15

When he jerked awake, Michael was immediately conscious that the light outside was different. It was yellower somehow. Evening was coming on. The sea was now much calmer and he could hear again the slap-slap of water against the hull as it raced past. He had a consuming desire for a cigar.

The only satisfaction Michael could salvage from the situation was that he was refreshed now and Grainger could not be. The other man had been up all night and had needed to handle the launch in fairly heavy seas all day. He was a tall and sinewy man but he had to be weaker now, Michael hoped.

The light began to fade. The sun must have just set. Funny how quite blustery days often settled down towards sunset. It was true the world over. Involuntarily, he thought back to the places he had been where he had watched wonderful sunsets—Jamaica, California, Chile, British Columbia, Australia. Michael was suddenly angry all over again. For a few moments since he woke up he had forgotten to be angry.

He heard the rattle of the door handle as Grainger opened it. ‘Nine-twenty,’ he shouted. ‘We left Portland Lighthouse over an hour ago … there’s no one else in sight and it’s time to make a start.’

The tape was unwound from Isobel’s face. Once more she cried out as it was pulled roughly from her flesh. Then the scissors were wedged under the tape which fastened Michael’s mouth. He pressed his lips together as best he could so that no more tender tissue was torn away.

‘There, you can both talk if you wish. Yell all you like. We’re out of sight of land.’

Neither Isobel nor Michael spoke.

‘Very wise. Now I’m going to let you in on my plan. I want you both to know that, despite what happened at Oxford, and despite the fact that you beat me—by a whisker, I might add—my solution to the problem of your disposal is possibly the most brilliant conception I have ever devised. Given the circumstances …

‘I also want to get it off my chest. Think about all this from my point of view. I have worked out the most elegant solution to a problem. All the loose ends are tidied up, the problems smoothed away; the red herrings, the false clues I shall leave, are simple, clean and will work perfectly … the intellectual satisfaction is immense. But I can hardly tell anyone, can I? It’s not like the solution to an academic controversy which I can publish.’ He laughed. ‘But I can tell you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Since I am going to drown you shortly, there’s no harm in your knowing. In fact,’ he chuckled, ‘it helps me to let you in on my plans. Now I shall know that someone, even at such a—well, embarrassing—time, has appreciated my guile. So I shall feel … content. I can do what I have to do, knowing that someone, someone I respect, knew—for however short a time—knew that George Grainger’s mind was as sharp and creative as ever.’ He stopped smiling. ‘You are a safety valve. That is your value to me. In telling you, I shall never again be tempted to tell anyone else. If we were not having this chat, I might be tempted in years to come. But not now. The fact that you are listening makes it safe for me. I ought to thank you but that really would be silly.

‘It’s now getting dark. We’ve sailed west all day and are now about five miles offshore of Weymouth. According to the maps there are about four hundred feet of water at this point. I have just transferred the box with the skulls and rings in it to the skiff at the back of the launch. Also the two fishing rods I bought at Wareham this morning, my radio, coffee flask, bits of silver chocolate paper, the seven fish I caught today. When I motor into Weymouth in about—oh, two hours—I shall look like a perfectly ordinary but very keen fisherman who’s been out all day. It will be dark, so no one will pay any attention to an old box. Everything will all look so natural.’

Michael went to speak, but Grainger raised his voice and hurried on.

‘Before all that, however, there comes the bit I’m most proud of. Where I’ve been really clever.

‘As soon as it’s completely dark, I shall invite each of you out of the cabin and on deck. There I shall remove the tapes and the ropes—and all of your clothes. The cabin is too small for such sport. Then you will be … persuaded back into the cabin, and locked in again—’

‘Why—’

‘Then I shall scuttle the launch. It’s quite easy—I just turn a tap by the engine. The boat will take about seven or eight minutes to sink. After about four minutes, I shall take to the skiff and watch the rest of the proceedings from there. As soon as the launch is safely out of sight I shall head for the shore. I should reach Weymouth about eleven-thirty. Late but not suspiciously so for a fishing fanatic on a summer’s evening.’

‘The launch will be missed before we are.’ Michael could keep silent no more.

‘No doubt. But it can’t be traced to me—or to you, for that matter.’ Grainger shifted, to make himself more comfortable. ‘I must confess that, like you, I expected to find the silver in Pallington church. Unlike you, however, after I’d worked out that the church was the place, I always considered it risky, from my point of view, to use a car to take everything away in. There’s traffic on a country lane even in the depths of night and I couldn’t risk being seen. That’s why I chose the river. Unfortunately, the launch I was in when we had our … encounter … on the river had been hired only for a day. That’s why you caught up with me and even overtook me; I had to search for another.

‘It wouldn’t have been clever to hire one, of course. They don’t let you keep these things out after dark. So I had to … help myself.’

‘You stole it?’

Again the chuckle. ‘The least of my sins, as you will shortly find out.’

Michael stared at Grainger, trying to control his hatred.

‘It was remarkably easy. There’s a large basin at Poole, a wide stretch of water just inside the drawbridge and on one of the banks is a rather nice pub. I had a drink there on Sunday afternoon and watched a couple moor their launch in the middle of the basin, on a pontoon. They covered the deck area with a tarpaulin and then rowed ashore. They joined a crowd they knew in the pub, had a couple of drinks, then got into their car, waving to everyone and telling the world, or anyone who cared to listen, that they would be back next weekend.’ Grainger shook his head from side to side, mentally congratulating himself on his cunning. ‘Yesterday morning, very early, I rowed out to the launch, fiddled with the ignition—it’s just like a car or a motor bike—and, well … here we are.’ He stared at Michael. ‘This launch won’t be missed until next Saturday morning at the earliest and even then it can’t be linked with either you or me.’

He stroked the crease in his cheek. ‘If your bodies are found, then it will look as though you stole the launch. Once your bodies have been identified, people will then remember that you have already had one “accident” with a boat, and ended up in the water. They will assume you were careless, fatally so, a second time. If they don’t find you, as I suspect will be the case, they will assume you flew off—’

‘– but if they find the bodies and the car, miles away, that will look suspicious.’

‘No. If you were going to steal a boat, you wouldn’t park your own car nearby, would you? If the launch were to be missed early, a nearby car without a local registration would be one of the first things the police would check—and it would lead straight to you. A sensible thief would leave his car some way away … like a long-term car-park where it wouldn’t arouse suspicion. You can get from Bournemouth to Poole very easily, by train or bus.’

Michael forced all the hatred he could muster into his eyes. They were his only weapon.

But Grainger only chuckled icily again. ‘Keep trying. Your objections just show, so far, how clever I’ve been in working things out.

‘Now, let me get on with explaining my plan. This is the next clever bit … I left my motor cycle in a side road in Wareham. If I have missed the last train from Weymouth to Wareham, I shall simply take a taxi. From Wareham I shall ride to Moreton station. It’s about half a mile outside the village and, as you will see, is necessary to my plans. I see from the map that it also has two caravan sites—which means that, at this time of the year, there is a lot of strange traffic in the area. I shall not be noticed. Moreton is, of course, barely two miles from Pallington. I shall walk there keeping to the hedges so that no one sees me. It should take me no more than an hour. Between two and three o’clock tomorrow morning, I shall therefore locate your car, which must be hidden somewhere near the church in Pallington. And that reminds me: where are the keys?’

Michael was silent.

‘Come along! Or I shall harm Miss Sadler here.’ And he jabbed Isobel’s thigh with the boat-hook.

‘Here, in my jacket,’ breathed Michael softly. He was feeling totally humiliated by Grainger’s treatment.

Grainger reached forward, found the keys, but also noticed the cigar which was still in Michael’s top pocket. He laughed, took it out, smelled the leaves. He put it in his own jacket pocket and then stood back again near the door. ‘I shall search your car for any incriminating documents or other evidence and dispose of them. I shall then drive your car to Bournemouth airport. Somewhere along the way I shall “lose” the fishing rod and the rest of the junk. As soon as everyone else wakes up, so I don’t draw attention to myself, I shall park the car in the long-stay car park and then take a bus to Bournemouth railway station. No one will pay any attention to me—I shall just be one of hundreds of bus passengers that day. I shall then take a train back to Moreton and pick up my motor bike. I shall drive that to Bournemouth airport and leave it in the same car park. Then I shall go back into Bournemouth, this time by taxi, and catch a coach or bus to Weymouth. It would be quicker to catch a train but if I used the railway station twice in the space of a few hours it might look suspicious. In Weymouth I shall take the ferry to Jersey. I can’t fly out of the country because I would have to use my real name. And in any case it’s as good a way to get to Jersey as any, which is where my first stop will be. The banking system there, being what it is, is perfect for my plan. As you may know, Jersey is stuffed with safety deposit centres which are open at all hours and are much more anonymous than banks proper. I shall deposit the Pallington box in one of them.

‘Next, it is just a short hop from Jersey to France, where I should arrive by early tomorrow evening. They never stamp your passport these days. A train should get me into Paris some time late at night.’

Michael’s mind involuntarily went back to the Bibliothèque Nationale and the coffee he had drunk in the square outside. He realised how much his body ached for coffee now. And a cigar.

‘Next comes the third clever part. You cannot, of course, stay in a French hotel without registering and giving your name. If anything should go wrong with the rest of my plans, and people should want to know where I was at the time of this … incident … then I would need an alibi and the dates on hotel registration forms might not stand up. Therefore I shall enjoy myself and spend tomorrow night at Barbara’s, a rather busy brothel just off the rue de Seine. One can spend a night there very pleasantly. Expensively, but pleasantly. No one, of course, expects anyone to use his real name, nothing is ever written down, all transactions are in cash. The next day I shall proceed to Amsterdam and repeat the same process at the Chequered Flag, a not dissimilar establishment. All the while I shall be sending postcards to friends and colleagues. They will, of course, be pre-dated. The postcards will turn up days later and people will never remember when they got them, still less work out when they were posted. That’s the way with postcards—some take a day or two, some take a week. But if called upon to be witnesses, months later, these friends will confirm that I was certainly in Paris and Holland at this time. I shall also look up university colleagues in Paris and Amsterdam.

‘Then I shall return to England and retrieve my motor cycle. That was another brilliant touch. I haven’t ridden one of those things since I was a boy, so no one will associate a fifty-year-old don with motorbike leathers. The helmet came in very handy, of course, as a disguise. Most probably, your bodies will never be discovered and my elaborate plan will have been unnecessary. Pleasant, expensive, but unnecessary. If, however, for some reason your bodies and the boat are found, the situation will be clear. Being naked, you were engaged in having sex, you didn’t notice the boat was sinking and, too late, were inadvertently locked in the cabin. You probably haven’t noticed but there is a bracket attached to the wheelhouse outside the cabin which clips on to the door to keep it open. In a moment I shall pull it away from the wood it is screwed into and then fix it to the fitting on the door, so that it will appear as if the door slammed shut accidentally after the restraining bracket broke loose. But, as I say, I don’t expect your bodies ever to be found, and most probably people will think, weeks from now when the airport authorities finally pay attention to your car, that you flew off somewhere. You will be listed missing and that will be that. Now, we’ll start with you, Miss Sadler. Get up, please.’

Michael’s brain was a jumble of questions and delaying tactics. ‘What about Helen Sparrow? She can link you to us.’

Grainger smiled his cold smile. ‘Can she? I wore my helmet all the time I was there. And at that point, Whiting, even you thought I was called Molyneux.’

Michael groaned. Grainger was right … No, he wasn’t right. He was overestimating his own cleverness and underestimating the police. It was that intellectual vanity again—and it was what made him so dangerous. Helen would obviously alert the police if she didn’t hear from Isobel and Michael, or if their bodies were discovered. She would tell them about Molyneux. That might not lead straight to Grainger but the police would know that the launch ‘accident’ was no such thing.

All these thoughts flashed through Michael’s brain as fast as a guillotine but he didn’t speak. Grainger’s vanity was leading him on and no amount of argument would change his stubborn mind. Michael had to watch for his chance, then seize it. Rather than waste energy on arguing, it was better to nurse his strength.

The tapes and ropes around Isobel’s ankles were cut. She was led out on deck. Her wrists were now fixed to the gunwhale.

‘Don’t think of jumping overboard,’ said Grainger. ‘You’ll only be dragged along behind the launch and get caught up in the propeller. There … I think that’s tied firmly enough. Let me just pull it hard, to see … Yes, that’s fine. Struggle if you want to. You won’t get free.’ He turned back to the cabin. ‘Now, Mr Whiting. You. I’m going to untie your feet. Please don’t think of kicking out at me. The gun isn’t in my hand but it isn’t far away. If I need to I shall hit you over the head with it and undress you myself while you are unconscious. That may spoil my plan a little but I shall wait for you to come round before I drown you.’

Michael watched in silence as the tape was pulled back from his knots, then the knots themselves were loosened. His legs were free.

‘Stand up and walk towards me.’

Out on deck it was a beautifully clear night. As Michael came out of the cabin and felt what was left of the breeze on his cheek, Grainger grabbed his arms from behind and pushed him quickly to the back of the launch. Michael started to turn to kick out at Grainger but was neatly tripped by the other man. He fell, crashed into Isobel’s legs and banged his head against something hard. The pain made his eyes water. Before he could recover, Grainger was on him and tying another rope around his wrists. His arms were jerked up behind him, painfully, as Grainger hurried to tie Michael to the gunwhale.

Michael regained his feet. Steadying himself, he looked all around him. Grainger was right: there was no land in sight, no other boat or ship, not a light or a sail, not anything.

Grainger, who now had Michael’s cigar wedged in his mouth, addressed him. ‘No reason why you shouldn’t enjoy the show, Whiting. I don’t know whether you’ll find it erotic or embarrassing. I don’t really care. Now, Miss Sadler, I’m going to untie you. As I do so I shall stand about six feet from you. In one hand I shall have the gun. The boat-hook is also very close. At that range I can do you serious damage the minute you depart from the script. First I want you to shake free of the ropes on your wrists.’

Michael had to stop it. ‘Helen Sparrow may never have seen your face, Grainger. But she saw—and cleaned—the picture. So, even if you do find the missing silver, you can never sell it or publish how you found it. It won’t help your academic reputation.’

Again the cold smile. ‘Oh, but you are wrong, Whiting. Very wrong. You surprise me and underestimate me. The Pallington box could not suit my purposes better. You are probably interested in—oh, the gospels perhaps, as the most valuable item, financially. Or the crosier, which is probably the most beautiful piece. I, however, am not. For the first part of my plan, the most useful items are the hand reliquary and the map of the True Cross. The reason? Very simple. They both contain jewels. The hand bears exquisite rubies, while the map shows the sites of the cross, each one designated by an emerald. Some of them are fairly small, but by no means all. There’s an account of the Monksilver treasure in a sixteenth-century manuscript in the British Museum. You may not know about that.

‘Assuming all goes well tonight, I shall allow a suitable interval to pass. Just to be on the safe side, I shall take a trip abroad, perhaps. But then I shall return and retrieve the Pallington box from Jersey. Unlike you, I already know where I shall find the silver hidden, don’t forget that. Discreetly, I shall remove it. At my leisure I shall carefully detach the rubies and the emeralds from the hand and the map. Then, over the following weeks, in London, Amsterdam, Israel, New York and India, where I gather there is now a thriving jewellery market, I shall dispose of the jewels, one or two at a time. The emeralds must be worth a million and the rubies nearly as much. Not as much as if I sold everything, of course, not by a long chalk. But in selling the jewels I shall become comfortably off without drawing attention to myself.’

‘Only a freak would vandalise the treasure!’ Isobel put all the contempt she could muster into her words.

‘Don’t be so quick to judge me, Miss Sadler.’ He stepped closer to Isobel. ‘Now, my dear, let us begin.’

Michael watched as Grainger untied the rope from the gunwhale. With scissors he cut the tape which covered the rope around Isobel’s wrists. He undid two of the knots and then stood back and picked up the boat-hook and the gun.

Slowly, Isobel worked her hands free. She rubbed her wrists.

‘Now, begin with your shirt and trousers. And, Miss Sadler, as you take off your clothes throw them into the bucket over there.’ He indicated with the boat-hook and then turned back to Michael.

‘Once the sale of jewels has been completed and I am a … sufficiently well-off man, I shall allow more time to elapse. With you two dead there will be no hurry. Then, after a year, maybe two years, I shall return to Pallington, to St Mary’s. Again, at my leisure, I shall observe where the key to the church is hidden—since I am sure you returned it to the wrong place last night, Mr Whiting, in a silly attempt to raise the alarm. Maybe they will have changed the lock and the hiding place. But security is a boring business, the most boring there is, which is why it always fails. I shall have no real difficulty, being in no hurry, in discovering how to enter St Mary’s late at night unobserved. As you know only too well.’

He looked fiercely at Isobel and stabbed the boat-hook into the wooden deck inches from her feet. ‘Do it!’

Isobel’s fingers sought the buttons on her shirt. She undid them and took off her shirt.

‘Throw it into the bucket.’

She threw the shirt where Grainger said.

‘Now take off your bra. Let Mr Whiting and me see your breasts.’ Grainger pulled the boat-hook from where it still quivered in the deck and stood ready to throw it again should Isobel not obey him immediately.

But she did. With one hand she unhooked her bra at the back, took it off and threw it on top of her shirt. Then she bent to undo her trousers, took them off and threw those on to the pile.

‘Now the rest. I’m enjoying this.’ Grainger stretched his arm holding the boat-hook so that its tip brushed Isobel’s breasts. Then he stepped back further.

Isobel had stiffened as the boat-hook touched her but she now bent again, removed her pants and threw them on to her other clothes. She stood up straight. As she did so every inch of her body was displayed to both men. Embarrassment and defiance mingled in her eyes. Michael realised that Grainger, in forcing him to watch, was making the situation humiliating for them both. And it stopped them thinking of ways of escaping.

Isobel stood in front of Grainger, turned slightly away from Michael. Her hands were at her sides, not hiding anything. Either from fear, or cold, her nipples were erect. Her eyes bore into Grainger’s. Was he aroused? Could she, with her body, with its promise, distract or delay him? She could bring herself to use no form of words but if –

Grainger smiled and blew cigar smoke at her. ‘Into the cabin please.’

As she moved he held the boat-hook no more than six inches from her skin. Michael could see as well as Grainger that the boat-hook was still more terrifying for Isobel than the gun.

Grainger slammed the cabin door behind Isobel and turned to Michael. ‘When I have discovered how to get back into St Mary’s, I shall return again, as last night, and force my way into the church. This time, however, I shall not take anything but put it back! That is the really beautiful part of my plan. I shall also return the silver to its original hiding place. I shall sprinkle it with dirt and dust and then leave it for several months to accumulate still more, genuinely so.

‘Then comes my final, glorious coup. I shall approach the directors of the British Museum, and the Victoria and Albert Museum, the vicar of Pallington and somebody from one of the quality Sunday newspapers. I shall say that I think I have found the Monksilver treasure, which has been missing for centuries, and will ask them, or their representatives, to accompany me to the church. They will, of course, be unable to resist. After suitable diversions and mistakes, we shall finally discover the cavity in the tympanum. The skulls and rings will lead us to the silver. Sensation!’

‘What about the missing jewels?’

‘Everyone will be so overwhelmed by the discoveries that they will automatically agree with my suggestion that the actual jewels were looted at the time the silver was hidden away. It’s the kind of thing that happened. Neat, eh? The discoveries are what matter. They will make the front pages all over Europe and North America. I shall then be famous as well as quite rich—but that is not all. A court will no doubt adjudicate later on who the treasure belongs to. I shall announce in advance that my share, should there be any, will be donated to the V and A or the British Museum, whichever decides it is the more suitable home. I shall then settle down to write a book about the whole affair. This will reveal that I was set on the trail by the sale of documents at Sotheby’s but that later I noticed a picture in a sale catalogue in Switzerland, called the Landscape of Lies.’

‘Then Helen Sparrow will go to the police—’

‘Hear me out, Whiting; I shall have sent the picture for sale, in Switzerland as I say, but through a fiduciary. The Swiss have these convenient people, who make a good living acting as barriers for people who wish to do things anonymously. The picture will be entered for sale with a low reserve. It will be printed in the catalogue and—who knows?—someone will buy it. Or I shall buy it back through another fiduciary. It doesn’t matter because I shall base my coup not on the picture itself but on the photograph of it in the sale catalogue.’

‘But Helen will report its theft.’

‘Let’s assume she does. Okay, the picture was stolen from her studio. Now it has turned up in Europe, battered. Miss Sparrow will say that you asked her to clean a particular part of the picture which you were interested in. She, and the police, if they are interested, will find that the area of the picture which you were interested in is now covered over again with grime—that tile with the coat of arms is hidden again. You see, Whiting, what you are overlooking is that the part of the picture which you went to so much trouble to have cleaned, and which I went to so much trouble to steal, is not necessary to the solution of the mystery. You found out the hard way, just as I did. But, knowing what I know now, in my book I shall make it plain that the figure is facing the wrong way and therefore is a non-clue. There is therefore no need for me to have gone anywhere near Helen Sparrow’s studio. The puzzle actually can be solved using a photograph of the painting, even though part of it is grimy and hidden. I will be able to argue convincingly that I never needed to see the actual picture, to solve the problem. The police will conclude that the theft and my discovery are completely unrelated.’

‘That’s ridiculous. You’re being stupid, Grainger. Helen is bound to alert the police when we disappear. She will tell them everything about the painting, and the silver. Lots of people will know and the police will simply not believe the coincidence.’

‘I am not stupid, Whiting, you know that. Coincidences happen all the time, and that’s very often all they are.’

With a jolt, Michael recalled himself using those very words to Isobel at their first meeting.

Grainger went on. ‘Remember, a couple of years will have elapsed between a theft at Aldeby, which was regarded as so unimportant at the time that it was never reported to the police, and a small auction in Switzerland. There is no link between Miss Sadler and me, you and me, or Miss Sparrow and me. On top of that, the fact that I have discovered the treasure and donated my share to the nation will put me entirely above suspicion. Who would think to raise doubts about an academic who did such a thing?’

Michael’s mind was racing again. Grainger’s vanity awed him. His plan made intellectual sense. As a piece of reasoning, Michael had to admit that it was brilliant. But it made no psychological sense. Neither Helen nor, more important, the police would believe Grainger. After twenty years they might, but not after two. Once he came out with his discovery he would come under suspicion and, when that happened, the police would ferret out some error …

But for now that wasn’t the point. The point was that Grainger believed Grainger and his intellectual pride was leading him forward.

He was behind Michael now, beginning to undo the ropes at his wrists. As with Isobel he left Michael to work free the last knot as he retrieved the gun and the boat-hook. Michael knew that he had to do something while he had his hands free. It was the only chance he would get. He also knew that Grainger knew. The other man would be expecting Michael to try something. Whatever that something was, it had to be a complete surprise. And to work it had to be simple.

‘Isobel’s farm manager will recognise the picture. He will put two and two together. He may even remember your visit.’

‘Rubbish. He never saw me, and Miss Sadler brought the picture up to you herself. And he’s a farmer. No one will query me, Whiting. So far as anyone knows, I shall have made no financial gain. I shall have had no motive to kill you, just as I shall have had no motive to burgle Helen Sparrow. That’s where the beauty, the elegance, of my plan lies. My reputation will soar. When the donation of the treasures is made, I think I can be sure that, within the not too distant future, I shall be Sir George Grainger. It’s not quite as good as a professorship at Oxford but it’s not bad as a second best—eh?’

Michael shook the rope from his wrists and rubbed his flesh where it was sore. He turned to face Grainger. The other man looked at his watch.

‘Nearly ten. We’re running a bit late. No matter, I’ll have less time to wait in Bournemouth. Now, come over here and start undressing. I prefer to watch you from over there!’

Warily, the two men changed places so that Michael was standing, still fully clothed, with his back to the locked cabin door, and Grainger was again by the tiller.

‘Start with your shirt, as Miss Sadler did. But don’t be too long about it.’ Grainger stooped and turned something near the engine: it was the tap which scuttled the boat. Immediately a gurgling was heard and Isobel started shouting from within the cabin. Michael began to unbutton his shirt, thinking furiously. What could he do? They had less than seven minutes now to live.

He took off his shirt and unfastened his belt. He unzipped his trousers and slid them down his legs. He took off his socks and shoes so that only his underpants remained. There was an inch or so of water in the boat now. Isobel was still hammering on the cabin door.

He bent so that he could slide his pants down over his feet. Now he too was naked. His clothes were in a heap on top of Isobel’s. Presumably Grainger would make Michael take all the clothes into the cabin with him, so the sex scenario would look more plausible. There were nearly four inches of water in the boat now. It covered his feet to his ankles.

He saw his chance.

Michael straightened his body facing Grainger. As he did so Grainger’s eyes instinctively followed his own upwards. In one sudden movement Michael kicked out with his right leg. Water from the deck flew in a splash of spray towards Grainger and he flinched. In that moment Michael threw himself violently to one side, deliberately making the boat roll. Grainger, not expecting it, stumbled and fell on to one knee. He looked away, throwing out one arm to help keep his balance. Michael lunged for the cabin door, turned the handle and pulled the door open. He kicked more water at Grainger as the other man started to recover. Then Michael threw himself towards the stern of the boat but to one side so that the launch now rolled the other way. There were already six or seven inches of English Channel in the bottom of the boat.

Michael had bruised his shoulder when he threw himself towards the stern. He was kneeling in water as Grainger began to recover and raised the gun.

Michael saw the boat-hook lying between them, its hook pointing towards him. Grainger was levelling the gun. Michael scooped more water at him. This time the other man didn’t flinch but he did close his eyes for a fraction as the water hit his face. That was when Michael reached the boat-hook and grabbed it. It was heavy in the water and now Grainger was pointing the gun again.

Michael raised the hook, which suddenly jerked free of the water and slammed upwards. Grainger parried it with his free hand but the force of the blow unbalanced him again and he swayed. Michael jumped and before Grainger could take aim a third time he had reached the gun. The boat-hook had dropped back into the water swirling around the deck. Michael’s hand closed around the barrels of the shotgun. The two men struggled. Grainger’s teeth, amazingly, still gripped Michael’s cigar. The water in the boat was above their shins. Grainger pulled one of the two triggers on the shotgun. The explosion was deafening—but the barrels were aimed harmlessly at the waves. Seeing a way out, Michael sank to his knees, dragging Grainger with him. He pulled at the gun. Grainger tried hard to stop him, but he was exhausted and, slowly, Michael pulled him down. The water was still rising, and therefore Michael’s ally for a moment. He gave one last heave—and submerged the gun in sea water. Now it would surely not work.

Grainger must have thought the same, for he let go of the gun before Michael did and reached quickly for the boat-hook.

‘Michael!’

Michael turned in time for Isobel to throw him a very wet pair of trousers. ‘Jump!’ he yelled to her. ‘Get clear!’ He turned back to face Grainger.

Grainger lunged at him and Michael did his best to parry the blow with his trousers. Grainger lunged again, harder this time, and the hook pierced the wet cloth and dug into Michael’s arm. He screamed. Grainger was immediately on him, his long thick fingers at Michael’s throat. Grainger couldn’t know it but the hook had sliced into Michael’s wrist at precisely the point where he had suffered his skiing accident. The agony was immense. A hot tide of pain rushed up his arm. It meant he now had only one hand to fight with.

He saw Grainger above him. He could smell the other man’s breath—the coffee he had drunk mingled with tobacco smoke. It was stale and made Michael feel sick. He felt himself being pushed down. The water was rising to meet him: now it was Grainger’s ally. He felt the cold Channel water at the back of his head, lapping his ears. Grainger was forcing him down.

Behind Grainger he saw Isobel. She hadn’t jumped, but what could she do? Though Grainger was weaker than Michael might be, he was still too strong for her.

Suddenly Grainger snatched the cigar from his mouth and in one swift movement jabbed the lighted end into Michael’s injured arm. The hot ash and blood mingled and Michael’s screams shot across the waves. The pain filled every pore in his body. As Michael convulsed, Grainger shifted his weight and forced his head below the water. Michael spluttered and coughed and heaved as his mouth and nose sank into the salty water. All he could think of was the pain in his arm and hand, his raw nerves scorched by the hot cigar.

Then, through a blur of tears and sea water, Michael saw that Grainger’s face had suddenly darkened. It wasn’t shadow, though. It was brown. A brown strip. Two brown strips. Three. Isobel had found the tape! She pulled it around Grainger’s eyes, then his nose, then his mouth. He couldn’t breathe.

Grainger’s hands now sought to free the tape around his nose, but Isobel continued winding. She wound his hands to his face. That didn’t work for long but by then she had wound the tape around his body twice, twisting it to give it added strength.

Michael squirmed out from under Grainger. The boat was now nearly waist-deep in water and would be going under soon. The pain in his arm was scalding.

Grainger was still caught up in the tape. Isobel had now wound it round his legs. She screamed at Michael. ‘Look at your arm. Try to stop the blood! And jump! Free the skiff. I can manage.’

Michael saw what she meant. He grabbed his floating shirt and pressed it to his wound. The amount of blood he was losing was alarming. Then he jumped. The skiff was tied to the launch and would go down with it.

As he jumped, the whole episode seemed to move into slow motion. He had time to kick himself over to the skiff. Using his good arm, he untied the smaller craft from the launch. Then he hung on. The pain in his arm was too much for him to be able to haul himself out of the water unaided. Through his pain he watched Isobel as, twice more, she wound tape around Grainger’s legs. He had pulled the tape away from his face but his arms and hands were still caught among the sticky strips. Then, very calmly, Isobel took three steps back from Grainger, unwinding more tape as she went. She stood for a moment, then wound the tape around the gunwhale now only a few feet above water.

She turned back to the struggling Grainger and brandished something at him, something Michael couldn’t quite see.

‘I can cut you free, Grainger!’ she screamed.

Michael realised she had the scissors Grainger had used to cut the tape from their faces.

‘What do the skulls and the rings mean? Where’s the silver? Grainger!’

Grainger screamed back. ‘You can’t let me drown! Cut the tape!’

‘The silver!’

‘Cut the tape and I’ll tell you.’

‘Isobel!’ yelled Michael. ‘Forget it—we’ve got the box. Get clear!’

Isobel seemed not to hear him. She was shouting again. ‘You tried to kill me twice, Grainger. The silver! Say and I’ll cut the tape.’

Grainger didn’t reply but instead redoubled his efforts to break free. As he did so, the boat gave a lurch.

The pain in Michael’s arm throbbed on, made worse by the salt in the water. He just summoned the strength to shout again. ‘Isobel, it’s going. Get clear. Jump!’

Isobel had been unbalanced by the lurch of the boat and suddenly seemed to realise how close to sinking it was. She turned and began to climb over the gunwhale.

‘No!’ screamed Grainger. ‘No! The tape—’

Isobel stopped climbing and turned. But she remained where she was.

Grainger stared at her for a moment. It was a battle of wills and no one spoke.

Then the boat lurched again. Michael opened his mouth to shout another warning to Isobel.

But Grainger got in first. ‘Hell!’ he cried. ‘Hell. The place is Hell.’

For a split second Isobel didn’t know what to say. Then she jerked to life. ‘Hell isn’t a place,’ she shouted back. ‘You’re still playing riddles. Hell doesn’t exist.’

‘It does, it does. I told you! The tapes, cut them! I told you all I know. Hell—’

‘Isobel! Isobel!’ Michael watched in horror as the launch rolled over, taking Grainger down and Isobel upwards for a moment as the hull was lifted. The roll just gave her time to dive clear. She took the roll of tape with her.

Michael’s last image of the launch, as he still clung to the skiff, was of the huge wiry figure of Grainger, writhing in the sticky brown web, his screams suddenly silenced as the launch sank from view.

They put into Portland Harbour three hours later. After an hour at sea in the skiff they had seen the sweep of the lighthouse beam and aimed for that. The unannounced arrival of two naked adults puttering into a naval base in the small hours set off a full alert. But it was worth it, for Michael could take advantage of the superb medical treatment available around the clock at Castletown Naval Hospital.

Even so, the general view of the hospital staff was that he might not have survived if the woman with him had not shown such presence of mind. No one had realised beforehand that plastic tape can serve equally well as a tourniquet.