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upheaval, and thought deeply. “Hum. It’s not quite that simple. You see, in theory we know exactly how many people are on board, but, aah,” he hesitated, “in practice …” Pausing, he threw up his hands, shrugged his shoulders, and picked his nose before committing himself. “Anybody’s guess really.”
    â€œWhat are you saying?” Bliss questioned, incredulously. “Are you saying you wouldn’t miss the odd one?”
    â€œOh no …” he started, then stopped, tilted his head to one side, threw open his hands, and disclaimed all responsibility. “Well yes, I suppose so, if you put it like that. With nearly two thousand passengers you can never be sure. It’s not like an aircraft—we don’t assign seats, and we often get strays.”
    â€œStrays?” enquired Bliss. Dogs, cats, what? “Strays?”
    â€œYeah … friends of crewmembers smuggled aboard for a freebie; hitchhikers in the back of trucks, even people hiding in car’s trunks so they can avoid the fare. The vehicles aren’t searched by British Customs on the way out, and the Dutch authorities don’t care if you bought a ticket as long as you’ve got a valid passport.”
    â€œSo, how will we know if you lost someone in the night?”
    The purser’s shrug told the story, but Bliss heard him out. “You won’t. Not unless a friend or relative reports them missing, or we find luggage in a cabin, or a car on the car deck after everyone’s left.”
    Billy Motsom, cabin 2042, tired, furious, and very worried, was having similar thoughts and had a spotlight on King. “So, Mister, what are you goin’ to do if the poxy little shit did go over the side, eh?”
    â€œLook, I was hired to follow him that’s all. Nothing else—nothing dodgy. I don’t know why you want him and don’t care. You paid me …”
    â€œCorrection,” cut in Motsom. “We was going to pay you.”
    â€œYou’d bloody better. I’ve done my job. I followed him around for three bloody weeks. It was me that found out about this trip. There’s nothing else I can do.”
    King rose toward the door but was forced back with a snarl. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere until I tell you—now sit down.”
    He sat, sensing the simmering violence. Not that he hadn’t been warned. “Real nasty piece of work,” one of the few ex-colleagues still prepared to talk to him had said, “though he hasn’t got any serious convictions.”
    â€œO.K., let me put you in the picture,” continued Motsom, sounding helpful. “This ain’t no game of hide and bloody seek, it’s big business and you’re part of it, like it or not. So we may as well be friends. O.K.?”
    King said nothing, unsure whether to be more fearful of Motsom as an employer or a friend, and he buried his head, mumbling into his hands, “Why did I get mixed up in this?”
    â€œMoney—Nosmo. Just like me.”
    â€œNo. Not like you …” he started, but Motsom cut him short.
    â€œThe only difference between you an’ me,” he sneered, “is you’ve done time. You’re an old lag, an excon, a bent cop.”
    King, stung by the suggestion, stared into his fingers, thinking: First I get shut out by a snotty D.I., then a piece of dog turd calls me bent. Who’s the criminal here? I didn’t take back-handers; I wasn’t shaking down drug addicts for part of their stash; I’m no crook. But he had no answer, he was trapped by his past.
    Motsom took his silence as agreement and, with the air seemingly straightened, softened his tone,“LeClarc has some computer stuff the Arabs want, that’s all, and we was hired to get it, O.K.”
    King tried to butt in, “I wasn’t hired …”
    But Motsom held up his hand, now the cop, saying, “Wait, I