Mrs. John Doe

Chapter 26

Nora froze, staring at the young man across the table from her.

“What do we do now?” she whispered.

Craig grinned and reached for his plate. “We eat, of course. Have a sandwich, Mother.”

Nora nodded and made herself busy with the food, watching the activity across the room out of the corner of her eye. The smiling Betty sashayed over to the bar and patted a stool. Now Nora had to turn her head to follow the action behind her.

“Sit yerself down here, Sammy,” Betty cooed, “and I’ll fetch ye a lovely ham-and-Stilton, just the way ye like it.” Her father was already setting a full mug down there. With a grunt, the big policeman ambled over and took the stool she indicated. When he turned to her, her bosom was practically in his face. He stared.

“Not tonight, love, thanks all the same,” he said to her cleavage. “I’m full on Margie’s chicken and chips.” He nodded toward the party beyond the window. “I’ll just have a sip, then another look round the beach. Can’t be too careful tonight. Ye heard about my email from the Yard?”

“Aye, ye told us before. They’re lookin’ out for some French woman. Well, good luck findin’ her. There’s quite a few strange people in town tonight-and of course we have these three!” She waved an arm at the regulars on the barstools beside him, and everyone laughed.

Nora ate her sandwich, fully aware that the constable at the bar behind her was now looking over at their booth. She could feel the eyes on her, a welcome sensation in a theater but unsettling in this beachfront pub. Across from her, Craig was spooning up soup with enviable nonchalance, paying no apparent attention to anything else, but she knew he was listening. The band outside launched into an old Beatles song, and the music made it difficult to follow the conversation on the other side of the room, but she heard enough.

Constable Dawson must have pointed to their booth, because Betty laughed and said, “Them? Hardly! How old is this French escaped convict or whatever she is?”

“The Yard said forties, with light brown hair.”

Nora didn’t risk turning to look, but she imagined the remarkable Betty once more thrusting her breasts in the man’s face. In a stage whisper that Nora could have taught her, she said, “Well, that let’s her out, don’t it? She’s off by thirty years! No, Sammy, I don’t think this is yer night for catchin’ wanted criminals-not here anyway.” Everyone laughed again.

“Try the Dover ferries,” one of the regulars said. “Check the boots of all the cars comin’ over from Calais. That’s how I’d do it.” More laughter.

Craig leaned across the table and whispered, “I actually considered that.” There was a twinkle in his eye. Nora stared at him, trying to imagine herself folded into the trunk of a car, in a boat, on open water. She shuddered.

“Well, I’d best be sure,” the constable said. He drained his mug and stood up, none too steadily. “I’ll have another look at the docks. Betty, have ye any o’ that apple tart left over from yesterday?”

“Aye,” she said, “and I’ve just made a fresh pot o’ tea. Go see if the French lady’s washed ashore out there and wants to surrender to ye. I’ll have it all here for ye when ye return from yer rounds.”

“Good girl,” he said, and he clomped across the room to the door, nodding over at their booth as he passed. “Evenin’.”

“Good evening,” Craig said, and Nora smiled her best old-lady smile. As soon as the door closed behind the constable, Craig leaned forward. “Okay, we should go soon. If the A2 is clear, I can have us in London before midnight.”

Nora nodded and picked up her soup spoon, looking out at the dock. Two small boats had just arrived, and people were climbing up to the dock and arriving on the beach to join the party, which was now in full swing. She wondered how Louis Reynard had known about the beach party, then-with a swift glance at the bartender behind her-she decided she’d rather not know. Louis Reynard and Mr. Palmer were in some dark business together, and it was probably very lucrative. So, Louis had told Bill Howard about this place, and Bill had told him to sail right in and drop his passengers at the dock. Small craft were constantly coming and going tonight, the perfect cover for their own arrival. Very clever.

She’d only eaten one sandwich, so she pushed her other one across the table. Craig, who had already devoured both of his sandwiches, immediately started in on it. She smiled, thinking, He eats like Jeff. These men were very busy, and they often forgot about things like meals and a good night’s sleep. When food was put in front of them, they ate heartily, and when they remembered to sleep, they were dead to the world. Nora watched the sandwich disappear, feeling a sudden rush of affection for this stranger.

She wondered if Jeff was eating, wherever he was. Had he been abducted, taken prisoner? It certainly seemed that way. An unknown South Asian man on a late-night train platform in East Anglia-what were the chances Jeff himself had arranged that meeting? None. He’d bought a ticket for London, fully expecting to go there, then from there on to Paris. Instead, he’d vanished. If he was being held somewhere, what were they doing to him? Was he being tortured? Did people still do those things? Yes, they did. There was that scandal a while back, and that was the American military. If the good guys were capable of it, what would terrorists do to an American if they wanted information from him?

No, she couldn’t think about that now. She had to get back to London. Bill Howard’s people were looking for her husband, and she needed to be there when they found him. Alive, please, God.

God? Nora was suddenly falling back on her Catholic upbringing, the religion of her parents that she’d shunned in her youthful decision to be agnostic. The nuns and priests in the parochial schools she’d attended would be so proud of her now! Their little rebel was calling on the Almighty in her time of need. Apparently, it was true that there were no atheists in foxholes. Or agnostics, for that matter.

They finished their meal and paid in cash, and Nora left a pile of notes under the candle for Betty to find. They used the pub’s restrooms-the doors were labeled PIRATES and WENCHES-and bid their host a grateful farewell. Then they went back through the archway and across the darkened dining room to the door that led out onto the high street.

This cobblestoned lane ran parallel to the one on the seawall at the other side of the pub, and it comprised the rest of the “downtown” area of the little village. It was lined with shops, and the residential cottages and two-story dwellings were spread out in smaller streets behind it, heading away from the beach. There was no one about; the entire population of the town was apparently down at the party or asleep. Nora shivered in the night air and put on her coat.

“There,” Craig said, pointing off to their right.

The garage where Betty’s young man worked was easy to find. It was the last building in the row along the street, closest to the road that led to the motorway, and next to it was a crowded parking lot. Two gas pumps stood on the narrow sidewalk beside the wide-open double doors, and light spilled out onto the street. They heard a blast of heavy metal music from inside as they crossed the cobblestones and entered.

The young man, Adam, was a rough-looking lout, all ear studs and spiked hair and leather wristbands, but he was surprisingly polite. He immediately turned off the music and ran over to the brown car that stood in the center of the room next to a pickup truck. He opened the passenger door for Nora, and Craig slipped him some money and got into the driver’s seat.

When the old Ford Focus pulled out of the garage and turned onto the high street, it briefly caught Constable Dawson in its headlight beams. The burly policeman stood in the lane beside the Lucky Dolphin, staring after them with bleary eyes as they drove toward the motorway.