by Nick Elliott
‘Angus?’ I looked up. ‘Perhaps the pleasure of hearing your contribution to this meeting?’ Grant’s solicitous tone only served to emphasise his sarcasm. I resisted the temptation to respond in kind and ran through the cases each syndicate head had asked for updates on, including the Sophia M.
There were questions, suggestions, arguments and finally consensus on action to be taken, all minuted by Phyllis. Finally, after an hour or so of summing up by the syndicate heads involving the usual point-scoring, nit-picking, clamouring for attention and posturing by certain individuals that these get-togethers seemed to demand, the meeting wrapped up.
Only Claire’s eloquent summing up, her restraint and cool reasoning, seemed to impress everyone. She had a natural authority. As far as I knew she was the only Oxford-educated lawyer amongst the many other lawyers in the room. That too seemed to confer on her a certain deference from her peers.
CHAPTER 7
I was halfway back to the flat when my phone rang. ‘Join me for a drink?’ It was Claire.
‘Where are you?’
‘The Shore.’ Claire Scott was not in the habit of inviting me for drinks, although we often met at corporate events and I’d been to parties at her home a few times.
Since our tryst twelve years back we’d gone our separate ways. She had married, was raising a family and had built a high-flying career with the Club. I was single, self-employed and always worrying when the next job would be coming in.
The Shore was at the seaward end of the Water of Leith and close to the office. I turned back, wondering what was on her mind.
The pub had a nautical feel befitting its location. Old, unfinished wooden flooring, tongue-and-groove panelling and big wall mirrors created a congenial ambience. Claire had ensconced herself in a snug little double seat close to the fire.
‘Hi.’ She patted the place beside her but I took a facing seat where I could see her properly and keep an eye on who else was in the bar through the mirror behind her. She was sipping a glass of Chablis. I ordered a pint of Deuchars.
When I had first met her Claire was young, vivacious and headstrong. Over the years she had changed. There was a maturity to her now, but a careworn weariness too. Two small frown lines had appeared on her forehead between her eyes. Her skin was pale, in need of some sunshine. But she still had the poise and gazelle-like grace she’d always had.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ I asked. I’d often thought of asking her out on one of my frequent trips back to Leith but I had no desire to complicate her life, or my own.
‘Maybe just for old times’ sake?’ she said playfully.
I must have looked surprised.
‘I was kidding, Angus.’ Her manner of speech was precise but her Edinburgh accent had grown stronger over the years.
‘Okay. Grant told me this theory of yours. I wanted to talk to you about it, outside the office.’
So much for his promise of discretion. Grant harboured the outlandish belief that he and Claire were distantly related through an ancient collaboration between his branch of the Douglas clan and Claire’s own Borders ancestry. He took it seriously and claimed to have researched it through a specialist genealogist who had figured out his entire family tree. Claire seemed to view this contention with some embarrassment but it certainly didn’t do her position in the Club’s hierarchy any harm.
‘It’s not fully formulated,’ I hedged. ‘Quite honestly I’m not sure there’s any substance in it.’
‘Well why not tell me anyway?’ she said. ‘You told Grant because you were concerned and you’re right to flag these kinds of suspicions even if they turn out to be unfounded hunches.’
I gave her the gist of it and finally my tenuous idea that the Commencement of Laytime clause in the suspect charterparties had been drafted by the same hand – and that that hand might lie north of the Border.
I waited for her reaction expecting a curt dismissal of the notion. After all, my theory depended on certain shaky suppositions: firstly that there was a single directing mind behind both frauds; second, that that mind would be so careless as to leave even a trace of evidence; or alternatively, was so hubristic as to deliberately leave his signature on each case as a private conceit.
Claire took a cautious sip of her wine. ‘I’d dismiss your theory out of hand if not for the fact that we have a couple of similar frauds to yours in our syndicate.’
‘And the wording of the clauses?’
‘I only heard about this just now. I haven’t been through the files. I’ll check in the morning but let me get this straight, Angus. Are you suggesting that because of the use of the word “outwith” in these charters there is some kind of Scottish conspiracy to defraud our members? It seems a little improbable, to say the least.’
‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ I said, though I knew I was. ‘I’m just stating a few established and verifiable facts.’
We talked on while we finished our drinks.
‘How are the children? And Edward?’
‘Fine, everyone’s fine. And your Eleni? I hear she’s gorgeous.’
‘She is! And she’s fine too, thanks.’ My mind wandered back to the meeting. ‘By the way, is Hamilton-Hunter always such a prick or am I reading him all wrong?’
‘No, he is a prick. He doesn’t come up here often, fortunately. Doesn’t interfere with the claims side either unless there’s some particular sensitivity over one of the members, or unless he just wants to prove he’s in touch.’
‘Rather you than me dealing with all the office politics,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t put up with it.’
‘The truth is we’re riddled with factionalism. The in-fighting, the divisions amongst the senior management, have created a collective paranoia. It’s gripped the entire organisation. People devote unnecessary amounts of time discussing what so-and-so meant when he said this or that. Rumour and gossip have taken over from clear strategic planning and communication through line management. Secrecy and distrust are the norm nowadays. I hate it. As you saw in the meeting, no one will discuss anything too openly. Paranoia is seen as a way to survive.’ From her, this was an impassioned speech.
‘Listen, Angus, I have to go,’ she said looking at her watch. ‘George is waiting.’ George was the Club’s driver. At Claire’s level he was at her disposal, together with a large black Jaguar, pretty much whenever she needed it.
‘I’ll run you home,’ she said.
‘It’s okay. I prefer to walk.’ I did.
She placed a hand on mine. ‘Angus, don’t ever think I’ve forgotten how you pulled me out of that mess in Georgia, or that night in Istanbul. It was pretty special, on both counts.’
I looked at her, puzzled by her rare reference to those dramatic few days. I had a problem dealing with beautiful women: if I wasn’t careful they impaired my judgement.
‘It was a long time ago, Claire.’
‘You were the big hero in case you didn’t notice. Macho man Angus McKinnon rides to the rescue of silly young junior claims handler.’
She squeezed my hand. I thought I could detect a sadness in her eyes, but maybe it was my imagination.
‘I’ll be in in the morning,’ I said.
I walked back across the Links. It had stopped raining but the wind had strengthened. A few committed smokers were loitering outside the pubs at the Foot of the Walk, determined not to break the habit of a lifetime.
Mrs B had acquired two sirloin steaks from her local butcher whom she swore by. She said he hung the meat for three weeks to make it tender and bring out the flavour. Butchers used to do it back in her day but few bothered now, she grumbled. I gladly accepted the dinner invitation and promised to contribute a bottle of wine to the occasion.
Before going down to join her and Jill, I checked my personal emails which I hadn’t looked at since morning. Along with the usual junk was a message from Manish. The fact he’d not sent it through the Club’s server suggested it was something interesting.
‘Angus, Wongsurin reported murdered in Bangkok yesterday. Call me. Manish.’
He picked up straight away although it was five in the morning in Singapore. He didn’t know much except that Wongsurin had been found dead outside a restaurant in Sukhumvit. A contact in the Bangkok police had told Manish that he’d been knifed from behind. His wallet with its contents, including credit cards and the equivalent of a hundred and sixty dollars in baht, was still on him.
‘Are the police looking for anyone in particular?’ I asked.
Manish paused. ‘No, but I asked my friend to check out who he’d been dining with.’
‘And?’
Manish was savouring this.
‘Seems from what the restaurant owner says, he was with a farang. They’re looking for him but Wongsurin paid the bill so there’s no trail there. Do you want me to go up there, Gus?’
I’d been hoping Manish would offer. He had carte blanche to travel throughout his region on Club business and as far as I was concerned, this was Club business.
We agreed Manish would go to Bangkok that day. He was a competent investigator so I didn’t need to brief him. I did tell him to watch his back though. I had no idea whether Wongsurin’s murder had anything to do with the Sophia M case but until proven otherwise it seemed prudent to assume that it was. If he’d been enjoying dinner with Sriwan’s mysterious farang and if the farang had then killed him, did that mean they had been in league and fallen out, or had Wongsurin represented a threat? I recalled his words on the Lucky Hawk. He’d said he’d kill whoever had defrauded him. Maybe he’d underestimated his adversary.
***
I was in the office by seven the next morning but Phyllis beat me to it. ‘Do you live in this building or just spend your holidays here?’ I asked her. The Club was her life and there was little that went on there that Phyllis didn’t know about.
‘Don’t be facetious, you. Grant’s in New York but he wants to talk to you.’
‘What’s he doing over there?’
‘Family business, he says. He’s not long arrived, but if you call him now you’ll get him before he turns in. I’ll call him for you.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Get me a coffee first if you would please, Phyllis, and I’ll take the call in the boardroom.’
I was treated to a look as cold and hard as the granite of her native Aberdeen.
‘You’re a sweetie,’ I added. It didn’t soften the stony glare but I got the coffee followed by a line to Grant in short order.
It was two in the morning over there but Grant sounded spritely enough. There was none of the usual banter though. ‘Angus, I was thinking about these fraud cases on the flight over….’
‘Actually Grant, I’ve got an update on that. I’ve just learned that one of the parties involved in the Sophia M case was murdered in Bangkok yesterday. There may be something in my theory after all.’
‘Dammit Angus! Who knows what your guy was getting up to in Bangkok, but there’s no reason to think it had anything to do with such an insignificant fraud. I was about to tell you I’m not convinced of your theory and neither is Claire. We’ve just spoken; she had a look through those cases she mentioned to you last night – she says they were frauds all right, but we get them all the time. There was no link she could find between them, or between them and yours. So I want you to drop this conspiracy theory of yours right now, okay? It’s not leading anywhere and like I said yesterday, we’ve other things to worry about.’
So not only had Grant betrayed my trust by telling Claire my theory, but Claire had already been busy discounting it. And Grant hadn’t wasted any time telling me to drop it. I wondered why, then stopped myself. Maybe they were both right. I didn’t want two of the Club’s most senior officers, and good allies at that, thinking I’d become some crackpot conspiracy theorist.
‘Okay. But if I turn up anything new I’ll let you know.’
‘Sure, just don’t spend the Club’s time and money pursuing them right now.
‘Fair enough, Grant,’ I said, wondering how I was going to get the cost of Manish’s Bangkok trip paid for. ‘You’re probably both right. I’m not going to bust a gut trying to turn coincidences into enemy action, to coin a phrase.’
And I wasn’t. Or so I told myself at the time.
***
I spent the next couple of days meeting with those claims managers with whom I shared cases. And I asked Joe Ellis what he’d found out about Hillside, the broker involved in the Sophia M fixture.
‘They’ve gone belly-up I’m afraid. They were just a small outfit anyway. Seems the boss got ill all of a sudden in the office. Dead within an hour.’
‘ Really? What did he die of?’ I asked.
‘Dunno. Didn’t ask.’
‘Well, can you find out?’
‘Hang on.’ He picked up the phone and spoke with someone for a few moments.
‘Heart attack they say. That was his PA. She’s still pretty distraught, and looking for another job. Why the interest?
‘Just curious. I wondered whether it had anything to do with the Sophia M.’
‘What, the stress of it all going pear-shaped brought on the heart attack you mean?’
‘Maybe,’ I said, and left it at that.
I thought Hamilton-Hunter had gone back to London but after lunch on the day I was leaving, he appeared in Grant’s office where, with Phyllis’s blessing, I’d parked myself while he was away.
‘Angus! We don’t get much time together do we? Why don’t you bring your beautiful Greek floozy over sometime and we could have dinner together.’ He was leaning forward over the desk beaming at me expansively.
‘Or come over and we’ll do it in Athens,’ I said. ‘I’m sure there are plenty of owners who’d be glad to see you before the February renewals.’ The twentieth of February was the P&I policy renewal date for most of the world’s tonnage.
‘That would be so nice you know. I will. You’re so valuable to this Club, my friend. We’d be well up shit creek without the Greeks and we totally rely on you to keep them sweet for us.’ He guffawed, looked at his watch and exclaimed, ‘Oh fuck! Is that the time? I’ve got George waiting outside and my flight’s in an hour. Look, great to catch up, Angus. I’ll take you up on that. See you in the land of the gods!’ And with more guffaws he was gone.
I was nursing a pint in the airport bar that evening when Claire called, her soft Edinburgh lilt wreaking its usual havoc on my equilibrium. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Fine. No luck connecting those cases then?’ I asked.
‘Both those charters I mentioned had your same wording in the Laytime clause, Angus, but I wasn’t going to tell Grant that. He’s determined not to take this theory of yours seriously.’
‘I see.’
‘You know what Deep Throat said in that movie?’
‘No, what did he say?’
‘“Follow the money.” Safe flight home, Angus.’
CHAPTER 8
Eleni had called asking where I was. Zoe had strict instructions not to divulge my whereabouts to anyone when I was travelling, and Eleni clearly felt aggrieved to have been included among the generality. Piraeus was a leaky sewer when it came to rumour and gossip amongst the shipping fraternity. The place was crawling with hungry lawyers and adjusters, brokers and surveyors, as well as other P&I Clubs, all vying for a slice of the pie, the pie being the Greek merchant marine, the world’s biggest by far, conservatively estimated at around seventeen per cent of the global fleet. Many Greek owners had long since moved out of the old port to more salubrious locations in the northern suburbs of Athens or down the coast to Glyvada and Vouliagmeni, but many of the other businesses that served the industry service providers stuck to Piraeus.
Eleni was an English teacher, but I’d hired her to teach me Greek, and our relationship had quickly turned from professional to personal. She was in her mid-thirties, dark-haired and olive-skinned, and kept her full figure trim with an exercise regime involving morning sw
ims in the sea throughout the year and daily visits to the gym. I swam with her when I was around but, despite her cajoling, I begged off the gym sessions.
Eleni’s great-grandparents had fled Izmir in the catastrophic exodus of Greek citizens from the coast of Anatolia in 1922. Despite the passage of time, these people of the diaspora still clung to their memories, and the traditions passed down through the generations. Eleni’s people lived in Nea Smyrni, a suburb near Piraeus. The older folk still told stories of their childhood experiences as they were driven from their beloved homeland. And the rembetiko music expressing those sad times was still a treasured relic of their past.
She had first taken me to her parents’ home to meet her family on her brother’s name day. I had sat on their balcony with her ancient grandfather as he regaled me with harrowing accounts of events from that time, still vivid in his memory. He died a few weeks later, but I never forgot his stories.
‘Ella pethi-mou. Why do you always leave me without saying anything? Do you think I don’t care? Don’t you care? Don’t you take us seriously?’ All this before I could explain anything. I had told her I’d be away on business for a while but, as usual, not where. We’d been seeing each other for eight years, and I knew by now that she’d never be discreet so I’d long since stopped telling her where I was going or what I was doing. Now that I was back, I could tell her about Singapore and Bangkok – and cold, rainy Scotland – hopefully over dinner tonight.
‘Dinner, tonight, and I’ll cook,’ I promised with no real confidence in the outcome.
‘You’ll cook will you? And just what’s on the menu? Stewed weeds from your garden?’
‘I’m fond of vlita as it happens, but if you’ve got something better in mind, I’m open to suggestions.’
