When Eight Bells Toll. Alistair MacLean

      ‘I’ll get into my pyjamas,’ Hunslett said tiredly. At the doorway he paused and turned. ‘If the Nantesville had gone, her crew – the new crew -have gone too and we’ll be having no visitors after all. Had you thought of that?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I don’t really believe it either.’

      They came at twenty past four in the morning. They came in a very calm and orderly and law-abiding and official fashion, they stayed for forty minutes and by the time they had left I still wasn’t sure whether they were our men or not.

      Hunslett came into my small cabin, starboard side forward, switched on the light and shook me. ‘Wake up,’ he said loudly. ‘Come on. Wake up.’

      I was wide awake. I hadn’t closed an eye since I’d lain down. I groaned and yawned a bit without overdoing it then opened a bleary eye. There was no one behind him.

      ‘What is it? What do you want?’ A pause. ‘What the hell’s up? It’s just after four in the morning.’

      ‘Don’t ask me what’s up,’ Hunslett said irritably. ‘Police. Just come aboard. They say it’s urgent.’

      ‘Police? Did you say, “police”?’

      ‘Yes. Come on, now. They’re waiting.’

      ‘Police? Aboard our boat? What -’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake! How many more nightcaps did you have last night after I went to bed? Police. Two of them and two customs. It’s urgent, they say.’

      ‘It better bloody well be urgent. In the middle of the bloody night. Who do they think we are -escaped train robbers? Haven’t you told them who we are? Oh, all right, all right, all right! I’m coming.’

      Hunslett left, and thirty seconds afterwards I joined him in the saloon. Four men sat there, two police officers and two customs officials. They didn’t look a very villainous bunch to me. The older, bigger policeman got to his feet. A tall, burly, brown-faced sergeant in his late forties, he looked me over with a cold eye, looked at the near-empty whisky bottle with the two unwashed glasses on the table, then looked back at me. He didn’t like wealthy yachtsmen. He didn’t like wealthy yachtsmen who drank too much at nighttime and were bleary-eyed, bloodshot and tousle-haired at the following crack of dawn. He didn’t like wealthy effete yachtsmen who wore red silk dragon Chinese dressing-gowns with a Paisley scarf to match tied negligently round the neck. I didn’t like them very much myself, especially the Paisley scarf, much in favour though it was with the yachting fraternity: but I had to have something to conceal those bruises on my neck.

      ‘Are you the owner of this boat, sir?’ the sergeant inquired. An unmistakable West Highland voice and a courteous one, but it took him all his time to get his tongue round the ‘sir.’

      ‘If you would tell me what makes it any of your damn’ business,’ I said unpleasantly, ‘maybe I’ll answer that and maybe I won’t. A private boat is the same as a private house, Sergeant. You have to have a warrant before you shove your way in. Or don’t you know the law?’

      ‘He knows the law,’ one of the customs men put in. A small dark character, smooth-shaven at four in the morning, with a persuasive voice, not West Highland. ‘Be reasonable. This is not the sergeant’s job. We got him out of bed almost three hours ago. He’s just obliging us.’

      I ignored him. I said to the sergeant: ‘This is the middle of the night in a lonely Scottish bay. How would you feel if four unidentified men came aboard in the middle of the night?’ I was taking a chance on that one, but a fair chance. If they were who I thought they might be and if I were who they thought I might be, then I’d never talk like that. But an innocent man would. ‘Any means of identifying yourselves?’

      ‘Identifying myself?’ The sergeant stared coldly at me. ‘I don’t have to identify myself. Sergeant MacDonald. I’ve been in charge of the Torbay police station for eight years. Ask any man in Torbay. They all know me.’ If he was who he claimed to be this was probably the first time in his life that anyone had asked him for identification. He nodded to the seated policeman. ‘Police-Constable MacDonald.’

      ‘Your son?’ The resemblance was unmistakable. ‘Nothing like keeping it in the family, eh, Sergeant?’ I didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but I felt I’d been an irate householder long enough. A degree less truculence was in order. ‘And customs, eh? I know the law about you, too. No search warrants for you boys. I believe the police would like your powers. Go anywhere you like and ask no one’s permission beforehand. That’s it, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ It was the younger customs man who answered. Medium height, fair hair, running a little to fat, Belfast accent, dressed like the other in blue overcoat, peaked hat, brown gloves, smartly creased trousers. ‘We hardly ever do, though. We prefer co-operation. We like to ask.’

      ‘And you’d like to ask to search this boat, is that it?’ Hunslett said.

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Why?’ I asked. Puzzlement now in my voice. And in my mind. I just didn’t know what I had on my hands. ‘If we’re all going to be so courteous and co-operative, could we have any explanation?’

      ‘No reason in the world why not, sir.’ The older customs man was almost apologetic. ‘A truck with contents valued at £12,000 was hi-jacked on the Ayrshire coast last night – night before last, that is, now. In the news this evening. From information received, we know it was transferred to a small boat. We think it came north.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Sorry, sir. Confidential. This is the third port we’ve visited and the thirteenth boat – the fourth in Torbay – that we’ve been on in the past fifteen hours. We’ve been kept on the run, I can tell you.’ An easy friendly voice, a voice that said: ‘You don’t really think we suspect you. We’ve a job to do, that’s all.’

      ‘And you’re searching all boats that have come up from the south. Or you think have come from there. Fresh arrivals, anyway. Has it occurred to you that any boat with hi-jacked goods on board wouldn’t dare pass through the Crinan canal? Once you’re in there, you’re trapped. For four hours. So he’d have to come round the Mull of Kintyre. We’ve been here since this afternoon. It would take a pretty fast boat to get up here in that time.’

      ‘You’ve got a pretty fast boat here, sir,’ Sergeant MacDonald said. I wondered how the hell they managed it, from the Western Isles to the East London docks every sergeant in the country had the same wooden voice, the same wooden face, the same cold eye. Must be something to do with the uniform. I ignored him.

      ‘What are we – um – supposed to have stolen?’

      ‘Chemicals. It was an I.C.I. truck.’

      ‘Chemicals?’ I looked at Hunslett, grinned, then turned back to the customs officer. ‘Chemicals, eh? We’re loaded with them. But not £12,000 worth, I’m afraid.’

      There was a brief silence. MacDonald said: ‘Would you mind explaining, sir?’

      ‘Not at all.’ I lit a cigarette, the little mind enjoying its big moment, and smiled. ‘This is a government boat, Sergeant MacDonald. I thought you would have seen the flag. Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries. We’re marine biologists. Our after cabin is a floating laboratory. Look at our library here.’ Two shelves loaded with technical tomes. ‘And if you’ve still any doubt left I can give you two numbers, one in Glasgow, one in London, that will establish our bona fides. Or phone the lock-master in the Crinan sea-basin. We spent last night there.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ The lack of impression I had made on the sergeant was total. ‘Where did you go in your dinghy this evening?’

      ‘I beg your pardon, Sergeant?’

      ‘You