Packer and Sarah watched the scene that followed with silent disbelief. Before the second blow could fall, Pol had rolled over on to his back and lashed out at the Dutchman’s legs with his stone bottle; then, with astounding agility, he scrambled to his feet and flung himself at the man’s throat. Although the Dutchman was a good foot taller, Pol quickly gained the advantage. The Dutchman tripped and fell over backwards, leaving Pol holding both the bottle and the stick. But instead of exploiting his advantage, the Frenchman turned away and began to run a berserk zigzag trail through the tulips, thrashing wildly about him with the stick. Petals, leaves, shredded stems and clots of mud flew around him like floral shrapnel. He must have destroyed several hundred flowers before his energy was spent.
In the meantime, the old Dutchman had recovered and run back to the barn — presumably to call the police.
Sarah began to laugh. Packer was all the more astonished, because not only was she a girl who rarely laughed, except when it was expected of her, but she had an almost fanatical love of flowers; and Pol was not merely gross, but had committed the two worst heresies in her book — he had massacred some of the finest blooms in the world, and was blind drunk to boot.
Pol reached them a moment later, his short fat arms flung out in welcome. He had thrown away the stick and the empty bottle somewhere in the wreckage behind him.
‘My friends! My dear, dear friends! My little tulip!’ he shrieked, and to Packer’s dismay flung both arms round Sarah’s neck and gave her a smacking kiss on each cheek. Packer grabbed him by the shoulder and steadied him, fearful that he would topple over again and squash Sarah. She seemed too surprised to be angry; for several seconds she just stood staring at Pol, inhaling the fumes of Dutch gin and bad breath, not noticing that his open mackintosh and stained suit had left traces of mud and verdant slime on her impeccable culottes.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ Packer said to her. ‘He’s a bloody madman!’ He pushed Pol back and pulled her free of him. ‘Where’s the bus?’
She gestured vaguely towards the barn. ‘It’s not due to leave for another twenty minutes.’
‘The police will be here at any moment,’ Packer said, trying to lead her away from Pol.
‘You’re not afraid of the police, are you?’ she said. Her voice had a discreet veneer of insult that provoked in him a dull, powerless rage.
‘Don’t be bloody silly,’ he muttered. ‘But the Dutch’ll half murder him when they get him. What he’s done is like a foreigner crapping on a Union Jack outside Buckingham Palace.’
She drew in her breath with a hiss. ‘I do wish,’ she said, ‘that you wouldn’t be so fucking crude all the time.’
‘You’re one to talk,’ he growled.
‘I just can’t stand talk about shit,’ she said primly; then she glanced back again at Pol, and this time she smiled. He wiped his lips and smiled back, then hiccoughed. She said to Packer: ‘We can’t just leave him. After all, he brought you here — didn’t he?’
‘I don’t know anything anymore,’ said Packer. ‘I just know the fellow’s a load of trouble. And I don’t want him round our necks for the rest of the day.’ He turned away, knowing at once that it was a mistake. If he had shown even the smallest sign of taking Pol’s side, the girl would have turned on them both with the full venom of her disapproval. As it was, she turned and took Pol gently by the arm, and began to lead him back towards the taxi.
It was she, this time, who gave the driver the instructions, in English, to take them all back to the hotel. They had just reached the opposite carriageway of the autobahn, in the direction of Amsterdam, when they saw the police van with its flashing blue beacon turn on to the slip road towards the tulip nursery.
From his seat in the back, crushed up against Sarah, Pol let out a luxurious fart. ‘Ah, mes enfants! What an interesting afternoon — I haven’t done anything like that in years. In fact, the last time, I think, was when I smashed Admiral Guerin’s porcelain tea service aboard his flagship off Oran, in 1946.’
Sarah had turned her head away, and quickly rolled down the window.
CHAPTER 3
The speed and strategy which Owen Packer displayed in removing Charles Pol beyond the limits of Dutch law impressed even Sarah — although she was careful not to show it.
Packer’s eventual motives for deciding to befriend this gargantuan foreign intruder were twofold. Sarah was amused by the man — and even more amazing, she seemed to have taken a peculiar liking to him; and while Pol could not possibly prove a libidinous threat to Packer, he might yet prove to be a healing catalyst for him and Sarah. For Packer had come to realize that alone together their weekend in Amsterdam was doomed.
His second reason was curiosity. He wanted to find out why this grotesque, importuning Frenchman, who claimed to work from Geneva as a business consultant, should decide — while drunk in the middle of the morning — to follow him and Sarah on an expensive taxi ride into the country. Packer might have written the incident off as an alcoholic whim — inspired, perhaps, by Sarah’s blood-red lipstick and scarlet beret — had it not been for those two vital details. Charles Pol knew both Packer’s name
