Sterling stood in the Grote Markt, next to the Peugeot. Without a mobile telephone, it seemed the best way. Mike emerged from an alleyway adjacent to Diksmuidsestraat. They stood silently together for a few moments, taking in the neo-medieval beauty of the square – dominated in one part by the Lakenhal, enhanced by the crenellated frontages on the other two sides and overlooked by the Stadhuis at the top.
As they stood, it became lighter, and the drizzle faded completely away. Sterling could see the sun as a dirty yellow orb above the cloud. A little while later, it came through completely, and was now too bright to look at. The day was changing for the better, and the square cast off its drab monochrome cloak like a piece of old black and white newsreel that segues into the multi-coloured present. It grew warmer by a degree or two.
‘We’re going home,’ he said to Mike.
‘I thought so.’ Mike held up a small dark blue grip bag, as anonymous as he was himself. Eurohike was inscribed in small letters under the zip. ‘I need to travel back with you, if that’s OK.’
‘Of course. What happened to the pick-up and all the … equipment?’
‘You don’t need to know that. Best you don’t, actually. I know this area quite well. Becky and I used to come here a lot. Before the pub.’ From Mike, this almost constituted a speech. ‘Which way did you come? We could go back via a scenic route.’
‘OK,’ said Sterling. One of them had to be monosyllabic. ‘Let’s just get my bag from the hotel.’
In the weak sunlight, they stood in front of the Fintro bank. De Groot had been right. The frontage matched the photo. A sharply suited young man in highly polished black shoes went into the separate cash till area and up to a machine. Sterling thought about going into the bank himself, but what would he have said? And who would he have said it to? The bank was only half the answer he was looking for. The other half was in Sandley library. When he got back to the hotel to collect his bag, Mike waited patiently there, too, leaning against a lamp post as Sterling went in. Sterling rang the bell in the lobby, hoping for Christina. Her mother came out and smiled. She unlocked the door of the luggage room and retrieved his bag.
‘Goodbye, Mr. Sterling,’ she said. He was surprised when she offered a small pale hand. They shook, not a full handclasp but a delicate little half grip. Her hand was cool and dry. It felt like a post-tennis-match gesture, and he knew she did not consider him the winner.
‘Goodbye, Mrs. Van de Velde. Thank you for your hospitality. All of it,’ he added with what he hoped was a sort of cryptic irony. My regards to your daughter.’
As Sterling and Mike Strange drove out of Ypres in the dodgy Peugeot, the customary plume of dirty smoke trailing behind as the engine warmed up, Sterling felt a pang of homesickness for the town. He shook it off. It was a ridiculous and illogical switch of allegiance, being homesick for a place he’d been in for barely more than a week on the way back to his proper home. But it was typical of his contradictory nature.
From Ypres, they did go back by a scenic route, aided by a map lying over Mike’s knees. At Watou they smelled the yeasty aroma of the brewery that made Hommelbier, and crossed into France close by. They wound their way up the cobbles into the heart of Cassel, a kind of large bump in the middle of the Flanders plain, lunching late in a café in the small town square. Sterling discovered another thing he had not known: Mike’s excellent if minimal French when they ordered. Then he took them up to a demolished radio station at the very top, where, by a windmill and a statue of Marshal Foch riding a horse, they looked out towards Calais in the far hazy distance, forearms resting comfortably on the enclosing wall.
‘They say that this is the hill the grand old Duke of York marched his soldiers up and down,’ Mike said.
‘The Grand Old Duke of York, he had ten thousand men,’ sang Sterling. ‘He marched them up to the top of the hill, and he marched them down again. And when they were up, they were up….’
Mike had moved on. ‘Flanders is not just the northern half of Belgium. We’re still in Flanders now. French Flanders goes out to Dunkirk to the west and Lille and Douai in the east, in a band across the south of the Belgian border. There’s even a Dutch area of Flanders to the north. It’s only attached to Holland by a tunnel and a ferry. Don’t know why that is.’
They walked across the garden to the eastern side. Way below them, roads stretched out in spokes from Cassel to local villages and further off towns. A huge patchwork of fields in green and brown spread between the spokes in an ornate pie chart segment. It was a calm, timeless and orderly agricultural sight. Sterling thought of the Fenland journeys he and his father had made to see his paternal relations when he was young – the endless fields of rich black soil, the small towns in the flat landscape – March and Chatteris like Poperinghe and Watou, and Ely, a bump in the landscape like Cassel. Nationalists, separatists, racists: He could never understand the sheer petty-mindedness. Wanting to put the clock back, or at least, stop it going forward. The struggle for a spurious racial purity. But all this – Flanders in Belgium, France or Holland, was at least worth looking after; worth caring for.
On the road again, they criss-crossed the canal system again on their way to Calais, and sometimes drove down canal-side roads for many kilometres, passing barges on the way. At four o’clock, in the terminal, Mike’s passport seemed to cause an interested flurry, and then they were on the ferry home. At six o’clock, they were drawing in to Sandley like two day-trippers after a successful foray for wine and cigarettes. They had said little. In the car, Sterling had just followed instructions. But all the while, he was wondering about the next piece of the jigsaw, and when Smithy was going to make his malign reappearance – when, not if.
Mike got out at the pub. He said he’d do a scout around Sterling’s house. Sterling thanked him again and said he’d be in for a pint later. In return, he received a nod and perhaps a tiny smile – he could not be sure. From The Cinque Ports Arms, he drove over to Jack Cook’s garage, and was surprised to find the doors open and Jack in it, bent over something at a workbench. The Peugeot’s engine rattled and clattered loudly as Sterling drove it into the garage’s enclosed space. When he turned it off, it died to a welcome silence. The smell of petrol fumes lingered in the close air.
‘Return of the wanderer,’ said Jack. ‘Everything tickety-boo?’
‘Well, I couldn’t get fifth, as Mickey predicted. It was a bit rattly, as expected. But it was fine. I owe you at least a pint, Jack.’
‘And how about the case, detective? All done and dusted? Perpetrators apprehended? Stolen jewellery retrieved? Murder solved?’
‘See you later on, Jack.’
Sterling walked home through the town, through the small alleys and narrow streets he knew so well. The house smelled musty as he entered, and in the kitchen, he could see a layer of dust on a marmalade jar in the kitchen even in the fading light. He opened some windows, turned on the boiler for hot water and the kettle for a cup of tea. On the stereo, Dylan suited the mood. Sterling sat and sipped his drink. He’d missed home, his music, and properly made refreshments. He closed his eyes and sank back. In a little while, he was going to do something he should have done at the very outset of the case, but he’d enjoy the tea and the peace first.
A few moments later, he picked up the telephone in the hall and found the address book from the little table it rested on. He could hear the ringing tone of a mobile telephone, and hoped it wouldn’t go through to voicemail. Just as he was going to give up, a voice came through.
‘Andy Nolan.’
‘Andy, it’s Frank.’
‘Frank. The shamus. The private dick.’
‘Better a private dick than a … Oh, never mind. How are you doing, Andy?’
‘Mustn’t grumble, though I expect I will at some point. To what do I owe?’
‘I’m on a case, and I’m thinking that you may be able to help. I’ve come a long way so far, but I think I should have had a word with you before.’
‘A case. Astonishing. What case?’
‘I’ve been hired by someone called Gloria Etchingham, and in connection with that, I’ve just come back from Belgium. I’m doing everything arsy-versy. I should have got a bit more background first. Are you still there, Andy?’
‘Gloria Etchingham, eh? Well known in Kent Constabulary circles. I’m not involved in that case, of course, being in Canterbury and that.’
‘But you know something about it?’
‘’Course. We all do in the legendary Criminal Investigation Department. Care to discuss it face to face? We can catch up on all the other stuff while we’re about it.’
‘That’s what I was hoping, Andy. Are you around tomorrow?’
‘I’ve got court in the afternoon, in Canterbury. I could slot you in about 10:30. Go for a coffee. Call in to the station and we’ll make a break for freedom.’
‘Thanks, Andy. I think I’ll be owing you one.’
‘Coffee for starters, Frank. Must stick to the guidelines. I am noted for my incorruptibility.’
Later on, Sterling strolled back through the town to the pub. His pint was waiting. Angela was in their corner with the crossword. Jack was talking to some other cronies leaning against the bar. Sterling nodded to Mike and Becky. He hugged Angela tightly, whispered a heartfelt thank you in her ear, and settled down to one across. They ignored the banter from the bar. As they worked through the clues, Sterling resisted all Jack’s blandishments to tell him about the case.
‘When it’s over, Jack, I’ll tell you everything. Until then, my professional code of conduct, etcetera….’
But Angela, research assistant, back-watcher and saviour, he told almost everything.
As he made his way home, he wondered what Andy Nolan had in store for him in the morning. And the Kent library service on Friday. Things were coming inexorably to a conclusion, and he loved the thrill of it.