“Bad luck or very good timing,” she mused. “Zo, the other six,” She leaned forward earnestly, seeking information in his eyes, a balloon glass of Chardonnay cupped in both hands like a crystal ball suspended midair between them. “Where are they?”
He shook his head again, but his eyes remained riveted to hers. “No one knows,” he replied. Their eyes stuck. His face tingled. Her lips parted, just a fraction. Time stopped.
Then the waiter broke the spell and they leaned back while he scurried around removing bits and pieces of unwanted cutlery to make room for the main course.
“Steak and chips,” Bliss had insisted, having been coerced into the herring; feeling one native dish would be sufficiently politic. She had chosen a warm chicken salad with an unpronounceable name for herself.
“Nobody really took any notice of the disappearances until we got the tip about LeClarc,” he said, as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.
“Why not?” she enquired, then pushed a forkful of food in his direction. “Try this it’s wonderful.” He opened his mouth, almost involuntarily, and she slid the fork in.
“Mmm, that’s good,” he mumbled, though was glad he had chosen the steak. “Lots of people disappear,” he continued, returning to his theme. “Most turn up sooner or later. If they are adults and there is no real suspicion of foul play, we don’t go out of our way to look for them.”
Considerately, she held her next question until he had eaten a few chunks of steak. “But these people were important. Somebody should have made enquiries.”
The implied criticism stung and he went on the defensive. “It’s not that simple. Two of them, the woman and the guy hit by the train weren’t missing: they were dead. One man disappeared in the Atlantic. The loner who lived in the Welsh mountains was eccentric.”
Yolanda’s head cocked to one side. “Centric?” she questioned.
“Weird—a bit crazy,” he explained.
“Okey dokey. But that leaves four.”
He chewed thoughtfully trying to remember what had happened to the others. “The two men in the boat,” he said, between bites, “could have been an accident. It could’ve sunk, caught fire, hit by a whale …”
“Eaten by a herring,” she proposed, and made him laugh again.
“Seriously,” he continued, straightening his face, “anything could have gone wrong.”
“And the other two men?”
He shrugged. “Run off with their secretaries; scarpered with the social club Christmas fund; fell in love with each other and started a gay bar in California.”
Yolanda laughed.
“Who knows,” added Bliss, “but the point is, nobody linked the cases together. The M.O. was different in each case.”
He stopped—checking her face for comprehension—then carried on. “All the informant said was LeClarc was going to be kidnapped, nothing about the others, they might not be connected at all.”
Yolanda stared meditatively into her wineglass for sometime, then began slowly. “This was well planned; would have cost a lot of money. King, Motsom, and the driver had to be paid, and the special truck had to be on the right ship. If that crewman …”
“Jacobs?” suggested Bliss.
“Yeah … If he hadn’t been on the deck at the same time as King, it would have been another accident— like the others.”
Bliss tried to interject but her mind was pre-occupied—the answer seemingly at her fingertips. “Whoever took them went to a lot of trouble and, in most cases, wanted you to believe they were …” She paused. “Dave, Dave.”
He had fallen asleep, his head slouched on his chest. Thirty-six hours of uninterrupted wakefulness had finally taken its toll.
She drove delicately back to the port, easing the powerful car gently around the sweeping curves of the narrow road on top of a polder, more than fifty feet above the sea. Below her, the mist was condensing into fog, and the huge breakers had been crushed into a low undulating swell by the weight of the heavy still air. Only the remnants of the storm remained, smeared across the sky in thin grey streaks and tinged pink by the setting sun. Bliss slept motionless on the reclining seat by her side.
Captain Jahnssen was waiting for them and came flying out of the back door of the police station the moment he saw the white BMW.
“Yolanda, Yolanda,” he shouted, his hands forming a megaphone around his mouth, as she started to get out. She stopped, somewhat startled, and stared. He shot twenty words of Dutch in her direction and, without a word, leapt back into the car and drove away.
Slipping calmly back into his seat in the staff dining room a few moments later, the captain returned to his chocolate gâteau with the nonchalance of the innocent.
“Was it them Jost?” enquired Edwards.
“No … No. I expect Ms. Pieters will take him straight to a hotel. He’ll be here in the morning I am sure.”
“I wanted that little snot back on board the ship tonight,” Edwards snapped icily, feeling cheated.
A chill had permeated the relationship between the two senior officers from the moment they had driven away from the airfield. Superintendent Edwards was on the offensive before the captain had even fastened his seat belt.
“Captain,” he had started, formally.
“It is Jost.”
“Very well, Jost,” he said, sounding like a sergeant major, “I think we should understand each other, start off on the right foot, keep everything square. D’ye know what I mean?”
“Yes, Michael,” he replied, concern immediately detectable in his voice.
Edwards continued forcefully. “I want to make it clear. I am the only person who gives orders to my men. Bliss should be working, not gallivanting around with some …” he nearly said “tart,” but switched in time to, “woman,” adding, “Even if she is a detective.”
“Superintendent,” responded the captain, visibly shaken by the attack, “that man has done a terrific job. I’m not sure about the others, especially the sergeant, but you shouldn’t criticize Inspector Bliss.”
“It was his bloody fault they lost LeClarc in the first place. Where are the others anyway?”
“Your sergeant with the broken wrist has gone back on the ship. The other two, we have taken to a hotel.”
Edwards snorted his disapproval, fuming at the notion his men were luxuriating in a hotel when, if he had his way, they would have been on jankers—shackled in a guardhouse on iron rations.
“Can you tell me more about this case, Michael?” Captain Jahnssen asked, attempting to fill the awkward void.
Edwards shot a glance at the back of the driver’s head. “I’ll tell you in private. You never know who you can trust these days.”
Five minutes later Superintendent Edwards had flung himself into an armchair in the captain’s office and started dragging papers out of his briefcase.
“Drink, Michael?” offered the captain.
“Coffee—milk, two sugars.”
“I have some excellent Scotch,” he said, flourishing a bottle of single malt, like a parent trying to placate a fractious child with the offer of a toy.
“I am on duty, Jost,” Edwards replied