Chapter Twenty Three
They stood in the doorway of the restaurant. Bob said
“Leave it to me. Angelina, take the boys to our house, they can stay in the guest room tonight. I will talk to these guys, and catch you up.”
McBride was round the corner, walking with the others before Bob was across the road.
Bob Johnson eyed up the men as he approached. Both of them wearing dark overcoats, leather gloves. Both in their mid forties, he reckoned. Fairly short hair, no hats. Just standing there looking out at the harbour. Could be tourists, maybe were.
“Can I help you? I’m the harbourmaster. I saw you looking at the yacht Belinda down there. She has very nice lines, don’t you think? Do you know the people who sail her?”
One of the men grasped the hint the harbourmaster had held out.
“Ja. They are friends. Do you know where they are?”
“They told me they were flying to England in the morning. From Copenhagen. They left by train to stay in one of the hotels near the airport.”
“But what about the boat?”
“They have only chartered it. The owner asked them to leave it here, in Skagen.”
“Then why not in a marina in Copenhagen? We know they sailed from Sweden only this morning.”
“I really cannot answer that. They were, I think, only carrying out the owner’s instructions. And of course, the fees here are less than half of those in Copenhagen.”
“Thank you for your information. We must go now.” He gave a wave, and they both turned and headed for the car park further along the quay.
Johnson watched them go and then turned on his heel and made his way home. He found the rest of them drinking coffee in the living room.
“What happened?” McBride asked
Johnson took off his coat. “I asked them if they were friends of the people who came in on the Belinda, giving them a chance to lie. They agreed, and asked where you were. I told them you had taken the train to Copenhagen, staying at a hotel near the airport.”
“Clever,” said McBride. “There are a lot of hotels, big ones. I don’t know how they could check them all, not with without knowing our names.”
“Exactly. So, if you are still intent on crossing the North Sea in this tiny yacht, Angelina will show you where the supermarket is in the morning, on her way to school. When you have all your vittals, get a taxi down to the quay, and I’ll help you to stow them. You could be off before lunchtime. I’ll also give you the latest weather forecast.”
Angelina said, “I start work at seven forty five, so I walk to school starting out from the house at seven thirty. Breakfast will be at seven.”
The morning was fine but there had been a light covering of snow overnight. The three of them crunched their way along the street. A lot of people were out and about, even this early; a lot of them children making their way to school.
After ten minutes they reached the supermarket with its large carpark.
“At the checkout, there is a phone to use to call for a taxi. They come immediately outside of rush hours. I leave you here, and have a safe journey. I can hardly bear to think of you on the North Sea. God bless you both.” And she was hurrying away down the street, turning occasionally to wave.
“That is what you call an emotional farewell,” said McBride to Ben as they entered the store.
“Everybody is telling us it is dangerous. Should we take notice of them?”
“Yes. Don’t think of it as a holiday cruise. But look at the alternative. Either we end up back in prison, or end up dead, even.”
They methodically filled up their trolley. Bread was a must. They had both missed it. A couple of cans of rice were thrown in by Ben. Then some long life milk. A medicinal bottle of whisky. McBride remembered the sea sickness tablets. Being a port, they were readily available. And a wrist band to fight off nausea. And they really do work. Fresh vegetables, especially cabbage. But tomatoes and beans. Meat that could go in the fridge that they hadn’t used so far. Cereals, cans of soup. Toilet rolls, kitchen tissues. Pears and apples.
They bought carrier bags at the checkout, and McBride used his credit card. He got cash back on it, so that he could pay the taxi driver. They used the taxi phone, and then stood outside in the pale sun, the snow glittering on the ground, but already melting away.
They got off at the Harbour office, and went in to see Bob.
“Good morning,” he boomed, seeing them for the first time that morning, since he had been long gone when McBride and Ben got downstairs. “You will be pleased to hear that there has been no sign of our Russian friends today. Now, you want some help with your stores?”
“We kept them to the minimum,” said McBride.
“I insist on helping because I want to see the yacht.” He stood up from the desk, speaking in Danish to a young girl who was working on the previously empty desk.
They went down to the pontoon. McBride could see no signs that the yacht had been tampered with.
“We need to get more fuel and drinking water, Bob.”
“I’ll come with you, show you where.”
Johnson was quite enthusiastic when he had inspected the boat. “She is really marvellous, and well equipped. The GPS and the radar alone will enhance your chances of an uneventful journey. That reminds me, I have the forecast for the area Denmark for the next forty-eight hours. It is not too bad at all.” He laid the print-out on the chart table, slipping it under one of the clips for safety. You could perhaps have done with charts of the English and Scottish coasts. But at least you can head for big ports. What does the boat draw, four metres?”
“Three,” said McBride
“Even better.”
“Let’s get started then. I will show you the service area.”
McBride started the engine, and reversed from the berth. Johnson pointed over to the other end, where the fishing vessels berthed. “Just beyond them. As soon as you get out from the quayside, you’ll see it yourself.” And so he did. A big sign on a square pontoon: DIESEL & WATER.
There was no boat currently at the pumps, so McBride came alongside. The fuel pumps were attended service. Johnson knew the man well and laughed and joked with him. Pretending, it was obvious even if you didn’t understand the language, that he was escaping on a cruise. Once the tank was filled McBride offered his card, stepping out on to the pontoon. He went into the office and his card was put through the reader. When he came out again, Johnson and Ben were filling the water tank.
Johnson said, “I will leave you here. I can walk back along the quay. It will do me good, the sunshine.” He held out his hand to each of them in turn.
“Bon voyage,” he said, “and when you get to England email me to say you arrived safely. Here is my card.”
He stood on the pontoon with the attendant, and they both waved as McBride motored over to the harbour entrance, which was about three hundred yards from the quay. They heard a lot of shouting, and both turned to see a scuffle on the quayside. The two Russians had obviously returned just too late. McBride was pleased the schools in Denmark started at eight a.m. Otherwise, best not to think. The harbourmaster was wrestling the two men, shouting for assistance. One of the Russians levelled his pistol aiming at the yacht. McBride ducked down, and pulled Ben with him, but was not seriously worried. He knew that it was hard enough to hit a target the size of a man at forty feet. The man fired, and they did not even hear the bullet. McBride turned back to the wheel in time to avert a collision with the harbour wall, and then they were out into the sea, as they turned to run up to the end of the promontory, they caught sight of a police car hurtling down the quay, its blue lights flashing.
“They’ll be lucky not to end up in prison,” said Ben.
“Indeed. I’ll stay with the helm until we get into the North Sea. But we have to clear the shallows, first. Switch the depth indicator, leave the door open so I can see the figures.”
He steered the yacht, still under engine power, well aw
ay from the coast. Ben could see the shallow slope of the sand and inland; the grass that was binding the whole of the peninsula. It was windy now, and drifts of sand, airborne, came over the grass from the windward, North Sea side. A mini desert storm. At the end of the peninsula, McBride kept his eye on the depth meter as he slowly turned the wheel. It had started at fifty metres, and then forty, thirty, twenty. Then it maintained this depth as McBride completed his turn maybe quarter of a mile off shore. He checked the compass, and headed west. The wind was blowing due west, too, so they would have to tack into the wind, until it changed. Well, thought McBride, he could give Ben some more sailing tuition.
“Up sails, Ben. I’ll show you how to tack when the wind is dead ahead.”
McBride switched off the engine, and they hoisted the sails, both main and jib. The yacht was stationary, head to wind, the sails rattling as the wind slipped by.
“Now, ahead is where we want to go. But the boat is head to wind, so we must tack. Tacking means zig-zagging, first going slightly to the north, and then slightly to the south. The result is, we gradually move west, what is what we want. Each tack, or reach, will be fairly close to the wind, but off the wind a little to maximise the speed. Of course, overall, it is slower tacking than sailing a reach.
“But there is no alternative. The wind might remain in the west for days, and we ain’t got enough fuel to motor.
“So get hold of the wheel, Ben, and take the ship’s head away from the wind.”
As Ben moved the wheel, the ship fell off to the left, and immediately started to sail. Ben, with practice, found the degree of course change that resulted in the best speed. Then he held the course, and the boat was rattling through the waves.
“How far do I go on each leg?”
“Say about half a mile.”
When McBride decided they had gone half a mile, which was only at this speed, was only about three minutes, he told Ben to go about.
“You should always announce it, so that everybody ducks their head, as the boom comes over.”
“Going about,” shouted Ben, and the boom came over, and they were sailing away on the opposite tack.
“You should time the reaches, so that you don’t get completely off course.
For instance if you went consistently further on each left tack, when the wind changed and you sailed due west, you would be on a different latitude than you thought. Although we could correct it by referring to the GPS. I keep forgetting about that most useful instrument. Let me just check the longitude now. I’ll write on some paper, clipped to the chart. When we finish tacking, we’ll check how much direction change we need to factor in.”
They sailed on until dark, both of them in the cockpit, and then Ben went below to prepare a sandwich meal, and fresh fruit.