Storm Island

by Ken Follett

  "Guilt," Faber said.

  "But you're thinking of leaving him, aren't you?"

  She stared at him, slowly shaking her head with incredulity.

  "How do you know so much?"

  "You've lost the art of dissembling in four years on this island.

  Besides, these things are so much simpler from the outside."

  "Have you ever been married?"

  "No. That's what I mean."

  "Why not? I think you ought to be."

  It was Faber's turn to look pensively into the fire. Why not, indeed?

  His stock answer to himself was his profession. But he could not tell

  her that, and anyway it was too glib. He said suddenly: "I don't trust

  myself to love anyone that much." The words had come out without

  forethought, and he wondered whether they were true. A moment later he

  wondered how Lucy had got past his guard, when he had thought he was

  disarming her.

  Neither of them spoke for a while. The fire was dying. A few stray

  raindrops found their way down the chimney and hissed in the cooling

  coals. The storm showed no sign of letting up. Faber found himself

  thinking of the last woman he had had. What was her name? Gertrude.

  It was seven years ago, but he could picture her now, in the flickering

  fire: a round German face, fair hair, green eyes, beautiful breasts,

  much-too-wide hips, fat legs, bad feet; the conversational style of an

  express train, a wild, inexhaustible enthusiasm for sex ... She had

  flattered him, admiring his mind (she said) and adoring his body (she

  had no need to tell him). She wrote lyrics for popular songs, and read

  them to him in a poor basement flat in Berlin: it was not a lucrative

  profession. He visualized her in that untidy bedroom, lying naked,

  urging him to do more bizarre and erotic things with her: to hurt her,

  to touch himself, to lie completely still while she made love to him

  ... He shook his head slightly to brush away the memories. He had not

  thought like that in all the years he had been celibate. Such visions

  were disturbing. He looked at Lucy.

  "You were far away," she said with a smile.

  "Memories," he said.

  "This talk of love.,."

  "I shouldn't burden you."

  "You're not."

  "Good memories ?"

  "Very good. And yours? You were thinking, too."

  She smiled again.

  "I was in the future, not the past."

  What do you see there?"

  She seemed about to answer, then changed her mind. It happened twice.

  There were signs of tension about her eyes.

  "I see you finding another man," Faber said. As he spoke he was

  thinking: Why am I doing this?

  "He is a weaker man than David, and less handsome; but it is for his

  weakness that you love him. He is clever, but not rich; compassionate

  without being sentimental; tender, caring, loving. He ' The brandy

  glass in her hand shattered under the pressure of her grip. The

  fragments fell into her lap and on to the carpet, and she ignored them.

  Faber crossed to her chair and knelt in front of her. Her thumb was

  bleeding. He took her hand.

  "You've hurt yourself."

  She looked at him. She was crying.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  The cut was superficial. She took a handkerchief from her trousers

  pocket and staunched the blood. Faber released her hand and began to

  pick up the pieces of broken glass, wishing he had kissed her when he

  had the chance. He put the shards on the chimney-breast.

  "I didn't mean to upset you," he said.

  She took away the handkerchief and looked at her thumb. It was still

  bleeding.

  "A little bandage," he suggested.

  "In the kitchen."

  He found a roll of bandage, a pair of scissors, and a safety pin. He

  filled a small bowl with hot water and returned to the living-room.

  In his absence she had somehow obliterated the evidence of tears on her

  face. She sat passively, limp, while he bathed her thumb in the hot

  water, dried it, and fixed a small strip of bandage over the cut. She

  looked all the time at his face, not at his hands; but her expression

  was unreadable.

  He finished the job and stood back abruptly. This was silly: he had

  taken the thing too far. It was time to disengage. He said: "I think

  I'd better go to bed."

  She nodded.

  "I'm sorry ' "Stop apologizing," she told him.

  "It doesn't suit you."

  Her tone was harsh. He guessed that she, too, felt the thing had got

  out of hand.

  "Are you staying up?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Well..." He walked to the door and held it for her.

  She avoided his eyes as she passed him. He followed her through the

  hall and up the stairs. As he watched her climb, he could not help

  imagining her in other clothes, her hips swaying gently underneath some

  silky material, long legs clad in stockings instead of worsted grey

  trousers, high-heeled dress shoes instead of worn felt slippers.

  At the top of the stairs, on the tiny landing, she turned and

  whispered: "Goodnight."

  He said: "Goodnight, Lucy."

  She looked at him for a moment. He reached for her hand, but she

  foresaw his intention and turned quickly away, entering her bedroom and

  closing the door without a backward look, leaving him standing there

  with his hand out and his mouth open, wondering what was in her mind

  and more to the point what was in his.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Bloggs drove dangerously fast through the night in a commandeered

  Sunbeam Talbot with a souped-up engine. The hilly, winding Scottish

  roads were slick with rain and, in a few low places, two or three

  inches deep in water. The rain drove across the windscreen in sheets.

  On the more exposed hilltops the gale-force winds threatened to blow

  the car off the road and into the soggy turf alongside. For mile after

  mile, Bloggs sat forward in the seat, peering through the small area of

  glass that was cleared by the wiper, straining his eyes to make out the

  shape of the road in front as the headlights battled with the obscuring

  rain. Just north of Edinburgh he ran over three rabbits, feeling the

  sickening bump as the tyres squashed their small furry bodies. He did

  not slow the car. but for a while afterwards he wondered whether

  rabbits normally came out at night. The strain gave him a headache,

  and his sitting position made his back hurt. He also felt hungry..

  He opened the window for a cold breeze to keep him awake, but so much

  water came in that he was forced to close it again immediately. He

  thought about Die Nadel, or Faber or whatever he was calling himself

  now: a smiling young man in running-shorts holding a trophy. Well,

  Faber was winning this race. He was forty-eight hours ahead and he had

  the advantage that only he knew the route that had to be followed.

  Bloggs would have enjoyed a contest with that man, if the stakes had

  not been so high, so bloody high.

  He wondered what he would do if he ever came face to face with the man.

  I'd shoot the bugger out of hand, he thought, before he killed me.

  Faber was a pro
, and you couldn't mess with that type. Most spies were

  amateurs: frustrated revolutionaries of the left or right, people who

  wanted the imaginary glamour of espionage, greedy men or lovesick

  women, or blackmail victims. The few professionals were very dangerous

  indeed, because they knew that the professionals they were up against

  were not merciful men.

  Dawn was still an hour or two away when Bloggs drove into Aberdeen.

  Never in his life had he been so grateful for street lights, dimmed and

  masked though they were. He had no idea where the police station was,

  and there was no one on the streets to give him directions, so he drove

  around the town until he saw the familiar blue lamp (also dimmed).

  He parked the car and dashed through the rain into the building. He

  was expected. Godliman had been on the phone, and Godliman was now

  very senior indeed. Bloggs was shown into the office of Alan Kincaid,

  a Detective-Chief-Inspector in his middle fifties. There were three

  other officers in the room: Bloggs shook their hands and instantly

  forgot their names.

  Kincaid said: You made bloody good time from Carlisle."

  "Nearly killed myself doing it," Bloggs replied. He sat down.

  "If you can rustle up a sandwich..."

  "Of course." Kincaid leaned his head out of the door and shouted

  something.

  "It'll be here in two shakes," he told Bloggs.

  The office had off-white walls, a plank floor, and plain hard

  furniture: a desk, a few chairs and a filing cabinet. It was totally

  unrelieved: no pictures, no ornaments, no personal touches of any kind.

  There was a tray of dirty cups on the floor, and the air was thick with

  smoke. It smelled like somewhere men had been working all night.

  Kincaid had a small moustache, thin grey hair, and spectacles. A big,

  intelligent-looking man in shirtsleeves and braces, he was the kind of

  policeman that Bloggs thought -made up the backbone of the British

  police force. He spoke with a local accent, a sign that, like Bloggs,

  he had come up through the ranks though from his age it was clear that

  his rise had been slower than Bloggs'.

  Bloggs said: "How much do you know of what this is all about?"

  "Not much," Kincaid said.

  "But your governor, Godliman, did say that the London murders are the

  least of this man's crimes. We also know which department you're with,

  so we can put two and two together and conclude that Faber is a very

  dangerous spy."

  "That's about it," Bloggs said.

  Kincaid nodded.

  "What have you done so far ?" Bloggs asked.

  Kincaid put his feet on his desk.

  "He arrived here two days ago, yes?"

  "Yes."

  "That was when we started looking for him. We had the pictures1 assume

  every force in the country got them."

  "Yes."

  "We checked the hotels and lodging houses, the station and the bus

  depot. We did it quite thoroughly, although at the time we didn't know

  he had come here. Needless to say, we had no results. We're checking

  again, of course; but my opinion is that he probably left Aberdeen

  immediately."

  A woman police constable came in with a cup of tea and a very thick

  cheese sandwich. Bloggs thanked her and set about the sandwich

  greedily.

  Kincaid went on: We had a man at the railway station before the first

  train left in the morning. Ditto for the bus depot. So, if he left

  the town, either he stole a car or he hitched a ride. We've had no

  stolen cars reported."

  "Damn," Bloggs said through a mouthful of whole meal bread. He

  swallowed.

  "That makes it about as difficult as it can be to trace him."

  "No doubt that's why he chose to hitch-hike."

  "He might have gone by sea."

  "Of the boats that left the harbour that day, none was big enough to

  stow away on. Since then, of course, nothing's gone out because of the

  storm."

  "Stolen boats?"

  "None reported."

  Bloggs shrugged.

  "If there's no prospect of going out, the owners might not come to the

  harbour in which case the theft of a boat might go unnoticed until the

  storm ends."

  One of the officers in the room said: "We missed that one, Chief."

  We did," Kincaid said.

  Bloggs said: "Perhaps the harbour master could look around all the

  regular moorings ' "I'm with you," Kincaid said. He was already

  dialling. After a moment he spoke into the phone.

  "Captain Douglas? Kincaid. Aye, I know civilized people sleep at this

  hour. You haven't heard the worst I want you to take a walk in the

  rain. Aye, you heard me right..."

  The other policemen started to laugh.

  Kincaid put his hand over the mouthpiece and said: "You know what they

  say about seamen's language? It's true." He spoke into the phone

  again.

  "Go round all the regular moorings and make a note of any vessels not

  in their usual spot. Ignoring those you know to be legitimately out of

  port, give me the names and addresses and phone numbers if you have

  them of the owners. Aye. Aye, I know ... I'll make it a double. All

  right, a bottle. And a good morning to you too, old friend." He hung

  up.

  Bloggs smiled.

  "Salty?"

  "If I did what he suggested I do with my truncheon, I'd never be able

  to sit down again." Kincaid became serious.

  "It'll take him about half an hour, then we'll need a couple of hours

  to check all the addresses. It's worth doing, although I still think

  he hitched a ride."

  "So do I," Bloggs said.

  The door opened, and a middle-aged man in civilian clothes walked in.

  Kincaid and his officers stood up, and Bloggs followed suit.

  Kincaid said: "Good morning, sir. This is Mr. Bloggs. Mr. Bloggs,

  Richard Porter."

  They shook hands. Porter had a red face and a carefully cultivated

  moustache. He wore a double-breasted, camel-coloured overcoat. He

  said: "How do you do. I'm the blighter that gave your chap pie a lift

  to Aberdeen. Most embarrassing." He had no local accent.

  Bloggs said: "How do you do." On first acquaintance Porter seemed to

  be exactly the kind of silly ass who would give a spy a lift half

  across the country. However, Bloggs knew the type: the air of

  empty-headed heartiness might well mask a shrewd mind. He asked: "What

  made you realize that the man you'd picked up was the ... the stiletto

  murderer?"

  "I heard about the abandoned Morris. I picked him up at that very

  spot."

  "You've seen the picture?"

  "Yes. Of course, I didn't get a good look at the chap pie because it

  was dark for most of the journey. But I saw enough of him, in the

  light of the torch when we were under the bonnet, and afterwards when

  we entered Aberdeen it was dawn by then. If I'd only seen the picture,

  I'd say it could have been him. Given the spot at which I picked him

  up, so near to where the Morris was found, I say it was him."

  "I agree," Bloggs said. He thought for a moment, wondering what useful

  information he could get out of this
man.

  "How did Faber impress you?5 he asked eventually.

  Porter said promptly: "He struck me as exhausted, nervous and

  determined, in that order. Also, he was no Scotsman/ "How would you

  describe his accent?"

  "Neutral. No trace of the Hun in his voice ... except perhaps in

  retrospect, and that might be my imagination. The accent minor public

  school, Home Counties. Jarred with his clothes, if you know what I

  mean. He was wearing overalls Another thing I didn't remark until

  afterwards."

  Kincaid interrupted to offer tea. Everyone accepted. The policeman

  went to the door.

  Bloggs had decided that Porter was less foolish than he looked.

  "What did you talk about?"

  "Oh, nothing much."

  "But you were together for hours ' "He slept most of the way. He

  mended the car it was only a disconnected lead, but I'm afraid I'm

  hopeless with machines then he told me his own car had broken down in