Bloggs said, “How do you do.” On first acquaintance Porter seemed to be exactly the kind of silly ass who would give a spy a lift half across the country. However, Bloggs realized the air of empty-headed heartiness might also mask a shrewd mind. He tried to be tolerant—he, too, had made embarrassing mistakes in the last few hours.

“I heard about the abandoned Morris. I picked him up at that very spot.”

“You’ve seen the picture?”

“Yes. Of course, I didn’t get a good look at the chappie, because it was dark for most of the journey. But I saw enough of him, in the light of the flashlight when we were under the hood, and afterward when we entered Aberdeen—it was dawn by then. If I’d only seen the picture, I’d say it could have been him. Given the spot at which I picked him up, so near to where the Morris was found, I say it was him.”

“I agree,” Bloggs said. He thought for a moment, wondering what useful information he could get out of this man. “How did Faber impress you?”

Porter said promptly: “He struck me as exhausted, nervous and determined, in that order. Also, he was no Scotsman.”

“How would you describe his accent?”

“Neutral. The accent—minor public school, Home Counties. Jarred with his clothes, if you know what I mean. He was wearing overalls. Another thing I didn’t remark until afterwards.”

Kincaid interrupted to offer tea. Everyone accepted. The policeman went to the door.

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, nothing much.”

“But you were together for hours—”

“He slept most of the way. He mended the car—it was only a disconnected lead, but I’m afraid I’m helpless with machines—then he told me his own car had broken down in Edinburgh and he was going to Banff. Said he didn’t really want to go through Aberdeen, as he didn’t have a Restricted Area Pass. I’m afraid I…I told him not to worry about that. Said I’d vouch for him if we were stopped. Makes one feel such a bloody fool, you know—but I felt I owed him a favor. He had got me out of a bit of a hole, y’know.”

“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’ll 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’s 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.

23

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.