“Questions …” he repeated, raising an eyebrow, pausing. “No? Good. We are relying on each and every one of you to do your best.”
“Who does he think he is: Lord Nelson?” whispered a first-class waiter, but heard by many.
“Is there a problem?” shouted the officer in response to the gale of laughter, triggering more laughter.
“O.K., men. Go to your stations.”
“Full of piss and self-importance,” mumbled one of the engine room greasers, unhappy at being dragged from the warmth of the engine room and even more upset to discover his lookout station, on the starboard side, faced directly into the prevailing wind.
Detective Inspector Bliss, coming out onto the upper deck just as the men were drifting away, was unaware of the search, or its cause, and introduced himself to the deck officer. “D.I. Bliss, Metropolitan Police Serious Crime Squad. Can I help?”
“Oh Inspector … Yes. We think there’s a man overboard—perhaps you could help keep watch?”
Bliss jumped. “Man overboard.” His eyes flashed wide. “Who is it? When was this? What happened?”
“Hang on officer, I don’t know, you’d better speak to the captain. Let me just make sure everyone is at their post and I’ll take you along to the bridge.”
“Please hurry. I think I might know who it is.”
Since leaving the others in the bar, Bliss had scoured the ship for Roger. His first stop, the purser’s office, to locate Roger’s cabin number had proved interesting.
“No one of that name,” said the assistant purser, quickly running his finger down the passenger list, paying little attention.
“Let me look,” said Bliss snatching the book from under his fingers. “There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, Sir,” continued the assistant purser, grappling the book back with an air of certainty.
Bliss relinquished his grasp. “How can you be sure?”
“Never forget a name, Sir … could tell you the name of everyone who’s got a cabin, all two hundred and seventy-eight of ’em.”
Bliss scanned the list and found the total. “Two hundred and seventy-eight,” he breathed.
“That’s right, Sir.” said the officer, keeping his focus firmly on Bliss. “Starts with Adnam, ends with Yannus, and there’s eight Smiths—but there ain’t no LeClarcs, not tonight anyhow.”
Bliss, impressed, awe-struck even, believed him. “I was sure he’d have a cabin,” he muttered, starting to turn away, unsure what to do next.
But the assistant purser wasn’t finished. “Ah … It is possible that he’s got a cabin, Sir …” he began, nervously shuffling the list.
“How? I don’t understand. You said his name wasn’t on the list.”
“You didn’t hear this from me, but … well maybe he paid cash and someone forgot to take his name.”
“I bet they forgot to put the money in the register as well,” said Bliss, quickly catching on, thinking it was an easy way for a crewmember to make a few extra quid every trip. He’d been in Serious Crimes long enough to know that whenever cash transactions took place, you could bet someone was taking a cut.
Without a cabin number, he turned his attention to the sleeping lounges. Hundreds of sweaty bodies, fidgeting on reclining chairs, formed a thick smelly carpet of humanity as he fought his way up and down the darkened aisles in between the rows—the stale odour of sleepers alternating with the stink of cheap perfume and the stench of an occasional fart. Backpacks, suitcases, even cardboard boxes stuffed with the belongings of the poorest passengers created an obstacle course in the tight aisles, tripping him repeatedly. Passengers, rudely awakened by his thrashing arms as he tried to steady himself, cursed him in a dozen languages. At the end of one row, between the last seat and the wall, he fell over a body lying on the floor. Pulling himself upright he began apologizing then, to his astonishment, saw he’d fallen over a young couple clearly engaged in oral sex. The woman, an attractive long-haired blond, on top of the young man, looked up with a fierce expression, as if to say, “Piss off,” and carried on, quite unperturbed.
He quickly found the deck steward, a badly shaven unmade-bed of a man, with rotten teeth and a grubby red coat, slouched in the bright area between the two dimly lit lounges.
“There’s a couple bonking in there,” he said disapprovingly.
“I’ve seen worse mate,” replied the steward, only half opening his eyes, making no attempt to move.
With the feeling that he must have led a sheltered life, Bliss walked away, shaking his head.
Bliss had been deep in the vessel’s bowels, examining Roger’s green Renault, while the ship had been turning around and had not noticed the change in direction. Brushing aside the sign warning of the danger of entering the vehicle deck during the voyage he’d slid open the heavy steel door and had been met by the acrid mechanical odour of engine oil, rubber, and hot metal.
Roger LeClarc’s Renault, nestling amongst a raft of flashier models, was locked. He tried both doors, and the trunk, then peered through the driver’s window and was surprised to see a suitcase and several smaller bags on the back seat. Maybe he doesn’t have a cabin after all.
The small green car was familiar, very familiar. Bliss and the other officers had been keeping tabs on it for more than a week. They’d lost him a few times— round the clock surveillance of a target could be incredibly difficult, if not impossible. A moment’s inattention, a little bad luck, or a run of red traffic lights was all it took for a vehicle to disappear, seemingly without trace. But, on each occasion, a quick analysis of Roger’s regular pattern of behaviour enabled him to be located, either at his mother’s or at the little terraced house near Watford railway station where he often spent his evenings before returning home in the early hours.
Details of his impending trip to Holland were well known. Roger, something of a celebrity in the computer world, had been invited to address a symposium of world leaders in The Hague: “Communicating in the Third Millennium,” a two-day exposé of modern telecommunications, extolling the advantages of globalization and convergence. Ostensibly, Roger was an independent delegate, though few of the attendees would have been surprised to learn that he was the cyber-star of an aggressive multi-media equipment provider hell-bent on cornering the market.
Following Roger from his mother’s house in Watford on the northern outskirts of London, to the ferry port had been straightforward. With the exception of a ten minute stop at the tiny terraced house on Junction Road, he’d poodled the Renault along at a modest pace to north Essex, sticking to main roads, avoiding bottle-necks.
Animosity between the detectives in the surveillance vehicle had flared during the trip, although there had been a number of times during their week of watch-keeping when they had volubly disagreed on tactics. As Sergeant Jones drove, with Senior Officer Bliss in the passenger seat keeping his sights on Roger’s Renault, the other two detectives lolled in the back planning the excursion to Amsterdam.
“Red light district first, mate,” said Wilson, digging Smythe in the ribs.
“I wanna try one of those brown bars,”
“What,” laughed Wilson. “A Mars bar?”
“No you dork, one of those hash …”
“I know you fool. I was pulling yer plonker.”
“Leave me plonker out of this—I got plans for me plonker,” he laughed. “I’ve heard the broads sit in windows starkers; showin’ everything.”
“Haven’t you seen one before?” cut in Bliss.