LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

interviewer pulled a face and swung her microphone to attack Mrs. Ramchuran. She knew even less than George but at least she didn’t waste their time. “I’ve only seen the man a few times. He was sort of fat with whitey hair. But I never saw no woman there.”

      Then a young newshound, in Bermuda shorts, spotted Daft Jack standing in the half-opened doorway of his house and the crowd of reporters and cameramen drifted in a wave in his direction.

      In Roger’s kitchen, hidden from the stare of the cameras, the main performance was in full swing. Superintendent Edwards’ staff sergeant was running the show to the chagrin of the local officers—openly chatting while he tried to address them.

      “Gentlemen,” he started, clapping for attention. “First of all I can tell you Roger LeClarc, the owner of this dump, has drowned at sea. But,” he stressed, “the press must not be told under any circumstances.” A hush settled over the nine officers in the cramped little room as he continued with enormous solemnity, “Gentlemen— this case is much, much, bigger than two missing people.”

      Speaking for a few moments he laid out a short history of LeClarc’s disappearance, making vague references to the potential for international catastrophe and general mayhem, then added, “Now that we have a firm connection between him and the McKenzie girl we want to know: If she was here, where is she now? She certainly didn’t leave with him.”

      “How do you know?” asked the disembodied voice of a stubby officer straining to be seen at the back.

      “Our men lost him once, possibly twice, in the past couple of weeks,” admitted the sergeant, “but they always found him pretty quickly. They never saw the girl, and she definitely wasn’t with him the day he left for Holland.”

      “Where do you think she is?”

      “I have no idea son,” he said darkly, “But if she came here with him and didn’t leave then,” he paused pointedly, “your imagination is as good as mine.”

      A civilian crime scene officer tried to squeeze into the crowded room but ended up poking his head round the corner and speaking as if he were being charged for every word. “Had a quick look in the hallway Serg: long dark hairs; clothing fibres, probably white; scratches on walls. Photographer’s getting pictures— we’ll take casts.”

      “Any idea what may have caused them?” asked the sergeant as the man paused for breath.

      “Furniture … fingernails,” he suggested vaguely, then added a general accusation, “a clumsy cop.” Then continued, “Fingerprints and footprints all over the place.” His eyes swept the audience, “Mainly yours I suspect.” He waited as if he had something to add but was reluctant to run up his bill.

      “Anything else?” enquired the sergeant after a second or two, feeling it was expected of him.

      He had deliberately kept the best to last—a conjurer building up his trick, then he pulled out the rabbit, “Several drops of blood.”

      “Blood?” the word was breathed around the room.

      “Oh yes. Definitely blood.”

      “Whose?”

      Peering over the top of his spectacles he gave the speaker a supercilious look. “How the hell should I know,” he said dismissively, then studiously consulted his notebook for several seconds before adding, formally, “There are indications of a possible struggle in the front hallway.”

      “A definite maybe?” suggested one of the officers without sincerity, and was ignored.

      “When was the struggle?” enquired another.

      “I wouldn’t like to theorize,” he replied, but then did just that. “Judging by the state of the blood and the look of the scratches ….” he paused, meditatively and let his eyes wander to the ceiling, “several day’s ago— could be week—not more.”

      The sergeant took command amid a speculative hum. “O.K. sort yourselves out—two men to a room. Check everything. Usual routine: floors, walls and ceilings. Don’t disturb anything if you can avoid it but don’t miss anything. Two of you can start in the garden before it gets dark—check for any sign of recent digging.”

      “What about the waste dump next door?” asked Jackson recalling his previous excursion over the wilderness. “It’d take a bloody month to dig that lot.”

      “We could try infra-red detection there,” replied the sergeant. “But let’s finish with the house and garden first. Let’s do this quickly. We’re probably too late, but my guess is she’s around here somewhere.”

      The Dutch herring trawler had ambled all day to reach the area of Roger’s disappearance despite Motsom’s relentless urging. The sun was diving toward the western horizon before the skipper admitted they were close. “If your brother’s still alive he should be somewhere near here,” said the skipper, still paying lip service to Motsom’s claim.

      With the persistent fog making it impossible to see the water rushing past the hull, it was difficult to judge the speed of the vessel, or even the direction of travel, and Motsom had no idea the skipper had nudged the little vessel along at a mere 5 knots, hoping someone may have picked up the deck hand’s brief mayday call from the lifeboat’s emergency transmitter early that morning. Around mid-day, before the fog had begun to lift, Billy Motsom had stood in the wheelhouse next to the skipper when he had a nasty feeling something was wrong.

      “How do I know we’re going the right way?” he suddenly enquired after a long period of silence.

      “We are.”

      “How do I know?”

      “You’ll have to trust me,” the skipper replied, deliberately weaving doubt into his tone.

      Shit, thought Motsom, we’re going round in circles, and had visions of winding up alongside a police launch in the middle of the port when the fog lifted.

      “Stop!” he yelled.

      “What?” cried the skipper.

      “Stop,” he demanded, “right now.”

      The gun was unnecessary, the skipper got the message and eased back the throttles. “What’s the matter?”

      “Show me,” said Motsom, roughly grabbing the elderly skipper’s arm and spinning him to face the large map on the table at the rear of the tiny wheelhouse. “Where are we? Which direction are we going in?”

      The old man hesitated for a second, as if considering giving false information, then ran his finger along a line marked, “Ferry,” and said, “About here.”

      Motsom followed the line: a double row of red dots across the pale blue ocean—like a neatly stitched seam binding England to Holland.

      “But how do I know we’re going the right way?”

      The skipper eased his arm free and pointed at the compass.

      “Look,” he said.

      Motsom obeyed, and saw the little needle swinging gently back and forth through a short arc, undeniably pointing west. Satisfied, he ordered the skipper to get going, and faster, something the wily old man had no intention of doing.

      Below decks, McCrae and his newly acquired partner, Jack Boyd, were getting to know each other. Boyd, known on the street as, “Jack the Sprat” or simply “Sprat,” because of his skinny frame and slippery reputation, could list eighteen armed robberies among his accomplishments; questioned three times, charged twice, convicted only once—as a teenager—a rookie. He had been a fast learner. His murder record was better; a perfect score: Boyd—three, Police—nil. Apart from a short stretch in a juvenile detention centre for a kid’s prank, and two years for the one unlucky robbery conviction, he might have been considered a model citizen. McCrae on the other hand would never have been considered a model anything—other than a hit man.

      “You

Скачать книгу