The Sunshine Cruise Company

by John Niven

  ‘In terms of?’

  ‘In terms of stopping them. Have you plans to put officers at stations and airports? Or … or checkpoints on major roads?’

  ‘Checkpoints?’ Pourcel almost laughed. What did this guy think this was? The Day of the Jackal? ‘Well, let’s be reasonable, gentlemen. These women have a twenty-four-hour lead on you at this point. From where they landed, in twenty-four hours you could go almost anywhere.’ Pourcel gestured to the large map of the region on his wall. ‘North towards Belgium, or east to Germany, or south into Spain. Indeed, if they got to a border or an airport before we received the information that they were even in France then there’s a very good chance they’re not in the country any more. I should tell you that this is the view my superiors are inclined towards …’

  ‘Eh? Why?’ Boscombe asked.

  ‘Extradition, I suppose,’ Wesley said, slurping his café au lait.

  ‘Exactly so,’ Pourcel said. ‘Extradition from France to the UK for non-French citizens wanted in connection with a crime is a very straightforward matter, just paperwork really. From here, however, you can get to any one of a number of countries where the extradition procedure is a great deal more difficult.’

  ‘Yes, of course, obviously, obviously,’ Boscombe said. Fucking smart-arse Wesley, showing him up. ‘I mean, it just seems a bit premature of them to be jumping to any conclusions just yet.’

  ‘Well, you know the powers that be, Sergeant. The cost of doing something like you suggest would be enormous. It would be something that would only be considered in the gravest of circumstances. Terrorism. National security. What have you.’

  ‘I’m afraid in my country,’ Boscombe said, trying to control his temper, ‘armed robbery is considered a very serious crime.’

  ‘As it is here. But let us talk frankly for a moment. These old women are not hardened professional criminals. They will slip up soon enough, no?’

  ‘So that’s it?’ Boscombe said. ‘You’re going to … what? Just sit around and wait?’

  Pourcel sat back in his chair and looked at the map again as he thought for a moment. ‘I really don’t see what we can do beyond what we’re already doing, Sergeant. We’re having your descriptions faxed to hotels, train stations and airports along all the major routes. You never know …’

  Boscombe snorted. ‘Sounds a bit bloody hopeful to me …’

  ‘Well, hope is important, no?’ Pourcel stood up and shot his cuffs, indicating that the meeting was over.

  ‘And you’ll still give us a car in the meantime?’ Boscombe asked. ‘To allow us to make our own inquiries?’

  ‘But of course. It will be my pleasure.’

  ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ Wesley said.

  ‘Fucking dirty bastard garlic-shovelling wine-guzzling collaborator Nazi Charles Aznavour-loving bastards,’ Boscombe was saying a few minutes later as he stood in a distant corner of the police station car park looking at their loan car. It was possible that, at some point in its long history, Citroën may have made a smaller model than the one they were looking at now, but it was very doubtful.

  Boscombe kicked a tyre and sighed. ‘This is taking the fucking piss, Wesley. Taking the fucking piss.’

  ‘Let’s just make the best of it, eh, Sarge?’

  ‘Sergeant Boscombe?’ an English accent said from behind them. They both turned to see a woman and two men approaching. The woman was young, in her mid-twenties, and very attractive. One of the men was holding a fur-covered pill-shaped thing on a long pole, the other one had a very professional-looking video camera on his shoulder.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ Boscombe said.

  ‘I’m Katie Slater.’ The girl extended her hand, grinning. ‘We’re from Sky News. We wondered if we could have a quick interview about the old ladies you’re after.’

  ‘You came out from England for this?’ Wesley asked.

  ‘Nah.’ Slater shook her head. ‘We were up in Calais covering another story. Immigrants. But our editor asked us to come up here to try and get on this.’

  ‘Interview, eh?’ Boscombe said.

  ‘Ah, Sarge,’ Wesley said, ‘maybe we should refer this to the press office back home, eh?’

  ‘Oh, come on, guys!’ Slater said. ‘By the time we deal with all that …’

  ‘Right enough, Wesley,’ Boscombe said, already straightening his tie. ‘With all the help we’re getting from them bastards in there …’ He jerked his head towards the police station in the distance. ‘They get Sky in France, don’t they?’

  Slater nodded. ‘Oh yes. Everywhere.’

  ‘A little publicity might help,’ Boscombe added, smoothing his hair out.

  ‘I really don’t think this is a good idea, boss,’ Wesley said. ‘Maybe we should run it by Wilson first. Put in a quick call. See what he says at least.’

  ‘You seem to be under the illusion that this is a democracy, Wesley …’ Boscombe was still irritated by the smart-arsed bugger’s ‘extradition’ point back in the office. The guy hoisted the big camera up on his shoulder. ‘Is here OK?’ Boscombe asked.

  ‘That’s great, Sergeant,’ Slater said. ‘Aren’t the French authorities being very helpful then?’

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Boscombe said. ‘Helpful? Listen, love …’

  He went on, at length, blissfully unaware that the interview had officially begun.

  FORTY-TWO

  JULIE POURED HERSELF some more coffee and sat back in the comfortable, deeply padded lounger to better admire the view from their balcony, though ‘balcony’ was perhaps underselling it. ‘Terrace’ would be more accurate. How she’d loved checking in last night, when the receptionist said they only had a two-bedroom suite available and it was 2,500 euros a night and Susan had airily waved a hand and said, ‘That’ll be fine.’ In the distance, over fields and woodland, Julie could just make out the spires of the great cathedral at Chartres. A misted dawn hung over the fields, dew dripping from branches in the grounds. A huge spread of food lay in front of her, the continental breakfast buffet for five, delivered by room service: two great silver pots of coffee, beakers of orange and grapefruit juice, baskets of croissants, muffins and pastries, a fruit bowl glistening with perfectly ripe strawberries, apples, bananas, grapes and slices of mango on crushed ice. There were even a couple of splits of champagne and a jug of sieved peach juice to make Bellinis. It was strange, given everything – the crazy risks, the great danger they were in, the uncertainty that lay ahead of them – but she felt happier at this moment than she’d felt in years.

  She turned as she heard the door sliding back behind her. Vanessa was there, sleepy-eyed and wrapped in a huge towelling robe much too big for her, her tangled, thick black hair a very close match to Julie’s own. (Yes, admit it. She looks very like you imagined she’d look, doesn’t she?) ‘Morning, gorgeous!’ Julie said. ‘Come and have some breakfast.’

  ‘Merci.’ Vanessa took a pastry from the nearest basket and sat down cross-legged on the nearest lounger. ‘Ooh, my head!’ she said as she nibbled it.

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ Julie said. ‘You’re too young to have a hangover. But, yes, quite a party, wasn’t it?’ Behind them, in the living room, an array of bottles and plates covered much of the available surface space. At the prices she’d clocked when tearing things out of the minibar last night Julie reckoned they’d easily spent the cost of the room again in extras.

  ‘Oui,’ Vanessa nodded. ‘Thank you, Julie. For the rooms, the food and everything.’

  ‘Our pleasure, love.’

  Vanessa nodded at the food, the view, everything, and said, ‘You must have very important jobs back in England, you and Susan, no?’

  ‘Well,’ Julie said, ‘I had a little bit of a career change recently.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  Julie thought. ‘I’m in … asset redistribution.’

  Vanessa nodded thoughtfully, chewing.

  ‘So,’ Julie said, taking a plump strawberry, ‘my turn. What do
you do?’

  ‘This and that …’ Vanessa grinned.

  ‘I see. And where are you headed exactly?’

  ‘To Cannes. A friend of mine is working there, as a dancer, in a nightclub. She’s making a thousand euros a week!’ Vanessa’s eyes widened at the very thought of this inconceivable amount of money.

  ‘Really?’ Julie said, taking a bite of the strawberry, looking out over those fields. ‘She must be a very good dancer …’

  ‘Oui,’ Vanessa said, nodding innocently. They both sat and chewed in silence for a moment. ‘Julie?’

  ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘Why did you come over to me? At the restaurant?’

  ‘Well,’ Julie said, smoothing out her robe, ‘let’s just say I got into the wrong car myself a few times when I was your age. Which brings me on to my next question … how old are you?’

  ‘I’m seventeen.’ Vanessa held her gaze. Julie waited. ‘Next birthday,’ Vanessa said, looking down. In a slightly edgier voice she added, ‘I suppose you want to know what I’m doing away from home.’

  Julie sipped her coffee and took a moment. ‘I think, when you want to, you’ll just tell me.’

  They took the view in for a moment. The birdsong. ‘My mother,’ Vanessa said. ‘She ran away when I was little. I live with my dad. He works all the time.’

  ‘Does he know where you are?’

  ‘He thinks I’m staying with some friends. He won’t even notice I’m gone.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘He wants me to get a job, to bring some money in.’

  ‘Is that why you’re going to do this … dancing thing?’

  Vanessa shook her head, picked at her croissant. ‘Non. I want to go to college next year. To art school? But he says we cannot afford it. I thought if I did this for the summer, saved some money … I could get a place of my own.’

  ‘Chriiisssttt,’ a voice said behind them. They turned to see Ethel, wheeling herself into the doorway. ‘I feel like I’ve been gang-banged by the Foreign Legion. Come on, coffee. Now.’

  Vanessa and Julie laughed.

  Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Susan was on the phone. ‘OK,’ the thick Russian accent on the other end said. ‘The day after tomorrow. Call me again when you’re in town.’ Click.

  It had been a very short conversation. Thirteen words in total on his part, if you added the gruff, suspicious ‘Hello’ he’d said when he answered. Susan replaced the receiver on the bedside phone. She walked through the living room, smiling slightly shamefully at the two maids who were cleaning up the considerable mess from last night, and out onto the balcony where Julie, Vanessa, Jill and Ethel were gathered around a spread-out map of France. ‘Well,’ Susan said, ‘I just spoke to our Mr Tamalov.’

  ‘And?’ Ethel said.

  ‘Not the friendliest chap in the world. He said he’ll see us day after tomorrow. I’ve to call him again when we get to Marseilles.’

  ‘Great,’ Julie said. ‘I’ve got it all figured out. Basically –’ she pointed to a main road heading south on the map – ‘if we keep on this road until we get to Lyons and then follow signs for the Riviera and Cannes we can –’

  ‘Cannes?’ Susan said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s where this little one is headed …’ Julie indicated the grinning Vanessa.

  ‘Ah.’ Susan hesitated. ‘I really think we need to get to Marseilles as soon as possible.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Julie said. ‘It’s not much more than a couple of hours out of our way.’

  ‘Yes, Julie, but you seem to be forgetting that –’

  A knocking on the door interrupted her. Susan walked back through the living room towards the door. Bloody hell! Am I the only one who gives a shit that we’re on the run with millions in stolen cash? She peered through the spyhole and saw another maid standing there. She opened it. ‘May I check the minibar?’ she said.

  ‘Please,’ Susan said, standing aside and holding the door open for her. She closed it and turned round to see Julie standing in the hallway, with her arms folded.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Julie, I just think we need to keep our heads down and get straight to Marseilles.’

  ‘It’s a tiny detour!’

  ‘Be that as it may, I just don’t think we should be gallivanting all over the place. We’re fugitives for God’s sake!’

  Julie stepped closer to her, shutting the door to the living room, to the maids. ‘Look Susan, that kid is headed down there to a “dancing” job that I’m pretty sure involves the kind of dancing you do on your back. If we just –’

  ‘Julie?’ Susan said, taking her by the shoulders.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is this, the reason you’re so … is this to do with … you know?’

  ‘What? No.’ Julie looked away. ‘No.’ She bit her lip. ‘I just …’

  ‘Oh, darling.’ Susan embraced her. ‘Fine. We’ll go to Cannes.’

  ‘You’re a doll,’ Julie said. She pecked her on the cheek and hurried back to the balcony to pass on the good news.

  FORTY-THREE

  TOM AND CLARE Frobisher were preparing their evening meal, a spartan supper of baked potatoes, quiche and an undressed lettuce-and-tomato salad. The kind of unloved meal favoured by people who do not much care for food.

  The past forty-eight hours had been about the most surreal of their lives. On top of still grieving over the untimely and sordid demise of his own father – dying in agony impaled upon a monstrous sex toy – there had been the police and then the reporters for Tom to deal with. The questions. Had he known his mother was an armed robbery mastermind? Did he have any words for her? Would he be sure and inform the authorities if she made any attempt to contact them? And so on and so on. There had even been the implication, from a surly, stressed, overweight detective, that he might have been in on it!

  Clare went through to the sitting room carrying water glasses and jug (they rarely drank) to the tiny dining table set for two (they never entertained) and looked at the television, which was, as always, on with the sound turned down, and there he was, standing in what looked like a car park – the very detective who had implied that Tom might have known something about the robbery.

  The words ‘investigation into Wroxham OAPS bank robbery moves to France’ were rolling in yellow ticker across the bottom of the screen. ‘Tom!’ Clare cried towards the kitchen as she picked up the remote and thumbed the volume up. Tom entered just in time to hear Boscombe saying, ‘… and I just want to say to the suspects, to these women, if they’re watching this, give yourselves up now before things get out of hand …’

  ‘That’s that cheeky bugger who interviewed me!’ Tom said.

  ‘Shhh,’ Clare said, turning the volume up further as, on the screen, the image cut to a female reporter – young and pretty – saying, ‘Earlier in our interview Sergeant Boscombe expressed some frustration with the cooperation of the French authorities in the investigation …’ and the picture cut back to the detective.

  In his office at Wroxham police station Chief Inspector Wilson was taking care of some paperwork when Sergeant Tarrant knocked on the open door. ‘Ah, sir,’ he said, ‘you might want to come out here and take a look at this …’ Wilson sighed, laid down his pen, and followed Tarrant out into the main office area, where a group of uniformed officers were gathered around the television set that was usually tuned, with the sound down, to either BBC News 24 or Sky News. Several of the officers were looking expectantly, nervously, at Wilson, who was immediately displeased when he saw Boscombe’s face on the big screen. Tarrant had paused the image using Sky Plus, catching Boscombe in mid-flow, his lip curled and his eyes half shut, the overall effect suggesting Boscombe was either about to sneeze or was in the middle of having a stroke. Wilson was only mildly disturbed by how entertaining he found the prospect of the latter scenario. This tiny shred of humanity towards the detective sergeant lasted as long as it took Tarrant to hit the ‘p
lay’ button on the remote control and for Boscombe’s voice to come rumbling from the speakers. ‘Cooperation? Listen, love,’ he said, ‘it’s a joke. You know what this country would be without us, don’t you? The German bloody Riviera, that’s what. And another thing …’

  Wilson closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and began taking a deep breath in through his nose. Somewhere behind him he heard Tarrant say, ‘I’d best get onto the press office right away, eh, sir? Start the old damage control.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant,’ Wilson said in a voice slightly higher than his usual register.

  FORTY-FOUR

  WESLEY COULDN’T BELIEVE it. The quality. There were crusty bread sandwiches with delicious fillings, bowls of crisps, leafy salad. There was a bubbling pot of coq au vin and several different types of cheese. All of it fresh, none of it sweating in cellophane and looking as though it had travelled four hundred miles down the M6. You could even, had you not been on duty, get wine or a glass of beer. All of this, right here in a service station! God, these people knew how to eat all right. ‘Merci,’ he said as the man behind the counter finished spooning thick French onion soup into his bowl. Though over here, Wesley thought, they probably just called it onion soup.

  ‘Here, Wesley, give us one of them pie things.’ He turned to see Boscombe behind him in the queue, his tray loaded high with the closest things he could find to the food of his native land: three fat sausages, a mound of chips, a white bread roll and a can of Coke. He saw Boscombe was gesturing to a plate of game pies and dutifully passed one over. ‘You sure you don’t want some of this soup?’ No wonder about 60 per cent of the sarge’s diet consisted of Ex-Lax. That he munched Rennies like Tic-Tacs.

  ‘That muck?’ Boscombe said. ‘Looks like bloody watery gravy.’

  Wesley sighed. ‘It’s your colon, Sarge. Look at that mackerel pâté.’

  ‘Oh, shut it, Nigella,’ Boscombe said as his mobile started ringing. He jabbed a pudgy finger at the green button. ‘Boscombe?’