by Peter Tonkin
Beyond cleaning the blood off the leather as soon as he got back to the H.M. car park, he had paid very little attention to the inside of the car. Robin had disapproved of it and so he had neglected it as part of his continuing care for her. Now he returned to it. And there, wedged in a tiny, leather and Wilton-walled valley between the side of the seat and the door-frame, edge-up, reflecting the colours of its environment like a chameleon, and therefore almost perfectly invisible, was the last remaining minidisk from the wrecked recorder in the office.
Richard pressed PLAY, eased the big silver plastic headphones over his ears and closed his eyes. They had all listened to the disk, discussed it - squabbled over what they thought they could hear on it. The only thing they had agreed on - agreed to accept, on Richard’s say-so - was that the voice that answered belonged to James Jones, the dead Captain of the Goodman Richard. But, of course, after Inspector Nolan’s comments and after everything else that had happened, Richard wasn’t so certain now.
Or rather, he hadn’t been until Frances Bacon made that vital link which pulled it all together in his mind: ‘It must mean something, Richard, or the office wouldn’t have been targeted. Bacon, Constable have been in the business for years. Nothing like this has ever happened before. Yet within a day of this phone call the office is attacked. Robin and I are damn nearly killed - though I think that could be as much to do with that faulty door-lock as with malice aforethought. But it happened. There has to be a link. Therefore this has to be vitally important.’
Then Jim had added, reasonably, ‘Look. Richard, Maggie’s voice expert Professor German has a copy now - but nothing to compare it with. You’re the best man to help us. Put on the earphones, close your eyes, and make a mental list of the pictures and ideas the phone call actually calls into your mind. We know it’s on or near a ship, on or near the sea. But there’s a lot of ships and a lot of seashores in the world. If it’s going to help us, we need you to fill in more detail. Any detail. No matter how small or irrelevant it seems.’
What he hadn’t added was the most important thing - that set Richard’s subconscious mind alight: it’ll give you something to do that will take your mind off Robin for a while. Something that she got hurt preserving for us. Something that might make sense of what has happened to her - if you can explain it for us.
Richard pressed PLAY and eased the phones over his ears. He closed his eyes. His whole head filled with the whispers and crackles of connection, seeming to speak of vast distances and open spaces.
The ring-tone. Seemingly closer, apparently very close. Closeness dismissed as an illusion, like the distances had been. It was a satellite link. Of course there were distances. And it could be answered in Tooting or Timbuktu.
Five rings. The shock of the sound almost stopping his heart. So immediate, within the headphones, so intimate.
Connection.
Richard squeezed his eyes closed and allowed the sounds to speak directly to his imaginative memory, fleshing out each tinkle and whisper with the idea of what had made it, setting up a visual soundscape, as though listening to Beethoven’s Pastoral, Dvorak’s New World or Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition...
Clanking, crashing, a low powerful rumbling he hadn’t noticed before, almost lost beneath the seagulls’ cries and that strange flapping clapping. A crane or winch lifting. Grumbling and grating. Loading and unloading. Containers...? The picture fell into place. A container ship in port, gulls hovering, cranes and winches working. Someone flapping and clapping. A grunting cry. Cut off at once.
‘YES?' So loud it made his head ring. James Jones appeared in the phantom image, just as Richard remembered him, but clutching a cellphone, angry, worried; disturbed.
The sounds continued. Containers rose and fell behind him. Gulls wheeled behind them, white in bright sunlight and black against blue sky. And the clapping continued. Charles Lee appeared mockingly in the picture, clapping at the Captain’s cunning in escaping wreck, inquiry, censure, perhaps criminal charge. Paul Ho and May Chung’s evidence would speak of panic, when the masts went down, of recriminations and confrontations. But the prosecution would dismiss Paul as a babyminder, not a sail handler. And May as little more than a child in any case...
Distracted, Richard missed the rest of the moment, until Jones’s next ‘YES?’ half deafened him again and recalled him to the task in hand.
Jim’s voice, ‘CHARLES, IS THAT YOU?’ deafening - it was well he was prepared.
But after the echo, a surge in sound as though the equipment were trying to compensate. That flapping, croaking clapping sound. So alien. So familiar. Like the trace of a spice in the flavor of a curry.
‘WHAT?’ Simple confusion in Jones’s tone. That this, of all questions, should have been asked of him now.
His own voice, ‘JONES? CAPTAIN JAMES JONES?’
Breathing. Breath sucked in with shock. Richard hadn’t heard that before. That he had been found? That - like Richard on the far end of the line - he recognized the voice?
The rustle of movement as the call’s recipient turned suddenly.
The clapping croaking flapping moving up, up and away...
CLICK.
The hiss of empty tape.
The picture conjured by the sounds still lingered in Richard’s tight-closed eyes. James Jones, holding the cellphone, hesitated on the ghost of a container ship, with the crates being dropped and lifted behind him and the gulls and the sky behind that. And the outline of a dock area, white against the deep blue, sunwashed sky.
And a pelican flapping away down the wind clapping its beak open and closed as it went. An Australian pelican, like the ones in the advert Robin had found the phone number written on. Like the ones you found in Sydney, and a range of harbours up and down the eastern Australian coast.
Where the container vessel Sanna Maru was working currently, with Elroy Kim, her radio operator, waiting to be called to the Bailey, because he was the only man other than Lionheart’s Sparks to have talked to Goodman Richard that day. Sanna Maru: the one vessel that had come past Lionheart on the fatal day close enough for Richard to make out at least part of her name.
Chapter 26: Trial
Richard watched Robin, thinking how infinitely desirable she looked. But utterly unavailable, unfortunately. And for the foreseeable future, too. He’d have to take up golf like William, his son, he thought. Golf and cold showers. Or go out sailing: that would be better - just as expensively distracting and the cold showers never stopped.
Robin was lying on her back in the physiotherapy pool wearing a black swimsuit. It was not designed to be anything other than the exercise garment that it was - as the movements she was performing were not designed to be anything other than simple, muscle-building exercises. But the swimsuit moulded itself to every curve and cranny of her like the pelt of a swimming otter, like the fur of a diving seal. And the exercise simply drove him to distraction.
They had discussed again the theory - which she shared with Frances Bacon - that the damage done to the investigator and herself by the arson attack had been almost accidental. That it had been caused as much by the faulty lock on the back door and their need to escape through the burning room as by the plans of the arsonists themselves. That already faulty lock had probably - as the police now believed - been finally, fatally damaged by whoever had broken in to plant the incendiary device. He could see how this all made her feel more secure - better to be an accidental victim than a target for assassination. But he had pointed out that it didn’t make any difference at law - any more than if a punch in a brawl broke a neck instead of a nose. Certainly the attempted murder charge would be likely to stand if they ever caught anyone for the crime.
‘That’s not the point I’m making,’ she had countered. ‘I mean that, if the fire wasn’t meant to kill us, then what was it supposed to do?’
‘Scare us off. Destroy any evidence...’
‘Or egg us on, perhaps. Like the magazine in Argo’s toilet. Point us in
a certain direction. I mean, unlike everything else aboard, it was left there on purpose, wasn’t it? Or do you think Smithers was planning to tidy up when he fell overboard with half a bottle of Scotch in him and got tangled in the anchor chain?’
‘But why in God’s name would anyone want to point us in any direction at all?’
‘Why do they want to do any of it? Perhaps, like Jim said so long ago, it’s all set up for something that has yet to happen. Perhaps Dr Walton did mean that he had spoken to Charles Lee yesterday. Perhaps it’s all still working its way out and there’s something important yet to happen.’
Richard shrugged. Oxford v. Moss, he thought. The secret test-paper read - the examination yet to be sat. They fell silent. Robin returned to her exercises.
As she went through the routine designed to strengthen the muscles of her damaged legs, she lazily did a kind of belly-up breaststroke from the waist down. With hypnotic regularity she gathered her heels into her groin as her thighs fell wide. Then she kicked out and stretched her thighs wider still - as wide as they would go - before drawing her ankles together, seemingly almost lazily, against the resistance of the water. From knees upwards, the muscles and tendons of the inner thigh gathered from rest to definition, from definition to rigidity as they pulled the splayed legs closed, toes pointed as though she were dancing water-ballet.
‘Talking of being directed in certain directions, is there still no news from Australia?’ she asked, more loudly than necessary and he jumped almost guiltily. She had seen the direction of his gaze and read his unmasked expression all too well.
But when he looked up at her face, the level grey of her eyes contained the warmth of an understanding smile. He grinned back almost shyly. ‘Nothing,’ he answered ruefully. ‘After all our recent accidents and adventures, Jim was going to try the official route first, after he found where Sanna Maru is or is heading for - then go under cover only in extremis.’
‘We’ll need to hear from him soon if he’s going to do any good.’
‘I guess so,’ he answered off-handedly. As though he had hardly thought the matter through. But she saw through his casual tone as clearly as he could see through the surface of the exercise pool. ‘After all,’ he added cheerfully, ‘things only look bad now because the prosecution’s been making their case. Things’ll get better once Maggie gets under way.’
It was 14th July, the second Sunday of the trial. Last week had been spent with the prosecution using the glorious Helen Levin to drive the still ill Dr Walton from the jury’s mind - though apart from glamour and publicity she had added little to the prosecution’s case. Then, back to the meat of the matter, Carver Carpenter had produced the last and most junior of Goodman Richard’s officers, who had described the awesome rapidity with which destruction had overtaken the masts and rigging. The utter ruination their fall had brought to the deck and almost all the life-preserving equipment stored upon or beside it. He told of near panic amongst the youngsters and some of the officers - in the face of the calm control of Captain Jones and Second Officer Burke the sail-handler. He told of the way First Officer Ho had vanished below.
No, he admitted in cross examination, he had not seen the Captain order him down to look after the cadets, but would not have been surprised to hear it. He told of the rapid calculations made by desperate men in a tricky situation and the decision to go for help. A decision taken after contact with a larger vessel passing close by, he understood. It was a reasoned plan with a chance of success, he submitted. It was tragic that it had ended in disappearance and death rather than heroic rescue. These were good men and good messmates, he insisted - even under cross examination. Good sailors all, betrayed by bad equipment.
Then there came a troupe of disgruntled cadets who backed his story from points of varyingly terrifying experience, thinly cloaked self-serving distress, and general ignorance. At the conclusion of each piece of evidence, Maggie whispered, ‘Preparing to sue for damages...’ time and time again. But each one digging a little deeper the hole the defence would have to climb out of if Richard was going to survive.
Then, more damagingly still, came an almost embarrassed group of crewmen and women from Lionheart. Their testimony bore out that of the officer and cadets from Goodman Richard, establishing in the jury’s mind - reluctantly and therefore all the more forcefully - the awesome destruction that had been visited on the upper works and hull of the stricken ship. Any doubts cast in the jury’s mind by the obviously self-serving cadets were soon expunged as even the descriptions of Richard’s heroics that his crew - and employees - offered were twisted by Carver Carpenter into yet more proof of a ship destroyed by bad management. And the actions of a man driven by guilt and fear into putting himself and others at terrible risk simply in order to try and save his own sorry reputation.
Finally, as late as Justice Burgo-Blackstone ever let anything get on a Friday afternoon, Quentin Carver Carpenter had risen. ‘My Lord,’ he said. ‘That does not conclude the case for the prosecution, but I must crave your indulgence with my final witnesses. Dr Walton as you know has developed pneumonia and is likely to remain in hospital for a while. Elroy Kim, radio officer of the vessel Sanna Maru, whose evidence should, ah, sink the defence, if you will forgive a little play on words, My Lord, is still at sea somewhere off the Antipodes. He cannot even be reached by videophone until he comes to shore. May I request that his evidence be held in abeyance, therefore, until later in the proceedings?’
‘You may, Mr Carver Carpenter. And your timing, I observe, is, as ever, excellent. We will rise now. And if Mr Kim has not yet come ashore, we will proceed with the defence on Monday. Please prepare yourself accordingly, Mizz DaSilva.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, need I say again what I have said to you nine times now? You must not discuss this trial, or any aspects of it with anyone outside the courtroom...’
They needed one sort of news from Australia but they got another. There came a brisk rap at the door behind Richard, and Doc Weary breezed in before he could be invited. ‘Brought you the Sunday papers,’ he announced. Largely because I seem to be in most of them. Jesus, Robin, you look pretty hot for a cripple, girl...’
Doc was back for the Fastnet Ocean Race next month and had settled into one of the shipping yards Heritage Mariner had a part interest in near Southampton. Here he was fitting Katapult up and getting her ready for the qualifying races and such other sections of the Admiral’s Cup he felt would hone her and her crew to the utmost. He was centred in Southampton and was avowedly sailing all the hours God sent - but he seemed to be up in London a couple of times a day. ‘Aw come on,’ he said when challenged, ‘in Oz we drive further than that to get a decent breakfast in. Can I borrow the Bentley, Richard? I’m insured - fully comp - and I drive like your Great Aunt Jemima. You’re not really using her at all...’
Doc chucked the papers down on to a table and started sorting through them for the sports sections and magazines that contained pictures of himself or his catamaran. Out of the pile slipped the money section of one of the big broadsheets. ‘HERITAGE MARINER’ said the front page headline ominously. ‘HOW MUCH MORE CAN IT STAND?’
The first paragraph was in bold print and larger point than the rest. Richard could read it if he squinted a little.
Every day H.M.’s charismatic CEO Richard Mariner stands in the dock of Court Number One of the Old Bailey drives down the price of his company’s shares on the trading floors of stock exchanges world-wide. It does not matter that he is accused of something that has nothing to do with his own business. It does not matter that he loudly and repeatedly proclaims his innocence. It does not matter that he is, in fact, innocent until proven guilty under British law. Fighting the case is killing his company, little by little and day by day. And he knows it. ‘We have considered withdrawing the shares from trade on a temporary basis,’ admits Harry Black, chief spokesman of H.M.’s accountants, BWG. ‘But we have been advised that it would only further prejudice the case that
Captain Mariner is currently fighting. It’s a Catch 22 situation...’
‘We’re pretty high up the favourites list,’ Doc was exulting. ‘Considering we don’t have all that much recent Admiral’s Cup form. Most of the ones fancied higher than us are well established - been at it for years. The only dark horse standing higher than we are with the bookies is this one Tin Hau. I don’t know much about her. Old Royal Hong Kong Yacht Squadron by all accounts. I seem to remember a name like hers on the Sydney-Hobart a year or two back. But they’ve got everybody all a-buzz now. Hey, look at this. Robin. Look. If this doesn’t heat up the old exercise pool, nothing will.’
This was a picture of Doc, all wild hair and bandanna, exclusive top-of-the-range Storm-brand Seaspray sunglasses in a black band across his eyes. Cheeks and nose zinc painted as though he were Sitting Bull on the way to Little Big Horn and grinning like a lunatic out of the asylum for the day. Standing framed like a nautical Titan against a royal-blue sky, at the great big hi-tech helm of Katapult herself. ‘Not bad for an afternoon on the Solent if I do say so myself,’ he said.
‘Take it away,’ said Robin lazily. ‘Or something might boil over.’
* * *
‘Not bad for a ship of her age,’ said Patrick Cornwall, marine surveyor, soon after 10 a.m. a couple of days later. ‘The deck needed a little work - I have noted here some half-dozen planks sprung and perhaps in need of caulking or sealing. That’s deck planks of course. You are aware, I’m sure, that she was a steel-hulled vessel. And some of the rigging needed replacing, though I did not examine every inch of the suits of sails aboard. The footings of all the masts where they met the deck were beginning to perish - but that is not unusual. That junction - of deck and mast - is where most of the wear tends to come. It is not a danger unless it is left too long and it is easy enough to take care of. I can go into much more technical detail as to specific points if you wish. As to yards, halliards, coamings, carlings. Kedges knees and stanchions...’ He hunched forward over his notes, alternately glancing up and down. He was past retirement age and growing a little hesitant perhaps, but teak-dark and good-looking. Maggie had great hopes for him - particularly with the six women on the jury.