The Black Tide

‘That was cargo,’ Ferrers said over his shoulder. ‘Cargo that didn’t exist, shipped in vessels that didn’t exist or else had their names borrowed for the occasion. And all of them owned by companies Lloyd’s wouldn’t consider insuring. But GODCO. That’s something entirely different.’ His machine suddenly rolled out a sheet of paper, which he tore off and handed to Spurling. ‘That’s the Aurora B casualty information. Not very much to go on.’ He suddenly seemed conscious of the fact that I was still standing there. ‘I’d better run you up to the station. You’re not supposed to be here and this doesn’t concern you.’

‘You’ve nothing more you can tell me about the Petros Jupiter}’ I asked.

‘No, nothing.’

‘Except,’ Spurling said, ‘that the lead underwriter for the Petros Jupiter is the same as for these two tankers. Same solicitors, too.’

‘That’s confidential,’ Ferrers cut in sharply.

No question now of getting anything more out of them. Ferrers hustled me out of the building and into his car, driving fast, in a hurry to get back. I envied him his total involvement. He really seemed to enjoy it. ‘We’re just back-room boys really, but when it’s a

case of fraud — well, it gets quite exciting at times.’ We were crossing the Colne, now a black gut between the white of snow-plastered buildings. ‘Our job is to feed information to the marine solicitors, in extreme cases to the police.’ He grinned at me as we slithered on the roundabout. ‘When Lloyd’s is faced with marine crooks, then it’s our wits against theirs and every case different. It’s teamwork mainly, and sharp memories, a bloody good filing system and a computer.’

He skidded the car to a standstill outside Colchester station booking hall, then scribbled a name and a telephone number on one of his cards and handed it to me. ‘Forthright amp; Co., they’re the marine solicitors for the three syndicates run by Michael Stewart.’ He pushed open the door for me. ‘A Mr Saltley. Give him a ring while you’re in London. He wants to speak to you.’

‘About the Petros Jupiter}’

He hesitated. But all he said was, ‘Just give him a ring, that’s all.’ And he added, leaning across to talk to me as I pocketed his card and stepped on to the hard-packed snow, ‘He’s a nice guy is Michael Stewart. Lives only a few miles away, and if this tanker really has gone missing, then he’s in trouble. That’s what I hear anyway. So go and see Saltley, will you.’ He drove off then, slamming the door shut as the Cortina’s wheels churned the snow, and I went into the station wondering why he thought I could help when all I was interested in was the Petros Jupiter.

CHAPTER THREE

It was just after twelve-thirty when I got back to London. It had been a slow journey with several stops and as I made my way to a call box I was feeling tired and cold, my mind still on the Petros Jupiter, knowing I would have to move fast if I was to catch up with Choffel in Karachi. I hadn’t much money, and an advance on the book was the only chance I had of raising the air fare.

But when I phoned the publishers the man who had written to me had already left for lunch. I made an appointment for three that afternoon, and then, because it was still snowing and I didn’t imagine the sort of lodging I could afford would have a phone, I rang Forthright amp; Co. Again I was out of luck, Saltley’s secretary informing me he was out and she didn’t know when he would be back. She tried to discourage me from ringing later, but when I told her my name, she seemed to brighten up. Mr Saltley, she said, would definitely like to see me, and as soon as possible. He

was attending a twenty-first birthday luncheon party at the Savoy and would be back by four at the latest. Could I ring again then?

I had some food at the station buffet, then got my suitcase out of the lock-up and took the tube to Stepney Green. Outside the station the Mile End Road seemed strangely quiet, the sound of the traffic muffled by a dirty carpet of salted slush. I crossed the road and headed south for a boarding house I had used before. It was in a long street of terraced houses down towards the river, and when I knocked at the door, it was opened by the same big-bosomed, bold-eyed landlady. I had forgotten her name until she reminded me. It was Mrs Steinway. She put me in the basement, which was the only room she had vacant and, after settling in and having a quick cup of tea with her, I walked back through the snow to Stepney Green station and took a train to South Kensington.