Read Online Over the Edge by Stuart Pawson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Pawson
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Earth. The views across into Tibet were incredible. I know he disapproves of these expeditions where you pay, but I’d go on one if I could afford it. What’s £ 30,000 for something you’d remember for the rest of your life?’
‘Especially if the rest of your life was about two hours,’ I commented.
‘How much did he say they charged for a permit? £ 15,000 was it?’
‘That’s right, or was it dollars? The Nepalese regard the mountain as a natural resource, and exploit it to the full. Some countries got the oil, they got a mountain. God help ’em, they didn’t get much else. Let’s have a look at the book, please, Dave.’
He passed it to me, two-handed, and my arms sank under its weight. I sat with it on my knees, not wanting to put it on the table with its beer-rings, and opened it near the middle.
A photography geek at the lecture had asked what sort of camera he’d used, but didn’t get the answer he wanted. Krabbe said that conditions were either so bad you couldn’t take photos or so good, up there above the clouds, that you could take decent pictures with a pinhole camera. Theonly thing you had to do was have the camera acclimatised, so it would keep working at those temperatures and altitudes. The geek went home disgruntled, deprived of a long dissertation on f-stops and focal lengths. The rest of the audience sighed in relief.
Whatever he’d used, the photos took your breath away. I like the outdoors, enjoy being in high places, and thumbed through Krabbe’s book with undisguised envy. It’s all about dedication, I told myself. Krabbe had wanted these things, had made sacrifices to attain them. He’d probably turned his back on a career, perhaps ruined his home life, because he wanted to climb more than anything else he knew about. I’d drifted into being a cop, but I enjoyed it, most of the time, and it paid the rent.
Dave and Jeff were wittering on about the dangers of avalanches on the Khumbu glacier and the merits of prusiks and Jumars. Krabbe had won at least two converts. I was looking at the brown faces of two children in woolly hats, grinning at the white man’s camera like a pair of idiots, although the hunger never left their bellies. I turned to the book’s jacket to read what it said about the man himself. It was modest enough, mentioning his OBE and the fact he’d climbed Everest. I looked at the list of reviews and saw that all the broadsheets had lavished praise on it. I half expected to see one from the Dalai Lama – ‘If you have two loaves, sell one and put it towardsa copy of this book’ – but was disappointed.
The very last page had a list of companies and individuals who had sponsored Krabbe throughout his career. All the big names that you see on anoraks and boots and skis were there, plus a list of local businessmen who had presumably chipped in for the next expedition, when asked, providing a much-needed box of Kendal mint cake or simply a new set of tyres for his car. It was Krabbe’s way of saying thank you to them.
Jeff was telling Dave about the death zone when I interrupted him.
‘What, Chas,’ he replied.
‘Coincidences,’ I stated. ‘Remember what you were saying earlier, about a name cropping up twice, close together, for different reasons?’
‘You mean Joe Crozier?’
‘Yes. It’s just happened again. There’s a list of Tony Krabbe’s sponsors here, on the very last page of the book. They’re in alphabetical order, just to show that he values the smallest of them as much as the largest. The final one on the list is someone else we’ve heard of, associated with Crozier: Peter Wallenberg Esquire, spinster of this county.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ Dave said, reaching for the book, and I passed it to him. He studied the list for a while, head down, brow furrowed, before saying: ‘This is starting to look fishy to me.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Mmm. I wonder what he wanted in return. If this becomes part of an enquiry, will
‘Especially if the rest of your life was about two hours,’ I commented.
‘How much did he say they charged for a permit? £ 15,000 was it?’
‘That’s right, or was it dollars? The Nepalese regard the mountain as a natural resource, and exploit it to the full. Some countries got the oil, they got a mountain. God help ’em, they didn’t get much else. Let’s have a look at the book, please, Dave.’
He passed it to me, two-handed, and my arms sank under its weight. I sat with it on my knees, not wanting to put it on the table with its beer-rings, and opened it near the middle.
A photography geek at the lecture had asked what sort of camera he’d used, but didn’t get the answer he wanted. Krabbe said that conditions were either so bad you couldn’t take photos or so good, up there above the clouds, that you could take decent pictures with a pinhole camera. Theonly thing you had to do was have the camera acclimatised, so it would keep working at those temperatures and altitudes. The geek went home disgruntled, deprived of a long dissertation on f-stops and focal lengths. The rest of the audience sighed in relief.
Whatever he’d used, the photos took your breath away. I like the outdoors, enjoy being in high places, and thumbed through Krabbe’s book with undisguised envy. It’s all about dedication, I told myself. Krabbe had wanted these things, had made sacrifices to attain them. He’d probably turned his back on a career, perhaps ruined his home life, because he wanted to climb more than anything else he knew about. I’d drifted into being a cop, but I enjoyed it, most of the time, and it paid the rent.
Dave and Jeff were wittering on about the dangers of avalanches on the Khumbu glacier and the merits of prusiks and Jumars. Krabbe had won at least two converts. I was looking at the brown faces of two children in woolly hats, grinning at the white man’s camera like a pair of idiots, although the hunger never left their bellies. I turned to the book’s jacket to read what it said about the man himself. It was modest enough, mentioning his OBE and the fact he’d climbed Everest. I looked at the list of reviews and saw that all the broadsheets had lavished praise on it. I half expected to see one from the Dalai Lama – ‘If you have two loaves, sell one and put it towardsa copy of this book’ – but was disappointed.
The very last page had a list of companies and individuals who had sponsored Krabbe throughout his career. All the big names that you see on anoraks and boots and skis were there, plus a list of local businessmen who had presumably chipped in for the next expedition, when asked, providing a much-needed box of Kendal mint cake or simply a new set of tyres for his car. It was Krabbe’s way of saying thank you to them.
Jeff was telling Dave about the death zone when I interrupted him.
‘What, Chas,’ he replied.
‘Coincidences,’ I stated. ‘Remember what you were saying earlier, about a name cropping up twice, close together, for different reasons?’
‘You mean Joe Crozier?’
‘Yes. It’s just happened again. There’s a list of Tony Krabbe’s sponsors here, on the very last page of the book. They’re in alphabetical order, just to show that he values the smallest of them as much as the largest. The final one on the list is someone else we’ve heard of, associated with Crozier: Peter Wallenberg Esquire, spinster of this county.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ Dave said, reaching for the book, and I passed it to him. He studied the list for a while, head down, brow furrowed, before saying: ‘This is starting to look fishy to me.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Mmm. I wonder what he wanted in return. If this becomes part of an enquiry, will
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