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‘With the same twenty-five ex-crew members lined up on deck with pistols at their backs and Captain Imrie and his thugs politely asking the Navy boys what their next move was going to be?’
‘I’ll get into my pyjamas,’ Hunslett said tiredly. At the doorway he paused and turned. ‘If the Nantesville had gone, her crew – the new crew -have gone too and we’ll be having no visitors after all. Had you thought of that?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t really believe it either.’
They came at twenty past four in the morning. They came in a very calm and orderly and law-abiding and official fashion, they stayed for forty minutes and by the time they had left I still wasn’t sure whether they were our men or not.
Hunslett came into my small cabin, starboard side forward, switched on the light and shook me. ‘Wake up,’ he said loudly. ‘Come on. Wake up.’
I was wide awake. I hadn’t closed an eye since I’d lain down. I groaned and yawned a bit without overdoing it then opened a bleary eye. There was no one behind him.
‘What is it? What do you want?’ A pause. ‘What the hell’s up? It’s just after four in the morning.’
‘Don’t ask me what’s up,’ Hunslett said irritably. ‘Police. Just come aboard. They say it’s urgent.’
‘Police? Did you say, “police”?’
‘Yes. Come on, now. They’re waiting.’
‘Police? Aboard our boat? What -’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! How many more nightcaps did you have last night after I went to bed? Police. Two of them and two customs. It’s urgent, they say.’
‘It better bloody well be urgent. In the middle of the bloody night. Who do they think we are -escaped train robbers? Haven’t you told them who we are? Oh, all right, all right, all right! I’m coming.’
Hunslett left, and thirty seconds afterwards I joined him in the saloon. Four men sat there, two police officers and two customs officials. They didn’t look a very villainous bunch to me. The older, bigger policeman got to his feet. A tall, burly, brown-faced sergeant in his late forties, he looked me over with a cold eye, looked at the near-empty whisky bottle with the two unwashed glasses on the table, then looked back at me. He didn’t like wealthy yachtsmen. He didn’t like wealthy yachtsmen who drank too much at nighttime and were bleary-eyed, bloodshot and tousle-haired at the following crack of dawn. He didn’t like wealthy effete yachtsmen who wore red silk dragon Chinese dressing-gowns with a Paisley scarf to match tied negligently round the neck. I didn’t like them very much myself, especially the Paisley scarf, much in favour though it was with the yachting fraternity: but I had to have something to conceal those bruises on my neck.
‘Are you the owner of this boat, sir?’ the sergeant inquired. An unmistakable West Highland voice and a courteous one, but it took him all his time to get his tongue round the ‘sir.’
‘If you would tell me what makes it any of your damn’ business,’ I said unpleasantly, ‘maybe I’ll answer that and maybe I won’t. A private boat is the same as a private house, Sergeant. You have to have a warrant before you shove your way in. Or don’t you know the law?’
‘He knows the law,’ one of the customs men put in. A small dark character, smooth-shaven at four in the morning, with a persuasive voice, not West Highland. ‘Be reasonable. This is not the sergeant’s job. We got him out of bed almost three hours ago. He’s just obliging us.’
I ignored him. I said to the sergeant: ‘This is the middle of the night in a lonely Scottish bay. How would you feel if four unidentified men came aboard in the middle of the night?’ I was taking a chance on that one, but a fair chance. If they were who I thought they might be and if I were who they thought I might be, then I’d never talk like that. But an innocent man would. ‘Any means of identifying yourselves?’
‘Identifying myself?’ The sergeant stared coldly at me. ‘I don’t have to identify myself. Sergeant MacDonald. I’ve been in charge of the Torbay police station for eight years. Ask any man in Torbay. They all know me.’ If he was who he claimed to be this was probably the first time in his life that anyone had asked him for identification. He nodded to the seated policeman. ‘Police-Constable MacDonald.’
‘Your son?’ The resemblance was unmistakable. ‘Nothing like keeping it in the family, eh, Sergeant?’ I didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but I felt I’d been an irate householder long enough. A degree less truculence was in order. ‘And customs, eh? I know the law about you, too. No search warrants for you boys. I believe the police would like your powers. Go anywhere you like and ask no one’s permission beforehand. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ It was the younger customs man who answered. Medium height, fair hair, running a little to fat, Belfast accent, dressed like the other in blue overcoat, peaked hat, brown gloves, smartly creased trousers. ‘We hardly ever do, though. We prefer co-operation. We like to ask.’
‘And you’d like to ask to search this boat, is that it?’ Hunslett said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why?’ I asked. Puzzlement now in my voice. And in my mind. I just didn’t know what I had on my hands. ‘If we’re all going to be so courteous and co-operative, could we have any explanation?’
‘No reason in the world why not, sir.’ The older customs man was almost apologetic. ‘A truck with contents valued at £12,000 was hi-jacked on the Ayrshire coast last night – night before last, that is, now. In the news this evening. From information received, we know it was transferred to a small boat. We think it came north.’
‘Why?’
‘Sorry, sir. Confidential. This is the third port we’ve visited and the thirteenth boat – the fourth in Torbay – that we’ve been on in the past fifteen hours. We’ve been kept on the run, I can tell you.’ An easy friendly voice, a voice that said: ‘You don’t really think we suspect you. We’ve a job to do, that’s all.’
‘And you’re searching all boats that have come up from the south. Or you think have come from there. Fresh arrivals, anyway. Has it occurred to you that any boat with hi-jacked goods on board wouldn’t dare pass through the Crinan canal? Once you’re in there, you’re trapped. For four hours. So he’d have to come round the Mull of Kintyre. We’ve been here since this afternoon. It would take a pretty fast boat to get up here in that time.’
‘You’ve got a pretty fast boat here, sir,’ Sergeant MacDonald said. I wondered how the hell they managed it, from the Western Isles to the East London docks every sergeant in the country had the same wooden voice, the same wooden face, the same cold eye. Must be something to do with the uniform. I ignored him.
‘What are we – um – supposed to have stolen?’
‘Chemicals. It was an I.C.I. truck.’
‘Chemicals?’ I looked at Hunslett, grinned, then turned back to the customs officer. ‘Chemicals, eh? We’re loaded with them. But not £12,000 worth, I’m afraid.’
There was a brief silence. MacDonald said: ‘Would you mind explaining, sir?’
‘Not at all.’ I lit a cigarette, the little mind enjoying its big moment, and smiled. ‘This is a government boat, Sergeant MacDonald. I thought you would have seen the flag. Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries. We’re marine biologists. Our after cabin is a floating laboratory. Look at our library here.’ Two shelves loaded with technical tomes. ‘And if you’ve still any doubt left I can give you two numbers, one in Glasgow, one in London, that will establish our bona fides. Or phone the lock-master in the Crinan sea-basin. We spent last night there.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The lack of impression I had made on the sergeant was total. ‘Where did you go in your dinghy this evening?’
‘I beg your pardon, Sergeant?’
‘You were seen to leave this boat in a black rubber dinghy about five o’clock this evening.’ I’d heard of icy fingers playing up and down one’s spine but it wasn’t fingers I felt then, it was a centipede with a hundred icy boots on. ‘You went out into the Sound. Mr McIlroy, the postmaster, saw you.’
‘I hate to impugn the character of a fellow civil servant but he must have been drunk.’ Funny how an icy feeling could make you sweat. ‘I haven’t got a black rubber dinghy. I’ve never owned a black rubber dinghy. You just get out your little magnifying glass, Sergeant, and if you can find a black rubber dinghy I’ll make you a present of the brown wooden dinghy, which is the only one we have on the Firecrest.’
The wooden expression cracked a little. He wasn’t so certain now. ‘So you weren’t out?’
‘I was out. In our own dinghy. I was just round the corner of Garve Island there, collecting some marine samples from the Sound. I can show them to you in the after cabin. We’re not here on holiday, you know.’
‘No offence, no offence.’ I was a member of the working classes now, not a plutocrat, and he could afford to thaw a little. ‘Mr McIlroy’s eyesight isn’t what it was and everything looks black against the setting sun. You don’t look the type, I must say, who’d land on the shores of the Sound and bring down the telephone wires to the mainland.’
The centipede started up again and broke into a fast gallop. Cut off from the mainland. How very convenient for somebody. I didn’t spend any time wondering who had brought the wires down – it had been no act of God, I was sure of that.
‘Did you mean what I thought you to mean, Sergeant?’ I said slowly. ‘That you suspected me -’
‘We can’t take chances, sir.’ He was almost apologetic now. Not only was I a working man, I was a man working for the Government. All men working for the Government are ipso facto respectable and trustworthy citizens.
‘But you won’t mind if we take a little look round?’ The dark-haired customs officer was even more apologetic. ‘The lines are down and, well, you know …’ His voice trailed off and he smiled. ‘If you were the hi-jackers – I appreciate now that it’s a chance in a million, but still – and if we didn’t search – well, we’d be out of a job to-morrow. Just a formality.’
‘I wouldn’t want to see that happen, Mr -ah -’
‘Thomas. Thank you. Your ship’s papers? Ah, thank you.’ He handed them to the younger man.
‘Let’s see now. Ah, the wheelhouse. Could Mr Durran here use the wheelhouse to make copies? Won’t take five minutes.’
‘Certainly. Wouldn’t he be more comfortable here?’
‘We’re modernised now, sir. Portable photocopier. Standard on the job. Has to be dark. Won’t take five minutes. Can we begin in this laboratory of yours?’
A formality, he’d said. Well, he was right there, as a search it was the least informal thing I’d ever come across. Five minutes after he’d gone to the wheelhouse Durran came aft to join us and he and Thomas went through the Firecrest as if they were looking for the Koh-i-noor. To begin with, at least. Every piece of mechanical and electrical equipment in the after cabin had to be explained to them. They looked in every locker and cupboard. They rummaged through the ropes and fenders in the large stern locker aft of the laboratory and I thanked God I hadn’t followed my original idea of stowing the dinghy, motor and scuba gear in there. They even examined the after toilet. As if I’d be careless enough to drop the Koh-i-noor in there.
They spent most time of all in the engine-room. It was worth examining. Everything looked brand new, and gleamed. Two big 100 h.p. diesels, diesel generator, radio generator, hot and cold water pumps, central heating plant, big oil and water tanks and the two long rows of lead-acid batteries. Thomas seemed especially interested in the batteries.
‘You carry a lot of reserve there, Mr Petersen,’ he said. He’d learnt my name by now, even though it wasn’t the one I’d been christened with. ‘Why all the power?’
‘We haven’t even got enough. Care to start those two engines by hand? We have eight electric motors in the lab. – and the only time they’re used, in harbour, we can’t run either the engines or generators to supply juice. Too much interference. A constant drain.’ I was ticking off my fingers. ‘Then there’s the central heating, hot and cold water pumps, radar, radio, automatic steering, windlass, power winch for the dinghy, echo-sounder, navigation lights -’
‘You win, you win.’ He’d become quite friendly by this time. ‘Boats aren’t really in my line. Let’s move forward, shall we?’
The remainder of the inspection, curiously, didn’t take long. In the saloon I found that Hunslett had persuaded the Torbay police force to accept the hospitality of the Firecrest. Sergeant MacDonald hadn’t exactly become jovial, but he was much more human than when he’d come on board. Constable MacDonald, I noticed, didn’t seem so relaxed. He looked positively glum. Maybe he didn’t approve of his old man consorting with potential criminals.
If the examination of the saloon was cursory, that of the two forward cabins was positively perfunctory. Back in the saloon, I said:
‘Sorry I was a bit short, gentlemen. I like my sleep. A drink before you go?’
‘Well.’ Thomas smiled. ‘We don’t want to be rude either. Thank you.’
Five minutes and they were gone. Thomas didn’t even glance at the wheelhouse – Durran had been there, of course. He had a quick look at one of the deck lockers but didn’t bother about the others. We were in the clear. A civil good-bye on both sides and they were gone. Their boat, a big indeterminate shape in the darkness, seemed to have plenty of power.
‘Odd,’ I said.
‘What’s odd?’
‘That boat. Any idea what it was like?’
‘How could I?’ Hunslett was testy. He was as short of sleep as I was. ‘It was pitch dark.’
‘That’s just the point. A gentle glow in their wheelhouse – you couldn’t even see what that was like – and no more. No deck lights, no interior lights, no navigation lights even.’
‘Sergeant MacDonald has been looking out over this harbour for eight years. Do you need light to find your way about your own living-room after dark?’
‘I haven’t got twenty yachts and cruisers in my living-room swinging all over the place with wind and tide. And wind and tide doesn’t alter my own course when I’m crossing my living-room. There are only three boats in the harbour carrying anchor lights. He’ll have to use something to see where he’s going.’
And he did. From the direction of the receding sound of engines a light stabbed out into the darkness. A five-inch searchlight, I would have guessed. It picked up a small yacht riding at anchor less than a hundred yards ahead of it, altered to starboard, picked up another, altered to port, then swung back on course again.
‘“Odd” was the word you used,’ Hunslett murmured. ‘Quite a good word, too, in the circumstances. And what are we to think of the alleged Torbay police force?’
‘You talked to the sergeant longer than I did. When I was aft with Thomas and Durran.’
‘I’d like to think otherwise,’ Hunslett said inconsequentially. ‘It would make things easier, in a way. But I can’t. He’s a genuine old-fashioned cop and a good one, too. I’ve met too many. So have you.’
‘A good cop and an honest one,’ I agreed. ‘This is not his line of country and he was fooled. It is our line of country and we were fooled. Until now, that is.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘Thomas made one careless remark. An offbeat remark. You didn’t hear it – we were in the engine-room.’ I shivered, maybe it was the cold night wind. ‘It meant nothing – not until I saw that they didn’t want their boat recognised again. He said: ‘Boats aren’t really in my line.’ Probably thought he’d been asking too many questions and wanted to reassure me. Boats not in his line – a customs officer and boats not in his line. They only spend their lives aboard boats, examining boats, that’s all. They spend their lives looking and poking in so many odd corners and quarters that they know more about boats than the designers themselves. Another thing, did you notice how sharply dressed they were? A credit to Carnaby Street.’
‘Customs officers don’t usually go around in oil-stained overalls.’
‘They’ve been living in those clothes for twenty-four hours. This is the what – the thirteenth boat they’ve searched in that time. Would you still have knife-edged creases to your pants after that lot? Or would you say they’d only just taken them from the hangers and put them on?’
‘What else did they say? What else did they do?’ Hunslett spoke so quietly that I could hear the note of the engines of the customs’ boat fall away sharply as their searchlight lit up the low-water stone pier, half a mile away. ‘Take an undue interest in anything?’
‘They took an undue interest in everything. Wait a minute, though, wait a minute. Thomas seemed particularly intrigued by the batteries, by the large amount of reserve electrical power we had.’
‘Did he now? Did he indeed? And did you notice how lightly our two customs friends swung aboard their launch when leaving?’
‘They’ll have done it a thousand times.’
‘Both of them had their hands free. They weren’t carrying anything. They should have been carrying something.’
‘The photo-copier. I’m getting old.’
‘The photo-copier. Standard equipment my ruddy foot. So if our fair-haired pal wasn’t busy photo-copying he was busy doing something else.’
We moved inside the wheelhouse. Hunslett selected the larger screw-driver from the tool-rack beside the echo-sounder and had the face-plate off our R.T.D./D.F. set inside sixty seconds. He looked at the interior for five seconds, looked at me for the same length of time, then started screwing the face-plate back into position. One thing was certain, we wouldn’t be using that transmitter for a long time to come.
I turned away and stared out through the wheelhouse windows into the darkness. The wind was still rising, the black sea gleamed palely as the whitecaps came marching in from the south-west, the Firecrest snubbed sharply on her anchor chain and, with the wind and the tide at variance, she was beginning to corkscrew quite noticeably now. I felt desperately tired. But my eyes were still working. Hunslett offered me a cigarette. I didn’t want one, but I took one. Who knew, it might even help me to think. And then I had caught his wrist and was staring down at his palm.
‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘The cobbler should stick to his last.’ ‘He what?’
‘Wrong proverb. Can’t think of the right one. A good workman uses only his own tools. Our pal with the penchant for smashing valves and condensers should have remembered that. No wonder my neck was twitching when Durran was around. How did you cut yourself?’
‘I didn’t cut myself.’
‘I know. But there’s a smear of blood on your palm. He’s been taking lessons from Peter Sellers, I shouldn’t wonder. Standard southern English on the Nantesville, northern Irish on the Firecrest. I wonder how many other accents he has up his sleeve – behind his larynx, I should say. And I thought he was running to a little fat. He’s running to a great deal of muscle. You noticed he never took his gloves off, even when he had that drink?’
‘I’m the best noticer you ever saw. Beat me over the head with a club and I’ll notice anything.’ He sounded bitter. ‘Why didn’t they clobber us? You, anyway? The star witness?’
‘Maybe we have moved out of our class. Two reasons. They couldn’t do anything with the cops there, genuine cops as we’ve both agreed, not unless they attended to the cops too. Only a madman would deliberately kill a cop and whatever those boys may lack it isn’t sanity.’
‘But why cops in the first place?’
‘Aura of respectability. Cops are above suspicion. When a uniformed policeman shoves his uniformed cap above your gunwale in the dark watches of the night, you don’t whack him over the head with a marline-spike. You invite him aboard. All others you might whack, especially if we had the bad consciences we might have been supposed to have.’
‘Maybe. It’s arguable. And the second point?’
‘They took a big chance, a desperate chance, almost, with Durran. He was thrown to the wolves to see what the reaction would be, whether either of us recognised him.’
‘Why Durran?’
‘I didn’t tell you. I shone a torch in his face. The face didn’t register, just a white blur with screwed-up eyes half-hidden behind an upflung hand. I was really looking lower down, picking the right spot to kick him. But they weren’t to know that. They wanted to find out if we would recognise him. We didn’t. If we had done we’d either have started throwing the crockery at him or yelped for the cops to arrest them – if we’re against them then we’re with the cops. But we didn’t. Not a flicker of recognition. Nobody’s as good as that. I defy any man in the world to meet up again in the same night with a man who has murdered two other people and nearly murdered himself without at least twitching an eyebrow. So the immediate heat is off, the urgent necessity to do us in has become less urgent. It’s a safe bet that if we didn’t recognise Durran, then we recognised nobody on the Nantesville and so we won’t be burning up the lines to Interpol.’
‘We’re in the dear?’
‘I wish to God we were. They’re on to us.’
