The Black Tide

Except for a brief paragraph in the Telegraph headed oil slick demo at cornish church, the Petros Jupiter seemed to have dropped right out of the news. The lead story in all the papers was the arrest of four more terrorists at the GB Shahpur Petrochemical Company’s offices in the City. They were charged with being implicated in the Piccadilly Underground explosion that had killed eleven people just before Christmas.

Feeling drowsy as the train ran into the flat Essex countryside, I went into the buffet for some coffee. There was a queue and, while I was waiting, the guard came through checking tickets. The buffet car was full, every seat occupied, and when I finally got my coffee I took it through into the next coach and sat down in

an almost empty first class compartment. There was one occupant only, a neat elderly man with rimless half-glasses who sat hunched in an overcoat in the far window seat reading the Economist. He was making notes and on the seat beside him several articles on insurance lay on top of a slim black leather briefcase. Outside the windows, the drizzle had turned to snow, a thick driving veil of white. I held the paper cup in both hands, sipping the hot coffee and wondering whether I was wasting my time travelling all the way down to see Ferrers when it would have been so much simpler to phone. Quite probably Lloyd’s Intelligence Services wouldn’t know anything more than had already been released to the press. And if they did, would he tell me?

One thing I was sure about, however … if they did know anything more, then I had a far better chance of getting it out of him if I saw him personally. Also, by going to their offices I could see the set-up, form some idea of what their sources of information were. I knew they had agents all over the world, but though I had been conscious of the extraordinary global network controlled by Lloyd’s of London ever since I had become a ship’s officer, I had no real idea how the organization worked, least of all how its Intelligence Service operated. And from Colchester of all places! Why not London?

The answer to that was supplied by the man opposite me. As we neared Colchester he put his Economist carefully away in his briefcase and began gathering his things together. I asked him if he could

direct me to Sheepen Place and he looked at me quickly with a little smile. ‘Lloyd’s Shipping Press?’

‘No, Intelligence Services,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Same thing. You’re a ship captain, are you?’

I shook my head. ‘Mate only, though I’ve got my master’s certificate. I left the sea a few years back.’

‘Ah, you work for marine solicitors, eh?’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Snowing quite hard now. My wife’s meeting me with the car. We can give you a lift.’ And when I said I could get a taxi, that I didn’t want to take them out of their way, he said, ‘No trouble. It’s quite close. Within walking distance.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Except that it’s not a good day for walking, eh?’

The train was slowing now, and as we took our place in the corridor, I asked him why such a vital part of Lloyd’s should be tucked away in an East Anglian coastal town. He looked at me, frowning. ‘I suppose because members of Lloyd’s traditionally live in East Anglia. The best of ‘em, anyway,’ he added, smiling. ‘In the great days of the railways Liverpool Street was a handy way of getting out into the country. Now a lot of the big insurance companies, some of the largest of the Lloyd’s brokers, have moved their administrative organizations out of the City, to Colchester, Ipswich, even as far north as Norwich. Costs are a lot less than in the City and staff don’t have to commute so far.’ The train jerked to a stop and we got out into a bitter wind.

It was much colder than it had been in London,

the snow small-flaked and hard like ice. The car his wife was driving was a brand-new Mercedes, their background a whole world away from mine. We drove down under the railway bridge, the road curving away to the right. The snow was heavier now, the Town Hall tower, which marked the centre of Colchester, only just visible on its hill. The insurance man turned from answering his wife’s queries about a frozen tap and said, ‘You know, I envy you ships’ officers who handle marine solicitors’ enquiries. Not only does it take you all over the world, but you’re dealing all the time with case histories, all the exciting side of insurance. Whereas people like me, we make money, of course, but broking, looking after Names, dealing with accounts, finances, that sort of thing — it’s all very humdrum, you know. Down here I’ve got an office employs between two and three hundred, and all the time flogging back and forth to London.’ We were on a new road, crossing a big double culvert where the Colne ran between banks of snow. ‘Across the A12 roundabout, then left and left again at the next,’ he said to his wife, and she answered sharply, ‘I know where it is, Alfred.’