“Nosmo King?”
The scream of a siren pierced the air, reverberating sharply along the tunnel-like corridor, bringing the captain and officers running. King’s cell door flew open and he handed Edwards’ slumped body to them, saying, “Mr. Edwards had a little accident.” And he shut the door himself.
Edwards, holding his hand over his mouth, mumbled, “I’m O.K., I just slipped.”
Confused, the captain tried to help. “Let me see?”
“No, ’I’ll be O.K., I just need a toilet.”
“What happened?”
“Like I said: Accident—slipped and fell against the bench.”
The captain shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve never heard of a policeman slipping in the cells—prisoners sometimes.”
Blood was oozing from between Edwards fingers and he winced as he gingerly ran his other hand over the back of his head. “There is always a first time,” he managed to reply as he allowed himself to be led to the washroom.
Two minutes later the cell buzzer sounded again. Returning, the captain warily unbolted the observation flap. “Yes—what do you want?”
“I want to talk to D.I. Bliss,” demanded King, with new found arrogance. “Is he still here?”
“What happened to the superintendent?” asked the captain, sceptical of Edward’s explanation.
“Slipped and fell. Is he alright?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped. “Anyway, why do you want to see Detective Bliss?”
King thought, for just a moment, as if he were considering telling, but then decided against it. “Just get him. O.K.”
Captain Jahnssen shot a look at his watch. “It’s after midnight. You’ll have to wait ’til the morning.”
Slamming the hatch shut, the captain marched off to find Edwards. “Should I get the doctor, Michael?” he asked a few minutes later, as Edwards continued spitting blood into the sink.
“No, I’m fine really,” he replied with difficulty, his swollen upper lip already protruding like a small red balloon. Then he tilted his head back and regretted it as the pain brought tears to his eyes.
“I wish you would be honest with me Michael,” said the captain, reigning in his anger. “I can’t see how you fell and hit your head and face at the same time.”
Edwards made no attempt at an explanation. “I’ll be alright in the morning Jost.”
“King has asked to see Bliss again,” he said, a query in his voice.
“Has he,” replied Edwards; neither an answer nor a question.
The two-vehicle convoy processed slowly toward Rotterdam amid the sparse evening traffic. Wilson and the other two officers were being flung around amongst the towering skids of boxes inside the little den, like riders in a crazy ride. Illuminated only by a small batterypowered lamp, they had no choice but to sit tight. Constable Van der Zalm, a dour Dutchman even in good weather, sulked in a corner and made it obvious that being cooped up with a couple of Englishmen for four days in a truck was about as appealing as being castrated by a madman with a plastic knife. And Wilson, still smarting from his brush with Edwards, worried what his wife would do. Her ultimatum still nagged— “Once more, just once more,” she had said, coldly. “If you let me down once more … that will be it.”
“I’ll be back early Saturday,” he’d promised.
“You’d better be. I mean it this time.”
“I really, really promise,” he’d added foolishly.
“The christening’s at ten o’clock. If you’re not back …” she’d left the sentence unfinished. She didn’t understand—but how could she. A teacher, always a teacher, only a teacher, for whom anything other than nine to five Monday to Friday, was an infringement of personal liberty.
A profound change in engine noise signalled a transformation of landscape. “We are coming into the city,” declared Van der Zalm, hearing the exhaust reverberating off houses and walls. Wilson had just picked up the radio to tell the car driver to start closing the gap when the truck driver suddenly slammed on his brakes. Without warning, tires squealing in protest and bouncing off the road, the trailer slowed rapidly, shimmying from side to side as if trying to overtake the cab. The radio flew out of Wilson’s hand and Smythe looked up just in time—the pallet of boxes behind them was being forced over by its own momentum. He shouted a warning as he leapt to his feet and began pushing against the stack with all his weight. The others scrambled to their feet and together they held it, not upright but straight enough to stop it falling.
“What the hell is he playing at?” shouted Smythe as the trailer ground to a halt and they were surrounded by an unexpected calm. The total silence, and almost tangible stillness, contrasted so sharply with the noisy motion of a few seconds earlier that the three occupants were temporarily stunned. Then Wilson thrashed his way past the boxes to get to a spy hole in the side of the truck. “We’re at a junction,” he called to the others still holding onto the stack. “I can see the traffic lights.” The lights changed, nothing happened. “Call the car,” he shouted. “See if they know what’s going on.”
Van der Zalm had an animated discussion, in Dutch, on the radio, then turned to Smythe. “We’re completely blocking a main intersection. They don’t know what to do. They can’t drive by and they can’t see the cab.”
“Shit,” shouted Wilson, angry at their lack of initiative. “Tell one of them to get out and see what the driver’s doing.”
Almost a minute later the back doors rattled as the giant bolt slid back. A familiar face peered in. “The driver’s run away,” said the officer.
Wilson leapt out and took control. “He can’t have got far. Split up and get after him. You,” he pointed to Van der Zalm, “get on the radio and ask for assistance.” He looked around—tall apartment buildings clustered at each corner of the junction; a dozen alleyways and driveways radiated in all directions. A plaza of six stores at the foot of one apartment block had attracted a small group of people and he ran toward them in the hope they had seen something. The other officers fanned out without any thought of organizing a proper search.
Wilson reached the group to find a hostile alliance of prostitutes and junkies congregating outside an allnight pharmacy, seeking a snort or a shot from a legal addict. None admitted being able to speak English apart from one woman wearing an indecently short skirt over a seam-splitting backside. “You wanna good time big boy?”
A cacophony of shrill sirens splintered the group and within minutes a dozen or more officers were milling around the truck. The junction was completely blocked, the driver had taken the keys and even locked the doors to make the task of clearing the obstruction as difficult as possible.
“I guess this means Edwards will send us back on the next ship,” Wilson said to Smythe with a broad grin.
Two hours later, the search abandoned but the truck still firmly in place, the six officers returned to the police station and reported to the captain in the control room.
“Where’s the super?” enquired Smythe, who had been psyching himself up to expect a major meltdown.
“Gone to bed,” replied the captain. “He’s had a bit of an accident.”
“Nothing trivial I hope,” muttered Wilson.
“You may as well get some sleep,” he said, equally grateful for Edwards’ absence. “I am sure he will want to see you in the morning.”