We were told to forget
our cares at the door.
I didn’t forget mine
The Cafe 3
Cybernats
What on earth has
happened to
my dongle?
Islay McLeod
Lust in Balloch
John Cameron
According to a US maritime historian: ‘It is very, very unusual for the captain to leave his vessel in a moment of crisis rather than display characteristic moral courage’.
In accordance with the lore of the sea, it is expected that in the event of a disaster the ship’s captain, with ultimate authority and responsibility, should be the last one off. Until the military death penalty was abolished in 1930, a Royal Navy skipper deserting his ship would have been executed after the merest formality of a court martial. As regards the merchant law of the sea, there is no fixed penalty for a captain abandoning his passengers – presumably because it was thought such a thing could not occur.
Yet there are examples of desertion such as in 1991 when Captain Avranas of the Greek ship Oceanos pushed his way onto a rescue helicopter ahead of women and children. It was carrying almost 600 souls when a main engine exploded and breached the hull, leaving the sinking ship drifting in a gale with 80 knot winds and 30 foot seas.
Miraculously, everyone on board survived due to the courage and professionalism of the South African air force and private vessels who rescued passengers in dreadful seas. An outraged maritime industry accused the captain of cowardice saying he had ‘betrayed the responsibilities of a ship’s master that date from the earliest days of navigation’.
In the present case, the damning conversation between Captain Francesco Schettino and the coastguard has gone viral on YouTube and the skipper’s future looks very bleak. Yet it is a fact that relatives of victims of a disaster at sea are usually shocked by the difficulty in establishing what happened, let alone prosecuting those responsible.
This is because most cruise ship incidents occur in international waters under flags of convenience leaving corrupt states like Panama in charge of any investigation. However, the Concordia was an Italian-flagged and owned ship, sailing in domestic waters so the responsibility for a speedy inquiry and resolution lies with Italy.
The best recourse for the family of a victim is probably to launch a civil action via the Miami-based firms which specialise in this area of international maritime law.
Today’s banner
Winter sunset over
the Clyde
Photograph by
Islay McLeod
The day I left
Oz Blackstone’s wife
dead on the kitchen floor
Quintin Jardine
II
In celebration of her selling my first novel, I visited my agent and bought her lunch. As we were finishing, she said: ‘You shouldn’t give up your work, you know. It informs your writing’.
When your agent tells you not to give up your day job, it’s not something you want to hear. Looking back, I can see that was the start of the long, slow disintegration of our relationship. I can see also, even more clearly now than I did when the unfortunate phrase slipped out, that it’s a huge understatement.
Fifteen years ago, I was widowed. Those who have been there know what that feels like; those who have not, cannot. I’ve never sought to describe it in my fictional work, but that’s not to say it didn’t ‘inform it’, to borrow my ex-agent’s phrase.
In my next book, I killed Oz Blackstone’s wife, his childhood sweetheart; left her stone dead on the kitchen floor. Not long after that, I destroyed Bob Skinner’s second marriage, and I’ve been dumping on the character’s private life ever since.
Oz never got over it. He grew darker and darker, until finally I decided that since he had become a sociopath, I’d better put him away in case the same thing happened to me. Skinner didn’t fare too well either. He was cuckolded, his brother died and his daughter had a embarrassing affair that saw her involved in a murder investigation.
Happily, my own life didn’t mirror that. Nine years ago I married again. As a wedding present, two very good friends gave us a night in a celebrated hotel on the Spanish coast, perched above the Mediterranean. Next morning we woke just before dawn. The sky was cloudless, and we watched as the sun rose out of the sea and as the day blazed into life. That’s why Primavera Blackstone, who picked up Oz’s legacy, has a private terrace off her bedroom in her fictional house in the genuine village of St Marti d’Empuries, from which she has the same view, and where each of her days begins with hope renewed.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about her, about Oz, and about Bob Skinner, who also lost a young wife tragically, and I’ve realised that they’ve coped with the same situation in different ways. Oz grew rich and used his power to take his inner rage out on the world, while Primavera re-focused her life on Tom, their son, and devotes it completely to him, even if she still has an impossible dream.
Bob? I didn’t appreciate this until recently, but he’s in denial. He has been for almost 25 years, since before I ever met the guy. Well, not any more. I’ve crapped on him for long enough. His broken soul will be restored again. As for Primavera. She’s happy, but should I give her what she wants, what she really, really wants?
We’ll see. One of the greatest things about being a writer of fiction, is this. It gives you the power to achieve the impossible.
III
I was a late-comer to Canada, when first I passed through immigration at Lester Pearson. The officer behind the desk wasn’t one for smiling on the job. She loosened up, but only a little, when I told her I was on a book tour.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise you were famous.’
‘I’m not,’ I replied. ‘Just notorious; I’m working on famous.’
That earned me a flicker of something that might have been a grin. ‘That’s okay, then. Some people get annoyed when I don’t recognise them. Mick Jagger was really upset when I didn’t know him.’
Lina, my distributor’s sales manager, was waiting on the other side. She gave us a quick introductory rundown on the drive into the city. ‘You won’t meet many Canadians,’ she told us. ‘You’ll meet Irish, Welsh, Germans, whatever; that’s how we tend to identify ourselves.’
I empathised at once. It says ‘British’ on my passport, but no messing, I’m Scottish. I haven’t worn a kilt since I was forced into one as a child, but I love being a Scot; I am immensely proud of my origins, even if there are a couple of aspects of our national make-up that I would change if I could.
Yes, I’m talking about our excessive fondness for strong drink, and our nippy aggression. You’ve probably heard that Scotland has only two levels of security alert: ‘Seriously pissed off,’ and ‘Let’s get the bastards’.
It’s often suggested that we produce so many crime writers because violence is in our genes. Perhaps it is; possibly when I do a gig and look out at an audience that’s predominantly middle-aged and includes a majority of douce ladies in knitwear, they are all toting blades and hatchets in their handbags.
But then again, maybe not. I prefer to think of us as a nation of dreamers, some of whom weave our hopes and aspirations into the craft of storytelling. If we’re sufficiently commercially astute to concentrate on the most lucrative of genres, that’s only to be expected.
Quintin Jardine is a Scottish crime novelist, a ‘crusty but urbane Scot,
in his prime, and done with disclosing his age’.
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