But I did feel bad. I’d never been clever, not as my father and brother and sister were clever. When we’d been growing up they had always competed to win the word games, while I would sit silent and lost. I lack subtlety. Only a bloody fool would have charged straight up that damned hill when there was another company working their hard way round the flank. Still, I’d saved that company from some casualties. “Damn it,” I said now. My father did not reply, and I tried one last and despairing protest. “But Kassouli doesn’t even know if his daughter was murdered!”
“Perhaps he does. Perhaps Mulder has the proof. Perhaps Mulder has been blackmailing Bannister and taking money off Kassouli.
Whatever”—my father shrugged—“Yassir Kassouli will get his perfect revenge. You can kiss Bannister goodbye.”
“At sea,” I said bitterly.
“Far from any jurisdiction,” my father agreed. “There’ll be no messy body, no police dogs, no forensic scientists, no murder weapon, no witnesses who aren’t Kassouli’s men, nothing.”
“But I’ll know about it,” I said stubbornly.
“And who would believe you? And if you made a fuss, Nick, just how long do you think Yassir Kassouli would tolerate you?” He touched my arm. “No, Nick. It’s over now as far as you’re concerned.”
I stared at the cricket, but saw nothing. So the night that Jill-Beth had screamed, and I had thought Mulder was raping her, had all been a part of the careful construction to trap me? And I, believing myself to be full of honour, had fallen for it. I swore softly. I knew my father was right. He’d always been so good at explaining things.
The truth had been there for me to see, but I’d been blind to it. Now, according to the yachting magazines, Fanny Mulder was to be the navigator on Bannister’s boat. Bannister himself would skipper Wildtrack, but Mulder would be the boat’s tactician and navigator.
From Kassouli’s point of view it was perfect, just as it was always meant to be; perfect.
“What time’s your bus?” my father asked.
“Five.”
We strolled slowly round the boundary together. “The world’s a tough place,” my father said softly. “It isn’t moved by honesty and justice and love, Nick. That’s just the pabulum that the rulers feed the people to keep them quiet. The world is run by very ruthless men who know that the cake is very small and the number of hungry mouths is growing all the time. If you want to stop the revolution then you have to feed those mouths, and you do it by being very tough with the cake. Kassouli means jobs and investment.”
“And Bannister?”
“He married the wrong woman, and he carelessly lost her. At the very least he’ll be sacrificed for carelessness. You think that’s unfair?”
“Of course it is.”
“Good old Nick.” He rested a hand on my shoulder for an instant.
“Seen your brother or sister lately?”
“No.”
He smiled. “I can’t blame you. They’re not very nice, are they? I made life too easy for them.”
“You made life too easy for me as well.”
“But you’re different, Nick. You believed all that claptrap they fed you in the Sea Scouts, didn’t you? You still do, probably.” He said it affectionately. “So what, my favourite son, will you do about Angela?”
“There’s nothing to do. They get married on Monday.”
“There’s everything to do!” my father said energetically. “I’d start by buying every orchid in Paris and drenching them with the most expensive perfume, then laying them at her feet. Like all beautiful women, Nick, she is there for the taking, so take her.”
“I’ve got Sycorax. I’m sailing south.” He shrugged. “Will Angela sail on the St Pierre?” I shook my head. “She gets seasick.”
“If I were you, then, I’d wait till she’s a rich widow, which can’t take very long, then marry her.” He was being quite serious.
I laughed. That was vintage Tommy Sandman.
“Why ever not?” he asked, offended.
“I’m sailing south,” I said stubbornly. “I want to get to New Zealand.”
“What about Piers and Amanda?”
We stopped at the prison entrance. There were no guards, not even a locked gate, but only a long drive that stretched between pea fields. “I’ll fly back and see them,” I said.
“That takes money, Nick.”
I held up my hands that were calloused again from the weeks of good work. “I can earn a living.”
“I’ve got some cash. The buggers didn’t get it all.”
“I never thought they did.”
“If you’re ever in trouble, Nick…”
“No.” I said it too hastily. “If I’ve learned one thing these last months, it’s to pay my own way in life.”
“That’s a mistake.” He smiled. “With full remission, Nick, I’ll be out in a year. You’ll let me know where you are?”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps I’ll come and see you. We can sail warm seas together?”
“I’d like that.” I could see the bus coming up the long drive. Dust plumed from its wheels on to the pea plants. I fished in my pocket and brought out the flat box. “I thought you might like to keep this for me,” I said awkwardly. I told myself that the gesture was spontaneous, but I knew it wasn’t because I’d taken the trouble to bring the box with me. I might not have brought my father cigars or wine, but I had fetched him the one thing I knew would give him the most pleasure.
He opened it and I saw the tears come to his eyes. He was holding my medal. He smoothed the claret ribbon on his palm. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll probably lose it.” I tried to avert any expressions of emotion.
“Things get lost on small boats.”
“They do, yes.”
“Look after it for me, will you?” I asked, trying to make it a casual request.
“I will.” He turned it over and saw my name engraved in the dull bronze. “I’ll have it put in the governor’s safe.”
“The bronze is supposed to come from Russian cannons we cap-tured at Sevastopol,” I said.
“I think I read that somewhere.” He blinked the tears away and put the medal into his pocket. The bus turned in the wide circle in front of the gate, then stopped in a shuddering haze of diesel fumes.
“I’ll see you, Dad,” I said.
“Sure, Nick.”
There was a hesitation, then we embraced. It felt awkward and lumpy. I walked to the bus, paid my fare, and sat at the back. My father stood beneath the window. A few more returning visitors climbed in, then the door hissed shut and the bus lurched forward. My father walked alongside for a few paces.
“Nick!” I could just hear him over the engine’s noise. “Nick! Paris!
Orchids! Scent! Seduction! Who dares wins!” The bus pulled away. He waved. The gears clashed as we accelerated, and then I lost him in the cloud of dust.
Duty was done.
I insisted on two bilge pumps, both manual. One was worked from the cockpit, the other from inside the cabin. George grumbled, but provided them. “Tommy shouldn’t have told you about the Dawsons,” he said.
I wondered why such a small crime worried him, but later realized it was because the London police were still searching for the forger.
George would not have cared about the local force, for he had his understanding with them, but he was leery of London.
There was a letter from London waiting for me on Rita’s desk. I eagerly tore it open, half expecting it to be from Angela, but of course she was in Paris. The letter was from Micky Harding. He was recovering. He apologized for messing up. He was sorry that the story had died. There was no evidence to support it, and such a story couldn’t run without proof. He’d floated the Kassouli withdrawal rumour to a city editor of another paper, but I’d probably seen how that story had rolled over and died. If I was ever in London, he said, I should call on him. I owed him a pint or two.