by J C Williams
Abby screwed up her left eye. “They’ve not all been awful!” she said.
Sam spun round on his chair in one fluid motion while using his fingers to count on. “Your last three boyfriends have been complete tossers! The first of them — was it Ritchie? — that Neanderthal forgot your thirtieth birthday. And the second—”
“All men forget things,” Abby said, stopping him short.
“Not all,” said Sam, countering. “For instance, you’re not my girlfriend and yet I still know that your favourite film is Chitty Chitty Bang Bang — no judgement here — you love Belinda Carlisle songs, oh, and you love Dirty Dancing. The film, that is, not the action. Although you may like that also?”
“Aw, Sam that’s sweet. From anyone else, I’d be thinking about a restraining order. But that’s lovely,” Abby replied with a smile. “Maybe it’s the two of us that should be going out together,” she added with a laugh.
Sam looked to the floor, worried he was so transparent that Abby could see right into his thoughts.
“Anyway, Sam,” Abby assured him. “You needn’t be worrying about me, because my wonderful dinner date last night was actually with a lady friend, Emily, who shares my love of cheesy films!”
Sam came to attention in his chair, his ears perking up and his mood instantly improved. “You’re not… you know… experimenting with Emily, are you?”
“What, no, of course not, she’s an old friend visiting the Island,” answered Abby. “Wait, hang on, what do you mean by experimenting?
“Well, you know…” he said. “Kissing… and things. Like that.”
Abby threw her head back and laughed.
“Because…” Sam continued on. “It’s just that, if you were in fact experimenting, I would expect you, as a friend, to tell me every single detail, okay?”
Abby did not immediately respond, so Sam took the opportunity to fill the silence. “Details are important,” he said. “Especially in our business.”
By this time, she had formulated a response. “Rest assured, you will be the very first to know about such a situation,” she told him. “I’ll notify you straight away, how’s that? In fact, I’ll phone you during, if you like?”
“I can see we’re on the same page here,” added Sam merrily, nodding his head in earnest agreement.
Sam was indeed pleased, not about the offer of a phone call, but that she hadn’t had a date. He didn’t know what to do with this information, exactly. But he took a selfish pleasure in knowing she was single, and that his concerns had been nothing more than a storm in a teacup. He had regained his confidence.
“I had a visitor last night,” said Sam without introduction. “Well, two of them, as it happens. I was going to ring you, but I didn’t want to disturb you. I had a visit from none other than the FBI.”
“Fuck off,” replied Abby.
Sam nodded. “Yes. That’s exactly what I said. On more than one occasion.”
Abby had already lost interest and had picked up her phone to make a call. Sam pressed the receiver back on its cradle. “I’m being serious,” he told her, and he gave her a look that he hoped would convey that seriousness and get the point across.
It seemed to do the trick, and, now he’d gotten her attention, dropped the business card onto her desk. “These two came to see me,” he said, tapping the card. “And trust me, they saw more of me than they wanted! Anyway, I checked their credentials on the FBI website after they left and they’re legitimate.”
Abby scrutinised the business card. “What the hell do the FBI want with you?” she said after a moment ruminating.
“They didn’t want me. They wanted our friend, Emma Hopkins,” he told her.
“For what?” Abby asked.
“They wouldn’t say. Couldn’t say,” replied Sam. “Only that they wanted to speak to her.”
Abby twisted her hair thoughtfully. “What about Mr Justus?”
Sam shook his head. “No, I mentioned his name, and, unless they’re great actors, I don’t think they knew who he is.”
“Interesting,” said Abby, drawing out the word into separate syllables. “So we’ve got an art thief on the Island being followed closely by an associate of the alleged victim, Mr Justus, and to make matters even more interesting, the FBI has shown up. This would make a bloody good book,” she remarked, chewing on a tuft of hair. “The problem that’s been mentioned before is, we don’t know who to believe. We don’t know who we’re working for, and, most importantly, we don’t know who to send an invoice to!”
“Are you saying we walk away?” asked Sam.
“Hell no,” said Abby. “I need to know what’s going on. The worst-case scenario is that we keep the twenty-five thousand Mr Justus sent us. That’ll keep us going for a while. If he’s on the level, and we get the painting back, we get another seventy-five. If he’s not on the level, I’m sure some insurance company will be interested in the return of the picture.”
“Fair enough,” said Sam. “But, where does that leave us? What’s next for us?” he added before realising what he’d said, and how it might sound.
“Hmm?” said Abby.
“For the case, I mean. What’s next for the case?” he said, burying his head in the computer screen, his cheeks hot.
“Emma Hopkins. Or Beth. Whatever she calls herself. Is the key to this. So we need to find her,” said Abby. “She has to be staying somewhere, and there are only so many hotels on the Island, and it’s a small island. We need to exhaust all of our resources and do some right proper investigating.”
“She’s not going to have the stolen painting with her, though, surely. And it’s not like we can lock her up,” said Sam. “And if we find her, who takes priority? Mr Justus or the FBI?”
“Who’s paying us?” said Abby.
Sam thought for a moment. “Good point! Okay, how about we concentrate on finding Emma Hopkins. If and when we do find her, if there is no sign of the painting, which I suspect there won’t be, we hand over her location to Mr Justus.”
“But what about that lunatic I saw outside the museum, who said she was going to be going home in a box? It’s probably not the best idea to send some crazed hitman in her direction,” Abby offered.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Abby, this isn’t CSI Miami. It’s some bloke looking for his picture. How about we tell Mr Justus at the same time as the FBI? That way we’re doing what we were paid to do, and, we don’t face the wrath of the law. Plus, the FBI will make sure Emma Hopkins doesn’t end up at the bottom of the Irish Sea wearing concrete galoshes.”
“Okay, Sam,” Abby agreed, nodding her head. “That sounds like a plan.” And, giving a sharp clap like a sports coach would do after a pep talk and the team returning to the pitch, “Let’s get this show on the road!”
Sam took several deep breaths as he looked down, bracing himself against his desk. “Abby, this may sound a bit weird,” he said, finally, pushing himself upright. “Abby, I’m not sure how else to say this, but I wondered if possibly… I could take you out for a drink? Possibly something to eat? Nothing cheap, I’m talking a nice meal, steak or lobster… Or both. You know, if you wanted.”
There was no answer.
“I could even catch the lobster,” he said, fumbling now, and he gave a nervous laugh. “Abby, I’d really like it if I could take you out on a date.”
There was still no response, and he was filled with dread, thinking he’d overstepped the mark. He spun about, but she was gone. He heard the beep of a horn, and there she was, waving enthusiastically from the front seat of her car. She gave him another quick toot for extra effect.
Sam lifted his right hand and waved to her through the office window, with only the tips of his fingers. “I’d catch a lobster,” he said softly.
“For you, I’d catch a lobster myself.”
Chapter Six
Catching the Ferry
T he third and final boarding call for the 08:00 am sailing to Heysham echoed through the substantial waitin
g room, packed with those on the first leg of their holiday and also returning tourists who sported a more dejected demeanour. The Irish Sea could often be cruel, but the favourable weather ensured a pleasant crossing would be the order of the day.
A polite queue formed, which snaked from the entrance door to scanners where security staff worked furiously to process the passengers. Far from the crowd, in the darkest recess of the hall, stood a man and a woman, giving the appearance of two lovers preparing for an emotional separation. She pressed her back to the considerable glass windows which gave a view of the commercial containers being driven onto the ship. In spite of the considerable heel on her shoes, she had to stand on tiptoe to look longingly into her male companion’s eyes. Her hair was hidden by a cream headscarf which revealed the slightest wisp of a black fringe. Her eyes were obscured by oversized tortoise-shell sunglasses, which completed a styling that Audrey Hepburn carried so well.
It would be apparent to a keen observer, however, that, as she darted her head furtively, her attention was not on her lover but rather the crowd of people behind him. She arched her neck and scoured every inch of the room.
“Henry, I think we’re good to go,” she whispered to her companion.
After a final glance, satisfied, she let her heels drop back down to the floor, adjusted the collar of her coat to conceal her face, and eased out from her position of seclusion.
Her companion grasped her arm suddenly. “Emma, stop!” he warned her in a quiet but urgent voice, as an overweight man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit approached them, a look of solemn intent over his face. His gut, most unfortunately, flowed over his belt and the bottom button on his shirt, its battle with the man’s prodigious girth lost, was splayed open allowing the unwelcome view of a hairy stomach.
As the intruder drew near, Henry curled his hands into tight fists.
The man reached into a leather briefcase as Emma instinctively stepped back. Not here. Not with all these people, she thought.
The fat man’s skin was clammy, and sweat ran down his face, as his outsized hands rummaged clumsily through his briefcase before finally revealing a green clipboard with A4 paper attached.
“I’m from the tourist board. Time to complete a visitor satisfaction survey?” the porcine man said, breathing hard.
Henry turned his head and smiled. His muscles uncoiled slightly, but he was still prepared for any untoward action that might yet present itself.
“Piss off, tubby,” Henry said. “Before I stick that clipboard up your arse.” Henry was built like a rugby player and spoke like he was from good stock, and dressed to encourage that perception in his tweed jacket and matching tie.
The man — Derek, according to the now visible badge on his lapel — took the insult in stride. He was accustomed to abuse, it seemed. “If there was any aspect you didn’t enjoy, I’d be happy to help?” he offered, unaffected.
“I’m not enjoying you just now,” Henry told him. “So how about you fuck right off, fat stuff.”
Derek soon took the hint — he was, again, accustomed to abuse — and retreated like a wounded stag. Or like a harpooned manatee, as the case may be. “Portly people have feelings, too,” he mumbled sadly to himself as he took his leave, his shoulders drooped in despair.
“Come on,” said Henry, ushering Emma as he took the window of opportunity. They linked arms and joined the rear of the diminishing queue, whilst remaining vigilant.
“I don’t like this, Emma. It’s too open,” he said through his teeth.
Emma lowered her head and used her hand to cover her mouth. “We don’t have any other option, Henry,” she said in frustration. “They’ve got the airport covered, and, apart from this ferry, the only other course of action available in getting off this rock would be to bloody well swim.”
The security scanners were agonisingly close as Henry reached into his pocket for their boarding cards. “Fucking hell,” he said desperately. “Over there, by the toilets. Two men with their backs to us.”
“So?” asked Emma.
Henry narrowed his eyes. “The man on the right is using his phone in selfie-mode to covertly observe who’s in the queue.”
“Henry, he might just be taking a picture?” she suggested, more in hope, before continuing, “Henry, this is our last—”
“Let’s go,” interrupted Henry, as the two men took to their feet. As the two men approached with purpose, the shorter of the two, on the left, raised the flap of his jacket to reveal what looked very much like a cattle prod, tucked into the waist of his trousers.
Henry raised his hand. “Derek,” he said, before repeating slightly louder, calling after their recent acquaintance. “Derek! About before. My apologies. You caught us at an awkward time. My colleagues, over there,” he said pointing towards the two men. “They had some comments about their stay they were anxious to convey. I suggested they speak with you, my fine fellow.”
Derek’s shoulders lifted up, and, his spirits now buoyed, said, “Ah! Very kind of you, sir. And, rest assured, I’ll feedback anything they’ve got to say.” Derek sailed in the direction of the two men, tacking left and right, expertly navigating around wayward passengers towards his destination.
The two would-be assailants were soon to be intercepted and held at bay, at least for the time being.
“We can still make it onto the ferry,” said Emma. “The gate is still open.”
Henry headed towards the exit shaking his head, pulling her along by her hand. “No, if they’re here, there could easily be others onboard the ferry.”
“But what choice have we got?” Emma protested.
“If we catch that ferry, we’re stuck for four hours with nowhere to escape. We need to stay here and come up with another plan, Emma. It’s the only way.”
“Well you go, then!” Emma put forward. “You’ve got nothing to do with this mess and they’re not after you.”
“I’m going nowhere,” replied Henry. “If they kill you, who else is going to employ me?”
Meanwhile, with a fluid grace that belied his bulk, Derek approached his two eager new clients whilst retrieving his green clipboard. He applied the sincerest of smiles to his face that he could muster — which wasn’t difficult, as he was convinced the two men were in desperate need of his services. “Excuse me, gentlemen!” Derek cooed. “I understand you’ve got some feedback you’d like to convey about your visit to our lovely Island?”
The two men looked through him like he wasn’t there (which shouldn’t have been easy, given his girth), but Derek was nothing if not persistent. He stood directly in their path, and he clung to them like barnacles on the hull of a ship — nothing could prise him off.
The two men were effectively rendered dead in the water, at least for the time being (and providing a welcome distraction for Henry and Emma to distance themselves).
“All feedback welcome!” Derek chirped in a polished, well-rehearsed fashion.
In response, the shorter, stout man brushed his jacket aside and drew the prod from his jacket like a Wild West gunslinger. Before Derek even had a chance to unsheathe his pen and lick the tip, he was lying on the floor, convulsing.
All in all, Derek wasn’t having a particularly good day.
“There’s your feedback, my old son,” said the assailant, closing his jacket once again. “The service is… shocking.”
The two men made their way around Derek’s prone figure, giving him a wide berth. Once clear of the obstruction, they looked about, but by now their intended targets were nowhere to be seen. They stood outside the terminal building, alone, and, now they’d time to reflect, the taller of the two men shook his head in disappointment.
“That is the first time you’ve had a chance to use your new toy,” he said.
“Yes,” the other replied, patting the bulge under his jacket happily.
“And that is seriously the best line you could come up with?” the first man asked. “I have to say, it’s a bit, well… underwhelming.
”
The second man now looked forlorn, the wind taken from his sails. “I know, but the pressure got to me,” he said. “I was hoping to use ‘bolt-out-of-the-blue’, but it didn’t feel like the right circumstance. I’m upset with myself, if I’m being honest. I’ve let myself down.”
“Hello, Mr Esposito,” said the taller man, phone to his ear. “Yes, sir, they were here.” He listened for a moment before continuing. “No we couldn’t get them, there were too many people. Too many witnesses. But the good news is that they’re still on the island and we’ll find them soon. We were about to get them when, unfortunately, we had a… well, a bolt-out-of-the-blue.”
The two men walked towards their car, parked opposite the terminal building. “That was my bloody line,” said the shorter man, now disconsolate.
“Aw, don’t blow a fuse,” said the taller man.
“Dammit, that one is even better,” admitted the other, climbing into the car. “I should have used that one. I might go back in and electrocute him again, just so I can use that line,” he said. “Oh. Too late,” he added in reference to the ambulance, blue lights flashing, approaching at speed to attend to Derek. Who never did manage to fill his daily quota.
Chapter Seven
Call Me Lloyd
A bby drew her car up against the kerb. “This is definitely the street?” she asked again. “You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m bloody sure. You tend to remember the places where you’ve nearly been arrested,” Sam replied, pointing very cautiously to the house where the elderly woman lived with her dog, as if he were afraid the mere act of pointing might alert the leather-faced old woman to his presence. “That’s the house I thought they went into. So I can say, for certainty, that we should avoid that one. Because it turnt out I was wrong.”
Sam was staring at the house, unable to turn away, as one might do with a terrible car crash on the side of the road, so did not see Abby shake with silent giggles. She spared him any cutting remarks, unwilling to put salt in his wound as he suddenly looked very vulnerable.
