Blue Blood

by Peter Tonkin

  But Richard needed to be driving almost on automatic pilot as he tried to work out what on earth had spooked Robin so badly. Clearly there was some kind of witch-hunt in progress. And by the sound of it he was the witch being hunted. Beyond that he could see nothing but groundless speculation. But within that there was one clear course of action. He must contact Andrew Atherton Balfour. Andrew would be able to advise - might even be able to come and represent him. And in any case, by now Andrew should have received Robin’s text and have a better idea of what exactly was going on. But the complex lane-system round Hyde Park Corner was by no means the best place to start calling one’s solicitor.

  The phone began to ring, just as Richard was swinging into the left-hand lane that would ease him round into Knightsbridge. A black cab cut him up, the cabby gesturing through the window.

  Richard did not gesture in return but he did tap the button on the hands-free. ‘Mariner?’ ‘Richard? Andrew Balfour. I have Robin’s text. Where are you?’

  ‘Hyde Park Corner. How about you?’

  ‘Harrods. Shopping for Maggie.’

  ‘That’s handy. I’ll be coming past in about five minutes. Can I give you a lift anywhere while we talk?’

  ‘To Penzance by the sound of things. Maggie will be grumpy but I’ll placate her. It’s only another Bar dinner. And I’ll get my partners to cover my bread-and-butter in the meantime.’

  ‘Good of you. I’ll be outside in about three minutes.’

  ‘I’ll be there. It’s quite exciting really. A bit like ER: doctor on call. What’ll I look for?’

  ‘Bentley Continental GT. Steel grey.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Andrew.

  Then, ‘Bloody hell,’ said Andrew again as he settled into the passenger seat and looked around as Richard accelerated away towards the Brompton Oratory. ‘I’ll bet Robin just loves this. Have you gone off your trolley? Talk about second childhood!’

  ‘Cheaper than your old Aston Martin, I’d say.’

  ‘Really? But probably no cheaper than the new DB.’ Andrew sounded speculative suddenly. ‘Still, what are the specs?’

  Richard smiled. ‘Later. We have six hours. Four, if I disregard the speed limit, I understand. But first of all, what did Robin’s text say?’

  ‘Well, it didn’t actually use the words excrement and fan, but it left me in no doubt that one has hit the other.’

  ‘How? Why?’

  ‘Well, she’s not a lawyer of course, so she’s a bit out of her depth, but there seem to be several things going rapidly from bad to worse. First, the inquiry seems to be much more formal than she supposed. Lawyers all over the shop and one or two pretty high flyers. She mentioned Quentin Carver Carpenter. Never liked him. Something genuinely sinister about him in my opinion. Still, Maggie’ll give us the lowdown on him if she ever speaks to me again because he’s a member of her chambers. And that’s very worrying of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re the leading specialists in shipping law.’

  ‘I see.’ Richard thought through the implications of that for a moment, then proceeded. ‘OK. What next?’

  ‘Extremely formal court. Very High-Church if you see what I mean. Everything by the book and stuffy. Chairman, Mr Justice Somebody-Important, took it very badly that some of the summonses had not been served. Particularly upset that you aren’t there. Silly old dinosaur. And an aptly timed observation if I might say so - isn’t that the Natural History Museum?’

  ‘It is. Anything else?’

  ‘Something she can’t quite put her finger on.’

  ‘This sounds like a hell of a text.’

  ‘I’m reading between the lines for most of it. But it does mention the vile Carver Carpenter. And it does mention Richard.’

  ‘Well, I know it mentions me, Andrew. That’s part of the problem surely.’

  ‘No!’ said Andrew as Richard negotiated them into the right-hand lane on to the Hammersmith Flyover and began to accelerate away towards the M4 motorway. ‘Not you. The other Richard. Goodman Richard. The square-rigger that was wrecked with her captain and senior officers lost. Still no sign of them, is there? And a coroner’s court is sitting on them currently, I understand. Well, not on them. On their disappearance. It’ll be ruling Death by Misadventure, “Lost, presumed drowned”, soon, I should think.’

  Chapter 12: The Road to Lookout

  Richard and the Bentley’s satellite navigation system fell into perfect harmony after the Hammersmith flyover - largely because he did what it told him to do. And the car did exactly what he told it to do, so that, while the potent thrill of the drive was never far beneath the surface, he was able to speculate with Andrew as to what was really going on.

  ‘Have you upset the police or Crown Prosecution Service lately?’ asked the solicitor as they sped past Heston Services at the start of the M4. ‘Because this seems almost like some kind of a trap. It certainly looks as though someone orchestrated something.’

  ‘But who? What? Why?’

  Andrew’s answer was forestalled by the ringing of his own phone. He spent the next few minutes in animated conversation with his wife and they had roared past the M25 interchange before he could talk to Richard again.

  Richard, too, made good use of the interim. He caught enough of the gist of the conversation - one which turned around such practicalities as clean underwear and fresh linen - that he was struck by the obvious himself. And so he took the opportunity to leave a message with Robin’s answering service asking her to make sure there were rooms - beds at least - for the pair of them at her hotel. The distractions were enough to put Richard’s final, comprehensive three-part question firmly on the back-burner - for the moment at least.

  There was silence for a little while after the phone conversations before Andrew roused himself from a brown study to observe, weightily, ‘Women! Eh?’

  ‘Indeed. But what about them in particular?’

  ‘Unpredictable. Maggie doesn’t seem to give a toss about the bar dinner - she’s already lined up half a dozen alternative escorts I bet - but she is outraged that I’ve come away without packing an overnight bag. How can I go into a court without a clean shirt? Will I have cleaned my teeth? Brushed my hair? That sort of thing. God it was like talking to my mother there for an instant.’

  ‘There’ll be shops in Penzance. Marks and Spencer if nothing else. And I dare say someone at the hotel will press your suit if need be.’

  ‘That’s what I said. Fuss about nothing if you ask me.’

  ‘That’s all she’s worried about, is it?’

  ‘Yes! Well, actually, no.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Two things. Carver Carpenter and Justice Cross. She doesn’t want me appearing in front of Carver Carpenter looking as though I’ve come through a hedge backwards. You know they’re at the same chambers? Of course you do.’

  ‘I can understand that she might want you to look your best in front of a professional rival.’

  ‘Stands to reason, I suppose. He’d use whatever he could to undermine her. They’re chalk and cheese. She’s very social. Politically as well. Very trendy. He’s the opposite. Conservative to the nth degree - probably conservative with a small c but you never can tell. Very cliquey. Trouser-roller of course.’

  ‘Well, if it’s important that he’s a Freemason then he’s scored one over on her she can never get back. They don’t generally let women in the Masons.’

  ‘One of the things she’s touchy about. One of several, in fact. Of course he’s a member of the M.C.C.’

  So was Richard but it had never occurred to him that the admittedly male-dominated Marylebone Cricket Club could be used as a weapon against women. And he thought he remembered seeing Andrew in the distinctive egg-and-bacon striped tie that members wore.

  ‘Not to mention White’s...’ continued Andrew mournfully.

  ‘OK. I give up,’ said Richard. ‘I can see why she’s touchy.’ White’s Club, the oldest in St James’s, had
an exclusively ‘No Women’ rule. Had maintained it since the late 1600s, if he remembered correctly.

  ‘And Carver Carpenter is as nothing compared with your Inquiry Chair. Mr Justice Cross,’ concluded Andrew. ‘She certainly doesn’t want me showing her up in front of that picky old buzzard!’

  ‘Lucky you’ll just be sitting in the public gallery, then,’ said Richard cheerily. ‘We haven’t actually retained you formally for the inquiry, so you don’t have to get all gowned up or anything.’

  ‘That’s the thing. That’s where Carver Carpenter is. In the public gallery. He’s not there in any official capacity to do with the Lionheart inquiry, either, according to Maggie. But he’s there for some reason.’

  ‘Some reason to do with Shipping Law.’

  ‘Has to be. And something to do with the powers that be. He’s got all sorts of ambitions. All sorts of contacts. If he had a soul, he’d have sold it by now. If he can find a safe seat he’s off to the Commons by all accounts. He’d like to be Attorney General, they say. He just can’t make up his mind which party he belongs to. Can’t decide who’ll win the next election, I suppose. But he never does anything without an ulterior motive. And he sure as hell doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘So he’s there because there are financial or political pickings?’

  ‘In the area of Shipping Law,’ said Andrew once more, thoughtfully.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Richard uneasily.

  They stopped for a snack in the services at Taunton, something of an education for Andrew, who, childless and therefore protected from modernity, had never tasted a flame-grilled bacon double cheeseburger and fries. Perhaps fortunately, the experience left him speechless. Richard turned on BBC Radio 3 with the Travel Alert as they pulled away and they listened, uninterrupted, to selections from The Flying Dutchman as they drove south-west through the gloom. They had just left the M5 to join the A30 across Bodmin Moor when Robin rang again. It was just coming up to 4 p.m. and Mr Justice Cross had risen early, in the continued absence, as he bitterly observed, of several vital witnesses. She was just about to confirm their rooms and would talk further when they arrived. Both account and battery needed topping up on her phone, so the conversation was brief.

  ‘We’ll be there before six,’ called Richard before she broke contact. ‘What’s the name of the hotel again?’

  ‘The Lookout on Britons Hill.’

  In the silence after contact was broken, the pair of them looked gloomily ahead across the moor. The hilly flanks heaved up towards the misty skirts of cloud that hung, drizzling just in front of them.

  ‘I thought it was supposed to be hot and sunny down here,’ said Richard, as the rain-sensitive wipers began to stir.

  A huge red buzzard skimmed across the bleak landscape in front of them, its wingspan fully six feet wide, seemingly the size of a golden eagle. It banked and overflew the car, unimpressed with the Bentley’s power and beauty, deciding, as lord of all it surveyed, whether or not to kill and eat it.

  Robin brought the pair of them back to Richard’s three-part question over dinner at The Lookout Hotel three hours later. They had already been talking for half an hour over a very reasonable selection of starters, largely of fresh local seafood, more of which was in prospect for the entrée. She had described the proceedings in as much detail as she - as a lay person - could remember. The first thing that had struck her was that Mr Justice Cross was obviously not the Chair the inquiry had been expecting. This had become clear at once for he had introduced himself gruffly to all and explained that Justice Fiona Goodbody was regrettably indisposed. But as he had been available, qualified and happy to replace her, it had been felt by the Ministry, the Marine Accident Investigation Branch and the Lord Chancellor’s Department that the inquiry should proceed as planned.

  ‘But he seemed to have been fully briefed?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘He was on top of everything that was going on, if that’s what you mean,’ answered Robin.

  ‘They were very lucky to get another marine specialist to replace Fiona Goodbody at such short notice,’ mused Andrew. ‘But, as I was saying to you, Richard, with Quentin Carver Carpenter there into the bargain, luck may not have had all that much to do with it.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Robin. ‘And I don’t know what the rest of the people involved were expecting. But they sure as hell weren’t expecting Mr Justice Cross. He gave them all a rough ride from the first instant until the last.’

  ‘Did they ask you any questions?’

  ‘Other than where you were? No. They took testimony from the coastguards and the local lifeboat people, establishing state of weather and sea; the general situation for shipping that night. Particularly shipping in trouble. And around Wolf Rock. Then they asked Sparks some questions. Then they took lunch. This afternoon it was Tom Bartlett and the Chief.’

  ‘They seem to be going pretty slowly,’ said Richard.

  ‘They’re not. It’s because there’s quite a complex situation. The Marine Accident Investigation Branch of the Health and Safety Executive have a team there of course. But then so do our insurers. Did they tell you they’d be doing that, Richard?’

  ‘They said they’d send someone down. Routine oversight. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look routine. That’s all I can say. There’s a team from the local authority, of course - it was their prom after all. There’s a sharp-looking oriental QC from London too. He’s there apparently to represent the interests of some of the survivors. That’s what he called them anyway. And Carver Carpenter keeps scurrying off to talk to this little collection of suits, but they’re just watching from the sidelines. So far.’

  ‘So what you’re saying,’ said Andrew, thoughtfully, ‘is that an apparently low-key inquiry into a well-documented largely resolved incident, has been hijacked by a high-profile hatchetman in the shape of Judge Cross and we suddenly have four top-flight legal teams cross-questioning everyone who gives evidence?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. Yes.’

  ‘In fact the only people who are not represented - who didn’t even get their summons served correctly - are the people who were in command of the vessel in question during the incident in question. Who own the vessel in question. Who actually effected the rescue of some one hundred officers and cadets from the other vessel, whose inquiry date has yet to be announced. And, indeed, who buggered up the promenade in question, come to that.’

  ‘Yup,’ said Robin. ‘That seems to be about the size of it.’

  ‘It’s like the Ides of March all over again! And Heritage Mariner is playing Julius Caesar. Or, at least you two are. You’ve been set up.’

  ‘But how?’ asked Robin desperately. ‘By whom? And why?’

  ‘I’m damned if I know,’ said Andrew. ‘But I’d keep a damn good lookout at the inquiry tomorrow if I were you.’

  Chapter 13: Inquiry

  ‘All rise,’ called a voice Richard obeyed but could not identify. Robin stood at his side. Her hand crept into his and he squeezed it with gentle reassurance. He looked up into the public gallery, seeking in his turn the reassurance of Andrew’s cheery face. No sign. He was probably still at Marks and Spencer trying to find a shirt. He had no trouble in identifying the little group of ‘suits’ that Robin had described, seated in the middle of the front row of the gallery. And, in their midst, the sharp-faced faintly familiar-looking individual who could only be Quentin Carver Carpenter QC. And as Richard was looking up, so Carver Carpenter was looking down. Their eyes met for a disturbing instant. Richard turned to face front.

  Mr Justice Cross entered as he did so. There was no problem in identifying him for he took the ornate central seat on the highest level of the stepped dais which most of the court-room faced. He was not wearing wig or robes but was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit with just the faintest of pin-stripes. It was exquisitely tailored to his spare and lanky frame. The dazzling white of his shirt - starched at collar and cuffs
- was set off by the richness of a damasked silk tie asserted by a tasteful gleam of gold at pin and links. A ring gleamed by a bony knuckle as he laid his bundle of notes and papers on the bench, then bowed - half nod, half shrug - to the assembled Court of Inquiry and sat. His face was long, lined, ascetic and surprisingly dark of hue; his hooded eyes gleamed like the points of gold at cuff and tie-front. His hair was thin, black and shiny as a patent-leather skullcap.

  Cross nodded again and some official - was it the Clerk to the Court? Clerk to the Inquiry perhaps? - rose and read out the nature of the proceedings. As this worthy droned on, Richard continued to look around. The Penzance Guildhall court-room was a large, theatrical space. Like their church at home, it was two full stories high, rising in the middle straight to a vaulted ceiling but with a galleried balcony on three sides. On the third wall, facing the body of the room, hung a portrait of the Queen and the arms of the local authority.

  Under these sat Cross, alone behind a long desk with an empty chair at each shoulder. Before him, at a lower desk, sat other officers of the court: the one that was speaking, someone keeping a record and another Richard could not identify. In fact, he only recognized one other face down there - that of the usher to whom he had identified himself at the door - along with Robin and everyone else who occupied the witness seats down here. The court officers were all in business suits, not robes, but they all had an unmistakable air of belonging there. At one end of the largely vacant lower level of this stepped dais stood what seemed to be a witness box.