Blame The Dead

by Gavin Lyall

  The new expression went on like a slide in a projector: I'm-only-a-sergeant-and-I-only-work-here. 'I just wouldn't know about that, sir. Coming back to your statement,… The question of why you had a gun with you, the Mauser – that could come up.'

  'Same answer – for Mockby. I brought a gun because I thought Mockby would etcetera and etcetera and so on. It's licenced, anyway.'

  He nodded; he'd seen the licence. He'd still got the gun, if it came to that, him or one of his mates. All neatly labelled and tied up in a polythene bag and the spent cases in other bags and the three bullets being dug patiently out of the woodwork of the hallway outside.

  He sighed. 'These Ministry licences are tricky things.'

  'I wasn't carrying it in public. This is a private house even if it isn't my home.'

  'It didn't walk from London to Kingscutt, did it? Sir? '

  Just then Lois came in. Carrying a tray with an elegant enamel-ware coffee-pot, two blue-striped mugs, cream and sugar.

  'I thought you might like something by now,' she said brightly. 'You haven't finished yet? How these things do stretch on.'

  Keating was torn between annoyance and politeness to his hostess; he half got his backside out of the chair, decided that was polite enough, and flopped back.

  Me, I was glad to see the coffee and her both. She was wearing a long housecoat in royal blue with gold trimmings, although there'd been plenty of time to change into anything else by now. Certainly she'd had time to put on exactly the right amount of make-up – very little – for entertaining early-morning gangbusters.

  Or maybe I'm being bitchy. Some women retreat into choosing exactly the right clothes and make-up and coffee-pot for an emergency the way others go into hysterics or the brandy bottle. I preferred it this way. Certainly the coffee part.

  Lois looked at me with her cheery baby-faced expression, but perhaps a hint of anxiety behind the eyes. 'Is everything all right, Mr Card?'

  'Fine. Fine, thanks, Mrs Fenwick.'

  That was the password. She smiled and swept out.

  Keating shovelled sugar into his coffee in a way that suggested his tummy wasn't built on beer alone. 'I admire an old hand like you, sir,' he murmured. 'Taking your shirt and vest off before you got shot. Saves all that danger of infection from dirty fibres. Brilliant, I call that.'

  I murmured back, 'Screw you, Sergeant.'

  'No thank you, sir, you're not my type. But her – I might take my shirt off to defend her, if anybody asked me.' He took a sip of coffee, blinked, and slid back into the present time continuum. 'Now sir, are you prepared to sign this statement?'

  'Sure.'

  He looked momentarily surprised, then pushed it across to me. I signed. 'Will you need me in the magistrates' court this morning?'

  'Ah, we're not charg-' Then his expression snapped into midday form. 'We don't need witnesses when we're asking for a remand in custody on this sort of charge – sir. You should know that.'

  'Silly of me,' I inhaled coffee fumes and he watched me. 'Tell me one thing, Sergeant – am I going to be charged?'

  His face went blank and meaningless as an official form. 'I really couldn't say, sir.'

  'You must know this chief pretty well. What d'you guess?'

  'It isn't my business to go guessing, sir.' He slipped my report into a thin black plastic-leather briefcase and zipped it shut. 'But you did have a shooter and somebody did get shot.'

  'How very true. Are you trying to get Mockby on conspiracy or accessory before?'

  'I still couldn't say, sir.'

  'How would the chief like a plea of guilty from the two goons and no other people or charges involved at all?'

  After a time, he said slowly, 'Do you think you could arrange that, sir?'

  'I think it might soft of arrange itself.'

  He sat very still, working out the implications of this. Then he got up. 'I'll see what he says. That's all I can do.'

  I poured another cup and waited. The phone pinged in the distance and slow footsteps came in behind me. 'No luck, huh?'

  He says to mind your own bloody business and he's not making any promises to anybody.'

  'Okay. There comes a time when you have to guard your own back.'

  'The police guard people – sir. If the lady felt she was in danger she could have asked us.'

  'And would you have come?'

  'Nobody'll ever know, will they, sir?'

  I nodded and stood up and walked with him to the front door. Away to the east there was a dirty yellow smear in the sky, right down on the horizon.

  He stood on the steps in the cold nibbling wind and buttoned his coat. 'Are you really going to bugger things up?' he asked politely.

  'I really couldn't say.'

  'I'd've thought a man in your business would need friends in the police.'

  "My business is what I've just been told to mind.'

  He just nodded and walked down to his car.

  Back inside the house, it was suddenly quiet again. The last bright-eyed young detective constables had finished their measurements and sketched out their plans and gone while we were in the dining-room. The study door was locked and guarded by a chair for when the fingerprint boys came around (it wouldn't do any good; both of them had worn gloves). I leaned against the wall by the downstairs phone and waited for the energy to go ahead and bugger things up, just like the sergeant had said.

  Lois came out from the kitchen door behind the stairs. 'Have they all gone, Jamie?'

  'All gone.'

  She came and put one arm round my neck and leaned her head on my shoulder. 'I wonder what ever they thought -about you being here.'

  'Just jealous.'

  She looked up and smiled, then went serious again. 'I suppose – will it all come out in court? I'm thinking of David.'

  'I don't know. Maybe not. I want to make a phone call that could help.'

  She stood back briskly. 'Go ahead. Like me to put on bacon and eggs now?'

  'That'd be fine.' She went away and I sat down and started dialling.

  It rang only twice and the voice answering was remarkably wide awake for that time of day. 'Yes? Who is it?"

  'Hello, Mockers. Card here.'

  'Don't you know what time-'

  'I'm calling on behalf of Charles. And his friend. They're sorry they can't do it themselves, but they're in the nick. Well, actually Charles is in hospital right now, but he'll be in the nick when he comes out.'

  Pause. Then, 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'That's the spirit. Just keep that up and you may get away with it. Now, here's what you do: you get a solicitor and you get himfast. They've got the boy in the back room and they're working on him and they can do that for seventy-two hours unless somebody comes up with a habeas corpus writ. Then they'll have to charge him and stop questioning him. Same for Charles, of course, but it's not so urgent.'

  Another pause. 'What the hell's all this to do with you?"

  'Oh, I just happened to be staying at Kingscutt when your boys dropped in. It was me they fired that shotgun at."

  'They did what?'That squawk was genuine, all right. Probably he'd told them not, repeat not, to take a gun and they'd known better.

  'Afraid so. But most of it missed. Anyway, the point is they got them cold, on the premises, gun in hand, all the rest of it. So you spend a bit of time and a lot of money and you can get them to plead guilty.'

  'What good's that to anybody?'

  'You're not too bright at this time in the morning, are you? A guilty plea and there's no real trial: no jury, no witnesses, no cross-examination, no awkward questions about who sent them or Mrs Fenwick saying you'd rung up about that log-book – remember? But don't take it from me, ask your solicitor.'

  'I will, boy. But when did you get elected Jesus Christ? -you're getting something out of this.'

  'I damn well hope so. I'd like to keep out of it as much as possible, but if I'm in then you're in and I'm standing on your shoulders. Ask your
solicitor aboutthat, too.'

  He worried at this for a while, then said carefully, "You lousy stinking rotten little son-of-a-bitch. Get off the line; I've got calls to make.'

  'Now you're sounding more reasonable.'

  We ate in the kitchen and I tried to explain what I'd been up to. Lois listened thoughtfully, then asked, 'But I don't see why those characters should plead guilty – what have they got to lose?'

  'Depends what they're charged with. In a case like this the police like to have a real banquet, and the menu starts with attempted murder. After that, it comes down to wounding with intent to do grievous bodily harm and then unlawful wounding. They'd probably accept a plea of unlawful wounding plus a side dish from the Firearms Act. Possession with intent or carrying with criminal intent. They shouldn't get more than three years or so for that. But make a fight of it and it won't cost the cops any more to try for attempted murder and a life sentence. I think they'll plead.'

  She mused on it, scooping delicately at a boiled egg. 'So Paul Mockby will get off scotfree?'

  'I'd think so.'

  'You don't sound as if you mind.'

  'Maybe not… Iknow what he did. In a sort of way, knowing's enough. But it would never have been easy to involve him anyway. You can show Charles was his chauffeur, but it's a big long step to prove Mockby sent him down here. Even if Charles claimed it, no judge would let a jury convict on his word. And since Charles's pay has at least doubled since I talked to Mockby. I somehow doubt he'll do any implicating.'

  'We implicated Paul, though, in those statements we made.' She pushed aside her egg and lit a cigarette.

  'Witnesses' statements aren't evidence, not unless you try to deny them. Anyway, if they plead guilty there's no witnesses, no statements, nothing in court.'

  'So – David won't have to know?'

  I shrugged. 'You and I'll get mentioned at the trial; have to be. But maybe…'

  'Well, I think you handled it all with great delicacy.'

  'Don't sound so surprised.' I was wondering what a certain chief inspector would think of my handling when Mockby's solicitor suddenly landed on him waving a writ. I'd done more influencing people than making friends in the last night.

  I looked at my watch – nearly seven, by now – and Lois caught the gesture. 'Are you off back to London now?' she asked, a little wanly.

  I smiled as cheerfully as I could, and shrugged. 'I've got to go sometime, but…' I didn't really know what the hell Iwas going to do next I hadn't found the log, and it was a Saturday besides. "What are you going to do?'

  'I've got to take the Rover down to the garage in the village; they're going to clean it and maybe make me an offer for it."

  'You're not keeping it?'

  'No. I can't think of it except as Martin's.' She shuddered at an abrupt memory. 'That means I've got to unpack it first. So I'd better get dressed.'

  'Unpack it?'

  'There's Martin's suitcase still in the trunk. I just kept putting off having to…'

  'I'll do that.'

  'You won't hurt your back?'

  'No. I'll be okay.'

  The garage was as cold as Caesar's nose, and I didn't waste time there. I hauled the solid black-leather suitcase out of the boot and slammed the lid. Actually it did make my back twinge a bit.

  Back in the house I humped it up the stairs and into his bedroom and on to the bed and opened it. The log of the Skadi was the first thing I saw.

  Thirty-two

  'Just as simple as that?' Willie asked.

  'You could say so.'

  'So Martin was ready to hand over the real thing if it came to it. What? If they called his bluff?'

  'Well – he was keeping that option open, anyway. The blackmail was working that well, at least.'

  'M'yessss.' And he went back to staring at the log.

  I'd rung him from Kingscutt and we'd met at my flat. I'd given him a rough, rather simplified outline of the night's events and then handed over the log. For the moment he was happy, but I had a feeling he was going to come back to last night.

  The book itself was the size I'd expected – about fourteen inches by twelve, and bound in stiff fawn cardboard, like a big but not too expensive desk diary. What I hadn't expected was the mess it was in, which was silly of me when I remembered it had spent at least four wintry months in a burnt-out hulk. The covers were soaked in oil and stained with rust and rubbed away at the corners; the pages themselves were buckled and wavy with damp, and some torn besides-but not stuck together (unless Steen had separated them, of course). But luckily the entries were all in ball-point and hadn't run… What did I mean 'luckily'? Damp must be a problem sailors have met before.

  Willie held it like a first folio and leafed slowly through it without seeming to breathe.

  'D'you make anything of it?' I asked.

  'Not a lot yet. I read some Norwegian but… I think I can see what most of the figures are. And I know what a British log looks like; this is just about the same, you know.'

  Each page was laid out like some crazy ledger, with sixteen thin vertical columns and one wide one. Horizontally, it was divided into two batches of twelve, subdivided into fours, with some extra bits and pieces at the end of each twelve. Even I could work out that each page was a day, each line an hour and each four a 'watch', but the headings and the figures written into each column didn't mean a dicky-bird.

  Willie explained, 'Oh, they're things like course steered, compass error, wind force and direction, that one's obviously the barometer reading, air and sea temperatures – you know?'

  'Is it the right log?'

  He turned hastily to the last filled-in page. 'September sixteenth. Yes, that was the day before the accident. That'd be right.'

  'Who fills in this sort of log – the captain? '

  'Oh, no, the chief officer. He does this. The master does the official log, but that's mostly about personnel, you know? Smith was sentenced to twenty lashes. Brown lost a sock overboard, the cat had kittens, that sort of thing.'

  I nodded, then yawned. I couldn't help it. 'Sorry. So, what now? – d'you want to take it round to somebody who reads Norwegian?'

  'I don't think so, not yet. I mean, we don't want to make a song-and-dance about having it, do we?'

  'Everybody else has been singing-and-dancing, and mostly on me, when theythought I had it… No, you're quite right. So what now?'

  'I'd just like to see what I can make of it, from the figures and so on, you know?'

  'You're happy just sitting here?'

  'Oh, yes, old boy. You want to get a bit of a snooze, what? How's the back?'

  'Not so bad, but – it was a long night.'

  'Rather eventful, too.' But his face was sweet innocence. 'You don't expect any frightful comebacks, do you? After shooting that chap and all that?'

  'I just hope it keeps Mockby quiet for a day or two.'

  He nodded and frowned down at the table. 'I suppose he did send those chaps down because… because of what I said back at his place when-'

  'And because of what I'd said before that and Fenwick before me and probably Steen before him.' I was too tired even to listen to regrets. 'There's some beer in the fridge and some eggs – no, I'm out of eggs – arid a lock on the door, and I'm in bed.'

  And half a minute later, that was true.

  It was three o'clock when I woke up, soaked in sweat and completely lost, the way you get after a deep daytime sleep. But gradually I began to remember who I was, where and why. After a time I put on a fresh shirt and staggered through into the main room.

  Willie was still at the table, which was littered with full ashtrays, a plate with a few crumbs on it, a coffee mug, an empty beer can, papers, atlas – and the log. He didn't look any tidier himself, with his hair rumpled and his shirt sleeves rolled up.

  'How are you doing?' I asked.

  'I don't think I can do much more, you know. You had a good sleep.'

  'Yes.' I went through into the kitchenette, fou
nd another can of beer in the fridge, and took it back to the table.

  Willie stood up and stretched and lit another cigarette. 'I've just about translated the whole last voyage. I used your phone to get on to a chap who reads Norwegian properly and got him to do some of the phrases for me, you know? It seemed safer than letting anybody see the whole thing.'

  I nodded approvingly. 'Well, what does it all show?'

  'Well…' he shuffled some papers. 'She went from Bergen to Leith. From there back to Gothenburg in Sweden. On to Stockholm. Then to Helsinki, then to Tallinn.'

  'Where?'

  'Tallinn, in Estonia. Russia, really. Just across from Helsinki. I must say I'd like to know what cargoes she was heaving on and off in these places.'

  'She ended up with rolls of paper – newsprint – and timber on deck, didn't she?'

  'I believe so. Anyway, she was in Tallinn about two days.' He turned the stiffened, wavery pages. 'Then sailed on the morning of the fourteenth."

  'Fine, butdid she have engine trouble?'

  'Oh yes.' He turned another page. 'That started late on the fifteenth. As far as I can make out, something packed up and they had to shut down one engine. You did know she was diesel-engined?'

  'She could have been run by faith, hope, and clockwork for all I knew.'

  He frowned briefly. 'Well, she was – that's why she could run with an engine-room staff of one chief and three men. Two Burmeister and Wain thousand-horsepower jobs drivinga single shaft. Shut one down and you naturally halve your power and speed.' He tracked his finger across the page, column by column. 'It all fits, you know. Speed comes down to five knots, that checks with the distance covered, and that with the noon position. I worked it out on the atlas, what? And that engine's off the line right through the sixteenth – and that's the last entry we've got. The collision was next day.' He turned a page and it was bleared and grimy – but blank.

  'The chief officer would copy this up daily?' I picked up the log and riffled through it.

  'Most likely. It'd be part of his daily routine.'

  'So the ADP Line's got its case, has it? '

  'It looks like it – provided they've got somebody to swear that the other engine hadn't been restarted some time on the seventeenth, before the crunch.'