LITMIR.BIZ

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off expecting them to catch up.

      The cab was still waiting at the curb as Yolanda had instructed, and the superintendent’s bag and briefcase were loaded in the trunk before he realized it was not a police car.

      “What’s this?” he queried, as if he’d discovered a lump of dog turd on his parade square.

      “A taxi, Sir. We, um …” Bliss stalled, realizing that he still had to break the news about Yolanda’s plane.

      Yolanda stepped in magnificently. “A police aircraft is waiting to take us directly to the port. Our captain knew you would be anxious to take command, so he personally ordered it for you.”

      Edwards beamed, then spun on Bliss. “Why the devil didn’t you say so Inspector?”

      “Sorry, Sir,” he mumbled, opening the cab’s front passenger door before slipping in the back with Yolanda.

      “I hope you won’t mind flying again so soon?” Yolanda asked, keeping a perfectly straight face, nudging Bliss in the ribs.

      “No. I won’t mind,” he replied with a slight wobble in his voice. “Good pilot is he?”

      Bliss suddenly had a thought. “You were in the air force weren’t you, Sir?”

      “That’s right Bliss. That’s why I hate flying. I’ve seen so many of them so-called hotshot pilots. Couldn’t fly a fuck’n … Oh sorry, Miss … Couldn’t fly a kite.”

      “Well I can assure you we have an excellent pilot, Sir.”

      “Glad to hear it. Now tell me what the bloody hell’s happening. Where’s LeClarc?”

      Roger might have wished he had an answer. Steep choppy seas had replaced the violent breakers left in the wake of the storm, so, instead of riding up and down each huge swell he was now being jiggled about, constantly changing direction. There was no longer any danger of being thrown bodily off the raft, but the jerky flip-flop motion made it impossible to stand, even for a second, without being bowled over. The wind had died completely, not even the whisper of a breeze ruffled the wave-tops, and a blanket of water vapour hung heavily above the surface and was quickly arranging itself into a cold impenetrable fog.

      The memory of Trudy was the only thing keeping his will to survive alive. For the first time in his life he had been happy, really happy, then everything had gone awry. A few vivid memories of the past week played constantly in his mind, like a movie collated from clips off the cutting room floor: The expectation, the thrill of their meeting, the look of disgust on her face, the struggle in the hallway, her “dead” body, the nightmare task of getting her down the steep ladder, the temptation to touch her bottom when her skirt had ridden up as she hung over his shoulder … a temptation he had succumbed to, thrusting a finger inside her knickers to feel the baby soft flesh in the crease of her buttocks. Then he’d recoiled, feeling the sting of his mother’s palm across his face and the sound of her voice rampaging in his brain—but it was an old memory coming back to haunt him. “Stop that you dirty little bugger,” she had yelled. “I told you never to touch girls there.”

      “Sorry, Mum,” he had cried, an eleven-year-old schoolboy exploring the meaning of life with the little girl who lived three doors away. She was ten, and quite willing, but his mother had surprised them in the garden shed. His father, when he came home from work early—summonsed by his mother—had taken a powerful stand; words were not enough—his mother had said. Ten lashes with a leather belt on his expansive bare backside had stung for days and he had seen the red welts in the mirror a full week later.

      The movie continued: Trudy crying—it was her crying which disturbed him the most.

      “Don’t cry, Trude; I love you. I’ll look after you,” he had told her over and over. Through the tears, she’d plead for him to call her mother;. he’d promise—anything to stop her crying—but he always found an excuse … “I tried Trude, honest. She must’ve been out.”

      “Stop crying and tell me you love me, Trude,” he would often say, “then I’ll take you home.”

      “I love you, Roger,” she eventually replied, her resistance sapped by his persistence and her desire to escape. But he didn’t take her. “I’ve got to go to work Trude, I’ll take you tonight.”

      Filled with hope and expectation she dashed off a note to her mother: “Love you mum—see you tonight.” But the day stretched to eternity as his promise gradually faded in the thinning air. Then, when she was close to despair, her heart leapt as a blast of fresh air revived her. But he had another excuse. “The car’s broken. I’ll have to take you tomorrow.” Each day a new excuse—then he started making demands.

      “Trude,” he said one evening just after he came in from work. “If you show me your thingy I promise to take you home.”

      “No,” she shouted, firmly clenching her skirt between her thighs as she sat on the bed in the glow of the computer.

      “I won’t touch,” he pleaded. “I just want to look.”

      “You looked before. You tied me up—remember.”

      He remembered, but if only he’d looked closer— touched maybe. Rueing the missed opportunity, he implored, “Please let me have another look.”

      “Will you really, really promise to take me home if I do?”

      “I promise,” he lied. “Scout’s honour.”

      “And you won’t touch?”

      “Promise.”

      With a sigh of condescension, she lay back and wriggled her knickers to her knees. “Promise?” she said, making one final check.

      “Promise,” he said.

      Like a stripper teasing a group of randy partygoers, she eased up her skirt, and, as his hand snaked toward her, kicked him in the mouth, leapt off the bed, and hauled up her knickers.

      “I wasn’t going to touch honest,” he whimpered through his fingers, his lip already swelling, then his tone changed to that of a spiteful brat. “I was going to take you home, but I’m not now.” I’m keeping the ball if you don’t let me play.

      The four-minute taxi ride from Schiphol to the private airfield had been heavily weighted by Superintendent Edwards’ presence, and sunk further when he spotted Yolanda’s small plane.

      “Doesn’t look like a police plane,” he grumbled.

      “Unmarked,” said Bliss, with a flash of inspiration.

      “This way Edward,” Yolanda sang out, her voice bouncing with enthusiasm.

      Edwards stopped and glared. “My name is Superintendent Edwards,” he stressed, dragging the mood even lower.

      “Oh …” she began, confused. “I thought you said your name was Edward.”

      Bliss strolled between them carting the senior officer’s luggage and made light of the situation. “Where shall I put Superintendent Edwards’ bags, Detective Pieters?”

      “In here, Detective Bliss,” she responded, quickly catching on.

      Bags loaded, the superintendent was on the point of boarding when he had second thoughts.

      “Is there a bathroom here anywhere, Inspector?”

      Relief swept over Bliss, he had almost forgotten his own desperate need. “I expect so, Sir. I’ll come with you,” he replied, turning to Yolanda for directions, but she shrugged.

      “Maybe in that building,” was the best she could offer, turning to the nearest Quonset hut.

      “We’ll ask,” shouted the superintendent, already ten strides away. Bliss caught up. The granite-faced superintendent sensed his presence and without looking, launched into him. “So, let me get this straight, Bliss. You were guarding LeClarc?”

      “Me

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