‘It is a matter for serious discussion,’ Pol said at last. ‘Tête à tête, in the strictest confidence.’
‘You followed us both, so you talk to us both. Are you some filthy private detective employed by her parents —?’
Sarah gave a little gasp, but Pol cut her short. ‘You underestimate me, mon cher Capitaine Packer.’
Packer switched off the engine. ‘Now listen, Monsieur Pol. I got you out of a lot of trouble this morning. I’m not particularly interested in why you got drunk on the job. I just want to know what that job is, and why.’
Pol sat back with a miserable sigh. ‘I am not feeling well. It is not just.’
‘You’d find things a lot less just in a Dutch gaol,’ Packer said reasonably. ‘Unless they let you off with a stiff fine. Could you pay it?’ He gave Sarah a quick wink which she did not return.
Pol groped inside his silk jacket and brought out his crocodile wallet. To Packer’s surprise, and faint disappointment, he watched the Frenchman riffle through another stack of notes, whose value and nationality he could not see. ‘I will pay you,’ Pol croaked. ‘Pay both of you. Pay you well. Just take me to a little spot where we can talk quietly.’
There was a silence, broken only by the rain muttering on the roof.
‘Let’s get on,’ Sarah said in English. ‘We can’t just stay here on the side of the road. Anyway, it may all be a misunderstanding. Perhaps he saw us last night in the hotel and heard one of the porters call your name.’
‘None of the porters called me “Captain”,’ said Packer savagely. ‘No one’s called me that in ten years.’ He looked round to see if Pol had understood, but the Frenchman was busy spitting out of the window again. ‘There’s just one other thing,’ said Packer. He took out his own wallet and extracted the folded envelope that he had found in Pol’s hotel bathroom. ‘Charles Pol!’ he said loudly, and turned the envelope over, so that the Frenchman could see the back flap. ‘SMRTS,’ he read out. ‘What are you doing running around with a crowd of madmen like that?’
‘What?’ Pol looked blearily back at him and a tear began to form in the corner of one eye.
‘Listen. I found this in your room. It’s addressed to you. The initials stand for SPECIAL MILITARY RESERVE TRAINING SCHOOL —’ he spoke the words in English — ‘Headquarters, Clifton, near Mead, Wiltshire. London office in High Holborn.’ He paused.
Sarah gave a thin laugh. ‘Off down Memory Lane again, are we?’
‘You should be asking him that, not me,’ said Packer, and thought, you stupid bitch! It was a long time now since he’d had anything exciting happen to him, and she’d be sure to try and take the cream off it.
Pol had reached out for the envelope and was looking at it with an expression of mild annoyance. ‘Monsieur Packer,’ he said at last, ‘I think it would be best if we drove on. I know an excellent little spot in France — very quiet — where I can begin to explain things in full.’
As he spoke, a pair of headlamps flashed twice in the mirror, and a siren howled. A moment later a dark blue car screeched to a halt directly in front of them. Two policemen slowly got out and strolled towards them through the rain. Packer lowered his window, and a blunt red face with a moustache grunted, ‘Nederlander?’
Packer opened the glove compartment and took out the car’s papers. The man studied them for some time, while his companion had moved round to the back of the Mercedes. ‘Passeports!’ the red-faced man said.
Packer obliged, without a word. The man turned the pages and frowned, glanced at Sarah, then at Pol, and back at the passport. ‘You know, please,’ he said in English, with the ugly Flemish glottal, ‘that you are forbidden absolutely to stop on this road?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Packer, ‘but my friend in the back is ill.’
The policeman stared at Pol, looked again at Sarah, then seemed to make up his mind. ‘One thousand francs Belges.’
‘Now just a minute —!’ Packer began. He could feel Sarah watching him, testing him. ‘My friend is ill!’ he repeated, with a helpless gesture towards the back seat.
‘One thousand francs Belges,’ the red-faced man insisted, taking out a pink, carbon-backed pad. The second policeman had joined him from the back, his hand resting on his gun belt. ‘Un instant, s’il vous plaît.’
Pol was leaning forward, smelling strongly of scent, reaching over Packer’s shoulder and holding a card in a celluloid frame. The Frenchman said something rapidly, which Packer did not catch, and both policemen saluted. As Pol’s hand withdrew, all Packer could make out on the card was a diagonal red, white and blue stripe.
One of the policemen had moved out into the road, and now signalled them to go. For several seconds they rode in silence. ‘These little theatricals, Monsieur Packer,’ Pol said at last; ‘they are unnecessary and undignified. This morning I was drunk and you were my friend. This afternoon I am sober and I hope I can be your friend.’
‘Friendship requires trust,’ said Packer.
Sarah interrupted, in English, ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody pompous, Owen!’ — and she smiled at Pol. ‘Where are we going, Monsieur?’
‘A little place I know on the Somme Estuary, called Le Crotoy. The patron does an excellent soupe de poisson and fruits de mer. Drive to Lille, then on to Abbeville, and from there I will direct you.’
He’s got himself into the driving seat, Packer thought bitterly; and I’ve lost the advantage. Cunning sod. If it hadn’t been for Sarah, he’d have been inclined to press on with the
