Permissible Limits

by Hurley, Graham

I paused. Below me, aboard a sturdy wooden fishing boat, two youths in stained blue smocks were unloading the night’s catch. I watched them winching the dripping plastic crates of glistening fish up on to the wooden pontoon. The boat reminded me of the vessel I’d seen from the front seat of Harald’s Yak. I stood there in the sunshine, trying to remember its name. Harald had chartered it for the mid-Channel search. If the Jaguar holdall he’d given me had really been fished out of the water, then the crew aboard would certainly know.

  I walked on slowly. At the end of the fish dock a middle-aged man in yellow waterproofs was hosing down the flagstones. He returned my smile but when I mentioned Harald’s name and asked him about a chartered fishing boat he shrugged his shoulders and said he’d no idea. Undeterred, I mentioned the Cessna going down.

  ‘That plane? Back end of last year?’

  ‘February, actually.’

  ‘Really?’

  He pulled a face, then looked at his watch. The boat I was after was the Frances Bevan. Give or take an hour, she was due back any time.

  I wandered back down the fish dock, found myself a perch in the sun and settled down to wait. Around noon, beginning to burn, I decided to find a drink and something to eat before coming back, but when I got to my feet and took a precautionary look over the seaward wall, I saw a stubby red hull pushing a big white bow wave towards the harbour. From this distance it was impossible to read the name but as the boat got closer, it began to resolve itself. My friend in the waterproofs had been right. The Frances Bevan was back.

  I waited nearly an hour while the crew berthed and unloaded a vanload of fish. There seemed to be three men, and one of them - the oldest - was very obviously in charge. He was in his forties, small, squat, with a red bandanna wound round his head. His face, nut-brown and deeply lined, wouldn’t have been out of place at Standfast and I’d almost convinced myself he was American when he clambered up the iron ladder from the deck and produced a thick roll of bank notes. I watched him counting the notes off and handing a bundle to each of the crewmen. When they’d gone, I stepped across. He looked at my extended hand with deep suspicion.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  I introduced myself as a friend of Harald. I said I was interested in the plane that had gone down back in February and I wondered whether he’d been on board during the search.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So what’s your name?’

  I hesitated. Owning up to being the widow didn’t seem the cleverest thing to do, so I settled for my maiden name.

  ‘Ellie Tranter,’ I said.

  ‘You a journalist or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘A friend. I knew the pilot.’ I smiled, ‘And you’re Mr… ?’

  He ignored the question, looking me up and down. Whatever else I was going to find out wouldn’t include this man’s name.

  ‘So what are you after?’

  ‘I’d like to know what you found.’

  ‘Found? Bits of the aeroplane, you mean? Or the pilot?’

  ‘Either.’

  For one giddy moment it occurred to me that there might, after all, have been a body.

  ‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing much, anyway.’

  ‘Nothing personal? Clothing? No bag of any kind?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘No wreckage?’

  ‘Yeah, some. Nothing valuable, though. Nothing worth having.’ He nodded down at the boat. ‘There’s a sackful at the most, gash stuff, bits and pieces. We were going to dump it overboard but no one got round to it.’

  I was staring at him. This was new to me, this crossfire of question and answer. Keep pulling the trigger, I thought, and one day you’ll draw blood.

  ‘It’s still there? This sack?’

  ‘As far as I know. You’ll have to ask the skipper.’

  ‘You’re not the skipper?’

  ‘No, he’s across in France. Back tonight.’ He wiped his hands on his jeans. ‘That it, then? Only I’m away for my breakfast.’

  I watched him walking off down the quay. He got into a battered white van and disappeared behind a cloud of blue smoke. I went to the edge of the quay and looked down at the fishing boat. I’d no idea whether boats were like cars. Do you lock them up? Was this one alarmed? For the first time in twenty-four hours, I wished Jamie were here. He’d know what to do.

  I stood on the quayside a moment longer, wavering. The men had been paid. They’d be hungry. Thirsty. They’d been up all night fishing. They were hardly likely to come back. I looked round, wondering whether the harbourmaster’s office extended to security. Were there cameras here? Men in Group Four uniforms with those little two-way radios? It was impossible to know and anyway I didn’t much care. If it was true, if bits of Adam’s Cessna were down there in that boat, then it was up to me to find them. That was the least I owed my poor dead husband.

  The iron rungs of the ladder down to the pontoon were warm beneath my fingers. At the bottom, I scrambled up the side of the fishing boat, and steadied myself before jumping down to the deck. The wheelhouse was locked. I skirted the structure behind it, looking for another door. There wasn’t one.

  Forward of the wheelhouse, a grubby tarpaulin was stretched across the hold. It was secured only loosely and I pulled one corner back, peering down. The smell of fish and diesel was overpowering. I pulled a little harder, widening the gap. Sunshine flooded in, revealing a ten-foot drop to the bottom of the hold. This, I knew, was the moment of decision. Ten feet is a long way. And once in, how the hell would I ever get out?

  I looked round again. No one seemed to be watching. I unfastened yet more of the tarpaulin and rolled it back. Then, on the other side of the deck, I saw a misshapen pile of wood and nylon that could only have been a rope ladder. This was how the guys got in and out, I thought. Stupid of me not to spot it earlier.

  I dragged it across. The outside lip of the hold had downward-facing hooks to secure the tarpaulin and I used a couple of these to anchor the rope ladder. It was much heavier than it looked and I was breathing hard by now, my face bathed with sweat. I tipped the ladder over the edge, grunting with the effort, and watched it tumble down into the hold. The bottom rungs hit the metal floor, a hollow, booming noise that echoed and echoed. Committed now, I stepped over the edge of the hold and made my way down the ladder. The wooden rungs were still wet with fish slime and when I got to the bottom I had trouble keeping my balance on the greasy steel floor.

  There was enough light from above to show me the four corners of the hold, and it was much bigger than I’d expected. It was empty, too, a dim, cavernous space with no sign of a sack.

  I stood at the bottom of the ladder, still catching my breath, trying to work out what to do next. Forward of the hold, there might be some small compartment in the bow. Aft, there’d be a much bigger space for the engine room. Very carefully, I abandoned the sunshine and made my way towards the stern. I’d no idea whether there was any other access to the hold and I’d almost given up looking when my fingers began to trace the outlines of a door. I found the hinges, then the handle. The handle turned and I pulled the door open. In the pitch darkness beyond, the smell of diesel was even stronger. It was also much hotter, almost oven-hot, the engine still warm after the run back.

  I began to feel my way around the knobbly steel walls. Somewhere there had to be a light switch. It must have taken me ten minutes to find it.

  In the dim light of the single bulb, the engine room was tiny and cramped. Behind the bulk of the engine, there was yet another door, open this time. I squeezed past a forty-gallon drum of fuel. I could see a sack already. It lay beyond the open door, half collapsed against a bulkhead, discarded, somehow forlorn. If this really was the sack he’d mentioned, if these men were lazy or careless enough to leave the evidence around, then I’d never been closer to finding out what had really happened to Adam.

  I picked the sack up. It was s
urprisingly light. A twist or two of nylon rope secured it at the top and I had it open in seconds. I carried it through to the engine room, positioning it beneath the hanging light bulb. In the dim light I could see the dull glint of something metallic way down inside. I reached in, holding my breath, and my fingers snagged a jagged edge, something sharp and irregular. I gripped the thin metal and tried to pull it clear but it was entangled in the hessian sack. It had to have come from the Cessna. Had to.

  I pulled again, and this time it came free. It was a tiny unpainted oblong of stainless steel, about the size of a playing card. On one side there were bits of foam insulation, stiff with salt. Quickly, I stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans then went into the sack for more. Seconds later, something heavy landed on the decking above my head. Then there were footsteps, someone big, someone in a hurry.

  I froze, the sack still in my hand, not knowing what to do. The door to the hold was still open. I plunged towards it, still carrying the sack. If I could only get it closed, maybe even bolted, then I might be safe. I began to swing the door shut but the sack got in the way. I could hear the bottom rung of the rope ladder scraping on the floor of the hold. Someone must have seen me. Someone was climbing down. I bent to shift the sack, cursing my luck. Then I heard the footsteps again, much closer this time.

  Abruptly, the door swung open, knocking me over. For a moment, everything went black. Then my vision began to clear. Still flat on my back, I stared up. Someone tall was standing by the open door. He seemed to be wearing overalls. It was hard to be certain but the moment he spoke I knew only too well who it was. Steve Liddell.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  There was something in his voice I couldn’t quite place. It was more than anger and it wasn’t until I’d struggled to my feet that I recognised the expression on his face. He was as confused, as uncertain, as I was. He hadn’t got a clue what to do next.

  I tried to brush myself down but when I found the oil all over my jeans I gave up. I’d banged my left arm on something hard and it hurt like hell. My pulse was beginning to steady now, and looking at Steve I knew I had to seize the initiative. He’d taken me by surprise. He’d caught me red-handed. But I had rights too and I wasn’t about to abandon them.

  ‘Harald chartered this boat to look for Adam’s Cessna.’

  ‘My Cessna.’

  ‘OK, your bloody Cessna. Here -’ I bent to retrieve the sack. The pain and the heat were beginning to make me feel dizzy.

  Steve was staring at the sack.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  The question, for some reason, made me flip. It was almost a physical thing, the feeling of a switch tripping way down in my subconscious. I was sick of all these games. I’d had enough of being lied to, and patronised, and pushed around. Adam was far too good a pilot to let himself just spear in. Accidents like that don’t happen. Someone had helped him on his way. Someone had killed him.

  ‘You didn’t know about this?’ I gave the sack a shake. I could hear the jagged bits of metal clanking around inside. Steve, poor pathetic Steve, just shook his head. ‘You didn’t? You didn’t know about the search? This boat? Out twenty-four hours a day? Up and down? Looking for wreckage?’

  ‘I knew about that.’

  ‘But you didn’t know they’d found something? This?’

  I gave the sack another shake. We stepped into the hold now. The sunshine splashed down through the gap where I’d rolled back the tarpaulin and I could hear my own voice echoing back from the dimness beyond. It sounded shrill and very, very angry, pretty much the way I felt.

  ‘Tell me about the bag, Steve,’ I said. ‘Tell me about that so-called bag of Adam’s, the one with Jaguar on the side, the one with the credit card. Wasn’t that supposed to be part of the catch? Or did you just go out and buy it?’

  ‘Me?’

  That single word told me everything I needed to know. I hung on to it, easy meat. Harald had been right all along. When I’m ready and you’re about to die. Every fighter pilot’s dream.

  I up-ended the sack and shook it violently. Odd-shaped bits of metal, all backed with the same insulating foam, fell out, clattering on to the floor. Amongst them, bright yellow, was the torn bottom flap of a life preserver. I stooped, oblivious to the pain and the nausea, and picked it up. Adam’s, I thought.

  I held it inches in front of Steve’s face. It was still sticky with salt.

  ‘Tell me what happened, Steve.’

  ‘I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ ‘I’m not.’

  ‘OK, then. Tell me how you came across the Amex card.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes you do. Adam must have given you the card, lent it to you, whatever. That’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do. Bit silly using it after he’d gone, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t. I’d never do something like that.’

  ‘You did, Steve. My accountant picked it up. Someone used Adam’s card to buy fuel at Hurn Airport. You go to Hurn. You told me yourself. Twice a month, you said.’

  Steve took a tiny step backwards.

  ‘Maybe it was Adam,’ he muttered. ‘What makes you so certain he’s dead?’

  I felt like hitting him. Instead, I stuffed the remains of Adam’s life preserver into the top pocket of his overalls. He hated that, hated me touching him. So intimate. So personal.

  ‘You know he’s dead. You’ve known he was dead from the start. I just want to know how, how you knew.’

  Steve was on his knees now, picking up the little pieces of wreckage. The first two or three bits he examined. Then he began to stuff the rest back into the sack.

  ‘What are you going to do with those?’

  ‘It was my plane. They’re mine.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  As he stood upright again, I tried a change of tack. Shouting at Steve didn’t seem to work. Maybe that’s what Michelle had done. Maybe the fact that he just stood there, taking it, was what had finally driven her away.

  ‘Tell me about Harald, Steve,’ I said softly. ‘Tell me why you’re so frightened of him. Tell me what he’s done to make you like this.’

  ‘Harald’s been good to me.’

  ‘I’m sure he has. He baled you out, after the fire.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And he’s still baling you out. Harald pulls the plug…’ I aimed a savage kick at the sack,’… and you’re history.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. It’s getting easier now. The customers are coming back.’

  I nodded. It was true. Dennis had mentioned it only the other day. Steve Liddell Engineering, to everyone’s surprise, was back on its feet.

  ‘So does that make you independent again, Steve? Does that get Harald off your back?’ I gave him a moment or two to answer but he didn’t say a word. ‘No, it doesn’t, does it? He’s still there. He’s still bugging you, telling you what to do.’ I gestured round the hold. ‘What did he say last night when you gave him a ring? Did he ask you to check the boat? Make sure the guys hadn’t left anything around? Because if he did, you’re going to have to tell him.’

  ‘Tell him what?’ Steve was panicking again. I could almost smell it.

  I reached for the sack. Steve refused to let it go.

  ‘Give it to me,’ I demanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s not yours.’

  ‘But it is, Steve, it is. My husband died in that aeroplane, and he died for a reason. The stuff in that sack will tell us why. Give it back to me and I’ll have an answer within a week. Then we’ll all be happy. No?’

  I tugged at the sack again, remembering the way that Mr Grover had put it, that afternoon he’d bought me tea at Southampton airport. The word accident was meaningless, he’d said. In aviation, at least, there was no such thing.

  Steve was still standing there, mute, dumb, giving nothing away, least of all the sack. We gl
ared at each other, a mutual stand-off so deadlocked it was almost comic. The possibility of violence, of Steve doing something irrational, was now remote and for that - at least - I was grateful.

  ‘Why not?’ I said, nodding at the sack. ‘Why not get it analysed?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’ ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  He stared at me, volunteering nothing, the neck of the sack gripped tightly in his enormous fist, and I was on the point of beating a retreat when I heard the trill of a mobile phone. It was in the pocket of his overalls.

  ‘Why don’t you answer it?’

  Slowly, he took the phone out. The stricken look on his face spared me the obvious question. It was Harald. It had to be.

  I leaned forward, planting a noisy kiss on Steve’s cheek.

  ‘Give him my best, Steve. And tell him I look forward to getting the results.’

  ‘Results?’ He’d covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

  ‘Of the tests they’ll do,’ I nodded at the sack again, ‘when you hand that stuff in.’

  I turned for the rope ladder and began to climb towards the sunshine.

  When I looked down, seconds later, Steve was deep in conversation. I looked at his sagging shoulders, his hunched back, surprised at how much sympathy I felt.

  By the time I got up to Dennis Wetherall’s office, I think the shock had begun to hit me. It was exactly the same feeling I’d had after the near-disaster in Harald’s Mustang. I couldn’t stop shaking. I had trouble putting one word after another.

  Dennis’s secretary, aghast, made me a pot of tea. Dennis himself was locked away with an important client. After what seemed forever, he appeared from his office. I tried to get to my feet, wobbled horribly, then sat down in a heap. Dennis was staring at me. His nice new sofa was covered in diesel oil. The place stank of cod.

  ‘Is this some kind of joke? Only I’m pretty busy just now.’

  I told him what had happened. The moment I got to the bit about the sack, he forgave me everything.

  ‘You got the sack out of there? You’ve got it with you?’

  I shook my head.