And afterwards, when we had finished our coffee, she insisted on taking me down to the Nelson Exhibition on the Gallery floor. It was a beautiful room, all rich woodwork and flanked by glass display cabinets full of Nelson letters and a lot of silver. There was an alcove to the left with a big oil canvas of Nelson by a painter called Abbott, and at the far end Hardy’s golden Trafalgar sword was displayed in a separate case below some more Nelson letters and a Hopner print of him. And then I was leaning on the only other glass table case in the room, staring at the log of HMS Euryalus covering the period 23 May to 11 March 1806. It was open at the page recording Nelson’s England expects signal.
‘Something I want you to understand …’ She wasn’t looking at the log book. She hadn’t commented on it, or on anything else in the room. The visit to the Exhibition was just an excuse, and now, with her back to the priceless relic, leaning her handsomely shaped body against the case containing Hardy’s sword, she went on in a quiet, very throaty voice, ‘We’re in trouble, and after listening to you today, over drinks and during lunch, I’ve got a sort of feeling … I don’t know how to put this. But it’s like you were our only hope, if you see what I mean.’
She checked there, swallowing hard as though she was struggling to suppress some deep emotion. Then she went on, her voice more controlled. ‘If these claims stick, particularly the Aurora B and the Howdo Stranger claims, then I think Daddy’s finished. He’s underwriting the premium maximum and the family has always taken a lot of the GODCO insurance. I’m not affected, of course. I didn’t start underwriting till this month. But Mother’s been one of his Virgins for years, so both of them are in very deep.’ She put her hand out and gripped hold of my arm. ‘This is what I want you to understand. It’s not the money. The money doesn’t matter so much. We’ll survive, somehow. But I don’t think you quite understand what this means to my father. He’s the third generation. His father, and his father’s father, they were both underwriters here at Lloyd’s. In marine insurance they were the tops. It was their life, their raison d’être. They lived and breathed Lloyd’s, totally dedicated to the Society.’ And she added, ‘You might even say obsessed. That’s how Daddy is. It’s his life, his whole world.’ She smiled. ‘That and sailing,’ she said, endeavouring to lighten the emotional intensity with which she had been speaking. ‘I didn’t want you to feel …’ She paused, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know how to put this. Our backgrounds must seem very different.’
‘You know nothing about my background.’
‘Oh, yes, I do.’ And when I laughed and told her not to make erroneous comparisons, she said quickly, ‘Last night, after you’d gone, Salty showed us a dossier on you somebody had got out for him – where you’d been, what you’d done. Daddy was impressed. So was I. Especially what you did after your mother died. Did you really go right through Baluchistan and the North West Frontier, to the Khyber and up into the Murree Hills – on your own, when you were only fourteen?’
‘Yes. But it wasn’t like it is today.’
She didn’t seem to hear. ‘And then – this morning – I went to the Overseas League and looked through the newspaper files. I’m only just back from Gib – we’ve got our boat down there, you see – so I didn’t know the details, about the Petros Jupiter, I mean. I’m sorry. It must have been quite terrible for you – seeing it.’
‘Yes, but I’ll get him.’ I said it without thinking, but all she did was nod her head, accepting it as though that were the inevitable sequel to what had happened. There was a long silence. Finally she said, ‘What I wanted to explain …’ She shook her head. ‘No, it’s too difficult.’ A moment’s pause and then she went on, ‘We’re just people, you see. Like anyone else really. I know we’ve got money, a big house, cars, a yacht – but it doesn’t mean anything. Not really. What I mean is … well, when you’re racing, in a force 8 gale with a big sea running, you don’t worry then about whether you’ve got more money than the next guy – you’re too tired, too battered, too bloody scared sometimes.’ She gave me that warm smile, the eyes large and fixed on mine, her hand touching my arm. ‘I just wanted you to understand. I’m afraid Salty may have got you into something …’
‘I got myself into it,’ I said. I could feel her fingers through my jacket. ‘So no need for you to worry.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She took her hand away, shifting her position, her mood suddenly changing. ‘Daddy will be back at his box now. And I have a boy I promised to see who’s desperate to crew with us in the Med this year.’ She gave a quick little laugh. ‘I’m not sure yet whether it’s me or the boat he’s interested in. Can you find your way back to Forthright’s?’
She left me almost immediately, and I didn’t think about her again until that night. I was all set then, tickets, traveller’s cheques, contacts, everything the marine solicitors could provide me with – a contractual letter, too. And then, alone on the hard iron bedstead in that dinghy basement, unable to get to sleep, I found myself thinking about her. God knows, there’d been nothing sexy about her. Quite the reverse, in fact. Just a nice, plain English girl, hooked on sailing and probably half in love with her father. And yet …
There wasn’t a sound to disturb my thoughts. A little room in the East End of London and I might have been in space. Everything deathly still, frozen into silence. No sound of the sea now, no gulls screaming, no rollers thundering. The stillness of death, and my thoughts not on Karen, but on a lump of a girl propped against a case with a gold sword in it belonging to Captain Hardy of the Victory and talking endlessly about how they were just ordinary folk, while I stared at her tits and wondered what she’d do if I grabbed hold of them, in Lloyd’s of all places!
The next thing I knew it was daylight and the sun was streaming in out of a hard clear sky. It was still shining three and a half hours later when I took off from Heathrow in a half-empty Fokker Fellowship, flying over an England that was mantled deep in snow and brilliantly white. It was only when we were over the Channel and approaching the coast of France that we ran into cloud.
PART III
The Road to Dubai
1
The clouds were thinning when we landed at Nantes, fitful gleams of sunlight flickering on wet tarmac, and in the city itself the French moved quickly, huddled in topcoats, for it was cold with an east wind blowing down the river. Baldwick was out when I reached the Hôtel du Commerce, and not expected back until evening. I scribbled him a note, and after checking into a room, took a taxi to the address of the Lloyd’s agent. His name was Louis Barre and he had a small, untidy office looking out over the quay to a glimpse of the river through the superstructure of a cargo vessel.
‘Mistair Rodin?’ He was on his feet, waving a telex at me as I entered. ‘Zis arrive thees morning to say you are coming to me. Sit down, sit down please.’ He waved me to a chair. ‘You want to know about Choffel, eh? The Petros Jupiter. I have made enquiries.’ He was large and energetic, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet as he talked, jiggling a bunch of keys in the pocket of his jacket. ‘He is what I think you call my patch.’ His English was quick, almost staccato, the words ejected like grape pips through half-closed teeth. ‘It is a big river, the Loire, but Nantes is not like a seaport. It is more … what is the word? More a port of the region. Along the quay here we know many people, and Choffel, he has a house at Parnay, a few kilometres beyond Saumur, so it is not difficult for me to find out about him’
He bounced across to the door of the outer office, rattled some French at the girl who had shown me in, then turned back to me: ‘She has now finished typing the report. You like coffee while you read it? Milk, sugar?’ I said I’d like it black and he nodded. ‘Deux noirs,’ he said and handed me a single sheet of typescript. ‘It gives the background, all I can discover about him. If you want more, then we drive to Parnay and talk to his daughter. She is secretary at a clinic in Saumur. But today she is at home because she has a bad cold.’
The report was in the form of
notes and typed in English:
Dossier of Henri Albert Choffel, ship’s engineer: Age 46. Medium height, appearance swarthy, black waved hair, large ears, nose like hawk. Address: 5042 Les Tuffeaux, Parnay. Place of birth – no information.
First employed in the locality by Réaux et Cie as replacement for engineer who is sick on board the coaster Tarzan in 1959. Married Marie Louise Gaston from Vertou in 1961. One child, a daughter, Guinevere. Continued in employment with Réaux until 1968 when he became chief engineer of the bulk carrier Olympic Ore. This vessel is Greek-owned at that time and sailing on Panamanian flag-of-convenience. She is sunk in 1972.
After that there is no information about Choffel until 1976, except that he buys the house at Parnay and his wife dies in February 1973, after a transplant of the kidney operation. It is her husband who gives the kidney.
In 1976 Choffel’s name occurs in connection with the Stella Rosa. This is a small Lebanese vessel sunk off Pantelleria and Choffel is chief engineer. The enquiry, which was in Palermo, exonerated Choffel from any involvement in the sabotage of the sea cocks. But the ship is gun-running for the Polisario and on his return to Nantes in March 1977 his connection with these two ships, the Olympic Ore and the Stella Rosa, makes it difficult for him to gain employment as chief engineer. He is, in any case, not a Frenchman, though he has been naturalized for over twenty years. This is evident from his papers, which are already French when he is first employed by Réaux in 1959. This leads me to believe he may have been from North Africa originally. I can enquire of the relevant department of government if this information is required.
In 1978 I understand he tried to establish a small mushroom business at his home in Parnay, but this does not seem to have succeeded as he is back in Nantes looking for employment on a ship early in 1979. I can discover no information concerning this man in Nantes between June 1979, when he shipped out as third engineer on the Colombian-registered cargo ship, Amistad, and this year when he is second engineer on the Petros Jupiter. I have not so far made enquiries of his daughter, but will do so if it is thought necessary.
(SIGNED) LOUIS BARRE
The coffee arrived and I read the report through again, conscious all the time of the Frenchman’s impatience. It told me very little I didn’t already know, except about Choffel’s personal life, but that was no concern of mine. The Stella Rosa – nothing new there. And no information about the sinking of the Olympic Ore. I wished I had asked about that at Colchester, but there had been so much information to absorb. All the report amounted to was confirmation of a doubtful record. I finished the Nescafé, concentrating on the last part of the report. Why mushrooms? Why spend a year or more a long way up the river at Parnay? And the daughter – would she know where he had gone? If they were close, which was possible with his wife dead, then she might have had a letter.
‘What is it?’ Barre suddenly exploded. ‘You are not satisfied? There is something more you think your people require?’
I hesitated. The man had done his best. But it was disappointing. ‘Choffel left the Corsaire in the Straits of Hormuz, did you know that?’
‘Yes. I have a telex from Pritch-ard two days ago to that effect. He is trans-shipped to a dhow.’
‘But you don’t know where he is now.’
He stared at me as though I had said something outrageous. ‘Pritch-ard ask only for background information. He does not ask me where he is gone, what his plans are. How could I possibly tell him that? A man like Choffel, on the run as you say, does not shout his destination from the rooftops.’
‘His daughter might know. It’s almost a week now. He could have written.’
‘You want to question her, she is at her house today. Or I take you to Réaux.’ He produced the names of several individuals who had given him background information. ‘You wish to question them yourself?’
I shook my head. I didn’t see how that would help.
‘So why do you come?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Why don’t you stay in London till you receive my report?’
I hesitated. ‘Did any of them mention a man named Baldwick in connection with Choffel? Len Baldwick. He’s at the Hôtel du Commerce.’
He shook his head. ‘What is he? What is he doing here?’ And when I told him, he said, ‘But if he is recruiting these types, why Nantes? Why not Brest or Marseilles, some big seaport where he has more chance of finding what he want?’
‘That’s something I hope to discover this evening.’
‘So that is why you come here, to see this Englishman who is staying at your hotel?’
‘Partly.’ I was looking down at the sheet of typing again. ‘How do you know Choffel’s daughter is at home today?’
‘I phone the clinic in Saumur this morning.’
‘But not her home.’
‘No.’
‘Can we phone her now?’
‘She is not on the phone.’
‘You think she knows where her father is?’
He didn’t answer that, his sharp eyes staring and a frown on his face. ‘So! That is why you are here.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, the knuckles of his hands pressed into his cheeks, looking straight at me. ‘It is not the man’s background that interests you, it is where you can find him. Why? You are not the police. You cannot arrest him. Even if you discover where he is—’ He stopped there, silent for a moment, his eyes still fixed on me. ‘All right then. Okay.’ He suddenly bounced to his feet. ‘I take you to see her. It is only two hours, a bit more per’aps according to the traffic. And there is a little restaurant I know just beyond Angers where we can eat.’
He had a Renault 20 and he drove fast, the radio on all the time so that conversation was almost impossible. I leaned back and closed my eyes, lulled by the husky voice of a singer crooning a French love song, wondering about the girl, what she would be able to tell me. And in the evening I would be meeting Baldwick. The thought depressed me – that and Barre’s hostility. I could feel it in the silent intensity of his driving. He didn’t understand, of course. He hadn’t connected me with the woman who had blown the ship up. And it had been tactless of me not to conceal my disappointment at his report. Two years living an isolated existence with just one other human being – I had forgotten the pressures of everyday life, the sensitivity of men whose pride was part of their individual armour against the world. Rationalization, self-justification … God! How tired I was! How very, very tired!
The drone of the engine, the voice singing, the sky dark and the wind blattering at the car in gusts … I had a feeling of remoteness, my mind transported, drifting in a daze. Emotional exhaustion perhaps, or just the loneliness. Sitting there, my eyes closed, my cap pushed back, my body enveloped in the heat from the engine – heavy lorries thundering by, the flash of headlights in the murk … Christ! What a filthy lousy day! And here I was being driven by a stranger, a Frenchman, through a land gripped in winter, to meet the daughter of a man I’d sworn to kill … Guinevere – a name from Arthurian legend, was that important? Would she have heard from him? He could be in the desert now, or at sea, or buried in the teeming masses of some Arab town. Dubai, Sharjah, Ras al Khaimah, Khor al Fakkan – the Emirate names passing through my mind like a refrain – and Muscat, too, El Ain … all the names of all the places I had ever visited in the Gulf. Where would it be – where would I catch up with him? And when I did, would I really kill him? Would I have the guts?
And then, after a long time, I saw his newspaper picture face twisted in pain, the wide stare, the shocked surprise and the blood spurting. What had I used? In God’s name, was it a knife, or was it my bare hands? My teeth were bared and gritted, my fingers wet and feeling flesh, squeezing, squeezing, and I was cursing as the tongue came out and his eyes glazed …
‘Angers,’ Barre said and I blinked my eyes and sat up.
We were off the dual carriageway, driving into the centre of a city. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’
‘You�
��re tired, I think. You were talking to yourself.’ He switched off the radio. ‘We are coming now to one of the great châteaux of France.’ He turned off to the right, away from the river which he said was the Maine, and above us I saw a line of great black-banded towers. ‘A pity you don’t have time to view the tapestries of the Apocalypse – this city has some of the most remarkable tapestries in the world.’ He talked then about the Angevin kings and the Plantagenet connection until we stopped at a little hotel in Bohalle for lunch.
What I had said while I was asleep in the car I don’t know, but all through the meal, it seemed, he avoided the purpose of our journey, putting himself out to be entertaining as though I were somebody to be treated with care. It was only at the end, over the last of the wine and some excellent local cheese, that he suddenly said, ‘That girl, what are you going to say to her, have you thought?’
I gave a little shrug. What the hell was I going to say to her? ‘Does she know her father wrecked a tanker?’
‘It’s not certain. There’s no proof yet. But of course she knows he’s under suspicion. It is in all the papers. And yesterday the local press print a statement from the skipper of the Vague d’Or’ And he added, ‘Is better you leave it to me, eh? She may not have any English and if I talk to her—’
‘Ask her if she’s heard from her father, if possible get his address.’
‘And how do we explain ourselves? She might talk to me, but with two of us there – I don’t know.’ He was frowning. ‘I think if I were her I would be asking some questions before giving any answers.’
The Black Tide Page 10