Ring of Terror by Michael Gilbert Page B

‘I’m not telling you all this just to give you a lesson in geography. I had an idea when I was talking to young Trotter and his mates and sampling some of the Highland dew they’d brought back from one of their trips to Edinburgh. Lovely stuff. I’d’ve brought some round for you, only I remembered what you’d said about alcohol being bad for concussion.’ Observing the look in Luke’s eye he hurried on. ‘My idea was that these boats wasn’t only cargo boats. They’ve got accommodation – limited but comfortable was how they described it – for one or two passengers. Businessmen who like to take things easy, people like that. So what about you asking for a couple of weeks’ convalescent leave and getting a bit of sea air into your lungs?’
    ‘Attractive,’ agreed Luke. ‘How long should I have to be away?’
    ‘That’s what I asked Bill. The Amelie’s due to leave for Newcastle on Saturday. How long the trip takes depends on the weather – sometimes they have to beat about for days – and how long they’re held up at the other end, that depends on the cargo. They’ll be carrying cement in bags and timber. Clean stuff and easy to unload. Coming back it’ll likely be iron-ore for smelting. They could be tied up at the other end for a week or more. Shouldn’t be more than ten days, though. If it was going to be more’n that, they’d come back empty. Can’t hang around. That’s losing money.’
    As Joe had been speaking the idea had been growing in attraction. Fishing trips out of the Orwell or the Stour, with a night at sea and return on the morning tide, had been almost his only relaxation during the years of his Russian study and the North Sea no longer had the power to upset him. Calculating dates and times he said, ‘It looks as though I’d have to put in for fifteen days. Saturday to Monday fortnight.’
    ‘The skipper wouldn’t say no to that. You’re his white-headed boy. When he heard you’d been hurt, the tears were streaming down his face.’
    Having nothing handy to throw at Joe, Luke said, ‘Then you think he’d agree?’
    ‘It wouldn’t be his say-so. Not entirely. He’d have to fix it up with Josh.’
    This reference to Superintendent Joscelyne, the head of ‘H’ Division, gave both of them pause. Although the Superintendent did not control the day-by day working of the plain-clothes branch, all administrative decisions stemmed from him. He was not positively unfriendly, as Garforth had been, but had maintained, so far, a massive neutrality in his dealings with those two young hopefuls, Detective Pagan and Detective Narrabone. So far as he was concerned, they were on probation.
    ‘There’s just one thing,’ said Joe. ‘It mightn’t be a good moment to bother the skipper. He’s got a lot on his plate. I’ve noticed, if there’s any sort of nonsense anywhere and a Russian or a Yid’s involved – which there usually is – then it doesn’t matter which division it happens in, it’s “Send for Wensley”.’
    ‘That must be good for him, career-wise. Surely he’s heading for the top.’
    ‘He may be heading for it, but it won’t do him much good if he dies of overwork before he gets there. Last time I saw him he was looking like death warmed up.’
    ‘Surely not as bad as that,’ said Wensley.
    He was noted for walking softly. When on the beat, he was reputed to have tacked strips of bicycle tyre to the soles of his regulation boots.
    Joe, unperturbed, said, ‘I don’t know how much of that you heard, sir. But I was proposing a sea voyage for this young tearaway’s health.’
    ‘Yes. I heard that bit. Not a bad idea. But I’ve had a better one. We’ll sell it to the Superintendent as one week’s convalescence and one week’s work. If you feel you’re up to it.’
    ‘I’m all right now, sir, really,’ said Luke. ‘Two or three days at sea and I’ll be on the top line.’
    Wensley examined the temperature chart, stroked his splendid moustache