The Moscow Sleepers

50

‘Coming about,’ shouted Pearson into the wind, and Liz had learned enough to duck as the boom slowly swung her way. The main sail shivered as they turned directly into the wind, then as air filled the vast cotton pocket and the sail ballooned firmly, the boat gathered speed, heading towards shore.

It was called The Rubicon, and Geoff Gumm had built it himself. Constructed of larch and oak, it had elegant lines and was twenty-five feet long, drawing four foot, with a remodelled cockpit and bulkhead. The current owner was moving to California and the price was greatly reduced because he was desperate to sell. Gumm had urged them to take her out for a trial, saying it would be its last sail for the season before he put it up for the winter in the nearby boatyard.

Liz had come up on the train that morning for the meeting with Pearson and his commissioner. Pearson’s driver had collected her from Ipswich and driven her to Suffolk Police headquarters at nearby Martlesham. There she had explained MI5’s role in the investigation of Bartholomew Manor, omitting any reference to Mischa and his brother and Bruno’s activities in Moscow. The commissioner had seemed satisfied and grateful that she had come and hadn’t pressed for more information.

After this, Pearson had sent his driver home, and Liz and he had driven in Pearson’s own car to the boatyard a mile south of Geoff Gumm’s working shack. On the way, Pearson described what had been happening at the college. ‘I’ve spoken to the police officers at Bartholomew Manor this morning,’ he said as they left Martlesham and drove north on the A12. ‘Everything’s OK for now. Aziz has got the students working on projects, and they all went to the college yesterday and worked in the IT building. Aziz has moved over to the annexe at the farm, so he’s acting as head teacher and warden. He’s also made Thomma his assistant. Both of them sound happy from the sound of it.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘I’ve talked to the Home Office, and they’ll send somebody up this week to begin interviewing the students. I’m not sure what’s going to happen, but at least they understand that these kids are victims, not criminals.’

‘Good,’ said Liz, confident that with Pearson involved, none of these refugee teenagers would be forgotten. They’d suffered enough and shouldn’t suffer any more at the hands of an indifferent bureaucracy.

After meeting Geoff Gumm, they had taken The Rubicon a couple of miles out to sea, where a stiff breeze helped Pearson put the little boat through her paces. It was surprisingly warm for autumn, and the water sparkled in the sunlight from a largely unclouded sky. Eventually they turned back, the sail fixed on a steady course towards harbour. The wine was opened, the deli-bought panino produced, still warm from their foil wrapping. There was nothing left to do but enjoy the moment.

Perhaps this was the problem. Liz said tentatively, ‘It may sound odd, but I think I’m going to have to learn how to relax all over again.’

Pearson smiled, handed her a glass of wine, then sat next to her on the seat in the cockpit of the boat. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and they clinked glasses. ‘You’re not alone in that, you know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m the same,’ he said, looking out at the gentle swell. ‘I’ve tried to do all the sensible things – sailing where I couldn’t get a mobile signal and be contacted by the office; helping out my brother-in-law when the mackerel were running; even doing DIY. But all the time I’d be thinking of work – the latest case, the most recent staff problem, what I had to do as soon as I stood on dry land again. To tell you the truth, I’m still trying hard not to do it.’

Liz asked, ‘Has it always been like that?’

‘No. How about you?’

‘Not at all. I used to enjoy all sorts of things. Then—’ and she stopped, not wanting to mention Martin again. It seemed wrong to let her memory of him intrude on this moment.

But Pearson got her drift. ‘Same here. It was only after I lost my wife that it became a problem. Before that, I could switch off bang – just like that. I looked forward to holidays then,’ he said, as if recalling a lost Golden Age. ‘But after Lucy died, I was so shattered that I found only work could distract me. It wasn’t that work gave me pleasure, but it did take my mind off how bad I felt the rest of the time. Does that make sense?’

‘Of course it does. It’s exactly how I felt. I wouldn’t say I forgot about Martin when I was at work, but somehow the job made life bearable. Whereas whatever I did outside work, I just felt unbearably sad.’

Pearson reached for the bottle of burgundy and topped up their glasses. ‘It’s funny, when people talk about addictions, they don’t usually think of work.’

‘I don’t know about that – why else do they talk about workaholics?’

‘That’s true. But for both of us, it seems that work isn’t an addiction; it is more a necessary escape.’ He reached forward and twitched the sheet for the main sail and the boat slowly adjusted.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said, leaning back on the bench. ‘I love my job; it’s obvious to me that you love yours, too. But it’s just that because of our… situations, we don’t like doing anything else that gives us too much time to think. And I feel guilty about enjoying anything.’

‘Me too.’ She stared down at her glass. ‘Yet I’ve started to realise I’d like to feel I was living life again.’

Pearson nodded but said nothing; he seemed deep in thought. Then he turned to Liz, and said, ‘I will if you will.’

‘Will what?’ she asked, curious.

‘Try living again. It’s about time. Only I can’t do it on my own.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you can’t either.’

‘No, I can’t.’ She looked towards the shore, which they were approaching alarmingly fast. ‘Though you may want to alter direction a bit, before we run aground.’

Pearson looked up, then quickly reached for the rudder behind him and steered The Rubicon safely away from the shoals.

Liz said with a small laugh. ‘First obstacle successfully tackled by the two of us.’

‘There may be more to come,’ said Pearson.

‘I’m sure there will be,’ said Liz confidently. ‘It would be nice to tackle those together, too.’