Chapter Nineteen

      They ate dinner in the yacht’s long saloon. Chris poured out chilled wine and served fish chowder with a green salad.

      ‘Leigh tells me you write film music,’ Ben said.

      Chris nodded. ‘Mostly. You a movie fan, Ben?’

      Ben shrugged. ‘I see the odd thing.’ He tried to remember the name of the last film he’d seen. It had been in Lisbon, on a job, six months ago. The potential informer he’d been tailing had wandered into a cinema. Ben had sat a couple of rows behind. After an hour the man had looked at his watch and left. Ben had followed, and five minutes later the man was lying in a heap down a backstreet. He couldn’t recall a thing about the movie. ‘What ones have you composed for?’ he asked.

      ‘My latest was Outcast, with Hampton Burnley. Know it?’

      Ben shook his head.

      ‘Maybe you’re more of an opera guy,’ Chris said, glancing at Leigh.

      ‘Ben doesn’t get a lot of time for that kind of thing,’ she said.

      ‘So what do you do for a living, Ben?’

      ‘I’m retired.’

      Chris looked surprised. ‘Retired? From what?’

      Ben drank down the last of his wine. ‘Forces.’

      The bottle was empty. Chris looked at it with a raised eyebrow and fetched another from the cooler. ‘RAF?’

      ‘Army’

      ‘Soldier boy. What rank were you?’

      ‘Major,’ Ben replied quietly.

      Chris tried not to look impressed. ‘So what was your regiment, Major?’

      Ben threw him a glance across the table. ‘It’s Ben. Nobody calls me Major any more.’

      ‘Ben and Oliver were army friends,’ Leigh said. ‘That’s how we met.’

      ‘So you two have known each other for a long time, then,’ Chris said icily, not taking his eyes off Ben.

      ‘But we haven’t been in touch for years,’ Leigh added.

      Chris kept his eyes on Ben a while longer, then grunted to himself and went back to his food. The three of them finished the meal in silence, with just the sound of wind and water outside.

      Ben went back to his cabin and sat quietly for a while, thinking. He checked the pistols again, stripping and cleaning them with well-practised, almost unconscious familiarity. Then he put everything back in his bag and shoved it up on top of the storage unit. He lay on the bunk for an hour, listening to the steady crash of the waves. The wind was rising, and the gentle motion of the Isolde was becoming more pronounced.

      * * *

      Around midnight, Leigh was thinking about bed. Across the table, Chris was sitting slumped in his chair glowering at the television. He’d barely said a word since dinner.

      ‘What is it, Chris?’

      He was silent. His face darkened.

      ‘Come on. I know that look. What is it?’

      He stabbed the remote and turned off the television. ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Him. I remember now. Ben. The old flame. The one you were madly in love with. The one you wanted to marry.’

      ‘That was fifteen years ago, Chris.’

      Chris laughed bitterly. ‘I knew there was something going on.’

      ‘There’s nothing going on.’

      ‘No? I heard the two of you whispering before. Alone in the cabin like teenagers.’ He snorted. ‘If I’d known what this trip was really about, I’d never have let you sweet-talk me into it. You must think I’m a real fool, a proper soft touch. Getting old Chris to ferry you and your boyfriend over to France for a dirty weekend. Scared the paparazzi will get wind of your little romance? Maybe I should just turn the boat around.’

      ‘You’re getting it all wrong, Chris.’

      ‘I can’t believe you’d do this to me. I haven’t forgotten, you know. All the stories about this guy who broke your heart so badly it took you years to get over him-now you’re running around with the bastard right under my nose, and you expect me to help you? What did I ever do to you? I never broke your heart. You broke my fucking heart.’ He jabbed his finger several times against his chest. His face was turning red.

      ‘Yeah, when I caught you screwing that bimbo at my birthday party.’

      Chris rolled his eyes. ‘One little transgression…how many times does a guy have to say he’s sorry?’

      ‘I don’t call it a little transgression.’

      ‘You were never there! You were always off singing somewhere.’

      ‘I was there that night,’ she said. They faced each other, hostility building up between them. Then she sighed. ‘Please, Chris. I don’t want to fight, OK? We’ve been over this before. You know as well as I do that it wasn’t working between us. We’re still friends, though, aren’t we?’

      ‘Retired,’ Chris muttered. ‘How old is this guy? What kind of a bum calls himself retired at his age? You know what army pensions are like? How do you know he’s not just after your money?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Did you buy him that watch?’ he demanded.

      ‘For Christ’s sake. Give me a break. It’s not like that.’

      ‘So what is it like? Why is he here?’

      ‘There are things I can’t explain right now. You have to trust me, OK?’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘I swear there is nothing between me and Ben. And I appreciate that you care, and that you’re helping me out like this. Really.’ She hugged him, and he squeezed her tight.

      ‘I miss you, Leigh,’ he said in a plaintive voice. He kissed her hair. ‘I think about you a lot, you know,’ he murmured. Then he moved back a little and tried to kiss her on the mouth. She pushed him away.

      Ben had come out of the cabin and stood framed in the doorway.

      Leigh abruptly broke away from Chris and they all stood frozen for a moment, staring at one another.

      ‘Sorry,’ Ben said quietly. ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt.’ He turned and headed for the companionway steps to go on deck.

      The wind was much stronger than earlier, and he zipped his jacket to the neck. Cold swathes of rain were lashing across the Isolde’s bows from the east, and the sails fluttered and rippled loudly above the groan of the wind and the steady crash of waves. Mick was tending the wheel, wrapped in orange oilskins. They exchanged nods. Ben reached for his cigarettes and offered him one. He shielded the flame of his Zippo lighter from the breeze, inhaled deeply and looked out for a while across the dark, choppy water, narrowing his eyes against the cold spray and holding on to the rail.

      The Isolde’s prow rose on the unsettled sea, climbing the crest of a big wave, then cleared it and plunged down into a trough with a huge splash of flying foam. Ben steadied himself against the swell as the deck under his feet sloped and settled. The sails crackled like fire.

      ‘Bit of weather up ahead,’ Mick said, interrupting his thoughts.

      Ben looked up at the dark sky. Black clouds raced across the face of the