The Judas Sheep (15 page)

I flushed the toilet, put a toothbrush in my shirt pocket, and went outside. Kevin was squatting on his heels alongside the Jaguar, one extended arm resting on a wheel arch.

‘Want to buy it?’ I asked.

His eyes were as big and round as those on the little furry animals you always see on the front of nature magazines, calculated to twang the heartstrings. ‘Is this yours?’ he enquired, in the tone of voice the Pope reserves for Easter Sunday.

‘Yeah. D’you like it?’

‘It’s fabulous. Brilliant. Best-looking car ever made.’ He stretched upright.

I said: ‘Yeah, well, this and maybe the Corvette Stingray.’ I had an old Classic Car magazine somewhere that I stole from my barber’s shop, with an article comparing the E-type and the Stingray.

Kevin shook his head. ‘Nah, no contest,’ he assured me.

‘I have to go,’ I told him, threading myself back into the driving seat. ‘I’m booked on the ferry in half an hour. I’ll take you for a ride when I get back Sunday morning.’

‘The ferry?’ He sounded interested.

I wound the window down so I could talk to him. ‘That’s right. Something cropped up – sudden, like.’

‘What, to do with your courier job?’ He’d seen the Merlin Couriers sign on the side of the Transit van.

I dithered visibly before answering. ‘Mmm … you could say that,’ I told him. My arm was dangling outside. ‘Work,’ I said, patting the door. That’s the trouble with having expensive tastes.’ I reversed into the road and drove away, giving him the briefest of waves.

The name came to me just after I’d joined the trickle of vehicles turning into the King George dock. Those furry creatures are called bush babies.

There was plenty of parking space and the car park looked relatively safe. I managed to find a bay at the end of a row, leaving a big gap between the Jag and its neighbour. I showed my ticket inside the terminal and
was given a boarding pass, as with aeroplanes. It’s a procedure that baffles me, but no doubt someone has put a lot of thought into it. Upstairs, past the Passengers Only signs, was a lounge with refreshments on sale. I found a seat and observed my fellow travellers.

It was amazing how many people wanted to visit Holland during that weekend in March. I played at ‘Spot the Drug Smugglers’, and decided that ninety per cent of them looked likely candidates. My police training told me that the other ten per cent were probably the real smugglers. The Customs Officers might have their successes, but they were only sniffing the gleanings.

An announcement in four languages invited us aboard, and I joined the shuffling queue. Most people were loaded down with hand-luggage and children. We went through a passport check and crossed a gantry on to the ship. There was a strong smell of fresh paint. A ship’s police officer, doubling up on his duties, looked at my ticket and directed me to the appropriate desk. The hum of the engines could be felt through your feet. I put my tickets and passport safely in my pocket and went exploring.

The ferry was a bit like I imagine a cruise liner to be, but with a slightly less select clientèle. There were
duty-free
shops, a big dining room, casino, cinema, the works. Maybe I’d bring Annabelle if I ever did another trip, if it would be safe. I’d made myself a promise that I would try to involve her in my job as much as possible. Maybe that way I could avoid neglecting either her or it.

It had been a doddle so far. Show ticket and passport, obtain boarding pass. Show boarding pass and have tear-off strip taken. Customs Officer standing by, like a small boy with a fishing net, wondering which goldfish to catch. Presumably the vehicles coming on board were also under scrutiny, each driver praying: ‘Please don’t let it be my car they decide to strip down to its basic components and leave for me to put back together.’

I imagined myself in the Customs Officers’ shoes and wondered what category of vehicle I would choose to pull from the line and humiliate. Easy. Anything with bullbars and stupid numberplates. I might not find any drugs, but I’d have fun.

The fare included what was described as an
airline-type
seat, in which one was expected to sleep. I found the lounge where they were. The seat was bigger than I had thought it would be, not too bad at all. I had considered an upgrade to a cabin, but objected to the usual rip-off that we singletons always encounter when travelling alone. The meal in the restaurant was OK, with plenty to choose from, but the bars were crowded. A couple of hours in the cinema appealed to me, but the films were aimed at the children on board, so I gave it a miss. This was one area where I’d been disappointed to learn that Annabelle’s tastes were different from mine. She enjoys films by Ingmar Bergman, and most of Bertolucci’s output; my favourites are Westerns and thrillers.

The big seat wasn’t as comfortable as it looked,
but I managed to get some sleep. A grey dawn found me peering through a window as a green and white navigation light slid by; we were entering Europoort, Rotterdam.

Guy Dooley reached out and cancelled the alarm clock ten seconds before it chirruped into life. He swung his legs out of bed, yawned and rubbed his eyes, and shuffled towards the bathroom in the dark. He could hear his mother’s half-snores coming from the other bedroom. He chuckled and closed the bathroom door as silently as he could, trying not to disturb her.

Ten minutes later he was striding down the lane, stuffing a jam sandwich into his mouth with one hand and carrying all his birdwatching paraphernalia with the other. Away to his right the sky was just beginning to lighten.

The chough, Pyrrhocorax pyrrhocorax, resembles a rook, but has startling red legs and beak. Its normal habitats are coastal cliffs and mountainous heathlands, but changes in agricultural methods have driven it to the edge of extinction in most of its traditional haunts. Guy had seen one last year, and was hoping that it might return to breed. Now was the time for nest-building.

Wooden steps led down the cliff to the beach. At the bottom he glanced to his left, to where he’d helped Charlie bury the porpoise, then turned right. In a quarter of a mile he scrambled up the sloping cliff to a natural shelf, pulling himself along with handfuls of grass and
the dead stalks of sea thrift. When he reached a level place he erected the little canvas hide he’d brought with him and settled down on his folding stool, binoculars at the ready.

He was well-hidden, surrounded by gorse bushes that were already in full leaf. From this spot he’d seen basking sharks cruising along, and porpoises leaping for the sheer joy of it. On a couple of occasions he might even have seen a whale. His mother would smile tolerantly when he arrived home starving hungry, to tell her of his latest sighting; and she’d privately wonder if her son was inventing a world to compensate for the loss of his father.

Guy scanned the horizon with his binoculars. The morning star should have been at its most glorious, but there was too much cloud. The sky was lighter now, the colour of pigeons’ wings, with butterscotch clouds torn into small fragments and scattered from horizon to horizon. The surf was thumping into an outcrop of rock with a sound deeper than any rave band could produce, throwing plumes of spray into the air. The teenager surveyed it all, and felt happy.

A movement away to his left caught his attention. ‘Oh shit!’ he cursed – two men were walking down the beach. They’d scare away all the wildlife. The secret of good observation was to be very still and quiet, and let the animals and birds come to you, but these men would cancel out all the patience he had invested in this.

Guy trained the binoculars on them as they walked
towards him. They were wearing combat jackets, and the smaller of the two had a slight limp. As they passed below him he could easily see the man’s facial features, and he gave an involuntary shiver. He looked as if he’d had some sort of accident that had left him disfigured. A boxer, maybe, with a bad record. He looked out of place on the beach, at this hour of the morning. The baseball bat he was carrying only added to the incongruity.

They were walking close to the bottom of the cliff, and passed within fifty yards of Guy. Neither of them spoke. After they’d gone he lost sight of them, hidden by the gorse and the outcrops of rock. Guy looked at his watch. The man with the Labrador would be here in fifty minutes. He was Guy’s signal to pack his belongings and go home for breakfast.

The chough didn’t show itself, and no sea monsters were observed. Highlight of the morning was a bird that alighted on a bush about twelve feet in front of Guy and gave him a concert. At first he thought it was a yellowhammer, but he suddenly realised that it might be a cirl bunting. He was trying to consult his guidebook with as little movement as possible when it flew away.

The man with the Labrador came every Saturday morning. No other day, just Saturdays. He was on the beach at least an hour before all the other dog-walkers. Guy saw the Labrador first, dashing towards the sea after being let off its lead at the bottom of the steps. It dashed into the waves, sniffed them, and galloped back towards its master.

He came into view and strolled along just beyond the reach of the tide, throwing stones for the dog, which it never recognised once they had come to rest amongst all the others. Guy trained his binoculars on him, and noted, not for the first time, that he was extremely
well-dressed
for dog-walking on the beach. As Guy watched, the man glanced back over his shoulder, and a look of apprehension gripped his face.

Guy lowered the binoculars and saw why. The taller of the two men he’d seen earlier had emerged from the foot of the cliff, behind the dog-walker, and was walking towards him. Now the other one, with the baseball bat, appeared in front of him. Guy stood up.

The man had turned back the way he came, taking a course to avoid his assailants, but the tall man moved to cut him off. Ugly Face, with the baseball bat, was running towards them. The man started to flee, trying to dodge round the tall one, but he couldn’t. He fell to the ground as the other one dashed up, raising the bat above his head.

‘Hey! Stop it!’ Guy was on his feet and shouting.

Three faces turned towards him. ‘Stop it!’ Guy screamed, and jumped down the first few feet of cliff between him and the men. Ugly Face froze, the bat still held aloft.

His colleague grabbed him. ‘Forget it! Let’s go!’ he yelled. They started running towards the steps. Guy stumbled and rolled the last few feet on to the beach. He leapt to his feet and started after them. When he
reached the wooden stairs they were nearly halfway towards the top. Guy took the steps three at a time. He knew he had no chance of tackling them, but thought he might get the number of their car. They had to be in a car.

The tall one stopped. He delved inside his jacket and pulled out a gun. Guy saw a puff of smoke from it, whipped away by the wind, and above the pounding of the blood in his ears he heard a crack and the buzz of the bullet going past his head. He turned and ran back down the steps.

The well-dressed man was on his feet, dusting the sand from his overcoat, the dog jumping around as if it were all a game.

‘They got away,’ Guy told him, puffing from the exertion. The man’s face was the colour of the surf. ‘Are you all right?’ Guy asked.

He nodded, struggling for his breath. After a while he managed to say: ‘You saved my life.’

Guy helped him up the steps, back towards where his car was parked. When he was more composed, the man said: ‘They shot at you. You could have been killed, too.’

‘Missed by a mile,’ Guy told him with forced bravado. ‘What do you think they wanted?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know. Probably just a mugging. Drug addicts, that sort of thing.’ They’d reached his car. It was a big Rover, and brand new. ‘What’s your name?’ the man asked.

‘Guy Dooley.’

The man extended his hand. Thanks again, Guy. You were the right person in the right place. I’m grateful to you.’

Guy shook his hand. ‘What about the police?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I suppose we’ll have to tell the police. Will you do that?’

‘OK.’

He drove away, leaving Guy to go back to retrieve his birdwatching apparatus. As he drove off Guy wrote the number of his Rover in his notebook. It was a personal number, the letters being RJK. ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said after the retreating vehicle. Now he felt scared. He daren’t go back down to the beach, so he walked home. He’d have to come back later for his stuff, when there were more people about.

A bus ride from the dock to the centre of Rotterdam was included in the fare. We drove in on the A15, past ten miles of oil storage tanks and a forest of windmills. Sadly, they were the modern propellor-driven type. I read the road-signs: Ring Road Nord, Utrecht, Den Haag. We passed huge depots belonging to Mitsubishi and Wang, and were overtaken by a van with Slagboom written down the side. I’d visited Holland before, when I was an art student, and it was still the same bewildering mixture of the familiar and the totally foreign.

Rotterdam was bustling. I discovered how to use
the underground system and spent three hours in the Boymans-Van-Beuningen Art Gallery. When I was lost, I asked, and people were very helpful. I lunched the easy way, in a department store self-service restaurant, and couldn’t resist having a warme appelbol for pudding. Scrumptious!

The novelty had worn off for the journey home. The meal wasn’t as good and the airline seat was even more uncomfortable. I had a couple of drinks in the bar and fell into a conversation with two girls from Bradford who’d caught the train to Amsterdam and visited the Rijksmuseum. They’d wandered into the red light district, and couldn’t tell me about it for giggling. Maybe I should have gone with them.

The Jag was right where I’d left it when we docked at eight o’clock on a bright Sunday morning. I wasn’t sure what to do next. In theory, I had a kilogram or two of an illegal substance on my person, so I ought to be disposing of it, somewhere. I drove into the centre of Hull and did some exploring, learnt my way around. Early Sunday morning is the best time for that. Then I went for a spin in the Jag.