Night Sky
Clare Francis is the author of eight international bestsellers, Night Sky, Red Crystal, Wolf Winter, Requiem, Deceit, Betrayal, A Dark Devotion and Keep Me Close. She has also written three non-fiction books about her voyages across the oceans of the world.
by the same author
Thrillers
Red Crystal
Wolf Winter
Requiem
Crime
Deceit
Betrayal
A Dark Devotion
Keep Me Close
Non-fiction
Come Hell or High Water
Come Wind or Weather
The Commanding Sea
CLARE FRANCIS
Night Sky
PAN BOOKS
First published 1983 by William Heinemann Ltd
First published in paperback 1984 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2008 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-330-46611-0 in Adobe Reader format
ISBN 978-0-330-46610-3 in Adobe Digital Editions format
ISBN 978-0-330-46612-7 in Mobipocket format
Copyright © Clare Francis 1983
The right of Clare Francis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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For my son, Thomas
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: My thanks to David Birkin, who navigated motor gunboats on clandestine missions during the war, and who let me study his collection of original charts and log books; to David Beaty and Tony Spooner, who flew Wellingtons and Liberators on U-boat hunting operations and were kind enough to provide me with much useful information; to Patrick Beesly for his help on the U-boat tracking techniques used by the Admiralty during the war; and to Robin Coventry and Sir Brooks Richards for their long and informative letters.
Contents
PART ONE
1935–1939
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
PART TWO
1940–1941
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
PART THREE
1942–February 1943
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
PART FOUR
March 1943
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
PART FIVE
May 1943–June 1945
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Postscript
Part One
1935–1939
Chapter 1
HE WAS IN a tiny dark cupboard, the door locked, the air foul and hot. Outside he could hear voices, sometimes loud and coarse, sometimes low and secretive. He tried to call out but he could make no sound. His body would not move, though nothing held it down. At some point he must have wet the bed, for the sheet underneath him was damp. Then his stomach heaved and without warning a thick trail of vomit streamed out, covering the pillow, clogging his hair. He was desperate to clean up the mess, but there was no water, no cloth, so he tried to mop it up with a corner of the sheet, wretched with the knowledge that this too was a mistake.
He lay back on the bed, shivering despite the heat. Tears of misery rolled down his cheeks and he cried a single ‘Maman!’ Then he remembered that he was not allowed to call out, that he must stay silent. The loneliness enveloped him; he wanted to close his eyes and sleep for ever.
There were voices again now: his mother’s, steady and light, and a man’s, low and furtive. The voices droned on, then rose to a higher pitch. There was a scream, then silence. Suddenly he was in a room and he saw his mother lying motionless on a bed. She was held down by the man, her arms twisted behind her, unable to move. Then she looked up at the man, her lips open, her teeth bared. She did not cry out; instead she smiled. His mother and the man moved in a strange way he did not understand. Then the picture faded.
He was in the cupboard again, unable to breathe, suffocating with the heat. He could hear voices still, but they were more distant now. The despair pressed in on him, crushing and hopeless. But this time he did not cry: he was learning how not to cry. He felt as if he had been alone all his life.
Paul Vasson woke with a start. For an instant he couldn’t remember where he was. Then he recognised the familiar outlines of the shabby room and, exhaling slowly, sank back on to the pillow. The voices from the dream murmured on. He listened and realised that they were floating up from the street outside. One, with a thick Provençal accent, he recognised as that of the old concierge next door. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep again. But it was no use. He had been dozing fitfully for less than half an hour and now he was wide awake.
He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. His mouth felt dry, his stomach unsteady. It was the fear. And worse than he’d imagined: stabbing, cold, dragging him down. The nightmare hadn’t helped either. The dream was always the same: the small room, the locked door, the suffocating heat. And such detail – so vivid. He remembered the shame of discovery and how, when his mother opened the door, he had wept even before she struck him. Later she had washed and dressed him in clean clothes and then – then she had given him a brief kiss on top of the head.
Or had that one startling kiss happened some other time?
He got up suddenly and, groping for the shutters, let in a small shaft of warm afternoon sunlight. He never let in too much light: it showed up the shabby furniture and the peeling paintwork.
He wondered what the time was – probably about four. Still too early to go out. He picked up La Dépêche du Midi from the floor and flopped back on to the bed. The headlines didn’t interest him: half a million unemployed; France protesting against something called the Anglo-German Naval Treaty; increasing numbers of Jewish refugees arriving in France from Germany.
He skipped to the sports pages but couldn’t concentrate and threw the newspaper back on to the floor.
God, he was nervous.
He stood up abruptly and walked naked across the room. Taking a clean towel from the dresser, he wrapped it round
his waist and poured some water into a tin bowl that stood on the only table. He splashed his face and looked into the small mirror above. Usually he avoided mirrors, they made him uneasy, but today he wanted to be sure he looked normal, ordinary. The thin face stared back at him, the eyes small and dark. And frightened. Mustn’t show the fear. Dear Lord.
Picking up a razor, he scraped at the soft stubble that sprouted unevenly on his chin. After a while he dropped his hand and, staring into the mirror, swore quietly. His skin, always sallow, had developed a yellow-grey tinge. He shivered and felt his stomach twist with griping pain. He realised with disgust that he must get to the WC and quickly.
He hurried out of the room and made for a door at the far side of the landing. He went in and almost retched. A foul stench rose from the pan and he saw that it was blocked. There was another WC two floors down, but there wasn’t enough time. He crouched miserably on the seat, muttering, ‘Dear Mother of God!’
The spasms faded at last and, his bowels empty, Vasson got to his feet and stepped quickly on to the landing, gasping for fresh air. He stood for a moment, listening. The house was quiet. Faint street sounds drifted up the stairwell and the murmur of snores floated across the landing. Most of the women were asleep or out, though some might have customers. No-one had seen him.
He went back into his room and was sure of one thing – he would go ahead with what had to be done. There was no going back, no giving up, not if he was to get out of this terrible place.
And he had to get out.
It wasn’t just the filth and the disgusting women, it was the humiliation. The Patron had put him in charge of this house on purpose, just to humiliate him, he was certain of that. Any cheap mac in the quartier could have done the job. The women were old, worn-out and pathetic, their only customers drunks or perverts. He loathed the sight of them. The job was an insult.
At first Vasson had thought that the job was a testing ground, that after a short time the Patron would ask him into the Business itself. But after six months he realised the move would never come. The Patron was purposely excluding him from the real action, purposely keeping him here in this hole. Treating him like rubbish. A very stupid man.
He dressed carefully, choosing old but freshly ironed cotton trousers and a cool white shirt. He hesitated over the choice of shoes: his old ones were badly worn now, while the new ones hidden in their box were tantalisingly smart. They were two-tone black and white in softest Moroccan leather and very expensive. But too risky, he finally decided. The most junior of house-minders did not have money for things like that.
He leant down and unlocked the bottom drawer of the old commode. He went through the contents carefully: new suit in pale blue linen, white silk shirt, tie, cotton socks, and a wallet, including identity card, driving licence and seven thousand francs in large notes. He was particularly pleased with the suit: it had been a real bargain. At first Goldrich, the tailor, had pressed him for the full price but Vasson had soon worn him down. Belonging to an organisation did have one advantage: people didn’t argue with you. Anyway, Goldrich was a Jew and Jews could always afford to reduce their prices.
The identity papers had taken a lot of finding. But, as Vasson kept reminding himself, they were almost untrace-able and therefore worth every bit of the effort. He had gone to Lyons, though it had meant a tedious two-hour train journey. But the further from Marseilles the better. Even if the worst came to the worst and they thought of checking up, Lyons was an unlikely place to go for documents. Anyway, they wouldn’t find anything: Vasson had avoided going to the local dealer – even if one existed, which he doubted. Instead he had watched outside the College dè Sciences Physiques in the Rue de la Trinité until, after two long days, he had finally seen a student who bore a resemblance to himself. The youth’s height and colouring were right and Vasson judged his age to be about twenty-one or twenty-two. Vasson himself was twenty-three, but he never thought of himself as young. He had never felt young, even when he was a child.
He had followed the youth back to a tall ugly house on the edge of the town and seen a light come on in a top left-hand window. Vasson had been sick at the thought of what he might have to do next: he loathed the idea of physical violence. But there was little possibility of the student leaving his wallet and identity card lying around in the daytime. Vasson would have to take them while the boy slept, although the risk of discovery – and of having to defend himself – was appalling.
As it was, the whole thing had been ridiculously easy. The side door of the house had been open and then, astonishingly, the student’s door too. Vasson’s heart had hammered so loudly that the tête de con must surely hear, but no, he slept on and it had taken only minutes for Vasson to find the wallet lying casually on a side table. He had crept out, sick with excitement, and vomited in the alleyway beside the house.
The wallet contained an identity card in the name of Jean-Marie Biolet, aged twenty-two, resident of 17, Rue Madeleine in the town of St Etienne. Vasson had been rather disappointed in the photograph: the likeness was not as good as he’d hoped. But a change of hairstyle and some glasses would hide the differences. The driving licence was a real bonus though, and more than made up for the photograph.
Vasson was immensely pleased with the result of his three-day excursion. He could easily have bought an identity card on the Marseilles market, but that would have been stupid: once the pressure was on, someone, somewhere, would have talked. As it was the card in the name of Jean-Marie Biolet could never be linked to Vasson. The knowledge gave him deep satisfaction. The identity would mean a complete break with the past. After today Paul Vasson, born in the Old Quarter of Marseilles, would cease to exist. The thought gave him a curious thrill.
Vasson examined the last item in the drawer: a leather money belt. The remaining two hundred thousand francs should fit into the neat pouches, but he couldn’t be sure until he actually got hold of the money and tried it in place. He’d asked for large notes, as large as possible, but they would still take up a lot of space. He would have to worry about that when the time came.
Vasson locked the drawer again and looked round the room. He picked up his washing things and put them into a hold-all with his raincoat and felt hat. He would leave the rest of his possessions; they would be no loss, no loss at all.
His eye caught a magazine cutting pinned to the wall above the bed and he took it down. It was an advertisement showing a stylised drawing of a car. Vasson examined it closely as he had a hundred times before. It was a D8SS Delage. The most beautiful, perfect, thing in the world.
He had often imagined what it must be like to drive such a thing, to feel it round your body: the leather seats, the throb of the 4-litre engine accelerating to over 160 kilometres an hour, and the shiny newness of the long, smooth body, as sleek as a cat’s.
He folded the cutting and put it in his wallet. Soon – by tonight – he would have enough money to buy a D8SS. The thought made him sick with excitement and he almost giggled.
The air was very still, the cooling wind that sometimes wafted up from the harbour had died away and the atmosphere in the room was stifling. It was still a bit early to meet Jojo, but suddenly Vasson had to leave, to get going before he started thinking too much. Thinking was all right when he was making plans: he liked planning. But it was no good now – he kept thinking about what might go wrong.
Anyway it was too late now.
And then he remembered with a jolt that it really was too late.
He ran quickly down the stairs and out into the cobbled street, blinking at the harsh afternoon light. The Old Quarter was crowded and he had to push his way through knots of people meandering along the hot narrow alleys. A couple of Arabs walked towards him, their arms around each other, and Vasson cursed as he was forced to step round them. One of the Arabs laughed and brushed his lips across the other’s bearded cheek. Bare-footed children were playing in the doorways while their mothers hung washing between the tall crumbling houses
and leaned over the latticed balconies, shouting at one another.
Vasson regarded the scene with distaste: it had not changed since he had been a child here twenty years before. The people lived like pigs, squashed together. They had no will to change, no drive to escape. They were happy to exist like this all their wretched lives.
A child came pelting out of a doorway, shouting with laughter, and ran straight under Vasson’s feet so that he almost tripped. He swore loudly. The child swerved quickly away and scampered down an alleyway, its feet flying. Vasson watched it angrily, half determined to chase after it. Suddenly the small figure lurched and fell forward onto the cobblestones, its limbs sprawled.
Vasson felt glad: it served the little devil right. The child did not move. Vasson wandered up the alley and looked down at it. He prodded its ribs with his foot. The child slowly lifted its head and turned towards him, its bleeding face crumpled with misery. Vasson stood and watched. The child lowered its head again and began to cry noisily.
There was something despairing about the sobbing shoulders. Tentatively Vasson reached down and touched the child. The child seemed not to notice. He grasped the small body and lifted it to its feet, holding it at arm’s length. It was a strange sensation, to be holding a child. He patted the child’s cheek rather brusquely. ‘All right?’
The child did not answer but continued to cry. Vasson went on one knee and, very slowly, pulled the child towards him, putting an arm round the narrow shoulders. He felt the child stiffen. ‘Don’t touch me, you bastard!’ The small face, so close to his, was ugly with contempt. Vasson got hastily to his feet and choked back his anger. The child ran off, screaming obscenities.
Vasson strode furiously back into the street. The bloody child had tricked him, made a fool of him. Children were no different from anyone else, he thought bitterly; they were out to get you, like the rest.
He turned on to the quay and hurried along the harbour, but went past the street where Jojo lived. Only when he felt calmer did he go back and walk up to Jojo’s. He was still half an hour early. He paused, wondering whether to wait in the street or go straight up to the apartment.
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