Abbott, who had still not looked directly at me, whirled on George and thrust a finger towards him. “And if you do see him, George, hang on to him. I don’t want him running ape all over the bloody South-West.”
“I’ll tell him, Harry.”
“And tell him that I’ll let him know when he can leave.”
“I’ll tell him, Harry.”
“And tell him he’s bloody lucky that no one got killed. One of his bloody bullets went within three inches of Mr Bannister’s pretty head. Mr Bannister is not pleased.”
“I’ll tell him, Harry.”
“They always were rotten shots in that regiment,” Abbott said happily. “Unlike the Rifles of which I was a member. You don’t need to tell him that bit, George.”
“Right, Harry.”
“And tell him his newspaper friend is out of danger, but will have a very nasty bloody headache for a while.”
“I’ll tell him, Harry.”
Abbott sniffed the empty glass of whisky. “How much did you pay for this Scotch, George?”
“It was a business gift, Harry. From an associate.”
“You were fucking robbed. I’m off. Have a nice day.” He left. George closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. “Did you hear all that, Nick?”
“I’m not deaf, Harry.”
“So I don’t need to tell you?”
“No, George.”
“Bloody hell.” He leaned back in his chair and his small, shrewd eyes appraised me. “A shooter, eh? How much do you want for it, Nick?”
“What shooter, George?”
“I can get you a tasty little profit on a shooter, Nick. Automatic, is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, George.” He looked disappointed. “I always thought you were straight, Nick.”
So did I.
A hot spell hit Britain. The Azores high had shifted north and gave us long, warm days. It was not the weather for an attempt on the St Pierre. In the yachting magazines there were stories about boats waiting in Cherbourg for the bad weather that would promise a fast run at the race, but Wildtrack was not among them. Rita brought me the magazines and a selection of the daily papers. There had been reports of a shooting incident off the Devon coast, a report that received neither confirmation nor amplification and so the story faded away. Bannister’s name was not mentioned, nor was mine. The Daily Telegraph said that a man was being sought in connection with the shooting, but though the police knew his identity he was not being named. The police did not believe the man posed any danger to the general public. England was being hammered at cricket. Unemployment was rising. The City pages reported that Kassouli UK’s half-yearly report showed record profits, despite which, about a week after I’d reached George’s yard, there was a story that Yassir Kassouli was planning to pull all his operations out of Britain. I smelt Micky Harding behind the tale, but after a day or two Kassouli issued a strong denial and the story, like the tale of gunfire off the Devon coast, faded to nothing.
I worked for George Cullen. I mended engines, scarfed in gunwales, repaired gelcoats, and sanded decks. I was paid in beer, sandwiches, and credit. The credit bought three Plastimo compasses.
I mounted one over the chart table, one on the for’ard cockpit bulkhead, and one just aft of the mizzen’s step. I bought the two big anchors off George and stowed them on board. I nagged George to find me a good chronometer and barometer. And every day I tried to phone Angela.
I did not leave messages on the answering machine in Bannister’s house, for I did not want him to suspect that I had reason to trust Angela. I left messages on her home answering machine, and I left messages at the office. The messages told her to phone me at Cullen’s yard. Rita, whose skirts became shorter as the weather became hotter, listened sympathetically to my insistent message-leaving. She thought it was like something out of her magazines of romance.
The messages achieved nothing. Angela was never at her flat, and she never returned the calls. I tried the television company and had myself put through to Matthew Cooper.
“Jesus, Nick! You’ve caused some trouble.”
“I’ve done nothing!”
“Just aborted one good film.” He sounded aggrieved.
“Wasn’t my fault, Matthew. How’s Angela?”
He paused. “She’s not exactly top of the pops here.”
“I can imagine.”
“She keeps saying that the film is salvageable. But Bannister won’t have anything to do with you. He’s issued a possession order for Sycorax.”
“Fuck him,” I said. Rita, pretending not to listen as she buffed her fingernails, giggled. “Will you give Angela a message for me?” I asked.
“She’s stopped working, Nick. She’s with Bannister all the time now.”
“For Christ’s sake, Matthew! Use your imagination! Aren’t good directors supposed to be bursting with imagination? Write her a letter on your headed notepaper. She won’t ignore that.”
“OK.” He sounded reluctant.
“Tell her to find a guy called Micky Harding. He’s probably out of hospital by now.” I gave him Micky’s home and work numbers.
“She’s to tell Micky that he can trust her. She can prove it by calling him Mouse and by saying she knows that Terry was with me on the night. He’ll understand that.”
Matthew wrote it all down.
“And tell her,” I said, “that Bannister’s not to try the St Pierre.”
“You’re joking,” Matthew said. “We’re being sent to film him turning the corner at Newfoundland!”
“When are you going?”
He paused again. “I’m not allowed to say, Nick.”
“Jesus wept. OK. Just give her my message, Matthew.”
“I’ll try, Nick.”
“And tell her something else.”
I didn’t need to tell him what else; he understood. “I’ll tell her, Nick.” He sounded sorry for me.
I rattled the phone rest, then tried to phone Micky Harding, but he was not at the paper and there was no answer at his home. I put the phone down. Rita unlocked the petty cash box and put my IOU
inside. George charged me fifty pence a call and fifty pence a minute thereafter. Rita scaled the charges down for me, but I still owed the old crook over ten pounds. “He wants you to go out tonight, Nick,” she said.
“Out?”
“His usual bloke’s got a broken arm. George wants you to take the 52-footer. He says you’re to fill her up with diesel. He’ll go with you.”
So that night I joined the distinguished roster of Devon smugglers. I helmed the 52-footer twenty miles offshore where we met a French trawler. The Frenchman swung three crates across to our boat. They contained radios stolen from harbours and marinas up and down the Brittany coast. George paid them off with a wad of cash, accepted a glass of brandy, and added a bottle of his lousy Scotch to the payment. Then I took him home again. There were no waterguards to disturb us as we chugged into the Hamoaze in a perfect dawn. George puffed his pipe in the cabin. “Got a very sweet little MF set there, Nick. You could do with an MF, couldn’t you?”
“I’ll take a VHF as my fee for tonight.”
He sucked air between his teeth. “You haven’t paid your berthage fees, Nick.”
“You call that bloody rubbish dump of a dock a berth?” He chuckled, but before he drove home he dropped a battered VHF set on to a sailbag in Sycorax’s cockpit. I spent the next Sunday fitting it and, to my astonishment, it worked.
I spent the Sunday after that salvaging a galley stove from a wrecked Westerly that George had bought for scrap. I manhandled the stove across the deserted yard. I’d already rigged the gaff as a derrick and only had to attach the whip to the stove, but as I reached the quay above the boat I saw I had company. Inspector Harry Abbott was sitting in Sycorax’s cockpit. He was wearing his check golfer’s trousers, had a bottle of beer and a packet of sandwiches in his lap, and my Colt .45 in his right hand.