Читать книгу Inspector Bliss Mysteries 8-Book Bundle - James Hawkins - Страница 30

“GIVE ME A DRINK,” demanded Trudy, her bloodied fingers taking more than two minutes to select the correct letters from the dyslexic jumble on the keyboard. Another bout of coughing doubled her over and left her gasping for breath. The rancid air had rasped her throat for more than a week, but at least it had been freshened a couple of times a day when Roger visited. Now, for nearly thirty -six hours, she had breathed the same stale air, supplemented only by what she could laboriously suck through the keyhole. The constant effort of sucking was itself painful as her swollen and cracked lips kissed the cold metal escutcheon. Yet, she instinctively knew stopping would mean certain death.

“WATERS GONE,” she added slowly on the next line, without troubling the apostrophe key.

Roger had left plenty of water, but she had used it more to ease her pain and discomfort than to quench her thirst; splashing it liberally onto her face to cool sore lips and flush away salty tears; bathing blistered and bloody hands; washing herself after peeing. Following her abortive and painful efforts to escape, it had been too much effort to use the bucket. In any case, the only time she was really aware of wetting herself was when the acidic fluid ran down her legs, aggravating the cuts and sores on her knees. An entire bottle of water had been used to rinse out her knickers the first time she failed to reach the bucket. Too wet to wear, she had draped them over the computer where she hoped the warmth would dry them. Without underwear, the wet, course, denim of her new skirt rasped the tender flesh of her behind with every movement.

“MY BOTTOM HURTS, MUMMY,” she typed, with the tears of a toddler suffering diaper rash. Crying again she decided it was time to go, slithered to the floor, and let her lungs drag her back to the life-sustaining hole in the door.

Superintendent Michael Edwards and Captain Jost Jahnssen dined alone in the imposing staff room, the highly polished floor and oak panelled walls acting as a sounding board. Almost everything in the room remained the same as it had been when the original owners left, hurriedly, in 1944. Only the chairs and language had changed. The Senior Officer’s Mess, as it had been, would have been instantly recognizable to any of the German soldiers stationed there at that time. Indeed, several had returned over the years, greeted politely as guests, though never as friends, by the new inhabitants of their barracks on the hill overlooking the port.

Superintendent Edwards salivated over the menu. Twenty-five years experience of British police canteens had never yielded Coquilles St. Jacques Ostendaise or Rognons de Veau en croute avec sauce Bordelaise. Greasy fish and chips or liver and onions with mash was as close as they’d come.

The captain caught the look of astonishment. “It is from the restaurant next door.”

Edwards relaxed and lied, “I guessed it was.” Then he settled on the fish and chips masquerading as Filet de Sole (au Mer du Nord), Meunière avec Pommes frit.

“Let me tell you what we have done,” began the captain, their dinner orders taken by a surly filing clerk with a ring in her nose and a hairstyle from hell, making no pretence of being a waitress. “We’ve interviewed King, he will say nothing. We will keep him overnight then take him before a magistrate tomorrow on charges of murder and stealing a car.”

Edwards’ head jerked up. “Murder?”

“Well. That’s how it looks at the moment. If he didn’t push LeClarc over the side why was he driving his car?”

“Good point,” replied Edwards, “What do we know about King?”

“He say’s he is a private detective but can’t prove it. He didn’t have a car on board and we have not found any of his belongings. There was no cabin booked in his name but we think he was travelling with Motsom.” Reminded of Motsom, the captain retrieved the photograph from his file and studied it for a second. “I think this man is the key to the case, Michael; what can you tell me about him?”

Edwards sifted through his papers and came up with a single sheet. “Born 1955, Birmingham, England. William John Motsom, alias Billy. 5’11”, brown hair, brown eyes, muscular build.” He glanced up. “This was ten years ago Jost, he might have gone flabby since then.” He returned to the page. “Right ear-lobe missing,” then pulled a face, “Tattoo: naked woman on left forearm.” What is it with villains and tattoos of naked women? he thought to himself.

Scanning the page, he skipped to the pre-cons section. “A few juvenile convictions: possession of weapons, robbery,” then mumbled, “that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“He was interviewed in relation to one of the missing computer people. The one who disappeared on his bicycle. Motsom’s car was seen in the area that day.” He flipped the paper over, the blank side stared at him. “It doesn’t say what happened, just that he was interviewed. I’ll get someone to look into that. Now what’s happening with LeClarc.”

“We’ve asked shipping to look out for the body, but the fog’s quite thick I understand,” said the captain, splashing another shot of whisky into each of their glasses.

“I got the forecast before I left England. There’s a fog warning in the North Sea for at least twenty-four hours. Maybe longer.”

“It could last a week or more,” added the captain, with the voice of experience. “Sometimes we don’t see across the river for two or three weeks.”

“Is there any chance of finding him alive?”

“No—impossible. He could survive a few hours at the most, but in a rough sea without a life jacket he would be dead in thirty minutes. He probably died straight away.”

“What about the life-raft?”

“King threw it over the side. He probably thought the crewman had seen him push LeClarc overboard, so he pretended he was trying to save him. Quick thinking, but too late for LeClarc.”

The first course arrived—prawn cocktails in delicate glass tureens shrouded with plastic. The co-opted waitress dumped them on them table, still wrapped, and stomped off without a word.

“What about the truck?” enquired Edwards.

“Yugoslavian registered, or it was, before Yugoslavia broke up. Impossible to trace the owners now … could be Serbian but we’re not sure. The paperwork looks O.K. but there’s at least four different official governments issuing documents, and several unofficial ones.”

“The driver?”

“Austrian—says he knows nothing about it. We’ll have to let him go unless we can link him to Motsom or LeClarc. He’s scared. Claims he just picked up the truck and was paid cash to deliver it. There was nothing to prove LeClarc was going to be put into that truck—just a hunch. The fresh food and water suggests there was going to be a passenger, and we think the truck was designed to get refugees out of Bosnia or Croatia, but someone hired it for this special job. It has certainly been used before. Mr. Bliss found the compartment. He is a very good detective, I think.”

“He shouldn’t have lost LeClarc in the first place. It’s all his bloody fault,” Edwards shot back, his face immediately reddening. This was one hook Bliss wasn’t going to wriggle off. Edwards needed a scapegoat. Word had already filtered back to him that he was being personally blamed. The assistant commissioner, according to the rumour picked up by his secretary in the lunchroom, had called the deputy commissioner to discuss a charge of neglect. There were several old scores to be settled and the rumour had followed an acrimonious 9 a.m. meeting with the A.C., which had lasted all of thirty seconds.

“What’s happened?” the Assistant Commissioner had enquired blackly, without inviting Edwards to sit down.

“We seem to have temporarily lost LeClarc, Sir,” he had said with false bravado.

“Well I suggest you temporarily find him again, Mr. Edwards.”

“We are trying, Sir.”

“Try harder Mr. Edwards and, just for the record, how did eight detectives manage to lose one fat man on a ship?”

Flustered, he mumbled “Ah … I’ll get onto it right away, Sir.”

“You do that Mr. Edwards. I shall expect your report in twenty-four hours. Good morning.”

The waitress returned noisily with the main course, her heavy boots clumping halfway across the room. The captain yelled they were not ready so she plunked the tray of food on the nearest table and clumped back out. Despite the noise Edwards didn’t notice her, his mind still stuck on the morning’s meeting and, with mounting fury, his fists clenched, his muscles tensed, and the blood pumped in his temples.

“Bugger. You’d think four of them would be enough on board one bloody ship,” he exploded, slamming a fist onto the table and catching Captain Jahnssen completely off guard.

“I. Um …,” started the captain, but was immediately cut short by Edwards violently smashing his right fist into the palm of his left hand as if stabbing himself.

“What could go wrong, eh?” he yelled, but gave no time for an answer. “How could they have been so stupid?” Then the tension abated and he looked across the table at the captain, “Sorry,” he said, “I wonder if I could have a drop more whisky.” He spoke as if nothing had happened and the captain poured him a generous shot before rising to fetch the dinner plates.

They ate silently for more than five minutes—an explanation brewing. “There was a second team,” Edwards began eventually, “back- up—but Bliss and the others didn’t know about them. It was just a safety measure in case anything went wrong.”

“Something did go wrong,” interjected the captain, then wished he hadn’t.

“I know,” screamed Edwards, “I pulled the second group off when LeClarc got safely on board. I didn’t want to lose two teams for forty-eight four hours. What could happen on a ship? It was only an eight hour crossing for Christ sake.” He paused for a second, then pleaded with Jahnssenn. “I was just trying to keep expenses down.”

“Oh,” was all the captain could muster.

“So,” continued Edwards in a lighter tone, “what’s our plan now?”

Captain Jahnssen really didn’t have a plan, the events of the day had taken their own course and he, like everybody else, had simply reacted. Thinking for a second he ad-libbed, “I thought you would want to interview King and the driver yourself,” he began, then paused hoping Edwards would say something to give him more time to think.

“And …?” said Edwards expectantly, then had an idea of his own. “What about the truck, do we know where it was going?”

“Istanbul according to the documents, but that would take three or four days by road, maybe more.”

“Perhaps we should contact the Turkish police, although I doubt if LeClarc would have been taken there. They would probably have stopped the truck en route and hauled him out into a car.”

An idea seized the captain. “What if I put a couple of men into the truck and let it go, he might lead us to the kidnappers.”

Enthusiasm brightened Edwards’ face as he envisaged the scheme. “I could send two of my men with two of yours in the back of the truck. We’ll have to hope the kidnappers have no way of knowing LeClarc isn’t inside.”

Jahnssen frowned, “It might be dangerous. I think we should send a car as well, another two officers.” He paused for thought, “Maybe four, these men have already murdered two innocent people if what you say is correct.”

“I’ve only got two men here.”

“And Detective Bliss?”

Edwards felt his blood rising—Bliss had twice put the phone down on him in one day, in addition to losing LeClarc. “Mr. Bliss will return to England first thing tomorrow,” he replied firmly—further discussion unwelcome. “We will make do with the men we have.”

The chocolate gâteau had been excellent. “A definite cut above the canteen at Scotland Yard,” Edwards was saying when an officer crashed into the room and blasted the captain with a volley of Dutch.

“They’ve spotted the Saab,” translated the captain excitedly, “near Rotterdam.”

“And Motsom?”

“Quick. We’ll go to the communications room and find out.”

They half ran down the long corridor, round a corner. Run up a staircase or wait for the elevator? They chose the stairs, climbed six and heard the ping of the elevator behind them. They kept going, the decision already made. Two steps at a time they made it to the next floor, turned left and flew into the control room. Stopping for a second Edwards familiarized himself with his surroundings—no different from any other police control room: A jumble of telephones, radios and computer terminals; walls covered with banks of alarm panels and enormous maps; desks strewn with scratch pads, instruction manuals and coffee cups.

The loudspeakers were alive with unintelligible words, shooting back and forth with the rapidity of a foreign TV quiz show. He couldn’t understand a word yet knew exactly what they were saying.

“They’re chasing the Saab,” the captain said rapidly in English, not wasting time for fear of missing something important. “We’ve got two cars behind him.”

Edwards pictured the chase in his mind. The tension of the police drivers and co-drivers: adrenalin pumping, muscles taught with anticipation, breathing heavily, hearts beating loud enough to hear. Each man speaking in one-word commands: Right. Left. Faster. Stop. The controlled power and emotion—two highly charged men and more than two hundred horsepower in one car. The excitement; the exhilaration; the thrill. And the risks: Cornering too fast; braking too late; jumping lights; squeezing through impossible gaps.

Captain Jahnssen listened intently, interpreting what he could, the important bits. “They’re driving fast—two hundred kilometres an hour.”

There’s nothing like it, thought Edwards, exhilarated by the excited babble on the radio, nothing compares to the thrill of a police chase: Seat of the pants driving; controlled skids, sudden direction changes. The risk taking. Guessing—no, not guessing—calculating the way the target will turn. The rush; the sheer speed; the way everything flashes past in a blur. Total concentration on the target and the road to the exclusion of everything. Mind and machine in perfect harmony.

The voices on the radio bubbled with excitement as they. closed in. “Big intersection ahead,” explained the captain.

Edwards pictured it: Red lights rushing toward them—stab the brakes; jab the clutch; wrench the gear stick; thrust the throttle to the floor; twist the wheel; feel the tires sliding and bouncing, losing grip. Pedestrians and cyclists out for a jaunt suddenly caught in the midst of a life and death struggle. Blast the horn; hear the siren screaming overhead, your siren; other sirens joining in. Take the corner; pray the truck can stop; hope the pedestrian isn’t deaf or stupid. Feel the car protesting; shaking; vibrating, over-revving. Hit the wrong gear in a panic; slam it back into second, ram the throttle to the floor, hear the engine’s screaming; feel the acceleration as the tires bite. Look ahead: is he turning; stopping; shooting?

Edwards listened—one guttural voice after another; fast talking in a foreign language reminding him of fighter pilots in war movies—fear and tension released by shouting single words or staccato sentences. The captain translated, his words becoming as crisp as the chasers.

“Lights are red. They’ve gone through.”

“Who?” asked Edwards.

“The Saab.” He held up his hand, “Wait,” he commanded, they’ve hit a car.” He listened intently, “They’re still going.” A moment’s silence. “They’re turning left, they won’t make it.” He paused. “They did.” A second later, “They’ve hit another car.” He turned to Edwards with a quick explanation, “They’re on a busy street, we’ve got three cars behind and we’re setting up a road block ahead.”

Edwards imagined the speeding cars weaving in and out of traffic; pedestrians running into doorways; terrified parents dragging fascinated kids off footpaths; cars sliding to a halt. Hunted and hunters skidding on two wheels, fishtailing around corners and bouncing off parked cars.

The voices on the loudspeaker became louder, tension increasing and the captain almost whispered, “The road block’s coming up.”

Edwards saw it—two cars blocking the road— amazing how fast they came toward you.

“He’s not slowing.”

Five hundred metres, guessed Edwards, plenty of time.

“Still going.”

Edwards knew the fear, the panic. Passengers and co-drivers praying silently, even aloud. “Oh Christ! Stop you, bastard. Stop!”

“Not stopping.”

Two hundred metres. The swearing, “Oh Fuck! For fuck’s sake stop. STOP!”

“They’re shooting.”

The worst. Don’t panic. Don’t lose control. Decide quickly: If you weave you lose control; drive straight and you hit a bullet at 100 miles an hour.

Jahnssen barked an order.

The loudspeaker reverberated with the sound of shots then fell silent. Edwards held his breath. The control room hushed.

The loudspeaker rattled back to life, the captain translated. “They hit the road block, they’re still going.”

Edwards imagined the scene: The Saab ramming first into one police car, bouncing off into the second, scattering policemen and sending debris in all directions.

A barrage of voices sprung from the loudspeaker. The captain looked relieved. “No one killed. We are still after them.”

Edwards’ mind was racing, thinking of the co-drivers and the fear of not being in control, the fear he felt when flying. Too frightened to look, too scared not to. Unable to do anything but pray, trust the driver, and occasionally swear out loud to release the tension. “Bastard. Get out the bloody way,” or “Fuck—that was close.” Wanting to scream, “Slow down. Stop! Stop! Let me out.” Breathing a sigh of relief as each danger passes then immediately worrying about the next.

Jahnssen was translating again. “It’s a bridge.”

“A bridge?”

“A canal bridge, it’s lifting.”

Excitement mounted in the voices on the radio, like derby commentators near the finishing post.

“Not stopping.”

“The bridge’s still going up.”

“They won’t make it.”

“STOP! STOP!”

The whole room held its breath. The radio went dead. Twenty seconds later it chattered back to life. The captain turned to Edwards with a look of dismay, “They’ve got away. They jumped the gap.”

Disappointment filtered through the room. Policemen and civilians drifted back to their duties, or slunk quietly away with the disillusioned expression of footballer players losing the Cup by a single last minute goal. Some passed a few words as if commenting on strategy or team spirit, most remained silent.

Edwards looked at the captain, “Well Jost, what happens now?”

“We’ll keep looking for them but I think we should go ahead with our plan. I’ll arrange for the men to go in the truck and the back-up car. Perhaps you would interview King and the driver. You had better start with the driver so we can release him as soon as the truck is prepared. Two hours should be enough.”

“What’s the time now?” Edwards asked of himself, checking his watch which still read 9:05 p.m. Glancing up he saw the control room’s illuminated digital clock blink from 22:05 to 22:06 and he reset his watch to Dutch time.

9:06 p.m., said the flight information board clock at Stanstead airport as Margery, bottle-bronzed, still in beach shorts with her breasts bubbling out of a skimpy T-shirt, walked through the arrivals gate, saw Trudy’s mother, stopped dead, and erupted in a torrent of tears. The accompanying stewardess, unaware of the situation, tried to comfort her, but Margery twisted out of her grasp and flew toward Lisa.

For several minutes they moved back and forth in a slow dance, blocking the narrow exit, neither wanting to be the first to break away in case the other should accuse them of caring less about Trudy. The constable, with a tremulous voice, suggested moving out of the way, but the joint outpouring of pent-up emotions made them deaf. Trudy would have found it strange, even amusing, to see her mother and Margery locked together this way. How many times had her mother trashed Margery? “That girl’s bad news. I wish you’d find a nice friend” she would say.

With Margery’s hastily packed bag over his shoulder, Peter nudged them through the main doors toward the police car, the policeman urging them to hurry. Peter, grabbing his arm, whispered, “Don’t worry constable, it’s too late tonight.”

“Not quite,” he replied, looking pleased, explaining that a friend at the Daily Express had promised to hold a space as long as they had Roger’s picture before midnight.

Peter swung round in his seat as soon as they hit the main highway. “Margery, Luv. What do you know about this Roger bloke?”

Margery distanced herself a little from Lisa. “Trude said he was twenty-seven, I said that were too old. She didn’t say a lot about him really.” She paused for effect, as if trying to think of what to say next, though she had thought about nothing else since seeing Trudy’s picture in the paper. “He’s got a big house in Watford and drives a Jag.”

“That’s it. That’s where she is,” cried Lisa. “Why didn’t you stop her you stupid girl?”

Margery had found a prickly seat and squirmed. “I told her not to go. Honest. I told her that all he wanted was a fu …” she stopped, suddenly aware she was not talking to her peers, “You know?” she finished, with uncharacteristic shyness.

“Have you any idea of the address?” enquired the constable, feeling it was his responsibility to ask the questions.

“I’ve thought and thought, but she never said.”

“Did she say if she was unhappy at home?” continued the constable, treading on thin ice.

She quickly replied, “No,” then looked sheepish. “I don’t know if I should say this …” she paused, fidgeting uncomfortably, her eyes roaming back and forth between Lisa and Peter, then she took the plunge, “Trudy doesn’t like her stepmother—reckoned it was her fault her dad left home.”

Peter said nothing but Lisa stepped in quickly. “Come and stay with me Margery, ’til your parents get back.”

“Is that alright Mrs. McKenzie?”

“I want you to,” she pleaded forcefully, then added, “Please.”

“Mum said I should ask if I could. She’s worried as well.”

“Anyway, I wouldn’t feel happy with you on your own after what’s happened to Trudy.” The admission that something had “happened” to Trudy dispelled all remaining optimism and immersed Lisa in macabre thought: Her lips quivered, she squeezed them together tightly; her eyes misted, she shut them; her body started shaking, she clenched her muscles. But the emotion continued building until the pressure became too great and she exploded into a violently sobbing mess.

Peter leaned over and quietly asked the constable to stop the car.

“It’s dangerous here.”

“Please.”

He stopped. Peter leapt out and, changing places with Margery, quickly bundled Lisa’s jerking body in his arms and pressed her face to his chest.

Nobody spoke for a while, the car was filled with the sound of Lisa’s sobs and an occasional breathy, “There, there,” from Peter, who would have added, “Everything will be alright,” had he not known she would immediately see through the lie and weep even more. They were travelling fast, without dramatics. The constant buzz of the engine and the ever-changing hum of the tires, were the only sounds for many miles, as each occupant unsuccessfully tried to come up with something to diffuse a further explosion of grief. Then the constable decided to offer some hope to Lisa, judging it was time to end the silence. “Mrs. McKenzie?” he called, in the rear view mirror.

She responded with a sniffled, “Yes.”

“You don’t know anything bad has happened. She might have just gone away with this bloke on holiday and didn’t tell you ’cos she knew you’d say no.”

“Trudy wouldn’t do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” she snapped, but wouldn’t have bet her life on it.

“Were you close?” he continued kindly, hoping to ease the tension.

“Yes, Well …” she wavered—he caught the waver. “Not as close as we used to be. I work evenings, and she’s at school all day, so we don’t see too much of each other.”

The memories of how life had been were too much: tears started again, quietly this time, tiny droplets dribbling down her cheeks. Tears of guilt, regret, and remorse shed by every imperfect parent; tears for the missed opportunities; tears for things said and unsaid. But Lisa’s tears were magnified a thousand fold by the fact that, unlike other parents, she might never have the opportunity to say: “Sorry daughter. I did my best.”

Wiping the tears, Lisa leaned forward and touched the constable’s shoulder, insisting he should pay attention. “She wouldn’t leave her cat, she adores it,” she sniffled.

“What if she was only planning on going for a few days?”

“She wouldn’t.”

He uttered, “Ah … hah,” which could have meant anything, but Lisa chose it to mean he didn’t believe her.

Why wouldn’t they believe her? The first policeman who came to the house had been the same. He’d started off compassionately enough, taking Trudy’s description, names and addresses of her friends and relatives, things she took with her—nothing really, just her handbag, places she liked to visit,; hobbies, even the things she liked to eat. Then he started. “Are you sure you didn’t have any trouble with her?”

“No.”

“‘No,’ you didn’t have any trouble or ’no’ you’re not sure?”

“No trouble.”

“You didn’t have a fight?”

“No, we never fought.”

“Never?”

“Hardly ever. Well not physically anyway.”

“But you did have rows?”

“Yes,” she was forced to admit. “We did have disagreements. Doesn’t everybody?” She sought confirmation in his face but saw a different look; could see what he was thinking—How do I know you haven’t killed her and dumped the body somewhere?

Twenty times at least she felt like saying, “Get out if you’re not going to do anything.” But she didn’t say it, knowing he would claim that proved her guilt. Then he brought up the drugs, “Was she?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“Does she smoke?”

“Yes. They all do, well most of them anyway.”

His look said, “Hash,” but she carried on before he had a chance to say it. “So what does that prove. I like a drop of Martini, does that make me an alcoholic?”

“No,” he admitted. Then, after a pause, asked, “And what about sex?” Giving her a questioning look, too embarrassed or too sensitive to come clean and ask if Trudy were a virgin.

“I don’t know,” replied Lisa, looking away.

“Has she ever …”

God, she thought angrily, this man’s a copper and he’s frightened to ask me if my daughter’s ever been bonked. “No … Yes … Possibly. I don’t know. She never told me.”

“Could she be on the game?”

“How dare you?”

“We have to ask.”

“No you don’t.”

“Look, I’m sorry but we’ve got to have some idea where to start looking. I’m not saying she’s on the game …”

“She’s not,” Lisa shouted straight into his face, her eyes not more than three inches from his.

He remained calm. “Like I said, I’m not suggesting she is …”

“Good!” she yelled.

“All I’m saying is that I need to know … If there were the slightest possi—”

“There’s not,” she shot back before he could finish.

“I’m just asking, then we’d know where to start looking, Kings Cross railway station for instance.”

She stared at him coldly. “I’m not going to tell you again. She’s not a whore. O.K.”

“O.K.,” he replied, unconvinced.

“Anyway, I don’t suppose you’d bother to look if I said she was,” complained Lisa. He glanced sideways at her, doubt written all over his face—she could have throttled him. “I told you, she is not. Got it.”

He got it.

“The Historic Borough of Leyton,” proclaimed the sign proudly as they neared Margery’s home. “Asshole of the World,” had been added, unofficially, in fluorescent red, and the artist would have been gratified to know his work reflected well in the headlights of the car. Directed by Margery, the constable pulled up outside the darkened house and looked at the dashboard clock. “Ten-oh-five,” he said, pleased with himself for making good time.

“This is Roger,” Margery said, triumphantly flourishing the folded sheet from the centre of a biology book a few moments later. Lisa grabbed it and the others stared over her shoulder. Peter quickly shook his head, and Lisa said, “No,” but continued staring, surprised by the lack of malevolence in the man’s eyes, thinking that she herself might have difficulty resisting his obvious charms.

“You are quite sure this is Roger?” the policeman asked in an official tone, holding the photocopy up for Margery to see. She nodded seriously. And, mindful of the fact the picture could one day become an exhibit in a murder trial, he carefully placed it in a plastic evidence bag and wrote on the label “Roger??? Last known address—Watford.”

Fifteen minutes later he was on his way to the Daily Express office with a creased photocopy, and verbal description of someone who might well have come from a different species, or planet, than Roger LeClarc.

Roger would have recognised the man in the picture, although his swollen eyelids would have made the vision somewhat blurry. In any case he was submerged in darkness, darker even than his first night as a castaway, the sky completely shut out by a cold wet blanket of fog.

Things had brightened just a little by late morning, the great globs of black and slate-grey cloud rushing northwards, leaving a wash of translucent white with the brush strokes clearly visible. But, just as the heavens were being re-painted sky-blue, a swirling mist began wafting around the life raft, shutting out the horizon and coating Roger with tiny beads of water.

Several ships had slipped by in the fog, only the penetrating tones of their foghorns signalling their presence and, by late afternoon, he had convinced himself that a particularly close horn was that of a lighthouse. It must be a bay or inlet, he thought, deceived by the calmness of the water, and dreamed of a wide sandy beach garnished with bare-breasted nymphets and a hundred hamburger joints. The prospect of hamburgers jerked him awake—food, I need food, must have food. “There must be food inside,” he mused and sat on the edge of the giant rubber ring with his feet dangling speculatively into the opening, weighing the pros and cons of venturing inside, into a water-filled paddling pool.

His stomach won, and a minute later he was floundering helplessly as his bulk dented the flimsy bottom and a deluge of water knocked his feet from under him. His thrashing flushed him further from the inflated rim and, within seconds, he was drowning again: His weight, sodden coat, the water, and gravity, conspiring to drag him under the canopy toward the centre. He sank to his chest and sat forlornly in the middle with only his head and shoulders above the water, the canopy draped over him like a huge deflated parachute.

Once the water, and his mind, had calmed, he used his hands as flippers to inch back toward the opening, then his right hand collided with the box of emergency rations and he clung to it thankfully as he clambered back onto the roof and collapsed, exhausted.

The blanket of fog hanging motionless above the sea intensified hour by hour. By early evening the cold white swirling mist of the morning had become a uniform grey wall. Night appeared to fall several hours earlier than it should otherwise have done and Roger slept.

Night was also falling in the Dutch port where preparations were being made to keep tabs on the truck bound for Istanbul. A knot of officers, English and Dutch, stood around the rear of the trailer receiving instructions, then Detective Constable Wilson dropped a bombshell. “Sorry, Guv,” he said, “but I’m not volunteering to go in that.” He hesitated momentarily, adding, “With all due respect,” a fraction too late to have any sincerity, and he kept his eyes on the ground, away from Superintendent Edwards.

“I wasn’t asking for volunteers,” snarled Edwards, his clenched teeth chattering in anger as he hissed, “Come with me.”

Turning his back, he strode smartly away, leaving Wilson looking to his colleague for support. D.C. Smythe pulled a face— you’re on your own mate, and an embarrassed silence built with the possibility of a showdown. Edwards broke the spell. “Wilson,” he barked, the single word somehow encompassing the phrase, “Come here you bastard.”

“Yes, Sir,” Wilson replied, half running to catch up with his senior officer.

Edwards turned on him as soon as they were out of the group’s earshot. Making eye contact he flew at him, “You will go in the truck you little snot,” he spat. “How dare you show me up in front of the captain.”

“But, Sir …” Wilson tried to explain.

“Don’t you ’but’ me you little runt.”

“Sir, I have an important engagement,” he managed, before Edwards could stop him.

“Nothing, I repeat, nothing is more important than this case to you, and your career, at this moment,” he said, adding with venom. “Do I make myself abundantly clear?”

Wilson wouldn’t give up; couldn’t afford to give up, “Sir, I promised my wife …”

Edwards cut in with a sneer, “You promised your wife what? I bet you promised you wouldn’t get pissed, or wouldn’t get a dose of AIDS from a whore in Amsterdam. Wouldn’t have stopped you though would it?” He paused for breath and a change of tone. “That reminds me, I still haven’t found out what you and the others were doing when Bliss lost LeClarc on the bloody ship. Where were you? How come Bliss was the only one on deck? What was Sergeant Jones doing when he fell over? Trying to hold up the bar was he? Or, do you expect me to believe Bliss lost him all on his own?”

Wilson spluttered, “We were …”

“I should warn you mister, I’ve already spoken to Sergeant Jones. Just in case you were thinking of telling me porky pies.”

“I’m not sure what we were doing,” Wilson replied hesitantly after a few moments of prudent thought.

Superintendent Edwards, an experienced interviewer, knew the signs; knew very well that Wilson remembered precisely where he was and what he was doing at the material time. “I’ll tell you what Mister Wilson,” he began, offering a backhanded compromise, “you get in that truck with Smythe and the others, and by the time you return I’ll have forgotten all about what went wrong on the ship.” Still staring, he raised his eyebrows, “Do we understand each other?”

Wilson understood. “Yes, Sir.”

Edwards marched stiffly back to the truck with Wilson, slack-shouldered, in his wake. “Now Captain,” said Edwards as if they had never been away, “please continue with the briefing.”

Fifteen minutes later, unaware he was carrying three passengers, the driver gunned the huge truck life and, after warming the engine for a few minutes, dropped the rig into gear. Destination—Istanbul.

“What do you think, Michael?” asked the captain as they watched the big rig rocking violently as it rolled over the railway lines on its way out of the port, carrying Detectives Wilson and Smythe together with Constable Van der Zalm.

“We shall soon find out,” replied Edwards. “The driver may be lying, especially if he was paid enough—or scared enough. He was certainly nervous, but wouldn’t you be if you were arrested in a foreign country; particularly if you hadn’t done anything wrong?”

The captain nodded, “I suppose I would … That reminds me, you haven’t spoken to King yet.”

The truck swung hard to its right just outside the dock and accelerated toward Rotterdam. An unmarked dark green police car, waiting out of sight just beyond the dock perimeter, took up its position and the two-vehicle convoy set off.

“David King?” Superintendent Edwards enquired of the lone occupant in the cell.

King was tempted to say, “No,” just to be awkward, but nodded without getting up. “What?” he replied defiantly.

“I’m Superintendent Edwards, New Scotland Yard. I’d like to have a few words with you.”

King studied him critically, rising slowly—thoughtfully—saying nothing. Edwards turned to the captain, still standing in the cell doorway. “It’s O.K. Jost. I’ll call if I need anything.”

Edwards swung on the substantial wooden door, heard the solid clunk of the lock dropping into place behind him, and turned to face King, now standing a good six inches taller than he.

“Sit down please, Mr. King,” he said, feeling ill at ease under the weight of King’s stare.

“I’ll stand,” replied King coldly.

Edwards dropped to the bench. “Sit down,” he instructed with a wave of the hand, somehow managing to make his order sound like an invitation.

King stood defiantly, and an uncomfortable feeling prickled the back of Edwards’ neck. “I really think it would be better if you sat,” he persisted, forcing himself to stay seated.

“I said I’ll stand.”

“Sit,” he commanded, as if ordering a dog.

King glared, “Do you always get your own way?”

Edwards, realizing he was at a severe disadvantage, pressed his hands firmly on the bench and started to rise, “I’m here to ask the questions, Mr. King. I said sit down.”

King made his move, towering over Edwards, making no attempt to sit. “Why don’t you go screw yourself?” he said, spitting malice.

“How dare you?”

“Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten …” continued King, and a horrified look of recognition spread over Edwards’ face.

“Nosmo King?”

The scream of a siren pierced the air, reverberating sharply along the tunnel-like corridor, bringing the captain and officers running. King’s cell door flew open and he handed Edwards’ slumped body to them, saying, “Mr. Edwards had a little accident.” And he shut the door himself.

Edwards, holding his hand over his mouth, mumbled, “I’m O.K., I just slipped.”

Confused, the captain tried to help. “Let me see?”

“No, ’I’ll be O.K., I just need a toilet.”

“What happened?”

“Like I said: Accident—slipped and fell against the bench.”

The captain shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve never heard of a policeman slipping in the cells—prisoners sometimes.”

Blood was oozing from between Edwards fingers and he winced as he gingerly ran his other hand over the back of his head. “There is always a first time,” he managed to reply as he allowed himself to be led to the washroom.

Two minutes later the cell buzzer sounded again. Returning, the captain warily unbolted the observation flap. “Yes—what do you want?”

“I want to talk to D.I. Bliss,” demanded King, with new found arrogance. “Is he still here?”

“What happened to the superintendent?” asked the captain, sceptical of Edward’s explanation.

“Slipped and fell. Is he alright?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “Anyway, why do you want to see Detective Bliss?”

King thought, for just a moment, as if he were considering telling, but then decided against it. “Just get him. O.K.”

Captain Jahnssen shot a look at his watch. “It’s after midnight. You’ll have to wait ’til the morning.”

Slamming the hatch shut, the captain marched off to find Edwards. “Should I get the doctor, Michael?” he asked a few minutes later, as Edwards continued spitting blood into the sink.

“No, I’m fine really,” he replied with difficulty, his swollen upper lip already protruding like a small red balloon. Then he tilted his head back and regretted it as the pain brought tears to his eyes.

“I wish you would be honest with me Michael,” said the captain, reigning in his anger. “I can’t see how you fell and hit your head and face at the same time.”

Edwards made no attempt at an explanation. “I’ll be alright in the morning Jost.”

“King has asked to see Bliss again,” he said, a query in his voice.

“Has he,” replied Edwards; neither an answer nor a question.

The two-vehicle convoy processed slowly toward Rotterdam amid the sparse evening traffic. Wilson and the other two officers were being flung around amongst the towering skids of boxes inside the little den, like riders in a crazy ride. Illuminated only by a small batterypowered lamp, they had no choice but to sit tight. Constable Van der Zalm, a dour Dutchman even in good weather, sulked in a corner and made it obvious that being cooped up with a couple of Englishmen for four days in a truck was about as appealing as being castrated by a madman with a plastic knife. And Wilson, still smarting from his brush with Edwards, worried what his wife would do. Her ultimatum still nagged— “Once more, just once more,” she had said, coldly. “If you let me down once more … that will be it.”

“I’ll be back early Saturday,” he’d promised.

“You’d better be. I mean it this time.”

“I really, really promise,” he’d added foolishly.

“The christening’s at ten o’clock. If you’re not back …” she’d left the sentence unfinished. She didn’t understand—but how could she. A teacher, always a teacher, only a teacher, for whom anything other than nine to five Monday to Friday, was an infringement of personal liberty.

A profound change in engine noise signalled a transformation of landscape. “We are coming into the city,” declared Van der Zalm, hearing the exhaust reverberating off houses and walls. Wilson had just picked up the radio to tell the car driver to start closing the gap when the truck driver suddenly slammed on his brakes. Without warning, tires squealing in protest and bouncing off the road, the trailer slowed rapidly, shimmying from side to side as if trying to overtake the cab. The radio flew out of Wilson’s hand and Smythe looked up just in time—the pallet of boxes behind them was being forced over by its own momentum. He shouted a warning as he leapt to his feet and began pushing against the stack with all his weight. The others scrambled to their feet and together they held it, not upright but straight enough to stop it falling.

“What the hell is he playing at?” shouted Smythe as the trailer ground to a halt and they were surrounded by an unexpected calm. The total silence, and almost tangible stillness, contrasted so sharply with the noisy motion of a few seconds earlier that the three occupants were temporarily stunned. Then Wilson thrashed his way past the boxes to get to a spy hole in the side of the truck. “We’re at a junction,” he called to the others still holding onto the stack. “I can see the traffic lights.” The lights changed, nothing happened. “Call the car,” he shouted. “See if they know what’s going on.”

Van der Zalm had an animated discussion, in Dutch, on the radio, then turned to Smythe. “We’re completely blocking a main intersection. They don’t know what to do. They can’t drive by and they can’t see the cab.”

“Shit,” shouted Wilson, angry at their lack of initiative. “Tell one of them to get out and see what the driver’s doing.”

Almost a minute later the back doors rattled as the giant bolt slid back. A familiar face peered in. “The driver’s run away,” said the officer.

Wilson leapt out and took control. “He can’t have got far. Split up and get after him. You,” he pointed to Van der Zalm, “get on the radio and ask for assistance.” He looked around—tall apartment buildings clustered at each corner of the junction; a dozen alleyways and driveways radiated in all directions. A plaza of six stores at the foot of one apartment block had attracted a small group of people and he ran toward them in the hope they had seen something. The other officers fanned out without any thought of organizing a proper search.

Wilson reached the group to find a hostile alliance of prostitutes and junkies congregating outside an allnight pharmacy, seeking a snort or a shot from a legal addict. None admitted being able to speak English apart from one woman wearing an indecently short skirt over a seam-splitting backside. “You wanna good time big boy?”

A cacophony of shrill sirens splintered the group and within minutes a dozen or more officers were milling around the truck. The junction was completely blocked, the driver had taken the keys and even locked the doors to make the task of clearing the obstruction as difficult as possible.

“I guess this means Edwards will send us back on the next ship,” Wilson said to Smythe with a broad grin.

Two hours later, the search abandoned but the truck still firmly in place, the six officers returned to the police station and reported to the captain in the control room.

“Where’s the super?” enquired Smythe, who had been psyching himself up to expect a major meltdown.

“Gone to bed,” replied the captain. “He’s had a bit of an accident.”

“Nothing trivial I hope,” muttered Wilson.

“You may as well get some sleep,” he said, equally grateful for Edwards’ absence. “I am sure he will want to see you in the morning.”