"Nobody's blaming you, sir," Kincaid said.

Bloggs was, but he didn't say so. Instead, "There are very few people who have met Faber and can tell us what he's like. Can you think hard and tell me what kind of a man you took him to be?"

"He woke up like a soldier," Porter said. "He was courteous, and seemed intelligent. Firm handshake. I take notice of handshakes."

"Anything else?"

"Something else about when he woke up…" Porter's florid face creased up in a frown. "His right hand went to his left forearm, like this." He demonstrated.

"That's something," Bloggs said. "That'd be where he keeps the knife. A sleeve-sheath."

"Nothing else, I'm afraid."

"And he said he was going to Banff. That means he's not. I wager you told him where you were going before he told you where he was going."

"I believe I did," Porter nodded. "Well, well."

"Either Aberdeen was his destination, or he went south after you dropped him. Since he said he was going north, he probably didn't."

"That kind of second-guessing could get out of hand," Kincaid said.

"Sometimes it does." Kincaid was definitely no fool. "Did you tell him that you're a magistrate?"

"Yes."

"That's why he didn't kill you."

"What? Good Lord."

"He knew you'd be missed."

The door opened again. The man who walked in said, "I've got your information, and I hope it was fuckin' worth it."

Bloggs grinned. This was, undoubtedly, the harbormaster: a short man with cropped white hair, smoking a large pipe and wearing a blazer with brass buttons.

Kincaid said, "Come in, captain. How did you get so wet? You shouldn't go out in the rain."

"Fuck off." the Captain said, bringing delighted expressions to the other faces in the room. Porter said, "Morning, captain."

"Good morning, Your Worship."

Kincaid said, "What have you got?"

The captain took off his cap and shook drops of rain from its crown. "The Marie II has gone missing," he said. "I saw her come in on the afternoon the storm began. I didn't see her go out, but I know she shouldn't have sailed again that day. However, it seems she did."

"Who owns her?"

"Tam Halfpenny. I telephoned him. He left her in her mooring that day and hasn't seen her since."

"What kind of vessel is she?" Bloggs asked.

"A small fishing boat, sixty feet and broad in the beam. Stout little craft. Inboard motor. No particular style-the fishermen round here don't follow the pattern book when they build boats."

"Let me ask you," Bloggs said. "Could that boat have survived the storm?"

The captain paused in the act of putting a match to his pipe. "With a very skillful sailor at the helm maybe. Maybe not."

"How far might he have got before the storm broke?"

"Not far-a few miles. The Marie II was not tied up until evening."

Bloggs stood up, walked around his chair and sat down again. "So where is he now?"

"At the bottom of the sea, in all probability, the bloody fool." The captain's statement was not without relish.

Bloggs could take no satisfaction in the likelihood that Faber was dead. It was too inconclusive. The discontent spread to his body, and he felt restless, itchy. Frustrated. He scratched his chin; he needed a shave. "I'll believe it when I see it," he said.

"You won't."

"Please save your guesswork," Bloggs said. "We want your information, not pessimism." The other men in the room suddenly remembered that, despite his youth, he was the senior officer there. "Let's, if you don't mind, review the possibilities. One: he left Aberdeen by land and someone else stole the Marie II. In that case he has probably reached his destination by now, but he won't have left the country because of the storm. We already have all the other police forces looking for him, and that's all we can do about number one.

"Two: he's still in Aberdeen. Again, we have this possibility covered; we're still looking for him.

"Three: he left Aberdeen by sea. I think we're agreed this is the strongest option. Let's break it down. Three A: he found shelter somewhere, or cracked up somewhere mainland or island. Three B: he died." He did not, of course, mention three C: he transferred to another vessel-probably a U-boat-before the storm broke… he probably didn't have time, but he might've. And if he caught a U-boat, we've had it, so might as well forget that one.

"If he found shelter," Bloggs went on, "or was shipwrecked, we'll find evidence sooner or later-either the Marie II, or pieces of it. We can search the coastline right away and survey the sea as soon as the weather clears sufficiently for us to get a plane up. If he's gone to the bottom of the ocean we may still find bits of the boat floating.

"So we have three courses of action to take. We continue the searches already going on; we mount a new search of the coastline, working north and south from Aberdeen; and we prepare for an air-sea search the minute the weather improves."

Bloggs had begun to pace up and down as he spoke. He stopped now and looked around. "Comments?"

The late hour had got to all of them. Bloggs' sudden access of energy jerked them out of a creeping lethargy. One leaned forward, rubbing his hands, another tied his shoelaces; a third put his jacket on. They wanted to go to work. There were no comments, no questions.

Faber was awake. His body probably needed sleep despite the fact that he had spent the day in bed; but his mind was hyperactive, turning over possibilities, sketching scenarios… thinking about women, and about home.

Now that he was so close to getting out, his memories of home became near painfully sweet. He thought of things like sausages fat enough to eat in slices, and motor cars on the right-hand side of the road, and really tall trees, and most of all his own language: words with guts and precision, hard consonants and pure vowels and the verb at the end of the sentence where it ought to be, finality and meaning in the same climactic terminal.

Thoughts of climaxes brought Gertrud to mind again: her face underneath his, makeup washed away by his kisses, eyes closing tight in pleasure then opening again to look with delight into his, mouth stretched wide in a permanent gasp, saying, "Ja, liebling, ja…"

It was silly. He had led the life of a monk for seven years, but she had no reason to do the same.

She would have bad a dozen men since Faber. She might even be dead, bombed by the RAF or murdered by the maniacs because her nose was half an inch too long or run over by a motor car in the blackout. Anyway, she would hardly remember him. He would probably never see her again. But she was important. She stood for something… for him to think about.

He did not normally permit himself the indulgence of sentiment. There was in his nature, in any case, a very cold streak, and he cultivated it. It protected him. Now, though, he was so close to success, and he felt free-not to relax his vigilance, but at least to fantasise a little.

The storm was his safeguard so long as it continued. He would simply contact the U-boat with Tom's radio on Monday, and its captain would send a dinghy into the bay as soon as the weather cleared. If the storm ended before Monday, there was a slight complication: the supply boat. David and Lucy would naturally expect him to take the boat back to the mainland.

Lucy came into his thoughts in vivid, full-colour images he could not quite control. He saw her striking amber eyes watching him as he made a bandage for her thumb; her outline walking up the stairs in front of him, even clad as she was in shapeless man's clothing; her heavy rounded breasts as she stood naked in the bathroom; and, as the images developed into fantasy, she leaned over the bandage and kissed his mouth, turned back on the stairs and took him in her arms, stepped out of the bathroom and placed his hands on her breasts.