‘But when she went to the police… Jean Kerrison heard a programme on the radio, an interview with her, which ended with her saying she was going straight to the police and a warrant would be issued for my arrest on a charge of murder. Did she go to the police?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘But presuming she did, what would happen next? What action would the police take?’
‘I think it would depend on the evidence she produced. I imagine it’s pretty thin but, if she did convince them, then her statement would be sent on to the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions with whatever comments the police felt were warranted, together with the results of any enquiries they may have instituted. It would be up to the Public Prosecutor then.’
‘And what happens when they discover I’ve fled the country?’ I was remembering the Special Branch man’s instructions to notify the nearest police station of any change of address. They would almost certainly trace me to Balkaer and question the Kerrisons. I was angry with him then, feeling he was using me. Fleeing the country was the most damning thing I could have done.
‘They may notify Interpol,’ he said. ‘But by the time they’ve traced you to Gibraltar we’ll almost certainly be at sea. Forget about it,’ he added. ‘If we find that tanker waiting for us out there by the Selvagens, then that part of your story will be confirmed. Once they believe that, they’ll believe the rest.’
I had to accept that, since it was my only hope, but I should have stayed. I should have faced her accusations, reiterating the truth of what had happened. Instead, I had run away at the instigation of this ruthless bastard who was only interested in finding the missing tankers and saving his friend’s skin. If I’d had any guts I’d have walked off the boat then and there and taken then next plane back to London. But I didn’t. I stayed on board and each day I listened to the BBC news, waiting, always waiting to hear my name mentioned.
We sailed for the Selvagens on Saturday, February 6. It was just six days since the Kerrisons had driven me into Penzance to catch the Brittany ferry, seventeen days since the Aurora B had left her bolt-hole in the Musandam Peninsula. ‘She’ll be about halfway,’ Saltley said. ‘Just rounding the Cape probably.’ We were standing at the chart table, the boat heeled over as we ploughed our way through the Straits, thrashing to windward with the bows slamming and sheets of spray hitting the mains’l with a noise like gunshot. ‘That is, if she’s steaming at full speed. Pity we’ve lost that levanter.’ He smiled at me, looking more like a gnome than ever in his bulky oilskins. ‘Hope you’re a good sailor. It could be a hard beat.’
Only the previous day the wind had gone round to the south-west and now it was blowing force 5 to 6, a dead-noser, for it was south-west we needed to go. ‘I had reckoned on reaching the islands in less than six days, which would make it Day Twenty-two of the Aurora B’s voyage. But if it’s going to go on blowing from the south-west we’ll be increasing our miles through the water considerably. It could make a difference of two or three days.’
We had the Rock and the African shore in sight all through the daylight hours. It was wind against current most of the time, with steep breaking waves and a movement more violent than I had ever previously experienced. It was impossible to stand without holding on to one of the hand grips all the time and in the cockpit we were all of us wearing our safety harnesses clipped to securing wires.
It was towards dusk, when the wind had eased slightly, that I took my first trick at the helm under Pamela’s supervision, the others having got their heads down in preparation for the long hours of darkness when they would be standing lone watches. It was only then, with my hands gripping the wheel, that I began to appreciate the extraordinary power of an ocean-racer. Until then I had only seen them at a distance, but now, feeling that wind-driven power under my hands and vibrant throughout the ship, I experienced a feeling of intense excitement, a sense of overwhelming exhilaration as though I were a god riding the sea on a white-winged Pegasus. And when Pamela clapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘You’ll do, mate,’ I felt a wave of pleasure as though I were a kid and had passed some sort of a test. She got up then, bracing herself with a hand on the bar-taut mainsheet. ‘You’re on your own now. I need a pee and there’s the evening meal to get.’
She left me to my own devices then, so that for almost two hours the ship was mine, and as we powered to windward I found myself revelling in the extra thrust that came from slight adjustments of the wheel, the way I could slide her over the worst of the waves, and once in a while Pamela, keeping an eye on me from the galley, gave me a little smile of approval. With no make-up on, a dirty old woollen cap pulled down over her head and yellow oilskins she looked more like a ship’s boy than the owner’s daughter, and how she could cook with the boat pitching and slamming I couldn’t imagine. When Toni Bartello finally relieved me and I went below I found I had no interest in food and had to get my head down or be sick.
The seasickness didn’t last, but the sou’wester did. The wind seemed fixed in that quarter, staying there for almost a week, sometimes light, sometimes blowing a near-gale, and always we were beating.
It was a strange life, the five of us cooped up together, at such close quarters, and in some respects in such rugged conditions, that it was almost the equivalent of serving as a seaman in the Navy two centuries ago. Most of my working life had been spent at sea so that it was difficult for me to understand at first why anyone would do it for pleasure, particularly a girl. So little space and no privacy, the violence of the movement — and yet it worked, our lives ruled by the sea and the wind, and little time or energy to think who it was had left the bunk warm for me when I came below tired after a sail change or a long spell at the wheel with the salt of the wind-driven spray crusted on my face.
The sun shone most of the daylight hours and when the wind dropped and we had the engine on, all of us up in the cockpit with a drink in our hands, then it was different. We were relaxed, talking uninhibitedly about our lives, or speculating what we would find when the Selvagens appeared over the horizon. Would we find the Howdo Stranger sitting there, waiting? And if so, what would she be called now, what false name would they have painted on her bows and stern? We had a lot of fun inventing names for her, and for the Aurora B, laughing uproariously at simple jokes, like twinning them and calling them Castor and Bollocks. We laughed a lot at silly ordinary things, ate enormously and drank well. It was, in fact, a singularly happy ship, made more so I think by the presence of a girl who was a good cook, a good sailor and good company. There were times when I found it difficult to take my eyes off her, for it was getting warmer all the time and, ghosting along in light airs after Saltley had decided we needed to save our fuel, she was wearing very little at the midday pour-out.
We were drinking wine, not spirits, but it was strong Spanish stuff and I suppose my interest in her showed. It was on the eighth day, when the wind had at last gone round to the north-west, where it should have been all the time. I had the middle watch and when I took over from Mark he brewed us mugs of cocoa and joined me in the cockpit. ‘Lovely night,’ he said, staring up at the stars. He was silent for a long nme after that, so I knew he had something on his mind. At last he came out with it. ‘Look, Trevor — hope you don’t mind, but I think I’d better tell you.’ He paused there, not looking at me, his face in silhouette against the light of the compass. ‘About Pam,’ he went on awkwardly, burying his face in his mug and speaking very quietly. ‘I know she admires you, thinks you’re quite a guy, in fact. And you’re not exactly — well, disinterested. I don’t mind myself, your eyeing her I mean. But if I’ve noticed it, then Salt will have, too, and he is… well, in love with her, I suppose. It’s generally recognized — in the family, I mean — that she’ll marry him in the end. You see, he’s been after her ever since she left finishing school — oh, before that… since ever almost — hanging round her like a bee round a honeypot.’ He finished his cocoa and got up very abruptly. ‘You don’t mind my mentioning it, I hope, but if you could just keep your mind concentrated on the job in hand…’