Читать книгу Inspector Bliss Mysteries 8-Book Bundle - James Hawkins - Страница 28

“Ze captain has called a meeting in twenty minutes at the port.” Yolanda glanced at her watch. “At two-thirty.”

Detective Inspector David Bliss followed her gaze and his eyes popped: chunky gold—inlaid with rubies and diamonds. “Carder,” he mused, praying she’d not noticed his Timex.

“It’s still only one-thirty in England,” he mumbled, more to himself than her, his battered old watch still behind the time. “God. No wonder I’m tired I’ve been up since six o’clock yesterday morning, that’s …” his eyes closed in concentration, “that’s more than thirty hours.”

“The ship’s gone,” she said, confirming the obvious, as they drove down the narrow cobblestone street, overlooking the port, a short while later.

“Nice leather,” he muttered, sliding his hand over the BMW’s white doeskin seat squab.

“A bit foggy,” she replied.

He let her misunderstanding pass with a smile and scanned seaward, looking out over the salt marsh to the wide estuary. But the SS Rotterdam had already dissolved into the thick moisture laden air.

The cobbled street was almost deserted, as were the three bars, which they passed just before the rail tracks. “Heineken, Carlsberg, and Royal Dutch,” proclaimed their towering signs without need of further explanation. On any normal day each bar would have been packed with its supporters. But today was abnormal. Although the hubbub of the ship’s departure had died, groups of disgruntled workers were still gathered on the damp quayside awaiting further instructions. Rumours had spread from one group to the next that every truck and container off the ship would have to be unpacked and physically searched. Carefully circumnavigating deep pools from the night’s storm, Yolanda parked on the edge of a large gravelled area amongst clumps of spiky sea-grass, polystyrene cups, and cola cans. Driftwood signposts, eaten by wind and wave, warned of the tide’s upper reach.

“Zis is an old castle,” announced Yolanda, indicating a heavily fortified beachside bunker. “The meeting is here.”

Captain Jahnssen was waiting for them. “Detective Bliss,” he called excitedly. “We’ve got Motsom’s car.”

“What about Motsom?”

“He can’t be far away,” he replied, sheepishly dusting off his shoes with a handkerchief, knowing that one of his officers had been sitting on the information for an hour in the hope of catching Motsom single-handed. “We will soon have him caught.” added Jahnssen with more confidence. “We have detectives watching him now … This was built by the Germans in the first war,” he went on, segueing conveniently to a more comfortable subject as his right hand swept around the concrete blockhouses.

“Impressive,” agreed Bliss, pointedly checking his watch, anxious to move on; anxious to start a proper search for LeClarc; anxious to have some answers for the dreadful Edwards on his arrival at six.

“This is the outer defences, where the guns were,” Yolanda explained as they reached the seaward side. “Look,” she instructed, pointing to horizontal slits where gun barrels had once dominated the Rhine estuary.

“The wall’s three meters thick …” Captain Jahnssen started, when Bliss headed him off.

“Captain—the meeting … shouldn’t we …” Then the voice of a junior officer came to his aid, calling insistently that everyone was assembled and waiting.

“Thank God,” sighed Bliss, eager to have the investigation in full swing ahead of Edwards’ arrival. They were ushered into the armoury, which had been transformed into a modern conference room. A hundred or more men and women, drawn from half a dozen stations, chatted amiably, renewing old acquaintances, catching up on gossip—“You’ll never guess who she’s screwing now … Have you heard about…”

“Alright gentlemen,” the captain began, attempting to gain attention, but the commotion persisted until someone plunked a chair heavily on the old wooden floor and the meeting brought itself to order.

Bliss understood none of the captain’s address, and was idly examining the intricately patterned brickwork of the huge vaulted ceiling when he heard his name mentioned. “Detective Bliss from Scotland Yard will speak to you now.”

Shit! he thought, caught unaware—I wasn’t prepared for this. Raising himself nervously, mind churning, he furtively glanced around and was immediately struck by the number of people crammed into the circular chamber. Yolanda had taken a front row seat directly facing him, and he sought inspiration and reassurance in her face. She smiled and gave a little nod, as if to say, “Go on.”

“You were very good,” she whispered later, as he sat down after outlining the circumstances of LeClarc’s disappearance.

Very good—very good?. What does she mean? he wondered, trying to evaluate the strength of her words, worried that his address had flown over many of the officers’ heads. But they’d smiled … it couldn’t have been too bad.

“Mr. Bliss …”

Yolanda nudged him.

“Sorry,” he said, realizing that Captain Jahnssen wanted him again.

“I was asking … Do we have pictures of Motsom yet?”

Bliss rose. “Not yet Captain. I’ve asked criminal records to fax them over. But I’ve got some background on him.” He paused, shuffled through his papers, found what he was looking for, and gave details: “William John Motsom. forty-eight years old; a few minor convictions, not serious, but he has a bad reputation. Nothing provable, but his name has cropped up in several gangland hits.”

“I have information about his car,” continued the captain, thanking him, then speaking to the audience in Dutch for a full two minutes, leaving Bliss with the distinct impression he was telling them what bungling idiots this English detective and his colleagues had been in losing LeClarc.

As Jahnssen sat down an impatient voice barked in English, “How do you know he’s been kidnapped?”

The question forced Bliss to his feet once more.

“First,” he answered, “a crewmember named …” He flicked through his notebook, desperately seeking a name, but failed to find it, so repeated, “A crewmember was on deck when King claims LeClarc fell overboard. The crewmember,” the catering assistant’s name came back in a flash—“Jacobs, didn’t see anyone else, only King. So we’re fairly certain no one fell off the ship. King told me he didn’t know Motsom, but I saw them together. And King went to Motsom’s cabin after reporting LeClarc missing. Finally,” he said, his voice rising in a crescendo, “King drove LeClarc’s Renault off the ship.” Feeling it was time to take some credit, he continued, “They knew their plan had gone wrong when I spoke to King. He knew I’d linked him to Motsom, so the only thing to do was to get LeClarc’s car off the ship without anybody noticing. That way everyone would assume LeClarc must have arrived safely. Everybody would be happy, and no more enquiries would be made until LeClarc failed to turn up in The Hague for the conference.” He sat down triumphantly, the case for the prosecution complete.

“But where is LeClarc?” enquired a spoilsport in the front row.

Bliss stumbled, “We … ah. We … ah … think he’s been put inside a truck or container. Drugged probably.”

The captain was quick to step in. “We’ve searched every car, but he’s a very big man …”

“Fat man,” sneered Bliss, getting in a dig, mindful LeClarc had given him the slip and caused him untold aggravation.

“Quite … He’s a fat man. So it would be foolish to hide him in a car. We’re sure he is in one of the trucks and we must search them all carefully. We should have photographs of him for everybody soon.”

A comedian made everybody laugh with the obvious. “Do you mean we might find more than one fat, drugged Englishman hiding in a truck?”

Then a deep thinker sitting next to Yolanda, scratched his head and asked a question in Dutch, which the captain translated before answering. “He wants to know— if LeClarc is in a truck, where’s Motsom?”

Billy Motsom was still on the phone. He had changed bars for fear of attracting too much attention, and was now in the one under the Heineken sign. A few of the regulars had managed to keep their daily vigil—nuclear warfare might have stopped them if close enough—but the place was much quieter than normal, and the landlord would have assumed one of his competitor’s was having a fire sale had he not known of the uproar at the port over a missing passenger.

Motsom stood by the payphone in one corner as he watched the landlord expertly slice the foam off the top of a dozen glasses with a wooden spatula. Why do they do that? he pondered, as he listened to a busy signal for the tenth time. Putting the phone down, he retrieved his florin and tried his cellphone again. The “low battery” signal beeped, so he slammed it shut and went back to the payphone. “It’s me. I’ve been calling for ages. What’s happening?”

He listened intently for a second, then exploded, “I don’t care how fuckin’ rough it is. Get a bloody boat even if you’ve got to buy one.” He paused long enough for a response. “No, I don’t know what they cost. And I still need a car. The cops are swarming all over mine. I nearly ran into a bloody ambush. Hang on,” he said, stuffing more coins into the slot. “I don’t know how they got onto me,” he continued, “unless that clown King has blabbed—thank God he doesn’t know which truck we’re using or we’d really be in the shit…”

The barman interrupted nosily, enquiring if he needed more coins. Waving him away, he continued, “Yeah, he knows what we’re doing, ’course he knows. He worked it out. He ain’t that stupid. Anyway, forget King, we’ve got to get LeClarc if he’s still alive, and I’ve got to get away from here before they find the truck and pin it on me.”

The meeting in the fortress, less than a quarter of a mile away, was dissolving in a degree of chaos with search leaders showing a certain amount of cronyism as they began constituting teams in an adult form of “One for me—one for you.” Bliss and Yolanda fought their way through a dark passage thronged with twenty or more Dutchmen all yakking at the same time, and emerged into the fresh air. Bliss looked up at the sky with surprise, he’d lost track of time and had not expected daylight.

“Christ,” he said, in a sudden panic. “The super’s arriving at six. I nearly forgot. I’ll have to get going, I’ve no idea how to get there.” He turned to Yolanda, “Where is it again, Ski-pole?”

“It’s shkeepol. But don’t worry, I’ll take you; we’ve got plenty of time.”

He checked his watch. “I’d like to talk to King again. I’m sure he knows a lot more than he’s letting on.”

“Okey dokey Dave,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“Hello Nosmo. Want a ciggy or a coffee,” he started cheerily as he entered the bare cell a few minutes later.

“I still haven’t got a bloody lawyer,” moaned King.

Bliss plunked himself informally on the end of the slatted wooden bench like he was taking a break. “I’ll ask the captain again, but the trouble is I’m only a visitor just like you.”

“Yeah well you ain’t stuck in jail, are you.”

“True, Nosmo. But you wouldn’t be, if you told me what was happening.”

“Are you offering me some sort of deal? Turn Queen’s evidence as we used to say. Do you still say that, Dave?” He sneered.

“No. We call it grassing or bubbling now.”

“I know. The trouble is I ain’t got anything to offer. I’ve told you … I ain’t done nothing, and I don’t know nothing.”

“No one thinks they’re bad, Nosmo; you know that,” said Bliss, letting his eyes wander around the spacious cell. The high stone walls had been whitewashed recently he thought, but graffiti had spread like poison ivy as each temporary occupant had sought to immortalize his stay with a few hatefully inscribed monosyllables beginning with “F” or “C” on the nearest available space. The expanse of blank wall beyond arms reach from the bunk was relatively unscathed, although some joker had written, “Do not write on this wall,” along the bottom.

“See that window?” said Bliss pointing to a heavily barred slot.

“Yeah.”

“Unless you start talking, that’s all the daylight you’re going to see for a long time.”

“And how are they going to keep me Dave? Claim they found a condom of cocaine up my bum?” he scoffed. “They haven’t got any evidence—you know that. And since when is it a crime to try to save a bloke’s life?”

“It ain’t Nosmo. But you weren’t trying to save anyone’s life. The way it looks to them is that you chucked the guy overboard to steal his car. Is that what happened?”

“You know it ain’t Dave. I didn’t chuck anybody overboard. And I didn’t steal a car neither.”

“Well you’ll have to try telling the judge that, but the evidence looks pretty good from where I’m standing.”

“You’re sitting Dave, not standing,” he said, sarcastically. “Anyway I’ve told you. I’m not saying anything without a lawyer, and I won’t be saying anything with a lawyer either.”

Bliss changed tack. “What about your missus, Nosmo. Do you want me to call…”

“I ain’t got a bloody missus, so don’t waste your breath.”

The cynicism of a disenchanted romantic empathized Bliss momentarily, asking, “Divorced?”

“Sort of. She pissed off years ago. I s’pose we’re still legally married but I ain’t seen her in ages.”

“Kids?”

“Couple. Grown up. One’s nineteen, the other’s twenty-one. They’ve got their lives sorted out. No point bothering ’em. There’s nothing they can do anyway.”

“Is there anyone …”

Yolanda’s voice interrupted, “Dave can I talk to you please?”

She was standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright light in the corridor.

“Lucky old Dave,” said King under his breath.

“I’ll be back. Don’t go away Nosmo,” he said, slipping out of the cell and pulling the huge wooden door closed behind him.

“They’ve found the truck,” said Yolanda, impatience overcoming discretion.

King, with an ear to the door, muttered, “Oh shit.”

Back at the port, just three minutes later, Bliss and Yolanda had no difficulty in finding the relevant truck. It was swarming with uniforms. Captain Jahnssen, in darkest blue with a smattering of gold stars, detached himself from the melee as they approached.

“Found it,” he beamed, pointing to a red and white truck with a matching forty-foot container on its back. “In here somewhere.”

They caught up to him, “How do you know?”

He stopped, now alongside the juggernaut. “One of the custom’s dogs smelled the air vent. Here,” he said, pulling Bliss under the truck, shooing away a cluster of inquisitive officers.

“Look,” he said, shining a flashlight upwards to a tea-plate sized wire grating. “This is where the air comes out.”

“Where’s the entry?” enquired Bliss, escaping from underneath the monster and carefully examining the joints and seams of the panel work for hinges and a doorway large enough to accommodate LeClarc.

“Probably concealed behind the cargo. Some dockers are coming to unload it.”

They walked toward the giant double doors at the rear as the captain explained. “It’s a load of plastic bags going to Istanbul according to the manifest.”

Fifteen minutes later the area looked like a freeway truck crash. Pallets piled high with boxes were strewn haphazardly over the dockside, and dozens of uniformed officers wandered amongst the wreckage seeking signs of life. A throng of officials were inside the container, examining remnants—bits of broken pallet, shreds of cardboard, billows of plastic wrap— picking over each artefact with the solemnity of a philatelist searching for a first-day cover. Nothing: No neatly constructed cubicle in the middle; no false wheel arches; no carefully camouflaged chunk of cargo containing a hideaway—absolutely nothing.

Disappointed, they began jumping down as Bliss, still on the ground, seized the flashlight from the captain and stooped under the truck. Emerging quickly he poked his head around the rear doors and peered at the floor.

“The vent doesn’t come up inside the truck,” he said, to no one in particular. Some of the uniforms stopped moving and he repeated himself. “Look. the vent doesn’t come up through the floor.” Diving back under the truck he checked again, then scrabbled around for a probe; a piece of stiff wire a foot long would be ideal, he thought, and he spotted something fitting on the ground and excitedly lunged for it. A violent overhead explosion caused him to shriek, and his right hand snaked upwards, too late to ward off his attacker—a sharp corner of the chassis. Staggering from under the truck he was caught by familiar hands.

“What’s happened Dave?” enquired Yolanda urgently.

“Hit my bloody head.”

“Let me see,” she said, gently prying his fingers from his scalp and tenderly parting the hairs. “It’s only bleeding a little,” she lied, quickly putting her hand over the wound to stem the flow. “I think we’ll get someone to look at it.”

Reeling noticeably, he allowed Yolanda to guide him toward her car. “Wait,” he cried without opening his eyes. “Tell the captain the air vent goes forward to the front of the container.”

Another pair of hands, bigger and firmer than Yolanda’s, caught hold and eased him into the car as he swooned; fatigue, pain, and blood loss sapping his will.

Bliss would have seen Motsom walking back from the port to one of the bars had he been alert as they shot past. Motsom, knowing the truck had been discovered, scurried to the nearest phone. It was only a matter of time before the driver was induced to talk, warnings had to be given, arrangements made.

Twenty minutes later disillusionment awaited a drowsy Bliss as they returned from the port medical clinic. “Just one stitch should do it,” the doctor had said, muttering about the apparent epidemic of injured cops—Sergeant Jones with his broken wrist, Bliss assumed, though he hadn’t asked, believing Jones had already received more attention than he deserved.

With the truck’s cab detached, a concealed door into a hidden compartment had been exposed, but the forlorn look on Captain Jahnssen’s face warned him not to expect good news.

“Empty,” Jahnssen shouted “He’s not in there.” Then he turned to a group of officers lounging against one of the pallets, lighting cigarettes from a common Zippo lighter, and angrily fired a volley of Dutch at them. The cigarettes were grudgingly stubbed out, one man making a performance by dropping his on the tarmac and defiantly dancing it to pulp with a flamenco. They ambled away, joining the ragged snake of uniforms heading toward the offices, seeking coffee or a cold beer.

“Look here,” said the captain leading Bliss and Yolanda to the secret door they had discovered; he pointed out the professionalism of the construction, the way the riveted seams of aluminium had been used to mask the door’s outline, and inside, three narrow collapsible bunks hung on the back wall.

“That’s a false wall,” Bliss pointed out, quite unnecessarily, giving it a tap and noticing the hollowness as the sound bounced around the empty container behind it. The entire front end of the container was a narrow compartment invisible from inside or out.

“Very clever,” muttered Bliss to himself. “But where’s LeClarc?”

Some plastic storage containers of food, and several plastic jugs of water, had been pulled out by the officers and, as Bliss bent to examine them, dizziness struck again. Yolanda grabbed him, eased him back to a standing position, then opened each container and patiently displayed the contents: Bread, steak & kidney pies, and an assortment of chocolate cakes. Enough for several days, he thought, even for LeClarc.

“Where’s the driver?” asked Bliss of the captain who was still nosing around inside the compartment.

“Arrested,” he said, jumping down. “They’ve taken him in for questioning.”

“Shit!” spat Bliss, “You know what this means?”

Yolanda shook her head for the briefest of seconds before he continued. “LeClarc isn’t here. He didn’t drive his car off the ship …”

“So …” she started to say, but he beat her to it again.

“So, he must have fallen overboard. King was telling the truth after all.”

The captain tried to butt in, but Bliss didn’t give him a chance. “Oh God! That poor sod’s been in the water all day; nobody’s done anything and we were supposed to be protecting him.”

“There could be another truck with a hidden compartment,” the captain suggested implausibly, offering Bliss some defence. “Anyway, it’s too late to start a rescue operation now. It will be dark in a few hours. All we can do is ask shipping to keep a good look-out.”

Alerted to the time, Bliss sneaked a look at his watch. “Four-thirty,” he said, keeping his shabby timepiece under his cuff. “We should get to the airport, Edwards will be here soon.”

“Let me see,” she said, grabbing his wrist.

Oh no! A nightmare—a scratched supermarket special; its vinyl strap shedding threads—damn!

“That’s English time Dave. It’s five-thirty here.”

He let out a squeal. Had she noticed?

“Don’t worry. We’ll be there in time.”

“You said it would take an hour.” Maybe she’d not seen his chronically challenged timepiece.

“Quicker than that,” she said, thrusting him hurriedly toward the BMW, adding, “Your watchstrap’s falling apart.”

Shit!

They sped in silence for awhile. Yolanda, driving fast, concentrated furiously as she snaked along a narrow road, which twined itself along the banks of a canal, green with algae. Several cyclists leapt off their machines in response to the blare of the BMW’s klaxon, and a lone fisherman angrily aimed a wooden clog at them as they passed. Bliss watched her with a dozen questions on his tongue but decided against saying anything. She clearly knew what she was doing and was totally absorbed in controlling the car. Woman and machine in complete unison, yet it was obvious which was in charge. The questions could wait.

“Radio?” he suggested, reaching for the control, then burst into laughter as a familiar melody washed over them.

“Recognize it?” he asked.

Her shrug said, “No,” but the touch of a smile suggested otherwise.

“It’s Wagner’s Flying Dutchman overture,” he laughed, then exhaled in surprise, “phew—that was less than five minutes.” A sign which clearly meant “airport” in Dutch had caught his eye as she stood on the brake, skidded toward a six-foot mesh fence, and slid to a halt inches from a gate. Sliding a magnetic card through a slot, she punched in a security code, and scooted through the gap as the gate opened with a metallic whine.

“We are not there yet, Dave,” she said, stamping her foot back on the accelerator and roaring along a perimeter road toward a cluster of hangars at the other end of the runway.

“Let’s go,” she said, expecting him to work out what was happening for himself, as she stopped amid a cluster of small planes.

“Yours?” he asked, staring in awe at the twinengine four seater.

“My father’s,” she said as she flicked open the door, slid into the cockpit and pulled him up into the plane with a powerful hand.

Donning a headset, she jabbered into a microphone while simultaneously checking meters, flicking switches, punching buttons, wiggling controls, and watching bits of the aircraft stir into life. Her head and eyes moved at lightning speed as she tore through the pre-flight routine then, satisfied, she gunned the engines and the whole plane danced noisily to life.

“Okey dokey, Dave?” A question?

He nodded and, with a slight jerk, the plane gathered speed then juddered to a stop at the end of the concrete strip.

“Waiting for clearance to land at Schiphol,” she commented casually, as if sitting in a car at an intersection waiting for the lights to change.

“What does your father do?” he forced himself to say, attempting to control the wobble in his voice— telling himself that it was just excitement, like the start of a roller coaster ride.

“Glasshouses,” she replied with a shudder.

“Glasshouses,” he repeated, surprised, having expected tulips or cheese.

“Are you O.K.?” she asked, noticing his pallid complexion, wondering if his wound was still causing lightheadedness.

“First time,” he admitted, meaning: in a small plane. Idiot, he thought, why tell her that?

“There’s a first time for everything, Dave,” she said, mischievously, and caught the edge of his smile as her light turned green. Playing the throttles like a virtuoso on a rare instrument, Yolanda increased the power to fever pitch. Then, with a quick check left and right, she released the brake.

Aloft, a minute or two later, Bliss squeezed his eyes shut them popped them open. It’s really happening, he concluded, trying to keep his feet on the ground while having a hard time escaping from the notion that the bump on his head had made him delusional. The land was dropping away and, within seconds, they were skimming over the little town. The dock was empty apart from a couple of tugboats. The giant cranes stood idle, their jibs erect awaiting the arrival of the next ferry. And the car parks around the port were beginning to fill with continental holidaymakers en route to England and Englishmen on their way home from the Continent.

Climbing slowly brought more and more of the North Sea into view, and the white-topped breakers crashing onto the beaches were easily visible for several miles up and down the coast.

“Maybe we should go and look for him,” said Bliss peering out to the horizon.

“Not in this,” she answered, smoothly manipulating the controls so that the plane banked around and straightened up parallel to the coast.

The plane banked again without any apparent effort on Yolanda’s part, and headed inland. “We should be there in about twenty minutes. Do you want a drink Dave?” she asked, taking her eyes off the esoteric pathway she had been following. His eyes urged her to look where she was going but, unperturbed, she reached behind to open a minute refrigerator.

“Coke or pop?” she said pulling out a can dusted with ice mist.

“No thanks,” he replied, a slight burning sensation in his groin painfully reminding him he hadn’t found time for a pee since leaving the SS Rotterdam at breakfast-time. Resolving to keep his mind off the subject of liquids until they reached Schiphol, if he could, he asked, “Why are you in the police, Yolanda?”

“For the excitement; for adventure. My father wanted me to go into his business, but I hate it. I have no brothers or sisters. I am, how you say … A lonely child.”

“An only child,” he corrected, although, being a singleton himself, couldn’t help thinking she may have been correct.

“Okey dokey—only child. Anyway my father gave me everything to make me want to be a glasshouse builder—it’s boring. Every glasshouse is the same—there’s no soul in a glasshouse; no passion, no excitement—just metal and glass; it doesn’t even have an engine.”

“Not like a BMW.”

She glanced out of the corner of her eye, pleased he had caught on, “Yeah—nothing like a BMW … So, what would I do Dave—the same as my father: Meetings with farmers, salesmen, engineers …?”

“But,” he interrupted, “your father must have made a lot of money.”

“Yes, and now he is too old to spend it… and what has he done all his life? Pah,” she spat derisively, “Glasshouses. Now my mother has died he is lonely; wants me to join the business, but I won’t … Glass,” she spat, as if it were a dirty word.

All this and an inheritance—interesting, he thought, studying the slender manicured fingers of her left hand as she deftly flipped open a Coke, finding a confusing assortment of rings—none looking particularly binding.

Keep your mind on work, he thought, asking, “Will he leave you the business?”

“Yes,” or “No,” would have sufficed, but she flicked switches—on/off, up/down—checked meters and craned her head around the sky as if searching for the answer. “He already has,” she confessed eventually, sounding like someone admitting to having a sexually transmitted disease. “Technically it is already mine, but I don’t tell many people. I like being a cop, especially a detective.”

“And you’d have to leave if they knew?”

“No, but it might be difficult,” she answered without elaboration, and they flew in silence for a almost a minute while Yolanda pondered the wisdom of her decision.

“What about you …” she started, but he quickly interrupted. “Yolanda,” he said, the pain in his groin becoming unbearable, “I’ve just thought—in the truck, we found plenty of food and water, but what about a toilet?”

“There was one, on the floor in the corner.”

“Really,” he said, kicking himself for being so unobservant.

She understood, and excused. “It’s O.K. You had a nasty bump on your head. How is it now?”

“Okey dokey,” he said, and they laughed together, again.

“Shut your eyes if you are scared of landing; I always do,” she teased as they touched down on a short runway, well away from the colossal passenger jets and giant freighters. They took a cab from the group of shabby huts reserved for owners and pilots of private planes, arriving at the glossy marble floored main terminal at Schiphol in time to pick up Superintendent Edwards from the arrival gate.

“Perfect,” Bliss mouthed to Yolanda as he moved forward to greet the senior officer. “Detective Inspector …”

“Bliss … Yes, I remember,” Edwards said stonily, adding, “Get that bag. Where’s the car?”

Tote that barge, muttered Bliss sotto voce, saying, “The car’s just outside, Sir.”

“Thank Christ for that. I hate fucking flying. I’m getting the ship back even if it does take all bloody night.”

They marched toward the exit, falling in step behind the superintendent, then he abruptly stopped and spun round, “Excuse me, Miss. What…”

“Sir,” Bliss jumped in, just in time to prevent the superintendent from making a fool of himself, “this is Detective Constable …ah …” The realization that he had no idea of her surname caused him to fumble for a second until she rushed to his aid.

“Pieters, Sir, Yolanda Pieters.”

“Delighted to meet you, Miss Pieters. I am Edwards,” he said with a weak smile and an implausibly strong aristocratic accent. “Bliss,” he hissed, pulling him to one side with a glare and dropping the accent, “You’re in enough shit already—I hope you’re not pissing around with a bloody woman.”

“Sir, Miss Pieters is their top detective; she was assigned to me.” He lowered his voice, “I can assure you we are not pissing about.”

“Better not be,” spat Edwards, as he marched off expecting them to catch up.

The cab was still waiting at the curb as Yolanda had instructed, and the superintendent’s bag and briefcase were loaded in the trunk before he realized it was not a police car.

“What’s this?” he queried, as if he’d discovered a lump of dog turd on his parade square.

“A taxi, Sir. We, um …” Bliss stalled, realizing that he still had to break the news about Yolanda’s plane.

Yolanda stepped in magnificently. “A police aircraft is waiting to take us directly to the port. Our captain knew you would be anxious to take command, so he personally ordered it for you.”

Edwards beamed, then spun on Bliss. “Why the devil didn’t you say so Inspector?”

“Sorry, Sir,” he mumbled, opening the cab’s front passenger door before slipping in the back with Yolanda.

“I hope you won’t mind flying again so soon?” Yolanda asked, keeping a perfectly straight face, nudging Bliss in the ribs.

“No. I won’t mind,” he replied with a slight wobble in his voice. “Good pilot is he?”

Bliss suddenly had a thought. “You were in the air force weren’t you, Sir?”

“That’s right Bliss. That’s why I hate flying. I’ve seen so many of them so-called hotshot pilots. Couldn’t fly a fuck’n … Oh sorry, Miss … Couldn’t fly a kite.”

“Well I can assure you we have an excellent pilot, Sir.”

“Glad to hear it. Now tell me what the bloody hell’s happening. Where’s LeClarc?”

Roger might have wished he had an answer. Steep choppy seas had replaced the violent breakers left in the wake of the storm, so, instead of riding up and down each huge swell he was now being jiggled about, constantly changing direction. There was no longer any danger of being thrown bodily off the raft, but the jerky flip-flop motion made it impossible to stand, even for a second, without being bowled over. The wind had died completely, not even the whisper of a breeze ruffled the wave-tops, and a blanket of water vapour hung heavily above the surface and was quickly arranging itself into a cold impenetrable fog.

The memory of Trudy was the only thing keeping his will to survive alive. For the first time in his life he had been happy, really happy, then everything had gone awry. A few vivid memories of the past week played constantly in his mind, like a movie collated from clips off the cutting room floor: The expectation, the thrill of their meeting, the look of disgust on her face, the struggle in the hallway, her “dead” body, the nightmare task of getting her down the steep ladder, the temptation to touch her bottom when her skirt had ridden up as she hung over his shoulder … a temptation he had succumbed to, thrusting a finger inside her knickers to feel the baby soft flesh in the crease of her buttocks. Then he’d recoiled, feeling the sting of his mother’s palm across his face and the sound of her voice rampaging in his brain—but it was an old memory coming back to haunt him. “Stop that you dirty little bugger,” she had yelled. “I told you never to touch girls there.”

“Sorry, Mum,” he had cried, an eleven-year-old schoolboy exploring the meaning of life with the little girl who lived three doors away. She was ten, and quite willing, but his mother had surprised them in the garden shed. His father, when he came home from work early—summonsed by his mother—had taken a powerful stand; words were not enough—his mother had said. Ten lashes with a leather belt on his expansive bare backside had stung for days and he had seen the red welts in the mirror a full week later.

The movie continued: Trudy crying—it was her crying which disturbed him the most.

“Don’t cry, Trude; I love you. I’ll look after you,” he had told her over and over. Through the tears, she’d plead for him to call her mother;. he’d promise—anything to stop her crying—but he always found an excuse … “I tried Trude, honest. She must’ve been out.”

“Stop crying and tell me you love me, Trude,” he would often say, “then I’ll take you home.”

“I love you, Roger,” she eventually replied, her resistance sapped by his persistence and her desire to escape. But he didn’t take her. “I’ve got to go to work Trude, I’ll take you tonight.”

Filled with hope and expectation she dashed off a note to her mother: “Love you mum—see you tonight.” But the day stretched to eternity as his promise gradually faded in the thinning air. Then, when she was close to despair, her heart leapt as a blast of fresh air revived her. But he had another excuse. “The car’s broken. I’ll have to take you tomorrow.” Each day a new excuse—then he started making demands.

“Trude,” he said one evening just after he came in from work. “If you show me your thingy I promise to take you home.”

“No,” she shouted, firmly clenching her skirt between her thighs as she sat on the bed in the glow of the computer.

“I won’t touch,” he pleaded. “I just want to look.”

“You looked before. You tied me up—remember.”

He remembered, but if only he’d looked closer— touched maybe. Rueing the missed opportunity, he implored, “Please let me have another look.”

“Will you really, really promise to take me home if I do?”

“I promise,” he lied. “Scout’s honour.”

“And you won’t touch?”

“Promise.”

With a sigh of condescension, she lay back and wriggled her knickers to her knees. “Promise?” she said, making one final check.

“Promise,” he said.

Like a stripper teasing a group of randy partygoers, she eased up her skirt, and, as his hand snaked toward her, kicked him in the mouth, leapt off the bed, and hauled up her knickers.

“I wasn’t going to touch honest,” he whimpered through his fingers, his lip already swelling, then his tone changed to that of a spiteful brat. “I was going to take you home, but I’m not now.” I’m keeping the ball if you don’t let me play.

The four-minute taxi ride from Schiphol to the private airfield had been heavily weighted by Superintendent Edwards’ presence, and sunk further when he spotted Yolanda’s small plane.

“Doesn’t look like a police plane,” he grumbled.

“Unmarked,” said Bliss, with a flash of inspiration.

“This way Edward,” Yolanda sang out, her voice bouncing with enthusiasm.

Edwards stopped and glared. “My name is Superintendent Edwards,” he stressed, dragging the mood even lower.

“Oh …” she began, confused. “I thought you said your name was Edward.”

Bliss strolled between them carting the senior officer’s luggage and made light of the situation. “Where shall I put Superintendent Edwards’ bags, Detective Pieters?”

“In here, Detective Bliss,” she responded, quickly catching on.

Bags loaded, the superintendent was on the point of boarding when he had second thoughts.

“Is there a bathroom here anywhere, Inspector?”

Relief swept over Bliss, he had almost forgotten his own desperate need. “I expect so, Sir. I’ll come with you,” he replied, turning to Yolanda for directions, but she shrugged.

“Maybe in that building,” was the best she could offer, turning to the nearest Quonset hut.

“We’ll ask,” shouted the superintendent, already ten strides away. Bliss caught up. The granite-faced superintendent sensed his presence and without looking, launched into him. “So, let me get this straight, Bliss. You were guarding LeClarc?”

“Me and the…”

“Shut up,” he ordered nastily, his teeth clamped tightly. “I’ll tell you when to speak.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“As I was saying. You were guarding LeClarc— correction—you were being paid to guard LeClarc. And he disappeared under your fuckin’ nose.”

Bliss considered the merit of interrupting further but lost his chance as Edwards spat. “You useless little shit. Do you realize what they’re saying about me at H.Q.?”

He didn’t, but could guess.

Edwards stopped and stared him straight in the face. Bliss, a good six inches taller, shrank several feet. “You screwed up,” the senior officer barked, “and I suggest you start thinking of some bloody good answers for the discipline board. As far as I’m concerned this will be all your fault. You failed to do your duty. The press are lapping it up. It’ll be all over the evening papers. Even the P.M.’s office has been on the phone wanting to know if it’s true. ’Lost another one have we?’ the bloody press secretary said, as though we lose one every day. Heads will roll Bliss, but I shall make sure your’s goes first. Got me?” Then, re-enforcing his fusillade, he yanked open his fly and defiantly pissed on the ground.

Bliss, fuming, could think of nothing worthwhile to say and they walked back to the plane in silence to find Yolanda sneaking a cigarette. Squeezing it out, she dropped it on the ground and opened the passenger door.

“Where’s the pilot?” Edwards blared, baulking at the doorway. He was not having a good day—why should anyone else?

Bliss and Yolanda looked at each other, but were saved the need to explain as Edwards spotted a uniformed man walking toward them. Satisfied, he climbed into the rear seat and was still fidgeting himself into place when the man, a security guard, veered off to continue his rounds.

In the air, eventually, Yolanda concentrated on the flying, while Edwards concentrated on quelling his stomach. Bliss sat quietly, entranced by a white carpet of greenhouses and the endless ribbons of canals and roads, while steaming under the threat of disciplinary action.

“How much longer?” Edwards queried gruffly after ten minutes in the air; ten minutes of edgy silence when neither man had said a word.

“Fifteen minutes,” Yolanda replied cheerily, glancing at him in the rear view mirror, thinking: He looks awful. Mr. Bliss looks pretty rough too, she thought, stealing a look at his darkly pensive face out of the corner of an eye. “We might run into some turbulence soon,” she continued. “We often do around here.” Her right eye winked at Bliss and he caught the look. “It’s something to do with the sea,” she added for effect, noticing just a touch of brightness around his lips.

Edwards moaned, saying nothing.

Thirty seconds later her right hand eased its way across the short gap in between the seats and slid over the top of Bliss’ thigh. Her fingers gently squeezed into the soft flesh near his groin and all hell broke loose.

The plane dropped like a stone and started spinning wildly. Her grip on his thigh increased. A scream came from the back. The plane crashed against an invisible cushion of air, then bounced off in the other direction. Her fingers bit into his flesh an inch from the end of his growing member. She stabbed at the controls and the nose shot upwards as Edwards was smashed back in his seat. Then the plane skidded onto its side forcing Bliss’ body to slide across the cockpit in her direction. Her fingers held his leg tightly as his world tumbled upside down. Bliss wanted to scream— terror or excitement? Before he could decide, Yolanda gave his thigh an extra little squeeze, let go, put both hands on the controls, and resumed level flight.

“A bit bumpy,” she said nonchalantly.

Superintendent Edwards slumped in the seat, a paper tissue held firmly over his mouth. He said nothing, the fear in his eyes said everything.

Captain Jahnssen was waiting on the tarmac as they touched down. Yolanda had alerted him on the radio. “Pleased to meet you, Sir,” said the captain, unsure of the correct address to use for a foreign officer of equal rank—sticking with “Sir” as the safest bet.

“Michael,” he snapped, gratefully collapsing onto the rear seat.

“We’ll see you back at the port, Detectives,” the captain addressed Bliss and Yolanda together. “Why don’t you stop and get a meal. You two haven’t eaten all day. I’ll bring the superintendent up to date.”

“Any news?” enquired Bliss, hopefully.

The captain shook his head as he climbed in beside Edwards, and the car sped off with Yolanda slumping in relief and Bliss dancing on the spot.

“What’s up Dave?”

“Won’t be a minute,” he shouted, running for a nearby building.