Undercurrent

CHAPTER

ONE

Something had gone wrong, badly wrong.

‘Do you think we’ve been double-crossed?’ enquired Tommy Muir, ship’s radio officer, his voice low and conspiratorial. He was whispering to Captain Scutar as they sat in the stern of the lifeboat. Beside them was Jed Tewson, the engineer.

Rory Scutar, Glasgow-born, strained his eyes against the sun and shook his head gently. Around them, the sea was empty. The small white boat, carrying the nine crew and three officers, bobbed on the perpetual swell of the Malacca Strait. The nearest land was the west coast of Malaysia, some twenty-three miles away. Twelve pairs of eyes had been endlessly scanning the distant horizon, seeking the first glimpse of rescue. Ryme Lady, their cargo ship which they had abandoned at dawn, had gone.

They were alone, frying in the searing heat, their lips parched, their throats dry, their brains becoming addled. Despite sunglasses, their eyes were screwed up against the glare from the shimmering surface.

‘Should have been picked up long ago,’ continued Muir. He enjoyed carping. ‘We’ve been at the rendezvous point for over four hours.’ He looked at his watch again and then at Tewson, seeking support from him. ‘Being roasted alive wasn’t the plan,’ he muttered as Tewson stayed silent. The mainly oriental crew were inscrutable, saying little but in some faces a mean sullenness was developing. They too realized that something had gone wrong.

‘We’d better feed the bastards. They’re getting restless.’ These were the first words Scutar had spoken for a while. The Scottish rasp in his voice was roughened by a lifetime at sea. The touch of granite evoked images of storm-tossed Atlantic nights and an endless stream of Gitanes. His creased, weather-beaten face told its own story of too much whisky drunk alone in a small cabin.

At first, booze had been a relief from his broken marriage. Later, he’d sought refuge in whisky to numb his hatred of Brads, the owners of Ryme Lady. He checked his gold watch and scowled. After forty years at sea, they’d given it to him, along with a pat on the head. Nice. Just as if they owned him.

Gold it may have been, inscribed it certainly was but to Rory Scutar, the watch was scant recompense for a lifetime of dedicated service. A word of thanks and a smile would have been more welcome. Its presence was a constant reminder of the owners – of Sir Archie Crawford and his son Edward.

Except the watch wasn’t two-faced.

The scowl lingered as he imagined them – fat, bloated and safe back in England. He checked the time again. When he spoke, it was with more confidence than he felt. ‘It’ll be all right. No doubt they’ve been held up.’

Scutar was well aware of the dangers. The International Maritime Bureau had emphasized the piracy problem in the Malacca Strait. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he repeated, almost to himself.

‘Still nothing, sir.’ Tewson put down the binoculars. ‘That’s nearly seven hours. We’re in trouble.’

‘This lot’ll have us,’ agreed Scutar, ‘if they get the chance.’ He patted his pocket and felt the reassuring outline of his small pistol. ‘Brought yours?’

Tewson and Muir nodded affirmatively. ‘I’m not going before them,’ said Muir, his young face strong with determination. ‘We can’t wait much longer. They’ll mutiny at nightfall.’ He studied the map. ‘We could cut our losses and head for Malacca.’

‘No, laddie, not yet.’ The Captain’s smile was paternal. He looked down at the small suitcase beside him and felt reassured as he patted it gently. ‘Aye, that’s better than a pension from Brads after forty years at sea. Dinna forget, we get the other half from the rescuers. Canna miss out on that.’ The words, delivered in broad Glaswegian were decisive.

‘Give it an hour. That’s what I say. Then we move on.’ Muir was a touch rebellious himself now.

‘We’ll see.’ Scutar was non-committal as he watched one of the crew urinating splashily over the side. Even Scutar was worried now, yearning for the shade, thinking of his stuffy, cramped cabin on Ryme Lady. Would he miss her? Would he hell! Tewson edged across and spoke in a whisper to him. ‘Couldn’t refuse that type of offer, could we? Not that sort of money? Sets us up for life.’ The weasel-like eyes, piercing even behind the Polaroids showed the avarice which ran deep. ‘But there’s one thing – I mean, surely you know . . . you must know who set this thing up? Who paid us to . . .’

‘No, I don’t.’ The response was brusque but as if to soften it, Rory Scutar patted his case. ‘Why worry? Why sniff at a chance to do down those bastards back in Bristol . . . and be rich as well.’ His Scottish accent emphasized the word bastards, showing the depth of feeling.

‘You’ve always hated them?’

Scutar lit another Gitane and coughed again from the bottom of his ragged lungs. ‘You see . . .’ His voice trailed away on hearing the shout. Suddenly everyone was pointing. On the distant horizon was a speck. Tewson looked through the binoculars. ‘It’s the right size, sir. Looks like a small fishing smack.’

It was forty minutes before the crews were able to wave to each other excitedly. A further twenty passed before the creaking blue and brown fishing boat was alongside them and the vessels were lashed together.

The small Malaysian skipper, in his late thirties, smiled his greeting, his teeth prominent. ‘Captain Scutar? Welcome.’ His few words were accented in a mix of Chinese and Malay. His complexion was sallow, his face more Chinese than Malay. He’d been born on the boat. It had been his life ever since. Day in, day out, come storm or fair winds, he’d been out in these waters. Usually it had been fishing, initially helping his father but, after he’d died, as the elder son he’d taken command. Just occasionally they’d carried a light cargo, sometimes human, sometimes cocaine. The profits were better.

Scutar led the transfer, keeping a firm grip on his suitcase and other personal belongings. ‘What kept you?’ The only response to Scutar’s question was a shrug of the shoulders. He understood English well enough but he spoke little. Though the British had ruled Malacca and had left a permanent legacy, his education had been at sea rather than in class. ‘Och! It disna matter. You’re here now anyroads.’ Scutar answered his own question before following the Malaysian’s pointed direction to the for’ard deck. It was small, cramped but welcome after the lifeboat. His crew joined him to perch on boxes, fishing nets and piles of rope, their suitcases and personal effects stacked together in front of the wheelhouse. Astern, the lifeboat was firmly secured, ready to be towed back to port.

‘When do we get the rest of our money?’ asked Muir.

‘Relax laddie. You canna spend it yet anyway. He’ll pay us before Malacca. That’s a few hours away. D’you fancy a wee dram?’ As he spoke, Scutar fished an un-opened bottle of ‘Famous Grouse’ from his holdall and filled a couple of plastic beakers. ‘Let’s drink to success. And a happy retirement.’

Behind them, the three Malaysians entered the wheelhouse, six feet above deck level. The boat was only twelve metres long, typical of the region. Through the windows the skipper could see its every inch. The weathered timbers reeked of tar and fishy brine. The deck was bloodstained from the tons of fish which daily had been gutted en route to port.

As he looked round, the skipper could see the lifeboat, whilst in front and below were the rescued crew. Already, they were sprawled about, some of them nearly asleep. Ahead lay the truck journey to Bangkok. There they would each find beautiful women to fondle and good food in abundance. And after that? They were on their own, their separate futures an undiscussed secret.

The skipper fired the diesel and the bows creamed frothily through the gentle swell. The Malaysian waited a few more minutes and then, satisfied at what he had seen, nodded a command. His two crew ducked down and produced machine guns from a cupboard.

It was turkey-shoot time.

‘What the . . .’ said Scutar as the staccato of bullets started to spray over his crew. He never got to finish the remark as the endless stream of bullets played without mercy across him, across each of them. Back and forward, forward and back, the Malaysians scattered the bullets like children with hosepipes. For a few moments, there were screams of terror and pain but then the noise died away. Even after the last of the bodies had stopped twitching, the Malays fired on, long after there could be no survivors.

Laughing at the fun, all three approached the obscenity. One of them grabbed Tewson’s corpse. He stripped it of clothes and belongings and in seconds had looped a noose round the bloodied head, its features locked in a bemused, quizzical look. Then he turned to the stomach, slitting it open as if he were gutting a fish. With a flourish the two of them picked up the corpse and swung it overboard.

Though it was too early for the sun to set, the late afternoon sea turned crimson as the bloody innards spilled into the ocean. Another body followed in similar fashion. Then another, each tethered behind the boat on forty yards of line. The Malaysians knew it wouldn’t take long for the first shark to appear. The Strait was notorious for its man-eaters. As the entrails were sucked out into the water, the gory slipstream was a generous invitation.

While they waited, the Malaysians moved from corpse to corpse searching for valuables. Jewellery, watches, pens and wallets, some of them bloodstained, were tipped into a sack. Each crew member had been carrying US$2,000, the officers US$100,000 apiece and Scutar US$200,000, their pay-off for co-operation with the paymasters. Double that had been assured to each of them on docking in Malaysia – a false promise, the price of treachery.

Unknown to Captain Scutar and his crew, their pay-off had been guaranteed to the Malaysians as reward for mass murder. The spoils were high. So were the risks.

One fin appeared, lured by the bloody slipstream. Then came two more, the triangles cutting swathe-like through the surface. It was the awaited signal for the remaining bodies to be flung overboard. Soon the water was alive with feasting sharks ruthlessly destroying the evidence of the massacre.

On board, it was business as usual – time to clean the decks, scrubbing, hosing, swabbing. At last, when the skipper was satisfied, he ordered the lifeboat to be cast adrift. Only then did he restart the diesel motor, chug-chugging at a steady eight knots on its homeward journey. He looked at Scutar’s gold Rolex before putting it into a drawer. It was 5.15 p.m. Then he glanced behind. All that remained was the lifeboat, a distant speck of white on an empty sea

The small historic town of Malacca nestles on the west coast of Malaysia, south west of Kuala Lumpur and four hours by road north of Singapore. Dominated by its fishing fleet, Malacca also shelters a flotilla of small boats which ply the Strait between Malaysia and Sumatra. The architecture tells of Dutch invasion, of an English influence and now of the Chinese community who rub shoulders with the Malays.

In the Chinese quarter it was long past midnight when the three fishermen emerged from the shabby interior of the small restaurant where they had celebrated their new found wealth with giant portions of chicken rice. The skipper and his nephews were still dazed at their good fortune. Their laughter and voices were loud, a reaction to the slaughter of just a few hours before.

Ready for sleep now, the trio entered the darkened narrow street. Close by were the muddy brown waters of the Malacca River just across from where they were standing. Upstream was the faded glory of the Majestic Hotel, itself a symbol of the English colonial past. Laughing and joking they carried the heavy sack with their spoils through the shadows towards the skipper’s car. The old Datsun was parked close to the narrow strip of trees and bushes which bordered the riverbank. Except for their own voices, everything was silent. The last of the children who had been playing out of doors were now inside. The fishing fleet had sailed an hour before. Chinatown had gone to bed except for a few gamblers in smoke-filled parlours. The still night air was warm, the temperature up in the high seventies and in the humidity the cloying smells of durian fruit and salted fish hung heavily.

As the skipper led the way across the pot-holes, his nephews carried the sack between them. For a moment he fumbled in his jeans’ pocket for the car keys, his thoughts still full of the day’s events. One thing would certainly change! He would buy a new car. A white Toyota. And a new boat. Or perhaps he’d retire. Yes, maybe that would be nice. That . . . and a trip to Bangkok!

So ran his thoughts as he pushed the key into the lock, before a rustle and movement from the rough ground behind made him falter. He turned, startled. There, he saw a figure with a masked face. Then two more emerged from the shrubs on the bank, the silencers on their guns muffling the shots as they fired. Three bullets tore into the fishermen at point blank range. Each fell, crumpled, beside the battered old grey saloon. Pausing only to pick up the sack, the killers ran to their car, parked just along the street. Seconds later, without drama and without any unnecessary noise, the vehicle slipped away into the night.

Somewhere a dog howled. Then there was silence.

CHAPTER

TWO

In Barking, close to Docklands in London’s rapidly changing East End, lies Maritime House, the headquarters of the International Maritime Bureau. Housed in a modern building of no great style or pretention, the Bureau came into being to combat the rising tide of crime at sea during the 1970s. Sinking ships, disappearing ships, piracy, swindling boat-people, murder and theft were the daily occurrences which had led to its creation.

The multi-million profits from stealing cargos or from scuttling ships were a temptation. The chances of getting away with it had made that temptation irresistible. To a large degree, insurers had shrugged their shoulders, paid up . . . . . . and raised their premiums rather than spend fortunes on proving the frauds which they suspected.

National police forces had found it hard to get funding to combat these crimes and so, as part of the International Chamber of Commerce, the International Maritime Bureau had been formed. Through the ’80s it had gained credibility in a string of successes, the result of painstaking investigations, contacts and tip-offs.

Originally the Bureau had been under the directorship of Eric Ellen. The stamp of success came from him. His legacy, following his own elevation, was a smooth-running machine, a Bureau which had the ears of Governments worldwide. Shipping companies which had joined knew that if they were struck by fraud or piracy, then the Bureau’s expertise was instantly available.

The mantle of directorship had now fallen on Walter Corbin who had continued the tradition of success. Yet it had not all been success, could not always be success – a thought which was uppermost in Walter’s mind that morning as Anna, his secretary, busied herself around the room doing his filing whilst he spoke to the chairman of Brads on the telephone.

‘Sir Archie – it’s six weeks since Ryme Lady disappeared. Yes . . . I know the name of Brads now stinks . . . but you don’t make it easy for us. Yes. Six weeks too late.’ He coughed politely. ‘Sometimes we’re retained within half an hour of the loss. It helps.’ Walter Corbin’s understatement was typical. ‘Nevertheless, I’ll put two of my best men on it. But I just wish you’d brought us in earlier.’ It was a familiar reprimand.

‘I know. I know. Don’t tell me. We’ve debated it ad nauseam d’ya see.’

For a moment Corbin was tempted to reply explosively but instead he kept his exasperation in check. ‘I’ll put Art Lemman and Gavin Blair onto it. Lemman’s American and tough as they come. Blair is English, with a calculating brain.’

Sir Archie, 130 miles away at Brads’ headquarters in Bristol was pleased. ‘Say 12.30 tomorrow, over lunch?’

‘I’ll tell them.’ Walter Corbin put down the phone and turned to Anna. ‘Sometimes I despair. Brads are in deep financial trouble. Ryme Lady was lost in dubious circumstances. Now their credibility in the City is below zero. What do we hear from them? I’ll tell you! Nothing! Nothing until six weeks too late, by which time the criminals have covered their arses. Unless, of course, Brads themselves are the criminals.’

Anna, who had been with the Bureau since it started, nodded sympathetically, her dark, curly hair bobbing as she did so. ‘I suppose Brads have been told that the insurers won’t pay out for the hull. And the cargo? And the cargo insurers? No pay-out I presume? Anyway, did the cargo even go aboard?’

‘That’ll be for Art and Gavin to find out.’ Corbin looked at Anna and felt that she was about to add something but then she turned away, busying herself with her filing. He admired the neat lines of her pale green suit and white shirt. He’d learnt a great deal from her. She was the point of continuity between the days of Ellen and his own tenure of office.

‘Art and Gavin? Do you think that’s wise?’ said Anna, a few moments later, without facing him. She pushed shut the drawer of the filing cabinet and picked up a yellow folder, all the while carefully avoiding his eyes.

‘Because of Kuantan? You mean about Theo?’ Although Walter spoke as though he were questioning her, he knew the answer. Feelings in the Bureau about the murder of Theo were still running high.

‘They only buried him three weeks ago. Art hasn’t forgiven Gavin yet for what happened. I’m not sure he ever will. Theo was Art’s greatest friend.’

‘Yes. It wasn’t a pretty end.’ Walter spoke slowly, his words guarded. Although forty-two years old, he had the maturity and looks of someone ten years older, his hair almost completely silver now and his moustache whitening to match it. ‘I know what Art thinks. But he’s not really thinking. It’s all emotion. He’s blind to the facts.’ He shook his head, his teeth just slightly bared in irritation. ‘I know the truth. Look. . . . what happened to Theo wasn’t Gavin’s fault.’

‘Try persuading Art, not me.’ She turned to face him at last and her eyes carried the warning of her words. ‘Sometimes I hear more than you. He’s not going to like it.’ At times like this Anna wished that her old boss, Eric Ellen, was back. He’d have understood, would have listened to her, anxious to understand every nuance. Not that she underestimated the wisdom or tenacity of the new man. It’s just that he wasn’t the old one. She’d been used to being the eyes and ears of what happened in the office.

Walter rose angrily from his desk, knowing that she was right, knowing that he had a problem. He walked to the window and stood for a moment, gazing out across the developing East End. The skyline was a sea of cranes, reflecting the hopes and aspirations that the old derelict wharfs and warehouses could, once again, be rejuvenated into a vibrant community. The recession of the 1990s had seen the greatest hopes fading with liquidations and uncertainty. Up river and out of sight, the giant complex of Canary Wharf was a sharp reminder of high hopes and even higher disappointment.

His eyes were on the grey horizon, on the scudding clouds and scattered swaying trees far below. His thoughts were on Theo, the young investigator who had been Art’s protégé until murdered whilst investigating the scandal of the Vietnamese boat people in Malaysia. Theo had been working on it with Gavin Blair but Walter was sure what had happened had not been Gavin’s fault. Yet Art was convinced that Gavin was a coward. ‘Art’s paid to do a job. He’ll do it. He’s a professional.’ Walter wasn’t sure whether he was talking to convince himself or to convince Anna.

‘There’s something else as well . . .’ said Anna but Walter was already turning to his desk and ready to face the problem.

‘Just wheel them in, can you. I want Art first.’ Despite the fact that he had only one lung left, the Director lit yet another cigarette. Outside, a police car wailed as it sped down Linton Road and into the drab anonymity of the Greater London hinterland in which Barking lay. He flicked open the file regarding Theo’s death, saw the picture of the fresh-faced man and then the one of his mutilated corpse. With a sigh Walter pushed it aside. People came cheap when the profits were big enough.

After he’d landed the job, Eric Ellen had told him that life in the Bureau was tough – not just tough decisions, though there were plenty of those, but danger – danger whether investigating stolen cigarettes in the Mediterranean, sinkings off Hong Kong or drug related crime in the Caribbean. ‘You don’t join the Bureau as a sinecure,’ Ellen had said to him. ‘You don’t join the Bureau if all you want is to die in bed.’

Tell that to Theo’s widow.

Art had joined the Bureau before either Gavin or Theo and had been hand-selected by Ellen in the early days. At the time, the Director had been working in a joint operation with the US Drug Enforcement Agency on a bust at Norman’s Cay in the Bahamas. He needed careful handling.

Walter’s thoughts were interrupted by the knock on the door and there he was. Lemman. Art Lemman. Thirty-eight years old. Square built, rugged, New Jersey born and a hard drinker, he was the iron man of the Bureau. The two bullets still inside him from a job on Staten Island were too dangerously positioned to be removed now.

‘Art! Good morning. Take a seat.’ The last part of the greeting was unnecessary as Art, casual in approach and casual in clothing, seated himself as if the room were his own. Though he acknowledged that Walter was his boss, it was only just. There was irreverence in his attitude. To him, Walter was still the new boy, the person brought in to replace the irreplaceable Eric Ellen. ‘There’s a new job. Ryme Lady. Owned by Brads of Bristol. Complete disappearance whilst en route from Singapore to the Middle East.’

‘I remember.’ He pulled a packet of Camels from his bomber jacket and lit a cigarette with a throw-away lighter.

‘You’ve got it. Further north than the usual piracy strip. That, as you know, is closer to here.’ As he spoke, Walter jabbed at the large globe on his desk. He was pointing to the Phillips Channel, a narrow stretch of water at the foot of the Malaysian peninsular. Cargo ships and even 200,000 ton vessels were equal quarry there. Marauding pirates thought nothing of grappling aboard a low-lying, heavily laden tanker under cover of darkness. ‘Doesn’t sound like the work of pirates to me. Not if it sank. Could be like the Isla Luzon. She was hijacked for the cargo. One of the crew died.’

Art looked thoughtful but even during their comparatively short time working together, Walter had realized that Art thought far too little. ‘If it’s an Isla Luzon situation, then Ryme Lady will have changed her name by now, either at some foreign consulate or just with a lick of paint.’

Walter drained the last of his coffee as he nodded approval. ‘If Ryme Lady’s been stolen, any number of linked crimes will follow. Anyway Art, this is a two-man job. I’m putting you to work with Gavin Blair. I think he’s . . .’

‘Gavin Blair? For Chrissake! You think I’d work with Gavin? Look, that scumbag killed . . .’

Walter raised his hands in protest. ‘You know that’s not true. You want to believe it to be true. But it’s not. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that Gavin could have done.’

‘Got some coffee? I need some.’

The conversation broke down as Anna was summoned to bring coffee, and lots of it, for both of them. Even after she’d left the room, there remained an uncomfortable silence as each man wondered what next to say. Corbin knew that Gavin was suffering from a crisis of confidence.

‘I’m telling you,’ continued Art, his New York accent sounding more nasal in his anger. ‘If I’d been there, Theo would still be alive today. He’s shit-scared.’ He stopped to stub out his cigarette with determination. ‘No. It’s worse than that. Gavin is scared of his own fart. Because of him we spent a day in the Cotswolds burying Theo. Because of Gavin Blair, Theo had his throat cut and his balls stuffed in his mouth.’

Art rose sharply, eyes flashing. He stood still for a few seconds. He wasn’t small – 5′ 10″ according to his passport but his broad shoulders and hefty frame took away from his height. In recent weeks he’d gained a few pounds around his waist but otherwise he remained a formidable figure. As he snorted defiance across the desk at Walter, the Director was put in mind of a bullock – full of strength but not always sure what to do with it.

Art walked across the spacious room, pausing by a reproduction table which was full of trophies. There was a silver statuette presented by a grateful ship-owner, photos of Eric Ellen meeting the Prime Minister and of Walter shaking hands with the American President. Art looked at none of these. Instead, he picked up a small framed photograph of a Vietnamese child, forlorn and frightened, sitting in the stern of a fishing boat. ‘Gavin let her down. Let everyone down. Left Theo exposed.’ He turned in a sudden movement, then advanced on Walter in accusation. ‘And now you want me to work with him?’

Walter looked away but only for a second. ‘I do. And it’s an order. You’re the precise team I need. It could be rough but it’s going to need cunning too. It’s going to need subtlety.’ Though he wasn’t saying it, Walter’s message was that Art lacked that quality. The American understood and if he’d been less emotive, would have agreed. As it was, he looked sullen as Walter continued. ‘There’s boardroom politics involved at Brads. Sup with Brads and you sup with the devil. Now, for that, I need Gavin as well. His time as a lawyer was not wasted. His logic, his questioning are assets which we’ll need.’ Walter thought wrongly that he was getting through. His smile would have convinced most.

‘Fuck logic. Fuck questioning. The man’s a goddammed coward. I won’t work with him.’ Art’s raised voice could be heard by Anna at her desk in the room next door. On her face was an I-told-you-so look.

‘You’re going to. And you’re going to make a damned good job of it.’

‘I’m resigning. Goddammit! I’m resigning here and now.’ Art thumped his fist heavily into the palm of his other hand.

‘That’s a great way to repay the Bureau.’

‘But . . .’

‘No buts.’ The Director was brooking no argument now. ‘Just remember. You were flung out of the Drug Enforcement Agency. If it wasn’t for the Bureau, you’d be dragging your ragged arse down Skid Row. Eric Ellen gave you a chance when you needed it most.’

Walter stood up, so that the two men were only a few feet apart but divided by a mile in temperament, size, appearance, outlook, background and purpose. ‘Look. If you want to repay me by walking out just when we’ve lost a good man . . . fine. You just walk. And if you walk . . . do you know what?’ Walter paused, looking at Art, noticing just a slight defensiveness in the strong yet raffish features. It showed around his lips as he half turned towards the door. The pugnacious face, eyes deep-set beneath heavy brows, revealed momentary weakness. ‘I’ll tell you. If you walk out, you’re walking away from trouble. Walking away from life, from responsibility.’

He took another step towards Art, pointing an accusing finger, making clear just what he was thinking. ‘So who does that make a coward?’ He spat out the words. ‘Maybe your references were right. Maybe you were just a pig-ignorant, womanizing hard-man.’ Tall, lean, the Director advanced again until they were just inches apart. Art’s swarthy features were close to his. Art’s black wavy hair tumbled down to his ears. The short but heavy sideboards had just a fleck of grey and his face, though clean-shaven, had a tinge of shadow. A trace of damp glistened on Art’s forehead and Walter noticed a mix of garlic and Camel cigarettes on his breath.

‘I don’t run . . . not like Gavin.’ Art’s face was set cold, hard as granite.

‘You want a reference now then? Know what I’d say?’ The Director spoke with a slow mechanical rhythm, emphasizing every word. ‘I’d tell them that Art Lemman ran like a coward even before the first hint of danger.’ He enjoyed throwing back Art’s earlier expression. Walter shrugged as he turned away and strolled back to his desk, the body language showing that Art was dismissed from the room, dismissed from the future of the Bureau. If that’s what he wanted. ‘Ok Art . . . carry on. Just drop out again. Go back to the bourbon, the women. Chuck away everything you’ve achieved.’

The American, who had his hand on the door, stopped instantly. Thirty-eight years old, nearly twenty years in the cocaine war, the pictures of his past raced through his mind. He froze momentarily, weighing up the implications of Walter’s challenge. Slowly he raised his eyes. The rounded face lengthened slightly, the dark eyes flickered and then slowly a smile started to form and changed into a rueful grin. ‘I guess you’re right Walter. You’d better get Gavin in.’

‘No. I’ll see Gavin alone first.’

‘Sure.’ Art opened the door and his shoulders filled the doorway as he left the room.

Walter closed the door and returned to his desk, nervously adjusting his tie as he did so. There was no doubt about it. Art’s hatred of Gavin bordered on the irrational. The death of Theo had cut deeper than it should. He sat for a moment, fiddling with the brass desk calendar. At times like this he wished he could spend more time in the field himself. Office politics were more exhausting.

He ran his hand nervously through the carefully groomed hair, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. In repose you could accept that he was only forty two, but, under pressure, the taut muscles and the creased forehead added ten more. Nevertheless, the lean foxy features, the dark eyes and the well-defined chin made him an attractive man, assets he’d never bothered to exploit.

He thought back to the interview with Art. There was no certainty that Gavin would want to work with him. He rocked forward and pressed the buzzer on the intercom. ‘Anna – can you get Gavin Blair in please.’ Once again he sat uneasily in the recliner, fingers drumming restlessly on the black moquette.

The knock at the door brought him back to the immediate situation and he leaned forward, elbows now on his desk. He picked up his gold pen and when the door opened, he looked relaxed and confident. The elegant tailored suit, the immaculate cuffs, the silk, lightly patterned tie and the soft leather shoes completed the image which the Director needed. Indeed it was not just an image, it was reality. Head of the International Maritime Bureau was a position which opened doors in all continents. Sometimes however, those with whom Walter Corbin had rubbed shoulders were less scrupulous than their image and status might foretell.

‘Morning Gavin. Help yourself to coffee. Anna brought some in a few minutes ago. How are you feeling?’

‘May I sit down?’ Gavin’s diffidence contrasted with the breezy informality of Art’s earlier arrival. ‘How would you be feeling? Look . . . if you want me to resign, I’ve heard the rumours around the place. I’ll go quietly.’

Walter’s hand shot up in protest. ‘Look. That’s not on the agenda. Theo wasn’t your fault.’

‘Then start convincing some other people, Art Lemman for one. He’s really been putting the poison in.’ In contrast to the casual slacks and Reebok approach of Lemman, Gavin who had just turned thirty one was wearing a navy blazer, with silver buttons and grey flannels. Unlike Art, his face didn’t look as if he’d lived a thousand lives and suffered a thousand and one deaths. It was a face which spoke of breeding, of culture.

Walter looked Gavin up and down and liked what he saw. People did. Though he was tall, angular and clean cut, there was nothing languid about him. His appearance created an impression of nervous energy and cool determination. ‘Look,’ Gavin continued. ‘I know I’ve had your full support. But sometimes people won’t accept the truth. Not even Janie. After the funeral I got back to the flat and found that she’d gone. Everything. Buggered off.’ As he spoke, his eyes were lowered in a moment of shame.

‘But you were getting married, weren’t you?’ As he looked at Gavin, the Director judged that it wouldn’t be long before someone else succumbed to Gavin’s good looks. His face, dominated by the dancing, wide-set eyes and smiling mouth, was friendly, kind and yet forceful.

Gavin nodded his head in agreement. ‘Next May. Not now. The note simply said ‘Goodbye’. I haven’t heard from her again. No idea where she is.’

‘I’m sorry. Bad at any time. Even worse when you’ve been together for so long . . . and coming at the same time as Theo. Anyway, let’s get to the point. I’m putting you and Art to work. Together.’

Gavin’s laugh was full of irony. ‘Me and Art? You think Art’ll work with me?’ He paused to examine his fingernails whilst he weighed up what to say next. ‘Murderer. That’s what Art called me. A murderer.’ Gavin spread his hands helplessly.

Corbin shrugged. ‘Well, whatever . . . but he’s agreed. It’s working in the Far East again. Nothing to do with boat-people. Least, I don’t think so.’ He pressed the buzzer and almost at once Art appeared. For a moment they looked at each other, face to face for the first time since Art had called Gavin a fucking murderer. Art looked up from his 5′ 10″ to the 6′ 1″ of the Englishman. ‘You and me a team. That’s what Walter told me. You’ve heard?’

‘I’d heard.’ Gavin let the words sound neutral. As he often did, he ran his hand over his strong sandy hair. It was neatly cut, swept back and just covering the tops of his ears.

Hands in pockets, thumbs tucked over the rims, Art moved confidently round the room until he had his back to the window. ‘Ever faced a gun, Gavin? A loaded gun?’ The words came out slowly but were followed by a rapid withdrawal of his right hand from his pocket, as if he were aiming to fire. The fingers pointed accusingly across the room. Gavin’s face said no as he looked away. ‘Huh!’ came the grunted, dismissive comment from the American.

‘Listen, the pair of you.’ Walter intervened. ‘There’s no room for sniping,’ but Art brushed aside the Director’s interference with a flourish as he threw off his bomber jacket and raised his faded green shirt.

‘Want to see a scar?’ The scar tissue of a bullet hole high on the left side of his chest was revealed. ‘A .38 revolver. Fort Lauderdale. I stopped that trying to save a friend. See, I didn’t run. I didn’t run Gavin boy. And if you and me are going to be a team,’ he snarled with contempt at the very notion, ‘then there’s no room for running. Not this time Gavin.’ He made Gavin’s name sound despicable. Walter was about to intervene again but a chopping movement from Gavin’s left hand said it was probably better for the showdown to take place now.

‘Now you listen.’ Gavin’s tone was clipped, very English. ‘Not easy for a loudmouth braggard like you. Nobody could have saved Theo. And let me show you something.’ As he spoke, Gavin slipped off his jacket and pulled up his own shirt. ‘Let me show you this.’

‘Ain’t nothing there. I don’t see no scars.’ Art played dumb.

‘Oh yes. I’m wounded all right.’ He motioned towards his heart. ‘I’m scarred. But my scars are invisible. They’re real and just as permanent.’ Gavin turned and started to tuck in his shirt once again as Walter came between them like a referee at a prize fight. ‘Sometimes it hurts more to run than to stay.’

Walter saw the glint of tears in Gavin’s eyes. His hands, his voice were both shaking with emotion as he relived the murder in Kuantan. Walter spoke. ‘That’s the last word on the subject. The matter’s closed. Agreed?’ He looked at each of them in turn.

Slowly at first but positively nonetheless, Art found himself extending his hand. ‘Shake hands the English way, dear boy. Kiss and make up.’ Art’s voice was mocking as if he couldn’t bring himself to be entirely gracious. For a moment, Walter thought that Gavin was going to spurn the gesture. But no. Walter saw Gavin’s mind at work. It was deliberate. He was letting Art sweat a bit. After leaving the American uncertain for almost too long, Gavin moved forward. Then they shook hands – the soft elegant hand of Gavin contrasting with the weather-beaten hairy fist of Art Lemman.

‘With hands as soft as that you should be advertising a soap product,’ said Art. He was half-joking, half still determined to emphasize his contempt for the soft-centred man in front of him.

‘And you,’ retorted Gavin, ‘you’re acting like someone from a soap. No. Maybe not. You haven’t the brains to remember your lines.’ The three men were standing almost huddled together, but then, as if by mutual assent, all three took a step backwards from the brink.

Walter rubbed his hands