The fifth photograph was the maverick in the bunch; it was old, not so old as to be sepia-tinted, but it looked as if it had just escaped that photographic era. It was also cracked and creased as if it had once had a less loving home. The picture showed a man in army uniform caught in the act of lighting a cigarette. He was bare-headed, short-back-and-sided and his face was half-hidden in his cupped hands. A sergeant’s chevrons were on his jacket sleeve; an expert might have been able to tell from the other insignia which unit he belonged to-I couldn’t. The interior shown in the photograph looked like a pub; there was a window with reversed lettering on it behind the military figure. It was impossible to tell anything about the man except in the most general terms-not old, not ugly, not fat.

I took the pictures up on deck to where Guthrie was standing with his legs slightly spread and his hands lightly on the wheel. He breathed a sigh when I spread the photographs in front of him on a flat surface in front of the wheel.

‘You sound relieved’, I said.

‘I am. I was dreading you coming up with something like drugs or

…’

‘Nothing like that. Can you give these your attention for a minute?’

He glanced at his course, decided all was well and looked down. He came barely up to my shoulder, but his easy command of the boat seemed to give him extra stature. ‘No problem’, he said. ‘What have you got there?’ He stabbed one picture. ‘That’s Ray.’

‘Thought so. His brother and your wife?’