by Alan Veale
‘Which is?’
Smith himself spoke up. ‘Technically I was not responsible for the ship at the time of the collision. I had handed over my command to the pilot, Captain Bowyer.’
Morgan’s heavy brows adjusted themselves a centimetre higher. ‘So, you’re saying this Bowyer fellow should take the hit—technically?’
Smith nodded, about to speak again but Ismay jumped in first. ‘We could argue the case at the hearing, yes. But it is my view, bearing in mind the Admiralty has already established its position, and will no doubt press for damages against us, that White Star should immediately sue Captain Bowyer and the Harbour Authority for all damages. We certainly need to confirm our legal position on this, but politically speaking it would be best to distance ourselves from any responsibility at the outset.’
Morgan nodded. ‘Okay. I like “politically speaking”. And Pirrie, you can do a bit more of the same to your secretary friend. We need all the leverage we can get. But here’s the rub: where do we go from here? Cunard are sitting pretty. Lusitania and Mauretania still dominate the Atlantic routes, and your government are backing them all the way. They’ve effectively hog-tied me, making me sail my own ships under a British flag, and their naval subsidies. What do I get in return? “Free to compete on equal terms.” Well in my book it’s not equal terms when Cunard have got two fast swans and I got nothing but a lame duck and two still waiting to hatch.’
Silence filled the room like a deafening explosion. Pirrie and Ismay both knew it was best to let Morgan sound off in his own way. There would be more pontification to follow.
‘What do you expect me to do? Throw my money down the toilet? I tell you we got some serious talking to do now, so nobody leaves this room until I’ve got a smile on my face!’ Morgan glared round the table to reinforce the message on how big a challenge that would be. Then he stubbed out his cigar and reached for another. ‘Okay, here’s what I need you to make happen: Olympic goes back into service at the earliest opportunity. Pirrie, don’t you let any of your workers go home until the job’s done. I want every man and his wife to make getting that ship back to sea their number one priority.’
‘I’m afraid it will make—’
‘I’m not finished!’ Morgan took time over lighting his cigar while his audience exercised their patience. ‘Titanic must be spectacular. When she comes into service, I want everyone to see that crossing the Atlantic any other way is not an option. Speed is not going to be the thing any more. Luxury is what counts. I want a swan that has more grace and beauty than the other birds on the pond. Can you guys deliver on that?’ Nods from both Pirrie and Ismay. ‘In this business the first step towards getting somewhere is to decide you’re not going to stay where you are. So, we have to make an impact. When Titanic takes her first trip across the Atlantic I want the world to know about it. I want that ship glorified in a way no one will ever forget. She’s got to be a byword for the best there is, so we can scuttle Cunard’s business once and for all. Is that the right term, Pirrie? Isn’t that what you do to ships? Scuttle them?’
Pirrie leaned forward, ‘Er… yes. Yes, you are correct. Although filling a ship with water is outside my personal experience. I prefer building ships to sinking them.’
Morgan took a sharp breath while drawing on his cigar and began to choke. His assistant Irving looked up in alarm and reached for a carafe of water, but his employer put out a restraining hand. ‘Thanks son, but no. I’m fine.’ He cleared his throat loudly and then took another long pull on his cigar. ‘Who needs water when God gave us cigars… Pirrie, I think you just might have put a hint of a smile on my face.’
Fourteen
Ed Fersen held the document up to the morning light as if checking an X-ray image. He had got back from the States late the previous night, but Billie was impatient to get his friend’s verdict on the handwritten notes Emma gave him after waiting nearly a week for his return.
‘Definitely on the original.’
‘You think so?’
‘I’d bet my salary on it. Whoever underlined the word scuttle did it over a hundred years ago. And you say Emma has more?’
Billie nodded. ‘Yes. She said I could only see the rest if I went to hers in person and brought these with me. I got special permission to show them to you.’
He held out his hand and Ed passed the papers back. The two men were sitting in the privacy of their temporary Titanic HQ, but there was only one topic under investigation: Emma Dearing and her ‘secret papers’.
‘Bottom line, bud. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know what to think. I’d say they’re not so much official minutes as a personal record of what was said by someone who was there. At a guess, I’d say it was one of Pirrie’s staff, because the secretaries, Morgan’s and Ismay’s, are mentioned by name. Pirrie must have had a secretary too, or at least someone to take notes. Emma refused to tell me any more about them. She was acting kind of weird throughout.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Hard to say. She had an edge to her, and just… well, she wasn’t relaxed and friendly like we saw a couple of months ago. She kept mentioning this old politician, Peter Gris. Said he’d killed someone, and I’d swear she was frightened of him. Even though he was in his eighties and already dead!’
‘Weird. But you said you’ve had contact again since?’
‘Yes, by WhatsApp. She’s paranoid about secrecy and not getting hacked. She keeps trying to get me to go down to her flat in Manchester.’
Ed sipped his coffee and raised his eyebrows. ‘Sounds like she’s hitting on you.’
Billie swallowed and looked away. ‘Maybe it’s my irresistible charm.’
Ed laughed. ‘Oh, yes. Another female falls for your chiselled good looks and distinctive body odour. Enough! C’mon Oor Wullie, let’s focus on the important stuff. Emma may be a strange dame but she’s certainly got something about her. Look at what we got: a published author with a well-researched book on maritime history; and a copy of an historical document which hints at some kind of executive decision to sink a ship. Is that a fair summary?’
‘That’s about it. Although without the rest of the document we can’t assume that such a decision was actually made.’ Billie stood up to pour himself another coffee.
‘No, but at least we know that seeing the rest of the notes of that meeting is not beyond a possibility. Here’s a thought: Why not make an independent check? What about Harland & Wolff’s own records? Isn’t that something you can look into?’
‘I already did. Give me some credit. The first thing I did was to see if I could find any trace of a similar document online. The Northern Ireland Public Record Office has an accessible web archive with a huge bundle of stuff on the company, hardly surprising as they were the city’s biggest employer for over half a century. Anyway, there’s a file there dated 1901–1916 for miscellaneous documents belonging to the company and to Lord Pirrie in particular. Guess what? The file’s closed. As in, Not open to Joe Public.’
‘But you’re not Joe Public. You’re Billie Vane, champion librarian.’
Billie smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter. Librarians don’t get special treatment. I’ve no more right of access than you have. The point is there could be another copy of these notes in there, but we’ve no way of checking.’
‘Who closed the file?’
‘I don’t know. Some high-ranking civil servant, I suppose… Ah! I just thought of something. Hang on, let me check.’ Billie picked up his phone and made an internet search, tapping and scrolling until he found an answer. ‘I’m right. Peter Gris was once Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. And he could—’
Ed finished the sentence. ‘Use his authority to close the file. Like politicians do. So we have a link.’
‘Bit tenuous, though. Don’t you think?’
‘Whatever. Belfast; Titanic; Emma; Peter Gris. We got to start somewhere. Emma obviously knows the link.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Billie
, listen… I’ve got to be honest. Until you showed me those notes today, I was seriously looking at ditching this whole project. What’s the point assisting an author you can never get hold of? But now? Now we know six months before the disaster the guys in charge were talking about scuttling ships. We finally have some real evidence that something unusual was going on, and we know how to get hold of more. Emma wants you to look at the rest of the evidence, for Christ’s sake. So show a bit of British spunk and get yourself off to Manchester. And if she does end up bouncing on your bones, take it as a bonus.’
Billie left his coffee untouched as he considered Ed’s proposal.
*
‘Are you saying I’m not important enough?’
‘No! I’m just trying to make it clear how difficult it is for me to get the time off.’
Billie held the phone tight to his ear against traffic noise as he looked for somewhere to cross the road. He’d known the conversation was going to be awkward. This was going down much like similar incidents with past girlfriends. He had one trump card in reserve, but he wasn’t sure how that would go down either.
‘So, tell me again.’
He drew a deep breath. ‘It’s the school holidays and I have to take my share of time looking after my daughter. She’s on a summer camp this week, and then has a few days with her mum, but then she’s due to spend a week with me, and I’ve got time booked off for that. I had to get that approved weeks ago, and at this time of year I can’t get away at short notice. Unless I bring Tina with me, I simply won’t be able to get to you until the end of the month. I’m sorry. I really am.’
‘I could be dead by then.’
‘What?’ Billie switched the phone to his other hand as he felt in his pocket for his door key.
‘You don’t know how urgent this is. I need you here in person. Can’t you pull a sicky?’
That was my reserve chute. Last resort. It’s going to be a gamble.
‘I’ve got another suggestion,' he said. ‘I sometimes talk to Tina on Skype. That way we can see each other’s faces. She even shows me her homework. Could we do that?’
The phone went silent as he stood outside his front door. Emma was quiet for so long Billie had to look at the screen to check he was still connected. Then:
‘I’ll think about it.’ She ended the call.
On weekdays Billie set his phone alarm for six o’clock. The ringtone provided a melodious and gentle nudge that grew in volume until he woke from slumber. He liked the routine. It allowed him an hour to shower, dress, breakfast and take the short walk to Bridgeton station for his daily commute. He’d been living the life of a single man for six years and, with the exception of his period dating Chrissie Fersen, he had been content with his own company during the working week.
But routines are often broken. Billie was a conscientious parent and had made provision in case of an emergency involving his ten-year-old daughter. She could call him at any time, day or night, and so he usually left his muted phone on vibrate. At twelve minutes past three that Monday morning, it came to life. It took nearly a minute for the persistent noise to break into his consciousness. He was far away, sailing on a cruise ship in the Caribbean Sea, marvelling at the icebergs towering high above him. He couldn’t understand why one of them would want to sink a ship when they looked so friendly, and the persistent fly buzzing near his head was a big distraction. He put out a hand to swat it and struck something hard and solid. An iceberg? No! Not an iceberg… not a fly.
Billie sat up in a panic. His eyes were open but everywhere was dark. Everywhere except the surface of his bedside table, partially lit by the screen of his phone, lying face down where he’d put it four hours earlier. The difference between then and now (apart from the time) was the vibration, causing it to creep even closer.
He snatched up the phone: Emma calling via WhatsApp.
What the… I don’t believe this. But he answered the call. ‘Emma! What’s up?’
‘I presume you are,’ came the smooth response. ‘Welcome to my world, Billie. Are you okay for a chat?’
‘Er… Emma, I…’ Billie switched on his bedside lamp. ‘You just want to chat? Now? At three-fifteen in the morning?’
‘Why not? It’s a great time of day for new ideas. Very important for a writer. And you did invite me.’
‘Sorry? Invite you?’
‘Skype. Switch your laptop on.’ Then she cut the connection.
Billie groaned. Oh God! What have I started? He threw back the duvet, grabbed his robe and headed downstairs. Shaking his head at his own reckless behaviour, he sat on the settee that occupied most of the space in his tiny living room and did as Emma requested. Within a minute her call came in, but he was unprepared for the image that filled the screen: Emma with immaculate make-up and hair neatly brushed sitting in a well-lit room with a quizzical expression on her face. Below that she wasn’t wearing anything at all.
Fifteen
‘You could at least switch a light on.’
‘What?’
The owner of the vision on display gave a theatrical sigh. ‘You. All I can see is a set of bloodshot eyes in the middle of a coal cellar. What have you been doing?’
‘Oh! Sorry.’ Billie tore himself away from the laptop and reached for a switch on the wall behind him. He blinked at the onslaught of light and settled himself back on the settee in time to catch a bemused smile flitting across Emma’s face. He smoothed his hair back. ‘How’s that?’
‘Better. I suppose you’ll have to do. Do you actually sleep in that thing?’
‘Er… no. I don’t. It’s my dressing gown, obviously. Why are you—’
‘I bet you’re wearing jockey shorts.’
Emma’s breasts were neither large nor small, but they formed almost perfect orbs surmounted by succulent raspberry nipples. Billie sat transfixed, his brain struggling to accept that he was now awake, having a conversation in the middle of the night with a naked woman on his laptop. This can’t be happening. This is unreal. Mention of his own underwear shook him out of his reverie.
‘Of course I am. Doesn’t everyone?’
‘Hmmm. I don’t. But we can talk about what each other is wearing later. At least I’ve got your attention now. Was it a nice surprise, getting a call from me?’
Billie adjusted his position on the settee, forcing himself to focus on the camera lens above his screen. ‘Emma, it was certainly a surprise, and it is nice to see you in—’
‘In the flesh?’
‘I was going to say in person. But isn’t this… all a bit unnecessary? This Mata Hari cloak and dagger stuff?’
Emma shrugged and held up both hands in an appeasing gesture, the action causing her breasts to give a teasing wobble. ‘I’m not hiding under a cloak, Billie! I’m hiding absolutely nothing from you. But this is a serious matter, and I need you to focus so I’ll put these puppies away for now.’ She glanced down and shrugged a brightly coloured piece of silky material over her shoulders, then tied it loosely across the distracting vista. ‘I don’t think you appreciate how even this conversation puts me at risk. We need to talk.’
‘We are talking.’
‘Good! Then listen up. I’m not totally convinced Skype is secure from hacking so there’s a limit to what I can discuss. I’ve got to be careful mentioning names. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ Billie answered her automatically, relieved to be free of distractions.
‘If I talk about someone called Peter, do you know who I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was an extremely powerful man in 1985. I was seven years old, and I lived —’ Emma hesitated, calculating the risk, ‘I lived in a place over the sea but not far away. The British army had a base there. Do you know where I mean?’
Billie made the connection. ‘Would that be somewhere close to Bel—’
‘No names! Over the sea, yes. Near where our ship was born. Okay?’
Billie felt a crawling sensation along his spine. He n
odded.
Emma swallowed hard. ‘My great-great-grandfather used to work in a place where he had access to private information. You’ve seen some of the papers he had. But they were never intended to be made public, and he shouldn’t have copied them. He kept them secret and made his son promise to do the same. But then they got lost for a while, until my dad found them. He wanted to make them public, and… he tried to get them published, which made someone very angry.’
Billie leaned closer to the screen, alarmed to see Emma struggling with her emotions as she continued her story.
‘There were only two copies made. My dad probably didn’t dare make any more, and he sent one to someone in the press he thought he could trust. They let him down and… that was the end of him. He was killed by the army, on Peter’s orders, and they took the original papers. Then they came after my brother Brendan because he had the only remaining copy. You don’t know what he went through, Billie. That man Peter—’
Billie interrupted. ‘But how did you get a copy?’
Emma had her head bowed. Now she looked back at Billie’s image on her own screen and took another breath. ‘Brendan thought he’d lost them. But he hadn’t. There was an old telescope in his bedroom. I borrowed it once… Oh God, I was an awful sister! I couldn’t get it to work properly and so I lost my temper and whacked it against the wall or something. Then the end fell off and I found out why I couldn’t see anything through it. These papers fell out just as my mum came in to see what the noise was about. So I never got to see what they were. She took them and put them with her own things. I suppose she just put the telescope back together and never told Brendan.’
‘Did she pass the papers on to you?’
‘Not exactly. We came back to Liverpool in 1987. That’s where I’m from, Billie. We only lived in Por… over there for about five years. After all the tragedy we stopped with my grandfather for a while, and some of our stuff got put in his loft. Mum died fairly recently and then Wally, my grandfather, asked me to sort out her stuff back in Liverpool. That’s when I found them, and I realised why Peter still had an interest in our family. Well, one reason anyway. He wants the document that was inside the telescope, and he’s killed two members of our family trying to get it. At least, I’m positive he was behind both deaths.’