Two hours later, the large comforting bulk of Johan appeared at my side. He had been into Ham Voe before, so I left it to him, and at 03.07 we let go our anchor about a cable off the end of the pier. It was still and very peaceful in the lee of the towering mass of Hamnafjeld and I went to my bunk, thinking I was clear of trouble tucked away here under Foula.
We lay there all Saturday and nobody bothered us until a fishing boat came in late that afternoon. She had the letters LK and her number painted white on her bows, and instead of making for the pier, she headed straight for us, the crew on deck putting fenders out. I watched her come alongside, and as Henrik and Lars took her warps, I called down to the skipper to ask him where he came from, what he wanted.
'From Scalloway,' he said, leaning his head out of the wooden wheelhouse. 'You're Randall are you? I've brought a Mr Stevens to see you.' He said something over his shoulder and a man came out of the door at the back of the wheelhouse, a short man with thinning hair dressed in a dark suit. He looked up at me and I saw the steel-trap mouth, the hard unfriendly eyes, the slight cast of the eye. He didn't ask permission to come on board, but went straight to the side and hauled himself up on to our deck. A moment later he was on the bridge facing me. Johan was there, and Henrik, too. We had been playing cribbage. 'These two of your Norwegians?' The same quiet voice, hard and flat, and the odd sidelong look of the left eye. 'You should have put them ashore.'
'What's it got to do with you?' My hands were clenched, my voice strained. 'How did you know where to find me?' I was remembering the coldblooded way he had threatened me, wondering whether he thought I'd made a statement to the police as he stood there facing me, saying nothing. 'What made you follow me out here?'
'We'll talk about that in your cabin.' He turned abruptly and started down the companionway, then realized it was at the back of the bridge.
'I don't want you on board.' But he had already disappeared inside, and the fishing boat had recovered her warps and was going astern. I watched her sheer1 away from our side and head for the pier, the name Island-Girl on her stern, then I followed him to my cabin. He was sitting on my bunk with a packet of cigarettes in his hand. He didn't offer me one this time. 'Shut the door.' He waved me to the single upright chair. 'I take it you know something about the background of this drilling operation. Have you met Villiers?'
'No.'
'But you've heard of him — you know the way he operates, the sort of man he is?'
'I know he runs a very successful finance company.'
'You admire success?' It wasn't a question, more a sneer, the word success made to sound obscene. 'He makes money — at the expense of others, of course. And ultimately it's the workers who suffer.'
'You don't need to give me the propaganda line.'
'No?' He was watching me as he took a cigarette out of the packet and lit it. 'Just thought I'd remind you, that's all. It's some time since you were a shipyard worker. You were one of the leaders then. A shop floor convener with a gift for turning on the heat when it was needed.' He paused, drawing on his cigarette. Then he said, 'Before that you worked as a journalist in the City. You didn't like it, did you?'
'There are two sides to everything,' I said, wondering where this was leading.
He smiled. 'Seeing things two ways can be confusing.'
'You didn't come out here in a fishing boat to tell me that.'
'No. But you've been confused for some time, and that's a pity. You're in a very unique position at the moment. Unique from our point of view.' He was staring at me as though trying to make up his mind, and I wasn't certain which of his eyes was focused on my face. 'But then if you weren't confused, you wouldn't be here, would you?' He said it reflectively, the sound of the radio on the bridge almost drowning his words. 'You wouldn't have come to Shetland, trying to find out about your father, and landed yourself with this trawler.'
So it was the trawler that had brought him here. 'What's the trawler got to do with it?'
But he ignored my question. 'Villiers now,' he murmured. 'Would you say Villiers is typical of the City?'
'One aspect of it, yes. But not the City as a whole. That's pretty mundane.'
'Of course. Banks and insurance and unit trusts.' He smiled quietly to himself. 'But that's not how the public sees it. All they read about is the property developers, the land speculators, the ones that hit the headlines getting rich too quick, while workers are declared redundant or fight management and government for increased wages that never catch up with inflation. Look at Villiers, with his finance companies and his villa in Bermuda, as well as his Hampshire estate, two aircraft and a flat in Belgravia. That's the capitalist image the public understands. Girls, parties, villas abroad — and who pays? They do in the end.' He leaned suddenly forward. 'That's why we're interested in Villiers. The face of capitalism at its ugliest.'
He was very different from the militants I had met — no warmth, and talking in cliches. 'Villiers is happily married with two kids,' I said wearily. 'And he works-'
'I thought you said you'd never met him?' He was still leaning forward, his eyes gone hard.
'I haven't. But I read the newspapers.'
'I see.' He stared at his cigarette, his mouth a thin line. 'You are confused, aren't you?' He gave a little shrug. 'Well, it can't be helped. Villiers is very suitable to our purpose. And so are you. It doesn't really matter that you think him so commendable.'
'I didn't say that. You're twisting my words.'
A silence then, a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally he said, speaking slowly, 'It may help you to understand the importance we attach to this if I fill you in on the background. You know, of course, that we can call on the services of quite a few journalists, wittingly or unwittingly. Recently we have had a very good man looking into the Villiers take-over technique and the companies he has grabbed. It's the latest that concerns you, an offer by Villiers Finance and Industrial, known as VFI, for the whole of the capital of Neven-Clyde Shipping. The offer was very astutely timed — last January, when Neven-Clyde had just reported heavy losses on a harbour construction contract in Brazil.'
'It's of no interest to me,' I said. 'I'm running a trawler now.'
He jabbed a cigarette at me. 'You think you can escape after all these years?' He was watching me, the slant of his eyes more disconcerting than ever. 'It's not as simple as that, Randall. We all have our backgrounds, and the past produces its own obligations.' The hard mouth managed a smile. 'As a boy you can run away to sea. Not as a man.'
He leaned back slowly and his voice was quiet and relaxed as he continued: 'Neven-Clyde's trouble was that they diversified, mostly into fields where their expertise was limited. They lost money, and they lost the support of their shareholders. The VFI offer was declared unconditional on 14th March. The attraction for Villiers was the shipping offices in various parts of the world and the losses built up over the years, which he can now offset against profits for tax purposes. The construction business has already been sold off. N-C Ceramics is on the market. So, too, are N-C Textiles, a small company specializing in panties and bras with a factory in Belfast, N-C Plastics, producing dolls and garden furnishings, and N-C Musicals, a pop record company.'