The wooden expression cracked a little. He wasn’t so certain now. ‘So you weren’t out?’
‘I was out. In our own dinghy. I was just round the corner of Garve Island there, collecting some marine samples from the Sound. I can show them to you in the after cabin. We’re not here on holiday, you know.’
‘No offence, no offence.’ I was a member of the working classes now, not a plutocrat, and he could afford to thaw a little. ‘Mr McIlroy’s eyesight isn’t what it was and everything looks black against the setting sun. You don’t look the type, I must say, who’d land on the shores of the Sound and bring down the telephone wires to the mainland.’
The centipede started up again and broke into a fast gallop. Cut off from the mainland. How very convenient for somebody. I didn’t spend any time wondering who had brought the wires down – it had been no act of God, I was sure of that.
‘Did you mean what I thought you to mean, Sergeant?’ I said slowly. ‘That you suspected me -’
‘We can’t take chances, sir.’ He was almost apologetic now. Not only was I a working man, I was a man working for the Government. All men working for the Government are ipso facto respectable and trustworthy citizens.
‘But you won’t mind if we take a little look round?’ The dark-haired customs officer was even more apologetic. ‘The lines are down and, well, you know …’ His voice trailed off and he smiled. ‘If you were the hi-jackers – I appreciate now that it’s a chance in a million, but still – and if we didn’t search – well, we’d be out of a job to-morrow. Just a formality.’
‘I wouldn’t want to see that happen, Mr -ah -’
‘Thomas. Thank you. Your ship’s papers? Ah, thank you.’ He handed them to the younger man.
‘Let’s see now. Ah, the wheelhouse. Could Mr Durran here use the wheelhouse to make copies? Won’t take five minutes.’
‘Certainly. Wouldn’t he be more comfortable here?’
‘We’re modernised now, sir. Portable photocopier. Standard on the job. Has to be dark. Won’t take five minutes. Can we begin in this laboratory of yours?’
A formality, he’d said. Well, he was right there, as a search it was the least informal thing I’d ever come across. Five minutes after he’d gone to the wheelhouse Durran came aft to join us and he and Thomas went through the Firecrest as if they were looking for the Koh-i-noor. To begin with, at least. Every piece of mechanical and electrical equipment in the after cabin had to be explained to them. They looked in every locker and cupboard. They rummaged through the ropes and fenders in the large stern locker aft of the laboratory and I thanked God I hadn’t followed my original idea of stowing the dinghy, motor and scuba gear in there. They even examined the after toilet. As if I’d be careless enough to drop the Koh-i-noor in there.
They spent most time of all in the engine-room. It was worth examining. Everything looked brand new, and gleamed. Two big 100 h.p. diesels, diesel generator, radio generator, hot and cold water pumps, central heating plant, big oil and water tanks and the two long rows of lead-acid batteries. Thomas seemed especially interested in the batteries.
‘You carry a lot of reserve there, Mr Petersen,’ he said. He’d learnt my name by now, even though it wasn’t the one I’d been christened with. ‘Why all the power?’
‘We haven’t even got enough. Care to start those two engines by hand? We have eight electric motors in the lab. – and the only time they’re used, in harbour, we can’t run either the engines or generators to supply juice. Too much interference. A constant drain.’ I was ticking off my fingers. ‘Then there’s the central heating, hot and cold water pumps, radar, radio, automatic steering, windlass, power winch for the dinghy, echo-sounder, navigation lights -’
‘You win, you win.’ He’d become quite friendly by this time. ‘Boats aren’t really in my line. Let’s move forward, shall we?’
The remainder of the inspection, curiously, didn’t take long. In the saloon I found that Hunslett had persuaded the Torbay police force to accept the hospitality of the Firecrest. Sergeant MacDonald hadn’t exactly become jovial, but he was much more human than when he’d come on board. Constable MacDonald, I noticed, didn’t seem so relaxed. He looked positively glum. Maybe he didn’t approve of his old man consorting with potential criminals.
If the examination of the saloon was cursory, that of the two forward cabins was positively perfunctory. Back in the saloon, I said:
‘Sorry I was a bit short, gentlemen. I like my sleep. A drink before you go?’
‘Well.’ Thomas smiled. ‘We don’t want to be rude either. Thank you.’
Five minutes and they were gone. Thomas didn’t even glance at the wheelhouse – Durran had been there, of course. He had a quick look at one of the deck lockers but didn’t bother about the others. We were in the clear. A civil good-bye on both sides and they were gone. Their boat, a big indeterminate shape in the darkness, seemed to have plenty of power.
‘Odd,’ I said.
‘What’s odd?’
‘That boat. Any idea what it was like?’
‘How could I?’ Hunslett was testy. He was as short of sleep as I was. ‘It was pitch dark.’
‘That’s just the point. A gentle glow in their wheelhouse – you couldn’t even see what that was like – and no more. No deck lights, no interior lights, no navigation lights even.’
‘Sergeant MacDonald has been looking out over this harbour for eight years. Do you need light to find your way about your own living-room after dark?’
‘I haven’t got twenty yachts and cruisers in my living-room swinging all over the place with wind and tide. And wind and tide doesn’t alter my own course when I’m crossing my living-room. There are only three boats in the harbour carrying anchor lights. He’ll have to use something to see where he’s going.’
And he did. From the direction of the receding sound of engines a light stabbed out into the darkness. A five-inch searchlight, I would have guessed. It picked up a small yacht riding at anchor less than a hundred yards ahead of it, altered to starboard, picked up another, altered to port, then swung back on course again.
‘“Odd” was the word you used,’ Hunslett murmured. ‘Quite a good word, too, in the circumstances. And what are we to think of the alleged Torbay police force?’
‘You talked to the sergeant longer than I did. When I was aft with Thomas and Durran.’
‘I’d like to think otherwise,’ Hunslett said inconsequentially. ‘It would make things easier, in a way. But I can’t. He’s a genuine old-fashioned cop and a good one, too. I’ve met too many. So have you.’
‘A good cop and an honest one,’ I agreed. ‘This is not his line of country and he was fooled. It is our line of country and we were fooled. Until now, that is.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘Thomas made one careless remark. An offbeat remark. You didn’t hear it – we were in the engine-room.’ I shivered, maybe it was the cold night wind. ‘It meant nothing – not until I saw that they didn’t want their boat recognised again. He said: ‘Boats aren’t really in my line.’ Probably thought he’d been asking too many questions and wanted to reassure me. Boats not in his line – a customs officer and boats not in his line. They only spend their lives aboard boats, examining boats, that’s all. They spend their lives looking and poking in so many odd corners and quarters that they know more about boats than the designers themselves. Another thing, did you notice how sharply dressed they were? A credit to Carnaby Street.’
‘Customs