The Glory Boys (29 page)

“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 his 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.”

“I think I knew.”

All the car doors were open suddenly. “I shall need a short statement, just a few lines for my report. Shouldn’t take long.”

Kearton stood on the rough ground and saw the barrier closing behind them. Hurrying figures, a few salutes, someone testing a torch by the checkpoint. Surely it was not that late? But the sky seemed darker, and the air was clammy against his face. Perhaps another one of those brief, fierce storms …

He heard Turnbull say, “I’ll be standing by, in case.” Then he saw her, by the end of the cracked wall, people passing or loitering near other vehicles, and yet quite alone.

She did not move until he reached her, and even then she waited until he had put his arms around her, and her voice was muffled as she rested her forehead against his shoulder.

“You came. They told me, but I wanted to meet you. Just us.”

He turned her gently toward the buildings. He could see the same tarpaulin stretched across one of the roofs, the slope leading down to the abandoned garden, an open door, two uniformed figures peering at a map or plan of some sort. Police.

He squeezed her shoulders, but felt no response, and her arms still hung straight at her sides.

“I came as soon as I could, Glynis.” He thought he felt her shiver at the sound of her name.

“I knew you’d come. But I was afraid.”

“You can come in here now, miss.” A pause. “You too, sir.”

Again he felt her body stiffen. She said, “I screamed. Couldn’t help it. Then everyone was here. I wanted you to know.” She broke off. “Poor Maria.”

Some of the lamps had been switched off, and he saw two redcaps carrying them toward the parked vehicles.

Captain Murray was standing near the desk, watching one of his men making notes. His cap was on the desk, and without it he looked younger: human, Kearton thought.

Some of the furniture had been moved, and there were chalk marks near the table with its official-looking telephone.

The old armchair was as he remembered it. As if it had been here when the apartment had been part of that other, peacetime Malta. She did not resist when he sat her down in it.

She looked up at him, her eyes filling her face. “I wanted to get here early. I knew you’d call—I hoped you’d come. So I would be waiting to greet you.” She rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand, but when he offered his handkerchief she did not seem to see it. “But there was a big hold-up on the road. An accident, or something to do with the convoy … nobody said.” She looked up at him again. “So I was late. Otherwise …” She was staring at the telephone now, and the door beyond it. “Otherwise.”

He knelt beside the armchair, and held her tightly against him.

She whispered, “I screamed.” Then, “Don’t leave me, Bob.”

The shadow loomed over them.

“We’ll be leaving now, Mrs Howard.” An unknown face. “We can run through it again.” A pause. “Tomorrow?”

Kearton felt her nod, and said, “She’s been through enough.”

The voice persisted, “But nothing stolen, you say?”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing
worth
stealing.” She reached out and took the handkerchief, and looked up at him
again
, her eyes suddenly alive. “I’ll wash this for you. What do sailors call it?”

Kearton smiled. “Dhoby.”

Murray had put his cap back on, becoming the policeman again. “I think we’ve got all we need from you, sir. The wireless was switched on and playing loud music when you called this number. The deceased turned it down while you were speaking.” He closed his book, but used it to point at the door. “Or shut that.” He pursed his lips. “Quite a stretch, to do that.”

A voice called, “Ready, sir?” Car doors slamming.

“Are you staying here, Mrs Howard?”

Kearton said, “I’ll be here, until …” He looked down; she was grasping his hand. She said, “I have friends coming here shortly.” Her chin lifted. “Until then …”

Kearton said curtly, “I’ll send word to my people,” wanting them to leave her alone. But he knew it had only just started.

“One last question, Mrs Howard.” Murray was hovering, the humanity gone. “Do you think Miss Dalli knew, or recognized, the intruder?”

She looked directly at Kearton.

“It was why he killed her.”

“There’ll be an extra patrol in this sector. But if anything occurs to you …” He stood by the outer door. “Your petty officer is here.”

She stood up, and walked toward him, her hand outstretched.

“Mr Turnbull—Harry. May I?”

Turnbull stared past her at Kearton.

“’Course. As it should be amongst friends—mates—” He took the offered hand. “I’ll be back aboard, sir. And put Jimmy—th’ first lieutenant in the frame.” He seemed to back away. “Sure it’s OK, sir?”

“Thanks, ’Swain.” Kearton wanted to smile. “
Harry
.”

He closed the door after him, and slid a bolt as an extra precaution.

She had returned to the old chair and tucked her legs up into it. Exhaustion, despair and fear were taking their toll. He covered her with the shawl she had been wearing, touching her hair.

“Do you really have friends coming?”

She moved deeper into the chair. “Stay with me.” She was almost asleep, and he thought the police surgeon had given her something.

He took her hand and put it under the shawl, knowing he wanted to touch her, love her. Make her desire him, and no one else. Make her forget …

He straightened up and walked to the little desk, and dragged open the top drawer before he knew what he was doing.

The same silver frame: the glass had not been replaced. He closed the drawer again quietly. She was asleep. Beyond fear.

The wedding photograph was still there, but the bride had been slashed repeatedly with a knife or razor, by someone unknown, and still at large with his lust and madness.

And he had been here. Waiting for her. Listening to the music, then opening the door.

And hearing my voice
.

“Bob, where are you? Don’t go.”

He held her, embracing her, before she could move. But her eyes were still closed. Not a nightmare.

“I’m here, Glynis. You’re safe.”

He had to bend closer to hear her voice, her breathing. A whisper:
“Touch me
…”

But she was fast asleep.
Who did she see in her dreams?

He settled down on the carpet, with his shoulder against the chair.

He was still awake when there was a cloudburst over Grand Harbour, and the telephone began to ring.

When he answered it, the line was dead.

“CAPTAIN GARRICK IS
in there, sir.” The naval patrolman saluted, and added, “Expecting you.”

Kearton stared at the wooden hut which seemed to be perched only a few yards from the edge of the jetty, the one he had first noticed on their return from Operation
Retriever
. Hastily bolted together like those used by construction workers, bare and unpainted: hardly what you might expect for a senior officer.