"Oh, yes, I noticed him, sir." Stonley's foot drew the cigarette stub back towards him and he stood more com fortably. "He struck me as being…" he paused, looking for the word, "I don't know how to say it – one off from the herd, not a pack animal."

"You mean he ran alone – that the other lads disliked him?"

"No. They liked him. He played around with the other twelve-year-old kids – but sometimes he'd be alone and not seem to mind."

Fleming thought, you noticed him pretty intently – and was perturbed.

The other boys' answers to the same question were more superficial. Welling in the navigation house on the bridge said, "Happy and cheerful, sir," and added "absolutely" for good measure.

Masters, in the captain's cabin, blushed crimson with embarrassment and came out with a strangled "All right."

Neither boy had seen David fall.

Durrant, on the fo'c'sle deck had been the furthest away from the hold and he was the last of the boys interviewed.

He leaned back against the windlass as Fleming and Brannigan approached. Their footsteps were quiet on the deck but he magnified them in his imagination so that the thumping of his heart became the stamping of jackboots. A thrill of anticipation, almost orgasmic, prickled through his flesh.

He turned a suitably grave face towards Fleming and completely ignored Brannigan. "You want to ask me some questions, sir?"

Fleming on a sudden impulse tried a different approach. The situation – with this particular boy – was different. He said brusquely, "Tell me about it."

Durrant felt the impact of the challenge like a blow. His muscles tightened and then he slowly breathed out. "I wish I could tell you about it, sir, but I wasn't there so I don't know."

The waves were making soft little slapping sounds against the bow and there were far-off voices in the wind.

"Tell me what you were doing from the time you came here on your assignment until David fell."

Durrant looked past Fleming's head. The blue arch of the sky darkened in his mind and metamorphosed into a flat low ceiling of steel. The salt air became fetid and difficult to breathe. The winch behind him held the cold menace of torture. An exquisite pain flowed through his wrists where they touched the ropes.

"Are you all right?" Brannigan's voice.

He looked at the second inquisitor with ill-concealed disdain. "Oh yes, sir -just a little upset when I think about it, sir."

"You haven't answered me yet." No softness in this voice.

He reorientated himself. "My assignment was to make a sketch of the fo'c'sle deck and the windlass. I'm not good at drawing so I couldn't do it very fast. I hadn't done very much when I heard David shout."

This time it was Fleming who felt the physical impact of shock. None of the other boys had heard anything.

"The hold is at the stern – the other end of the freighter – how is it you could hear from here?"

"The wind carries sound, sir. If you listen now you can hear that party of Swedes talking on that freighter over there."

It was true. The other boys had been in enclosed areas.

"Go on. You heard him shout. What did he shout?"

"You don't shout anything when you're falling, sir. It was a muffled sort of scream." He looked to see if he had drawn blood and saw with satisfaction that he had.

Fleming, white-faced now, thrust on. "What did you do then?"

"Well, naturally, sir, I went to see. There was enough light to see David lying down in the hold. His head looked wrong on his shoulders. He wasn't moving."

"And then?"

"Mr. Hammond arrived. He told me to stay where I was. He went down to look. When he came up again he went over to the rail. I thought he was going to be sick."

"Did he speak to you?"

"After going to the rail? He must have, sir, but I can't remember. When you've had a shock nothing you say makes much sense. I think he said something about fetching a doctor – or that might have been Mr. Sherborne."

"Mr. Sherborne?"

"One of the other housemasters. His boys were on the next ship – that one over there where the Swedes are now."

Fleming looked over at the other vessel. "So there were three of you standing near the hatch almost immediately afterwards?"

"No. Mr. Sherborne was amongst the people who began to come. It's like that with an accident, sir. There's nobody, and then there's a crowd. You don't notice them coming, but somehow they find out and they come."

"And then what happened?"

"Mr. Hammond didn't seem to know what to do so Mr. Sherborne took charge. He made Welling responsible for us as he's the most senior boy. He told Welling to take us into the cafeteria until one of the other masters could take us back to the school. We sat around a couple of tables and waited. We heard the siren of the ambulance – or it could have been the police. We couldn't see from where we were. One of the younger boys went over to the door to see if he could see anything and Welling belted him around the ear."

"When you looked down the hatch into the hold – before Hammond climbed down – could you see David's hands?"

"Yes, sir."

"Were they tied?"

"No."

"How was he lying?"

"On his stomach – his arms flung out on each side of him. Like this." Durrant went down on his stomach and demonstrated. He lay for less than a minute, but long enough to smell the tar of the deck and feel a rough splinter rub his jaw. He pressed his face into it and closed his eyes. The terror-dark engulfed him. He swam through it valiantly. The aperture of the escape hatch was closing razor sharp on his neck. He rolled over and his head touched Brannigan's fawn suede shoe.

He got up clumsily. "That's how he lay, sir."

"You're sure about his hands?"

"Absolutely sure."

"There's not much light in the hold. How clearly could you see?"

"Clearly enough to see that. He was a shape. Black against grey. His handkerchief was around his eyes. If someone is being executed then his hands are tied."

The knowing eyes looked at Fleming and measured with satisfaction the degree of pain that the image inflicted.

Brannigan expostulated, "For God's sake!"

Durrant turned to him. "Well, that's what his father thinks, sir."

Fleming asked quietly, "What do you think happened to him, Durrant?"

"I think he got bored, -sir – so he began to play around. If you put a blindfold on you get muddled about heights and distances. He could have leaned over the hatch side and overbalanced." He smiled suddenly and his face became suffused with purity and simple gentleness. "I really do think that's how it happened, sir."

Fleming turned from him and began walking away.

Brannigan caught up with him. "Satisfied? His explanation was plausible."

Fleming glanced over his shoulder to make sure Durrant was out of earshot. "What's the matter with him?"

"What do you mean?"

Fleming wasn't sure what he meant, but he knew what he sensed. During some parts of the interview Durrant was a fairly typical fifteen-year-old boy – during other parts he wasn't there at all.

He wondered if Brannigan had a drugs problem at the school, but kept the thought to himself. Durrant certainly wasn't high – and the withdrawal was intermittent and for very short periods.

He tried to answer Brannigan. "He's not like the other lads."

Brannigan, knowing it to be true, refused to admit it. "No two lads are alike. Durrant hasn't a very stable background. It may reflect in his attitude."

"How does he behave towards the other boys?" Brannigan answered with truth. "As far as I know, quite properly. No-one has ever complained."

Hammond was awaiting their return on the boat deck. He didn't ask anything about the boys' responses and it was Brannigan who volunteered the information. "The only one who heard anything was Durrant."