The Black Tide

The coffee arrived and I read the report through again, conscious all the time of the Frenchman’s impatience. It told me very little I didn’t already know, except about Choffel’s personal life, but that was no concern of mine. The Stella Rosa — nothing new there. And no information about the sinking of the Olympic Ore. I wished I had asked about that at Colchester, but there had been so much information to absorb. All the report amounted to was confirmation of a doubtful record. I finished the Nescafe, concentrating on the last part of the report. Why mushrooms? Why spend a year or more a long way up the river at Parnay? And the daughter — would she know where he had gone? If they were close, which was possible with his wife dead, then she might have had a letter.

‘What is it?’ Barre suddenly exploded. ‘You are not satisfied? There is something more you think your people require?’

I hesitated. The man had done his best. But it was disappointing. ‘Choffel left the Corsaire in the Straits of Hormuz, did you know that?’

‘Yes. I have a telex from Pritchard two days ago to that effect. He is trans-shipped to a dhow.’

‘But you don’t know where he is now.’

He stared at me as though I had said something outrageous. ‘Pritchard ask only for background information. He does not ask me where he is gone, what his plans are. How could I possibly tell him that? A man like Choffel, on the run as you say, does not shout his destination from the rooftops.’

‘His daughter might know. It’s almost a week now. He could have written.’

‘You want to question her, she is at her house today. Or I take you to Reaux.’ He produced the names of several individuals who had given him background information. ‘You wish to question them yourself?’

I shook my head. I didn’t see how that would help.

‘So why do you come?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Why don’t you stay in London till you receive my report?’

I hesitated. ‘Did any of them mention a man named Baldwick in connection with Choffel? Len Baldwick. He’s at the Hotel du Commerce.’

He shook his head. ‘What is he? What is he doing here?’ And when I told him, he said, ‘But if he is recruiting these types, why Nantes? Why not Brest or Marseilles, some big seaport where he has more chance of finding what he want?’

‘That’s something I hope to discover this evening.’

‘So that is why you come here, to see this Englishman who is staying at your hotel?’

‘Partly.’ I was looking down at the sheet of typing again. ‘How do you know Choffel’s daughter is at home today?’

‘I phone the clinic in Saumur this morning.’

‘But not her home.’

‘No.’

‘Can we phone her now?’

‘She is not on the phone.’

‘You think she knows where her father is?’

He didn’t answer that, his sharp eyes staring and a frown on his face. ‘So! That is why you are here.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, the knuckles of his hands pressed into his cheeks, looking straight at me. ‘It is not the man’s background that interests you, it is where you can find him. Why? You are not the police. You cannot arrest him. Even if you discover where he is—’ He stopped there, silent for a moment, his eyes still fixed on me. ‘All right then. Okay.’ He suddenly bounced to his feet. ‘I take you to see her. It is only two hours, a bit more per’aps according to the traffic. And there is a little restaurant I know just beyond Angers where we can eat.’

He had a Renault 20 and he drove fast, the radio on all the time so that conversation was almost impossible. I leaned back and closed my eyes, lulled by the husky voice of a singer crooning a French love song, wondering about the girl, what she would be able to tell me. And in the evening I would be meeting Baldwick. The thought depressed me — that and Barre’s

hostility. I could feel it in the silent intensity of his driving. He didn’t understand, of course. He hadn’t connected me with the woman who had blown the ship up. And it had been tactless of me not to conceal my disappointment at his report. Two years living an isolated existence with just one other human being

— I had forgotten the pressures of everyday life, the sensitivity of men whose pride was part of their individual armour against the world. Rationalization, self-justification… God! How tired I was! How very, very tired!

The drone of the engine, the voice singing, the sky dark and the wind blattering at the car in gusts … I had a feeling of remoteness, my mind transported, drifting in a daze. Emotional exhaustion perhaps, or just the loneliness. Sitting there, my eyes closed, my cap pushed back, my body enveloped in the heat from the engine — heavy lorries thundering by, the flash of headlights in the murk … Christ! What a filthy lousy day! And here I was being driven by a stranger, a Frenchman, through a land gripped in winter, to meet the daughter of a man I’d sworn to kill… Guinevere