LITMIR.BIZ

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the inspector straight in the eye and lied, deliberately, “I am telling you the truth.”

      Seconds later a muffled knock brought the sergeant to his feet and his boots clunked across the flagstone floor with a noise familiar to King: Steel tipped toes and heels—an old army trick—much more impressive than leather hitting the parade ground. And the sharp toe-piece could make a nasty mess of an uncooperative prisoner’s shins.

      “This police station’s huge,” said D.I. Bliss, standing in the doorway, stunned by the height of the ceiling and the enormousness of the windows. “How old is it?”

      “The Bosch built it,” spat the sergeant, inflating himself to full size, making it clear the Nazis would have thought twice if he’d been around at the time.

      “Thanks for coming, Dave,” said King.

      Bliss continued his inspection of the ceiling.

      “It was a military barracks,” added the sergeant, “Defences for the Rhine.”

      King tried again, “What’s happening, Dave?”

      The sergeant, in full historical flight, glared at King and finished his lecture. “When the British came in 1944 they made it their headquarters.”

      “Very nice,” said King, applauding, “Now can you tell me what the hell is going on, Dave?”

      Bliss snubbed him—don’t get familiar with me sonny. “You asked for me, Inspector. Can I help?”

      “Mr. King actually asked to speak to you but you can help, yes. Perhaps you can explain to him that our laws are very strict in Holland. He can go to prison for life for murder. Would you explain that to him please.”

      “I didn’t do it,” yelled King, leaping to his own defence. “I haven’t killed anyone.” He turned to Bliss, eyes pleading, voice cracking. “You know it wasn’t me, Dave. It couldn’t have been me that threw him overboard, could it?”

      “How do I know? You’re the only one who claims to have seen him go, and you certainly stole his car. Right now I’m not about to believe anything you say.”

      King was miles away, malignant thoughts of Motsom burning into his brain—the bastard set me up.

      “Nosmo—are you listening?” said Bliss, prodding him.

      “Sorry, Dave …”

      “I said, why should I believe you?”

      “Because I told you what happened. I told you I didn’t see who went over.” Dropping his face into his hands in exasperation, he pleaded innocence, “I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to push the guy over, then try to save him, would I?”

      “You might have …” started Bliss, pausing to think of countless analogies: Firemen setting fires then dashing heroically to the rescue; masked bandits ripping off their disguises and joining the pursuit; child abductors painstakingly searching the back woods and, most appropriately, murderers leading the hunt … “See, it couldn’t be me … I wouldn’t be helping if it was me …” “You might have,” he repeated without explanation.

      “What, and then be daft enough to pinch his ruddy car?”

      The Dutch inspector didn’t wait for Bliss. “Then explain how you got his car key?”

      It was true. Motsom had given him keys to the Renault, together with instructions to drive the car ashore if LeClarc failed to turn up. “If he has gone overboard,” Motsom had said, “he’s probably long dead, or, if he ain’t dead, there’s bugger all anybody can do to save him. Plus, if he ain’t dead, I want to make sure our people find him, not theirs. So, we’ve got to get his car off or they’ll know he’s disappeared. O.K.?”

      Nosmo’s fervent prayer that LeClarc would turn up when they reached Holland wasn’t answered. Now he was being accused of murder, car theft at the very least. And where was Motsom?

      Billy Motsom had hidden his own car amongst hundreds of others in the port parking lot, and walked to a bar in town. The bar, a stones throw from the police station, doubled as a meeting place for leather-faced trawlermen—a few, the younger ones, still holding on to all their fingers. The stink of stale fish vied with smoke from a dozen pipes, but the smell of brewed coffee was overweening and Motsom took a cup with him to the payphone in the corner.

      “Get me a boat, a big one,” He spat into the mouthpiece. “King’s been arrested, but he’s safe, he doesn’t know the plan … The fat boy? … How should I know? Swimming I hope … Just get the eff’n boat.”

      Slamming down the handset, he turned to the room and realized he had brought everything to a halt. Like characters in a still from a forty-year-old black and white movie, everyone was now glaring at him: Cups, pipes, cigarettes, and hands frozen in mid-air. He smiled, a false toothy grin, jerked his shoulders as if to say, “Oops, sorry,” and the room gradually restarted.

      Just two streets away the imposing facade of the police station gave D.I. Bliss and his two colleagues a window on the entire dock area, and the giant slabsided ferry on which they had arrived.

      “It’s bloody mayhem down there,” said Smythe, with a hint of glee. “I bet they’re pretty pissed off. First we’re two hours late, then every bloody car and truck gets pulled to pieces. They could riot.”

      Bliss continued gazing out of the gargantuan window, captivated by the enormity of the situation. “Nothing else we could do,” he shrugged. “He’s either in a car, truck, or container, or he really did go for a swim.”

      Wilson stepped in, “What about the vehicles that have already gone? He could have been in one of them.”

      “Possible,” mused Bliss. “But the locals have set up road blocks on the two main roads. They’re checking everything that could have come off the ship.”

      “No point in starting a big sea search until we’re sure,” ruminated Wilson, staring at the grey horizon— sea and sky as one, thinking: helicopters, lifeboats, rescue Zodiacs, coastguard cutters.

      Bliss was on the point of saying, “Correct,” when a Dutch constable approached. “The captain is ready for you now, Sir.”

      Another equally vast room; a hurriedly assembled group of Dutch officers, two women and eight men sitting on long, brown leather, settees—five either side of an enormous low table scattered with coffee cups, cigarette packets, and the debris of some hastily eaten pastries. Each officer, note-pad at the ready, eagerly followed Bliss to the head of the table where Captain Jahnssen met him.

      “Call me Jost,” said the captain, ramrod straight, greeting Bliss like a foreign dignitary. Eager to impress, he continued effusively, “I have been to the headquarters of the British police at Scotland Yard,” as if in doing so he had worshipped at a great shrine—The Vatican or Taj Mahal, perhaps.

      Introductions were brief, though Bliss wondered why they bothered. All the men seemed to be called Caas or Jan, and both the woman were Yolanda.

      “Right,” Bliss started, feeling it was expected of him, knowing that neither of his officers were in a state fit to talk. “I know some of you have been involved with this case for the last few days but I’ll quickly give you a . . “ He stopped, mid-sentence. One Yolanda and a couple of Jans were attempting to write down everything he said. He lowered his tone and made eye contact with the female, a Scandinavian blonde with huge blue eyes that seemed to trap him—snake-like: Kaa captivating Mowgli in the Jungle Book. “I’ll tell you when to take notes.”

      Continuing, he broke the attraction by focussing on D.C. Smythe who’d started snoring, exhausted, at the back of the room. “In the past three years we have lost eight of our top computer experts,” he explained, personally shouldering responsibility for the entire population of the United Kingdom. “Eight of our most valuable assets in the field of computer technology have either been murdered, committed suicide, or simply vanished.” Pausing for effect, he checked the

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