Bickerstaff tapped a pencil on the table. “You said you thought this man had been on a ship named Polaris Venture. Is that what he told you?”
“No. He never used that name. I saw it stenciled on the cooler, the one he was hanging onto when I found him.”
Bickerstaff was about to ask something else when the phone rang. As far as Christine could see it was the only one in the station. Bickerstaff picked it up and began nodding as the caller went on about something. Eventually, Bickerstaff responded with a few quiet remarks that were out of earshot for Christine, then hung up.“
That was Edwards. He’s been looking out along the shoreline at Mounts Bay. Nothing yet, but it’s getting dark now. I’ll have him press on in the morning.”
“In the morning?” Christine shot back. “This man could be long gone by then. Chief, I tell you, he’s a menace. You’ve got to find him. Have you sent this up to higher authorities?”
Bickerstaff responded sharply to her accusative tone, “Now see here, miss. Everything that can be done is being done. We’ll investigate this as I see fit. There’s no need getting emotional about these things—”
“I am emotional about it!” Christine snapped. “He hijacked my boat! He threatened me! By now he could be halfway to France!”
Bickerstaff’s beefy figure bristled and he sucked in a full chest of air, as if ready to lash back. But then he deflated, got up, and paced around the room. After a few moments his manner softened. “I think that’s about all we can do this evening, Miss Palmer. Do you have a place to stay?”
She sighed. “Yes, my boat.”
“No, I’m sorry. There may be evidence aboard and we haven’t had time for a proper search. There’s a good hotel right up the coast road, near enough that you can walk. Chessman’s. I’ll call to make sure they give you a good, quiet room. You must be exhausted after your ordeal.”
Christine had to agree there. She could never remember having been so tired. “Can I at least go back to Windsom and get a fresh change of clothes?”
“Yes, of course. Get what you need. Just try not to disturb things any more than necessary. We’ll go over it first thing in the morning. I trust you plan on staying for a few days while we sort through all this?”
The question took Christine by surprise. For the first time since she’d pulled that man out of the sea, she could plan ahead. She could think about the next day, the next week.“
I suppose I’ll be here long enough to get Windsom back in shape. That’ll probably take a couple of weeks.” She felt like she could sleep at least that long.
Bickerstaff made the call to Chessman’s. He raised an obvious fuss about reserving the best room in the place, not letting on that his uncle Sid was the owner, or that this time of year she’d likely be Sid’s only guest. That done, he showed her to the door.“
Come by ’round ten tomorrow morning, Miss Palmer. From here we can go down to your boat. I’d like you to show me around.”
“All right.”
He walked her out to the street. She paused for a moment as if unsure of which way to go, then turned downhill toward the docks.
Bickerstaff went back inside, sat down at the station’s lone computer terminal, and began pecking slowly with two index fingers. It was a laborious process, but in time he got what he expected. Police data, naval reports, news articles — nothing anywhere about a ship having gone down off the coast of Africa. The only maritime accident he could spot over the last ten days was a helicopter that had crashed into a North Sea oil rig.
Just to make sure, he made a phone call to Lloyd’s of London. They insured practically every big ship in the world, as far as he knew. If something had gone down, they’d know about it. The clerk there was quite helpful — it was police business, after all — and Bickerstaff started by asking for any information on a ship named Polaris Venture.
The clerk explained. That particular name was quite popular among big ships. In fact, at least nineteen vessels on file matched. He suggested that Bickerstaff add the owner’s name, or at least the country of registry, and things would go a lot faster. Not knowing either, Bickerstaff told the man that he could easily narrow his search to ships that had gone down in the eastern Atlantic within the last two weeks.
To that, the Lloyd’s man had an immediately knowledgeable and simple reply. In the last two weeks there had been three ships reported lost in the entire world. Two small freighters had sunk from a collision in Malaysia, and an ice breaker in Antarctica had ingloriously not lived up to its calling — the ice had won. Nothing at all in the Atlantic for over two months. It was just as Bickerstaff had suspected. He thanked the Lloyd’s man and dialed a more familiar number. A woman answered.“
Hello, luv.”
“There you are,” Margaret Bickerstaff declared. “I’ve been doing my best to keep your supper warm but if you can’t be home by nine, I’ll not be responsible.”
“Sorry, luv. We had this bird come in today, had a story to beat them all, she did. I’ll tell you about it later, over some tea. I don’t know how they think them up.”
“Touched, was she?”
“To say the least. American.”
“Ahh,” Margaret Bickerstaff replied.“
Says she’s a doctor. Shouldn’t be hard to put some holes in her story. A few calls to the states and I’ll find out where she’s escaped from.”
“That means you’ll be workin’ a bit later, then?”
“I’ll get on as fast as I can. It won’t take long.” Bickerstaff checked his watch. “The places I need to call in the states will still be open a few more hours. If I don’t get hold of them now, we’ll be into tomorrow afternoon. And I’ve got to send a quick report to the Yard.”
“Then I’ll be giving your chop to the cat,” she chided. “No sense in good food going to waste.”
“You know best, luv. I’ll be home as soon as I can.” Chief Bickerstaff frowned and rang off as Constable Edwards walked in.“
Blast!” Bickerstaff fumed.“
What’s the matter, Chief? Cat got your supper again?”
Slaton walked up St. John Street a few strokes after one in the morning. The lateness of the hour was by design. His train had arrived in Oxford hours ago and he’d stopped at a pub near the station to eat, taking his time. Slaton wanted no chance of running into any neighbors on the way up to his apartment. He was, after all, a dead man, and there was no telling who might be aware of his demise.
The building was Number 12, a block of eight flats, his on the third floor, in front and facing the street. Slaton looked over the familiar structure as he approached. There was only one light on in the building, emanating from the caretaker’s flat. That was as it should be. Mrs. Peabody was a seventy-two-year-old widow, always in bed by ten, who drew comfort from leaving a light on. Slaton figured the only tenant he might possibly run into at this hour was Paddy Cross, a retired machinist and right solid alcoholic who kept a schedule for no man. Fortunately, when Paddy did find his way home, he could usually be heard singing ribald songs in full voice long before he was seen.
Slaton moved quietly up to the third floor landing. He stopped outside his flat and took a good look at the brass number six on the door. Two things were missing, one being the top screw that was supposed to keep the number in place. Invariably, every time the door opened, it fell and hung upside-down on the bottom screw, making a number nine. Also missing was the trace of sawdust he’d placed in the crook of the six. He’d had visitors. That was also as it should be. No doubt his government had decided he was missing and probably dead. They’d have sent a team from the embassy to go over his flat, to make sure he hadn’t left anything embarrassing lying around.