St. James thanked him and left in search of Captain Thorne.
It was only a two-minute walk to the wharf. St. James maneuvered around several heavy cables and a number of containers lined up in a neat row, perhaps containing dried fish or supplies.
The day was damp and chilly, a strong salt smell in the air. Seagulls squawked loudly as they circled The Mistress looking for easy pickings.
A few feet past the containers St. James came across a scruffy-looking young deckhand.
“Looking for Captain Thorne,” he said to the boy.
The deck hand said nothing, just pointed to a stocky middle-aged bearded man standing on the bow of the trawler peering through binoculars, seemingly scanning the horizon. St. James thanked him and made his way up the gangway.
He introduced himself to Captain Thorne. They shook hands and he told the captain why he was in Plymouth.
Thorne’s fingers and teeth were yellowish-brown, most likely nicotine stains from years of smoking. His eyes were grey and sunken, his face as weather-beaten as forty-year-old barn board. His hands were rough, dirty, and scarred, maybe from years pulling lines bare-handed.
At first Thorne was reluctant to talk. Trawler captains, St. James guessed, were not on Anderson’s email list, so he wouldn’t have received the request for cooperation. When St. James sensed the man’s reluctance, he suggested Thorne check with Basil.
“You must be telling the truth. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t suggest I ask Basil.”
St. James nodded and smiled. “I didn’t come all the way from Canada just to lie to you, Captain.”
Thorne spit tobacco juice over the side. Particles of something or other fell when he ran fingers through his long white beard.
“Remember the day well,” he said when St. James asked about the last year-end catch.
“What instructions did you receive before docking?”
“Keep a log of that stuff. C’mon up to the wheelhouse and we’ll see.”
St. James followed Thorne up a rusty steel ladder and into a wheelhouse that hadn’t been cleaned since World War II. In one corner was a pile of rusty chains, a small broken anchor, a tarp full of holes, and a filthy fishnet. The stench was indescribable. The wheel console was covered in dust and grease. In the opposite corner was a weather-beaten handmade chest of drawers that screeched when Thorne pulled on the drawers. From the third drawer he pulled a logbook the same colour as his fingers, its pages dog-eared and crumpled. The book had to be twenty years old.
“Let’s see,” he said, stroking his beard as he flipped through pages.
“Yes, here it is … here’s the day,” he said, tapping the musty page.
He recited entries as his finger moved down the page.
“8:30 a.m. we pulled the last net. Good haul, couple of tons. We were seventy-eight miles offshore, maybe more, maybe less; just a guess.”
“Closer to Plymouth or Portsmouth?” St. James asked.
“About the same distance from each plant, I think. I don’t record that but given the shelf we were fishing that day I would have to say slightly closer to Portsmouth, ten, maybe twenty miles closer.”
“What was your catch?” St. James asked.
“Cod. I only fish cod.”
“What about the shrimp boat and the one with haddock? They must have been in different areas.”
Staring out over the bay Thorne scratched at his beard once again. “Shrimp are mostly warm-water catch off Indonesia, Florida, Australia, places like that.”
“If that’s the case, where would a ship have been coming from for it to make sense to land in southern England?”
“Norway. Good shrimp fishing up there. Where they can survive cold water, the shrimp are larger. Jumbos,” Thorne said.
“Must have been sailing for a couple of days then?”
Thorne thought for a moment. “It’s about 1,100 nautical miles from Oslo to here. Not sure how long it would take in that vessel. Don’t rightly know its knot capacity, never sailed her. All I know is it arrived in Plymouth about the same time as I did.”
“Okay.”
Thorne continued down the logbook page.
“9 a.m. we received instructions to bring the catch to Plymouth.”
“Instruction from Basil or William?”
“No. Toronto.”
“Hmm. Who in Toronto?”
“According to my notes, the accounting lady that deals with Eli. She was the only one to send messages that day.”
“She has authority to direct inventory?”
“Think she’s just a messenger.”
St. James pressed.
“On instructions from the CFO?”
“Don’t know.”
“CEO?”
Thorne shook his head. “Don’t know.”
St. James made a note and moved on. “Okay. Then what happened?”
“We set course for Plymouth as instructed. Next transmission was from Basil, about 9:20, wanting to know if we were coming to his plant or William’s. I remember this now. Thought it very odd at the time. Toronto and Plymouth were out of sync. That never happens.”
Once again St. James made a note.
“At the same time, we received another transmission from the accounting lady sending us to Portsmouth, written like the first transmission never existed.”
“Then what?”
“We shifted course from Plymouth to Portsmouth.”
Captain Thorne continued.
“At 10:45 I received a message from William. He wanted to know if I was bringing the catch to his plant or Basil’s. I remember thinking the company must be handing out free dope. No one was making sense.”
“Then what?”
“At 11:15 we received the final transmission from Toronto to switch back to Plymouth. By this time I was really mad.”
“Don’t blame you,” St. James consoled.
“All this stupid confusion made us very late landing to count catch. Not to mention the extra fuel The Mistress burned.”
“What time was that?”
Thorne consulted his log.
“Just before 4 p.m.”
“Then what?”
“I sent a transmission to the Toronto lady, Basil, and William that I wasn’t moving until I was paid for my catch in full. Wasn’t risking non-payment or a big discount for deteriorated catch just because they couldn’t make up their minds where to process it. That was that,” Thorne said, snapping his head to emphasize the point.
“Would the stock deteriorate that much more in a few hours?” St. James asked.
Thorne’s face broke into a devilish smile. “Not really; catch is kept on ice. But I thought if they’re this screwed up with instructions, I couldn’t trust them to pay the full amount, fresh or not. Companies put a lot of pressure on the little fishermen to force prices down. They control the market. Not a lot of trust between us. They could drum up any reason for paying less.”
“And were you paid?”
“Damn right I was paid. Eli had the catch counted and weighed and had a manual cheque issued to me inside of three hours.”
“Manual cheque?”
“Yeah. Usually we’re paid by direct deposit, but Eli wanted to process the catch right away. Head office cash transfer would take another day. By then there could be real catch deterioration. He wrote the cheque by hand, so that I’d release the catch on the spot.”
“That would be early evening at that point, would it not?”
“Given the time we tied up it, would have been around seven-thirty or eight when I got the cheque.”
“There wouldn’t be anyone in the plant to process at that hour, would there?”
“Oh yes. Eli had called in two crews for eight, and they processed until around five the next morning.”
“So with a couple of crews already at the plant Eli had no choice but to pay you. Otherwise he would have to pay labour for an entire shift with no production to show for it. That plays hell with labour cost per p
ound,” St. James reasoned.
Thorne smiled. “That’s right. Had him by the you-know-whats,” he said, clearly proud of his negotiating skills.
“Just one more question,” St. James said, raising a finger.
“What’s that?”
“Were you the only captain to receive conflicting instructions that day?”
“No,” Thorne said quickly, “spoke to Captain Jamison and Captain Earl. Both received the same instructions at the same times I did.”
“Thank you, Captain. You’ve been most helpful.”
They shook hands. St. James disembarked and walked back to the plant, where he collected Anna from Eli’s office to revisit Basil.
“Are you still available for dinner with Penelope and me tonight?” Basil said.
“We’d be delighted to join you,” St. James said with sincerity.
“We’re early diners, if that’s okay. Can Henry pick you up at 5:30?”
“Perfect,” said Anna. “What would be appropriate dress?”
“Very casual.”
Back in the hotel room Anna picked up a book and lay on the bed to read. St. James opted for a short walk, nodding to the faithful constable following a few paces behind.
He thought about the conversation with Captain Thorne. Conflicting transmissions had never happened before, he had said. And why were instructions coming from Toronto accounting instead of the plants? That was most unusual. Instructions should come from Basil and William or the chief operating officer if there was a dispute over where catch should go. That would make more sense. Instructions from accounting made no sense at all. He made a note to check with CISI’s competitors to determine standard industry practices.
Chapter 47
St. James and Anna were sitting in the Copthorne lobby at 5:30 when Henry pulled up to the entrance.
Basil and Penelope Hughes lived in a modest grey clapboard and stucco building, vintage 1800s, located in a well-kept area of Plymouth. It had an “Estate Sale” sign on the front lawn, which St. James knew to be the British term for “Property for Sale.”
When they knocked, the door opened immediately, and they were warmly greeted by Basil and Penelope. Penelope, a tall woman with short black hair, was plain featured with white, almost chalky skin. Anna guessed her to be about forty-five. Basil was wearing a traditional brown English smoking jacket that had seen better days.
Penelope and Basil escorted them into a sitting room where Basil fixed drinks.
“I see you’re selling your house,” St. James said when they were settled in the sitting room.
“Yes. I’m so excited,” said Penelope. “We’re building a larger home on the outskirts of the city. Should be finished by spring. I’m having such a great time picking things to decorate.”
“That would be so much fun,” Anna said enthusiastically.
Basil stroked his mustache. “Do you have real estate experience, Hamilton?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“William and I are looking to invest in a rental property. We thought the wives could manage it. Add to our retirement. I’m not comfortable relying entirely on the stock market, you know.”
“Wise man,” St. James said, pausing to sip the Bloody Mary Basil had just handed him. “Real estate has been an excellent investment in Canada, for sure. Don’t know anything about your market here.”
“Steady price increases in recent years.”
When they had finished their drinks, Basil ushered them into the dining room, where Penelope served dinner and Basil poured wine.
“Are you getting everything you need for your investigation?” Basil asked when they had begun to eat.
“Yes. Very pleased with the cooperation. Very professional. Thank you so much for making it easy.”
“You’re most welcome. I am a big fan of Cameron’s. He treats me well. Anything he asks gets priority.”
St. James recounted his conversation with Captain Thorne and Basil confirmed the accuracy of Thorne’s story.
“Never found out what was going on in Toronto,” he said, shaking his head. “Whatever it was damned near cost us three boatloads, very expensive boatloads, I might add, when you consider one was shrimp.”
St. James nodded.
By this time Anna and Penelope were knee-deep in decorating talk, paying no attention to Basil and St. James.
“I am fascinated by the cooperation between you and your brother. Since plant managers are bonused based on individual performance, there doesn’t seem to be an incentive for one plant manager to help another.”
“Quite true,” said Basil, smiling. “But for William and me it makes sense because of our proximity to one another. We have actually improved individual performance by making sure each other’s plant has a steady supply of fish to process. When Plymouth is at capacity we direct catch to Portsmouth, and vice versa. And because our two plants are close we attract more independent trawlers than one plant would. There’s always room for more fish in one plant or the other. Captains are content to supply us rather than single-plant competitors ninety miles up the coast. Less fuel used, and catch doesn’t have to travel as far. Fish is fresher when it goes into production. The fresher the fish, the more captains are paid per pound. Win–win all the way around.”
St. James considered this for a moment. “Makes sense. Other CISI plants are too far apart to cooperate with one another. They stand alone. So managers can only be bonused on individual performance. Can’t help one another even if there was motivation to do so. If the North and South American plants were closer together, they’d benefit from cooperation too.”
“Exactly,” Basil said, pointing his fork in St. James’s direction.
“If you and William make sure each other’s plant has a steady supply, you must normally be the ones to give instructions for where catch should go, not Toronto.”
Basil sipped on his wine. “That’s correct. For some reason or another accounting hijacked that role at year-end.”
“Did you ever find out why?”
“No, not really, at least not to my satisfaction.”
St. James’s forehead furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
Basil sat his wine glass next to the cutlery.
“I asked Cameron for the reason. He simply said Karen wanted to make sure as much product as possible was processed, to maximize profit, to make sure everyone got their bonus.”
St. James looked puzzled. “Wouldn’t that be Henry Jenkins’s responsibility as COO?”
Basil nodded, obviously still perplexed.
“It was every other year. He’s really quite good at maximizing production at year-end. A trained logistics man, exceptional at his job. There was no reason that I could see to change from him to Karen. But I felt it unwise to press further. It would probably come back to haunt me.”
St. James made a mental note to follow up on that.
The rest of the evening was occupied with casual discussion around political affairs around the world and travel, always a favourite for St. James and Anna.
Basil called Henry shortly after 9:00, and St. James and Anna were back in the hotel bar by 9:30.
“They’re spending like they just won the lotto,” Anna said, sipping a liqueur.
“Could be stringing themselves out a bit. Or maybe they’ve been frugal all their lives. The English are noted for that, you know.”
“What’s up for tomorrow?” she asked.
“When we go upstairs I’ll email William Hughes. Tomorrow we’ll travel to Portsmouth. Hopefully he can meet us on the weekend.”
“How far is it?”
“About 170 miles, all A roads. Three and a half hours by car, I believe.”
Nightcaps finished, they went to the front desk to see about Portsmouth accommodations. The Clarence Boutique Hotel came highly recommended by the night manager, who was gracious enough to book two nights for them and arrange a car for nine the next morning. Back in the room St. James emailed William about hi
s availability, and William replied saying he would make himself available any time.
Next morning they woke at about seven, packed their things, ate breakfast in the dining room, then checked out. The limo driver showed shortly after nine, driving a new black Citroën. He was neatly dressed in a white shirt, black tie, and chauffeur’s cap.
It was late afternoon when the Citroën pulled in front of the Clarence Boutique Hotel in Portsmouth. St. James paid the driver and they climbed out.
The Clarence Boutique Hotel was a charming red-brick place on Clarence Road not far from Portsmouth’s waterfront. They checked in, unpacked, and settled into a very colourful, newly decorated room.
St. James checked his email and found one from William saying he could meet them at the plant Sunday morning. He’d gladly pick them up if he knew where they were staying. St. James replied with the hotel address and said nine on Sunday morning would be quite convenient.
It had now been seven days since St. James had been shot, and when she examined the wound, Anna concluded it could be left open to the air.
St. James’s computer pinged. Two messages. The first was Smythe saying he’d spoken with Antoinette at the Cayman National Bank. Their lawyers had confirmed St. James’s legal and political strategy with Higgins Johnson. The bank would now flag the account voluntarily. Smythe had communicated the plan to Nathan Strong, and Nathan had approved the use of firm attorneys to obtain the US court order for the Cayman law firm.
“Love it when a plan comes together. It’s such a turn on,” St. James muttered.
“What did you say?” Anna said.
He showed her Smythe’s email.
“Aren’t you clever? Dozer isn’t going to think your approach overkill now,” she said, smiling.
The second email was from Dozer. Toronto police had found Samuel Franklin holed up in a small apartment on Finch and had brought him in for questioning. Dozer would interview Franklin tomorrow. And he had passed the information on to Jason in Washington.
“Everything seems to be progressing, Anna,” St. James said, happily.
She smiled. “Were you expecting it wouldn’t?”
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