The Black Tide

wanted the people who dealt with fraudulent claims.

But I couldn’t remember what the section was called,

only that it was located outside London.

By the time I had been through Directory Enquiries

and Lloyd’s of London switchboard I was sweating,

my nerves on edge, tiredness coming in waves. Colchester, the girl said — Intelligence Services. And she

gave me the number.

‘You all right, Trevor?’ It was Jean, looking anxious and holding a cup of coffee out to me.

‘Yes, I’m all right.’ There were beads of sweat on my forehead. ‘It’s very warm in here, nice and warm after being outside.’

‘Come and sit down then. You can phone after you’ve had your coffee.’

‘No. No thanks. I’ll get this over, then I’ll sit down for a moment.’ I dialled the Colchester number, mopping the sweat from my forehead, and when I told the girl I was enquiring about the engineer of the

Petros Jupiter she put me through to a quiet, friendly-sounding voice: ‘Ferrers, Special Enquiries Branch. Can I help you?’ But as soon as I asked him whether it was negligence, or if the tanker had been put ashore deliberately, his manner changed. ‘Have you any reason to suppose it was deliberate?’

‘The engineer,’ I said. ‘A Greek named Speridion. He took a dinghy from Porthcurno. They say he was picked up by a Breton fishing boat.’

‘It doesn’t prove anything,’ the voice said. ‘A man who’s been shipwrecked…’ There was a pause, and then the inevitable question. ‘May I know your interest in the matter? Are you representing anyone in particular?’

‘No. Only myself.’ I told him my name then and where I was speaking from, and he said ‘Trevor Rodin’, repeating it slowly. ‘It was your wife …’ The voice trailed away, embarrassed, and I heard him say, ‘I’m sorry.’ After that there was a long silence. And when I asked him for information about the engineer, where he lived, or where the fishing boat had taken him, he said, ‘I can’t answer that. There’s nothing through yet. Why not try the police, or maybe the solicitors …’ He hesitated, ‘May I have your address please?’

I gave it to him, also the Kerrisons’ telephone number. ‘Could you ring me here if it turns out to be a scuttling job?’

‘What makes you think it might be?’

‘He’s fled the country, hasn’t he?’ And when he

didn’t answer, I said, ‘Well, hasn’t he? Somebody put that bloody tanker on the rocks.’

‘That’s a matter for the courts.’ His voice sounded suddenly a little distant. Silence then. I thought he’d cut me off, but when I said ‘Hullo’, he answered at once. ‘Just a moment.’ A long pause. Then he went on, ‘Sorry — I’ve got a telex here, and I was just looking at a newspaper report of what happened last night… you’ve been a ship’s officer, I see. Gulf, and Indian Ocean. You know Mina Zayed?’

‘The Abu Dhabi port?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that where he’s headed?’

‘It’s where the tanker was loaded. Do you know it?’ And when I told him I’d been into it only once since it was built, he said, ‘Well, that’s more than most ships’ officers have.’ And he asked me whether I was ever in London.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not for a long time.’ But then I remembered about the book and the publishers I had sent it to. I’d have to sort that out, think about what I was going to do. ‘Maybe now…’ I murmured.

‘You’ll be coming to London then?’

‘I expect so.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know — soon. It depends.’

‘Well, let me know.’ He repeated the number I had given him, promised to phone me if they heard anything definite, then hung up.

I drank the rest of my coffee there by the phone, wondering why he wanted to know if I’d be in London.

There was nothing I could tell him. I took the empty cup through into the kitchen. Jean was there, looking a little tearful as she insisted I lunch with them. ‘You’re going to leave Balkaer now, aren’t you?’

I nodded. There was a sort of extra-marital closeness between us. Perhaps it was her mixed Romany blood, but she always seemed to know what was in my mind. ‘Yes, time to leave now.’ Time to go back to the superficial companionship of officers’ quarters on some tramp.

‘Back to sea?’

I nodded, not relishing the thought.

‘What about the book?’

I shook my head. It was over a month since I had sent it to the publishers and not a word. ‘It’ll be back to the Gulf again, I suppose. But first—’ I stopped there, my hands trembling, my mind on that engineer. I couldn’t tell her what I planned to do. I couldn’t tell anybody. ‘I’ll take a break first.’ My voice sounded faint, little more than a mumble. ‘Try and sort things out.’

She put the saucepan down carefully and caught me by the arm. ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right, Trevor. They never did.’ And she added, ‘I know how you feel, but… just leave it be, love. The thing’s done. Leave it be.’ And then, without waiting for an answer, she said, ‘Now go on down to the cottage, clean things up and come back here for lunch just after twelve. Cold ham and salad. And I’ll do you some meringues.’ She knew I liked meringues.

‘All right,’ I said.