wistfully at her. “Sorry,” was all he could say, and he really meant it.
Then she threw him a curve. “It’s Okey dokey, I’ll go on my own.” Her face clearly said she meant it. “Goodbye Dave.” Was there a crack in her voice? Her bottom lip quivered. He was sure he saw it quiver.
“Bye,” he mumbled.
She tried a smile. He recognized a false smile when he saw one.
“Damn,” he shouted, jumped off the gangway, marched back to the car and slung his suitcase on the back seat.
“Make up your bloody mind mate,” shouted the crewman, giving the thumbs-up to lift.
Yolanda talked on her car’s mobile phone with the same alacrity and excitement as she drove. Bliss sulked, his arms folded tightly across his chest. The fog had thinned a few miles inland and the powerful car negotiated the sweeping curves of the highway at more than double the speed limit.
“We’ll have to drive,” she had said as soon as they left the port, “It’s too foggy to fly.”
“All the way?” he’d asked, expressionless.
“No,” she’d laughed, “only to Schiphol.”
With a final burst of chatter she flipped the phone into its holder. “They’ll hold the plane.”
He tried to sound uninterested, “What plane?”
“To Istanbul.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said frostily. “Why would they do that?”
The deep crescents on either side of her mouth accentuated her smile. “I told them a very important British police officer was pursuing an international terrorist and there would be a lot of trouble if they let it leave.”
Bliss tried hard not to, but couldn’t help smiling. Slowly unfolding his arms he enquired, “Does Captain Jahnssen know what you …” he stopped and corrected himself, “What we are doing?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean—sort of?”
“I said that as I was flying to Istanbul for the weekend anyway, I might as well snoop around a bit. He didn’t believe me. He just said be careful.”
A large truck in front of them was proving to be an obstinate obstruction. Yolanda blasted her horn several times although Bliss had no idea what she expected the driver to do. Finally she took an outrageous chance coming out of a bend, slamming her foot to the floor so hard the tires spun as they leapt ahead. Fishtailing, they shot pass the truck and forced an on-coming car onto the verge. “Weekend drivers,” she shouted, forging ahead, another truck in her sights.
A wide stretch of dual carriageway with sparse traffic relieved Bliss’ anxiety and he felt it safe to break Yolanda’s concentration. “What’s Istanbul like?” he asked, excitement getting the better of him. “Have you been there before?”
She had, several times, and talked animatedly for several minutes about the fabulous Blue Mosque; the sun rising over the majestic Bosphorus bridge; the bustling bazaars; and the mounds of deep purple figs and heaps of sugar dusted Turkish delight hawked by vendors at almost every street corner. “We might even try some of the famous bluefish,” she added, as if they were a couple planning an adventurous holiday.
“I hope it’s better than herring,” he said, with the makings of a smile.
Now, only a few miles from the airport, Yolanda thought Bliss had relaxed sufficiently to answer a few questions. “What did Nosmo say about Edwards?” she enquired innocently.
He reflected, just for a moment, then recounted the salient parts of King’s story without embellishment, though sparing her none of the macabre’ detail. “Eleven teeth smashed as he kept ramming his brother-in-law’s mouth into the metal door knob at full force,” he said, and noticed her contemplatively running her tongue along the top of her teeth as he spoke. She shuddered thinking of the excruciating pain as the solid brass ball had smashed its way into the poor man’s mouth. With the worst yet to come he considered keeping quiet about the chopped fingers, then perversely decided to punish her for forcing him to go to Istanbul. She swallowed hard and drove silently for a short while, staring intently at the road ahead. “That’s horrible Dave,” she said quietly just as they reached the airport.
Dumping the car across a pedestrian walkway, Yolanda leaned on the horn and caught the attention of a passing porter. Bliss grabbed his case from the back seat. “Mine’s in the trunk,” she shouted over her shoulder as she threw the car keys at the porter, flashed her badge and shouted a load of Dutch. The porter gave a weird sort of smile which caused Bliss to ask, “What did you say?” as they ran together across the concourse.
“Told him to take it to the airport police office,” she liberally translated, totally ignoring the warning that, if she found the slightest scratch on her return, she would break his legs.
Although Bliss had certainly flown before he’d amassed few frequent flyer points, and felt an exhilarating rush of adrenalin as the giant plane stood on its tail and roared eastward. Settling back in the comfortable first-class seat—“Don’t worry,” Yolanda had said, “I’m paying.”—he watched, fascinated, as Europe floated beneath him. Tiny blobs of cotton wool cloud drifted into view, seeming to keep pace with the plane, and Yolanda gabbled away, ten to the dozen, in Dutch with her stewardess friend. “We went to school together,” she’d confided, as they scuttled to their seats. He sensed they were talking about him, and felt like a pedigree dog being discussed by a couple of trendies. “Glossy hair, nice teeth, well groomed, good proportions.”
Something Anne said made them both giggle. “Is he house trained?” thought Bliss laughing to himself. Occasionally Yolanda dragged him into the conversation. “Anne says, would you like to go to the flight deck and meet the pilot.”
He nodded, “Yes,” he would like that.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” she added, “It’s about three and half hours to Istanbul.”
Prettily arranged plates of hors d’oeuvres, together with a couple of miniatures of Mouton Cadet, appeared on the little tables in front of each of them, and they began toying with each other. Yolanda started it, playfully sneaking titbits from his plate, trying not to get caught. He grabbed her hand on the third occasion, the little caviar and smoked salmon roll still between her thumb and finger. Bending down, he forced her hand to his mouth and slowly crammed the whole lot straight in, food and fingers together, and wouldn’t release them until he had licked the fingers clean. Still holding her hand, his eyes sought hers, they met and locked. Then he slid her fingers back to his mouth.
“Tell me about yourself, Dave,” she said in a soft voice, retrieving her fingers, maintaining the gaze.
He picked at his plate and started slowly, almost shyly. “I don’t know where to begin … I ‘m forty-two. I’m a cop, but you know that.” He hesitated. “I don’t really know what to say.” But then added, “I’m not really dedicated to any particular sports or hobbies. I like to do lots of different things. I like to try everything at least once.”
Yolanda smiled, “I thought all English detectives studied poetry, or classical music, or psychology.”
“Only on television, Yolanda. Most of the ones I work with study beer, soccer and women—probably in that order.”
The question, “Are you married?” slipped out as she tried to bite it back and she snapped, “Don’t tell me.” Her fingers flew to his mouth and pinched his lips tightly together. She studied him earnestly, her fingers digging into the flesh around his mouth, making his eyes water. “Promise you won’t tell me.”
“Um, um,” he hummed trying to make it sound like “O.K.”
“Promise,” she demanded seriously, and slowly backed off without taking her fingers away.
“I