Death of a Supertanker (24 page)

With Lourens’s closing address had come Jarrett’s final disintegration. He had sat loose-lipped and bewildered, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief and drinking innumerable glasses of water as Lourens spoke. Sandy, watching him, had shrunk from the sight of the man she once so much admired, who had so infatuated her, being publicly humiliated. In that moment she felt deeply sorry for him.

Now, waiting in front of the public gallery to join her husband, she saw a man she did not know go up to where Jarrett was sitting, lean over and show him a piece of paper. Jarrett’s drawn face seemed to collapse as he read it. Then Ohlsson joined them and there was a short discussion after which Jarrett took his briefcase from the table, got up slowly like an old man with arthritic joints and left the courtroom with the stranger.

The news of Jarrett’s arrest in court was too late for the evening papers, but it got mention in the SABC news bulletin and headlines in next day’s morning newspapers.

On Friday when the enquiry adjourned, Kahn had told Foley that the court would almost certainly discharge him with a clean sheet. Thus it was with light hearts that the Foleys went down to St James the next day, swam and sunbathed, ate an enormous lunch at a local hotel, and relaxed for the first time in weeks. That evening, back at the hotel in Cape Town, the receptionist handed Foley a letter which had arrived in the morning mail. It was from the Iranian National Oil Company in Abadan and had been forwarded on from his London address.

He read it quickly, put it in his pocket and went upstairs. Later that night when they were having a drink before dinner, he passed the letter to Sandy. ‘Might interest you,’ he said.

She looked at him quizzically, opened and read it. ‘George! How fabulous.’ With scant regard for the people in the lounge she threw her arms round him and kissed him. ‘You didn’t even tell me you’d applied.’

‘Wasn’t any point. I’ve tried for so many jobs and not got them I thought I’d keep this one under my hat.’

‘Well, well.’ She looked at him with shining eyes. ‘You are a clever boy. What is a Loading Master?’

‘Bloke who controls tanker loading at an oil terminal.’

‘Is the pay good?’

‘Fabulous by our standards. Tax free, plus car, house, free holiday travel to Europe, education allowance for kids.’

‘If any.’ She looked at him guardedly.

‘And other fringe benefits. Three years there and we’ll have saved a packet. Even with your tastes.’

‘Don’t be a bastard, George.’ She sighed. ‘You’ll miss the sea, won’t you?’

‘I’ll get over it. Still be mucking about with ships. It’ll be a lot better for us.’

‘Tell me about Abadan and what life’s like out there?’

He stood up, held out a hand. ‘Come on. I’ll tell you over dinner and a bottle of bubbly.’ He pulled her up. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked at him in a puzzled way. ‘When did you apply for this one?’

‘Saw the advertisement the day before we sailed from Durban. Gave the letter to Kostadis to post when he left the ship.’

‘You secretive brute.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

Tuesday came and the small courtroom was packed as usual when the Chairman and Assessors took their seats.

Jarrett was the only absentee when the Chairman began to read aloud the court’s finding. After a fairly lengthy preamble, its real meat was commendably brief:

The
Court
having
carefully
examined
the
circumstances
attending
the
matter
find,
for
the
reasons
stated
in
the
appendix
hereto,
that
the
stranding
of
the
Cyprus
registered
VLCC
Ocean Mammoth
at
Cape
Agulhas
on
29
October
last
was
due
to
the
gross
negligence
and
default
of
the
chief
officer,
Ian
Freeman
Jarrett,
as
more
fully
set
out
in
the
Cour
t’s
findings
on
the
questions
formulated
by
the
Secretary
for
Transport.

The appendix recorded, among other things, the cancellation of the chief officer’s certificate of competency in respect of all waters and ships within the jurisdiction of the Republic of South Africa, the finding of the court to be conveyed to the United Kingdom’s Department of Trade and Industry, the issuing authority for the certificate.

The Chairman and Assessors withdrew and the courtroom soon emptied. The proceedings had occupied less than twenty minutes.

It was after ten-thirty when the Foleys, escorted by Arnold Kahn, slipped away from the Magistrate’s Court and made for a small café in a side street near the railway station. It was empty but for a man who sat alone in an ill-lit corner. They ordered coffee and Kahn began explaining some of the behind-the-scene activities at the enquiry. He’d not got far when Sandy interrupted. ‘Look. That’s Piet Pieterse sitting over there. Shouldn’t we ask him to join us?’

Foley looked at Kahn. ‘Any problems?’

‘No. Ask him over if you wish.’ Kahn hesitated. ‘Don’t discuss
the sabotage business. It’s
sub judice
and you’re both likely to be called as witnesses.’

Foley went over, brought Pieterse back with him and greetings were exchanged. Pieterse, looking mildly embarrassed, sat down. A girl brought coffee, another cup was ordered and Kahn got some sort of conversation going. Pieterse’s coffee arrived, he sipped it, found it too hot and the conversation dried up. The silence which followed was broken when the steward in a shy and rather halting way congratulated Foley on the outcome of the enquiry. Sandy Foley then asked him if his search for a job had produced any results.

He shook his head. ‘Not yet, madam. I’ve been too busy for that.’

‘Of course. I’d forgotten.’ She smiled sympathetically.

‘But the prospects are not too bad.’ His grin revealed a missing tooth. ‘All that stuff in the papers about Piet Pieterse. My goodness. You’d think I was an important guy. Now the press boys are making me offers for my story.’ He laughed, a kind of cracked cackle, one hand over his mouth to hide his teeth. ‘Not that it’s much of a story. For three days in my life I’m at sea, then I’m wrecked. Jesus!’

They laughed with him and Kahn warned against accepting the first offer. If he needed help and advice, he could put him in touch with a reliable agent. Addresses were exchanged and Pieterse was about to go, when Kahn congratulated him on what he had done in the interests of justice.

Pieterse looked at him doubtfully. ‘It wasn’t that, sir. You wouldn't understand. But that man called me an ignorant bastard.’

Pressed for his story, Pieterse said, ‘The first day at sea – after we left Durban – I came round a corner in the alleyway outside the bar-lounge. The ship was doing some big rolls and I was carrying a loaded tray. I wasn’t used to doing it under those conditions. The chief officer comes round the corner and we collide. It’s then he says, “You stupid ignorant bastard. Why don’t you look where you’re going”.’

Pieterse watched his audience through hurt, bloodshot eyes. ‘It was only a little coffee that spilt on his white uniform. Not much, sir. Just a few drops really.’

Instinctively Foley knew then who it was had phoned him on
the bridge that night to tell him his wife wanted him urgently in their cabin.

The easy chair in the bay window of the hotel bedroom in The Gardens gave Captain Crutchley a view over Table Bay. It was a beautiful aspect, the lights of the city spread like a glittering quilt before him, the long lines of mercury and sodium vapour lamps marking the main thoroughfares leading towards the foreshore and the sea, then swinging left and right to the suburbs. He could see the lights of the ships in the Duncan Basin, beyond them those of vessels at anchor in the outer harbour. Most of his life had been spent at sea, and the ships and the harbour filled him with nostalgia for other times and places. He thought of all the great ports he’d seen at night: Sydney, Rio, Montevideo, Bombay, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Marseilles, Hamburg, Genoa, New York, Baltimore, San Francisco, Liverpool, Southampton – and many others. Pictures of them passed through his mind’s eye, taking him back to the romance and adventures of his youth.

His thoughts returned to the events of the last few days. The enquiry was over, the charges against him had been dismissed, but he knew that he had not come through unscathed. Some of the mud would stick: impaired vision, absence from the bridge in fog, missing charts and logbooks, officers fighting over a woman, lives lost … these were the things that would be remembered, however rational the explanations, however innocent the man. Jarrett’s treachery had destroyed him.

He poured himself another stiff tot of whisky, added a little water. No point in brooding about that now. It was all over and done with. Like his life at sea. Like everything else. He thought about his family in Farnham. He’d already told Emma the result of the enquiry. Phoned her that night before dinner. She had been so thrilled. The relief in her voice which sounded over those thousands of miles had told so clearly of the strain she’d been under, and he was doubly sad. She said how much she and the boys were looking forward to his return. Told him not to worry about the future. Things would come right. They always did, she insisted. He’d agreed, said he hoped to be back in a few days – that his thoughts were, and always would be, with her and the boys.

He drained the last of the whisky, looked at his watch, put on
the dark glasses, took an ash walking-stick from the cupboard and made his way downstairs.

At the front door the hall porter said, ‘Going for your constitutional, Captain?’

Crutchley nodded. ‘It’s a fine night,’ he said, and walked out into it.

As always when he reached Orange Street, he set off along it until he came to the place, shortly before the gates of the Mount Nelson, where he usually crossed. He stood waiting at the lights, making no effort to press the pedestrian button. It was after nine and there was a good deal of traffic in both directions but he watched the stream coming down on his right from the direction of de Waal Drive. He waited until a fast-moving phalanx of vehicles had almost reached him before stepping into the
roadway
ahead of them. His last recollection was the fierce glare of headlights, the shrill screech of brakes, and a voice behind him shouting.

TWO HOURS TO DARKNESS

SMOKE ISLAND

THE SEA BREAK

THE WHITE SCHOONER

TOWARDS THE TAMARIND TREES

THE MOONRAKER MUTINY

KLEBER’S CONVOY

THE ZHUKOV BRIEFING

ULTIMATUM