The Black Tide

He waved a hand to the ruins of a colossal flint and tile wall that climbed away from us as the car swung. ‘That’s the outer remains of Camulodunum, the Roman centre of East Anglia.’ Sheepen Place appeared on a name-plate edged with snow, an industrial estate doubling back towards the A12 roundabout and the meadow land beyond. The car slowed, turned

right into the entrance of a printing works. ‘Don’t forget the ramps,’ he said. ‘Two of them.’

‘I haven’t forgotten.’ She almost stalled the car as we bumped over the first, which showed only as the slightest hump in the wind-drifted snow. A board announced Lloyd’s Shipping Press and I saw there was a three-storey brick building beyond the printing works. No mention of Intelligence Services.

‘You’ve not been here before?’ He was watching for the next ramp, not looking at me, and I guessed it was just an idle question.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Anybody in particular?’

‘A Mr Ferrers.’

We bumped over the second ramp. The Shipping Press building was stretched over the car park on steel pillars. ‘What department?’

‘Special Enquiries.’

He nodded. ‘Ah yes, of course, Marine Frauds.’ He turned in his seat, eyeing me curiously as the car slid to a stop outside the plate glass entrance doors. ‘Which particular marine casualty are you investigating — or aren’t you at liberty to say?’

I hesitated. ‘I’ve come to see him about the Petros Jupiter.’

He nodded. ‘That was an odd one, eh?’ He turned to his wife. ‘Remember, Margaret? A young woman — she blew it up and herself with it.’

‘Yes, I remember, Alfred.’

‘An odd way to end your life.’

‘She didn’t—’ I began, but then I stopped myself.

Better leave it at that. No good trying to explain about oil slicks and pollution and seabirds dying. I began to get out and he said, ‘Intelligence Services is on the second floor.’

I thanked him. I thanked them both and stood there in the bitter wind until their car was out of sight round the other side of the building. Now that I was here I wasn’t quite certain how to proceed. A muddy Triumph pulled into a parking place and a big fair man in a rumpled suit and no topcoat got out. I pushed open the plate glass door. There was a lift and some stairs and it was warm. I took the stairs. The swing doors facing the lift on the first floor were clearly marked Shipping Press. Through glass panels I could see men working at their desks, some in their shirt sleeves. It was an open-plan office covering virtually the whole floor and there were visual display units scattered about so I knew the operation was computerized.

The swing doors on the second floor were completely anonymous, no mention of Intelligence Services. As on the floor below, the offices were open-plan with a lot of electrical equipment, VDUs and telex machines, particularly on the far side where the wind, blowing straight in off the North Sea, drove the snow in near-horizontal white lines across the large, clear, sheet-glass windows. The lift doors opened behind me. It was the big fair man in the rumpled suit, and as he was pushing past me, he paused briefly, holding the swing doors open with his shoulder. ‘Looking for somebody?’

‘Ferrers,’ I said.

‘Barty Ferrers.’ He nodded and I stepped inside. ‘Expecting you?’ He was already slipping his jacket off.

‘Yes,’ I said and gave him my name.

The big, open-plan floor was very warm. A lot of men there, most of them in their shirt sleeves, the desks flat tables littered with books and papers. A few women on the far side and one girl sitting with seven or eight men at a big table with a card on it marked Casualty Room.

I could see he was a bit doubtful and I said quickly, ‘It’s about the Petros Jupiter.’

His eyes widened then, a sudden glint of recognition. ‘Yes, of course. The Petros Jupiter.’ He gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. ‘I’m Ted Fairley. I run Lloyd’s Confidential Index.’ He gave me a big jovial smile. ‘That’s the prudent insurers’ index to vessels of doubtful virtue.’ He turned and surveyed the room. ‘Can’t see Barty at the moment. But Tim Spurling, the other half of the Marine Fraud twins, he’s there.’ He had his jacket off now and I followed him between the crowded tables. ‘Barty contacted you, did he?’

‘No. Was he going to?’

‘Yes, I think the legal boys want to talk to you.’ He stopped at a desk with a typewriter and a litter of books and tossed his jacket on to the empty chair. ‘That’s my square foot or so of lebensraum. Casualty History on one side, Casualty Reporting on the other. Very convenient and never a dull moment. Ah, there’s

Barty.’ He veered towards an area of the floor jutting out to the north and full of the clatter of telexes and operators keying information into visual display units. ‘Information Room,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘This is where our two thousand agents all over the world report in by telex. Barty!’ He had to raise his voice against the clatter.