woman and fed her to some dogs.”
“The Mitchell case?”
“Yeah,” replied King, impressed with Bliss’ memory. “I’d read about it in the paper and remembered she was involved with computers, so I did some digging and found out about the others. It was obvious LeClarc was next—that’s when I tipped you off.”
Bliss interrupted, agitated. “Where are they?”
“I’m coming to that, but I want you to know what happened to LeClarc.”
“Hurry up then, I haven’t got all day.”
“After I’d lost him, Motsom told me he’d been hired by an Arab to get him. I saw some papers in his cabin with Istanbul on them and said, ’Is that where he was going?’ He said, ’Yeah,’ and we’d better get him there or there would be trouble. He was in a state. Whoever hired him has got some clout. Mind you, Motsom is no pansy. He had two shooters that I could see, one of them looked like a machine pistol. He wanted me to see them—giving me a message. That’s the other reason why I don’t want anyone to know about this chat. Motsom’ll kill me if he finds out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all this on the ship?”
“I didn’t know you were following LeClarc. When I saw the four of you propping up the bar I thought you were on a piss-taking junket at the tax-payers expense. I thought somebody would be watching him but I assumed they’d be more professional—no offence Dave.”
Bliss meditated on King’s admission for a few seconds. Finally conceding, “You’re right. But it wasn’t me at the bar.”
King began, “I saw …”
Bliss headed him off. “I was only there to get the others to help me find LeClarc. Anyway I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“You see why Edwards mustn’t find out,” continued King his mind racing and his voice rising in a panic. “It was my fault he drowned. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure he’d fallen overboard. I thought I saw him in the water, I just wasn’t sure. I panicked, told Motsom, and he said stop the ship, so I chucked the life raft over, but the bloody crewman saw me and didn’t believe me. It was all my fault…”
“O.K., O.K. Calm down. It wasn’t all your fault, we should have been watching him better. Anyway it’s too late now. But where have they taken the others?”
King pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and spread it on the table. Neatly scribbled in one corner was an address in Istanbul.
Saturday’s dawn had broken in Watford, England. The bustle of weekday rail commuters along Junction Road was replaced by families with noisy children off to the seaside, amusement park, or a day’s shopping expedition, but Trudy still lay in the silent gloom of her underground tomb. Away from the foggy coast the brilliant July sunshine started to turn the milk left standing on doorsteps. And, across town, Roger’s father, still wearing yesterday’s shirt, felt the warmth on his arm as he fumbled around the partially opened front door, sweeping up the milk bottle with the daily newspaper in one go.
“Who is it?” bellowed Mrs. LeClarc from the sanctuary of her bedroom, anxiously anticipating a visit from a policeman to say Roger had been found alive and well, and that the two straight-faced constables who had called the evening before had made a horrible mistake.
“Only me dear, just getting the milk,” he called up the stairs. “Do you want some tea?”
“Anything about our Roger in the paper?” she enquired.
He flopped the Daily Express open on the hall table and scanned the headlines. “Can’t see anything.”
Ten minutes later, after delivering tea and sympathy to his distraught, though still demanding, wife, Mr. LeClarc’s eyes hit upon a single paragraph on page three of the paper. He read it twice before going on to page four. Halfway through page five he lost concentration and found himself thinking about the earlier article. Flipping back, he looked again at the poorly reproduced photocopy with its caption. “Do you recognize Roger?”
He drifted up the stairs, the newspaper held in front of him like an offering, re-reading the paragraph aloud.
“Roger sought in missing girl case. Police have released this photograph of a man they are seeking in relation to last week’s disappearance of 16 yr. old Trudy McKenzie. “He is not a suspect,” stressed Detective Sergeant Malcolm Kite, (43 yrs.), but may be able to assist with enquiries. Roger, (surname unknown) is described as 5’10” medium build, 27 yrs. Known as a computer whiz he is believed to live in the Watford area. If you know this man etcetera, etcetera.”
“Maybe they’ve run away together,” said Mrs. LeClarc, grasping at straws. “Give it to me,” she ordered, snatching the paper from his hands. “Let me look.”
She scanned the piece. “Our Roger ain’t twenty seven,” she whined immediately.
“Maybe the paper’s got it wrong. They’re always getting things wrong.”
“He’s not five-foot ten neither.”
“I think we should call. You never know,” replied his father, feeling the need to do something constructive.
“But look at the photo,” she commanded, thrusting the paper back at him.
The grainy monochrome picture bore no resemblance to Roger, but he wouldn’t admit it, even to himself. “Could be,” he said, angling the paper against the window for better light.
“No it ain’t,” she shot back, offended anyone would suggest she couldn’t recognize her own son.
“I think it could be,” he continued vaguely, rubbing his forehead and leaving a dark smear of printer’s ink, unwilling to let go of the thread of hope.
“Don’t be an idiot,” she hissed, and buried her head in the pillow.
“I still think we should call.”
Her muffled words barely reached him. “Do what you like.”
Detective Constable Jackson, the Roger Moore look-alike with stained trousers, strolled into the C.I.D. office at Watford police station with two paper cups of brown liquid strongly suspected of being coffee, despite having pressed the “Tea” button on the machine. “Is that the Junction Road case?” he asked, as his partner replaced the phone.
“Yeah, that was LeClarc’s father. They saw the picture in the paper.”
“It’s a bit of a coincidence—two missing people called Roger both from Watford,” he. said, placing one cup in front of his partner, still eyeing his own suspiciously.
“The descriptions don’t match at all. I’ve already spoken to a D.C. in Leyton. Nothing fits, only the name. Anyway that team from Scotland Yard had LeClarc under surveillance. They would have seen if he was with a woman.”
“I still reckon it’s odd that a bloke called Roger from Watford goes missing in the middle of the North Sea and a girl from Leyton goes missing with a bloke called Roger from Watford.
“They don’t know she went off with this bloke. It’s only what her friend thinks. Anyway nothing else fits. The friend said he lived in a big house. She said he drove a Jaguar. He’s 27, he’s 5’10’ … Shall I go on?”
“She also say’s he’s a computer whiz.”
His partner took a quick swig from the cup, screwed his face and spat the whole lot into a wire wastebasket. “Ugh. Sugar!”
“Sorry, I forgot. Anyway I still think it might be worth having another look at that place on Junction Road.
The phone rang. “Criminal Investigation Department,” Jackson said augustly, hitting the “hands-free” key, speaking to the ceiling.
“Switchboard,” yawned a female operator.