Page 149 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘Come on, let’s grab our bags. It’s time to go home.’

Declaração da Polícia de Segurança Pública

(using Google Translate)

STATEMENT FROM THE PUBLIC SECURITY POLICE

Portuguese police have confirmed reports that a man was picked up by a trawler boat after he fell in the water from the Galaxy Goddess during the farewell party to celebrate the end of a two-week cruise from Monte Carlo to Lisbon. Theo C. Stratin is a British national wanted for questioning in relation to crimes committed in the UK together with a recent diamond theft on board the cruise ship. It’s believed he drifted close to the coast where he was spotted by the crew of an illegal bottom trawler unaware of the search and rescue mission. Since they are undeclared and operating without a licence, they are not tracked by port detection or satellite-based surveillance systems, thus the suspect was able to leave the port without being detained.

Detective Inspector Afonso Henriques commented, ‘It’s a miracle he survived; and while it’s disappointing he was not apprehended at the port and taken into custody, I am confident it is only a matter of time before he is found and brought in for questioning.’

Anyone with information relating to this matter, please contact their local police station.

Back On Dry Land

Only A Matter of Time

One week later

London

Early morning and the city is already bustling as Maggie walks purposefully down the street. Double-decker buses, street-cleaners, traffic, pedestrians and so much noise. It’s a world away from what used to greet her when she stepped out of the caravan into open fields and birdsong . . . and quite often a fresh cowpat. It’s strange. She only packed up and left a few days ago, but already it feels like a lifetime ago, receding in her memory like something that had happened to someone else. But then that’s probably because she had been someone else when she lived there, someone else entirely.

Better still, it turns out she isn’t the only one to find her way back. When she returned to the caravan, there was a surprise waiting for her. George the cat. Curled up on the step, snoozing in the sun, like he’d never gone away. He even brought her a gift, a dead mouse, so that was nice. That said, she isn’t going to take any chances this time, and is firmly keeping him inside from now on.

So now everything is sorted. She’s straightened things out with the council. Thanked the farmer. Towed her caravan to the scrap yard. Even stuck two fingers up at the cyclist in Lycra when she went back to the farm shop to get supplies for her journey to London. Admittedly it was behind his back and she wasn’t 100 per cent sure if it was the same cyclist in Lycra who’d insulted her a few weeks ago, but frankly all those middle-aged men in Lycra hogging the roads and nearly knocking everyone down deserved to have two fingers stuck up at them.

And while she isn’t going to miss the caravan with its mould or condensation or leaking windows stuffed with paper towels, she feels grateful to the refuge it gave her to feel shitty and sad, because it’s how she got to be the person she is now: a woman walking confidently down a London street on a busy Friday morning. On her way to do what she’s been meant to do for ever – to finally get her dad’s watch fixed. She took it off when she was packing – she didn’t want to damage it – and it’s stopped working again. Maybe it needs a new battery.

She checks the address again on her new phone. It must be here somewhere . . . ah yes, there it is. Tucked away down a side street is a shop selling watches and offering repairs. As she pushes open the door, the bell rings.

The Algarve

He steps inside, his eyes taking a moment to adjust after the bright sunshine outside. As the door closes behind him, a man appears from behind the plastic ribbon curtain at the back of the shop.

‘Olá, como posso ajudá-lo?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Portuguese.’

‘How can I help you?’

The man eyes him warily. Not surprising, considering he hasn’t showered for a week and he needs a good shave. He knows the police are after him and he’s been trying to keep a low profile. If it hadn’t been for the shoplifting skills he learned as a kid, he would have gone hungry. That and all the stupid tourists on the beach who think they’re hiding their valuables if they put them under their towels when they go for a swim. Amazing, really, how many people still carry cash.

‘I’ve got a Rolex I’d like you to look at.’

The owner of the pawn shop pushes his spectacles up his nose in ready anticipation. He takes it off his wrist and hands it over. It’s his getaway money. His way out. He needs a new phone, a new passport. He met a man in a bar last night that says for the right price, he can get him some fake ID, no problem. No way is he going back to the UK to face the music. You don’t jump nineteen decks off a cruise ship and survive to meekly hand yourself in to the Old Bill. Admittedly it all got a little out of hand, but them’s the breaks.

The owner examines his watch with a magnifying loupe, then places it on the counter.

‘One moment, I just need to check something.’

Watching him disappear behind the plastic ribbon curtain, he does some quick mental arithmetic. Fifty per cent of the original value? Seventy-five per cent? He wasn’t sure of the going rate for pawning a watch, but regardless, it would still be a pretty penny. What a shame about the American heiress. There would’ve been plenty more where that came from. Silly old dear, she was so easy to con.

‘Hello, senhor, is there a problem?’

He was taking ages. What was he doing back there?

A few moments and then the owner reappears, his expression grim.