The Black Tide

Barty Ferrers wasn’t in the least what I had expected. He was a plump, jolly-looking man with a round, babyish face and thick horn-rimmed glasses that were bifocal. He looked up from the telex he was reading, and when he realized who I was, his eyes seemed to freeze behind the thick glasses. They were pale blue, the sort of cold blue eyes that Swedes often have. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I started to explain, but he cut me short. ‘Never mind. I’ve been trying to get you at that Sennen number.’

‘The ship was wrecked deliberately then?’

‘We don’t know that.’

‘Why were you phoning me then?’

‘Marine solicitors. They want to see you.’

‘Why?’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t talk here. First — read that.’ He handed me a telex slip one of the operators had passed across to him. ‘Came in last night.’

It was from Lloyd’s agent at La Rochelle and dated the previous day, January 11:

VAGUE D’OR LOCKED INTO TRAWLER BASIN HERE TWO DAYS AGO. CAPTAIN HAS NO INFORMATION ARISTIDES SPERIDION. MAN TAKEN ON BOARD OFF

PORTHCURNO IS SHIP’S ENGINEER HENRI CHOFFEL. THIS MAN LEAVES IMMEDIATELY FOR PARIS EN ROUTE BY AIR TO BAHRAIN. THIS IS CERTAIN AS ALL NECESSARY BOOKINGS MADE LOCALLY.

The telex then went on to describe Choffel as short with dark hair -

POSSIBLY PIED NOIR, SPEAKS FRENCH WITH AN ACCENT, AQUILINE FEATURES, AGE 46, WIFE DEAD. DAUGHTER ONLY. ADDRESS 5042 LES TUFFEAUX, PARNAY, NEAR SAUMUR-ON-LOIRE. HOLDS FRENCH PASSPORT.

Time and occupation right, the Breton fishing boat, too. I was remembering a list I had read in one of the papers giving the names of French boats operating off the Cornish coast. I was almost certain one of them had been the Vague d’Or. Only the man’s name was different. ‘He must have had two passports,’ I said.

Ferrers nodded, handing me another telex. ‘This just came in.’ It was from Bahrain:

SUBJECT OF QUERY ARRIVED BAHRAIN YDAY MORNING. WENT STRAIGHT ABOARD FREIGHTER CORSAIRE, BUT NOT AS ENGINEER, AS PASSENGER. CORSAIRE NOW TAKING ON FUEL PREPARATORY TO SAILING.

So by now he would have gone. Ferrers took the

telexes from me and passed them to one of the operators with instructions to transmit the information to Forthright amp; Co. ‘They’re the solicitors.’ He gave me a quick, searching glance, then jerked his head towards the far corner of the floor. ‘We don’t encourage visitors,’ he said as we got away from the clatter of the telexes. ‘So I’d be glad if you’d keep it to yourself that you’ve been here.’

‘It doesn’t give the ship’s destination,’ I said.

‘No, but I can soon find that out.’ He pushed past a man with an armful of the Lloyd’s List, and then we were in his little corner and he had plonked himself down at a table with a VDU on it. ‘Let’s see what the computer says.’ While his fingers were busy on the keyboard he introduced me to Spurling, a sharp-featured, sandy-haired man with a long freckled face and bushy sideburns. What the computer said was instruction incorrect. ‘Hell!’ He tried it again with the same result. ‘Looks as though our fellow in Bahrain got the name of the ship wrong.’

Spurling leaned over his shoulder. ‘Try the French spelling — with an “e” at the end, same as in his telex.’

He tried it and immediately line after line of print began coming up on the VDU screen, everything about the ship, the fact that it was French and due to sail today, also its destination, which was Karachi. He glanced up at me and I could see the wheels turning. ‘That ship you were mate on, plying between Bombay and the Gulf — based on Karachi, wasn’t she?’

I nodded.

‘And the crew, Pakistani?’

‘Some of them.’

‘So you speak the language.’

‘I speak a little Urdu, yes.’

He nodded, turning his head to stare at the windows and the driving lines of snow. ‘Choffel,’ he murmured. ‘That name rings a bell.’ He turned to Spurling. ‘Remember that little Lebanese freighter they found waterlogged but still afloat off Pantelleria? I • suddenly thought of her in my bath this morning. Not in connection with Choffel, of course. But Speridion. Wasn’t Speridion the name of the ship’s engineer?’

Spurling thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Speridion, Choffel — not sure.’ He was frowning in concentration as he lit a cigarette from the butt of his last and stubbed out the remains in the tobacco tin beside his in-tray. ‘It’s quite a time back. Seventy-six, maybe seventy-seven.’ He hesitated, drawing on a cigarette. ‘The crew abandoned her. Skipper’s name, I remember—’

‘Never mind the skipper. It’s the engineer we want.’

‘It’ll be on the file. I’m certain I put it on the file.’ He reached over to a small steel cabinet, but then he checked. ‘I need the ship’s name. You know that. Just give me the name …’