Eye of the Needle (21 page)

“You’ve hurt yourself.”

She looked at him. She was crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The cut was superficial. She took a handkerchief from her trousers pocket and staunched the blood. Faber released her hand and began to pick up the pieces of broken glass, wishing he had kissed her when he’d had the chance. He put the shards on the mantel.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said. (Didn’t he?)

She took away the handkerchief and looked at her thumb. It was still bleeding. (Yes, you did. And, God knows, you have.)

“A bandage,” he suggested.

“In the kitchen.”

He found a roll of bandage, a pair of scissors, and a safety pin. He filled a small bowl with hot water and returned to the living room.

In his absence she had somehow obliterated the evidence of tears on her face. She sat passively, limp, while he bathed her thumb in the hot water, dried it, and put a small strip of bandage over the cut. She looked all the time at his face, not at his hands; but her expression was unreadable.

He finished the job and stood back abruptly. This was silly: he had taken the thing too far. Time to disengage. “I think I’d better go to bed,” he said.

She nodded.

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing,” she told him. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Her tone was harsh. He guessed that she, too, felt the thing had got out of hand.

“Are you staying up?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Well…” He followed her through the hall and up the stairs, and he watched her climb, her hips moving gently.

At the top of the stairs, on the tiny landing, she turned and said in a low voice, “Good night.”

“Good night, Lucy.”

She looked at him for a moment. He reached for her hand, but she turned quickly away, entering her bedroom and closing the door without a backward look, leaving him standing there, wondering what was in her mind and—more to the point—what was really in his.

22

B
LOGGS DROVE DANGEROUSLY FAST THROUGH THE
night in a commandeered Sunbeam Talbot with a souped-up engine. The hilly, winding Scottish roads were slick with rain and, in a few low places, two or three inches deep in water. The rain drove across the windshield in sheets. On the more exposed hilltops the gale-force winds threatened to blow the car off the road and into the soggy turf alongside. For mile after mile, Bloggs sat forward in the seat, peering through the small area of glass that was cleared by the wiper, straining his eyes to make out the shape of the road in front as the headlights battled with the obscuring rain. Just north of Edinburgh he ran over three rabbits, feeling the sickening bump as the tires squashed their small bodies. He did not slow the car, but for a while afterward he wondered whether rabbits normally came out at night.

The strain gave him a headache, and his sitting position made his back hurt. He also felt hungry. He opened the window for a cold breeze to keep him awake, but so much water came in that he was immediately forced to close it again. He thought about Die Nadel, or Faber or whatever he was calling himself now: a smiling young man in running shorts, holding a trophy. Well, so far Faber was winning this race. He was forty-eight hours ahead and he had the advantage that only he knew the route that had to be followed. Bloggs would have enjoyed a contest with that man, if the stakes had not been so high, so bloody high.

He wondered what he would do if he ever came face to face with the man. I’d shoot him out of hand, he thought, before he killed me. Faber was a pro, and you didn’t mess with that type. Most spies were amateurs: frustrated revolutionaries of the left or right, people who wanted the imaginary glamour of espionage, greedy men or lovesick women or blackmail victims. The few professionals were very dangerous indeed; they were not merciful men.

Dawn was still an hour or two away when Bloggs drove into Aberdeen. Never in his life had he been so grateful for street lights, dimmed and masked though they were. He had no idea where the police station was, and there was no one on the streets to give him direction so he drove around the town until he saw the familiar blue lamp (also dimmed).

He parked the car and ran through the rain into the building. He was expected. Godliman had been on the phone, and Godliman was now very senior indeed. Bloggs was shown into the office of Alan Kincaid, a detective-chief-inspector in his mid-fifties. There were three other officers in the room; Bloggs shook their hands and instantly forgot their names.

Kincaid said: “You made bloody good time from Carlisle.”

“Nearly killed myself doing it,” Bloggs replied, and sat down. “If you can rustle up a sandwich…”

“Of course.” Kincaid leaned his head out of the door and shouted something. “It’ll be here in two shakes,” he told Bloggs.

The office had off-white walls, a plank floor, and plain hard furniture: a desk, a few chairs and a filing cabinet. It was totally unrelieved: no pictures, no ornaments, no personal touches of any kind. There was a tray of dirty cups on the floor, and the air was thick with smoke. It smelled like a place where men had been working all night.

Kincaid had a small moustache, thin grey hair and spectacles. A big intelligent-looking man in shirtsleeves and braces, he spoke with a local accent, a sign that, like Bloggs, he had come up through the ranks—though from his age it was clear that his rise had been slower than Bloggs’s.

Bloggs said: “How much do you know about all this?”

“Not much,” Kincaid said. “But your governor, Godliman, did say that the London murders are the least of this man’s crimes. We also know which department you’re with, so we can put two and two together about this Faber…”

“What have you done so far?” Bloggs asked.

Kincaid put his feet on his desk. “He arrived here two days ago, right? That was when we started looking for him. We had the pictures—I assume every force in the country got them.”

“Yes.”

“We checked the hotels and lodging houses, the station and the bus depot. We did it quite thoroughly, although at the time we didn’t know he had come here. Needless to say, we had no results. We’re checking again, of course; but my opinion is that he probably left Aberdeen immediately.”

A woman police constable came in with a cup of tea and a very thick cheese sandwich. Bloggs thanked her and greedily set about the sandwich.

Kincaid went on: “We had a man at the railway station before the first train left in the morning. Same for the bus depot. So, if he left the town, either he stole a car or he hitched a ride. We’ve had no stolen cars reported, so I figure he hitched—”

“He might have gone by sea,” Bloggs said through a mouthful of wholemeal bread.

“Of the boats that left the harbor that day, none was big enough to stow away on. Since then, of course, nothing’s gone out because of the storm.”

“Stolen boats?”

“None reported.”

Bloggs shrugged. “If there’s no prospect of going out, the owners might not come to the harbor—in which case the theft of a boat might go unnoticed until the storm ends.”

One of the officers in the room said, “We missed that one, chief.”

“We did,” Kincaid said.

“Perhaps the harbormaster could look around all the regular moorings,” Bloggs suggested.

“I’m with you,” Kincaid said. He was already dialing. After a moment he spoke into the phone. “Captain Douglas? Kincaid. Aye, I know civilized people sleep at this hour. You haven’t heard the worst—I want you to take a walk in the rain. Aye, you heard me right…” Kincaid put his hand over the mouthpiece. “You know what they say about seamen’s language? It’s true.” He spoke into the phone again. “Go round all the regular moorings and make a note of any vessels not in their usual spot. Ignoring those you know to be legitimately out of port, give me the names and addresses—and phone numbers if you have them—of the owners. Aye. Aye, I know…I’ll make it a double. All right, a bottle. And a good morning to you too, old friend.” He hung up.

Bloggs smiled. “Salty?”

“If I did what he suggested I do with my truncheon, I’d never be able to sit down again.” Kincaid became serious. “It’ll take him about half an hour, then we’ll need a couple of hours to check all the addresses. It’s worth doing, although I still think he hitched a ride.”

“So do I,” Bloggs said.

The door opened and a middle-aged man in civilian clothes walked in. Kincaid and his officers stood up, and Bloggs followed.

Kincaid said, “Good morning, sir. This is Mr. Bloggs. Mr. Bloggs, Richard Porter.”

They shook hands. Porter had a red face and a carefully cultivated moustache. He wore a double-breasted, camel-colored overcoat. “How do you do. I’m the blighter that gave your chappie a lift to Aberdeen. Most embarrassing.” He had no local accent.

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.