Sea of Troubles Box Set

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Well, no, of course. Only too happy, but —’

  ‘I have to be with him. Can you see that?’ The intensity of the words shocked even Robin and the massiveness of the truth almost overwhelmed her.

  Richard was in trouble. Bad trouble, by the sound of it. She had to be there at his side, no matter what. Nothing else mattered at all.

  ‘Look,’ she drew out the vowel sound making the word lengthen as she fought to control her voice. ‘I’ll start to move at once but I’ll check with you later myself. If push comes to shove I’ll call through from the departure lounge at Heathrow or Gatwick. You can advise me then.’

  ‘And if my advice is to stay at home?’

  ‘Then I’ll take it under consideration, Mr Balfour.’

  A very slight hesitation. A very slight change of tone. ‘Please call me Andrew, Mrs Mariner.’

  I’ll take that under consideration too, Mr Balfour, she thought, and hung up.

  She was back on to Heritage Mariner in a matter of moments, her mind racing in the grip of a whole sequence of shocks, not the least of which was the realisation that she was actually, really, on her way to Hong Kong. ‘The current company codeword is Conrad,’ she rasped. ‘When I get to Heritage House I want a complete print-out on everything to do with the China Queens Company, and everything to do with Heritage Mariner’s involvements in Hong Kong, China, Singapore and, let’s see … Russia.

  ‘Then I want to be on the first flight out to Hong Kong. I have to be there later today, if not sooner. And I’ll be at Heritage House before dawn.’

  ‘Certainly, Captain Mariner,’ said the friendly, calming voice of the massively competent Audrey on the far end of the connection. Then the family atmosphere upon which Heritage Mariner prided itself took over. ‘And what are you going to do with the twins?’ Audrey asked.

  It was Batty Fothergill who proved the life-saver.

  Since they had bought Ashenden when the twins were still a large lump inside her, before Richard got caught up in the Gulf War, Robin had been a mother more than a master mariner, and although she was forever rushing up to Heritage House, she was nevertheless also an active member of the local scene down here in Sussex. Inevitably, she had made a wide circle of friends and acquaintance simply by being what she was and who she was.

  Batty was the den mother to all the local girls. She had been an auxiliary nurse and doubled as midwife occasionally still. She and her ex-Army husband had owned their rambling mansion outside Westdean since the war, and lived in it since Charlie had retired nearly fifteen years ago. Batty had been one of Robin’s first visitors and soon became one of her fastest friends, in spite of the age difference between them. Perhaps this was because Robin had lost her mother early and Batty had lost her only daughter early too. ‘Any panic, any problem, call us any time; the colonel and I don’t sleep much these days so that’s a day or night offer.’

  Robin was chary of taking the offer up in anything other than extremis because, quite apart from anything else, a certain measure of spiritous liquors was likely to have been consumed in the Fothergill household by bedtime and she didn’t want to risk calling either Batty or Charlie out at night if they were likely to be over the limit. On the other hand Batty was just the girl to help Janet get the twins organised in the morning, to oversee the clearing of the Monterey and the laundering of its contents, and to help with the transport of the twins back to their doting grandfather for an unexpected extra holiday at Cold Fell; and Charlie was just the man to contact CPO Patterson and close down the house again until this matter was settled one way or the other.

  Robin took a deep breath and began to dial.

  There was one ring, as there had been at Heritage Mariner. ‘Fothergill. Hello?’ The voice was clear if husky, and sounded alert even at this hour.

  ‘Hello, Batty, it’s Robin …’

  *

  Janet answered Robin’s first quiet knock. She sat up wide-eyed and awake, the instant Robin crept into her room. ‘What is it? Is it the children?’

  ‘No. But it is an emergency, I’m afraid. I have to go to Hong Kong later tonight. I’ve arranged for you and the twins to pop across to the Fothergills for the rest of the night. Mrs Fothergill will help you clear the cases and everything out of the Monterey and then she’ll wash it all in the morning. When its all sorted out, she and the colonel will bring all the holiday stuff back here and close Ashenden down. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’d like you to take the Monterey, firstly across to Westdean and then, tomorrow, up to London, with the twins. Sir William will come down and collect them. They’ll go up to Cold Fell for the time being. You can go with them or you can take yourself off on a holiday somewhere. You’ve certainly earned a proper break and we’ll be happy to foot the bill.’ Janet nodded, but in fact she had been hardly listening to the latter part of what Robin had said. ‘Sir William and I will take them to Cold Fell tomorrow.’

  ‘Or the next day. The company flat in Heritage House is empty in the meantime.’

  ‘Fine. Shall we get them dressed now?’

  ‘No. We’ll pop them in the Monterey in their pyjamas. The Fothergills will have beds ready and will simply carry them in. With any luck they won’t even wake up.’

  Janet nodded again, dark blonde curls bobbing over steady eyes. ‘Its something urgent, then. Is it Captain Richard?’ She had called him Captain Richard ever since she had nursed him back to health after the Gulf War, before she had become another kind of nurse to the twins.

  Robin gulped, her eyes suddenly burning. ‘I think he’s in terrible trouble,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go to him.’

  Nurse Janet nodded again.

  It was only as she watched the taillights of the Monterey vanish round the first bend in the drive that Robin realised she had sent almost all her summer clothes away with her babies. She turned back and walked blindly in through the great double door of the garage, tears streaming down her face. She was still crying when she reached Richard’s study and picked up his phone for the last time. Again, she punched in a number from memory and listened to the sound of the connection clicking through.

  ‘Good morning. This is Crewfinders. Audrey speaking. How may I help you?’

  ‘Audrey, it’s Robin Mariner here. I’ll be on my way up to Heritage House in a moment. Anything in particular I need to sort out for a visit to Hong Kong?’

  This was not an unusual question for the Crewfinders personnel. The agency had built its reputation on being able to transport any ship’s officer or crew member from anywhere in the world to anywhere in the world within twenty-four hours, and they were consequently expert in advice about any odd requirements en route. For an old hand like Audrey, Heritage House to Hong Kong should be a breeze, but her good work could all too easily be negated if Robin did not have the correct paperwork — especially after the plague scare in India a couple of years ago, and the Ebola outbreak in Africa.

  ‘I’ve got my passport. Any jabs?’ They had a company doctor on twenty-four-hour call, ready to administer any injections required for immigration.

  ‘I’ll check. Anything else?’

  ‘I’ll be bringing basic baggage — very basic.’

  ‘We’ll see about topping it up. Still size twelve?’

  ‘Yup.’ Nobody had any secrets from Audrey.

  ‘And off to HK. Only the Sulu Queen due there. Are you going aboard her?’

  ‘Nope.’ This was no time for further explanations, even to Audrey. ‘I’ll be ashore. I just need enough to keep me going until I see about getting kitted out.’

  ‘I see,’ said Audrey, though she plainly didn’t see at all. ‘I think we can help you out, Robin. Everything you need will be waiting here, together with the information you requested under the Conrad company codeword — unless you’d like to start from Gatwick?’

  ‘I’ll be driving up in Richard’s E-type.’

  There was a brief silence as this sank in. No one ever drove Richard’s E-type except Richard h
imself.

  ‘You’d better bring it here, then Robin; we’ll put it in the high-security section of our underground garage, beside Sir William’s Mulsane Turbo, just to be on the safe side.’

  Chapter Five

  Just taking the cover off the thing terrified her: what if she should scratch it? Richard would be livid! A woman who had commanded great ships in the most extreme and dangerous of circumstances quailed before the thought of scratching her husband’s beloved toy, just as the gawky sixteen-year-old had been terrified of the dashing young sea captain when she first met him all those years ago. It was ridiculous, she told herself firmly. She had grown out of that tinge of girlish awe the better part of twenty-five years ago, when this exquisite creature had been rolling off the production line at Radford or Brown’s Lane. But even so, she checked its gleaming paintwork for the faintest suspicion of a scrape.

  Feeling a little like a thief, she slid the key into the silver circle of the lock in the driver’s door, hooked her fingers under the cool chrome handle and pulled it open. Surprised alike by the unexpected weight and the elegant balance of the long door, she swung it back and forth twice, feeling it wanting to hesitate halfway as the catch clicked past; then she pushed it wide and stooped to look inside the cockpit. The fragrance of leather washed out, contained — concentrated — by the combination of hard-top and cover. She breathed it in as though it had been created by Chanel, then she straightened. Mentally she berated herself. She was not here to indulge in sensuousness. And yet that was what the exquisite car seemed to offer: sensuousness, almost sybaritic indulgence, quite apart from the heady promise of naked power such as she had never experienced before — at least, not on wheels. Giving herself a mental shake, she put her small kitbag down on the garage floor and swung her long body in. The sill was incredibly wide and she felt herself stepping over and decidedly down into the cockpit. But for all that, when she had settled into the seat she was well up and perfectly positioned to look over the lateral grilles and along the seemingly infinite curves of the bonnet. She was nowhere near the right position, however, and she had to reach down, relishing the sound of the soft leather grumbling against the cotton of her jeans and the silk of her travelling blouse, to slide the seat forward almost to its furthest extent before her feet were comfortable on the pedals.

  She sat for a moment, summoning up the willpower for the next action. It suddenly occurred to her that since nine o’clock yesterday morning — a time now seventeen hours distant — she had left Cold Fell, driven for nine hours, had a fight with the kids, a plate of beans, two whiskies, one hour’s sleep, and ninety of the worst minutes of her life so far. Exhausted, she reached out across that massive sill and hefted her kitbag over her lap into the passenger’s seat. Then she pulled the driver’s door shut and slid the key into the ignition.

  She took a deep breath, adjusted the rearview and rocked the gear lever to check it was in neutral. She studied the black dashboard and made sure she was clear about where the dials and rocker switches were positioned. The car had been under cover for only a couple of weeks and the weather had been warm: probably no need for any choke, she calculated. I hope she’s got a full tank, she thought, rested her hands on the big black leather steering wheel, snuggled back into the bucket seat, rested her head against the headrest, depressed the clutch, prepared to tap the accelerator and reached down to turn the key. The massive V12 engine purred into life and the whole car throbbed.

  Each vibration of that perfectly controlled power pumped a little energy and excitement back into her. She checked the dials: full tank; battery powered up, water and oil OK. She flipped the switches and brought up the lights. Then she slipped the gearshift into first and eased her foot up off the clutch. The rev counter hardly stirred and the engine engaged. The black car rolled forward, more alert, more utterly at her command than anything she had ever controlled before. It required an effort of will to brake after a couple of yards and jump out to close the garage.

  This time when she slid back in behind the wheel she paused for a moment longer while she made closer acquaintance with the accelerator. Thoughtfully, she tapped it hard enough to bring the needle or the rev counter up to 45 a couple of times, listening to the purr change timbre into a roar, aware of the gaze of the cat’s face on the steering-wheel boss. She wanted to be confident about that particular pedal and this particular dial because she was acutely aware that the speedometer beside it was calibrated up past 160 miles per hour. As she tested the accelerator and watched the needle on the rev counter, she fastened her seatbelt and automatically eased it to a comfortable position.

  This time when the E-type rolled forward it did not stop. It slid like a black shark out into the utter dark of the southern Sussex lanes and roared away along the tunnel of light laid down by the headlight beams as though exhilarated to be out of the confinement of Ashenden’s garage.

  The first corner caught Robin by surprise and she was lucky to come through it unscathed. She had just slipped the gear lever up into second — second was plenty for this corner in the Monterey which pulled past 20 mph in second — when she felt herself skidding and realised she was moving at more than 40 already. She stamped on the brake a little more fiercely than she meant to and discovered the hard way just how efficient the split surface ventilated disc breaking system was. The skid compounded and the car turned round once in the middle of the road, tail-heavy like all of its kind. Then she found that the Adwest power steering system was just what she needed to get herself straightened up again. Thank God the road was empty, she thought. At least she hadn’t stalled the thing.

  Five minutes later, Robin gingerly came onto the A259 and headed west for Brighton. She soon mastered the first three gears, but she felt she really needed a long, straight dual carriageway, or better, before she put the car into top and let it go. At Newhaven she swung carefully onto the A26. Here for the first time she experimented with top gear but she approached the roundabout south of Lewes very carefully indeed. She was not really happy with things until she swung off the roundabout onto the dual carriageway section of the A27. Even here she did not let the monster under the bonnet loose, but snarled and grumbled along at 70 mph, holding the car in check as she got to know it.

  She slowed again at the Brighton bypass but prepared to give the car its head as she swung onto the A23 and headed up through the increasingly frequent dual carriageway sections towards the M23. At Bolney her right foot pressed down with more confidence and, in spite of the fact that she was coming up quite a steep hill, she watched the needle on the speedometer leap rapidly past 70 mph. She came over the brow of the hill and the road lay bright and straight ahead of her, stretching across the sleeping Sussex Downs towards the gilded gleam of the motorway and the distant amber blaze of Gatwick Airport.

  ‘What the hell, old girl,’ she said. ‘Let’s go!’

  She skidded across the roundabout with the B2115, very lucky indeed that there was no traffic about, but even that signal warning that she should be careful how she judged very high speeds did not dampen her elation or slow her down. Quite the reverse, in fact; she went under the bridge at Handscross at 100 and entered the M23 at 120, speeding to the rescue of the man she had loved for more than three-quarters of her life.

  She remembered the first time she had ever seen him: at the anchorage in St Tropez the New Year after Mummy died when he had moored his little yacht Rebecca beside theirs unaware. How vividly she recalled the opulent after section of her father’s ocean-going cruiser, open to the unseasonably clement night. Herself, little more than a teenager in awe of her fantastically beautiful elder sister Rowena; Daddy, still with the last of his youthful energy clinging about him, beginning to come out of mourning at last.

  And Richard, tall, slim, dazzlingly good-looking, totally oblivious of their presence and of her gaze. Lonely and disconsolate, he had opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate the arrival of the seventies and the cork had flown across the tiny gap between the b
oats to hit Daddy on the head. The accident had led to apologies, mutual recognition, formal introductions and a night of lively conversation which had brightened the moment and changed all their lives. Richard had been a captain for some time by that stage even though he could have been little more than twenty-five years old. He had knocked about a bit and was looking to settle down. And Sir William Heritage had been looking for a senior captain to groom for executive office in Heritage shipping. It had all been perfect, except for the existence of Rowena.

  Robin remembered how dashing Richard had looked at his wedding to her elder sister, and how she had walked down the aisle as bridesmaid in floods of silent tears. It had been a miracle that she managed to complete any ‘A’ level studies, such had been the power of her unhappily thwarted love.

  She remembered all too clearly the look of shock and horror on his face when she had cornered him at her twenty-first birthday party three years later to inform him that her big sister, his wife, was using his time away at sea as an unrivalled opportunity to sleep her way through the younger, better-looking sections of Burke’s Peerage.

  She preferred to forget the conversation she had with her father soon after, and the sight of Rowena going sulkily aboard Richard’s new command, her father’s new tanker flagship which even bore her name: Rowena.

  That had been the last time Robin saw her sister alive and the last time she saw Richard for five barren years. Rowena had exploded and sunk. Rowena had gone down with her. Richard had been lucky to survive and his service with Heritage had ended.

  In the time he was away setting up Crewfinders, Robin completed her studies at the London School of Economics, completed a Masters at Johns Hopkins, and finished her studies for her officer’s ticket. Had she been anyone other than her father’s daughter she would have stood no chance of achieving the wide range of qualifications she now held, but all her hard work had been more than amply rewarded when she had managed to get the position of third mate on Prometheus which Richard had crewed and then commanded after a terrible industrial accident.