George Cullen fidgeted with his pipe. He had reamed it, rammed it, now he tamped it with tobacco. "Times are hard, Nick."
"I'm sure."
"No one wants a proper boat any longer, do they? They just want plastic bowls with Jap engines." He lit the pipe and puffed a smokescreen towards his peeling ceiling. "Fibreglass," he said scathingly. "Where's the bloody craftsmanship in fibreglass?"
"Tricky stuff to lay properly, George."
"An epileptic bloody monkey could lay it properly. But not the bloody layabouts I get." He stood and went to the dusty window of his office. It was raining again. The office was a mess. George's big desk was heaped with old pieces of paper; some of them looked as if they were unpaid bills from at least twenty years before. The walls were thick with vast-breasted naked pin-ups who disconcertingly advertised valve springs, crankcases and gaskets. Among the display of lubricious and fading flesh were fly-spotted pictures of Cullen's Fishing Boats; sturdy little dayboats for longlining or trawling. It had been years since the yard last built one; back, indeed, in the time of George's father. Now the yard survived on a dwindling supply of repair work and on making the despised fibreglass hulls for do-it-yourself enthusiasts who wanted to finish the boats for themselves. It also survived on crime. George was a fence for every boatstripper between the Fal and the Exe. "Seen your old man?" he asked me.
"No."
"I ran up there, when? Six months ago? Before Christmas, anyway. Said he was missing you."
"I was in hospital, George."
"Course you were, Nick, course you were." He began to fiddle with his pipe that had gone out. He was a vast-bellied man with a jowly red face, grey hair and small eyes. I'd never much liked him, but I understood George's attraction for my father. There wasn't a piece of knavery on the coast that George did not know about, and probably did not have a finger in, and he could spend hours regaling my father with the tales of rogues and fools that my father had so relished. From my earliest childhood I could remember George drinking our whisky and talking in his gravelly old voice. He'd seemed old then, but now I saw he was just in his seedy middle age. "Your old man's dead proud of you, Nick, proud of you," he said now. "The Vicky Cross, eh?"
"The other two earned it," I said. "I was just lucky."
"Rubbish, boy. They don't give that gong away with the cornflakes, do they? So what do you need?"
"VHF, short-wave, chronometer, barometer, anchors, lights, batteries, sea loo, compass, bilge-pumps..."
"Spare me, for Christ's sake." He sat down again, flinching from some inboard pain. George was forever at death's threshold and forever ingesting new kinds of patent medicines. He preferred whisky, though, and poured us each a glass now. It was only midday, but George had probably been on the sauce since seven o'clock. It was no wonder, I thought, that Cullen's Fishing Boats were no longer launched down his small slip.
Sycorax was tucked safe into a narrow dock beside George's office. He'd moored a wreck of a fishing craft outside to hide her. Terry Farebrother had been put on a train in nearby Plymouth. For the moment I'd found shelter. George's price had been to hear the story, or as much as I cared to tell him. "Mulder," he said now. "I know Fanny."
"Like him, do you?"
"Fanny's all right," George said guardedly. "Brings me in a bit of business from time to time. You know how it is, Nick."
"He nicks the business, George. He nicked a lot of bloody stuff off my boat. You've probably still got it, George."
"Wouldn't surprise me," George said equably. "I'll let you have a look later on, Nick, and if anything is yours I'll let you have it at cost."
"Thank you, George."
"Fair's fair, Nick," he said as though he was doing me a great favour. "And you are Tommy Sandman's boy. Anything for Tommy. And for a hero, of course." He knocked back the whisky and poured himself another. The glass was filthy, but so was the whisky that, despite its label, had never been anywhere near Scotland. "What sort of anchors do you want?"
"Two CQRs. One fisherman's."
He half closed his eyes. "We had a Dutchman run out of money here last year. Nice boat, too. You want his pair of 75-pound CQRs?"
"They'll do. Have you got any chain?" I knew it was hopeless to ask a price, because I would not be given one until George had worked out to a penny just what I could afford. Then he'd add something. He would welcome me at the yard so long as I could show him a profit, and the day he thought he'd squeezed me dry he'd turf me out.
"Fathoms of chain, Nick. Half-inch do you?"
There was a sudden commotion in the outer office where George's secretary, a shapely girl whose typing speed was reputed to be one stroke a minute, spent her days polishing her fingernails and reading magazines of true romance. "You can't go in there," I heard Rita squeal. "Mr Cullen is in conference."
"Mr Cullen can bloody well get out of conference, can't he?" The opaque glass door banged open and Inspector Abbott came inside. "Morning, George." He ignored me. I was sitting in an ancient leather armchair with broken springs, and I stayed there.
"Morning, Harry." George automatically reached for another filthy glass into which he splashed some of his rotgut whisky. "How's things?"
"Things are bloody. Very bloody." Abbott still ignored me. "Would you have seen young Nick Sandman anywhere, George?"
George flickered a glance towards me, then realized that Abbott must be playing some sort of game. "Haven't set eyes on him since he went to the Falklands, Harry."
Abbott took the whisky and tasted it gingerly. He shuddered, but drank more. "If you see him, George, knock his bloody head off."
Again George glanced my way, then jerked his gaze back to Abbott. "Of course I will, Harry, of course."
"And once you've clobbered him, George, tell him from me to keep his bloody head down. He is not to show his ugly face in the street, in a pub, anywhere. He is to stay very still and very quiet and hope the world passes him by while his Uncle Harry sorts out the bloody mess he has made." Some of this was vehemently spat in my direction, but was mostly directed at George. I said nothing, nor did I move.
"I'll tell him, Harry," George said hastily.
"You can also tell him, if you should see him, that if he's got a shooter on his boat, he is to lose it before I search his boat with a bloody metal detector."
"I'll tell him, Harry."
"And if I don't find it with a detector, then I'll tear the heap of junk apart plank by bloody plank. Tell him that, George."
"I'll tell him, Harry."
Abbott finished the whisky and helped himself to some more. "You can also tell Master Sandman that it isn't the Boer War I'm worried about, but the War of 1812."
George had never heard of it. "1812, Harry?"
"Between us and America, George."
"I'll tell him, Harry."
Abbott walked to the window from where he stared down through the filth and rain at Sycorax. "I'll tell the powers-that-be that after an exhaustive search of this den of thieves there was no sign of Master Sandman, nor of his horrible boat."
"Right, Harry." The relief in George's voice that there was to be no trouble was palpable.
Abbott, who had still not looked directly at me, whirled on George and thrust a finger towards him. "And if you do see him, George, hang on to him. I don't want him running ape all over the bloody South-West."
"I'll tell him, Harry."
"And tell him that I'll let him know when he can leave."
"I'll tell him, Harry."
"And tell him he's bloody lucky that no one got killed. One of his bloody bullets went within three inches of Mr Bannister's pretty head. Mr Bannister is not pleased."
"I'll tell him, Harry."
"They always were rotten shots in that regiment," Abbott said happily. "Unlike the Rifles of which I was a member. You don't need to tell him that bit, George."
"Right, Harry."
"And tell him his newspaper friend is out of danger, but will have a very nasty bloody headache fo
r a while."
"I'll tell him, Harry."
Abbott sniffed the empty glass of whisky. "How much did you pay for this Scotch, George?"
"It was a business gift, Harry. From an associate."
"You were fucking robbed. I'm off. Have a nice day."
He left. George closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. "Did you hear all that, Nick?"
"I'm not deaf, Harry."
"So I don't need to tell you?"
"No, George."
"Bloody hell." He leaned back in his chair and his small, shrewd eyes appraised me. "A shooter, eh? How much do you want for it, Nick?"
"What shooter, George?"
"I can get you a tasty little profit on a shooter, Nick. Automatic, is it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, George."
He looked disappointed. "I always thought you were straight, Nick."
So did I.
A hot spell hit Britain. The Azores high had shifted north and gave us long, warm days. It was not the weather for an attempt on the St Pierre. In the yachting magazines there were stories about boats waiting in Cherbourg for the bad weather that would promise a fast run at the race, but Wildtrack was not among them. Rita brought me the magazines and a selection of the daily papers. There had been reports of a shooting incident off the Devon coast, a report that received neither confirmation nor amplification and so the story faded away. Bannister's name was not mentioned, nor was mine. The Daily Telegraph said that a man was being sought in connection with the shooting, but though the police knew his identity he was not being named. The police did not believe the man posed any danger to the general public. England was being hammered at cricket. Unemployment was rising. The City pages reported that Kassouli UK's half-yearly report showed record profits, despite which, about a week after I'd reached George's yard, there was a story that Yassir Kassouli was planning to pull all his operations out of Britain. I smelt Micky Harding behind the tale, but after a day or two Kassouli issued a strong denial and the story, like the tale of gunfire off the Devon coast, faded to nothing.
I worked for George Cullen. I mended engines, scarfed in gunwales, repaired gelcoats, and sanded decks. I was paid in beer, sandwiches, and credit. The credit bought three Plastimo compasses. I mounted one over the chart table, one on the for'ard cockpit bulkhead, and one just aft of the mizzen's step. I bought the two big anchors off George and stowed them on board. I nagged George to find me a good chronometer and barometer. And every day I tried to phone Angela.
I did not leave messages on the answering machine in Bannister's house, for I did not want him to suspect that I had reason to trust Angela. I left messages on her home answering machine, and I left messages at the office. The messages told her to phone me at Cullen's yard. Rita, whose skirts became shorter as the weather became hotter, listened sympathetically to my insistent message-leaving. She thought it was like something out of her magazines of romance.
The messages achieved nothing. Angela was never at her flat, and she never returned the calls. I tried the television company and had myself put through to Matthew Cooper.
"Jesus, Nick! You've caused some trouble."
"I've done nothing!"
"Just aborted one good film." He sounded aggrieved.
"Wasn't my fault, Matthew. How's Angela?"
He paused. "She's not exactly top of the pops here."
"I can imagine."
"She keeps saying that the film is salvageable. But Bannister won't have anything to do with you. He's issued a possession order for Sycorax."
"Fuck him," I said. Rita, pretending not to listen as she buffed her fingernails, giggled. "Will you give Angela a message for me?" I asked.
"She's stopped working, Nick. She's with Bannister all the time now."
"For Christ's sake, Matthew! Use your imagination! Aren't good directors supposed to be bursting with imagination? Write her a letter on your headed notepaper. She won't ignore that."
"OK." He sounded reluctant.
"Tell her to find a guy called Micky Harding. He's probably out of hospital by now." I gave him Micky's home and work numbers. "She's to tell Micky that he can trust her. She can prove it by calling him Mouse and by saying she knows that Terry was with me on the night. He'll understand that."
Matthew wrote it all down.
"And tell her," I said, "that Bannister's not to try the St Pierre."
"You're joking," Matthew said. "We're being sent to film him turning the corner at Newfoundland!"
"When are you going?"
He paused again. "I'm not allowed to say, Nick."
"Jesus wept. OK. Just give her my message, Matthew."
"I'll try, Nick."
"And tell her something else."
I didn't need to tell him what else; he understood. "I'll tell her, Nick." He sounded sorry for me.
I rattled the phone rest, then tried to phone Micky Harding, but he was not at the paper and there was no answer at his home. I put the phone down. Rita unlocked the petty cash box and put my IOU inside. George charged me fifty pence a call and fifty pence a minute thereafter. Rita scaled the charges down for me, but I still owed the old crook over ten pounds. "He wants you to go out tonight, Nick," she said.
"Out?"
"His usual bloke's got a broken arm. George wants you to take the 52-footer. He says you're to fill her up with diesel. He'll go with you."
So that night I joined the distinguished roster of Devon smugglers. I helmed the 52-footer twenty miles offshore where we met a French trawler. The Frenchman swung three crates across to our boat. They contained radios stolen from harbours and marinas up and down the Brittany coast. George paid them off with a wad of cash, accepted a glass of brandy, and added a bottle of his lousy Scotch to the payment. Then I took him home again. There were no waterguards to disturb us as we chugged into the Hamoaze in a perfect dawn. George puffed his pipe in the cabin. "Got a very sweet little MF set there, Nick. You could do with an MF, couldn't you?"
"I'll take a VHF as my fee for tonight."
He sucked air between his teeth. "You haven't paid your berthage fees, Nick."
"You call that bloody rubbish dump of a dock a berth?"
He chuckled, but before he drove home he dropped a battered VHF set on to a sailbag in Sycorax's cockpit. I spent the next Sunday fitting it and, to my astonishment, it worked.
I spent the Sunday after that salvaging a galley stove from a wrecked Westerly that George had bought for scrap. I manhandled the stove across the deserted yard. I'd already rigged the gaff as a derrick and only had to attach the whip to the stove, but as I reached the quay above the boat I saw I had company. Inspector Harry Abbott was sitting in Sycorax 's cockpit. He was wearing his check golfer's trousers, had a bottle of beer and a packet of sandwiches in his lap, and my Colt .45 in his right hand.
"Afternoon, Nick." He aimed the Colt at my head and, before I could move, pulled the trigger.
It was unloaded. He chuckled. "Naughty, Nick, very! You know what the penalty is for possession of an unlicensed firearm?"
"A golfing weekend with you, Harry?"
He tutted. "Ungrateful, aren't you, Nick? I save your mangy hide and all you do is insult me. What's George bringing in these days?"
"Nothing much. A few radios, mostly French." I tied the whip into place and climbed down to the deck. By using the peak halliard I had a perfectly good crane that swung the stove dangerously close to Abbott's head. He deigned to steer it down to the cockpit floor.
"I thought you'd like to know," he said, "that there is no longer a warrant out for your arrest."
"I didn't know there ever was one."
"A hue and cry, Nick, that's what there was. We searched for you high and low! Do you know what you have cost Her Majesty's Government in police overtime?"
"Is that what you're on now, Harry? Overtime?" I saw it was my beer he was drinking. He courteously offered me a bottle, which I took, then I sat opposite him. "Cheers, Harry."
"Cheers, Nick." He drained the bottle and opened another. "The funny boys are in on this one, Nick."
"Funny boys?"
"Very funny boys. They're not kind and gentle like me, Nick. They're full of self-importance and they talk impressively about the safety of the realm. They have nevertheless decided that your life should be spared."
"Why?"
"How would I know?" He lit a cigarette and flipped the dead match over the side to float among the other garbage in George's dock. "But there is a condition, Nick."
I put my legs up on the opposite thwart. I was wearing old shorts and the scars at the backs of my thighs looked pink and horrid. Abbott glanced at them and grimaced. "Phosphorus?"
"Yes."
"I thought you were shot?"
"Bullet hit a phosphorus grenade hanging on my belt. The phosphorus caught fire, and the bullet split in two. One lump went down the right thigh, and the bigger lump up my spine."
"Nasty." He said it with genuine sympathy.
"I've had better days than that," I agreed.
"It's because of that, you see, that they trust you. Wounded war hero and all that, Nick. I mean, it's unthinkable that one of Her Majesty's VCs would be carrying an illegal shooter or helping Georgie Cullen bring in dicky radios from the French coast, isn't it?"
"Quite unthinkable," I agreed.
"So you're going to piss off, Nick. You're going to sail this heap of garbage round the world and you are not going to try and stop Mr Bannister sailing on the St Pierre."
I finished the beer and opened another. The day was blisteringly hot. "Is that the condition, Harry? That I bugger off and leave Bannister alone?"
"Took a lot of my time to fix it." He spoke warningly. "If the Chief Clown had his way, Nick, you'd be roasting in prison now. And not in some nice open prison like your dad, but a real Victorian horror story."
"Thanks, Harry."
Inspector Abbott had surrendered to the day's heat far enough to discard his blazer, but no more. He wiped his face with a rag. "Mr Bannister lodged a complaint about you. He says you dismasted his boat, cut its warps, and all in practice for the day when you were going to sink it at sea. Do you know he's even got a tape-recording?"
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