Wildtrack

by Bernard Cornwell

  "That tape's a—"

  "I know, Nick!" Abbott held up a weary hand. "We've spoken to Mr Harding, haven't we? And Mr Harding has seen the error of his wicked ways. He hasn't got any proof now, so there can't be a scandalous little story which will upset our American cousins. We don't want to upset them, because they've got all the money these days. We are a client state, Nick."

  "I understand."

  "I don't suppose you do, Nick. Who was the little bloke with you on the night you put nasty holes in nice Mr Bannister's speedboat?"

  "I can't remember, Harry."

  "Make sure he forgets, too. Sleeping dogs should be left slumbering, Nick, and you were in danger of waking them up."

  I offered him another beer. He took it. "Mind you," Abbott went on, "Mr Bannister had a mind to aggravate things. He was unleashing the lawyers on you, but we pointed out that if they found you, and if he pressed charges, then we'd naturally insist that he and his Boer would have to stay in England and give evidence."

  "Which he didn't want to do..." I was beginning to understand some things now ".because it might jeopardize his timing for the St Pierre?"

  "Exactly."

  I tipped my head back and rested it on Sycorax's guardrails. I wondered if I was understanding too much. "You want Bannister to die, don't you?"

  Harry tutted. "You mustn't talk about death, Nick."

  "You want to keep Kassouli's jobs?"

  "I imagine the Chief Clown wants to, yes."

  My head was still tipped back. "Are you a funny boy, Harry?"

  "I'm just the dogsbody, Nick."

  I brought my head forward. This policeman liked to play the genial fool, but his eyes were very shrewd.

  "So Yassir Kassouli gets what he wants?" I said.

  "The rich usually do, Nick." He paused. "And between you and me, and no one else, Mr Kassouli wanted you arrested. He wanted the bloody book thrown at you. But we've persuaded him that we can look after our own. That's what I'm doing now, Nick. Looking after you."

  "This comes from the bloody Government, doesn't it?"

  He heard my anger. "Now, Nick!"

  "Jesus wept!" I drank some beer. "Suppose Bannister's innocent?"

  Abbott shook his head. "Why confuse the issue?" He laughed at me. "Bloody hell, Nick, since when were you the white knight?" I said nothing, and he sighed. "You're a bloody fool, Nick. Why did you go to the press?"

  "I wanted out."

  "You should have talked to me." Abbott looked at me in silence for a few seconds, then shook his head sadly. "Nick, it comes from the top, and you're powerless to do anything. So forget it."

  I made a non-committal noise.

  Abbott drank beer. "I saw your dad last week."

  "How was he?"

  "He misses you. When are you going to see him?" "I wasn't planning on it."

  "I think you should, Nick. In fact I think I'll make that another condition of not arresting you."

  "I thought you said there was no warrant for me anymore?"

  Abbott hefted the gun. "Three years?"

  "How did you find it?"

  He smiled. "Did George tell you I threatened to use a metal detector?"

  I smiled back, remembering the charade. "Yes."

  "Which meant that you'd hide the gun near a piece of metal, so as to confuse your Uncle Harry. So I just had a look at your engine, and hey presto."

  "It's a souvenir, Harry."

  He looked at the barrel. "Ejercito Argentina. Didn't do the silly buggers a lot of good, did it? So, are you going to try and warn Mr Bannister?" I hesitated. Abbott shook his head at my foolishness. "It won't do you any good, Nick. Do you think he'll listen to you?"

  "No."

  "So I'll take it you won't try, which answer will please the Chief Clown. Are you going to stay away from Bannister's house, his television studio, his mistress's house, and everybody else's bloody house?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you going to see your father?"

  "Probably."

  "I'll take that as yes." He fished in his jacket pocket and brought out two Monte Cristo cigars in their tin cases. "Give him these from me, Nick."

  "I will."

  "And, having seen him, are you then going to bugger off in this floating junkyard?"

  "Yes."

  "Welcome back to the human race, Nick Sandman." He dangled the gun by its trigger guard. "I assume this is an arcane piece of yacht safety equipment?"

  I smiled. "Yes, Harry, it is."

  "Then bleeding well hide it where a middle-aged copper doesn't trip over it." He tossed it into my lap. "How much did George offer you for it?"

  "He didn't name a price."

  Abbott laughed, then stood and stretched his long arms. "That's it then, job done. I did try to warn you in the spring."

  "What was the job, Harry?"

  He ignored that question. "I've brought you some sandwiches and I'll leave you the newspapers. They're full of lies, but you might enjoy the comic strips."

  "Thank you, Harry."

  He climbed to the quayside. "You're an awkward bugger, Nick, and you're probably a lazy sod who should get a proper job, but I don't dislike you. And I do like your old man. Tell him I sent my regards."

  "I will."

  "Bon voyage, Nick."

  I fitted the stove after Harry had gone. I gimballed it, connected it up to a gas cylinder, then celebrated the achievement by making myself a cup of tea. The dock stank in the heat. I sat on Sycorax's stern, drank the tea, and read the papers.

  In Northern Ireland a man's kneecaps had been shot away. Iraq and Iran were slagging each other in the desert. The Russians were slagging the peasants in Afghanistan. The miners were slagging everyone. A disease called Aids was threatening to achieve what a millennia of Puritans had failed to do. Unemployment was still rising. England was still being hammered at cricket. Angela's photograph stared at me from an outside page devoted to gossip.

  I stared back at the photograph. For a second I didn't believe it was Angela, but it was. Bannister sat beside her in the picture. There was a story alongside the photograph. 'Almost a year since the tragic death of his first wife, the American heiress Nadeznha Kassouli, Mr Tony Bannister, 46, has announced his engagement to Miss Angela Westmacott. Miss Westmacott, who has never been married before, is a producer on Mr Bannister's programme.' There was more. The wedding would take place very soon, most likely in Paris, and certainly before Bannister set off on his St Pierre attempt. The bride was giving up her job in television, but would probably work for Bannister's production company which made rock videos and advertisements.

  She looked so very beautiful in the photograph. She sat on a sofa in Bannister's Richmond house. In the foreground was a brand new glass-topped table which must have replaced the one I'd broken. Bannister sat beside her with a smile like the cat that had got the cream. Angela's long slim legs were crossed. She wore a hesitant smile that I'd come to know so well, though her eyes were cool. She was in a light dress that hinted at her body's supple elegance. Her right hand rested lightly on Bannister's shoulder, while her left, hanging over the sofa's arm, bore a big shining diamond. She looked like a thoroughbred; leggy and beautiful, a girl fit for a handsome celebrity. A girl it was ludicrous for a broken sailor in a broken boat in a stinking dock to want. But the photograph told me that I did still want her, and I suddenly felt forlorn and bereft and miserable. God damn her, but she had surrendered to safety, and I was alone. The county's police force were playing the inmates of the open prison. The police had been bowled out for 134, while the prisoners' team had so far scored 42 for the loss of just one wicket. I was in the Midlands and my father, because I had at last come to visit, seemed to be in a private heaven. I'd seen his garden, the workshop where he made ship models, his room, and now he walked round the cricket field with me. It was like a boarding school, only the pupils were middle-aged men rather than boys. It was quite unlike my idea of a prison, but only the trusted felons were sent there; those w
ho were not violent and who would not try to escape. The warders called my father 'Mr Sandman', and he had clearly charmed them all. He asked after their wives, sympathized over their children's exam results, and promised them herbs from his garden. "They're good fellows," he said happily.

  He looked so damned well. He'd lost weight, which suited his six-foot four-inch frame. His black hair was touched with grey at his temples, he was suntanned, and he was fit. "The gardening helps, of course. I play a bit of tennis, quite a lot of badminton. I swim a fair bit, but they keep the pool damned chilly. I get a bit of the other, too."

  "Don't be ridiculous, Father. You're in prison."

  "An open prison, my dear Nick. I do recommend one if you're ever in need of a rest. Admittedly the admission procedure is tiresome, but after that it's a very decent life. We do work on the local farms, you see, and the girls know where to find us. They're mostly professionals, of course, but a chap has to stay in practice. Are you in practice?"

  "Not really."

  He laughed. "I thought you were looking decidedly doggish. Won't Melissa lay it out for you?"

  "I've never asked."

  "My exes always did," he said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "Just because a woman can't bear to live with a fellow doesn't mean she won't bed him. Did you find another?"

  "For a time."

  "Lost her, eh? Not to worry, Nick. There are, thank God, so many women in this world. God was very good to us in that regard. Oh, well done!" This was for a fine late cut that left a policeman running vainly towards the boundary. "The batsman"—my father pointed with his cigar—"is doing three years for computer fraud. Not very clever to be caught, was it?"

  "Wasn't clever of you," I said.

  "Bloody stupid of me." He smiled at me. He was delighted I had come and had not once mentioned all the unanswered letters. I felt awkward, ashamed, and inadequate. He had always made me feel that way, though never intentionally. "My trouble," he said, "is that I think too big."

  "True."

  He laughed. He'd been arrested for fraud and God alone knows what else. He had been running an insurance company and there had been no money to pay the claims, and over half the policies—which he had been selling off to other companies as a bookmaker lays off his bets—turned out to be false. "Another year," he said wistfully, "and I'd have been solvent. Had a very tasty scheme going in Switzerland with Iranian money. In fact, Nick, if you fancy a trip to Berne..."

  "No, Father."

  "Of course, Nick. Money never was your thing, was it?" He sounded contrite. We paused in our stroll and I was proudly introduced to a warder and his family. My father made a great point of mentioning the VC. The warder's family seemed really grateful that my father had taken notice of them, just as if he was from the local gentry and they his tenants. They said how pleased they were to have met me.

  "Decent people," my father said as we strolled on. We found two deckchairs in the shade of a fine oak tree and we sat. "So what have you been doing, Nick?"

  "Recovering, mainly." I told him about Sycorax.

  He thought it was a wonderful jest that I'd found a refuge with George Cullen, and I had to give a detailed description of our night trip to rendezvous with the French trawler. "I thought the old rogue would have died years ago. Drinks like a bloody judge! He's making you pay for all this gear?"

  "Through the nose."

  "Nick, Nick!" I had disappointed my father who had the haggling skills of the bazaar. He frowned in thought. "Ask him about Montagu Dawson."

  "The artist?" I was puzzled, but that was nothing new when I was with my father. I did remember, though, how he used to have two classic Dawsons hanging in his London offices; both paintings showed tall ships driving through foam-flecked seas.

  "George sold a few Dawsons," my father said. "They were as bent as a snake's wedding tackle, of course, but George used to find American yachtsmen in the Barbican pubs, and he'd spin this yarn about Dawson having been a friend of the family." My father chuckled. "The paintings were done by a fellow at Okehampton. He's the same chap who painted that Matisse your mother's so very fond of. Talented fellow, but a piss-artist, I fear. Anyway, point of it all, one of George's bent Dawsons ended up in the wrong hands, the police were tumbled out of bed, and officially the case has never been closed. It isn't a major threat to George, of course, but he won't like to be reminded of it, and he certainly wouldn't like it if you suggested you might drop a line to Scotland Yard. Do they still have a fine-art squad? I don't know, but George has certainly got a couple of those fake Dawsons still hanging in his home. Have you ever been to his house?"

  "No."

  My father shuddered. "Ghastly place. Plastic furniture and music-box cocktail cabinets. The old bastard's as rich as Croesus, but he's got the taste of a camel. Oh, good shot!" The ball flicked across the grass straight towards our chairs. I fielded it with my foot, then flinched as I bent to pick the ball up. I threw it to the nearest fielder and my father watched me sadly. "Is it bad, Nick?"

  "It's all right. I can sail a boat."

  "Round the world?" he asked dubiously.

  "Round the world," I said stubbornly.

  He was quiet for a moment or two. His cigar smoke drifted up into the oak leaves. He'd been pleased with Harry Abbott's gift, and I wished I had brought him something. He looked very relaxed and confident despite the blue prison clothes. He gave me one of his shrewd, amused glances. "Harry Abbott came to see me a week or so back. He gave me some news of you."

  I was watching the cricket and said nothing.

  "Been in the wars again, have you, Nick?"

  "Harry should keep his mouth shut."

  "You know Kassouli was setting you up, don't you?"

  For a second I didn't react, then I turned to look into his eyes. "What the hell do you know about it, Dad?"

  He sighed. "Nick! Do me a small favour. I might not be able to sail a small boat through a hurricane, but I do know what makes the wicked world go round. I did some business with Kassouli once. He's a tough bugger. Still got the stink of the souk about him, despite his Boston wife and Savile Row suitings."

  "Setting me up?"

  He drew on his cigar. "Tell me about it, Nick."

  "I thought you knew the answers already." I was defensive.

  "Just tell me, Nick." He spoke gently. "Please."

  So I told him. I hadn't planned to tell him about Angela, but I did in the end, because I wanted to tell somebody. I missed her horribly. I kept telling myself that she was not for me, that she was too urbanized and ambitious, too elegant and difficult, but I could not persuade myself that I would be better off without her. I missed her, and so I found myself telling my father about the visits to London, the nights in her small bedroom, the weekend in Norfolk, and then the recent news of her engagement and forthcoming wedding. The date had been announced in the papers. Angela would marry Bannister in the English Church in Paris after the coming weekend.

  I told my father more. I told him about Mulder and Jill-Beth and Bannister and Kassouli. He listened in silence. He finished the cigar, threw it away, and its stub smoked in the grass like a newly fallen fragment of shrapnel. He rubbed his face. "This Kirov girl. You say she phoned you at Angela's flat?"

  "Yes."

  "Why would she do that?"

  "She wanted to reach me, of course."

  He shook his head. "Ostensibly she wanted you to be Kassouli's man in Tony Bannister's crew, yes? The whole essence of that, Nick, is that Bannister wouldn't know that you were Kassouli's man. So why risk alerting him by leaving a message on his girlfriend's answering machine? There's only one answer to that, Nick. They wanted Bannister to know you were dodgy. They gave you a high profile, didn't they? She makes sure you rescued her from Mulder, she flies you to the States, and she smudges a damn great fingerprint on Angela's answering machine. Why?"

  A ribald cheer went up as one of the prison batsmen was run out. The prison needed fifty-three runs to win and still
had eight wickets left. "And someone sent Mulder a picture of me, too." I spoke slowly. It was like a moment after an awful storm when the clouds rend, sunlight touches an angry but settling sea, and the storm damage at last becomes visible. Seeing the sense of my father's words, I felt foolish. "It was a photograph taken at Kassouli's Cape Cod house. He didn't say who the sender was."

  My father gave me a pitying look. "It was the Kirov girl. Or Kassouli. They wanted Bannister to know you were tied up with them. And who do you think told this Mulder fellow where to find you and Jill-Beth Kirov on Dartmoor?"

  "She did?" I said it hesitantly, not wanting to believe it.

  "Of course! They want Bannister to feel safe. They want Bannister to believe that he's found the fly in his ointment: you. So they set you up to be the threat. You just happened to be convenient, Nick, so they pointed a damned great finger at you. They did some clumsy sabotage, but only when the boat was where you could get at it. And all the time the real man was lying very low."

  "Mulder." It was obvious.

  "Bingo. How did Bannister meet Mulder?"

  "His wife found him."

  "Who took the tape-recording?"

  "Mulder."

  "That was just a happy accident, of course," my father said. "He probably had a camera with him, and planned to take a snap of you and the Kirov girl together, instead of which he lumbers on your mate with his tape-recorder. So who, my dear Nick, do you think Mulder works for?"

  "Kassouli." I sat there, feeling very foolish. "And Mulder beat me up because he had to prove his loyalty to Bannister?"

  "I would imagine so, wouldn't you?"

  "But the rumour says Mulder helped with the murder!"

  "Who's spreading the rumours?" my father asked patiently.

  "Kassouli?"

  "And who has convinced Kassouli that his daughter was murdered?" my father asked, then answered it himself. "Mulder. And why? Because a rich man's gratitude can be very bankable. Mind you, I'd have smelt a rat the moment Kassouli offered four hundred thousand! The going rate for a killing can't be much over twenty grand, but people like you always think that a big sum only increases the seriousness of something."