The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (17 page)

T
he
Grower looked on edge as he navigated the perilous bends carving down the
mountain. The boys knew better than to say anything, both staring ahead as a
million questions buzzed in their minds.

Once in town Al Mohzerer dropped them off outside the cinema
with strict instructions to meet him at Old Man Ali’s carpet shop in the medina
at three o’clock.

“What shall we do?” Mohamed looked to his friend for
guidance.

Ahmed stared upwards for a second. “We continue as normal
until we can work out what’s going on. Besides, I need time to think.”

Ahmed went up to the ticket booth and asked the attendant
for directions to a nearby restaurant. When the man walked outside with him and
began pointing up the street, Mohamed slipped into the cinema. Ahmed thanked
the attendant and bolted off to peddle more squidgy black hashish.

The boys reunited at the harbor in the afternoon and began
chatting with a crew of young English guys, who were more intent on discussing soccer
than the art of seamanship. With their endeavor now thrown into jeopardy, the
boys were happy to talk about something other than sailing.

Walking toward their rendezvous with Naseem, Mohamed stopped
in his tracks, looking outraged.

“Beckham! Why he don’t play for an English club?”

“He’s gone overseas,
where the money is, fool!” Ahmed
grabbed his friend’s ears. “Like we must do!”

A
s
far as sailing was concerned, the hop from the Canary Islands to Cape Verde
proved to be the most enjoyable part of the trip, though thrust to the back of Hans
and Penny’s minds was the loss of a friend and parting company on arrival.

Not since meeting Jessica’s mother had Hans experienced such
a strong connection with a member of the opposite sex, not to mention the base
desire whipped up by their union. He could tell Penny had feelings for him too,
figuring they were both hesitant to act on them for fear of creating additional
confusion for Jessica.

Awaking at dawn to take over on watch, Hans emerged from the
cabin to find the cockpit deserted. A bikini top and denim shorts lay on the
cushions.

No!

Hans’ mind attempted to make sense of the situation. A chill
crept through him. Had she taken advantage of a lull in the wind to go for a
dip, only to see
Future
sail on without her? Or perhaps suffered some
kind of breakdown? Either way he felt sick as he pictured explaining this to Jessica.

“Penny!”

The sound of water sloshing on deck stopped his panic in its
tracks.

“I’m right here!”

Hans turned to see a naked Penny grinning as she took a
bucket shower. “Oh! I was worried you’d fallen overboard. Er, I’ll give you a
minute.”

“Don’t be so silly! I was hoping someone would soap my back!”

Hans let out a nervous chuckle. Every so often on the trip,
glimpses of unadulterated femininity escaped Penny’s tomboyish exterior,
drawing him in with an allure he neither could nor wanted to resist. He was deeply
in love, and every cell in his body knew it.

Hopping onto the cabin roof, he felt a range of emotions and
adrenaline pulsing through him, resulting in a pleasant state of anxiety.
Streaked blond by the sun, Penny’s damp tresses cascaded down her back, white
bikini lines interrupting her deep tan to add further lasciviousness to her
natural beauty. Hans trembled like a teenager on a first date.

Penny passed the bar of soap over her shoulder in a fake attempt
at modesty. Hans took it in one hand, slipping the other under her breasts to
pull her close.

She turned her head . . .

The soap fell . . .

Their lips met—

“Fishing
time!”

A fiberglass pole emerged from the cabin, flopping around as
the seven-year-old on the other end attempted to control it.

“Well, well, well!” Hans winked at Penny. “We could just do
with some fish for breakfast. In fact, seeing as though the wind doesn’t want
to play, I think today should be a fun day.”

“Yay!”

Making good progress in these warmer climes, they were able
to take plenty of time out, furling in the mainsail to fire up the barbeque,
grab the fishing and snorkeling gear and make the most of their ocean
playground.

“Birds in the water!” Hans echoed a line from
The Perfect
Storm
as Jessica lowered a set of spangled lures over the side, controlling
the spool with her thumb to prevent it paying out too fast and tangling. “So
what are we going for, First Mate?”

“Fish, Papa!”

“And what kinda fi—?”

Jessica’s pole slammed against the guardrail. “Penny!” she
screamed as line ripped from the spool.

“Let it run, sweetie.” Penny leant over and loosened the clutch
on the reel. “You’ve hooked a beauty!”

Up until now the only thing they had caught were horse
mackerel and baitfish, but this time pulses raced all round. After a minute or so
the fish ended its run, and Penny urged Jessica to reel in, but the animal shot
into the depths and tore off more line. The pattern continued for a good twenty
minutes, until Hans, even with his hands-on approach to parenting, felt obliged
to assist.

“Nah!” She gave a firm shake of the head, focus unwavering as
her exhausted arms trembled.

Eventually, the catch weakened, flashing silver as Jessica
brought it to the surface, yet a final bid for freedom saw the line tighten and
stay that way.

“Agh! It’s hooked around the propeller,” said Penny, craning
over the side shaking her head.

“You swine!” Jessica shook hers.

“Come on, sweet pea, time to go swimming.” Hans vaulted into
the cockpit, dashing through the companionway to grab snorkeling gear and a
knife. “Are you ready?” he asked as they stood on deck kitted up.

Jessica nodded – the same nod she would give if her papa
announced they were going to fight bears.

“Right, let’s go fishing.”

With a big grin, he picked her up and flopped over the side.

Breaking the surface, Jessica blew seawater from her snorkel
and scanned below. Indeed, the line had snagged around the propeller, the
exhausted tuna giving the odd flick of its tail in a vain effort to escape.

Hans duck-dove and swam down through the warm blue water. He
cut the nylon free and drew the fish toward him. As he was about to kick
upwards, Jessica appeared, finning like crazy, by his side, reminding him of
the wind-up scuba toy she and JJ used to play with in the tub. He wrapped the line
around her hand and gave the thumb sign for
Let’s surface
. She returned
it, and they floated upwards.

“Well done, honey. You got us a yellowfin! Don’t let go now.”

“Onk-onk!” Through her snorkel, Jessica sounded like a goose.

“You clever girl!”

Penny helped her up the steps and then gaffed the tuna through
its gill – for, weighing a good ten pounds, it could easily rip itself off the
hook if hauled by the line.

Using the gaff’s hefty handle, Penny dispatched the fish,
and Hans showed Jessica how to prepare it. Soon there were ten ruby-red steaks
sizzling on the barbeque, all splashed with Worcestershire sauce, a tangy
British condiment chosen by Penny. Hans threw the fish’s head onto the coals, ready
for a dare with Jessica.

One time while serving in the SEALs, Hans had been sitting outside
a restaurant in West Africa finishing off a fried snapper. A group of ragamuffins
assembled and began ogling what to him was an empty plate. Hans gestured there
was nothing left except bones, but a couple of kids rushed over and plucked out
the fish’s eyeballs, wolfing them down and indicating with belly rubs they were
an important part of the dish. It was a memorable moment, bringing home to Hans
how privileged he was to be born into a culture that could afford to throw perfectly
good food away. Ever since, he had customarily followed their example while
reveling in nostalgia.

Jessica eyed the translucent globule with suspicion, the staring
black pupil adding creepiness to the off-putting “delicacy.”

“
Yuck!
” Her face screwed up.

“I will if you will.” Penny snatched the other eye and popped
it in her mouth. “Hmm . . . not bad.” she fibbed as blood and goo ran down her chin.

“Hmm . . . not bad.” Jessica was never one to be left out.

M
itch
didn’t know anything about sailing. There was not much call for it in Fort
Worth, Dallas. He spent his time watching DVDs,
Discovery
and playing
Gulf
War II
on his Xbox when not working a twelve-hour shift in the call center
– or the Shed of Broken Dreams as he thought of it.

A girlfriend seemed a long way off. He had not been in a
relationship since splitting with Darlene, and that was seven years ago and
counting. And he certainly wasn’t the sporty type, despite running a half
marathon a couple of years back following a drunken wager with a colleague –
near killed him, and two hours forty wasn’t exactly something to be proud of.

Now, browsing shopping sites on the Internet, Mitch considered
splashing the $1,400 in his savings account on one of these widescreen
televisions that had suddenly become so popular. Watching a recent documentary,
he learned that the factories in Japan could not churn out the sets fast
enough. Packed into huge containers, they would then be loaded onto cargo ships
for delivery worldwide. Apparently, thousands of these containers fell over the
side in rough seas every year, floating around for months and creating a
significant hazard for yachts.

The money was supposed to be for Vegas. He and the
Budmeister planned to hire Harleys and ride there next summer. Only Bud had
gotten all sensible, tied the knot with Jeanie and moved to the East Coast, so
that trip was doomed.

Come on, Mitchell, think!
He rubbed his eyes.
You
work your ass off all week. You don’t exactly socialize much, and you ain’t got
any hobbies other than spending time in front of the TV. And that little set
you’ve had since college is on its last legs.

Yes, he reasoned, he would treat himself. After all, the
Hitachi 42-ES-1080 came with HD, surround sound and VGA connector – a gamer’s
paradise!

With a feeling bordering on surreal, he clicked the “Buy”
button on Digital Direct’s website and then typed in his address and credit
card details.

H
ans
and Penny cozied up in the cockpit as
Future
made three to four knots under
a canopy of stars.

“Hans, how did you get into detective work?”

“Oh, good question. You know I said I loved reading as a kid?”

“Hmm.”

“There used to be a book series, the Hardy Boys, about two
brothers who solved crimes and stuff. Did you have this in England?”

“Of course. And don’t forget Nancy Drew.”

“What about the Three Investigators?”

“Hah! Jupiter
. . .
?”

“Jones and his buddies Pete Crenshaw and Bob Andrews, the
supersleuths, always jealous of Skinny Norris because he was old enough to drive
a car.”

“I read them all.”

“Me too. I even went through a spell with my friend Adrian when
we made ourselves detective kits. You know, like in hopes we’d solve a mystery
of our own.”

“Detective kits?”

“These little backpacks. Put all kinds of stuff in them,
like magnifying glasses and talcum powder to dust for fingerprints. Used to
collect spare keys in case we might be able to open a door with them. Stole our
moms’ hair grips to try and pick locks.”

“Any luck?”

“Not a lot, but we figured out how to escape from a locked
room.”

“Tell me.”

“You push a sheet of newspaper under the door and poke a
knife blade through the keyhole. The key drops onto the paper, you pull it back
under the gap and – hey presto! – you let yourself out.”

“Neat trick.”

“It was at that age. We even made blowpipes from the bamboo plants
in Adrian’s backyard and little darts out of sewing needles and bird feathers. Kinda
thought we were James Bond.”

“Did you ever solve any crimes?”

“No, we never came across any, just liked the excitement of living
like our heroes. One time I even wore a disguise – like those guys were always putting
on disguises, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I had on my mother’s fur coat and these long boots, and I pulled
a big flowery hat down over my face.”

“You’re joking!”

“No, I’m serious. I wanted to experience being undercover – to
see if I’d get away with it. Took my little brother’s pram and pushed it around
the block. Walked right past a load of kids I knew and none of them said a word.”

“No one recognized you?”

“Nah. When I told them later, they said they thought it was
some weird old lady passing by. I wish I never told them, though . . .”

“How come?”

“You try explaining why you’re wearing women’s clothes when
you’re an eleven-year-old boy.”

“I see.”

“Some of them still remind me of it today.” Hans chuckled.

“So you always wanted to be a detective?”

“Kinda, but mostly a pipe dream. Like a lotta things in my life,
I ended up falling into it.”

“As you do.” Penny looked up and smiled.

“A lot of my SEAL buddies left the navy around the same time
I did, during the Iraq conflict. Jobs came up in the Middle East doing private
security work, and guys could get paid three times as much on contracts out
there than they did working for Uncle Sam.”

“And you did that?”

“It was tempting. Every man and his dog was doing a year and
paying off their mortgages, even national guardsmen with no experience of combat.
I couldn’t get to grips with the ethics of it all. I’d seen enough senseless killing
– certainly enough of the desert – and Kerry was pregnant with Jess.”

“What did you do?”

“I wanted to join the police department as a rookie and work
my way up. The DUI on my record put paid to that.”

“Drunk driving?”

“Yeah, said I could get a job in admin – answering the phone
in traffic or typing up witness statements. Like I was gonna do that.”

“So you started an investigation agency?”

“Not quite. Kerry was always real positive, you know? Kinda like
you.”

“Aw.” Penny snuggled tighter.

“No, I mean it. Always the glass half-full. She said, when
you need an answer, open your eyes and it will find you. So I’m sitting in a
bar one night, doing what I did best back then – drowning my sorry ass – and I
get talking to the guy on the next stool. Harry Ross was his name – ‘Rosco.’ Turns
out he’s a private eye – real old-school type like Mike Hammer, with the same
drink problem.”

Penny didn’t know who Mike Hammer was but nodded anyway.

“So after a time listening to him talk about his work, I asked
straight out if he could give me a job.”

“Did he?”

“No, he laughed. Said there’s a lot more to detective work than
you see on TV.”

“In what way?”

“Well, for a start folks only hire PIs when they’re
desperate.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if the police and all their resources can’t get the
answer they’re looking for, they turn to you. You’re one guy trying to solve a
mystery a hundred or more professionals just gave up on . . . which to be
honest ain’t always a bad thing.”

“It’s not?”

“Cops always look for the quick result, and they can be pretty
useless at the best of times. Then there’s the boredom factor. Starting out,
you’re likely to be sat in your car for hours drinking coffee and trying to stay
awake, just to expose a spouse’s infidelity or a fraudulent disability benefit
claim.”

“Hardly exciting.”

“Not exactly busting the big stuff. Anyway, Rosco says to
come by his office and he’ll give me details of a case he’s been working on. A
real tough one, where he reckoned the cops hadn’t done their job.”

“I’m listening.” Penny went to check on Jessica and returned
with a couple of beers. “So if you got to the bottom of it he’d take you on.”

“That’s how I understood it, but we were pretty drunk. He
didn’t expect me to show up.”

“But you did.”

“My diary was kinda empty, and it’s not like I had anything
to lose. Neither did he.” Hans pulled the tab on his beer. “Turns out a retired
businessman had offered to pay two hundred thousand bucks to find his daughter.
Said ‘Keira’ went missing on a scuba dive down in the Keys while vacationing with
her husband.”

“A scuba dive? How did he expect you to find her body? I
mean, they must have carried out searches and stuff.”

“Ha, that’s a story for another day.”

“So you solved the case and got a job as a private eye?”

“I got more than that. Rosco was looking to retire. He gave
me a half share of the reward money and eventually let me buy him out of the business.”

“The Larsson Investigation Agency.”

“That’s what it became.”

The two of them cuddled in silence for a while. Penny desperately
wanted to ask Hans about Kerry and JJ’s deaths, but she knew he would tell her
when the time was right. She put it to the back of her mind and instead mused on
how fortunate she was to have met him. She hadn’t felt this way for quite some
time.

After a while, “Penny, you ever gonna tell me your story?”
Hans asked.

“Mine?”

“You pretty much know ours.”

Penny was about to remind Hans that a crucial chunk of the
Larsson history was missing, but, not wanting to ruin the moment, she kept
shtum.

“How did you end up on a yacht in the North Atlantic?”

“It’s what I’ve always done, Hans – nearly always. I
graduated from uni as a veterinary nurse. Because I grew up on yachts, my
parents wanted me to experience a ‘normal’ career.”

“Not for you then?”

“I enjoyed it, don’t get me wrong – practiced for three
years in London after graduation. But the pull of the sea . . . It’s hard to
resist.”

“So what happened?”

“I got a job on a luxury yacht owned by the sultan of Oman, traveled
the world working my way up from deckhand to get my skipper’s ticket. Been
crewing ever since.”

“And you never felt like settling down – getting married,
having kids?”

“Of course I thought about it. But relationships at sea tend
to be pretty short-lived.”

“Passing ships?”

“Exactly.”

“So there’s never been anyone special?”

“There was one guy, from Miami, hired me to sail his yacht
around the Caribbean. He was young, handsome and wealthy, and I was . . . well,
young and naïve. We had what you might call a passionate romance. I really
thought it was meant to be.”

“What happened?”

“On the way back to the States he disclosed a wife and two
kids.”

“Oh.”

“You can say that again! I guess the Cher keep fit and
Disney DVDs were a bit of a giveaway.”

They laughed and snuggled tighter.

“Penny, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“It’s just that Jessie, she thinks the world of you – and I
do too.”

“Aw.”
Penny buried her head in Hans’ chest.

“Would you come visit us in the US? I mean, I’d pay your
flight and everything, and you wouldn’t need to spend a dime—”

“Honey!” She cupped his face in her hands. “I make a great
deal of money ferrying rich businessmen around the globe and teaching their
pampered brats to scuba dive, and it’s not as if there’s a lot a girl needs to spend
her money on in the middle of the ocean. Of course I’ll come,
and
pay my
own way. It’s about time I tested my land legs.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I’m assuming there are sailing schools in Portland?”

“
Sh
yeah!”

“Well, in that case I might just stay awhile.”

Their lips met – and this time no one interrupted them to go
fishing.