Once on the helideck, he lowered the hood and removed the false moustache. As before, the other, regular passengers were heading for the exit gate and no-one took any notice. For all that anyone cared, he might have been wearing a suicide vest on the outside of the suit and waving an Al Qaeda flag. He was not expecting to be met this time but as he reached the walkway down to the gate where he would show his temporary pass to the automatic reader, he recognized the mess manager, Roy Henman, who was clearly waiting for him. It was not, however, to offer him another tour of the accommodation, even though Smith would be needing a berth for the night; Henman had been sent by Donald McFarlane.
As they made their way towards the offices, Smith said, ‘I didn’t think I’d see the company man again. Is he on here full time?’
‘I don’t think so but I wouldn’t really know. I don’t have much to do with him.’
Smith didn’t answer – some quick and careful thinking was needed now that events had taken a somewhat unexpected turn. When they reached their destination, it was the mess manager who spoke again.
‘You’ll be needing a bed, I understand.’
‘I’m afraid so. Sorry to put you to any trouble, Roy.’
‘No trouble –we’ve got some under-used these days. You can have James Bell’s if you want – if it wouldn’t bother you. He’s not coming back, is he?’
The tall, heavy figure of the man loomed above him a little and Smith saw once again the tough former sailor behind the slightly pudgy, overweight man that he had become.
‘As things stand, Roy, I really couldn’t say. But I’ll take your offer of the room.’
Smith had wondered whether the PA would also be on the platform, and his question was soon answered – she sat at her desk and smiled when he appeared. She waved him on towards the office door, which was ajar, and told him to go straight in. As he passed the desk, he glanced at her ID tag which lay on the table in front of her screen; it was upside down but he had no trouble in reading it and confirming that the name was the one that he had remembered – Audrey Meacham.
McFarlane half-stood from the desk and half-shook Smith’s hand.
‘Just thought I’d better say hello again, sergeant. It is Sergeant Smith, isn’t it? Thought so. On your own this time? No big guns following up the rear?’
Smith had vivid memories of the first meeting, and the man’s forced joviality now was grating.
‘Still, sad though it is, I don’t suppose that such accidents merit a great deal of police time these days, if they ever did. We all have to work smarter and be leaner now!’
McFarlane had a fair girth, courtesy no doubt of a generous Nordco expense account and nice annual bonuses; Smith acknowledged the sentiment without replying.
‘And have you made any progress with it? Marinor have been in touch with Mrs Bell, at my request, and naturally Nordco will make a generous contribution on top of what his employer decides is appropriate. This remains a dangerous business, sergeant, and people need to feel that they will be looked after.’
‘As you say, sir, a dangerous business. I’ve met Mrs Bell, and she will need all the help that she can get.’
He was aware that he had not answered the question at all, and waited.
‘Indeed… Indeed. So – any news?’
Smith could and probably should have blanked the question and walked away but he was here now, in front of the man whose very curiosity was gradually giving away some sort of game.
‘A little. Mr Bell’s life back on shore was - how can I put it? Somewhat complicated. This might have no bearing on his disappearance ,of course, but we have to consider all the options. We’re still carrying out an investigation, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here, would I?’
‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Complicated, eh? You make him sound like quite the man of mystery!’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, sir. But he does seem to have been mixed up in something that might be a factor in whatever has happened to him.’
A pause then, allowing the company man to think it over for a moment, before adding, ‘I take it that you never actually met James Bell, Mr McFarlane?’
The eyes were small but set almost too far apart to look into both at the same time – one had to make a choice and Smith fixed his own gaze on the right side of McFarlane’s broad face. What he found there was the look of a clever man calculating risks.
‘Sergeant, I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like some more of that coffee?’
Yes, he would. This was too crude to be an attempt at evasion – the man was going to tell him something and wanted a little more time to think, that was all. McFarlane went out of the office and gave Audrey her orders while Smith looked over the desk again; it was tidy, organized, not unlike his own and he wondered whether that told him something about the man or whether it was the PA’s work. The pen was there, in its red leather case, and again the photograph of the woman caught his eye – an attractive blonde who knew how to hold the attention of the lens without the usual vacuous smile.
As he re-entered the room, McFarlane began talking again, as if the question had been so insignificant it had almost slipped his mind.
‘You know, sergeant, I think I might have met him, years ago in Aberdeen. It was only after your last visit that the name began to ring one of those bells – forgive the expression in this context. It must have been fifteen years or more, and those were hectic times, still in the boom years for oil. People came and went all the time, a few weeks here, a few weeks there. But I do remember someone of that name, though he couldn’t have been much more than a boy – if it is the same person… James Bell? Jimmy Bell? It sounds familiar.’
Smith said, ‘From our investigations, it would seem that Mr Bell did work up in the north, so that would tie in. That’s helpful. Were you working for Nordco then, sir, as a matter of interest?’
‘No. As I say, we were all moving around. I was an engineer then, on rigs in the Brent field. I haven’t always been driving a desk!’
‘But you haven’t seen him since those times? You haven’t seen him recently?’
‘No, sergeant, I certainly haven’t seen him in recent times.’
‘Well, not really surprising – I expect that you moved in very different circles. But you might have bumped into him while on the platform – that’s what I was wondering, sir.’
McFarlane shook his head, and Smith took a sip of the coffee that had just been put in front of him. Then he asked about McFarlane’s work in general, and the man was happy to talk about the business and how much it had changed over the years, saying that he expected to be out of it himself in another year or two. ‘We’re dinosaurs now,’ he said, and Smith did not know whether he was being included in that but the moment had passed.
When he left the office, he closed the door behind him, and then spoke quietly to Audrey Meacham – yes, the coffee was excellent again, and no, he hadn’t been able to find any himself yet but he hadn’t given up. She was not quite middle-aged, not quite plump and not married, judging by the absence of a ring on her third finger, but she was a competent PA – he knew that without even wondering how he knew it. When he asked whether they – meaning the company man and herself – spent most of their time on Elizabeth, she said no, not at all. An extra trip like this one was unusual, and they were normally based at the Nordco offices on the Heathways commercial estate.
‘Ah,’ said Smith, ‘I know it well. One of my neighbours works there, at the big Volvo trucks centre. Small world, isn’t it? So this is an extra trip out for you, is it? Some sort of crisis, I expect…’
No, not a crisis as far as she was aware. Mr McFarlane had called her late last night and asked her to fly out but she wasn’t really sure why. There was a seven o’clock departure tonight and they would be going on that one, she had been told. And Smith thought, well, I can guess why you’re here in such a hurry. Someone at Marinor told someone at Nordco that that detective sergeant is coming back, still poking abou
t in the Jimmy Bell business.
With McFarlane sitting only a few feet away, it was the wrong moment to ask her whether she had ever taken a call from Marinor personnel about recruiting a new roustabout. Instead, he said, ‘Audrey, can I be a bit cheeky and ask you for something?’
There was a slight flushing on the side of her neck; perhaps his voice had been a little too quiet and confidential, but she said yes, of course he could.
‘Can I have your phone number?’
He tried not to leave too long a pause but he saw the surprise in her face, her eyes widening a little.
‘I know that Mr McFarlane is a very busy man. I was thinking that if I need to speak to him again about this matter we’re investigating, it might be better to ring you first, as his PA. If you wouldn’t mind…’
She was already writing it down for him.
‘This is the office number. And this is my mobile just in case it’s an emergency.’
She handed it to him with a knowing smile, as if she had seen through his little subterfuge, but he took it anyway. There are casualties in every investigation.
Chapter Fourteen
Smith had met Jack Brighty again briefly, and the young roustabout who had shared the berth with Bell asked if there was any news, had asked as if he was interested. Apart from McFarlane, who might have motives of his own, no-one else that Smith had spoken to – the ops room, the communications officer – seemed concerned. Somehow, as he sat on the bed that had briefly belonged to Bell, that had added to the sense of loneliness that he felt – not personal loneliness as such but the more general feeling that must sometimes come from working out here in this technologically brilliant but essentially alien environment. It was clear that some people adapted by working hard at being sociable, being part of the team, and that others withdrew into a life of long hours, sleep and the solitude of headphones. Where did Bell fit in during his two-week stay? Did he ‘fit in’ at all? If Bell had found another source of money, had he intended to come back? That money, he told himself, and not for the first time, is probably the key to this.
Through force of habit, he had gone over the room and its meagre furnishings again but there had been nothing new to find. Meagre was the word alright but it was too, too meagre. A belt, a few clothes and a phone that was bought by somebody else? Ideas were forming slowly like dim, distant figures in the smoke; he wondered whether he would have sorted this out more quickly years ago, whether he had begun to lose his edge, and then dismissed his doubts; his joints might be packing up but there’s no cartilage in the brain, Smith, and this really is an odd one.
Stuart Aves appeared in the doorway, having made no sound as he approached, and for a few seconds he watched the policeman sitting on the bed, staring into inner space. There had been four of them originally – how had they settled on sending back the one that looked most like an indifferently successful vacuum cleaner salesman? And when Aves asked if he was ready, he didn’t have a suitable coat, and they had to detour back to his own office to get a spare jacket. Didn’t these people have any idea what conditions were like out here?
After fetching the jacket, Smith insisted on returning to Bell’s berth so that they could start the journey from that point. This time he had a print-out of the schematic map of the platform, and he stood outside the door studying it for some seconds. Aves asked why.
‘Because,’ Smith said, ‘I’m a bit mystified by something. There are cameras all over the platform, aren’t there?’
‘They cover most of it, most of the time.’
‘But Jimmy Bell only appears on the one bit of footage. Did he plan his route to avoid the others, or was it coincidental? Or was he on others but that got deleted? I know small details like that bother me more than they should – but if we start from here, is it possible to get to the one camera that filmed him without passing the others, assuming that they were switched on? As head of security, you’re the man to ask, Stuart.’
‘And is this why you’ve flown all the way back out here?’
Smith smiled apologetically.
‘It’s one of the reasons, yes. To be honest, we’re clutching at straws – we don’t have a lot to go on.’
Aves shook his head, and they began to take the circuitous route around the platform that Bell himself might have taken if he had wanted to avoid being filmed. Aves had to make a couple of adjustments but it was possible and there were not as many cameras as Smith had imagined. Eventually they found themselves on the walkway where the shadowy image of the man looking out to sea and then continuing his walk into oblivion had been recorded. From here the gas flare was visible above them and to the right. The strong westerly wind curved it out across the sea, and below it, in the strange and garish light, the waves crawled away like living things – a nightmarishly beautiful scene that Smith gazed at for some time while Aves stood and waited.
Then Smith said, ‘OK, I remember this. Can we walk on the way we did last time, if you don’t mind. Past those crossing walkways that go out to the pillars?’
They took the steps down onto the walkway that ran beneath the floor of the main platform. Here the lights were fewer, and Aves switched on the long, heavy-duty torch that he had been carrying since they left the berth, walking behind Smith but shining it ahead of him. And Smith thought, as the man who knows this place well, I’d have done that the other way around – I’d have gone first. And then Smith thought, and that’s a heavy old torch he’s carrying… Senses sharpened, he moved forward a little more briskly until he reached the point where steps went down to the side walkway, turning before Aves had caught up with him. Here there was not enough light to show the sea beneath them but its hiss and swirl filled the air, magnified by the floor of the platform above.
Smith said, ‘So, it’s as I remembered it. There’s no way of falling off this walkway,’ pointing to the one that they stood on, ‘because of the overhead mesh, but on that one,’ now pointing to the one that led to the pillar, ‘there are only the side meshes. But as it was locked, he couldn’t have got out there. I’ve got that right, haven’t I?’
If Aves muttered an answer, it was lost in the sound of a wave crashing into the nearest pillar, but Smith saw the nod of the head. As he looked back at the locked gate – too dark this time to see the padlock that had been troubling him ever since – thoughts came quickly. He thought, this is a lonely and desolate place at ten o’clock on a wild and windy night, never mind at one o’clock in the morning. He thought, Mr Aves is an odd sort – apart from one sarcastic question about why I’m here, he hasn’t shown the slightest interest in this whole business, and that is a truly remarkable lack of curiosity. And he thought, there probably isn’t a swimmer in the world who, if he or she went in here, would make it back to the shore.
‘Thank you, Stuart. Can we have a quick word back in your office? Lead the way.’
Aves said, ‘Well, there’s a health and safety girl wandering about all day with a clipboard, which is nice, but all the donkey work is done by us – the 3S staff.’
Smith wrote it down, slowly and precisely.
‘So that would include things like making sure the cameras are working, monitoring security passes, keeping an eye on all that satellite technology?’
‘Yes.’
‘Checking the locks on those gates?’
Aves nodded, and Smith noticed then that he still had not taken off the cap with the logo, 3S, across the front. Aves was another company man alright – he hadn’t seen him without the company jacket and cap since day one. But he was listening more carefully now, and watching Smith closely.
‘How often are the locks changed, Stuart?’
‘The whole platform gets gone over every six months. Anything that needs replacing is done then.’
‘And the last six month check-up was when?’
‘December.’
Smith sighed and stared down at his notebook as if the answer had in some way disappointed him. Then he reached into his jacket po
cket and took something out of it, something that he did not place onto the table immediately, as if he was still unsure whether this was a good idea. Aves waited and watched. Finally Smith’s hand came to the table and placed there two locks – he rearranged them almost fussily so that they were exactly side by side, standing up on their ends.
He said, ‘English made. That’s a rarity these days, isn’t it? Funny too, I thought when I noticed that – we don’t manufacture much in this country any more but we still make very good locks. Rebloy - the same make that you use here on the platform. Brass. Very stable and corrosion resistant, especially when tin is added… Anyway, I bought these two together in my local hardware store a week ago, both brand new, obviously. Can you spot the difference?’
At first Aves seemed reluctant to take his eyes from Smith’s. Then he leaned forward, looked closely at the two locks and shrugged.
Smith said, ‘You’ll have to bear with me. It wasn’t a very scientific experiment, but what I did was, I put one of these on my bedroom windowsill, outside, and left it there until this morning, and the other one went into my bedside drawer. So one of them has had a fair bit of rain on it - I reckon you can tell which is which.’
Aves looked down again but still said nothing.
‘And here,’ reaching into the pocket of his trousers, leaning to one side because it wasn’t really roomy enough, ‘is another lock, or rather a picture of one.’
Luck and Judgement: A DC Smith Investigation Page 18