Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

Captain Sandman, like many soldiers, is a romantic. In many ways he lives in La-la land, by which I mean he’s a preppy drop-out who wants to do a Joshua Slocum, but undoubtedly his sense of honour and duty would predispose him to our side.” I was wondering where La-la land was, and whether Jill-Beth would like to live there.

“That,” Bannister said quietly, “is your Miss Kirov’s pilot book.

We found these files on her boat.” He handed me another opened file which had a photograph of Fanny Mulder doing his morning exercises on Wildtrack ’s bow. The sparse career details said that Francis Mulder had been born in Witsand, Cape Province, on 3 August 1949. His schooling had been scanty. He’d served in the South African Defence Forces. He had a police file in South Africa, being suspected of armed robbery, but nothing had ever been proved.

The next entry recorded his purchase of a cutter in the Seychelles where he had run his charter business until Nadeznha Bannister had spotted his undoubted talent.

Again there was a handwritten comment. “Despite being a protegé of your daughter’s, there can be no doubt of Mulder’s loyalty to AB.

AB has promoted him, pays him well, and constantly demonstrates his trust in Mulder.” The rest of the page had been raggedly torn off, making me wonder if Bannister had destroyed comments that discussed Mulder’s presumed involvement in Nadeznha Bannister’s murder.

I was tempted to ask by what right Bannister had searched Mystique , but, faced with the evidence in the files, it would have been a somewhat redundant question. Bannister took the two files from me. “Do you understand now why we’re somewhat concerned that you might be a close friend of Miss Kirov’s?” He turned to stare at a large portrait of his dead wife that stood framed on the study bookshelves. “Do you know who owns the Kassouli Insurance Fund?”

“I assume your ex-wife’s father?”

“Yes.” He said it bleakly, almost hopelessly, then sat in a big leather chair behind the desk and rubbed his face with both hands.

“Tell him, Angela.”

Angela spoke tonelessly. “Yassir Kassouli is convinced that Tony could have prevented Nadeznha’s death. He’s never forgiven Tony for that. He also believes, irrationally and wrongly, that by making another attempt on the race this year Tony is demonstrating a callous attitude towards Nadeznha’s death. Yassir Kassouli will do anything to stop Tony winning. Last night Miss Kirov tried to persuade Fanny to sabotage our St Pierre attempt. Fanny refused. In turn he accused Miss Kirov of dismasting Wildtrack . They had an argument. That’s when she pretended to be attacked, and when you played the gallant rescuer.” Angela could not resist unsheathing a claw. “That’s the truth, Mr Sandman, of which you’re such a staunch guardian.” I said nothing. There had been a ring of truth in her words, however much they contradicted what I’d seen and what Jill-Beth had said, and I felt the confusion of a man assailed by conflicting certainties. Jill-Beth had spoken of murder, and of a million-dollar insurance claim, while Angela now spoke convincingly of a rich man’s obsession with preserving his daughter’s memory. I supposed that the real truth of the matter was that there was no real truth. Nor, I told myself, was it any of my business. I had come here to resign, nothing more.

Bannister swivelled his chair so he could stare at the portrait. If he’d murdered her, I thought, then he was putting on an award-winning performance. “I can’t explain grief, Nick,” he said. “Yassir Kassouli’s never forgiven me for Nadeznha’s death. God knows what I was supposed to do. Keep her ashore? All I do know is that so long as Kassouli lives he’ll hate me because of his daughter’s death. He isn’t rational on the subject, he’s obsessed, and I have to protect myself from his obsession.” He shrugged, as if to suggest that his explanation was inadequate, but the best, and most honest, that he could provide. He tapped the folders. “You can see that Miss Kirov believes that you’ll help sabotage my St Pierre run this year.”

“I’m not in a position to help,” I said to Bannister, “because I’ve resigned from your life. No film, no St Pierre, I just want your cheque. A thousand pounds will suffice, and I promise to account for every penny of it.”

“And how will you account for the money already spent?” Angela snapped into her most Medusa-like mood, echoing her vituperation of the previous night. “Do you know how much money we’ve invested in this film? A film that you undertook to make? Or had you forgotten that you signed contracts?”

I still refused to look at her or speak to her. I kept my eyes on Bannister. “I want a cheque.”

“You just want to do what’s most comfortable!” Angela had worked herself into another fine anger. “But I want a film that will help people, and if you back out on it, Nick Sandman, then you’re reneging on a contract. It’s a contract we trusted, and we’ve spent thousands of pounds on realizing it, and if you tear it up now then I promise you that I’ll try and recoup that wasted money. The only property of yours that the courts will consider worth confiscat-ing is Sycorax , but I’ll settle for that!” Her voice was implacably confident, suggesting she had already taken legal advice. “So if you don’t fulfil your contractual obligations. Nick Sandman, you will lose your boat.”

I still ignored her. “A thousand pounds,” I said to Bannister.

“You’re not going to walk out on this!” Angela shouted.

“A thousand pounds,” I said to Bannister again.

Bannister was caught between the two of us. I suspected he would gladly have surrendered to me at that moment, but Angela wanted her pound of Nick Sandman’s flesh and Bannister, I assumed, was afraid of losing her flesh. He prevaricated. “I think we’re all too overwrought to make a decision now.”

“I’m not,” I insisted.

“But I am!” He betrayed a flash of anger. “We’ll talk next week. I need to look at the budget, and at the film we’ve already shot.” He was making excuses, trying to slide out from making a decision. “I’ll phone you from London, Nick.”

“I won’t be here,” I said.

“You’d better be here,” Angela snapped, “if you want to keep your boat.”

So far, except for the first time she’d spoken to me, I’d succeeded in ignoring her. Now I told her to go to hell, then I turned and walked from the room. The guests on the terrace fell silent as I limped past them. I didn’t know whether I’d resigned, been fired from the film, or was about to be baked in a lawyer’s pie. Nor did I much care.

I stumped down the lawn, skirted the boathouse, and saw that Jimmy Nicholls had come upriver and tied his filthy boat alongside Sycorax . He was lifting two sacks into Sycorax ’s scuppers. “Chain plates and bolts,” he told me. “Ready for the morning.”

“Bugger the morning. Can you tow Sycorax away today?”

“Bloody hell.” He straightened up from the sacks. “Where to?”

“Any bloody where. Away from bloody television people. Bloody stuck-up, arrogant powder-puffs.” I climbed down to Sycorax ’s deck.

Jimmy chuckled. “Fallen out with your fancy friends, boy?” I looked up at the house and saw Angela watching me from the study window. “Up yours, too.” I didn’t say it loud enough to carry.

“The bastards are threatening to get the bailiffs on to Sycorax . Where can I hide her?”

He frowned. “Nowhere on this river, Nick. How about the Hamoaze?”

“Georgie Cullen’s yard?”

“He liked your dad.”

“Every thief likes my dad.” I scooped up a coiled warp and bent it on to a cleat ready for the tow. I wanted Angela and Bannister to see me leave. I wanted them to know that I didn’t give a monkeys for their film or their threats. “Have you got enough diesel to get me there today, Jimmy?”