The Sunshine Cruise Company Page 14

  Julie was staring intently across the picnic area to a table quite far away, right by the fence bordering the car park.

  There were two people at the table: a man and a girl. The man was in his fifties, unshaven, with greasy hair. Swarthy. Greek or maybe Spanish. He had mirrored shades on and was wearing a black leather waistcoat over a T-shirt that looked stuck to his body. His food lay untouched in front of him as he drank pastis. The girl was very beautiful, very French, Julie thought, with her black, bobbed hair. She was wearing denim shorts and a skimpy vest top. She was attacking a plate of frites hungrily. She was also, maybe, seventeen years old. His daughter? The man reached for the bottle of pastis on the table and poured a splash into her glass, adding a little water. There was a rucksack at the girl’s feet too, Julie noticed. She also noticed the wolfish way he looked at her when she bent her head down towards her food. No, probably not his daughter …

  ‘Julie!’ Susan smacked her on the leg.

  ‘Ow! What?’

  ‘What are we going to do about getting Jill’s money for Jamie back?’

  ‘We need to do five transfers of 9,999 each, to avoid the revenue, remember? So we’ll need to find five Western Union type places between here and Marseilles and do it that way.’

  ‘Oh God, that sounds like a lot of … exposure,’ Susan said.

  ‘She could always just get on a plane with fifty grand in her handbag,’ Ethel said.

  ‘You know what?’ Jill said. ‘I don’t care about getting caught. As long as Jamie gets his operation I don’t care what happens to me after that.’

  ‘All right, Spartacus …’ Ethel said, signalling the waiter, holding up the empty bread basket.

  The man was Spanish. She had a little Spanish but he spoke with a thick regional dialect and she couldn’t understand most of it. She was grateful for the food though and kept her head bent down over her frites. The liquor burned in her belly as she caught him saying something about the border, about dropping her off near there. It would do, it would be far enough. She had a little over seventy euros on her. Enough for a night or two somewhere cheap en route and a bite to eat here and there. What … what was he … topping her glass up again? She didn’t refuse. It would help. She smiled back and said, ‘Merci.’ He, oh. She stiffened at his touch but she didn’t pull away. From here to past Toulouse for free? She couldn’t pass that up. Not that it would be exactly ‘free’ of course. What was?

  No. Definitely not her dad, Julie thought, cutting into her chicken, stealing sidelong glances, only half listening to the chatter of the others. Touching her leg under the table like that? Definitely not a fatherly gesture. Julie felt the hair on the back of her neck prickling. There was something in the way the girl was reacting – about the way she was neither encouraging nor repelling the attentions of this man who was, now she thought about it, surely old enough to be her grandfather – that was gradually enraging her. It was the fact that she seemed to be acquiescing. Reluctantly and with a weariness far beyond her years, she was simply acquiescing. Beside her Susan had the map out again and was trying to pinpoint the names of a few likely towns between here and Marseilles, places big enough to transfer money but not so big that they’d have a major police presence. Oh, what now? He was …

  The man was standing up and picking up the bill …

  He muttered something about paying the bill and pointed over to the car park, to where a huge sixteen-wheeler truck was parked. She smiled and thanked him. He went off and she glanced around, suddenly feeling very young and vulnerable on her own at the table, out here in the world without an adult. So what? Fuck it. Grow up, Vanessa. She picked up her glass and tossed the last two inches of the liquorice-flavoured spirit down her throat, shuddering, hating the burn but needing it.

  That look around – the neediness with which she pounded that drink. Julie recognised it. She saw herself, over forty years ago, 1972, ‘Layla’ on the jukebox and scared in a pub in Brighton. Nowhere to stay. And then later, in that terrible flat. She could hear the sea …

  Needing the burn to get through that which lay ahead. To let her …

  Enough.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he … A shadow fell over her and she looked up. An old lady, maybe sixty, was standing there.

  ‘Hello,’ said Julie.

  ‘Hi,’ the girl said uncertainly.

  ‘Do you speak English?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I saw your rucksack,’ Julie went on, bright and friendly. ‘My friends and I are sitting over there …’

  The girl followed the wave of her hand and looked over to where three more old ladies were sitting under an umbrella at a wooden table. One of them, she was in a wheelchair, waved back cheerily.

  ‘Anyway, we were wondering where you were headed?’

  The girl looked from Julie to the other old ladies and back again. ‘Uh, south …’

  ‘Really? What a coincidence! Us too! How about we give you a lift?’

  ‘A lift?’

  ‘Sorry. A ride?’

  ‘I already have a ride,’ the girl said, nodding vaguely in the direction of the restaurant.

  ‘Yes,’ Julie said. ‘I really don’t think that’s the kind of ride you want, darling.’

  Who was this mad old cow? ‘What do you know about it?’ the girl said, an edge in her voice.

  ‘Well.’ Julie reached over and picked up her empty glass. She sniffed it. ‘I think I might be in a better position to judge than someone who’s drinking spirits at two o’clock in the afternoon. Do we normally drink at lunch? Or are we trying to get our courage up?’

  The girl looked away. She went to say something and hesitated. ‘He … he said he’s a nice guy.’

  ‘Really?’ Julie said. ‘Because you know by law they’re obliged to tell you they’re rapists and paedophiles before you get in the truck.’

  The girl didn’t quite understand the sarcasm here. But she caught the key words in the sentence – ‘Rapists. Paedophiles.’

  ‘I’m old enough,’ the girl said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Really?’ Julie said again as there came a grunt from behind her, another shadow falling over the girl, and then the man was standing there, a fistful of change in his hand. ‘Que?’ he said to them.

  ‘Hello!’ Julie said, extending her hand. He did not take it. ‘I’m an old friend of her mother’s. Thank you so much for your kind offer but she’s going to come with us.’ Julie again jerked her thumb towards their table and the trucker glanced over towards Susan, Ethel and Jill. ‘Go on,’ Julie said to the girl. ‘Scoot over there.’

  The trucker stepped in closer to Julie. ‘Hey,’ he said, English now, with a thick Spanish accent. ‘Fuck off, Granny.’ Something about the edge, about the urgency of the menace in his voice, seemed to make the girl’s mind up for her. She grabbed her rucksack. ‘Go on now …’ Julie said to her. ‘Take these.’ She handed the girl the keys to the Porsche, ‘and give them to the lady about my age, with the blonde hair, and tell her to go and start the car …’

  The girl bolted off towards the other table.

  The trucker took another step towards Julie. He might only have been seven or eight years younger than her. What were they thinking, these men? ‘Right,’ Julie said. ‘That’s enough.’ She stepped towards him, both of them very close now. She could smell the pastis on his breath. She’d noticed the bottle was half empty. ‘I think you’re very lucky if she’s fifteen,’ Julie whispered. ‘Do you really want to make a scene? Here? With all these people?’ She gestured around them, at all the families. ‘You really want me to call the gendarmes? When you’ve been drinking prior to taking a minor in your truck? Are you sure?’ The guy’s English was weak, but he caught enough. Gendarmes was enough. He stood there. Staring her down, saying nothing. ‘OK then,’ Julie said. ‘Drive safely.’

  She turned on her heel and walked off towards the car park, to where she could see the others already clambering in, Susan starting th
e engine.

  Julie closed the door behind her and turned round. The girl was in the back between Ethel and Jill. ‘You’ve met everyone?’ The girl nodded, smiling for the first time. ‘Good. I’m Julie by the way. What’s your name?’

  ‘Vanessa. Nice car.’

  ‘It certainly is, Vanessa,’ Susan said. ‘Now, buckle up.’ Susan nudged the accelerator and, with a splash of gravel, they were out of there.

  THIRTY-NINE

  NOW THIS WAS the business, Wesley thought. This was what you joined the fucking force for. They were in the back of a Hampshire Police car, doing ninety along the coast road out of Ryde, the Solent flashing by on their left, the siren whooping and gulping, blue lights strobing. Boscombe was next to him, on the phone to Wilson, having to shout.

  ‘That’s what he said, sir, near Le Havre. Seems like they kidnapped him.’

  Wilson had Boscombe on the speakerphone in his office, Tarrant sitting opposite him. ‘OK. Listen, the French police will meet you,’ Wilson said. ‘They have jurisdiction obviously –’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘I said – Oh, for Christ’s sa— WILL YOU TELL THEM TO TURN THAT BLOODY SIREN OFF?’

  ‘Siren? Oh, hang on.’ Wilson could hear a muffled conversation then, mercifully, the siren stopped. ‘Sorry, sir?’ Boscombe said.

  ‘The French police have jurisdiction. They’ve assured me of their full cooperation, Boscombe – they’re issuing descriptions to airports, stations, hotels and the like – but they’ll have to make any arrests and then we’ll have to follow the normal extradition procedures. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Boscombe turned to Wesley and made a face, both of them getting thrown to their left as the car pulled off the main road, cornering at speed, turning inland, away from the sea.

  ‘You are simply there to provide a positive identification on the suspects and to assist with inquires. One other thing, Boscombe …’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake try to remember that you’re representing your country while you’re over there, will you?’

  ‘Of course, sir. I’m not –’

  ‘Goodbye, Boscombe.’ Wilson hung up.

  ‘Fucking …’ Boscombe said, giving the finger to the silent mobile phone.

  ‘Here we are, Sarge,’ Wesley said, excitement in his voice.

  Boscombe looked up to see they were pulling up on a grass airstrip, next to a gleaming red-and-white, two-engine Cessna, the pilot already in the cockpit, wearing Aviator shades and headset, flicking switches above his head.

  ‘Now this is a bit more like it, eh, Wesley? This is a bit more bloody like it!’

  FORTY

  SUSAN FOLLOWED THE bend round the corner, driving slowly in the dark (Julie was right, it was a lovely car to drive), as the rain that had moved in over them came down sideways through the headlight beams. She was listening to the harsh, robotic voice of the satnav, telling her – again – to do a U-turn and wondering how she could have got so lost. According to the map the motel they were looking for should have been right back there. (Only fifty euros per room per night the guidebook had said.) She glanced around the car – everyone was fast asleep. The car clock said 9.03 p.m. It had been a long day though, and next to no sleep the night before. No, for the two nights before. ‘Re-routing,’ the posh, clipped male voice said to her again.

  ‘Oh, will you shut your bloody face?’ Susan hissed at it, pulling over onto the grass verge – a field on one side of the road and a brick wall with a large black metal gate on the other.

  ‘Mmmm?’ Julie stirred sleepy-eyed in the passenger seat.

  ‘Oh, sorry, love. I didn’t mean to wake you …’

  ‘Where are we?’ she said sleepily, stretching. ‘Christ. It’s pissing down.’

  ‘You’re telling me. We’re somewhere off the …’ Susan started scrolling back and forth through screens on the satnav.

  ‘I’m bursting for a slash …’ came Ethel’s voice from the back.

  ‘Understood, Ethel, we’re just a tiny bit lost at the moment,’ Susan said.

  Jill yawned and opened her eyes too, leaving only Vanessa, their waif and stray, asleep between her and Ethel. ‘Poor lamb must be exhausted,’ Jill said.

  Julie was now looking at the map she had spread out on her lap. ‘Oh, how have we wound up here? This is nowhere near that motel!’

  ‘Goodness, I’d love a bath,’ Jill said.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Susan said. ‘This bloody thing kept telling me to do a U-turn and then saying it was re-routing and then –’

  ‘You should have –’

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you!’ Everyone tired, gritty and crotchety.

  ‘I am bursting for the loo …’ Ethel said.

  Vanessa began to stir.

  ‘Oh,’ Jill said dreamily, absently, ‘doesn’t that look lovely?’

  ‘What looks lovely?’ Susan said irritably, easing the handbrake off, preparing to pull away.

  ‘There,’ Jill repeated, pointing through her window, wiping condensation off it.

  The others followed her pointing index finger, squinting through the rain. Just across the road, on the brick wall, so overgrown by ivy that it was almost invisible, was a brass plaque. On it, in elegant black script, were the words ‘L’Auberge du Château’ and, below them, five magical stars. Susan pressed the handbrake on with her foot. Jill was actually pointing through the black metal gate next to the plaque. Just visible through the bars and the rain was a long gravel drive, leading to the soft lights of a huge country house, just visible in the distance, in the dusk. Jill sighed, yawned, and said, ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely to be able to afford to stay somewhere like that?’

  The others just turned and looked at her.

  ‘Oh, you daft cow,’ Ethel said.

  A little less than an hour later and a very jolly scene was playing out in suite 14 of L’Auberge du Château.

  Julie and Vanessa – champagne flutes in hand – were dancing to Motown blaring from the wall of matt-black hi-fi equipment hidden discreetly in a huge oak armoire. Susan was bouncing up and down on an enormous four-poster bed while Jill moved around cooing and ahhing over various pieces of antique furniture. Ethel presided over all of this from her power corner of the jacuzzi, where she was, for the third time in thirty minutes, torturing room service: up to her fleshy neck in hot bubbling water, a telephone clamped to her ear, a glass of neat gin next to her and – fairly incredibly – a large Cohiba cigar clamped between her teeth.

  ‘No,’ Ethel said. ‘Non.’ She removed her cigar. ‘It was two lobster, one salad and two steaks. You’re out of the Beluga? Dearie me. OK, I suppose we’ll make do with the Sevruga. Great, thank y— Oh! Do you have any oysters? Great, we’ll have two dozen. And you’d better bring us a couple more bottles of champagne. Yes, 14, thank you. Merci!’ She hung up and raised her glass to the dancing Julie.

  Oh, I’ve missed this, Ethel thought.

  FORTY-ONE

  ‘CHRIST, SARGE,’ WESLEY said, ‘my neck’s as stiff as a bloody board.’ He craned his neck, turning his head slowly in circles, trying to loosen up the muscles.

  Boscombe grunted, in no mood for pleasantries. He returned to staring at the noticeboard in front of them at Le Havre police station, the usual stuff: Rabies, Pickpockets, Smuggling. What the hell were they doing keeping them waiting this long? Didn’t these French bastards know he was pursuing dangerous fugitives? He looked out of the window, into the dawn glow of a beautiful morning, the streets and trees still soaking wet.

  Despite its promising start, their glamorous trip hadn’t quite panned out as they’d hoped. The light aircraft had flown into very heavy weather somewhere over the Channel. A torrential rainstorm had settled over north-eastern France, making it impossible for them to land here in Le Havre. They’d had to fly nearly a hundred miles north up the coast to get around it. Then the driver assigned to them had been given the wrong instructions and had taken them to Calai
s by mistake. By the time they realised this it was one in the morning.

  They’d had to spend the night sleeping in the cells at the cop shop (the bloody cells!) before a drive down here in the first rays of dawn. They were both tired and cranky and the only sustenance they’d had was a sticky bun and a cup of what Wesley said was very nice coffee at 5 a.m. (Boscombe would take his word for it – it just tasted like bloody coffee to him.) And what the fuck was going –

  Ah, a door opening and a guy was coming out, looking at them. He was handsome in that uselessly French way, tall and slim, wearing a nice, well-pressed suit, in stark contrast to the wrinkled and rumpled English detectives in front of him. ‘Detectives Wesley and … Bostock?’ he said in a thick French accent.

  ‘Boscombe. Detective Sergeant Boscombe,’ Boscombe corrected the man.

  ‘Ah, excuse me. I am Lieutenant Pourcel.’ He extended his hand and they shook. ‘Please come into my office.’

  About bloody time, Boscombe thought to himself.

  They settled themselves in front of Pourcel’s desk (the desk, like the office, was spotlessly clean and tidy) as he apologised for their delayed arrival here and offered them more coffee, which Wesley gratefully accepted.

  ‘To move on to the matter in hand …’ Boscombe said.

  ‘Ah yes, of course,’ Pourcel said, opening a file in front him. ‘Your … robbers.’ Here he allowed himself the flicker of a smile. Cheeky fucker, Boscombe thought. ‘I must say, it is quite a story, no? These old ladies.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s not the word I’d use …’ Boscombe said.

  ‘Oui oui. I have seen your video. On YouTube?’ Pourcel pursed his lips, making an ‘Ow!’ expression. ‘Are you … is everything OK with you?’

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine thank you, Lieutenant.’ That fucking video. How could he get it removed? ‘As I say, to return to the matter in hand, you have their descriptions there, so what we going to do?’