Knife Edge (2004) (6 page)

“Oh, all right. But only a minute. I mean it!”

She looked at him across the room. “Won’t be long. Get your shirt off. Toilet’s through there if you need it.”

He sat down again and obediently began to unbutton his shirt.
Matter of fact. In charge.
He saw his reflection in a mirror and smiled. What had he expected?

He heard her voice, then that of a man. The caller.

She was laughing, then she said, “That’s
enough
, Andy. You know what I told you.”

Ross felt the air conditioning like cool breath on his bare shoulders, and saw the door swing inward a few inches under the sudden pressure. She stood with her back turned in the outer room, which was more of a hanging space for hospital clothing. It was enough to reveal that the caller was a naval officer, a lieutenant-commander, the red cloth between his gold rings showing him to be a doctor, probably a surgeon, with that rank.

“You’ve had too much to drink, Andy. That’s you all over, isn’t it?” Very calm. Unworried.

Ross saw the man’s hand circle her waist, and in the corridor light the gap between her shirt and slacks, the tanned skin shining.

She said, “All right, for New Year, then.” They were kissing, and the hand was now hidden under the white shirt.

Ross stood up and collided with the chair, and swore.

The door clicked shut and she stood looking at him, her face composed, the suggestion of a smile on her lips. Her shirt was back in position, but her breathing was a little less than calm.

“Coming to my rescue, Lieutenant? No need. New Year is an excuse for anything, as you’ll discover if you stay here long enough.” She was taking out a pair of surgical gloves. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I saw it in your face just now. It’s rare enough these days. I was touched.”

He could not see the expression in her eyes as she gripped his hand and held it under the light. “That was the first thing I learned in hospital. If they know you’re a nurse, they think you’re anybody’s.” The scissors clipped away at the dressing, her fingers very steady, and strong.

He heard himself ask, “What hospital?”

“Eventually, Homerton.” The eyes flicked up. “I see you’ve no idea where that is.” She laid a piece of stained dressing on the tray. “It’s in London. The East End.”

She moved behind him, one hand on his shoulder, and he felt her hair brush his skin.

“This will sting a little.”

The plaster tugged for a second and he knew she was dusting the long, fine wound with something on a wad of cotton.

“You can put your shirt back on now. You’ve got a visitor coming soon . . . You must be fed up with it, after all you’ve had to go through.”

Snap, snap
. The two gloves were in a bin. The moment was over.

He saw her fingers buttoning his shirt.

“Here. Let me.”

She stood back and unfastened the top of her shirt, and he saw the fine chain around her neck. On it was suspended a plain gold ring.

She said, “Gets in the way sometimes in this job.” She moved her head slightly. “That’s the lift coming up. Your next visitor.”

There was a brief silence.

“Thank you for what you tried to do, for what you thought. It was only New Year, you see.” And smiled. “I know
your
name.” She looked at the door. “Mine’s Glynis.” Then she faced him again, her eyes very steady. “New Year, Ross. Remember?”

He did not recall moving. It seemed so natural, so right. As if there was no control.

She was tall; their mouths were almost level.

He kissed her, and could feel her body against his.

She twisted her face round, her lips parted. “No, Ross, a proper kiss!”

There was a tap at the door; the same orderly was there, and this time he was actually carrying some keys.

She turned away from the cupboard, although Ross had
not felt her move. In his mind she was still pressed against him, her tongue seeking his.

She was saying, “Here he is, Lieutenant.”

One of the faces he had seen at the meetings. A senior police officer. The questions . . .

“I don’t have to introduce you, do I? This is Chief Inspector Diamond. My husband.”

Major Keith Houston was warming to his subject.

“The results have been far better than I dared to hope.” He put a paperweight on one corner of a map as the overhead fan suddenly speeded up and scattered some of his papers. “Thanks to you and your swift, if unorthodox, handling of the situation.” He looked directly at Ross. “And how are the cuts and bruises? All fixed?”

He did not wait for an answer; he rarely seemed to. “The Big White Chief is pleased. ‘Operation Ratcatcher’, he’s christened it!”

Ross tried to relax. It was the same spacious office, with its maps and files full of signals. The same wide window, the midday sun on the harbour gleaming like copper. Alive and full of movement: coasters and ancient tramp steamers, a small cruise ship moored on the Kowloon side, vessels loading and unloading. As he had first seen it, and yet so different. Now.

Captain John Irwin sat in another chair, engrossed in some notes, and comparing them with something he had just written.

No sign of fatigue or excitement. Yesterday had been his big night out. How could he switch off so easily?

Houston was saying, “The chap you caught, Ross, was known to the police both here and in Singapore. A link they’ve been looking for. I expect Chief Inspector Diamond told you.” And smiled, almost triumphantly. “I can see
from your face, he did not. A close one, is Jock Diamond!”

Ross could see him in his mind. Tall, well built, kept himself in good condition. Tanned features, but not a man who stayed too long in the sun. And a permanent frown of which he was probably unaware. Steady grey eyes which revealed nothing, and missed nothing, either, watching him at the meetings, and when he had signed the witness statements. She had been there too, legs crossed, reading a paperback. But when he had touched on the more personal side, the Royal Marines, the Blackwood family, even his father’s death in Cyprus, Ross had seen that her eyes were unmoving, the paperback a pretence.

She had been wearing the ring he had seen hanging on the chain.
Gets in the way sometimes in this job.
So casually said, but did it have another meaning?

Diamond’s face had given no hint. The tipsy naval doctor named Andy, his hand fumbling with her shirt. New Year, then . . .

Did he know, or suspect? Did he care?

Only yesterday. Ross had thought of little else.
No, Ross, a proper kiss.
It was pointless to search for comparisons or excuses. The young girls at the various service events. The regattas and open days,
bags of swank an’ swagger
, as Sergeant Boyes would have said. But always keeping up appearances. A game which was never serious, unless you were asking for trouble. And some did.

But this was quite different. She was not some young flirtatious girl, out for a laugh and nothing else. He could see her name as if it was written in fire before him. Glynis. Who came from Wales, and who had been a nurse in London. Her smile as she had said,
the East End.
As if it were another world. And it was, too.

She was a real woman, and some one else’s. Beyond him in every way.

He heard her voice again. Testing him? Mocking his interest?
They think you’re anybody’s.
Was she?

He realized with a start that Houston had asked him something.

“Sir?”

“Sorry if I’m putting you to sleep!” The mood changed just as quickly. “You will remain on call. This is a top secret operation, a raid, if you like. Acting on information received. Boat action. Not a word to any one. If you fart in Victoria, they pick it up in the Peninsula Hotel. The Big White Chief will be overseeing every move. Remember that.”

Three weeks ago: Lieutenant-Colonel De Lisle, the rain-spattered windows, the tramping feet on the square at Stonehouse . . .

The Big White Chief had only just returned from Singapore.
Operation Ratcatcher.
He must have known then what was coming.

He could feel the thin wound on his back, the touch of her fingers, which the surgical gloves had not disguised.

She would laugh if she knew.
They think you’re anybody’s.

There was going to be a raid. Old hat to men like Irwin and Boyes, but no room for mistakes. The scar should act as a reminder.

Houston was showing Irwin a new squash racquet, swiping at the humid air. Irwin was nodding at some remark, but Ross knew his mind was elsewhere.

Tomorrow, or the next day, they might be in some sort of action. Bandits, smugglers, rebels, it made no difference.

Houston’s words again.
When I’m on the wrong end of a gun, that man is an enemy!

Despite his father, the Corps, De Lisle, even Houston, the decision had been his, but now that moment was behind
him. He had the lives of others to consider. Men who had no choice but to follow and trust him.

He found himself gazing at a newspaper cutting pinned on Houston’s bulletin board. It was a photo some alert reporter had snapped of the Duke of Edinburgh, the Corps’ Captain-General, turning to stare at a marine in his guard of honour who apparently had dropped his rifle in the middle of the ceremony. Somebody had scrawled underneath,
If you can’t take a joke, sir!

Ross breathed out slowly.

It was the only way to look at it.

Sergeant Ted Boyes stood at the end of the jetty watching three marines handing down bundles of personal gear and some anonymous crates to the crew of a harbour launch alongside, while he picked at his teeth with a matchstick to rid them of the remains of a massive bacon sandwich.

It was dusk, and the water was already alive with navigation lights, and the occasional winking buoy.

He could hear the traffic behind him, the constant movement. To any casual passer-by the marines and the harbour launch would look like just another working party. This time, it was not. The assorted bundles being loaded into the launch were weapons, ammunition, the tools of the trade. You stopped asking ‘why’ and ‘what for’. Otherwise you were in the wrong job.

It was almost time to pick up the others. Twenty in all. Not an army, but enough, if the brass had got their sums right.

The launch was moving stern first away from the jetty, the bowman raising his boathook in mock salute to the marines above him.

It looked like a twin of that other hard-worked launch he and Blackwood had boarded. About the same time of day,
too, glaring lights switching on along the waterfront and the high buildings inland.

Boyes had been in plenty of tight corners before, but that had been different. The unexpected roar of engines as the hidden boat had sped away into the darkness, the scream, the desperate encounter in the cabin . . .

He had seen Blackwood only twice since the interrogations by Naval Operations and the harbour police. The last time had been near the sick quarters when he had seen him talking to the woman. A real smasher, older than the lieutenant.
Nearer my age.
He grinned. She had certainly had all Blackwood’s attention. Lucky lad!

“’Eads up, Sarge. Mister Follow-my-example is comin’!”

It was the sarcastic nickname given to one of the three lieutenants who had been flown out from England. Lieutenant Alan Piggott was young, about Blackwood’s age, Boyes thought, very fair and good-looking, and he knew it. From another old service family, Royal Marine and naval, he always displayed a tremendous self-confidence and was quick to show his impatience with any one who did not measure up to his standards. Those who had served with him before usually had to admit that Blondie Piggott was usually right, and efficient in everything he did, which only made it worse.

Boyes spat the matchstick into the water, where it joined other floating rubbish, and braced himself. Officers sometimes had to be carried by their senior N.C.O.s, but always obeyed.

There was nothing in Q.R.s to say you had to like them.

“Ah, there you are, Sergeant. All done here? Those marines don’t appear to be busy.”

“All stowed, sir. The launch has just shoved off.”

Even in the fading light Boyes could see the fine profile, the rakish way he wore his green beret. Like everything he did.

“Everything checked to your satisfaction?” Boyes thought,
it’s too bloody late now if somebody’s forgotten something.
But he answered, “As ordered, sir. Do we know the final destination yet, sir?”

“The marines will be told nearer the time, right?”

Boyes relaxed slightly. So Piggott did not know, either. It was that important.

Somebody called, “Some more are comin’, Sarge,” and added self-consciously, “Sir!”

There were three of them, a sergeant and two corporals.

Boyes said, “Demolition party, sir. Come across from Kowloon,” and said abruptly to his opposite number, “I’m Boyes. This is Lieutenant Piggott.”

He looked at the officer. “We can move off now, sir.”

Piggott was regarding the other sergeant.

“Then you must be Sergeant Blackwood.” He seemed to rock back on his heels, a little mannerism Boyes had already noticed. “A pretty famous name in the Corps, or has been. Something to live up to. But on this mission we put all personal odds and ends to one side.”

Boyes waited, and was not disappointed.

Piggott said, “Just follow my example, right?”

“Boat comin’!”

Boyes watched Piggott’s pale outline move to the opposite side of the jetty, and said, “Welcome aboard. Steve, isn’t it?” They shook hands, and there was a brief, unspoken question.

Boyes said, “He’s got a lot to learn, but . . .”

The other sergeant’s teeth were white in a broad smile.

“Yeah.
But.
Says it all. And thanks. We’re going to get along fine.”

Boyes nudged his arm. “Sure thing. Just follow my example!”

The others turned as they both laughed. It couldn’t be all that dicey.

A boat surged alongside, a smaller, faster version this time, and the marines clambered into it. Lieutenant Blondie Piggott, correctly, entered last. Operation Ratcatcher could now begin.