'Good ones?'

'Very old, you understand? The engineer before, he had ground the – the valves, so much…" he shrugged.

'You had a lot of trouble?'

'With everything,¡a. With always the injector valves – and the cooling pumps, and the fuel filter also.'

I nodded sympathetically. 'What happened the last time? Cooling pump? Injectors?'

He got a look of cunning suspicion on his flabby face. 'Why you ask?'

'Sorry.' I sipped my coffee and didn't look at him.

More time went past.

Then he said, 'We had much trouble, then.'

'Like what?'

'The engine stop.'

'Why?'

He put his coffee mug down, though he still kept his hands on it. 'For beginning, we think perhaps an exhaust valve, it is with a broken spring/"

'Would that stop an engine?'

'At very slow, ja. Or very fast, it jam all the engine, crack-bang.'

'But it wasn't an exhaust valve?'

'No, we find no. So we think the fuel filter.'

'De Laval type? – centrifugal?'

']a, ja.'He looked a little worried.

'Was it that?'

'No. So maybe we think the… the injector pump.'

'And was it?'

'Ja, but very difficult. You understand? – the pump gives the fuel to each injector, just so much, like the… the…" He made a move like a hypodermic in his arm. I nodded. He went on, 'To each cylinder in turn. But it must be just so much fuel, just right, like the-' The hypodermic syringe gesture again.

Now he was really talking, and I sat back and listened. Some I didn't understand, some I got just because of what Willie had told me, but broadly I got a picture of a high-pressure pump that was a lot of hypodermic syringes squirted in succession by a camshaft, putting exactly the right amount of juice into each cylinder at exactly the right time… And the camshaft bearings had gone wonky so the pressure on the syringes varied so the cylinders got variable and unequal amounts of juice…

I asked, 'Was this repairable?'

He looked blank for a moment. Then, 'Oh, ja, ja. We were working on it.'

'How far had you got at the time of the collision?'

Now he looked cautious. 'Perhaps almost finished…'

'You'd had nearly forty-eight hours.'

'Ja, but…'

'Like some more coffee?' I tried to defuse him.

'Thank you, no.' He licked his lips, then rubbed them with the great stiff scar that was the back of his hand. 'It is time for another drink-?'

How such a face could look so plaintively hopeful.

I pretended surprise, looking at my watch. 'Not just yet, surely?'

'Ja, ja, sorry.' He acquiesced immediately. Ofcourse he didn't want a drink, he'd only been suggesting it because he thought maybe I wanted one and had been too shy to suggest it…

You bastard, Card.

'How did you get rescued from the Skadi?' I asked casually.

'Why do you want to know?'

'Sorry.' I poured myself the last of the coffee and didn't look at him as I drank it.

He said, 'On the… the Carley float. Raft.' He'd know the name from the war days, of course.

'Who cut it loose. You?'

'No, the other sailors I think. I… my hands…" He held up his crumpled claws. 'I just jump in the sea and swim and on to raft.'

'Alone on it?'

'Oh, ja.'

'Did you paddle it?'

'No. My hands.'

'Sorry. So what happened?'

He heaved his shoulders. 'I am picked up.'

'And that's all you remember?'

']a.'

'Why is that all you remember?'

He shivered his flabby face. 'I don't know…'

'Drunk at the time, were you?'

'No,' he said. 'No. no. No!' Then he threw the coffee-pot at me.

'It wasn't so bright of me to let him get into that state,' I told Willie, 'though you can't really measure what any addict's feeling.'

'I thought getting him into a state was part of what you were up to,' he said coolly.

They'd got back about half past one. Now Kari and David were working up some lunch while Willie and I strolled the road and threw stones into the galloping black-and-white river beyond the road. For the moment, it was fairly warm; the road itself was turning slushy and some patches of spongy grass were appearing among the snowdrifts.

'Have you concluded anything yet?' Willie went on.

'Maybe. His description of the engine breakdown was pretty detailed, but he doesn't really remember anything of the rescue at all. Now, according to the log-'

'Which we don't have any more,' he reminded me, just missing the river with a grenade-sized stone.

'Thank you. But according to it and the clever work you did with the atlas and so forth, that engine must have been out of action untilnearly the collision even if it actually was working again when they hit – right? '

'Er, yes. That's right.'

'For the moment it doesn't matter if they ever got it fixed or not. The point is the thing was out of action for aboutforty hours, while he mucks about thinking first it's the exhaust valve and then the fuel filter and finally the injector pump camshaft. We saw him in action last night; what took him so long aboard the Skadi with an engine he knew far better?'

He heaved a rock and got a weird brownish splash; maybe the river was full of gold dust. 'What do you suggest?' he asked.

'Look at who survived. Nobody else from the engine-room, nobody who was on the bridge. Just three sailors who were off watch and probably asleep in cabins – and Nygaard.'

'So you think…?'

'I think all the stuff he gave me about the breakdown comes from some other time; he doesn't remember the last one of all any more than he remembers the rescue. He was blind paralytic drunk the entire time, stretched out on his bunk. That's why it was taking them so long to fix the engine. And why they died and he survived. And what does a boozed-up chief engineer do to a Lloyd's insurance policy?'

'Nothing, I'm afraid,' he said sadly, and threw another stone.

'Nothing?'

'Afraid not, old boy. I mean, it wouldn't matter if thecaptain was smashed out of his mind. I dare say it would make a difference to who was held to blame and all that, but it wouldn't invalidate the insurance. You've got to remember that one of the biggest things an owner's insuring against is the damn stupidity of the crew – you know? "Negligence of Master Officers, Crew, or Pilots", that's how the Lloyd's policy puts it. Suppose it goes back to the days when you recruited your crew out of the dockside pubs half an hour before sailing. But as long as they're on board, they don't have to be sober or even awake.'

Then he added politely, 'You seem to have had a lot of trouble for nothing, what? '

'Damn it.' I slung a stone across the river and it crunched into a deep, crusted snowbank. 'Damn it, there's got to besomething.'

'I thought Kari said Nygaard hadn't really started drinking untilafter the accident. Rather because of it, you know?'

'She didn't know him before. And you don't get to his stage in months; he's been boozing at top speed for years. Maybe since his wife died,' I said, thinking of it suddenly.

For a while we threw stones silently. Then Willie asked, 'I say -1 suppose Paul really didn't know it was Ellie Smith-Bang behind it all?'

'No. He wouldn't tell me which way was up if I was under water, but he'd have toldyou. He was just scared it was the Sahara Line doing the blackmailing. After all, if the Sahara's other directors had started it, they wouldn't have told Mockby anyway. Conflict of interests. Mockby just wanted to get hold of the log to find out where he really stood – if he was likely to find himself charged with blackmail and accessory to murder as a Sahara director.'

'Ah. So Martin didn't tell him about anything that was in the log? Or not in it?'

'No. Mockby was lying to us that night -1 told you. But just because a man tells you lies you shouldn't assume he knows the truth. Basic rule of interrogation.'