Clean Break (19 page)

The Turner household came to life around half past seven. The curtains in the master bedroom opened, and I caught a glimpse of Nicholas in his dressing gown. This time I'd come fully equipped for surveillance. I had a video camera in the well of the passenger seat, cunningly hidden in a bag made of one-way fabric which allowed the camera to see out but prevented anyone seeing in. I had a pair of high-powered binoculars in my bag, and my Nikon with a long lens attached sitting on the passenger seat. And five hundred quid of walking-around money in the inside pocket of my jacket. I'd left the other nine and a half grand with Richard, who had strict instructions to pay it into a building society account which I hold in a false name for those odd bits and pieces of money that it's sometimes advisable to lose for a while.

At quarter past eight, Mrs. Turner and her two daughters emerged, the girls in the same smart school uniform. The Audi drove off. Two hours later, the Audi came back. Mrs. Turner staggered indoors with enough Tesco carrier bags to stock a corner shop. Then nothing for two more hours. At a quarter to one, Mrs. T came out, got into the Audi and drove off. She came back at ten past two, when I was halfway through my Flying Pizza special. If something didn't happen soon, I was either going to die of boredom or go home. Apart from anything else, Radio Four loses its marbles between three and four in the afternoon, and I didn't think I could bear to listen to an hour of the opinions of those who are proof positive that care in the community isn't working.

Half an hour later, the front door opened, and Nicholas Turner came out. He was carrying a briefcase and a suit carrier. He opened the garage, dumped the suit carrier in the boot and reversed out into the road. “Geronimo,” I muttered, starting my engine. Within seconds, the screen told me that he had the buckle with him. I eased out into the traffic and followed him back through the park.

The traffic was pretty much nose to tail as we came down the hill towards the city center so it wasn't hard to stay in touch with the Mercedes. I kept a couple of cars between us, which meant I got snagged up a couple of times at red lights, but there wasn't enough free road for him to make much headway. I realized pretty soon he was heading for the motorways, which took some of the pressure off. I caught up with him just before he hit the junction where he had to choose between the M621 towards Manchester and the M1 for the south and east. He ignored the first slip road and roared off down the M1. In the Saab, it was easy to keep pace with him, which was another good reason for having swapped the Rover. I kept about half a mile behind to begin with, since I didn't want to lose him at the M62 junction. Sure enough, he turned off, heading east towards Hull.

We hammered down the motorway, the speedo never varying much either side of eighty-five. He'd obviously heard the same rumor I had about that being the speed cameras' trigger point. When we hit Hull, he followed the signs for the ferry port. I followed, with sinking heart. At the port, he parked and went into
the booking office. I got into the queue in time to hear him book the car and himself on to that night's ferry. I didn't have any choice. I had to do the same thing.

By the time I emerged, he'd disappeared. I ran to the car, and saw that the buckle was moving away from the ferry port. He was either going to dispose of it now, or it was going on the ferry with him. Either way, I needed to try and follow him. I drove off in the direction the receiver indicated, grabbing my phone as I went and punching in Richard's number. The dashboard clock told me it was five past four. I prayed. He answered on the third ring. “Yo, Richard Barclay,” he said.

“I need a mega favor,” I said.

“Lovely to hear your voice too, Brannigan,” he said.

“It's an emergency. I'm in Hull.”

“That sounds like an emergency to me.”

“I've got to be on the half past six ferry to Holland. My passport's in the top drawer of my desk. Can you get it, and get here by then?”

“In my car? You've got to be kidding.”

I could have wept. He was right, of course. Even though it's pretty souped up, his Volkswagen just couldn't do the distance in the time. Then I remembered the coupé. “Shelley's got the Gemini,” I told him. “I'll get her to meet you outside the office in five minutes with it. Can you do it?”

“I'll be there,” he promised.

I rang the office, one eye on the monitor, one eye on the road. I was probably the most dangerous thing on the streets of Hull. We seemed to be heading east, further down the Humber estuary. Shelley answered brightly.

“Don't ask questions, it's an emergency,” I said.

“You've been arrested,” she replied resignedly.

“I have not been arrested. I'm hot on the trail of a team of international art thieves. Some people would be proud to work with me.”

“OK, it's an emergency. What's it got to do with me?”

“Hang on, I think I'm losing someone …” We'd cleared the suburbs of Hull, and the receiver was registering a sharp change in
direction. Sure enough, about a kilometer up the road, there was a right turn. Cautiously, I drove into the narrow road then pulled up. The distance between us remained constant. He'd stopped.

And the phone was squawking in my ear. “Sorry, Shelley. OK, what I need is for you to meet Richard downstairs in five minutes with the Gemini. He'll leave you his car so you won't be without wheels,” I added weakly.

“You expect me to drive
that
?”

“It'll do wonders for your street cred,” I said, ending the call. I was in no mood for banter or argument. I put the car in gear and moved slowly down the lane, keeping an eye open for Turner's car. The tarmac ended a few hundred yards later in the car park of a pub overlooking the wide estuary. There were only two cars apart from Turner's Merc. There was no way I was going in there, even if he was offering the buckle to the highest bidder. With so few customers, I'd be painfully obvious. All I could do was head back to the main road and pray that Turner would still have the buckle with him.

I fretted for an hour, then the screen revealed signs of activity. The buckle was moving back towards me. Moments later, Turner's car emerged from the side road and headed back into Hull. “There is a God,” I said, pulling out behind him. We got back to the ferry port at half past five. Turner joined the queue of cars waiting to board, but I stayed over by the booking office. The last thing I wanted was for him to clock me and the Saab at this stage in the game.

Richard skidded to a halt beside me at five to six. He gave me a thumbs-up sign as he got out. He picked up my emergency overnight bag from the passenger seat and came over to the Saab. He tossed the bag into the back and settled into my passenger seat. “Well done,” I said, leaning across to give him a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“You'll have to stand on for any speeders I picked up,” he said. “It really is a flying machine, that coupé.”

“You brought the passport?”

Richard pulled out two passports from his inside pocket. Mine and his. “I thought I'd come along for the ride,” he said. “I've got
nothing pressing for the next couple of days, and it's about time we had a jaunt.”

I shook my head. “No way. This isn't a jaunt. It's work. I've got enough to worry about without having to think about whether you're having a nice time. I really appreciate you doing this, but you're not coming with me.”

Richard scowled. “I don't suppose you know where this guy's going?”

“I've no idea. But where he goes, I follow.”

“You might need some protective coloring,” he pointed out. “I've heard you say that sometimes there are situations where a woman on her own stands out where a couple don't. I think I should come along. I could share the driving.”

“No. And no. And no again. You don't expect me to interview spotty adolescent wannabe rock stars, and I don't expect you to play detectives. Go home, Richard. Please?”

He sighed, looking mutinous. “All right,” he said, sounding exactly like his nine-year-old son Davy when I drag him off the computer and tell him ten is not an unreasonable bedtime. He flung open the door and got out, turning back to say, “Just don't expect me to feed the cat.”

“I haven't got a cat,” I said, grinning at his olive branch.

“You could have by the time you get back. Take care, Brannigan.”

I waved as I drove off, keeping an eye on him in my rear-view mirror. As I took my place in the slowly moving queue, I saw him get in the car and drive off. Half an hour later, I was standing in the stern of the ship, watching the quay recede inch by inch as we slowly moved away from the dock and out towards the choppy, steel gray waters of the North Sea.

I spent almost all of the trip closeted in my cabin with a spy thriller I'd found stuffed into the door pocket of Bill's car. The only time I went out was for dinner, which comes included in the fare. I left it to the last possible moment, hoping Turner would have eaten and gone by then. I'd made the right decision; there was no sign of him in the restaurant, so I was able to enjoy my meal without having to worry about him clocking me. I was certain he wouldn't
recognize me as the tart with the buckle, but if this surveillance lasted any length of time, the chances were that he'd see me somewhere along the line. I didn't want him connecting me back to the ferry crossing.

On the way back to the cabin, I changed some money; fifty pounds each of guilders, Belgian francs, Deutschmarks, French francs, Swiss francs and lire. Nothing like hedging your bets. The sea was calm enough for me to get a decent night's sleep, and when we docked at Rotterdam, I felt refreshed enough to drive all day if I had to. From where I was placed on the car deck, I couldn't actually see Turner, and the steel hull of the ship didn't do a lot of favors for the reception on the tracking monitor.

Once I was clear of the ship, however, the signal came back strong and clear. For once, Bill's mongrel European ancestry worked to my advantage. He makes so many trips to the continent to visit family that he has serious road maps and city street plans for most of northern Europe neatly arranged in a box in his boot. I'd shifted the box to the back seat and unfolded a map of Holland and Belgium on the passenger seat. Comparing the map to the monitor, I reckoned that Turner was heading for Eindhoven. As soon as I got on the motorway, I stepped on the gas, pushing my speed up towards a ton, trying to close the distance between us.

Within half an hour, I had Turner in my sights again. He was cruising along just under ninety, and there was enough traffic on the road for me to stay in reasonably close touch without actually sitting on his bumper. He stayed on the motorway past Eindhoven. The next possible stop was Antwerp. From my point of view, there couldn't be a better destination. Bill's mother grew up in the city and he still has a tribe of relations there. I've been over with him on weekend trips a couple of times, and I fell in love with the city at first sight. Now, I feel like I know it with the intimacy of a lover.

It was my lucky day. He swung off the E34 at the Antwerp turn-off and headed straight for the city center. He seemed to know where he was going, which made following him a lot easier than if he'd kept pulling over to consult a map or ask a passer-by for his destination. Me, I was just enjoying being back in Antwerp. I don't
know how it manages it, but it still manages to be a charming city even though it's the economic heartbeat of Belgium. You don't normally associate culture with huge docks, a bustling financial center and the major petrochemical industries. Not forgetting Pelikaanstraat, second only to Wall Street in the roll of the richest streets in the world. Come to think of it, what better reason could a fence have for coming to Antwerp than to do a deal in Pelikaanstraat, since its diamonds are the most portable form of hard currency in the world?

It began to look as if that was Turner's destination. We actually drove along the street itself, diamond merchants lining one side, the railway line the other. But he carried on up to the corner by Central Station and turned left into the Keyserlei. He slipped into a parking space just past De Keyser, the city center's most expensive hotel, took his briefcase and suit carrier out of the car and walked inside. Cursing, I made a quick circuit of the block till I found a parking garage a couple of hundred meters away. I chose one of the several bars and restaurants opposite the hotel and settled down with a coffee and a Belgian waffle. I was just in time to see a liveried flunkey drive off in Turner's car, presumably taking it to the hotel garage.

I was on my third coffee when Turner re-emerged. I left the cup, threw some money on the table and went after him. He crossed over to the square by the station and walked towards the row of tram stops on Carnotstraat. He joined the bunch of people waiting for a tram. I dodged into a nearby tobacconist and bought a book of tram tickets, praying he'd still be there when I came out.

He was, but only just. He was stepping forward to board a tram that was pulling up at the stop. I ran across the street and leapt on to the second of the two carriages just before the doors hissed shut. Turner was sitting near the front, his back to me. He got off near the Melkmarkt, and I had no trouble following him past the cathedral and into the twisting medieval streets of the old town. He was strolling rather than striding, and he didn't look like he had the slightest notion that he might be followed. That was more than I could say for myself. I kept getting a prickling sensation in the back of my neck, as if I were aware at some subconscious level
of being watched. I kept glancing over my shoulder, but I saw nothing to alarm me.

Eventually, we ended up in the vrijdag markt. Since it was too late for the twice-weekly second-hand auction, I could only assume Turner was heading for the Plantin-Moretus Museum. I'd tracked him all the way round Antwerp just so we could go round a printing museum? I hung back while he bought a ticket, then I followed him in. While it was no hardship to me to revisit one of my favorite museums, I couldn't see how it was taking me any nearer my art-racket mastermind.