He felt himself flinch at the knock on the door.
It was Turnbull. “Sorry to bust in like this, sir.” He did not wait, but went straight to the table. “Me an’ the lads thought—” He placed a tray on the table and paused while he removed his cap and wedged it between his knees as he uncovered a jug and a solitary glass. “—you could do with a proper welcome aboard.”
Turnbull had been at the brow with Spiers, and his pal the Chief, very smart and official while Garrick had been making his appearance. “Sorry about the stink of paint, sir. But she’s all slick an’ pusser again now.”
Kearton sat down abruptly, with a sensation like a string being cut. The gesture with the cap was another stark reminder: Cossette, the Newfoundlander, removing his cap, his private gesture of respect to a dying ship.
“Join me?”
Turnbull shook his head.
“Busy day tomorrow, sir. I’ll flatten anyone who tries to disturb you.” He must have seen the question, and said, “Mister Ainslie’s flaked out already.” He grinned. “These youngsters, eh, sir?”
The door closed again. Kearton tipped half the contents of the jug into the glass and swallowed: some of Garrick’s malt whisky, or brandy. It could have been anything. He leaned back, staring around the cabin.
What had he expected? She was married. It would only make things worse for her.
He heard voices, somebody laughing, the sound cut off instantly, as if told to pipe down. The Skipper’s back aboard …
One company again. Another patrol, or one of Garrick’s Special Operations: they could be sent anywhere.
We both know that.
He reached for Turnbull’s jug, then his hand was suddenly still.
She was alone. And perhaps in danger.
He did not hear the door open, or someone switch off the cabin lights.
There was tomorrow. Like that first flash of gunfire, he was committed.
“Lieutenant-Commander Kearton, sir?” The petty officer’s eyes moved to his sleeve and back again. “If you’ll wait in here.” He held the door half open, as if guarding it. “The meeting will soon be over.”
Kearton heard him hurry away. Over. What time did they begin here? He himself had been up and about since first light, and had heard Colours being sounded as he had stepped ashore. The pace at headquarters must be hotting up, even more so since his last visit.
He looked around: it was the same room, but he had been brought here through an unfamiliar passageway. And there were different faces, the petty officer’s, and a couple at the main entrance. But the sounds were ordinary enough as he had passed various numbered doors: telephones, the clatter of typewriters, a teleprinter, amid the usual peeling notices about careless talk and Where To Go In An Air Raid.
He was the first visitor this morning, that was obvious: two of the chairs were still upended against a wall, waiting for the cleaners, and there were some stained cups on a tray beside an English newspaper dated a week ago. CHURCHILL SAYS WELL DONE!
Who to, he wondered?
He stretched his legs to ease the stiffness. He had only been a few days at sea, but it was always the same until the body accepted the reality of solid ground.
He got up sharply and crossed the room, and looked out of one of the windows. Blue sky and sunshine, but the view had changed: he could see the gleam of water now, which had previously been blocked by a building. Now it was only the too familiar pile of rubble. New tape across the glass to hide the cracks. Fewer air raids, someone had said. Too late for those poor devils.
He glanced at the other door: at any minute someone would arrive, and the wheels would begin to turn. He pulled the folded note from his pocket and held it against the window. The master-at-arms at the main gate had handed it to him; he must have seen him walk from the jetty and had been waiting for him.
“Brought by messenger, sir. Can’t be too careful around here, with all these comings and goings. Like bloody Piccadilly Circus.” He had not winked. There had been no need.
Only a few words, apparently written in haste on a piece of official-looking notepaper. I saw you. Call me when you find the time. G.
Little enough, but it was everything. Her safety had been uppermost in his mind, and not merely because of the air raids.
The Jaunty had offered his own telephone without being asked. A woman’s voice had answered, with music so loud in the background that she had had to shout, and so had he, until she turned down the sound, or closed another door. No, she did not know when Mrs Howard would be back. Maybe later today. She would take a message. She told him her own name, Maria, and he was there again, in that same apartment, when she had been cheerfully sweeping up the debris and glass from the explosion.
He had left his name. She would know. It would be stupid to make more of it. She was safe … He stared through the tape on the glass again, at the distant gleam of water. I saw you. She must have been there, watching and waiting when they had finally entered harbour.
He heard the door open with a certain relief, dragging his thoughts back to the present.
It was Brice, frowning, and gesturing to somebody behind him as if to silence another telephone. He looked tired, and very strained, but his smile was immediate and genuine. He took Kearton’s hands with both of his own, clasping them warmly, and looked at him without speaking.
Then, “I’ve counted the hours till this moment, Bob. Just this moment!” He released his grip and turned him toward the other door. “Bloody chaos here today!” He laughed, and some of the tension seemed to fall away. “The Boss will be here directly. Nothing seems to shake him.”
Kearton saw another switchboard in Brice’s office. A petty officer sat facing it, a telephone to his ear, one hand poised to disconnect the caller without delay. Not only that, but the room seemed smaller, because of the packing-cases and spare equipment filling much of the space he remembered.
“Moving out?”
Brice grinned and waved him to a chair.
“No such luck. But extra staff have arrived, and the Admiral never asks anyone about accommodation. He just gives the order!”
He sat behind the big desk and stared at an open file of signals. “You must have thought we’d all gone nuts when you got the order to abort Retriever. A complete cock-up—conflicting information about enemy intentions. If you hadn’t kept your head it would have all gone up in smoke. I don’t have all the facts yet … but it sounds as if the end result will pay off.” He flicked through the signals for a moment. “I never met Lieutenant Warren, but his record reads like One Man’s War. If I’d had any say in the matter, I’d have pulled him out of the front line. But I suppose he would have refused the offer!”
The switchboard buzzed, and the petty officer said, “For you, sir—”
Brice gave him no time to explain. “I said, no calls! Let someone else deal with it!”
He had twisted round in his chair and Kearton could see the creases in the back of his jacket, as if he had slept in it. The Boss was a hard man to serve, as Brice had already hinted. This was Garrick’s other face.
The P.O. said patiently, “It’s the S.O. M/S, sir.” He paused. “Personal, sir.”
Brice glanced at Kearton.
“Oh, well, I just hope—” He picked up the receiver before it could ring. “You’re up and about early, Ted—what’s new in minesweeping?”
Kearton saw the change, heard it in his voice.
“When was that, Ted? Any survivors?” Silence. “None at all?”
Kearton could not hear what was being said, but he could see it written on Brice’s face. In his eyes.
“Yes—old friends. We were at Dartmouth together. Thanks for letting me know.” He had already replaced the receiver. The switchboard was buzzing again, but he did not seem to hear it, or the P.O.’s clipped response.
Finally he looked at Kearton.
“Never bloody well ends, does it?” He got to his feet slowly and came around the desk. “Sorry, Bob. This
isn’t how I meant it to be.”
He smiled, but it did not register in his eyes.
“I could have saved you the journey. The Boss rang me just before you got here. He wants to meet you, with the other commanding officers who’ve joined us—at fourteen hundred hours.” He looked at his watch, but Kearton guessed it was merely habit. Perhaps it helped. “Something else came up, apparently. He’s with Captain Howard at the moment.” He was gazing at the wall-chart. “Or should I say, Major Howard—as he soon will be.”
Kearton picked up his cap. That last was no accident, or breach of security: Brice was too astute. And he had heard her say Malta was like a village. Nothing remained a secret very long.
Brice had become a friend; and it was a warning.
*
Turnbull sat with his elbows propped on the mess table, watching his friend, who was facing him. They had become real mates since they had joined 992 together, none closer, and yet Jock Laidlaw could still surprise him. Big, strong hands, scarred from the long watches working with his precious engines, and countless others before these, yet able to carve and fashion small models or toys like this one. Not a ship or an old-fashioned muzzle-loader, which most sailors seemed to prefer, but a miniature church. Complete with opening doors and a perfectly shaped spire and crucifix.
It was for his niece, apparently still back in Dundee. Laidlaw rarely spoke about his family. Of his niece he had said only, tapping the top of the mess table, “She was this high, when I last saw her.” His brother was a soldier, and had been serving at Singapore when the Japs marched in. Reported missing, presumed killed, a familiar story at the time, he had turned up later as a prisoner-of-war. In the meantime, his wife had turned to someone else. The young niece was the only link between them.
Turnbull had once asked him, “Do you think you’ll be going back there when this lot’s over?”
Laidlaw had answered, “Where to, Harry?” That was plain enough.
There was still a smell of rum in the air, and Turnbull could taste it on his lips. He glanced at the door, which was propped open to catch any sound of activity. This was not the time to indulge in an extra tot. With the Skipper ashore at the meeting and Captain Garrick likely to show up in person at any time, it would be asking for real trouble.
Laidlaw bent over his work, touching it with his tiny blade. He must have been thinking the same thing.
“How’s Jimmy th’ One bearing up? Still like a cat on hot bricks?”
“Got a lot on his plate at the moment.”
The lugubrious face cracked in a grin. “Tell me about it.”
“Now the two M.G.B.s have joined us, I suppose we’ll be on the move again.” He peered over at the door again. 992 seemed quiet, and not only because their mess was at the far end of the hull and separated from the rest by engines and fuel. Most of the hands were ashore, making the most of it. Pug Dawson had remained aboard with the duty watch, and would soon warn him if any unexpected trouble showed up at the gangway. If he stayed awake.
Laidlaw had started to wrap his little model in a cloth, but stopped, and was looking at him across the table.
“Tell me, Harry—what’s she like?”
Turnbull had told him about the unexpected encounter at the sick quarters. Laidlaw probably knew anyway.
“I think she’s smashing. Not like some …”
“Her an’ the Skipper—d’ye think there’s anything in it?”
“Well, it would be a bit tricky, as things stand. She’s still married, isn’t she? So I don’t know how far it’s got.”
Laidlaw said quietly, “I’ve seen her two or three times. I wouldn’t say no, if it came my way!”
Turnbull recalled her voice, the hand covering her breast to hide the blood of a dying sailor.
“I say bloody good luck to them.” He had heard a shout, and running feet on deck. The waiting was over. Soon there would be a face at the door, and he was glad of it without knowing why.
Laidlaw finished folding his package and watched him leave.
He said to himself, “They’re going to need it.”
It was not what Turnbull had been expecting, but as he strode along the side-deck toward the brow he was careful to reveal nothing. They were waiting for him: Pug Dawson, the gangway sentry, and a soldier. An officer.
He had already seen a redcap standing on the jetty: he was watching two seamen, defaulters, no doubt, busily splicing wire. He was dangling a bunch of keys from his hand, and was obviously their visitor’s driver. He could have walked here, Turnbull thought. So much for the fuel shortage.
But instinct told him this was not merely a matter of libertymen getting drunk, or brawling in the canteen. The neatly pressed battledress and the three pips on his shoulder had Turnbull on full alert, and glad he had refused that extra tot. Apart from the Provost badge and a small flash on his shoulder, the newcomer looked just like any other army captain.
He thought of Cock Glover: you can always spot a copper, no matter what he’s wearing. He had had a record as long as your arm, until he had wangled himself into Coastal Forces.
The officer returned his salute and glanced at him: only seconds, but it felt like an inspection.
“Can I help, sir?”
Dawson wheezed, “Wants to see the Skip …” and cleared his throat, “the commanding officer.” But he was looking down at the visitor’s heavy boots, scraping his clean deck.
“Lieutenant-Commander Kearton not aboard, then?” Sharp, precise. “I need to see him.”
“He’s at a meeting right now, sir. Quite an important one, I believe. He’s just returned from active duty.” It sounded like a defence.
“I know all that.” He dragged his cuff away from his watch. “It should be over by now.”
Turnbull said, “I can fetch the first lieutenant, sir. He’s aboard the M.G.B. astern of us.”
He nodded curtly. “The latest arrival. In that case, I shall have to get back to H.Q.” He lifted one hand in a signal to his driver. “I’ll leave word at the gate.”
Turnbull reached out unconsciously, and stopped himself before touching his arm.
“Anything I can do, sir? I’d like to help.” He saw the immediate reaction, like a guard dropping into place. It was pointless. But he added quietly, “I owe it to him. He saved my life.”
“In that case—”
Dawson called, “ ’E’s comin’ now, ’Swain!” and, ignoring the officer, “I’ll ’ave someone mop up this deck.”
Kearton walked up the brow, and saluted as he stepped over the side.
“Do you wish to see me? I’m sorry you’ve been kept waiting.”
Turnbull unclenched his fists. So calm … like hearing him at the table, dealing with a requestman, or rearranging duties in the flotilla.
“I’m Murray, S.I.B. I’d like you to accompany me ashore, sir.” He tapped his breast pocket. “I have the written authority. There’s a car.”
The gangway sentry muttered, “First lieutenant’s arrived.”
Turnbull heard himself say, “I’d like to come along too, sir,” and sensed the soldier’s immediate resentment. “For messages and things.” But, surprisingly, he nodded. There was even the hint of a smile.
“I have no objection.”
Kearton paused at the brow again. “Won’t be long, Number One,” and glanced at the officer in khaki. “Right?”
Murray had half turned. “The quicker the better.” He watched Kearton salute and the others respond as he stepped on to the jetty, then Kearton stopped and gripped his arm.
“Tell me what this is about.”
They fell into step, and only Turnbull sensed the sudden confrontation.
A drill of some kind had been running nearby, repairing something, or clearing away rubble from the last air raid. There was a momentary lull, and the provost captain’s voice seemed very loud in the silence.
“There was an incident this morning. Someone was attacked.”
Kearton tightened h
is grip and repeated, “Tell me. Who was she?”
“I didn’t say it was a woman.” Then, “I think I understand. Do you know someone called Dalli? Maria Dalli? Your name was on a pad by the telephone. An official number. That was how we traced you.”
Kearton realized that they had reached the car. A redcap was standing by the door, and two naval patrolmen were waiting to open the gates. Either they knew what was happening, or were speculating wildly. Soon the whole place would hear about it.
He remembered the call, the deafening music, her voice after she had turned it down, or closed the door. Or someone else had closed it. But not Glynis.
“Was it robbery?”
Murray gestured to the rear set, but waited until Turnbull had climbed into the front beside the driver.
“It might have been an intended robbery. Now it’s murder.”
The car pulled out on to the road and Turnbull saw Lieutenant Toby Ainslie walking toward them, a large folder beneath his arm. He, too, had been at a meeting, with Intelligence, taking him through it all over again, as if he had not suffered enough. He had seen the car and recognized them, and had stopped, staring at them.
But Turnbull was listening intently to Kearton’s voice.
“I was ringing Mrs Howard.”
“Yes, we know. We had to get hold of her too, of course. She knew the deceased pretty well.”
“How is she?”
“I didn’t see her. One of my chaps thought she seemed OK, rather shocked. Only natural.” He rapped the driver’s shoulder. “Here, next turning.”
The driver’s eyes were reflected in his mirror.
“I know, sir.”
Kearton saw the same half-demolished building with the ornate balcony; he had barely noticed the journey. Like the meeting: Garrick very much in charge. Shaking hands. Unfamiliar faces. And all the time his mind had remained detached, resisting. Preparing him.
“Where is Mrs Howard, do you know?”
The car was turning again, slowing to lurch across a deep rut.
“She’s here now.” He winced as the car shook again. “Didn’t I say? She found the body.”
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