Gavin Lyall - Blame The Dead

I thought I was getting the idea, now. 'So the court of enquiry had to believe what the Prometheus'sofficers said?'

'You're right, son. They put up the captain, another officer, and a helmsman to swear we were doing ten knots – full speed – through fog, when we hit her.'

She looked around, found her glass, and drained the last few drops. 'Son, the Skadi couldn't have been doing more than five knots if the whole crew had been facing forward and eating beans. Half our power had cracked up the day before andthat log'll prove it.', She leaned back and stared at me, chewing on thin old lips that looked permanently dry. 'But d'you see whatelse that proves? It proves three damn liars on the bridge of the Prometheus Sahara, that's what it proves. Collusion. Conspiracy – what you damn like. Prove that, and the case bursts wide open.'

After a while I cleared my throat of something that wasn't there and said, 'But didn't you argue this at the enquiry?'

'Oh sure: one old tramp-ship chief engineer up against three smooth young Limeys off – sorry, Jim, I was forgetting where you come from.'

'Scotland, mostly.'

'Well, then… Anyhow, that log'll prove it.'

Without really meaning to, I got up and walked over to the bucket and organised another Scotch for myself. The bump on the side of my head was throbbing gently but insistently. I sat down again.

'That means,' I said, 'that the other people interested in the log are the other line. Sahara Line, you said – right?'

'The way I see it, there's only two sides to this one.'

Plus Paul Mockby, of course, who'd be ready to make up a third on anybody's wedding night. But thinking about him had never helped my digestion yet.

I said, 'And they'd be happy to see it buried at sea again. Where it was supposed to be. You think they were after Fen-wick, then?'

'That's your end of the business, son. I want that log out in open court, that's all. You want some coffee? '

I nodded and she went across to the intercom and pushed various switches and yelled something aboutkaffe each time. The artillery calls it a 'barrage'.

She came back, looked at the rags of her steak sandwich -she'd eaten far more than I had, though where she put it in a figure shaped like a mainmast I couldn't tell-and pushed it aside. Then, 'Well, what d'you say?'

'This could make a big difference – financially – to you, the ADP line, if you could fight this case seriously?'

She shrugged. 'Not much, no.'

'No?'

'We were insured, we've been paid, they're building a new Skadi right now. Our next premiums'll cost more, of course, but that's all. The case is really between two lots of insurers; it'stheir money.'

It usually is, these days. I glanced at my watch: I could still catch the two-thirty plane. 'By the way, how did you know I was in Bergen?'

She cackled again. *You didn't exactly make the society column, son, but you sure got your name in the paper.'

I winced. Jack Morris wasn't likely to read Norwegian papers, but some Reuter's man might pick it up and… I'd know soon enough. 'Did you know this chap Steen?'

'The one who got himself murdered? Sure – I know everybody in the shipping biz here. Good surveyor.'

'Do you have any idea why he was killed?'

'There was a piece on the radio this morning: it said they'd got a confession from some local lad. Personal squabble.'

'I don't believe it. He w'as killed to stop him telling me something.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'That a fact? Have you told the police?'

'Oh, yes. But as you say – they've got a confession and a suicide. You don't argue with a jigsaw when all the pieces fit. I still don't believe it.' And neither did Vik, and he didn't even know about my Mauser being involved. Just then, the steward trundled in with a tray and two thick crock cups of coffee.

When he'd gone, I said, 'It still doesn't change the fact that Steenwas going to talk to me. But what was he going to tell me – about the log or the Skadi or something?'

She blew delicately across her coffee. 'Haven't a damn notion. Maybe how he found the log. Hedid find it, didn't he?'

'I imagine so. Though I don't see how, in a burnt-out wreck.'

'It could happen. These guys aresupposed to keep the thing in a fireproof box. But I never thought any of them did. God damn. If I'd known, I'd've had the thing in time for the enquiry.'

'When did Steen survey the wreck, then?'

'Just last month.'

'What? And the collision was last September?'

'Oh, she was surveyed before, all right – but it doesn't take ten minutes to see if a burnt-out hulk's irreparable. Steen was surveying her for scrap value: see if it's worth cutting her up, now they'll be getting some good weather. But that's Lloyd's business. It's their wreck now.'

'Was that why he sent the log to Fenwick and not you?'

She looked at me a little warily, then shrugged. 'Could be. You didn't ever meet this Steen?'

'Not alive.'

'Of course. Well… good surveyor.'

Time was running out. I gulped my coffee and stood up.

She bounced to her own feet, held out her hand. 'Thanks for dropping in, son. Hope you'll come back with that log.'

I made noncommittal agreeing noises, turned for the door, and then turned back. 'But if it's really just an insurance case now, why are you so concerned?'

Her eyes were bright and level. 'Most of my crew died, son. Nothing I can do for them now except pay up on their pensions -and see they don't get more blame than they're entitled to. It's always the easiest way out, to blame the dead.'

I nodded, didn't say anything, and went on out.

The gangway was blocked by a line of dockers or somebody carrying up cardboard boxes and crates of beer. Captain Jensen was leaning over the rail with a clipboard checking each box aboard. I waited beside him; he looked at me, grunted, and nodded.

'Did you know the crew of the Sfeadt?" I asked sociably.

'I know. Small line, you know everybody. Good men.'

'The chief engineer still with the line?'

'Nygaard? He retire. Much worried. Very bad. Hurt the hands.' He held up his own hands in stiff, clawlike positions -and nearly dropped the clipboard. 'I go see him sometimes. At the – how you say? Sjomannshjem. Home of seamen. Take little whisky.' He broke off to yell something at the foreman on the dockside below.

The gangway was clear. I nodded goodbye, hurried down, and started hunting for a taxi.

I was in good time; it wasn't half past one when we picked up my luggage (I was going to chance the guns; with the Mauser still in pieces and planted all over my big case it wouldn't look sinister to any metal detector. And the derringer was going to be tucked into my crotch: they're wary about shovelling radiations at you down there, in these gene-conscious days). We zoomed across a high bridge over the south harbour, then through a long tunnel through the mountainside, heading for the airport.

So that had been Bergen, the economy twenty-four-hour tour. In that you only get one murder, a single beating-up, and just a touch of blackmail; what did you expect, you cheapskate – the St Valentine's Day Massacre?

I studied the back of the driver's neck – wide and thick and red – and didn't know whether to feel a louse or a small-time gambler trying to ride out a high-stakes game on a small pair. I could tell David that at least I knew what we were looking for now – but not that we were closer to finding it. But what more could I have done? I'd talked to everybody involved, hadn't I? Well, hadn't I?

I leaned forward. 'Do you know any retired seamen's homes? I think you call it Sjomannshjem.'

The question surprised him; he wriggled his wide shoulders and said, 'I know one, and I think two more.'

'What are they called? Their names?'