The Third Shadow

Twenty-five

The sun was just high enough to lift itself above the bonnet of the van and angled so as to spill onto my face there on my sleeping bag in the back, seep through the slit between my closed eyelids.

I awoke with a jolt, my hand reaching instinctively to lower back. My prolonged groan was ever more pained as I glanced at my watch: it hadn't even gone half past six.

I had little idea where I was exactly beyond a vague recollection of having seen exit signs for Brussels flash by in the night not long before utter exhaustion had got the better of me and I'd pulled into  a service station. I wasn't even sure if I'd crossed over the border of not, whether I was already in Germany or still in Belgium. What kind of man, I thought as I gathered up sleeping bag and roll mat, doesn't even know what country it is he wakes up in? Come to that, what kind of man - one in of my age at least - wakes up in the back of a van?

That I was still in Belgium was confirmed by the map next to the  entrance door of the restaurant area - the apex of the tu es ici arrow a finger-width from the border. Hobbling inside, I peered at breakfast options over the shoulders of still yawning lorry drivers. Since the greyish goo on toast Diane had presented me with the previous morning - scrambled eggs, I'd assumed -  my nutritional intake had consisted only of a Mars bar.

Selecting a couple of Danish pastries, I found a quiet table over in the corner. Judging by the coffee rings and strewn brioche crumbs, I wasn't the first breakfaster of the day to lay my tray there. There was a newspaper too, a French language one, its back page up: Espagne 1 Oland 5.  The World Cup in Brazil had started. As I sipped at my cappuccino, I recalled the sweepstakes we'd always used to have in the CID room. Almost always I'd pull some complete minnow out of the bag. Honduras or Slovenia or Jamaica, my tenner in practically blown before a ball was even kicked. No, I'd never had any luck with things like that. Never been much of a gambler.

But wasn't that what I was doing now, I wondered as I got back in the van and turned the ignition? Taking a gamble? Having a bit of a punt?  

It would all probably just turn out to be a long and expensive detour.

Something to distract me, that was all.

*

By nine o'clock I'd reached the outskirts of Cologne; by twenty past, was pulling into a hotel in the modern part of the city centre. Unlike her British counterparts, the receptionist was blessed not only by a pleasant, easy smile but also by a full command of the English language. There were vacancies for that night, she informed me, but unfortunately I was too early. Overnight guests were still to check-out, the cleaning crew yet to finish their rounds. But yes, in the meantime, of course I could leave the van in the car park. Throwing her a 'danke scheon', and thus in those two words exhausting my entire knowledge of the German language, I grabbed a city centre map from the leaflet rack and headed out to the old town.

It was here, amongst the tight cluster of cobbled lanes off Urusulastrasse that I found what I was looking for. Noting down the name of the alley and nearby landmarks, I then took a stroll along banks of the Rhine, wound my way leisurely back to the hotel.

My room was reaaonably spacious, passably pleasant. On the third floor, it faced back the way I'd just come - the dark, twin-spired cathedral looming over the clutter of office blocks. I didn't spend much time admiring the view however, dozed through the afternoon and early evening. Waking, I caught a bit of the World Cup as I showered and got ready. At around ten, I finally  headed out for a bite to eat. England v Italy - the big game Gordon Foster had mentioned the day before - kicked off at midnight Central European Time.

*

They were last heard of somewhere in Germany, he working as a brickie...

Ran 'em all the way out of the country in the end. All the way to Cologne. Spring of '82. From there, the trail runs cold...