The Sunshine Cruise Company (22 page)

‘How about a bit of breakfast first?’ Wesley asked. ‘I’m bloody starved.’

‘There’s half that pasty thing left in the glovebox if you fancy it.’ Wesley shuddered. ‘Come on, lad. Let’s get on with it. We’re here to work. It’s not some gourmet trip at the taxpayers’ expense, you know.’

Chance would be a fine thing
, Wesley thought.

‘FOR GOD’S SAKE,
Ethel! Why didn’t you stop her?’

‘Julie, love,’ Ethel tried gently.

‘God knows what kind of people she’s getting involved with!’

‘You can’t force people to –’ Ethel tried again.

‘She’s only a bloody kid!’

Jill and Susan said nothing, letting it run its course. Julie was as angry as Susan had ever seen her. ‘I mean “dancing”? Jesus, Ethel …’

‘And what were you like when you were her age, eh? Exactly the same, I’ll bet.’ Ethel was getting angry now too. ‘The same as we all were – you thought you knew it all. She’s got to make her own bloody mistakes.’

Julie turned on her heel and clicked off along the marble floor towards her bedroom. They heard the heavy door slam shut. ‘Fucking hell,’ Ethel said.

‘Language,’ Jill countered automatically, without energy, as Ethel went to wheel along the hallway after Julie.

‘No, Ethel,’ Susan said. ‘Just leave her, love.’

‘What’s all that about?’ Ethel said.

‘It’s …’ Susan thought, remembering back nearly thirty years, holding Julie’s hand in that sad, terrible room, both of them weeping as Julie said, ‘Well, that’s that,’ over and over again. ‘Nothing, Ethel.’ Susan grabbed her towel. ‘Just leave it for now. Come on, let’s go down and have a quick swim before we get back on the road, eh?’

Seven floors below them and about half a mile to the west, Boscombe was thrusting his photographs at another bewildered concierge. At the same moment, approximately half a mile to the east, Wesley was coming out of the fourth successive hotel where he had met with confusion and then blank looks. He came down the steps onto a little terrace and, dear God, that smell, that heavenly smell. What was th …

Wesley found he was overlooking the restaurant.

Under pale ivory umbrellas wealthy-looking holidaymakers were breakfasting and Wesley took it in via a series of close-ups, moving from table to table to the buffet itself: scrambled eggs and coffee, pitchers of ruby-orange juice with beads of iced water running down their sides, crisply fried slivers of bacon, perfectly golden omelettes, a whole side of poached salmon, bowls of sliced fresh fruit on ice: papaya and watermelon and strawberries and kiwi fruit.

Wesley found that saliva was cascading into his mouth and, before he quite knew what he was doing, he was pulling out a chair at an empty table for two, while signalling to a waiter.
Fuck it
, there was nothing that couldn’t wait half an hour. If Boscombe wanted to alternately play the martyr and then stuff his face with processed meat products that was his lookout.
Oooh
, Wesley thought, watching a waiter carrying a silver tray with two brimming champagne flutes on it.
I might even have one of them Mimosas.

Julie was lying on the bed, crying. The thought came: this is stupid. When had she last got like this over something that had happened so long ago? Only when she was really drunk, late at night. Ethel was right of course, she knew that. But, still, she’d thought she might be able to … oh God knows.
It had been so small, the tiny thing.
She reached for a fresh tissue, choking back a sob in her chest, feeling that salty expansion in her ribcage, when she heard a soft knocking at the door and then it was being pushed open and Vanessa was in the room, crying too, and Julie was coming up from the bed and folding her in her arms and they were crying together, neither one knowing why the other was crying, until Julie pulled her hair out of Vanessa’s hair and wiped the tears from her eyes.

‘Vanessa … shh … what’s wrong? What happened?’

Vanessa looked at her and wailed, ‘It was dancing B!’

Boscombe looked at his watch.
Fucking lazy, slow-arsed Wesley. Taking the piss.
Here he was, in front of the Carlton, bang on time, and where was laughing boy? Nowhere. He’d give him a few minutes.

He sat on the wall in front of the great white building and took out his cigarettes. He lit one and stared at the sparkling water across the street, the sun already high and hot at 9 a.m. It was famous for something, this hotel. Wesley had mentioned it in the car. What was it? Oh, yeah. Elton John. The video for one of his songs, ‘I’m Not Standing’ or something, was filmed here. Wesley – mine of useless bloody information that lad was.

‘It’s OK, love. It’s fine,’ Julie said, savouring the warmth and smell of the child, ‘it’ll all be fine. Not quite what you expected, eh?’ She felt Vanessa shaking her head fiercely into her chest.

‘I lied to you, Julie,’ Vanessa said, her voice coming muffled from somewhere south of Julie’s chin.

‘Oh yeah?’ Julie said. ‘How so?’

‘I’m only fifteen.’

‘Ah. I see. Oh well. Never mind, darling.’

Vanessa was getting her breathing under control now, pulling away from her, wiping tears and wet hair from her face. Julie handed her a fresh tissue and, as she took it, Vanessa seemed to notice Julie’s own red eyes and streaked make-up for the first time.

‘Why were
you
crying?’ Vanessa asked her.

‘Oh, that,’ Julie said. ‘Well. I was just thinking about something that happened a long time ago.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Honestly. Anyway, what are your plans now?’

Vanessa shrugged and laughed.

‘Fair enough,’ Julie said. ‘Tell you what, let’s grab our swimming costumes and go and join the others down at the pool. We can have a chat and decide what to do from there, eh?’ Julie clapped her hands together and got up from the bed, crossing over to the wardrobe.

‘Oh, Julie?’ Vanessa said.

‘Mmmm?’

‘What
do
you do for a living? You know, the thing you lied to me about?’

‘Oh. That. Right. OK.’ Julie thought for a second, biting her lip. ‘Well, here’s the thing …’

Bugger it. Check this one and then find soft lad.

Boscombe flicked his cigarette away and walked up the hot steps and into the huge, cool lobby. Fucking hell. How the other half live. He looked around at the knots of wealthy holidaymakers, sitting chatting, strolling in and out, and motioned to one of the staff to come to him. The concierge looked at Boscombe oddly, momentarily thrown by his cheap, sweat-soaked clothes and florid, malnourished complexion. The thought
le vagabond?
briefly crossed his mind and he approached Boscombe with some caution.

‘Monsieur?’ the concierge said.

‘Can I speak to the manager please?’ Boscombe said.

The concierge looked him up and down again. ‘Per-aps I can help?’

Boscombe sighed as he produced his identification for the umpteenth time that morning. The act of pulling it from his inside pocket provided an uncomfortable reminder that there was what felt like a paving stone lodged in his bowels. How long had it been since he … before they got the plane over? No, surely not? That was two days ago. ‘Just get the manager,’ he said, flopping the CID badge out. The cheeky beggar actually took the ID from Boscombe and looked at it thoroughly.

‘English police?’ he said.

‘
Oui
,’ Boscombe said sarcastically.

The concierge continued to scrutinise the ID. Finally, inevitably, Boscombe’s paper-thin patience burned through. ‘Look, pal,’ he said. ‘I’m here on official police business. I have a letter of cooperation from your government and I need to see your register of guests right now.
Comprende?
’

The concierge stared Boscombe down, completely unruffled. Here was someone used to dealing with hung-over studio moguls and oligarchs in a hurry. A pissant policeman was nothing and the instant suspicion he’d had about Boscombe had hardened in a matter of moments into a fairly robust dislike. ‘May I see it?’ he said.

‘See what?’

‘This letter. I am afraid your English police credentials do not mean anything here, Detective …’ he squinted at the ID again, ‘Balls comb.’

The vein in Boscombe’s temple started pulsing as he rooted through his jacket. ‘Look, what’s your name, mate?’

The concierge pointed to his brass lapel badge, where the word ‘
Charles
’ was writ in elegant black script.

‘Charles, right. I’m making a note of that.’

‘As you wish. I am afraid we must protect the privacy of our guests. May I?’ He held up Boscombe’s ID and letter.

Boscombe: ‘Oh for fu— yes! Go on then.’

‘Wait here please.’

‘But chop-chop. I’m in a hurry.’

‘Of course,’ Charles smiled weakly.

The arrogant bugger
, Boscombe thought as he watched the guy go clicking off across the quarter-acre of marble. He sat down heavily in a deeply cushioned wicker chair, again feeling the heft of what felt like a seal pup wedged in his rectum. Might have to get some Ex-Lax or something. And, God, despite this, he was hungry too.

Maybe Wesley was right – they should have eaten.

He picked up a newspaper –
Le Monde
. Fuck it. Just look at the pictures.

Instead of taking a left towards the manager’s office Charles the concierge took a right towards a door marked ‘EXIT’. He went down a short corridor and opened a fire door out onto a back loading dock. He tucked Boscombe’s ID and letter into his pocket and lit up a Camel.

Arrogant English asshole. Let him wait
.

Wesley burped happily. My God, that was good. The flakiness of the croissant, the perfect sun yellow of his scrambled eggs. And the coffee. He was, even now, signalling to the waiter for another cup. He checked his watch. Yeah, running a bit late for sure. Fuck it – he’d just tell Boscombe it had all taken longer than he thought. He was going to enjoy the one decent meal he’d had on this trip.

‘
Merde!
’ Vanessa said once again, her eyes wide. Julie hadn’t stopped talking for nearly five minutes: all the time it had taken them to find their swimming costumes and get the lift down to the lobby. Julie had pretty much taken her from Barry’s death up to this morning, with a full account of the robbery thrown in. ‘And where will you go now?’ Vanessa asked.

‘Well,’ Julie said, watching the numbers on the lift blip down – 6, 5, 4 … ‘I think it looks like South America for me, Ethel and Susan. We’ve got to get Jill home.’

‘It … it’s incredible!’

‘You got that right,’ Julie said. 2 and 1.

Bing.

They came out into the lobby and commenced the short walk from the lift to the changing rooms.

Boscombe yawned, looked up from
Le Monde
, some bollocks about the ex-French President Sarkozy, some fit bird he was –

His yawn stiffened and froze.

Fuck me.

There she was – the one who had tricked him into doing that bloody tango. She was strolling across the lobby about fifty yards away.

Boscombe looked like he was finally having the stroke so devoutly wished by his superior officer.

Julie and Vanessa went into the ladies’ changing room. ‘
Merde!
’ Vanessa said. ‘So this is why you must go to Marseilles? To get new identities?’ She sat down on the wooden bench and took her top off, stripping quickly down to her vest and knickers. The air was thick with expensive lotions and perfumes.

‘Yep,’ Julie said. ‘A friend of Susan’s hooked us up with this gu—’

The door burst open.

Vanessa and Julie – the only people in there – turned to see Boscombe advancing into the room, grinning savagely, his eyes locked on Julie’s.

‘Well, well, well … the
dance
instructor,’ Boscombe said.

Julie started backing away from him as Vanessa instinctively stood and placed herself between them. ‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘You can’t come in here!’

‘Detective Sergeant Hugh Boscombe, British CID, love,’ Boscombe said, not looking at Vanessa, not taking his eyes off Julie as he added, ‘Game over, sweetheart.’

Now Vanessa spoke to Julie without taking her eyes off Boscombe. ‘Run!’

‘No, love,’ Julie said quietly. ‘Don’t get inv—’

‘RUN, JULIE!’ Vanessa said, shoving her hard as she took a deep breath and unleashed an eardrum-shredding
scream.
Out in the reception area several guests jumped as the scream’s treble cut through the doors and walls. Claude the guest clerk jumped too. Recovering his composure he immediately signalled for two security guards while, inside, Julie took off running for the back exit to the pool. Boscombe went to follow but his path was blocked by Vanessa throwing herself at him. Boscombe was trying to remove the tiny French girl from his chest in the manner you might use to get a feral cat off you, while, all the time, Vanessa’s screaming increased in pitch and intensity.

‘GET OFF ME!’ Boscombe yelled. During the struggle Vanessa very deftly reached down and found Boscombe’s zip. She tugged hard and had a quick scramble around.

‘What the fuck!’ Boscombe yelled.

‘AHHHGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!’ Vanessa screamed. ‘HELP ME!’

Boscombe started flattening a hand over her mouth. ‘Shhh, shut up! Shut up! I’m a policeman!’

‘MMMMPHH! UHHUNNNNN!’ Vanessa said.

The door burst open for a second time as Claude charged in flanked by the two guards. They took it all in: the red-faced, sweating, tramp-like Boscombe with his hand clamped over the mouth of a very young, very half-naked girl. Vanessa fell to the floor sobbing and the following exchange took place very quickly and, apart from Boscombe, entirely in French.

Claude: ‘What the hell is all this?’

Vanessa: ‘He … he …’ (More sobbing.)

Boscombe, reaching for his ID: ‘Easy, lads. Easy. I’m a policeman.’

Vanessa: ‘He tried to make, make me …’

Security Guard One: ‘Step back from the girl.’

Boscombe, finding pocket empty, realising: ‘Fuck.’

Vanessa: ‘HE TRIED TO MAKE ME TOUCH HIS THING!’

Then all three of the men looked down, to see Boscombe’s flaccid, terrible penis dangling from his open flies.