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  ‘Except for one lost ship, and a hell of a lot of missing people,’ said Robin, who had taken to the intense young private eye and accompanied her whenever the opportunity arose.

  ‘It’s not one of those cases where the whole point of the thing is that there’s nothing missing is it?’ wondered Richard thoughtfully. He had been reading a lot of law lately. And attending everything to do with his case, even down to the Initial Papers meeting a couple of weeks ago. ‘Like that case where a student took a draft exam paper, long before it was due to be sat, read it and then returned it so that it would appear not to be missing. And that he could pass it all with flying colours sometime in the future - or sell it on to those who might? What was important was not the paper but knowledge of what was written on it. Not what was done at the time but its potential for fraud and profit in the future?’

  ‘Oxford v. Moss,’ called Maggie helpfully, in a cloud of fragrant Russian tobacco smoke, and for some reason the case name stayed in Richard’s memory.

  ‘It’s an inspired thought, though, isn’t it?’ asked Jim Constable thoughtfully. ‘What if the whole point of this situation is nothing to do with what is happening now. What if it’s just as Richard says and this is all to do with something that’s due to happen in the future?’

  Chapter 20: Directions

  Burgo-Blackstone’s grey-hued, slightly pointed chin rose from the bundle of notes in front of him as the Pleas and Directions hearing continued. His lips folded into the ‘V’. His cheeks wrinkled into that unconscious snarl. ‘Mizz DaSilva? Your outline of the case for the defence?’

  Maggie rose, gathering her robes about her as she did so. ‘The case for the defence shares the broad outline of the Crown’s case, my lord, but is of course designed to question or refute it in all its major points.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ murmured Burgo-Blackstone derisively. ‘Or it would be the prosecution case.’

  ‘Quite so, my lord. And very wittily observed.’ Unlike Carver Carpenter’s, her voice dripped with gall, not honey, on the flattering words. ‘Our case will proceed as follows. We agree that Captain Mariner served on the committee of the Goodman Richard Charity, but first of all we contend that his appointment was a social gesture suggested by a man he saw as a close friend and long-time colleague. Captain Mariner received no remuneration for such work as he did, unlike the other, more committed committee members. We further contend that he had no assigned responsibilities. That he was never formally warned of the committee’s intention to assign him such duties. Especially in the crucial area of health and safety, where he has been so active - as my learned friend for the prosecution noted - in his own company, where he does have such responsibilities. We contend that the corporate mind of the enterprise, to the extent that it can be clearly established, was in fact active in the areas of health and safety aboard the Goodman Richard.

  ‘We were preparing to question whether the Act does in fact assign general responsibility to all board members co-equally when your lordship helpfully clarified the situation by outlining your thoughts as you did. We would point out, however, echoing your Lordship’s very welcome comment, that if this is held to be the case then there are at least two board members whose responsibility is considerably greater than Captain Mariner’s. And although they are missing they have not, like the officers of the Goodman Richard herself, been declared dead. We have a lively expectation that their whereabouts will soon be discovered and it will be they - not Captain Mariner - who will be brought to justice, as your Lordship observed.’

  ‘I am flattered that you have hung upon my every word, Mizz DaSilva,’ interrupted Burgo- Blackstone, ‘but I feel bound to correct you on at least one point. I did not mean that Lee and Smithers should face justice instead of Captain Mariner, but as well as Captain Mariner. I had in mind Conspiracy or Corporate Responsibility rather than alternative culpability. And I must observe - though I know it is a traditional refuge amongst those with weak defences - that I sincerely hope you are not going to hang everything on blaming the dead or the missing.’

  ‘Thank you for your thoughts and your further clarification, my lord,’ answered Maggie. ‘They are most helpful as always. Next, we will be seeking to prove that Goodman Richard was not, in fact, badly maintained. That her hull, masts and rigging were sound and that she had well established, regularly followed health and safety procedures well known to both officers and cadets aboard. That the catastrophic dismasting to which my learned colleague referred was a result of overwhelming circumstance or perhaps faulty seamanship rather than of ill-maintained equipment. That Captain Jones’s decision to go for help might have been a brave one but was nevertheless against stated policy. That such loss of life as occurred - and I have to say that Captain Jones and his men are still the subjects of the most active search - occurred in spite of the good practice dictated by the charity board, not because of any bad practice allowed by their negligence.’

  ‘I am sure that when Mr Lee and Mr Smithers turn up, they will be relieved to hear that,’ said Burgo-Blackstone thoughtfully. ‘Though I assume your inquiry agents seeking Captain Jones and his officers must be Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased).’

  There was a short silence as Maggie folded her black robes across the figured white silk of her court blouse and sat.

  ‘Very well,’ decided Burgo-Blackstone after a moment longer, his voice filling with energy and decisiveness. ‘I think we will be able to proceed...’

  ‘I think we will be able to proceed...’ said Justice Burgo-Blackstone in the distance.

  ‘Robin!’ whispered a voice much closer at hand.

  Robin turned to see Frances Bacon gesturing to her from the back of the gallery. Robin rose and began to make her way towards the intense young woman. It was perhaps fortunate that Burgo-Blackstone was consulting his timetable at that moment or the disruption to his court would have attracted some less than welcome comment.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Robin by the door. ‘Have you found something?’ Any kind of progress after such an achingly long time was not just welcome, it was almost like a charm. A totem. A sign that things were about to change for the better. Frances knew this and that is why she had come to tell Robin about it. To do more than that, indeed.

  ‘It’s the doctor,’ she said. ‘He’s agreed to see us.’

  ‘The doctor?’ Robin had brief paranoid visions of some new medical disaster about to overtake them. The previous months were really beginning to take their toll now.

  ‘Dr Walton. The board member who had supplied worthy cases to become cadets aboard Goodman Richard. The one that resigned just before the shit hit the fan.’

  ‘I thought he didn’t want to talk to us. Is this some kind of April Fool’s joke?”

  ‘Of course not. He didn’t want to at first. He does now. That’s all.’

  ‘Should we wait for Richard?’ They were hesitating in the doorway to the gallery of the court.

  ‘You can if you like, but I’d better not. There’s a risk if we wait too long. Dr Walton’s booked on a flight to Rome for an early holiday. I think he’s only willing to have a quick chat now because he’s off. I suspect the police warned him off us when they interviewed him. But that’s a long time ago now. He’s obviously had second thoughts.’ As Frances talked, so they crossed the balcony outside the upper storey of the court and came to the head of a flight of stairs leading down into the lobby.

  ‘Can the police do that?’ asked Robin, shocked and breathless as they rushed on downwards. ‘Warn witnesses off like that?’

  ‘No.’ Frances paused at the foot of the stairs to look back over her shoulder, her face twisted in a strange smile. ‘Of course they can’t do that.’

  Dr Walton lived in a flat in Gerrard Street. It didn’t need the bric-a-brac and eastern furniture to tell Robin that he was an old Far East hand. He had the complexion, the accent, the touch. And he seemed ill-contained in the little residence, as though he was used to verandas, punkahs and dawns that
came up like thunder. India perhaps, Malaya possibly - but most likely Hong Kong. The fact that he had settled here in the heart of Chinatown was one fact that made that most likely on its own.

  But he wasn’t a ‘pink gins at noonday’ merchant. He was plainer, blunter, more down to earth than that. ‘Sit ye down,’ he said, in tones more reminiscent of Yorkshire than Wan Chai, after Frances introduced the pair of them. ‘Will ye take a cuppa tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Robin.

  ‘It’s green, mind. Can’t stand anything else these days.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘Ye’ll have to excuse the mess. I could say it’s because I’m just packing up for the off, but I’d be lying. It’s been like this since the missus died. I keep meaning to get in a cleaner but I’ve neither the brass nor the will, really. You’re the first western women to come in here in over a year. May Chung and her friends come up sometimes - they say they’re here to help and their hearts are in the right place but they haven’t a clue. Modern teenagers, eh?’

  Dr Walton was able to continue his rumbling monologue as he made the tea because his tiny kitchen was little more than a cupboard separated from the cluttered living area by a curtain of gaudy glass beads.

  ‘But still,’ Frances wedged the words in with a salesman’s expertise, like a foot into a door, ‘you were happy to recommend them to the charity for sail training aboard Goodman Richard?’

  ‘Aye. I was. And it did most of them a world of good, too. Even though the Chinese parent is much firmer than your western parent in my view, still discipline has gone to pot amongst these youngsters. And the authorities don’t do anywhere near enough, for all they try to help.’ He reappeared with a tray laden with the makings of proper Chinese green tea.

  ‘Is that why you joined the board of directors?’ asked Frances quietly as he slowly, carefully, sat with the tray. He placed it on a rickety little brass-topped table between them and went through the ritual as he answered. ‘Yes. It seemed like such a good idea at the time. And it still does if anyone wants to set up another scheme like it. But I couldn’t be doing with the two that ran it after a while. I liked the old lawyer, he was a dry old stick but he made me laugh and he seemed to have his feet planted firmly on the ground. And I could have stayed the course if that actress girl had stayed or if Captain Mariner had showed up on a more regular basis. The Captain was a man’s man if you see what I mean. I’d have relied on him under any circumstances. And it was him that saved the kids in the end. He’s quite a man, your husband, and I’m right sorry for his trouble now. But the long and the short of it was that he was hardly ever there and being alone with that Charles Lee and his sycophantic little friend Smithers just got on my tits in the end. Oh. Begging your pardon, ladies.’ He covered his confusion by handing out the tiny cups of foaming tea.

  ‘So you resigned because of a clash of personalities?’ persisted Frances. ‘You had no concern about the way the charity or the vessel were actually being run?’

  ‘Well, as to that, let’s see. What did I tell the police? I didn’t like either of them. I didn’t like their plans. I didn’t trust their judgement, so I packed my bags and left.’

  ‘What was it you didn’t trust them on? Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Aye. Course I can. They made plans without minuting them. They told me about them because they wanted me to help but they swore me to silence like this was one of them spy novels. Or the Famous Five more like.’

  ‘Plans?’

  ‘Oh aye, they had great plans did those two. They were all set to use Captain Mariner’s name and standing - with Goodman Richard herself as collateral, mind - to buy another ship.’

  ‘They were expanding the sail-training programme?’ Frances was surprised - as was Robin - but not shocked at the revelation.

  ‘No. That’s the point, d’ye see? The ships weren’t going to be used for sail training no more. They were going to be commercial pleasure boats. Filled with paying passengers going cruising under sail, d’ye see? They was set to get it all set up under the cover of the charity, to split the officers between the vessels - then use the best of the cadets to do the rest! I saw at once how the charity was just a platform for their larger plan. Had been from the start, I’d say. Though it was a good idea for what it was at the outset. But then it all went wrong on them, what, nearly a year ago.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Nay, I’ve no idea. The first whiff of disaster and I’d packed my bags. I’ve some standing amongst these people here, d’ye see. I can still do some good, in the face of the triads and the gangs, the gangmasters and the slaveworkers, people smugglers and drug pushers. But I’d lose any standing I have if I got mixed up in anything dirty myself. No. The minute I saw the writing on the wall I left. And what did the writing say? Ye’d have to ask Laurel or Hardy that.’

  It took Robin an instant to realize that he was talking about Lee and Smithers. ‘We can’t find them let alone question them,’ she said, leaning forward earnestly. ‘Isn’t there anything further that you can tell us?’

  ‘Nobbut what I’ve told the police.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They worked together but they didn’t like each other particularly. Chalk and cheese like. Wherever they are they’re not likely in the same place. Lee, now he could be anywhere from here to Hong Kong, and going first class all the way. But Smithers? I’d have bet good money that he’d be on that old boat of his down on the river. And if he’s disappeared on purpose, like, I’d have laid an equal sum to say he’d have taken her with him. She was wife and daughter to him that boat. Him being a man as had neither. And here’s what I gave the police. No more, no less.’ He passed a piece of paper over to them with the address of a boat-dock on it.

  There was a ring at the bell and the doctor crossed to the window. ‘Right,’ he said, turning. ‘That’s May Chung telling me her uncle’s here with my taxi. I’ve no more time, ladies, and you’ll have to go, I’m afraid. Leave everything there, just. I’ll do the washing-up when I get back from Rome. And, from the look of things, Mrs Mariner, the next time I’ll see you will be in court. As they say.’ But Robin wasn’t listening to the bit about the washing-up. She was wondering about that name. May Chung. Could it have been May Chung who finally made the old man talk to them?

  The address was between Richmond, Kingston and Hampton, close beside Stevens Eyot. It was at the end of a battered, sad little street that looked to have been derelict before the Blitz. The narrow, pitted roadway led out on to a mud track across some sad grey grass between the buildings and the water. The track led down to a crazy little wooden pier with a long battered looking wooden-hulled boat at its end. Its name was Argo and it was just possible to distinguish the faded gold lettering and the pallid blue eye on the bow beneath the mud and verdigris. Unless Dr Walton was correct and Smithers was hiding aboard, it certainly looked as though no one had been near her for five months or so.

  Frances and Robin stepped silently aboard. No doubt when the police came they arrived in a Day-Glo car with flashing lights and sirens. If Smithers wanted to remain invisible he would have found it easy to avoid such a visit. But if Dr Walton was correct, this was still the most likely hiding-place for the accountant and stealth might catch him unawares.

  But the boat was empty. A modest, mouldering Mary Celeste. It wasn’t the size of a proper houseboat but it would house one man with extremely limited wants. They searched it from the damp, water-marked stem to the sprung and leaky stern. The decks were empty apart from the lines attaching the vessel to the pier; lines long enough to accommodate the limited tidal range so far up the river and the other changes in water level that resulted from flood or drought upstream. The cabin was perhaps ten feet long and no more than four feet wide. Like most ships’ cabins it was a three-dimensional jigsaw where everything fitted inside something or folded out from somewhere. And it was empty. The newspaper on the table with the half-full whisky bottle on it and
the supplement beside the tiny toilet with a pencil close at hand were both dated the day of Charles Lee’s last charity ball. To which Smithers, seemingly, had been invited, for the invitation was still there. But Robin could not remember having been introduced to him there, and Richard hadn’t mentioned seeing him.

  The only things there that were of more recent date were the letters piled untidily on the table. The vessel had an address and therefore could be written to. And the local postman clearly a tee-totaller who took his duties seriously. Unable to resist, Robin looked through them, judging the contents from the envelopes. They were clearly mostly service and utility bills and circulars. And, oddly, there was a series from Moss Brothers, the tailors and hire specialists.

  Frances crouched and opened the hatch in the floor. The smell of oil and bilges filled the little room. ‘There’s a hatch down to the motor on the aft deck,’ said Robin.

  ‘If you can call it a deck,’ said Frances. ‘It’s about the size of a pocket handkerchief.’

  But they checked it out nevertheless. And, except for a venerable diesel motor, it too was empty.

  As they stood, hesitating, on the after deck, so a boat swept by going downstream. It was by no means a big boat and it was travelling well within the speed limit. But it set up a wake and, in the narrow confines of the river, the wake washed rapidly over to Argo. The little vessel stirred, rising and falling unhandily, her ropes groaning as she moved. The water rumbled under her stern but, noted Robin’s sea-wise eyes, it washed through the hawse-hole and on to the port quarter of the foredeck. Frowning, she edged past the raised section that was the roof of the accommodation and walked forward. ‘There’s something here,’ she called, ‘a bit odd...’