Pitt rethought his plan. ‘Perhaps he’s waiting here for someone, and he feels safe enough not to care about us?’ he suggested.
‘Or whoever’s coming is so important he has to take the risk?’ Gower countered.
‘Exactly.’ Pitt settled himself more comfortably in his chair. ‘But we could wait a long time for that, or possibly fail to recognise it when it happens. I think we need a great deal more information.’
‘French police?’ Gower said doubtfully. He moved his position also, but to one less comfortable, as if any moment he might stand up again.
Pitt forced himself not to copy him. He must appear totally relaxed.
‘Their interests might not be the same as ours,’ Gower went on. ‘Do you trust them, sir? In fact, do you really want to tell them what we know about Wrexham, and why we’re here?’ His expression was anxious, bordering on critical, as if it were only his junior rank that held him back from stronger comment.
Pitt made himself smile. ‘No, I don’t,’ he answered. ‘To all your questions. We have no idea what they know, and no way of checking anything they may tell us. And, of course, our interests may very well not be the same. But most of all, as you say, I don’t want them to know who we are.’
Gower blinked. ‘So what are you suggesting, sir?’
Now was the only chance Pitt was going to have. He wanted to stand up, to have the advantage of balance, even of weight, if Gower moved suddenly. He had to stiffen his muscles and then deliberately relax to prevent himself from doing it. Carefully he slid a little further down in the seat, stretching his legs as if they were tired — which was not difficult after his ten-mile walk. Thank heaven he had good boots, although they looked dusty and scuffed now.
‘I’ll go back to London and see what they have at Lisson Grove,’ he answered. ‘They may have much more detailed information they haven’t given us. You stay here and watch Frobisher and Wrexham. I know that will be more difficult on your own, but I haven’t seen them do anything after dark other than entertain a little.’ He wanted to add more, to explain, but it would cause suspicion. He was Gower’s superior. He did not have to justify himself. To do so would be to break the pattern, and if Gower were clever, that in itself would alarm him.
‘Yes, sir, if you think that’s best. When will you be back? Shall I keep the room on here for you?’ Gower asked.
‘Yes — please. I don’t suppose I’ll be more than a couple of days, maybe three. I feel we’re working in the dark at the moment.’
‘Right, sir. Fancy a spot of dinner now? I found a new cafe today. Has the best mussel soup you’ve ever tasted.’
‘Good idea.’ Pitt rose to his feet a little stiffly. ‘I’ll leave first ferry in the morning.’
The following day was misty and a lot cooler. Pitt had deliberately chosen the first crossing to avoid having to breakfast with Gower. He was afraid in the affected casualness of it he might try too hard, and make some slip so small Gower picked it up, while Pitt would have no idea anything had changed.
Or had Gower suspected something already? Did he know, even as Pitt walked down to the harbour along ancient, now-familiar streets, that the pretence was over? He had a desperate instinct to swing round and see if anyone were following him. Would he pick out Gower’s fair head, taller than the average, and know it was he? Or might he already have changed his appearance and could be yards away, and Pitt had no idea?
But his allies, Frobisher’s men, or Wrexham’s, could be anyone: the old man in the fisherman’s jersey, lounging in a doorway, taking his first cigarette of the day; the man on the bicycle bumping over the cobbles; even the young woman with the laundry. Why suppose that Gower himself would follow him? Why suppose that he had noticed anything different at all? The new realisation loomed gigantic to him, filling his mind, driving out almost everything else. But how self-centred to suppose that Gower had nothing more urgent to consume his thoughts! Perhaps Pitt and what he knew, or believed he knew, was an irrelevance anyway.
He increased his pace and passed a group of travellers heaving along shopping bags and tightly packed portmanteaux. On the dockside he glanced around as if to search for someone he knew, and was flooded with relief when he saw only strangers.
He stood in the queue to buy his ticket, and then again to get on board. Once he felt the slight sway of the deck under his feet, the faint movement, even here in the harbour, it was as if he had reached some haven of safety. The gulls wheeled and circled overhead, crying harshly. Here on the water the wind was sharper, salt- smelling.
Pitt stood on the deck by the railing, staring at the gangway and the dockside. To anyone else, he hoped he looked like someone looking back at the town with pleasure, perhaps at a holiday well spent, possibly even at friends he might not see again for another year. Actually he was watching the figures on the quay, searching for anyone familiar, any of the men he had seen arriving or leaving Frobisher’s house, or for Gower himself.
Twice he thought he saw him, and it turned out to be a stranger. It was simply the fair hair, an angle of shoulder or head. He was angry with himself for the fear that he knew was largely in his mind. Perhaps it was so deep because, until the walk back to the town yesterday evening, it had never entered his mind that Gower had killed West, and Wrexham was either a co-conspirator, or even just a tissue-paper socialist posing as a fanatic, like Frobisher himself. It was the shock at his own blindness that dismayed Pitt. How stupid he had been, how insensitive to possibilities. He would be ashamed to tell Narraway, but he would have to; there would be no escaping it.
At last they cast off and moved out into the bay. Pitt remained where he was at the rail, watching the towers and walls of the city recede. The sunlight was bright on the water, glittering sharp. They passed the rocky outcrops, tide slapping around the feet of the minor fortress built there, guarding the approaches. There were few sailing boats this early: just fishermen pulling up the lobster pots that had been out all night.
Pitt tried to imprint the scene on his mind. He would tell Charlotte about it: the beauty, the tastes and sounds, how it was like stepping back in time. He should bring her here one day, take her to dine where the shellfish was so superb. She hardly ever left London, let alone England. It would be fun, different. He imagined seeing her again so vividly he could almost smell the perfume of her hair, hear her voice in his mind. He would tell her about the city, the sea, the tastes and the sounds of it all. He wouldn’t have to dwell on the events that had brought him to France, only on the good.
Someone bumped against him and, for a moment he forgot to be startled. Then the chill ran through him, and he realised how his attention had wandered.
The man apologised.
Pitt spoke with difficulty, his mouth dry. ‘It’s nothing.’
The man smiled. ‘Lost my balance. Not used to the sea.’
Pitt nodded, but he moved away from the rail and went back into the main cabin. He stayed there for the rest of the crossing, drinking tea and having a breakfast of fresh bread, cheese and a little sliced ham. He tried to look as if he were at ease.
When they reached Southampton he went ashore carrying the light case he had bought in France and looking like any other holidaymaker returning home. It was midday. The quayside was busy with people disembarking, or waiting to take the next ferry out.
He went straight to the railway station, eager to catch the first available train to London. He would go home, wash and dress in clean clothes. Then, if he were lucky, just have time to catch Narraway before he left Lisson Grove for the evening. Thank heavens for the telephone. At least he would be able to call and arrange to meet with him wherever was convenient. Maybe with his news about Gower, a rendezvous at Narraway’s home would be better.
He felt easier now. France seemed very far away, and he had had no glimpse of Gower on the boat. He must have satisfied him with his explanation.
The station was unusually busy, crowded with people all seemingly in an ill humour. He discovered why when he bought his ticket for London.
‘Sorry, sir,’ the ticket seller said wearily. ‘We got a problem at Shoreham-by-Sea, so there’s a delay.’
‘How long a delay?’
‘Can’t say, sir. Maybe an hour or more.’
‘But the train is running?’ Pitt insisted. Suddenly he was anxious to leave Southampton, as if it were still dangerous.
