Not until we were in Rotterdam did we speak to each other again. ‘So where are we going?’ I asked.
Kevin produced a minute slip of paper from his pocket and read from it. ‘Delf-shaven. Then we find a big red barge called Orion. We ask for Villie and tell him that we had an unpleasant trip.’
I said: ‘It’s haven, not shaven. Delfshaven.’
‘Is it? Let’s find a taxi.’
‘No,’ I insisted. ‘We’ll go on the tram. It’s cheaper and doesn’t attract attention.’ He looked impressed.
I force-fed the ticket machine with coins as if I’d been doing it all my life and handed Kevin his ticket. ‘I take it you’ve been ‘ere before,’ he said. I glowered at him for a few seconds, without speaking.
Delfshaven is a smashing little place. The rows of houses look as if giant hands have compressed them together, leaving them tall and impossibly narrow. They front on to the canal, spanned by one of van Gogh’s bridges; and a magnificent windmill – the traditional type – stands guard over everything.
Kevin wandered up and down, looking for the boat. ‘You look like a bloody tourist,’ I told him. ‘Let’s walk down to the end, as if we know where we are going. Otherwise some kind Dutch policeman is going to ask you if you need any help.’
‘Yeah, see what you mean.’
It wasn’t on the first length of canal. We walked round the end of the houses and back along a parallel stretch of water. There were plenty of boats, mainly barges with sails to assist them and conserve fuel, but not the Orion. Most of them didn’t have names at all, just numbers. We crossed the main road at a bridge, and there she was.
‘Bingo!’ I exclaimed.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ Kevin said. ‘I was starting to get worried.’
‘Do you want to collect the stuff now,’ I asked, ‘or go for something to eat and come back later? Save us carrying it around.’
He looked worried. ‘I think we should get it now. I’d feel ’appier.’
‘OK, you’re probably right. Let’s go meet Villie, then.’
He was fat and dirty, wearing a fisherman’s sweater that looked as if the dog slept on it at nights. ‘I am Villie,’ he admitted. ‘Kom on board.’ We ducked into a low doorway, down some steps, and entered the living quarters of the barge. It was beautiful, all carved wood and shining brass, with fancy oil lamps – the real things – fastened to the walls. ‘Haf you had a good journey?’ he enquired.
Kevin’s mouth opened like a stranded flounder, but I beat him to it. ‘A very unpleasant trip, Villie,’ I told him. ‘Very unpleasant indeed.’
‘Very unpleasant,’ Kevin agreed.
‘Good. Vould you like a trink?’ He gestured towards a bottle on a tray, surrounded by tiny glasses.
I swung the bag off my shoulder and placed it on a bench seat. Kevin did the same. ‘Not for me,’ I said, ‘but a cup of tea would be very welcome. Or coffee.’ I sat down.
‘OK, von tea. And you, my young friend?’
‘Er, coffee, please,’ Kevin said.
Villie shouted something in Dutch – well, it was Dutch to me – and another man, skinny and much younger, appeared through a doorway. He paused, taking his instructions, then disappeared again, taking the bags with him.
I looked round the cabin we were in. It was cosy, and the sunshine was being reflected on to the ceiling, dancing and swirling like some electronic light-show. I felt like curling up and going to sleep.
‘What do you normally carry?’ I asked.
‘Consumer goods.’
He didn’t elaborate, so I didn’t ask him where he took them from and to. The tea came.
‘So how’s business?’
‘Business eez bard.’
I nodded my agreement. ‘Same everywhere,’ I told him.
It was obvious that polite conversation wasn’t required, so I closed my eyes and dozed, with my face in a patch of light coming through one of the little windows. After about fifteen minutes I heard the door again, and opened my eyes to see another man enter, with our bags. ‘Hello, Kevin,’ he said.
Kevin looked happy for the first time since we landed. ‘Hiya, Darren,’ he greeted the newcomer. ‘You get around a bit.’ He’d have wagged his tail if he’d had one.
Darren was medium height, medium build. Lank hair, didn’t get much sunlight, needed a bath. Kevin introduced me.
‘Wotcher,’ I said.
‘Kevin reckons you’re a professional,’ he replied.
‘Me? Nah, I just like sailing.’
He put a bag similar to the one I’d brought on the bench beside me. ‘Well, don’t fuck us about, and don’t lose that. If you do, you’ll find yourself feeding the fishes. Understood?’
He terrified me, like a spider frightens a teddy bear. The arrangement was becoming clearer. The drugs were brought in by barge, possibly from somewhere in the Eastern bloc; Darren came over to pay and supervise the handover, make sure the English end wasn’t swindled; Kevin and I were the mugs who took the risks. It was a lot of trouble to take for a couple of kilos of marijuana.
I hooked the strap of the bag over my shoulder and stood up. ‘C’mon, Kevin,’ I said. ‘We’ve a boat to catch.’ Going across the little gangplank I shouted back: ‘Thanks for the tea, Villie,’ but it was wasted.
Kevin trotted after me. When he caught up he cautioned me against crossing Darren. ‘He ‘as some dangerous friends,’ he warned.
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
‘One of the gang. He usually collects the stuff off me.’
‘So who normally looks after this end?’
‘Another one of them. Bloke called Shawn. He scares the shit out of me. Darren must’ve been promoted.’
We caught the tram back into Rotterdam. The bags we carried were the same ones we’d brought, but now they were heavier. Kevin didn’t fancy a ride to the top of the Euromast but I managed to drag him into the Imax cinema. We saw an astronaut called Book Musgrave repair the Hubble telescope, floating about like a speck of dust in a sunlit room. He had a shaved head, and could have stepped straight out of Star Trek. You felt as if you were holding his screwdrivers. When it was over and our feet were back on solid ground, I pretended to forget my bag. Kevin nearly had a cardiac arrest, so I introduced him to a warme appelbol, but he didn’t appreciate it.
I banged my holdall straight into one of the left-luggage lockers that the ferry owners thoughtfully provide. Kevin and I were travelling separately again, and I occasionally saw him wandering around the various bars, clutching his bag as if his life depended upon it, which was a reasonable assumption. I was sipping a lager, putting off my date with the airline seat, when I saw Darren.
He was leaning on the bar, pint glass in front of him. I guessed that he’d driven over to the continent, probably by a different route. I wandered over and whispered into his ear: ‘I want a word with you. Now!’ I walked away, out through one of the heavy doors and on to the deck. We were batting across the North Sea, guided by faith and a radio signal. I shivered as a gust of wind dashed rain and spray against the cliff-like side of the ship. Darren followed me almost immediately.
‘What the fuck at you playing at?’ he hissed.
I leant on the rail and peered into the blackness, imaging what it must have been like when there were U-boats out there, waiting with their torpedos. There’d be no warning – just an explosion and a juddering shock, followed by pant-wetting terror.
‘Two things,’ I said, quite calmly. ‘First of all, don’t make threats on behalf of other people.’ I turned to look at him. ‘You might get hurt that way. I’ll deliver the stuff to the best of my ability, but if a third party moves in and takes it, it’s everybody’s problem, not just mine. Tell that to your masters, otherwise I’m not playing.’
‘That’s just, you know, insurance,’ he mumbled.
‘If they want insurance, tell them to see Eagle Star.’ I liked that. I felt a smile coming on, down in my stomach, but managed to strangle it before it pas
sed my neck. ‘And I want more money. I don’t believe it’s pot we’re carrying, and I don’t like being lied to. So if they want my services again, the price is a thousand pounds. Tell ’em that.’
‘A grand! They’ll never pay you a grand!’ He sounded shocked.
‘OK, call it seven-fifty, plus expenses. That’s my final offer.’
He looked miserable, as if going back with an ultimatum would be considered failure. I said: ‘Don’t worry about it, Darren. They can afford it – prices are sky-high at the moment.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘Want another beer?’
‘No, we’re not supposed to be seen together.’
‘Fair enough. When’s the next run likely to be – any ideas? I’ve a social life to organise.’
He considered it for a few seconds. ‘Could be a fortnight,’ he told me.
‘So I’m safe to arrange something else for next weekend?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Cheers. Well, it’s too cold out here for me. I’m going back inside.’ I walked off, leaving the deck and the night to him alone.
I wanted the number of his car, but following him around was difficult, and if he’d seen me it would have made him suspicious. I abandoned the idea and went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. Next time I’d take a cabin.
We disembarked dead on schedule and the old van started first try. I drove back to the cottage with the bag of dope on the front seat, beside me. I’d let Kevin get away first, hoping that I might see Darren again, but I couldn’t afford to linger too long. Kevin was waiting at his door for me.
‘Bring it in ‘ere,’ he said.
I followed him into his home. It smelt of stale food and cigarette smoke, and there was a huge poster above the fireplace of one of the supermodels proudly showing her nipples, as if nobody else in the world had a pair.
‘A good job well done,’ I declared, unzipping the bag.
‘You didn’t ought to have left it in the lockers,’ Kevin warned. They’ll kill you if you lose the stuff.’
‘No, they won’t,’ I told him. ‘I’ve sorted it out. No more threats; seven hundred and fifty quid each; and next time we share a cabin.’ I lifted my stuff out, including a couple of decent bottles of claret from the duty-free shop, and held it in my arms. ‘Keep the bag,’ I said, and went next door.
Darren called to collect the drugs from Kevin about an hour later, and I took the number of his red Sierra without any trouble. As soon as he left I went next door and Kevin gave me my money. I counted it, checking each note against the light. Darren had a ten minute start on me as I drove towards the M62. At ninety miles per hour the Merlin Couriers’ Transit rattled and shrieked like a witches’ sabbath on crack, but I didn’t catch him.
CHAPTER TEN
‘So how did the trip go?’ Annabelle asked when I saw her in the evening. She was wearing a pin-stripe suit. I think she’s at her best when dressed fairly formally, but I’d hate to do business with her. She’d put me through the mangle and hang me out to dry, and I’d love every second of it.
‘Oh, you know. Routine and boring. Never mind that, though. What about your interview with Tom Noon?’ She was supposed to be seeing him at eight-thirty on Saturday morning, before his constituency surgery began.
Annabelle raised her eyebrows and sighed. She looked disappointed, which was unlike her. ‘It didn’t happen,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘He didn’t turn up at the office. I was there bright and early, with my best suit and a smile, but he failed to make an appearance.’
‘No apology?’
She shook her head.
‘Was his secretary there? What did she have to say?’
‘Oh, she was full of apologies. Said he must have been detained in London. She tried ringing his wife, but there was no reply. Later in the day she called me and said that Mr Noon appeared to have gone missing. Didn’t want to enlarge upon it, though.’
‘Missing, just that?’
‘Mmm.’
I pointed towards the telephone. ‘Want me to see what I can find out?’
‘Er, yes, if you can.’
I dialled Heckley nick. ‘Hello, Arthur, it’s Charlie Priest.’
‘Hello, boss. We thought you’d died.’
‘An exaggeration, Arthur. What can you tell me about Tom Noon, MP? Apparently he’s gone missing.’
‘That’s right. His wife reported him missing Saturday morning. Went out for a drink, Friday evening, late on, like he usually does. Took the Land Rover and the dog with him, never came home. That’s it.’
‘Are you looking into it?’
‘Have to, with him being an MP. Nothing coming up, though. Doesn’t appear to have a girlfriend; no business worries that anyone knows about. Nothing.’
‘OK, Arthur, and thanks. Will you let me know, please, if anything comes to light?’
I filled in the other side of the conversation for Annabelle, and her disappointment turned to concern. ‘We are not fair to our MPs,’ she told me. ‘We make them the butt of jokes, and complain about them, but they work hard, and take a lot of risks.’
‘Some of them,’ I conceded.
I was cleaning my teeth in my own bathroom when the phone rang. It was Arthur.
‘Why haven’t you gone home?’ I asked.
‘Can’t get the staff, Charlie. Too many sick, lame and la … You know how it is.’
‘I see. Am I included in one of those groups?’
‘Not you, boss. You’ve nothing to prove to anyone. Are you still interested in Tom Noon?’
‘Yes. Have you found him?’
‘Not him, the car. It’s at Bolton Abbey, in the Strid car park.’
The Wharfe is a modest river at Bolton Abbey, but at the Strid its character changes. It narrows dramatically from about fifty feet across to rip through a two-foot-wide crack in the rocks. A simple step can take you from one side to the other, but if you slip, there’s no escape. The rocks are undercut, and bodies can be lost for days in underground whirlpools. It’s a sinister place.
‘Oh sugar!’ I said. ‘That looks bad.’
‘’Fraid so. We start dragging the river at first light.’
I called Annabelle at ten o’clock next morning. It was the first Monday in a new month, and she could have been starting her new job. I told her about Noon’s car being found and drove round to collect her.
Bolton Abbey isn’t in our patch, but as Noon was one of my parishioners I had an excuse to find out what I could. I rang Superintendent Wood and told him that I had a personal interest in the man. He’d already sent young Caton along to the scene to demonstrate our interest, but had no objection to me going, too.
‘Two heads are better than one, Charlie,’ he stated with all the authority his rank held. ‘Even if they are sheep heads.’ I didn’t mention that I had Annabelle with me.
The local police had cordoned off the Strid car park and large areas of wood at either side of the river, much to the consternation of the walkers. I couldn’t believe how many people were out in the woods on a Monday morning. I left the car on the road, behind several Pandas and a couple of police horse-boxes, and showed my ID to the Constable vetting visitors.
‘Mrs Wilberforce – she’s a friend of the missing man,’ I told him when he looked expectantly at Annabelle.
‘Thank you, sir. Will you keep well to the right, please, then within the tapes.’
‘Cheers. Keep close to me,’ I told Annabelle. ‘Have you ever been here before?’
‘This area, but not actually to the Strid.’
I’d told her of the place’s reputation on the journey up. Once in, nobody ever came out alive. With one notable exception. About fifteen years earlier a man had tried to murder his wife by pushing her in. By some freak of the current, or maybe due to the clothing she was wearing, she was carried straight through, and survived. He was charged with attempted murder, but she changed her story and they were reconciled. I bet she keep
s the carving knives in a locked drawer.
Noon’s Land Rover stood forlornly in the bottom corner of the car park, tucked under a chestnut tree that was just breaking into a pale leaf. Another Land Rover, a proper one from the Underwater Search Unit, was near the entrance to the woods. We’d asked for the Mounted Police to scour the riverbanks, and the Task Force were standing by in case we required an extensive search of local properties, outbuildings and suchlike. I led Annabelle along the track between the red and white tapes, down to the riverside.
You can hear it booming long before you arrive, and the sodden trees, dripping with ferns and lichen, create the atmosphere of a Lost World. When you see the river it looks like the aftermath of an explosion at a brewery – a demented torrent of peat-brown madness and churning foam. Nothing could survive that, you tell yourself. Downstream, the river widens, flowing serenely between twisted oak and thriving willow. Only rafts of froth, drifting aimlessly, indicate the agitation the water suffered merely seconds earlier. A dipper flew across and landed in the shallows.
Several people were standing around, one in a diver’s dry suit, attached by a line to his attendant, ready to go to the assistance of his colleague in the water should an emergency arise. Jeff Caton saw me and walked over.
‘Hello, Jeff. Anything happening yet?’ I asked.
‘No, There’s a diver down, but they haven’t found anything.’
He’d met Annabelle before, on the walking trip. ‘Annabelle knows Tom Noon,’ I explained. ‘She should have started work for him this morning.’ I’d give her the job, even if Tom Noon wasn’t in a position to.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jeff told her. ‘Did you … do you know him well?’
‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘I have only met him three times. Did you say that there was a diver down, in that?’
‘That’s right. Rather him than me.’ He pointed to an officer in a boilersuit, wearing a headset and holding a line that led tautly into the river. ‘He’s on the end of the rope.’
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