North Star

'Hull,' I said.

'Oh, yeah. I remember. You're a witness, eh? Well, mebbe we can have a drink together in Aberdeen. Christ! I could sure do with one right now.' He turned in to the workshop, a tired man, moving slowly. 'We bin juggling with that damned retrieving tool since four this morning. It'll be good to get home.'

'You're married then?'

He nodded. 'Twenty-two years. And you?'

I told him and he said, 'Yeah — well, I guess there's not much difference between trawling and drilling. Some women can take it, some can't. Enid and I, we've lived so many goddam places. We got married in Tampico. She had one boy in Curacao, the other in Edmonton. The two of them are just about grown up now so she gets lonesome at times.'

'Why don't you retire then?' I asked him.

'Retire?' He pushed his hands up over his eyes, pausing and staring round him as we reached the changing room full of oil-stiff overalls and safety helmets, a litter of discarded clothing. 'Yeah. Mebbe I will one of these days. But I bin drilling all my life. I don't know.' He shook his head, smiling quietly to himself. 'There's always the next hole, you see. Right now we drilled a dry one. Next time — next time we strike it, eh?' He grinned and pushed open the door to the quarters. 'I gotta change now. See you on the chopper.'

But I didn't get a chance to talk to him on the helicopter. He slept all the way to Sumburgh, and on the Air Anglia flight to Aberdeen he sat with Ken Stewart. He was two seats ahead and I could hear his harsh, grating voice. They were discussing the new breed of anchorless drill ships that maintain station by computerized control of a dozen engines. Ken Stewart was a much younger man. He had only come into the oil business when the North Sea started up. But Ed Wiseberg, with his experience — it seemed strange that he was content to operate on an old rig like North Star.

His wife was waiting for him at Dyce Airport, a thin fair woman in a BMW. I watched them greet each other perfunctorily and drive off. I was the only one booked to Newcastle and from there I caught a train, arriving at Hull in time for a late meal at my hotel. The strike was over. It had been settled almost a month ago, but the shipyards were still working overtime to catch up. Before turning in I went for a walk. There was not much traffic about, the streets almost deserted. It had always been a quiet place after about ten o'clock. I thought a walk would help me work things out, but my mind seemed disorientated by the sudden switch from the endless empty sea to the atmosphere of a big town.

I must have been tired, for I slept heavily that night and I had barely finished breakfasting in my room when the phone rang. It was Edward Hall of Morley & Hall, the solicitors. He wanted me to make a statement to the police. 'As you were not called at the committal proceedings before the magistrates, a copy of your statement as additional evidence will have to be served on the defence before the trial.'

'And if I don't make a statement?' I asked.

'Then you will have to be subpoenaed.'

'I see.'

'On the presumption that you are a willing witness I have arranged with the police-'

'I'd rather see you first,' I said.

He tried to press me, but in the end he arranged to see me in his office at two o'clock. I had only just put the phone down when the desk rang to say a Detective-Sergeant Gorse was asking for me.

I saw him in the lounge, a big man with a slow, not unfriendly manner. 'Now, Mr Randall, you recall the night of 28th February. We wanted to interview you then. But you know that.' There was a mild note of censure in his voice. 'You've had a somewhat isolated job recently, but I presume you know we're holding Bucknall and Claxby on remand. That was the decision of the magistrate's court and the case is being heard in the crown court tomorrow. They are charged with arson.'

I nodded.

'You were there and you saw what happened.'

'I was there,' I said.

'You broke into the house, got the Entwisles' little girl out and handed her over to one of the neighbours, a Mrs Fenton. Then you vanished from the scene.'

'I was a mate of a trawler sailing at dawn.'

'We know that. And we radioed the Fisher Maid to say we wanted to interview you. But, when you landed at Aberdeen, you booked out on an Air Anglia flight to Shetland under an assumed name. Why?'

'I don't have to answer that.'

'No. But it's something you'll certainly be asked in court. If we had known where you were-' He pulled out a notebook, settling himself in his chair. 'No matter. We got a committal and now if I could have your statement.'

'I'm seeing Mr Hall this afternoon.'

He frowned, but his manner was still mild as he said, 'Don't you think you've delayed long enough?' And when I didn't say anything, he added, 'Now, let's start at the moment you arrived in Washbrook Road. What time was that?'

I shook my head. A statement to the police was official and irrevocable. I didn't want that. Not yet. 'If you don't mind, Sergeant, I'll leave any statement I'm going to make until I've seen Mr Hall.'

He hesitated, reluctant to leave it at that. 'It would save a lot of time.'

'I've already spoken to him and explained that I prefer to see him first.'

He sighed and put his notebook away, getting heavily to his feet. 'As you wish.' His tone was distant and there was a hardness in his eyes as he stood looking down at me. 'I think I should tell you we know about you hotheads meeting in the Congregational Hall. You'd be wiser to make a statement now.' He hesitated, and then with a sudden burst of feeling, he said, 'Don't be a fool, Randall; don't try and shield those bastards. Little Amelia could have been anybody's child — yours, mine, anybody's.' He turned abruptly, as though regretting his outburst, and went out through the swing doors walking quickly.

Time passed slowly for me that day. I had nobody to talk to, nobody to turn to, and like a fool I put off going to the trawler owner's office to collect the pay and bonus due to me. I couldn't face it. I didn't want to have to talk to people I knew, and with only myself for company my nerves were on edge when I finally had my interview with Hall. He was a small, deceptively quiet man in a grey check suit, and at first I thought him rather lightweight. He went through the police report of what had happened that night, his voice quick and very quiet, almost a mumble. He had been in court all morning and I got the impression he was reading it as much for his own benefit as mine.

They had all the details, even the time I had arrived in Washbrook Road, where I had stood. And I sat there, feeling dazed, conscious that I was being involved in legal procedures and still uncertain what I was going to do. It was an untidy, musty-smelling office, most of the space taken up by the oversize mahogany desk at which Hall was sitting. Behind him were dusty-looking shelves stacked with books, ledgers and files. I think it was the books and papers that gave the place its musty smell. The windows were shut against the noise of the traffic. Deed boxes, some of them open, lay strewn around on the floor. But though the office was untidy and archaic, the desk in front of me was equipped with the latest tape recorder, phone and intercom.

Hall came to the end of his reading and looked across the desk at me. He had taken off his glasses and was polishing them gently with a very white handkerchief. There was a lull in the traffic, the room suddenly very quiet, his eyes fixed on me, and I found myself swallowing, knowing this was the moment of decision.