Peter James - A Twist of the Knife

She could murder a coffee, but she was nervous about leaving the car unattended, so instead she sat in the car, in the darkness, listening to music on the radio, ate the baguette she had bought earlier at a filling station, sipped on a bottle of mineral water and chain-smoked until it was time to board.

She switched on the ignition and pressed the starter button. The engine turned over several times without firing and she felt a deep stab of panic. She tried again, heard the starter motor whirring and smelt a stench of petrol. No. Oh God no! She had flooded the engine. She tried again. Then again. Then again. Lorries were firing up their engines all around her and starting to roll forward.

Then the battery gave out.

She jumped out of the car and waved her arms up at a driver in his cab. He climbed down and asked her, in French, what the problem was. She explained.

A couple of minutes later he had recruited two other drivers. They told her to switch the ignition on and put the car into second gear, then they pushed. As the car gained momentum she let out the clutch and, to her intense relief, the engine fired. She sat still, soaked in perspiration, revving the engine hard, thick exhaust smoke billowing past her. She thanked them and drove forward, up to the ticket barrier.

A few minutes later she felt the reassuring judder as she drove over the ramp and down into the belly of the ferry, where she was waved forward until she was close to the rear of a Volkswagen camper van. She then climbed out and locked the car, debating whether to risk leaving the suitcase in the boot or take it with her. She realized she had not discussed this in advance. But then, she thought, it might look odd for her to be lugging the case upstairs to the passenger area. So instead, she double-checked that the boot was securely locked and made her way up the steps, her nostrils filled with the smell of spent exhaust fumes, varnish and paint, she was feeling sick with nerves.

She went to the lounge, which had a bar, and sat down nearby, waiting for it to open, badly in need of a large brandy and a double espresso. Twenty minutes later, as the ferry sailed, she sipped the espresso and drank the brandy straight down, then she went up on deck, into the salty wind and the darkness, and walked to the stern. She stayed there a long time, watching the lights of Calais disappear, and the intermittent flashes from a lighthouse, until she was shivering with cold. Then she went back below.

She bought a second double espresso and chanced another brandy. Somehow, between them, they calmed her down, yet kept her wide awake and fully alert — and confident.

Her nerves were jangling, but she thought to herself, over and over, It is going to be all right! Just remain calm. Calm.

The sea was calm and she could barely detect any motion, just the juddering of the boat’s engines somewhere below her and the faint vibration of her seat.

Then she heard the tannoy announcement.

‘Will all drivers please go down to A and B decks to their vehicles.’

Suddenly, she felt paralysed with fear. Please start, she thought, opening the boot of her car and checking the cases were there and undisturbed. Oh God, please start!

To her relief, the engine fired instantly, and she said a short, silent prayer of thanks. She felt the ferry yaw, then come to a juddering halt. Within moments the brake lights of the camper van in front of her came on, then it moved forward. She put the Alfa into gear and followed it — she was regretting having had that second double espresso, because her hands were shaking.

She drove up the ramp, waved forward by dock workers with batons, past a big warning sign beneath a Union Jack emblem, saying, DRIVE ON THE LEFT. A short distance ahead she saw the customs shed, with a lane divide. One was marked, with a green background, NOTHING TO DECLARE. The other with a red background, GOODS TO DECLARE.

She chose green, following the camper van through it. On her right was a long metal table extending the entire length of the shed and manned by a solitary, dozy-looking customs officer. He barely glanced at the van as it drove past him. She held her breath and tried to stare dead ahead, then, to her horror, she saw the official raise his arm and wave her over.

For a moment she thought she was going to throw up and began to shake uncontrollably. He was walking around to her window and signalling for her to lower it.

Taking a deep breath and trying to calm herself down, she obeyed and did her best to muster her most charming smile. ‘Good evening, officer,’ she said pleasantly.

But he didn’t smile back. He had an intensely serious face; it was long and mournful beneath his peaked cap, rather like a horse. ‘Where have you come from, Madam?’

‘Italy,’ she said in her broken English. ‘Near Firenze — Florence.’

‘And what is the purpose of your visit to England?’

‘I have family here,’ she said, delivering her carefully rehearsed script. ‘My sister has recently lost her husband. I’m taking her on a motoring holiday up to Scotland.’

He gave her a look she could not read, but there was an element of scepticism in it. ‘A motoring holiday in Scotland in November? Not the best of months to choose for the weather.’

‘No!’ she said, and gave a nervous laugh. ‘Not the best month at all.’

He did not smile back. Instead he asked, ‘May I see your passport, please.’

She handed it to him. He studied it carefully and slowly, flicking through page after page after page. ‘Why did you choose to drive, Contessa? It’s a long journey.’

She shrugged. ‘I like driving.’

He looked at the Alfa. ‘Nice car. Fast?’

‘Yes, quite fast.’

He nodded and handed her passport back. She felt a tiny bit of relief. He was letting her go. Then that was shattered.

‘May I see in the boot, please?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, yes,’ she stammered, opened the door and climbed out.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes, thank you.’

‘You seem to be shaking.’

‘I think I drank too much coffee — to keep awake.’

‘Is there a reason why you have taken such a late ferry?’

She showed him her hands, which she had blackened again earlier. ‘I should have taken a much earlier one, but I had a puncture, and it took me a long while to fix it. Luckily I was eventually helped by a lorry that stopped.’

Without commenting he walked around to the rear of the car and opened the boot lid. ‘I’d like to look inside your cases,’ he said.

She felt as though an ice-cold lead weight had dropped down inside her stomach. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course.’

He lifted the top one out and placed it on the metal table. ‘Is it locked?’

‘No.’

He popped the catches and raised the lid. Under her watchful eye he began working his way with his fingers down through the layers of clothes, lifting them up and peering beneath. Then he undid the securing straps and lifted the clothes out, placing them on the table, followed by her shoe bags and then her washbag. He removed each pair of shoes in turn and looked inside them, before replacing them in their bags. Satisfied all was in order he began to put them back a tad clumsily.

Finally, he nodded at her. ‘OK, you may close it.’

For an instant, she hoped that was it, then her heart sank as he returned to the rear of her car and hauled out the second suitcase.

Now she was really trembling in terror. ‘It’s pretty much more of the same,’ she said lamely.

He did not respond. Instead he placed it alongside the first case and again popped the catches.

She took a step back, her vision blurred, conscious that she was perspiring. Once more he began his almost creepy fingering through her dresses and her underwear, getting further and further down the contents. Any moment, she thought.