle and was never seen again,” he pushed on, careful to avoid looking to his right, Yolanda’s side.

“Number two … It was put down as a suicide. Drove his car straight off a bridge into the front of an express train. Only bits and pieces were ever found and they were burnt to a cinder.”

“Cinder?” she questioned, her voice striking him like a tenor bell—he knew which bell.

“Um, yes. Ashes, nothing left,” he said, struggling to answer without making eye contact. “The body was never properly identified. The car exploded like a bomb when the train hit it—a huge fire, the train driver was burnt to death as well.”

Kidding himself that he’d broken her spell, he risked a quick glance and immediately regretted it. She was waiting for him—her soft eyes drawing him in, holding him, mesmerizing him. I don’t need this, he thought, breaking free, but with a quiver in his voice continued. “Number three—encryption specialist, another complete disappearance. Went for a stroll with his dogs one Sunday afternoon. The dogs came back. No trace of him … Number four was different. The only female. She was working on an ultra-high speed system to connect banks around the world. She did kill herself, even left a suicide note. It seems she was being blackmailed but we never found out why … Numbers five and six were friends. Two of the most seasoned computer boffins …” he paused and translated, “two of the world’s top computer experts. Worked for rival companies but were responsible for some major advances in computers. They disappeared on a fishing trip off the south coast. One of them owned a forty-foot cruiser and it just … aah! . . um.” Flipping open his hands he made a “pt” sound with his lips. “Gone,” he said, expressively, expecting everyone to understand they had simply vanished into thin air.

“Seven was a couple of months ago. A major loss to the industry. This guy had just developed an entirely new kind of processor, a complete revolution. He was on his way back from California for a presentation to the company president, but never arrived. His plane blew up over the ocean. His body was never found, neither were his plans or prototypes.”

“I remember that,” said a Caas, “I zink that was the plane crash that killed all those Americans.”

“Correct,” said Bliss. “Two hundred and forty-three—twenty of ’em kids.”

“Do you honestly think they would do that?” demanded the other Yolanda in puritanical outrage, her dour face and lank, chopped, prisoner’s hairstyle as austere as her tone.

Bliss shrugged, “I don’t know—it’s possible. Some people will do anything for money.”

Now, with a sweeping glance around the room, he changed stance and tone. No longer the lecturer, he relaxed to being a fellow cop. “Those are all the one’s we’re sure are connected. There was an eighth one, a strange man who worked on his own and sold ideas to the highest bidder. He lived in an old farmhouse in the Welsh mountains.”

“What is Welsh?” interrupted one of the Jans.

“Sorry … Wales. You know, the little country stuck on the west of England …” Jan’s puzzled frown suggested that geography was not one of his strong points so Bliss tried making it easy, “It’s part of England.”

D.C. Wilson, hailing from Cardiff, roused with a start, muttering, “Bloody not part of England,” but Bliss cut him short with a glare. “Anyway, this man disappeared sometime in the past three or four months. No one seems quite sure exactly when.”

He looked around the room, checking the officers one at a time, taking in the fact they nearly all wore glasses, and all but one were smoking. Even Yolanda No.l, as he had decided to call her, had a cigarette in her hand, and he felt himself shudder at the sight of her nicotine stained slender fingers. “Now,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Now to Roger LeClarc.”

Memories of the briefing room at Scotland Yard just three weeks earlier zipped through his mind—the briefing room and the pompous superintendent from Special Ops.

“Right, listen up chaps,” the superintendent had begun, imagining himself still in the RAF where he had been nothing more than a corporal. “This is a big one. Screw this up and you’ll all be back in uniform.” He stopped and glowered at Sergeant Jones, “Name?” he demanded with a nod.

“Jones, Sir. Serious Crime Squad.”

“Well Sergeant Jones,” he started, almost conversationally, “smoking is a serious crime when I’m in the room.” Then he boomed, “So put it out—this isn’t a bloody bar.”

Jones sheepishly stubbed out the cigarette amid the jeers of his colleagues and someone flicked a remote control, unveiling a monster television. “Watch this,” commanded the superintendent.

“Roger LeClarc, 31 years.” said a caption under an unflattering close-up of a bloated face with unruly hair. “Senior I.T. Consultant, ACT Telecommunications 1999,” appeared under the heading, “Occupation.”

A series of mug shots followed—family album types mainly: holidays, weddings, birthdays, and people doing stupid things; then a short section of home movie—Brighton beach in front of the Grand Hotel, Roger’s distended white belly and folds of flab flopping up and down as he hopped in and out of the surf.

Then a more sinister collection, including a couple of video clips bearing the hallmarks of police surveillance cameras: Roger squeezing himself into his Renault; Roger on a train—asleep, snoring; Roger in his office— through a window; Roger eating; Roger’s parents house in Watford; Roger coming out of the old terraced house near Watford station; Roger fumbling with his flies in a public toilet—“Don’t ask,” said the superintendent as a giggle rippled round the room. “O.K. Chaps,” he added, as the video wound down, “everything points to this fat git as the target—in fact we’ve good info. he’s next on the list. We’ve reason to believe that sometime in the next few weeks he will be snatched, and it’s your job to prevent it—any questions?”

A youngish female voice piped up from the back. “Is he married, Sir?”

“Why … Do you fancy him?” brought a hail of laughter.

“Have we got a full description, Sir. Address, date of birth, that sort of thing?” asked a young detective leaning forward in the front row.

“Naturally, Officer,” he said, turning to his staff sergeant. “Pass out the portfolios, Sergeant, there’s a good chap.” He paused long enough for most people to get a blue folder with CONFIDENTIAL typed in the top right hand corner, then studied his copy. “You’ll find everything you need in here, including rotas. Three teams of four—Inspector, sergeant, and two constables. Anything else?”

“Yes, Sir,” queried one of the sergeants. “What’s happening to them, the missing whiz kids—Do we know?”

Superintendent Edwards slumped in his chair and massaged his face in thought, taking time to decide how much to reveal. “We know for sure this isn’t some two-bit ransom job,” he began after a few moments. “Whoever’s doing this ain’t after their piggy banks. But, at this particular moment in time …” He paused, still undecided, and finished by saying, “At this moment in time we have absolutely no idea.

“Dismissed,” he shouted, above the buzz of speculation, stifling further questions.

“Wait,” he commanded, stilling the crescendo of shuffling feet. “One last thing …” then he paused while a couple of fleet footed officers were motioned back into the room. “LeClarc must not find out he is being watched under any circumstances. According to his boss he’s a strange character. There’s no telling what he might do if he thinks he’s a target. So keep your heads down and jolly good luck chaps.”

“Bombs away,” shouted one of the officers, keeping his back to the superintendent.

Bliss, cautiously evading eye contact with Yolanda, completed his briefing, then reeled off a list of tasks for Captain Jahnssen and his officers. “You’re already searching the cars as they come off but you’ll need to search the trucks and containers. We’ll need a complete search of the ship; interview crewmembers; photograph the possible crime scene—the railings on the aft boat deck; check LeClarc’s car and all his belongings for clues; talk to as many passengers as possible—someone must have seen something.” He looked up, had he missed anything? “Perhaps you could assign an officer to help me with translation and liaison duties,” he said, then immediately realized what was about to happen. His mind raced back to the annual police sports day the previous August. Marty McLean, complete with kilt, threw the 20 lb hammer high into the air and totally in the wrong direction. He saw it coming as he stood on the track, warming up for the half-marathon. Rooted to the spot, not knowing which way to jump, he had watched with fascination as it hit the ground in front of him, bounced, and tapped his leg with little force.

Just like the hammer, he could see what was coming and stood, transfixed. Although not déjà-vu, the feeling was certainly similar as blue-eyed, blondehaired, Yolanda No.1 slunk alongside and zapped him full force with her gaze. “Ze captain says I must do everything you would like, Sir,” she said, and he felt a lump rising in his throat. Christ, he thought, this is bloody ridiculous, this sort of thing only happens in trashy novels and second rate TV movies. He swallowed hard, saying, “Dave, um, please call me Dave.”

“Okey dokey, Dave,” she replied, her English learned from CNN.

Bliss found himself staring again, but then realized he was on a two-way street. You must be almost old enough to be her father, he scoffed to himself; anyway don’t be ridiculous—you’re in enough trouble already; not to mention that you’re still sinking in emotional quagmire from your last imbroglio—O.K … You win— don’t rub it in.

Quickly burying his head in Roger’s subject profile, he sought an escape route in professionalism.

“I need a secure phone line to England right away,” he said coolly, keeping his head down, “and a set of radios on the same frequency as your captain. And coffee, lots of coffee.”

She didn’t hesitate, “The coffee’s over zhere, help yourself,” she pointed, then headed off. “I’ll get telephone and radios.”

He watched as she left, her pert backside swishing elegantly from side to side, wishing he wasn’t quite so curled round the edges, that his hair wasn’t greying and tousled, that he had taken more care of skin, and that he’d put on a fresh shirt. No matter; some women still prefer the slightly wrinkled older man look—providing they’re tall and reasonably slim, he thought, slicking back his hair, sucking in his stomach, pulling himself upright.

By the time he had poured coffee she was back with the radios. “Come with me please,” she said leading him to a phone.

The, ex-R.A.F superintendent, Michael Edwards, was in a foul mood on the phone. “What an effing balls up, Bliss,” he bawled, leaving no room for explanation or excuse. All he knew was what the Ops room had told him—that the team had lost their target—but the worst was yet to come. He still knew nothing of the possibility that LeClarc had jumped ship, or of King being arrested in possession of his car. “And where the hell is Jones?” shouted the voice in London. He didn’t know about the sergeant’s accident either.

Ten minutes later he had the answers, didn’t like any of them, and was ruining what was left of Bliss’ awful day. Finally, Bliss had taken all the abuse he could handle—it wasn’t his fault, he told himself; Jones and the other two had screwed things up and let him down.

“Sir,” he shouted down the phone, halting the superintendent mid-flight. “I am doing my best. I’ve been on duty for more than twenty-four hours. I’m too tired to argue. I need back up and co-operation. The Dutch are very helpful, but until we’ve searched every inch of the ship and every vehicle we just don’t know where he is. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes;, I have to go now, Captain Jahnssen wants me urgently.”

Edwards was still winding himself up when Bliss slammed down the phone.

“Ze captain doesn’t want you,” Yolanda corrected him naively, handing back his coffee.

“I know that,” he sighed, slumping his backside against a desk.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, catching on, waiving a finger in his face, “I zink you are a naughty boy.”

“Ah shit, Yolanda, where the hell is he? The fat slob has probably found some bloody warm hidey-hole on the ship and overslept. Either that or he’s playing a trick on us and he’ll suddenly pop up and shout, ’April Fool.’”

“What is this April Fool?”

“Oh, never mind. Come on let’s go and help search. The first thing I want to do is to go through King’s possessions. There has to be a clue there somewhere.”

Yolanda walked to the window and stuck her nose against it as she screwed up her eyes and stared down at the port. “Zair is zee Renault, by the port police office,” she said, stabbing the glass with an index finger. “Mr. King’s bags must still be in zair.”

Bliss peered over her shoulder, his eyes following her finger, and he recognised the little green car though the fuzzy mist of her hot breath on the windowpane.

“Let’s go back to the port then,” he murmured, his mouth no more than two inches from her ear.

Activity at the port was simultaneously at a fevered pitch and a standstill. Customs, police, and Koninklijke Marechaussee officers were frantically searching each and every vehicle, while drivers and passengers idly stood around wondering what on earth was happening.

An impromptu press conference was taking place in the port manager’s office. News of the situation was spreading quickly throughout the community where almost every household survived on the wages of at least one port employee. The reporter for the local paper and stringers for two dailies were hounding the ship’s captain for more information, but he could offer little. “No … We don’t know for sure if anyone’s fallen overboard.”

“Why not?”

“Because there were no witnesses. Just one good citizen, an ex-policeman, who said he thought someone had fallen.” The captain, unaware of King’s arrest, knowing nothing about the stolen car, was happy to give him the credit. “He raised the alarm, even managed to launch a life raft, but in the rough seas it would have been difficult, almost impossible, for a swimmer to get into it without help.”

“And his chances?”

“Without a life jacket, rough seas, middle of the night—he might have survived thirty to forty minutes, possibly an hour, no more …” He shook his head from side to side just once as he finished his reply, “A thousand to one against—no chance really.”

“And this person,” queried the local reporter, a sombre beaky-looking man who spent most of his time nosing out obituaries, “He had no life jacket?”

“We don’t know. I told you. We don’t know if anyone actually went overboard.”

A female stringer jumped at him, her deep masculine voice loaded with criticism as she did her best to lay the groundwork for a juicy controversy. “What would you say to people who might suggest you should have done more, Captain. After all, two hours searching was not very long.”

He gave her a critical stare. Scheming witch, he thought, trying to make a catastrophe out of a disaster, trying to stir shit —wasn’t the unfortunate death of a human being in itself enough to make the front page.

“Miss, as I have already explained,” he began firmly, as if lecturing a fractious child, “firstly, we don’t know for sure that anyone is missing. Secondly, if, and I stress the ’if,’ if someone fell overboard, they could not have survived more than an hour, and,” his voice rose in crescendo, “thirdly, two thousand passengers would have been greatly inconvenienced and upset if we had wasted any more time.”

The stringer sat back with a satisfied smirk. Now she had her story, and with it would have great delight in bringing this arrogant Englishman down a peg or two. The headline was already buzzing around in her head, the story already written, all she needed now was to top it with a few quotes from the local police, a few facts from the shipping company, and she would be ready to e-mail her editor—Priority: “Man sacrificed to please passengers.”

Roger had not been sacrificed, not yet anyway. Alive, but not well, he was still bouncing along on top of his personal watercraft, waking from time to time, but never managing to achieve full awareness. Each time his mind neared the surface his eyes would float around, checking the ropes and peering in search of a rescue vessel. One sweep was all he could manage on most occasions, but as he drifted back into a coma-like state, he would always think of Trudy and mentally cry out for her.

Trudy’s mother, Lisa McKenzie, had been crying for Trudy for seven days, four hours, and thirty minutes. She had counted every one as she sat on an old wooden chair in her apartment kitchen, surrounded by goodwill cards from relatives, friends, and people she’d never met, never even heard of. One, from a complete stranger in Scotland, had even contained a cheque for £5,000 with a wish she should spend it to find her little lassie. The signatory had added a postscript: “I lost my lassie twenty years ago and hope you don’t suffer the same way as I.” She’d cried for hours, holding it in her hands, feeling the heartache in the words. Crying for the man and his suffering; not for Trudy—Trudy would come home.

The chair had become her universe. She rarely left it, rising only to use the toilet or, occasionally, to relieve the unbearable cramp in her legs. Even then she would wait, deliberately punishing herself with excruciating pain as her limbs were starved of blood and oxygen. The chair was her whip—she a flagellant. Suffering so her Trudy would not have to. Suffering so she would not forget Trudy, even for a moment. Suffering because she loved her daughter so much she wanted to suffer for her. Suffering because she was a mother.

The chair had also become the symbol of her determination, as well as a tangible reminder of the past and of normality. The dependable little chair: a variety of small Windsor with graceful arms, and a seat hand carved to accept a pair of buttocks, had been her father’s, and possibly his father’s before him. It was a depository of unforgettable memories: Bouncing on Daddy’s knees in front of the fire; Father Christmas sitting to eat his mince-pie and drink his milk; a ladder to reach the cookie jar. Upside down, covered with a sheet, it had become a tent, a playhouse, even a rocketship. And at least two daddies, her’s and Trudy’s, had used it as a bed, falling asleep, exhausted after supper, too worn out to make it as far as the couch.

The phone rang for the thousandth time and disappointment struck for the thousandth time—Trudy’s father. Her racing heart sank.

“No news Peter. Nothing,” she replied to his query, the fifth today as far as she could remember. He sounds worried to death, she thought, strange, considering the way he abandoned her; abandoned us.

“Of course I’ll call you,” she continued, answering his plea. “I’m sure she’s alright …” she began, then wished she hadn’t as her voice cracked and the tears flowed.

Is he crying too? she wondered, hearing the hollow silence as he held his hand over the mouthpiece. “Peter, don’t worry …” she started, then paused, questioning: Why shouldn’t he? I’m scared shitless; why shouldn’t he worry?

“Peter I’ll call you—the moment I hear anything.”

He made her promise, as he had done at the end of every call.

“I promise, Love,” she said, then questioned—Why did I say that? Why did I say “Love” like that? It’s just a an old habit, she told herself, a very old habit; but something deep inside her told her to straighten it out, that it wasn’t right, that she still hated him, that he didn’t deserve niceness—certainly not from her. “I promise I’ll call you, Peter,” she added coolly then replaced the receiver without awaiting a response. It rang again before she could remove her hand.

Damn! she thought, picking it up straight away. It’s him again, wanting to know what I meant. What did I mean—why the hell did I say it?

“Yes?”

“Mrs. McKenzie?” queried a strangled far-off voice. “This is Margery, Trude’s friend. What’s happening?”

It took a second to sink in as she struggled to clear away the notion that it was Peter, then a flashbulb went off in her mind. “Margery!” A dozen questions flooded her thoughts and she started three of them all at the same time. “What …? When …? Where …?” she stammered, then started again, taking a deep breath; slowing herself down. “Where are you? The police have been trying to find you for a week.”

“Holidays with Mum and Dad—camping in France. What’s happened to Trude?”

“She gone missing. It’s in all the papers.”

“I know, I saw her picture,” she screeched, breathlessly, a well-thumbed copy of The Daily Telegraph, nearly a week old, in her hand. “I’m in a phone box and my token thingies are running out,” cried Margery, in a panic.

“Where is she?” exploded Lisa, fearing they would be cut off, or Margery would somehow be struck dead without revealing Trudy’s whereabouts.

“I don’t know, Mrs. McKenzie. I’ve no idea …” she started, then hesitated in thought for the briefest second. “What about Roger?”

“Roger who?” responded Lisa, having forgotten all about Trudy’s computer contacts.

“My money’s almo—” was all Margery could say before a metallic clunk and a continuous buzz chopped her off.

An hour later (a lifetime for Lisa, sitting motionless in agony, screaming inwardly for the phone to ring, unable to call anyone for fear of tying up the line), Margery phoned back, this time from a police station.

“Who’s Roger? Where does he live?” she screeched into the phone.

“He’s some computer guy she’s always going on about; reckons he loves her; say’s he’s got a …”

Lisa had heard enough. “Where does he live? What’s his phone number? Who is he?” Anxiety and hope intermingled as she reeled off the questions.

“I don’t really know,” replied Margery, vaguely, not sure which of the questions she was answering. “But he lives in Watford somewhere and works in London.” She paused, “I’ve got a picture of him …”

“Where?” she cut in, desperate for information.

“Probably at home. It’s only a photocopy. Trudy’s got the photo. We was just mucking around on the school photocopier …”

“How can I get it?” she shot back, uninterested in technicalities. “When are you coming back?”

“Hang on a minute, I’ll ask Dad.”

The line went quiet and she panicked fearing another disconnection, but by ramming the handset tight against her ear caught the echoes of an altercation. “Don’t argue. Please don’t argue,” she pleaded uselessly, then Margery took her hand off the mouthpiece and sobbed, “I want to come and help, but Dad say’s he can’t afford a plane ticket. It’ll take three days to drive back.”

Lisa McKenzie’s heart leapt a little. “It’s O.K. I’ll pay,” she said, remembering the Scotsman’s £5,000. “Give me the phone number of the police station and stay there.”

Taking down the number with exaggerated care her mind was telling her she was missing something, that Margery must know more, that she shouldn’t let the girl go without getting more information. Trudy was out there somewhere—Margery must know more.

“Where is she?” she cried angrily.

“I don’t know honest Mrs. Mc …”

“I don’t believe you …” she started accusingly, then broke down, “I’m sorry Margery … it’s just that I’m so worried”

Calming herself, apologizing again and again, she checked the number with Margery three times before ringing off, then instantly regretted putting the phone down on the crying girl. Oh my God, she thought, I don’t even know where she is.

Stunned, confused, and overwhelmed by the situation, she vacillated between Peter, an airline, the police, and the bank. Each time she looked up one number she would convince herself to call another. At last, a full two minutes later, she plumped for the police.

“She’s in France, eh, Mrs. McKenzie,” a familiar voice responded, “O.K. we’ll be round to see you right away. Just stay there.”

“I’m not going anywhere, officer. Please hurry,” she replied, slumping in the chair and finding support, even comfort, in the curved backrest.

Junction Road was quieter now it was mid-morning in Watford. The commuters and children were all safely huddled in their offices and classrooms. In just a week or so Junction Road would become a different place. School holidays would begin and the little street would be turned into the Wild West, Wembley stadium, or a Mighty Morphin adventure park, depending on which group of kids happened to be most active at that time of day or night.

The two Watford police detectives had been given little information about Roger LeClarc.

“Just get down there and make a few door-to-door enquiries,” their sergeant had said, without enthusiasm. “Apparently this bloke disappeared off a ship last night in the middle of the North Sea, right under the nose of a Met. police squad. God knows how they think he might have got back here by now.”

“What are we s’posed to be looking for Serg?”

“Buggered if I know, lad. It seems as though the Met. had him under surveillance for awhile—seen him go to the place a few times … Just as long as you put in some sort of report …” he trailed off. Helping another police force out of an embarrassing spot wasn’t a high priority.

They parked opposite Roger’s house and sat in the car watching it for awhile—killing time. Like a loaf of bread with the crust sliced off one end, the terrace’s architectural equilibrium had been unbalanced by the bombing of the last in the row. It now appeared incomplete, no longer matching the opposing terrace backing onto the railway cutting. The rubble of the amputated end house had been cleared, but, without anyone to care for it, the land had grown wild, and was now the local waste dump—an eyesore or an adventure playground depending on perspective.

“Bit of a shit-hole,” said one of the detectives easing himself out of the car, advancing on the front door of the end house.

The other detective, a forty-something Roger Moore look-alike, scrambled over the bombsite alongside the house, making his way to the rear. He paused, part way, to look up at the wall which now formed the end of the terrace. It had no windows, none being needed for its original purpose, but the outline of three bricked-up fireplaces, one upstairs and two down, could clearly be seen. Black bitumen had been lathered over the wall, and replenished periodically, to provide a weatherproof coating.

“Can you see anything?” shouted the other detective, poking his head around the corner of the house, his knock on the front door bringing no response.

“Hang on a minute. I’ve just got stung,” he replied irritably, shaking and rubbing his hand, then lashing out with his foot at the offending nettle.

“The back wall’s fallen down, I can get- over the bricks,” he called a few seconds later, after kicking a path through the nettles.

Another voice joined in, “Oy. What are you two doing?” The ever watchful George Mitchell at No. 71, a veteran of the Royal Engineers and frightened of no one, was on his doorstep, ramrod straight and chest puffed out in a no-nonsense stance. “I’m going to call the law,” he continued, his confidence wavering ever so slightly.

“It’s O.K., Granddad. We are the law,” said the detective in the street, producing his warrant card and strolling over to George.

“What do you know about the people in the end house,” he asked casually.

George Mitchell, eyed the card critically, saying, “Don’t know much ’bout ’em mate, to be honest. Used to be a family of Greeks or Turks there …” he paused, concentration furrowing his brow, “I think they was Greeks, nice family. Papadropolis or some such name. Moved out about a year ago …” he paused, spotting Mrs. Ramchuran out of the corner of his eye, the voices drawing her to inspect the sheen on her front doorstep, and he dragged her in. “I was just saying, Mrs. R., the people over the road, Greeks, nice people, you remember?”

She looked up at the suit-clad detectives in feigned surprise, thinking: Mormons, encyclopaedias or debt collectors. “Yes I remember the Greeks, Mr. Mitchell,” she began defensively. “But they been gone a long time. There’s a new man there now. I don’t know him; hardly ever seen him.”

George took up the conversation again, sticking rigidly to facts, but twisting each into a complaint. “Young bloke, funny looking bugger, works odd hours, never does nuvving to the place, comes and goes all times of the night but he’s not there now. His car’s not here.” He searched the street. “Little green foreign thing.” Another complaint. “It were here yesterday.”

Roger Moore’s double had fought his way back to the street and came alongside his partner. “Can’t see anyone in there,” he said, nodding back over his shoulder. “If I’d banged any harder on the back door it would have caved in.”

George Mitchell, Neighbourhood Watch personified, beamed . See, I told you he weren’t there. “I could’ve have saved you mucking up your suit if you’d asked,” he said, inspecting the detective’s trousers.

“Oh shit,” moaned the officer, backing away, scrubbing at a greasy mess with a handkerchief, spreading the stain even further. “This is the second suit I’ve ruined in a week, my missus’ll kill me.”

“If I could get a few details,” said the remaining detective, attempting to restore professional integrity by pulling out his notebook. “Perhaps you would call if you see anyone go in. Would you mind?”

“Not at all, Officer,” said George, beaming with importance—this is the life … helping the police with their enquiries. “But, ah, what’s he s’posed to have done?”

“Oh nothing, Sir, it’s just routine enquiries. We’re not too sure where he is, that’s all.”

“Roger Wilco,” said George Mitchell, thinking: You expect me to believe that? Fifty-five million people in the country and you’re worried about the odd fat freak—I don’t think so. But he shrugged off the snub. “It’s none of my business, but he ain’t in there I can assure you of that. There ain’t nobody in there that’s for definite.”

Trudy would have disagreed had she been awake. And had she been awake she would have cried out to the detectives to rescue her, but, although less than twenty feet away, they would have heard nothing.

As the men drove away, one still engrossed in his trousers, muttering, “She’ll bloody murder me,” another police car was headed in their direction from across town. The driver, the “ex-RAF” superintendent’s staff sergeant, had his boss on the radio. “I’ve seen LeClarc’s parents, they’re as much in the dark as us. His mum reckons he’s never been in any sort of trouble, believe it or not she actually called him “A good little boy.” Shit Guv! You’ve seen the size of him and he’s thirty-odd. Anyhow, he lives at home; no close friends, so far as they know; goes to work, comes home, usual crap. We went through his stuff and, as far as they could tell, nothing’s missing, only the stuff he took with him. He told ’em about the thing in Holland but sort of played it down. Oh … this is a bit weird … they reckoned they knew nothing about the house on Junction Road—you know the place … I’m on my way to there now to take a shufty.”

Roger’s mother did know the house on Junction Road, had even been there with him, one Saturday afternoon, though he’d made her stay in the car. “It’s a friend of mine,” he’d told her as he parked outside, the Renault loaded with groceries. “I won’t be a minute.”

He’d waited ten minutes, spying on her from an upstairs window, letting her stew in the stifling afternoon heat with the ice-cream, butter, and frozen peas. Curiosity and impatience finally forced open the car door and Roger flew down the front steps. “Sorry, Mum,” he said bundling her back into the Renault and driving off.

“Who were it?” she demanded, craning to peer into the blank windows, suspecting a female; suspecting she was being cheated on.

“Just a friend,” he repeated, knowing it would drive her insane.

“Sergeant 247639, Mitchell,” George introduced himself to the sergeant at his door, thinking—“Quite a day.” “I’ve just been talking to your lads, Serg. Nasty stain one of ’em had. Doubt if it’ll come out.”

“Yes, Sergeant Mitchell,” he started, then changed his tone and added conspiratorially, “Mind if I call you George?”

He hadn’t minded, placing the policeman from London as a peer, and they sat in his kitchen like a couple of old soldiers, chin-wagging over a cuppa for fifteen minutes before getting around to Roger.