The Sunshine Cruise Company (18 page)

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 the 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.

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!
’

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.

‘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 Calais 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?’

‘In terms of?’

‘In terms of stopping them. Have you plans to put officers at stations and airports? Or … or checkpoints on major roads?’

‘Checkpoints?’ Pourcel almost laughed. What did this guy think this was?
The Day of the Jackal
? ‘Well, let’s be reasonable, gentlemen. These women have a twenty-four-hour lead on you at this point. From where they landed, in twenty-four hours you could go almost anywhere.’ Pourcel gestured to the large map of the region on his wall. ‘North towards Belgium, or east to Germany, or south into Spain. Indeed, if they got to a border or an airport before we received the information that they were even in France then there’s a very good chance they’re not in the country any more. I should tell you that this is the view my superiors are inclined towards …’

‘Eh? Why?’ Boscombe asked.

‘Extradition, I suppose,’ Wesley said, slurping his
café au lait
.

‘Exactly so,’ Pourcel said. ‘Extradition from France to the UK for non-French citizens wanted in connection with a crime is a very straightforward matter, just paperwork really. From here, however, you can get to any one of a number of countries where the extradition procedure is a great deal more difficult.’

‘Yes, of course, obviously, obviously,’ Boscombe said.
Fucking smart-arse Wesley, showing him up.
‘I mean, it just seems a bit premature of them to be jumping to any conclusions just yet.’

‘Well, you know the powers that be, Sergeant. The cost of doing something like you suggest would be enormous. It would be something that would only be considered in the gravest of circumstances. Terrorism. National security. What have you.’

‘I’m afraid in my country,’ Boscombe said, trying to control his temper, ‘armed robbery is considered a very serious crime.’

‘As it is here. But let us talk frankly for a moment. These old women are not hardened professional criminals. They will slip up soon enough, no?’

‘So that’s it?’ Boscombe said. ‘You’re going to … what? Just sit around and wait?’

Pourcel sat back in his chair and looked at the map again as he thought for a moment. ‘I really don’t see what we can do beyond what we’re already doing, Sergeant. We’re having your descriptions faxed to hotels, train stations and airports along all the major routes. You never know …’

Boscombe snorted. ‘Sounds a bit bloody hopeful to me …’

‘Well, hope is important, no?’ Pourcel stood up and shot his cuffs, indicating that the meeting was over.

‘And you’ll still give us a car in the meantime?’ Boscombe asked. ‘To allow us to make our own inquiries?’

‘But of course. It will be my pleasure.’

‘Thanks for the coffee,’ Wesley said.

‘Fucking dirty bastard garlic-shovelling wine-guzzling collaborator Nazi Charles Aznavour-loving bastards,’ Boscombe was saying a few minutes later as he stood in a distant corner of the police station car park looking at their loan car. It was possible that, at some point in its long history, Citroën may have made a smaller model than the one they were looking at now, but it was very doubtful.

Boscombe kicked a tyre and sighed. ‘This is taking the fucking piss, Wesley. Taking the fucking piss.’

‘Let’s just make the best of it, eh, Sarge?’