On Tuesday The Times had a photograph of Bannister’s Paris wedding. The bride wore oyster-coloured silk and had flowers in her hair. Her Baptist minister father had pronounced a blessing over the happy couple. Angela was smiling. I cut the photograph out, kept it for an hour, then screwed it up and tossed it into the dock.
I spent the next few days finishing Sycorax. I installed extra water tanks, two bunk mattresses and electric cabin lights. I also had oil-lamps, which I preferred using, just as I had oil navigation lights as well as electric ones. George found me a short-wave radio which I installed on the shelves above the starboard bunk. I screwed a barometer to the bulkhead over the chart table and bought a second-hand clockwork chronometer that went alongside it. I began stowing spare gear and equipment in the lockers, and took pride in buying a brand new Red Ensign that would fray on my jackstaff in faraway oceans. I found an old solid-fuel stove to heat the cabin. There had been a time when every cruising yacht carried such a stove, and Sycorax had always been so equipped, and I took a peculiar delight in installing the cast-iron monster. I caulked and capped the chimney in seething rain. The hot weather had gone. Cyclones were bringing squalls and cold air that made the channel choppy and promised a tumultuous wind in the far north Atlantic.
The first hopefuls set off from Cherbourg to take advantage of the Atlantic gales. An Italian crew went first and made an astonishing time to the Grand Banks, but their boat was rolled over somewhere east of Cape Race and lost its mast. Two French boats followed. I read that Bannister was honeymooning in Cherbourg while he waited for even stronger winds.
It was the wrong weather for compass-swinging, which demanded smooth water so that the delicate measurements were not joggled, but I took advantage of one sullen, drizzly day to sail between carefully plotted buoys and landmarks in Plymouth Sound. I had roughly compensated the compasses with tiny magnets that corrected the attraction of the metal in the engine and stove, but I still needed to know what other errors the needles contained, so I sailed Sycorax north and south, east and west, and courses in between, noting the compass variations on each heading. Some were big enough to demand more fiddly work with the tiny magnetic shims, which then meant that every course had to be sailed again, but I finished the job by sundown and pinned a clingfilm-wrapped correction card over my navigation table. That night I took my dirty washing to a launderette and reflected that, with a little luck, my next wash would be on shipboard where I’d use a garbage bag filled with two quarts of water and washing powder. It works as well as any electric machine.
I went to London the next day and took the children to Holland Park where we played hide and seek among the wet bushes.
Afterwards I insisted on seeing Melissa. “They’re going to kill Bannister,” I told her.
“I’m sure that’s not true, Nick.”
“He won’t listen to me,” I said.
“It’s hardly surprising, is it? I gather you declared war on him!
Are you sure you’re recovered from the Falklands? One keeps reading these tedious stories about Vietnam veterans who seem to be perfectly normal until they open fire in a crowded supermarket.
I do hope you won’t go berserk in the frozen-food section, Nick. It would be jolly hard for Mands and Pip to have a mass-murderer for a father.”
“Wouldn’t it,” I agreed. “But would you phone Bannister? He’ll listen to you. Tell him he mustn’t trust Mulder. Just convince him of that. I’ve written to him, but…” I shrugged. I’d broken my promise to Abbott by writing to Bannister. I’d written to his Richmond house, the television studios, and to the offices of his production company. I’d written because there was no proof that he was guilty of the crime for which, I was certain, he was about to be punished. Doubtless my letters had been categorized with all the other nutcase letters that a man like Bannister attracted.
Melissa ran a finger round the rim of her wine glass. “Tony won’t listen to me now, Nick. He’s married that ghastly television creature.
She’s certainly done well for herself, hasn’t she? And I’m quite sure Tony’s in that post-marital bliss thing. You know, when you swear you’ll never be unfaithful?” She laughed.
“I’m serious, Melissa.”
“I’m sure you are, Nicholas, but if you think I’m going to make a fool of myself by telling Tony to give up his little boat race, you’re wrong. Anyway, he wouldn’t believe me! Fanny Mulder may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but he’s completely loyal to Tony.” I’d told Melissa everything, including my new certainty that Mulder was Kassouli’s man and would navigate Wildtrack to a death.
“Phone him!” I said.
“Don’t be nasty, Nick.”
“For God’s sake, Melissa!” I closed my eyes for a second. “I’m not mad, Melissa, I’m not shell-shocked and I’m not having bad dreams.
I don’t even like Bannister. Would you believe it, my love, if I was to tell you that it could suit me hideously well if he were to die? But I just cannot stomach the thought of murder! Especially when it’s in my power to prevent it.” I shook my head. “I’m not being noble, I’m not being honourable, I just want to be able to sleep at nights.”
“I do hate it when you get into a Galahad mood. I remember how it used to make me miserable when we were married.”
“So phone him,” I urged her. “You can find out which hotel he’s in, can’t you?”
She lit a cigarette. “His secretary might tell me,” she allowed cautiously.
“Then phone him and say that you think it’s all nonsense. Blame me, if you like. Say I’m mad. But say you promised to pass on the message. The message is that Mulder is Kassouli’s man and always has been.”
“I won’t speak to that little television upstart.”
“You want Bannister to die?”
She looked me up and down, noting my dirty trousers and creased shirt. “You’re being very dramatic, Nick.”
“I know. But please, my love, please?”
She havered, but plumped for safety. “I’m not going to make a fool of myself…”
“You want me to tell the Hon-John about you and Bannister?”
“Nick!”
“I’ll do it!”
She considered me for a few seconds. “If you withdraw that very ungentlemanly threat,” she said acidly, “then I will consider telephoning Tony for you. I won’t promise it.” She frowned. “On the other hand, it would be decent to congratulate him on his wedding, would it not? Even if it was to that vulgar little gold-digger.” I knew I would get no more from her. “I withdraw the threat,” I said, “and I apologize for making it.”
“Thank you, Nick. And I will promise to consider talking to Tony.” She looked pleased with her tactical victory. “So what are you going to do now?”
“I’ve got a job,” I said, “working in the boat trade.” I had no intention of telling Melissa that I was leaving England. If I had, then her lawyers would have been round my stern like sharks smelling blood.
I fabricated my casual work for George Cullen into a fantasy of yacht-broking, which mildly pleased her.
“So you’re not sailing into the sunset?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m physically up to it, you see.”
“Quite right. So have you got a proper address now?” I invented an address in Plymouth, which satisfied her. By the time she discovered there was no such place as 17b Institute Road, I would be long gone. I reckoned I would be ready in three or four days, after which I would slip my warps and head out past Drake Island, past the Breakwater, and thus into the Western Approaches.