'You showed it to her?'
'I didn't have to. She'd seen it already.'
'Do you mean somebody had sent her a copy, too?'
But all he could tell me was that she had had the paper with her when she came into his office after lunch. 'Now, if you'll fill in on the details for me.' He sat there waiting, his hands folded across his stomach, his stolid, heavy face impassive. I gave him my version of what had happened and some indication of what was behind it. Finally, I said, 'Somebody wants me out of the way. And they want that contract scrapped so that you're in the market for another stand-by boat.' He didn't say anything, his face blank. 'Have you been offered a replacement?'
He leaned forward, staring down at the paper as though weighing the headlines against what I had told him. 'You think the rig is in some sort of danger, is that it?'
'Yes,' I said. But I could see he didn't believe me, any more than that reporter, or Garrard. He leaned back, his eyes staring beyond me. 'It could be said you're the real risk. And reading this report…' His thick fingers dabbed at the headlines. 'Is it true your father was a Russian agent?' He was suddenly looking straight at me.
'Who told you that?'
'An Inspector from Special Branch.' The softness of his voice had gone as he added, 'Well, is it true?'
'I wouldn't know,' I said. 'I never knew him.'
'But you,' he murmured. 'Your record…" He was frowning, shaking his head. 'I don't know what to say. If I believe you..' He paused, still frowning. 'But it doesn't make sense. It would be very difficult to tamper with a huge structure like North Star. Certainly not if the guard ship is doing its job.' And he added, 'That's my difficulty, you see. And yours isn't the only trawler available, not now.'
'You have been offered a replacement then.'
He smiled. 'Oil companies are always being offered things — at a price.' The smile vanished, his lips pursed. 'But if there is the remotest possibility of danger to the rig, then the price becomes irrelevant. And another thing I have to bear in mind is that your view of what happened in court — or rather, what was behind it — is not likely to be the police view. They could arrest you at any moment. In fact, I'm surprised they haven't done so already.'
'They can't arrest me out there,' I said. 'They can't board my ship in international waters-'
'You're employed by us,' he said sharply. 'And we would facilitate any action the police might decide to take.' He got abruptly to his feet. 'Leave it with me now, Randall. I'll have a talk with Mr Villiers and we'll see where we go from there. All right?'
I didn't argue. There was no point.
'Come back after lunch,' he said, opening the door for me. 'I'll let you have our decision then.' The door closed and I went down the bare wooden stairs. The drizzle had lifted, the sun glimmering through. I crossed the road and walked to the pier where a couple of purse-seine fishing boats were unloading their catch. Gulls wheeled screaming and the water calm. I lit my pipe, leaning against the rail and letting the peace of it soak into me, that deep instinctive feeling that this was where I belonged. All that had happened was of no importance then, obliterated by the sense of familiarity, the feeling of contentment.
And then I heard the fishermen talking and reality broke in again. They were talking about their rights in the fishing grounds. 'Chased off like that… What right have they got, any more than us? Just because they're a bluidy oil company… Aye, we should have told the bastards to go to hell.' And the skipper; leaning on the bulwarks and saying, 'What d'you expect me to do — risk a collision?' He was a broad, big-bellied man in a Shetland jersey with a brown beret on his head. 'She's bigger than us. I'll report it, but I doubt if the Council can do much. It's the Government in London. They want oil.'
'They don't depend on fish for their living.'
A bitter laugh, the slam of a box and a voice saying, 'Aye, that they don't. And now they're drilling off this side of Shetland. Soon we'll be ringed by oil rigs, fenced in like a lot of puir peerie sheep. Time the Council took note of us.'
The skipper nodded. 'There's a meeting tomorrow and I'll be there. So will a lot of others. We're not the only boat…'
I turned away, my peace of mind shattered. Politics! Couldn't I ever get away from politics? I went in search of some food, knowing that it could only have been my own trawler they had been cursing.
Shortly after two I was back in Fuller's office. He had spoken to Villiers and had orders to get me back on board the Duchess. 'Don't ask me why.' He sounded annoyed. 'I tell you frankly, it was against my advice. But he's got troubles of his own, so maybe he doesn't want to be bothered by a little matter like you and your trawler.' The London papers had arrived and he had the Daily Telegraph in front of him, open at the City page. 'All right then.' He was looking down at the paper, not at me, and I had the impression that his mind was on other things. 'The taxi will be here shortly to take you to Sumburgh. There's a helicopter flight leaving about four o'clock.'
'You passed on what I told you?'
'For what it's worth, yes.'
'What did he say?'
He looked at me then. 'What did you expect him to say — with this hanging over him?' And he slapped the paper. 'Shetland is a long way away and what seems important to you will be looking a lot less important viewed from an office in the City with the pack in full cry. But just remember this, any trouble on the location and you're out. I'll get replacement guard boats on my own responsibility. And if the police decide to arrest you, don't try and rely on the fact that you're in international waters. I won't stand for that. I've enough trouble dealing with fishermen's complaints without getting involved with the police. We come under the law. Is that understood?'
'You may accept that you come under the law,' I said. 'But others don't. I'll wait for the taxi downstairs.' And I turned and walked out of his office, the anger and bitterness back. Why the hell couldn't somebody, just for once, let me get on with the job of running a trawler and making her pay? I was seething all the way to Sumburgh, my mind turned inwards so that I no longer saw the peace of the hills, no longer felt I had come home again. And then, in the little airport building at Sumburgh, I bought a copy of the Daily Telegraph and saw the mess Villiers was in.
The details are not important, though I had plenty of time to study them as the helicopter rattled noisily north-westward out to the rig. Tailor-made to our purpose, Stevens had said, and now I could see it for myself. The man was being accused of asset-stripping for his own personal gain and the full glare of publicity was being focused upon him, all of it adverse. He had acquired Star-Trion through an investment company managed by VFI. Star-Trion had then been broken up and the assets sold off. These sales, with one exception, had been to companies unconnected with himself. The exception was the oil assets, consisting chiefly of the North Star rig and the licences to drill in Blocks 206/ 17 and 18. These had been acquired by a nominee company controlled by VFI and the price had been fixed by Villiers himself. 'Rigged' was the word used by a solicitor acting for one of the investment company's major shareholders.
Villiers had issued a statement to the effect that the price had been based on an independent assessment of the break-up value of North Star, that his decision to operate the rig on the Star-Trion licences had been taken 'in the country's best interests', and that it was being financed by his own company and was a total gamble. He was quoted as saying, 'To commit the funds of an investment company managed by VFI to such a gamble would have been most improper. In the circumstances, no value can attach to the licences west of Shetland and I consider the break-up value of such an old rig the only real basis for disposal.'
It was a specious argument, or seemed so to me as the helicopter slanted down to land on the rig, for there it was, not in the breaker's yard, but out in the Atlantic, a hive of activity with the draw-works roaring and the drill biting steadily into the sedimentary rock deep under the sea.