By the time I emerged, he’d disappeared. I ran to the car, and saw that the buckle was moving away from the ferry port. He was either going to dispose of it now, or it was going on the ferry with him. Either way, I needed to try to follow him. I drove off in the direction the receiver indicated, grabbing my phone as I went and punching in Richard’s number. The dashboard clock told me it was five past four. I prayed. He answered on the third ring. “Yo, Richard Barclay,” he said.
“I need a mega favor,” I said.
“Lovely to hear your voice too, Brannigan,” he said.
“It’s an emergency. I’m in Hull.”
“That sounds like an emergency to me.”
“I’ve got to be on the half-past-six ferry to Holland. My passport’s in the top drawer of my desk. Can you get it, and get here by then?”
“In my car? You’ve got to be kidding.”
I could have wept. He was right, of course. Even though it’s pretty souped up, his Volkswagen just couldn’t do the distance in the time. Then I remembered the coupe. “Shelley’s got the Gemini,” I told him. “I’ll get her to meet you outside the office in five minutes with it. Can you do it?”
“I’ll be there,” he promised.
I rang the office, one eye on the monitor, one eye on the road. I was probably the most dangerous thing on the streets of Hull. We seemed to be heading east, farther down the Hum-ber estuary. Shelley answered brightly.
“Don’t ask questions, it’s an emergency,” I said.
“You’ve been arrested,” she replied resignedly.
“I have not been arrested. I’m hot on the trail of a team of international art thieves. Some people would be proud to work with me.”
“Okay, it’s an emergency. What’s it got to do with me?”
“Hang on, I think I’m losing someone…” We’d cleared the suburbs of Hull, and the receiver was registering a sharp change in direction. Sure enough, about a kilometer up the road, there was a right turn. Cautiously, I drove into the narrow road, then pulled up. The distance between us remained constant. He’d stopped.
And the phone was squawking in my ear. “Sorry, Shelley. Okay, what I need is for you to meet Richard downstairs in five minutes with the Gemini. He’ll leave you his car so you won’t be without wheels,” I added weakly.
“You expect me to drive that?”
“It’ll do wonders for your street cred,” I said, ending the call. I was in no mood for banter or argument. I put the car in gear and moved slowly down the lane, keeping an eye open for Turner’s car. The Tarmac ended a few hundred yards later in the car park of a pub overlooking the wide estuary. There were only two cars apart from Turner’s Merc. There was no way I was going in there, even if he was offering the buckle to the highest bidder. With so few customers, I’d be painfully obvious. All I could do was head back to the main road and pray that Turner would still have the buckle with him.
I fretted for an hour, then the screen revealed signs of activity. The buckle was moving back toward me. Moments later, Turner’s car emerged from the side road and headed back into Hull. “There is a God,” I said, pulling out behind him. We got back to the ferry port at half past five. Turner joined the queue of cars waiting to board, but I stayed over by the booking office. The last thing I wanted was for him to clock me and the Saab at this stage in the game.
Richard skidded to a halt beside me at five to six. He gave me a thumbs-up sign as he got out. He picked up my emergency overnight bag from the passenger seat and came over to the Saab. He tossed the bag into the back and settled into my passenger seat. “Well done,” I said, leaning across to give him a smacking kiss on the cheek.
“You’ll have to stand on for any speeders I picked up,” he said. “It really is a flying machine, that coupe.”
“You brought the passport?”
Richard pulled out two passports from his inside pocket. Mine and his. “I thought I’d come along for the ride,” he said. “I’ve got nothing pressing for the next couple of days, and it’s about time we had a jaunt.”
I shook my head. “No way. This isn’t a jaunt. It’s work. I’ve got enough to worry about without having to think about whether you’re having a nice time. I really appreciate you doing this, but you’re not coming with me.”
Richard scowled. “I don’t suppose you know where this guy’s going?”
“I’ve no idea. But where he goes, I follow.”
“You might need some protective coloring,” he pointed out. “I’ve heard you say that sometimes there are situations where a woman on her own stands out where a couple don’t.
I think I should come along. I could share the driving.“
“No. And no. And no again. You don’t expect me to interview spotty adolescent wannabe rock stars, and I don’t expect you to play detectives. Go home, Richard. Please?”
He sighed, looking mutinous. “All right,” he said, sounding exactly like his nine-year-old son Davy when I drag him off the computer and tell him ten is not an unreasonable bedtime. He flung open the car door and got out, turning back to say, “Just don’t expect me to feed the cat.”
“I haven’t got a cat,” I said, grinning at his olive branch.
“You could have by the time you get back. Take care, Brannigan.”
I waved as I drove off, keeping an eye on him in my rearview mirror. As I took my place in the slowly moving queue, I saw him get in the car and drive off. Half an hour later, I was standing in the stern of the ship, watching the quay recede inch by inch as we slowly moved away from the dock and out toward the choppy steel gray waters of the North Sea.
I spent almost all of the trip closeted in my cabin with a spy thriller I’d found stuffed into the door pocket of Bill’s car. The only time I went out was for dinner, which comes included in the fare. I left it to the last possible moment, hoping Turner would have eaten and gone by then. I’d made the right decision; there was no sign of him in the restaurant, so I was able to enjoy my meal without having to worry about him clocking me. I was certain he wouldn’t recognize me as the tart with the buckle, but if this surveillance lasted any length of time, the chances were that he’d see me somewhere along the line. I didn’t want him connecting me back to the ferry crossing.
On the way back to the cabin, I changed some money: £50 each of guilders, Belgian francs, deutsche marks, French francs, Swiss francs and lire. Nothing like hedging your bets. The sea was calm enough for me to get a decent night’s sleep, and when we docked at Rotterdam, I felt refreshed enough to drive all day if I had to. From where I was placed on the ear deck, I couldn’t actually see Turner, and the steel hull of the ship didn’t do a lot of favors for the reception on the tracking monitor.
Once I was clear of the ship, however, the signal came back strong and clear. For once, Bill’s mongrel European ancestry worked to my advantage. He makes so many trips to the continent to visit family that he has serious road maps and city street plans for most of northern Europe neatly arranged in a box in his boot. I’d shifted the box to the backseat and infolded a map of Holland and Belgium on the passenger seat. Comparing the map to the monitor, I reckoned Turner vas heading for Eindhoven. As soon as I got on the motorway I stepped on the gas, pushing my speed up toward a ton, trying to close the distance between us.
Within half an hour, I had Turner in my sights again. He was cruising along just under ninety, and there was enough traffic on the road for me to stay in reasonably close touch without actually sitting on his bumper. He stayed on the motorway past Eindhoven. The next possible stop was Antwerp. From my point of view, there couldn’t be a better destination. Bill’s mother grew up in the city and he still has a tribe of relations there. I’ve been over with him on weekend trips a couple of times, and I fell in love with the city at first sight. Now I feel like I know it with the intimacy of a lover.