Mac said coldly: ' He tried to get at the skipper. That's enough for me. He'll talk-or else' He picked the man up under the armpits and half-pushed, half-threw him into one of the steel lockers. It had a latch, but no lock. It was the best we could do, with the guard already aboard.

I pocketed the Colt and went to the cabin. The naval party had grouped themselves with reversed arms round the coffin. The officer-in-charge frowned to see Mac and me still there. I packed quickly, leaving some of my things as security to be allowed back aboard. From my locker I took the cherished yachting cap I had worn with Peace on the Skeleton Coast. I decided to carry the old cap at the funeral as a token of sentiment, despite the fact that I would be in civilian clothes. A boat was summoned to take us ashore. Before it arrived, I went and stood at Peace's head. A long shaft of sun struck down over Morne Seychellois, enriching the sycamore panelling of the cabin. The curtains over the portholes shifted in the land breeze. It was all sunshine, softness and light: the

"bizarre grey coffin was as out of place as a Viking hand-axe on a silk cushion.

This was goodbye, yet I felt nothing. I would never look on Geoffrey Peace's face again. I tried to concentrate my thoughts on that square foot of rather dirty glass, but they kept wandering out across the gentle anchorage, listening to the sounds of the fleet, to the raucous note of a patrol-boat's loud-hailer keeping the curious at bay. I abandoned my silent farewell, telling myself that we'd looked death in the face together so often that now, when it had come in such common-place fashion, all I could do was to recognize the fact.

Ashore at the hotel, I traced the DNI easily, though the English receptionist had been a little stiff, saying merely that he lived in a cottage with a companion. She didn't elaborate. Now I walked beyond the town up a valley towards the mountains. They were striking the Union Jack at Signal