I filled in Lawson and Crabbie and got them working the phones.
Yes, there was a 9.30pm bus from Antrim to Belfast, delayed until 10pm because of the snow. But there were only two passengers on that bus and both of them were men.
There were no trains running because of the snow.
We got in the Land Rover and drove up to Antrim. We showed Mrs Deauville’s mug shot around the bus station and to the taxi drivers at the taxi rank. No one recalled seeing her. The bus station had a good CCTV system and because of all the hijackings in the early 80s all the Ulsterbuses did now too. A scan of the buses leaving Antrim between 9pm and midnight revealed no Elena Deauville.
“She didn’t get a bus, she didn’t get a taxi, she didn’t get a train. What did she get?” I asked Crabbie.
“It’s time we got serious. Up the alert level at Interpol and you and I will have to go through the security footage at Larne harbour from last night until this morning.”
We drove to Larne Harbour and went through their tape. It was hard to say for certain but it seemed that no one resembling Elena Deauville got on the one ferry that had left last night before weather had cancelled the sailings. Because of the rough seas the boat had only attracted thirty passengers. Ten of those were women and none of those women resembled Elena.
“She could have been wearing a wig or disguised herself,” Crabbie said and we went through the tape again to double check.
No Elena.
No Elena at the airport either.
There were many ways to get over the land border between Northern and Southern Ireland so it was possible that she’d slipped across to Eire. But who had driven her and where had they crossed on that snowy night with so many country roads closed?
“I don’t understand it,” Lawson said.
“I think I do,” I said.
“Me too,” Crabbie said.
“Well you first then, Crabman,” I told him.
“Her husband’s killer sent the bail money. And when she was bailed he followed her to the bus station in his car. It was snowing and the buses were delayed so he offered her a lift to Carrick.”
“And then what?” Lawson said.
“He killed her,” Crabbie said.
“Why?” Lawson gasped.
“He didn’t like the fact that she was spending so much time in police custody? He was worried that if the charges started to mount up she would tell what she knew?” he suggested.
“What did she know?” Lawson asked.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“She may have just skipped,” Crabbie added. “Staying with a friend on a cold night. Maybe she’ll show up tomorrow large as life.”
“I hope to fuck she’s gone to Bulgaria. We’ll follow her and I’ll charge three first-class plane tickets to Carrick RUC and when Kenny Dalziel comes back from his holidays he’ll have a heart attack,” I muttered.
We sat in the Incident Room to await developments.
There were no developments.
I called Beth’s ma and told her I was gonna be at the station.
We watched TV. Miami Vice repeat on BBC2: Brenda: “How do you go from this tranquillity to that violence?”
Sonny Crockett: “I usually take the Ferrari.”
I sent Lawson home after the show and I went to my office to check on the border crossings. No sign of Elena Deauville.
Crabbie came in to see me before he went home.
“Any news of Mrs Deauville?”
“No. You want a drink?”
He shook his head.
“What do you think, Crabbie?”
He sat down opposite me. “My take: she didn’t run. She’s in a sheugh somewhere with a bullet in her.”
“My take too. She knew something. I should have gotten it out of her.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“I do.”
He shook his head and stood up. “I hate to ask, but, uhm …”
“It’s better. It was all a misunderstanding. She’s coming back. I think.”
“Well that’s good.”
“It is good. Joni Mitchell, you know?”
“What?”
“Big Yellow Taxi.”
“What?”
“You better go, mate. Those roads are going to be bad tonight again.”
“Aye. See you.”
He left. More TV. An Open University programme on quince: Guy with a beard: “Most varieties of quince are too hard, astringent and sour to eat raw unless ‘bletted’ (softened by frost and subsequent decay).”
I found myself falling asleep in my office chair. Doing that a lot lately. Probably because of repeated head trauma. I’d been knocked out more than the average peeler. Head trauma, asthma, stress – a bomb under your car: occupational hazards for your Northern Irish cop.
Woke up at one. Checked all the crossings and hospitals for Mrs Deauville. Nothing. Checked with the constable at her house. Nope.
Out to the car.
Talk radio.
DJ spouting bullshit about the Gibraltar killings without the ballast of anything resembling facts.
Pulled in to Coronation Road, nearly killing the cat.
I parked the Beemer and picked him up. “Used one of your nine lives, there, mate,” I said.
Took the cat indoors and fed it and watched the snow come on again.