“Where?” they both questioned at the same time.
The officer, a tall young man in a smartly pressed uniform, continued in Dutch until the captain stopped him with the command, “English.”
He switched immediately. “The barman at the Rhine Tavern recognized him from the photograph. He’s been there all afternoon.”
“Is he still there?” asked the captain, taking the photograph and examining it with interest.
The officer’s face fell a little. “He left about seven o’clock. But the barman remembered the car—a black Saab. I’ve put the description out to all forces. I’ll keep you informed.”
“Let’s eat Michael,” said the captain, seizing the opportunity, “and I can explain what we are doing.”
chapter eight
“GIVE ME A DRINK,” demanded Trudy, her bloodied fingers taking more than two minutes to select the correct letters from the dyslexic jumble on the keyboard. Another bout of coughing doubled her over and left her gasping for breath. The rancid air had rasped her throat for more than a week, but at least it had been freshened a couple of times a day when Roger visited. Now, for nearly thirty -six hours, she had breathed the same stale air, supplemented only by what she could laboriously suck through the keyhole. The constant effort of sucking was itself painful as her swollen and cracked lips kissed the cold metal escutcheon. Yet, she instinctively knew stopping would mean certain death.
“WATERS GONE,” she added slowly on the next line, without troubling the apostrophe key.
Roger had left plenty of water, but she had used it more to ease her pain and discomfort than to quench her thirst; splashing it liberally onto her face to cool sore lips and flush away salty tears; bathing blistered and bloody hands; washing herself after peeing. Following her abortive and painful efforts to escape, it had been too much effort to use the bucket. In any case, the only time she was really aware of wetting herself was when the acidic fluid ran down her legs, aggravating the cuts and sores on her knees. An entire bottle of water had been used to rinse out her knickers the first time she failed to reach the bucket. Too wet to wear, she had draped them over the computer where she hoped the warmth would dry them. Without underwear, the wet, course, denim of her new skirt rasped the tender flesh of her behind with every movement.
“MY BOTTOM HURTS, MUMMY,” she typed, with the tears of a toddler suffering diaper rash. Crying again she decided it was time to go, slithered to the floor, and let her lungs drag her back to the life-sustaining hole in the door.
Superintendent Michael Edwards and Captain Jost Jahnssen dined alone in the imposing staff room, the highly polished floor and oak panelled walls acting as a sounding board. Almost everything in the room remained the same as it had been when the original owners left, hurriedly, in 1944. Only the chairs and language had changed. The Senior Officer’s Mess, as it had been, would have been instantly recognizable to any of the German soldiers stationed there at that time. Indeed, several had returned over the years, greeted politely as guests, though never as friends, by the new inhabitants of their barracks on the hill overlooking the port.
Superintendent Edwards salivated over the menu. Twenty-five years experience of British police canteens had never yielded Coquilles St. Jacques Ostendaise or Rognons de Veau en croute avec sauce Bordelaise. Greasy fish and chips or liver and onions with mash was as close as they’d come.
The captain caught the look of astonishment. “It is from the restaurant next door.”
Edwards relaxed and lied, “I guessed it was.” Then he settled on the fish and chips masquerading as Filet de Sole (au Mer du Nord), Meunière avec Pommes frit.
“Let me tell you what we have done,” began the captain, their dinner orders taken by a surly filing clerk with a ring in her nose and a hairstyle from hell, making no pretence of being a waitress. “We’ve interviewed King, he will say nothing. We will keep him overnight then take him before a magistrate tomorrow on charges of murder and stealing a car.”
Edwards’ head jerked up. “Murder?”
“Well. That’s how it looks at the moment. If he didn’t push LeClarc over the side why was he driving his car?”
“Good point,” replied Edwards, “What do we know about King?”
“He say’s he is a private detective but can’t prove it. He didn’t have a car on board and we have not found any of his belongings. There was no cabin booked in his name but we think he was travelling with Motsom.” Reminded of Motsom, the captain retrieved the photograph from his file and studied it for a second. “I think this man is the key to the case, Michael; what can you tell me about him?”
Edwards sifted through his papers and came up with a single sheet. “Born 1955, Birmingham, England. William John Motsom, alias Billy. 5’11”, brown hair, brown eyes, muscular build.” He glanced up. “This was ten years ago Jost, he might have gone flabby since then.” He returned to the page. “Right ear-lobe missing,” then pulled a face, “Tattoo: naked woman on left forearm.” What is it with villains and tattoos of naked women? he thought to himself.
Scanning the page, he skipped to the pre-cons section. “A few juvenile convictions: possession of weapons, robbery,” then mumbled, “that’s interesting.”
“What?”
“He was interviewed in relation to one of the missing computer people. The one who disappeared on his bicycle. Motsom’s car was seen in the area that day.” He flipped the paper over, the blank side stared at him. “It doesn’t say what happened, just that he was interviewed. I’ll get someone to look into that. Now what’s happening with LeClarc.”
“We’ve asked shipping to look out for the body, but the fog’s quite thick I understand,” said the captain, splashing another shot of whisky into each of their glasses.
“I got the forecast before I left England. There’s a fog warning in the North Sea for at least twenty-four hours. Maybe longer.”
“It could last a week or more,” added the captain, with the voice of experience. “Sometimes we don’t see across the river for two or three weeks.”
“Is there any chance of finding him alive?”
“No—impossible. He could survive a few hours at the most, but in a rough sea without a life jacket he would be dead in thirty minutes. He probably died straight away.”
“What about the life-raft?”
“King threw it over the side. He probably thought the crewman had seen him push LeClarc overboard, so he pretended he was trying to save him. Quick thinking, but too late for LeClarc.”
The first course arrived—prawn cocktails in delicate glass tureens shrouded with plastic. The co-opted waitress dumped them on them table, still wrapped, and stomped off without a word.
“What about the truck?” enquired Edwards.
“Yugoslavian registered, or it was, before Yugoslavia broke up. Impossible to trace the owners now … could be Serbian but we’re not sure. The paperwork looks O.K. but there’s at least four different official governments issuing documents, and several unofficial ones.”
“The driver?”
“Austrian—says he knows nothing about it. We’ll have to let him go unless we can link him to Motsom or LeClarc. He’s scared. Claims he just picked up the truck and was paid cash to deliver it. There was nothing to prove LeClarc was going to be put into that truck—just a hunch. The fresh food and water suggests there was going to be a passenger, and we think the truck was designed