Gavin Lyall - Blame The Dead

I put the phone down and immediately it started to ring, which always startles me. I had a brief wild idea it might be Steen ringing to Tell Me All, but it wasn't, of course.

'I say,' the voice said. 'It's Willie Winslow, you know? I've been trying to ring you for ages.'

'Sorry.'

'I had a chat with young David after you'd left. I see now why you were asking all those questions. I rather apologise, you know.'

'That's okay – I knew I was sounding snoopy. Well, are you joining the Classical Remove Hell's Angels?'

'Am I…? Oh, I see. Yes, rather. I mean, I think you're doing just the right thing. Anything I can do to help? – I'd like to pay my share, you know.'

'Well, if you feel like helping finance a trip to Norway. Bergen. Did David tell you about this bloke Jonas Steen?'

'He sort of mentioned it.' Of course, Willie wouldn't be the sort to approve of grubbing through Mummy's wastebasket, either. The Lancers almost never do.

'I just rang him. He sounds shifty as hell and scared with it.' That was putting it a big strong, but it might help justify David's snoopery. 'He wouldn't tell me anything on the phone, but I'd rather like to go over and sort of lean on him, face to face.'

'Oh, yes, of course.' Then his feet suddenly cooled. 'I say, you won't do any of that I Corps stuff, will you? It might look bad if you landed in jail.'

Til try and control myself. By the way, you haven't heard of him before, have you? He's a marine surveyor, whatever that is.'

'David told me. No, I don't think I know him… surveyors sort of value ships, you know? – and tell you what needs doing or what damage has been done. Very important in insurance, of course.'

'That would be how Fenwick knew him? '

T suppose, probably. I say, what was that about a book or something?'

'I was going to ask you. Ithink he sent Fenwick some book. Ithink it was what Fenwick was taking to Arras. So Ithink it was what got him killed. Now – have you got any idea what it might be?'

There was a sort of silence with Willie making er and um noises, probably wondering how in hell you answeredthat. But he might just have had some inspiration; who was it said the only truly silly question is the one you don't ask?

What he actually came up with was, 'Just can't imagine, old boy. I suppose that's what you'll be asking him?'

'Among other things. Meantime, you might check up and see if there's anything in the syndicate's files that mentions Steen.'

Til do that on Monday.'

'And you might try leaning on Mockby and asking him what it's all about. He knows a lot more than we do.'

That was different; Willie found a whole new stock of ers and urns, then said, 'Yes, of course. I'll… The trouble is, he always looks at you as if you were a bloody fool and then explains things so that you don't understand them any better anyway.'

'Well, he won't tellme and I don't suppose we can get David to ask him, can we?' A slightly dirty crack, but I wanted results.

'Oh, no, of course. Well, I'll see what I can do – you know?'

Getting determination into Willie was like fitting shoes on to a snake. And you can try for only so long.

I sighed and said, 'I'll keep in touch. Any idea about boats to Bergen at this time of year?'

He tried to explain about aeroplanes and I tried to explain about aspects of aeroplanes I didn't like, such as getting searched and having a pistol found on you, particularly since some goon had hijacked a plane on a Scandinavian flight only last week and they'd still be hopping, skipping, and jumping about it. Perhaps he didn't get the exact point, but at least he recalled that the Bergen Line ran an overnight service from Newcastle on various days including possibly Monday. 'Do you know Norway?' he added.

'Never been there,' though it was about the one NATO country I hadn't managed to visit in the Army.

'Try the Norge hotel. And their buffet lunches.'

Then he gave me his number – out in Berkshire – and assured me his mother would take any messages if he wasn't around (somehow I'd already decided Willie wasn't married, although he'd never quite said so) and we rang off.

I mixed one last Scotch and soda before taking the mind-bursting decision about what to eat for dinner, and drifted over to the window. The faithful green Morris 1300 was still there, glinting faintly in the street lighting. I wondered if he liked ocean travel.

As it turned out, he did.

Probably I could have shaken him on the way to King's Cross that Monday morning, but now I was curious about how far he'd go. So I just called a taxi and he stuck behind it all the way to the station. I couldn't be sure he'd caught the train because I still didn't know what he looked like. I'd know soon enough, though. I settled down with a small guide-book on Norwegian mountains, morals, and prices. All seemed high.

Sunday I'd spent drip-drying my shirt collection, writing to David to tell him when I expected to have some news, and leaving a message at Dave Tanner's – they were big enough to keep a twenty-four-hour phone watch – saying Sorry but have to go to Norway. The Norway bit was pure swank: I just didn't want him thinking of me as small-time and priced to match.

At about noon I went along to the buffet car and drank a beer that came at blood temperature and gnawed on a sausage roll that looked as if it were travelling on a season ticket. Then I just leaned against the counter and stared at the steamed-up window, which was an improvement on what you can see without the steam on that line. Peterborough, Grantham, Retford, Darlington – that's no Golden Road, and Newcastle itself isn't Samarkand when you get there.

I took my time getting off and into the taxi queue, which was the one place where my shadow – if he'd caught the train – justhad to be the bloke right behind me. What I got was smallish, middle-aged, with a blunt reddish face, thin hair, and no interest in me at all. His clothes were just clothes: a thin overcoat in grey check, a mud-coloured suit, a solid old briefcase.

I didn't give him any help by shouting out, 'Bergen Line Terminal' to my driver or anything like that: I waited and saw. And the next taxi stayed right behind us all the way out of town – I hadn't realised how far the docks were – so he must have had more luck with the driver than I ever do. The few times I've had to say, 'Follow that car,' they always tell me I've been watching too much TV.

But we were alone by the time we reached the terminal -though that was likely on purpose, by then.

I got a first-class cabin without any trouble, but boarding didn't start until three o'clock. So I roosted in the terminal bar and caught up with the day's newspapers. At half past two my new-found friend came in, carrying a second-hand (I guessed) suitcase. So he'd been doing a little telephoning and shopping; he couldn't have been authorised in advance to catch boats to anywhere, even if he had the sense always to carry his passport.

The ship was the Jupiter, a nice enough modern job a bit bigger than the cross-Channel steamers. My cabin was on the inside – no port-hole – and that apart. it was just a cabin with a bed and dressing-table and tiny bathroom, exactly what was needed and as memorable as a slice of bread and butter when you happen to need that.

I did a little unpacking and then went for a general snoop -carrying Bertie Bear in a big envelope. I'd brought it along just to see if it was the size of thing Steen meant, but now it might have a second use.

We sailed at five o'clock and when we were ten feet from the shore they opened the bar. The ship was far from full, and about half the other passengers seemed to be a ballet company: all tight trousers and thick sweaters and heavy make-up and voices that could strip paint at fifteen paces.