Medusa (5 page)

‘Of course. VHF, too, a big chart table, bunks for six …'

‘How much if I want to charter it – for a day, say?'

I told him it depended whether it was a bareboat charter or fully stocked and crewed.

‘Just you and me.' And then he seemed to change his mind. ‘Forget it. Just an idea.' He settled the bill, insisting I was his guest, and on the spur of the moment, as we were walking to the cars, I asked him whether he would care to join us at the Red Cross party that evening. ‘It's run by a Menorquin friend of ours, Manuela Renato,' I told him. ‘Usually it's at a dance hall and restaurant beyond Villa Carlos, but this year she's organised it in the Quarries just above where we live. Should be quite fun – barbecue, bonfire, dancing, fireworks, all in a huge great rock chamber that looks like something hacked out for the tomb of a pharaoh.'

Why I should have asked him, God knows. Curiosity, I suppose. The man was under pressure, I could see it in his eyes, something hanging over him. And the photograph. I tried to recall the scene in that bar, but Soo and I had been discussing the villa we had just looked over, and it was only when the three of them were putting on their coats and going out into the rain that I really took any notice of them.

We had reached my car and I stood there waiting for his answer, trying to figure out from the hard jut of his chin, the shape of that short neck and the solid head, the lines at the corners of eyes and mouth, what sort of a man he really was. What did he do for a living? Above all, why was he here?

‘All right,' he said finally. ‘I'll come.' He didn't thank me, his acceptance almost grudging, as though he felt he shouldn't be wasting his time on such frivolities.

‘Good,' I said. ‘That's settled then. Eight-thirty at our place.' And I got into my car, never dreaming that my casual invitation would be the catalyst to something that would get completely out of hand.

He wasn't looking at me as I backed away from the water's edge and drove off. He had turned his head towards the harbour entrance again and was standing there, quite still, staring towards the horizon with an intensity that left me with the odd feeling that he was expecting some visitation from the sea.

The road from Fornells enters the outskirts of Mahon at the opposite end to where we live, and instead of heading straight along the waterfront, past the
Aduana
, the Customs House, and the commercial wharf, I turned left and drove out on to the naval quay where the boats we had laid up out of the water were parked. I drove straight up to the elderly Hillyard we were working on and called up to Carp. The Danish owner, who had picked the boat up cheap in Palma the previous autumn, had phoned me just before Christmas and I had promised to have it ready in time for him to leave for a family cruise in the Greek islands at Easter. We had left it a little late, particularly as there was a new engine to be installed.

I called again as I started up the ladder and Carp's tonsured head popped out of the wheelhouse. He was his usual gloomy self as he showed me another frame with its fastenings gone, also at least three deck beams that needed replacement. ‘Won't ever finish in time, will we?' he grumbled as he indicated one of the knees rotted where water had been seeping from the deck above. ‘And the engine still to be fiddled in, all the rigging. I'll ‘ave to take Rod off of the American boat for that.'

I told him that was impossible. He already had Luis varnishing the brightwork. With Rodriguez, that would make two of our locals, as well as himself, working on the one boat. ‘Well,' he said, looking me straight in the face,
‘d'you want 'er finished on time, or don't you?' And he added, ‘Up to you. I didn't promise nothing.'

In the end I agreed, as he knew I would. And all the time we were talking I had the feeling there was something else on his mind. It wasn't until I was leaving that he suddenly blurted it out – ‘That man outside the shop this morning – did you see him? A little red car. He was there just as I left. Did he come into the shop?'

I was on the ladder then, beginning to climb down, my face almost level with the deck. ‘Yes. I sold him a couple of charts.'

‘Did he say who he was?' I told him the man's name and he nodded. ‘Thort so. He must have recognised me, but he didn't want to know me, did he, so I thort I was mistaken.' He leaned out towards me. ‘If it wasn't for me that man would've died of cold. Well, not just me. There was four of us in the pilot boat, see, but it was me wot cut him down off the Woodbridge Haven buoy. Did he give you any sort of rank?'

‘No,' I said, curious now and climbing back up the ladder.

‘Mebbe he hasn't got one now. There was a lot of talk at the time.'

‘About what?'

‘Well, it was an arms run, wasn't it, and he was a Navy lieutenant.' And then he was telling me the whole story, how the Deben pilot at Felixstowe Ferry had seen something odd fixed to the Haven buoy and the four of them had gone out in the dawn to find a man fully clothed and tied to the side of the buoy with a mooring line. ‘Poor bastard. We thort he were dead. Cold as buggery off the bar it was, the wind out of the north and beginning to whip up quite a sea. Then later, when he's out of hospital, he comes and buys us all a pint or two in the Ferryboat, so he knows bloody well I was one of those that rescued him. Funny!' he said. ‘I mean, you'd think he'd come and say hullo, wouldn't you? I'd seen ‘im before, too. When he
were a little runt of a fella living with a no-good couple and their son on an old ‘ouseboat in a mud creek back of the Ferryboat, an' I wasn't the only one that recognised him. That's what started tongues wagging.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, you bin there, when you was looking for a boat that spring. You know wot it's like there, an' a couple of kids, no proper man to control them. They broke into a yacht moored back of the Horse Sand and got at the drink locker. No harm done, but later they had a go at the RAF mess over at Bawdsey – for a lark they said. People remember that sort of thing.'

I didn't see what he was getting at. ‘What's that got to do with arms-running?' I asked. ‘You said something about arms-running.'

‘That's right. But we didn't know about that at the time, did we? There was just a lot of rumours flying about on account of strangers poking around in the mud at the entrance to the King's Fleet. Then, after those terrorist attacks on police stations at Liverpool and Glasgow, and on that court in Clerkenwell, the papers were full of it. This Lieutenant Jones, he makes a statement, about how he'd been bird-watching an' had seen them unloading the arms at the King's Fleet, about half a mile inside the Deben mouth. It was an IRA gun run, you see, and they caught him watching ‘em from the high bank of the river as they landed the stuff. That's how he come to be on the buoy. Didn't shoot him, instead, they threw him overboard out beyond the Deben bar, so he'd drown and it would look like an accident.'

He shook his head slightly, muttering to himself: ‘Funny that – him not wanting to talk to me.' And then he brightened. ‘Mebbe they sacked ‘im. That'd account for it. There was a swarm of investorigaty journalists digging into his background, and some of the stories they ran …' He gave a little shrug and turned away. ‘Well, better get on if we're ever goin' ter finish this job.' And without
another word he went back to the wheelhouse and disappeared below.

Was that it? Was he now into some smuggling racket, having been forced to resign his commission? All those questions about coves and inlets … I was wondering about him as I drove home along the waterfront, wondering whether I would be able to get anything out of him during the evening.

He was punctual, of course, the bell of the chandlery sounding virtually on the dot of 20.30. I called down to him to come up, and introducing him to Soo, I said, ‘Is it Mr Lloyd Jones or do you have anything in the way of a rank?'

‘Gareth Lloyd Jones will do,' he said, smiling and taking Soo's outstretched hand. Some sort of a spark must have passed between them even then, her cheeks suddenly flushed and a bright flash of excitement in those dark eyes of hers as she said, ‘I think you'll enjoy this evening. Manuela and her friends have done a great job of the preparations.' But I didn't take note of it at the time, still thinking about the way he had parried my question. If my suspicions were correct I wasn't at all sure I wanted to be seen entertaining a man who might land himself in trouble.

Petra was usually late and that evening was no exception. She was a large-boned girl with a freckled face and wide mouth that always seemed to be full of teeth. But her real attraction was her vitality. She came thundering up the stairs, that broad grin on her face and breathless with apologies. ‘Sorry. Found I'd ripped my pants dancing the other evening and had to change.' She saw Lloyd Jones and stopped. ‘I'm Petra Callis.' She held out her hand.

‘Gareth Lloyd Jones.' And then, as I was getting her a drink, I heard her say, ‘Soo will have told you what I'm up to, digging about in megalithic holes. I live out there on Bloody Island, a leaky tent among the ruins.' She jerked her head towards the window. Then she asked with blatant
curiosity, ‘What's your line of country? Yachts, I suppose, or are you a villa man?'

‘No, neither.'

But Petra wasn't the sort of girl to be put off like that. She opened her mouth wide and laughed. ‘Well, come on – what do you do? Or is it something mysterious that we don't talk about?'

I glanced back over my shoulder to see Lloyd Jones staring at her, a shut look on his face, mouth half-open and his eyes wide as though in a state of shock at the blatantness of her curiosity. Then he smiled, a surprisingly charming smile as he forced himself to relax. ‘Nothing mysterious about it. I'm a Navy officer.'

As I passed Petra her gin and tonic Soo was asking him what branch of the Navy. ‘Exec,' he replied, and she picked that up immediately. ‘So was my father. Came up through the lower deck.' A moment later I heard the word Ganges mentioned.

‘HMS
Ganges?
' I asked. ‘On Shotley Point just north of Harwich. Is that the school you were referring to this morning, the one you and Evans were at?' And when he nodded, I said, ‘It's called Eurosport Village now, or was when I was last there. I know it quite well. There's a commercial range and I used to practise there before going on to Bisley for the Meeting.'

‘These cups, they're for shooting then, are they?' He couldn't help noticing them. He was standing right next to the pinewood cabinet I had purchased to house them and Gloria, our help, was a determined silver polisher. We talked about Shotley for a moment, then Soo butted in again, asking him how it had been when he was being trained there. From that they progressed to Malta. It was her mother who was Maltese. Her father had been a naval officer posted to Malta back in the days when there was a C-in-C Med and an old frigate fitted out as the Commander-in-Chief's yacht for showing the flag and entertaining. He had been the Navigating Officer on board
and though she had been far too young to remember anything about it, she was always ready to talk of the parties he had described on the open lamplit deck.

It was past nine before we finally left, and though it was barely a mile away, by the time we had found a place to park the car and had walked through the quarry, somebody had already lit the bonfire. The effect was magic, the flames lighting the great square stone buttresses, flickering over the lofty limestone roof, shadows dancing on the moonlit cliffs, so that the whole effect was like some wild biblical scene. In the great rectangular cavern itself the dirt base of it had been levelled off to provide a makeshift dance floor round which chairs had been placed and trestle tables bright with cloths and cutlery and bottles of wine.

The band began to play just as we found our table. Manuela came over, and, while Soo was introducing Lloyd Jones, Petra and I were momentarily on our own. ‘You wanted to talk to me,' I said.

‘Did I?' Her eyes were on the movement of people towards the dance floor, her foot tapping, her body moving to the beat of the music.

‘Now, what have you discovered?' I asked her. ‘Another of those hypostilic chambers or is it an underground temple to the Earth Mother like that place in Malta?'

‘The Hypogeum?' She shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that. Just a charcoal drawing. But it could be a lot older. I've only seen part of it. I don't know whether it represents a deer, a horse, a bison or a mammoth. I don't know what it is. A woolly rhinoceros perhaps.' She gripped hold of my arm. ‘Come on, let's dance. I'll settle for a woolly rhinoceros and tell you the rest while we're dancing.'

But she couldn't tell me much. ‘You'll have to see it for yourself. I think it's early man – cave-dwelling man – but of course I don't know. Not yet.'

‘Then why consult me? I don't know the difference between the drawings of early man and a potholer's graffiti.'

She hesitated, then said, ‘Well, it's not just that I've unearthed what looks like a section of a cave painting, it's the fact that people have been digging in that cave.'

‘Archaeologists, you mean?'

‘No, no. People who haven't the slightest idea they've uncovered anything. And if they did know, I imagine they couldn't care less. The charcoal drawing was only uncovered because they had been clearing a roof fall, and part of the drawing has already been sliced away when they were shovelling the rubble clear. They've dug out a hole I think I could have wriggled through, but I wasn't going to risk that on my own, it looked too unsafe.' And she added, ‘I could hear water slopping around, Mike, and there was a draught of air. I think they've opened up a way through to the sea. But why?' She stared up at me, her body close against mine. ‘Do you think that's what they were up to, cutting a way through to the sea?'