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