Sunset (17 page)

There was no response and the fishing boat continued to drift, unmanned. Perhaps the attacking boat had kidnapped the crew on some pretext.

‘Slow ahead.' Kerr readjusted the heavy webbing holster on his hip, and did not see Kipling's wry grin.

‘You two stay in the boat!' He felt the fisherman's shadow rise over them. After the sun it was cold. Unnerving.

Macaskie said, ‘I think the old girl's sinking, sir.'

‘
What?
' Kerr stared at the hull's filthy waterline. It did look lower in the water, or were things getting him down so much he couldn't see straight? He seemed to hear Brooke's voice again.
It's not going to get any better
.

He said harshly, ‘Follow me!
Grapnel!
'

The boat's engine died away as the bowman hurled his grapnel up and over the scarred bulwark, and Kerr was on the crowded, unfamiliar deck without any recollection of leaving the motor-boat.

His eyes took in the piles of nets, marker floats and other fishing gear. Nothing moved. There was an open hold and he saw what might have been the marks of a crowbar or jemmy where the covers had been forced off. The hold was empty. No catch this time. Maybe they were carrying something else?

He saw a child's woolly coat hanging up to dry and remembered that Hong Kong fishermen often lived in these boats with all the members of their families.

Kipling peered into the hold. ‘She's taking water, right enough. The grenades might have done it.' He did not sound convinced. He glanced at the wheelhouse and the nearby hatch, which led to the crew's or living quarters. ‘Shall I go?'

Kerr snapped, ‘No.' He hesitated. ‘What's the matter, man?'

Kipling did not raise his voice. ‘Can't you smell it?' When Kerr remained silent he spat it out. ‘Death!'

A glance at the apprehensive boarding party was enough to tell Kerr to take action.

‘Uncover your weapons.' He stared across the water but
Serpent
's outline was almost lost in a bank of drifting sea-mist.

Then, angrily, he dragged open the hatch and hurried down the ladder. The boat had been completely taken apart. Cupboards and boxes ripped open, contents scattered and broken on the deck. Menzies, a tough leading torpedoman who was in charge of the party, sniffed the unmoving air. Like a dog, Kerr thought.

‘Over here, sir!'

Kerr strode across the crew-space and swallowed hard as he saw the blood, mingling with water in the leaking hull.

‘What the hell's been going on here?'

He saw a closed door, and with Menzies close behind him he kicked it open.

There were two oil lamps swinging from the deckhead: a poor light, but more than enough to reveal the horror which had visited this small place.

On a large wooden bunk against the curved hull were the bodies of two women. One was older than the other, probably mother and daughter. Both were naked. There was more blood on the bunk, and Kerr guessed that each of them had been raped many times: their contorted faces and savage bruises said something of their terrible ordeal. A small Chinese child lay dead in a corner.

Menzies was breathing hard and someone else was retching, unable to stop.

Kerr reached out and touched the girl's skin. It was still warm. As he made to cover her he saw that both women had been stabbed between the legs.

He could feel the vomit hard in his throat. Any moment now, and . . .

Menzies exclaimed hoarsely, ‘Over there, sir! ‘Nother door!'

Kerr nodded. He was bitterly cold: it was like some deathly fever. He could scarcely move. The door probably led right forward, to the toilet arrangements and finally the chain-locker. How could he think so logically after what he had just seen?

He pushed open the door and stared down at another corpse. His wrists had been pinioned, and his body had been the source of all the blood in the cabin. He must have died under torture. But first he had been forced to watch the rape and brutal murder of his wife and family.

Something rolled across the deck, and one of the seamen gave a startled cry. The fishing boat was settling down.

He spoke between clenched teeth. ‘Go on deck and tell Burns to signal the ship . . .'

But Menzies was staring at the dead man's mutilated face, his teeth bared like a snarl of defiance.

‘There's another over there, sir.' He tried to make light of it. ‘Covered him up to spare our feelings!'

Kerr thought of Brooke waiting and wondering at the delay. He must do something.

As Menzies groped over to uncover the body, the ‘corpse' leapt to its feet, so that the seaman fell sprawling in the blood.

Kerr could not move. The man was squat and powerful, perhaps a pirate who had been trapped below when his boat had
dashed away as
Serpent
had been sighted. He was staring at Kerr without appearing to blink; then he revealed the heavy-bladed knife, which was still black with blood.

Menzies rolled over and gasped, ‘Watch out!'

Two things happened in a second. The glass of a filthy skylight shattered overhead, and the crash of a shot exploded in the confined space like a bomb.

Kerr saw the man's forehead burst open, and the bullet flung him down on to the mutilated corpse.

Feet pounded down the ladder and Kipling pushed through the door, one swift glance taking in the butchered women and the man he had just shot from above.

‘All right, Number One?'

‘
You killed him.
' Kerr had to prop himself against the door as the hull rolled heavily around him.

Kipling thrust what looked like a heavy German Luger back into his belt, but his eyes remained on the corpse.

‘You know what it says in the good book, Number One? Don't draw your gun unless you intend to use it. Well, I did, as it happened.' He brushed past him, but paused to tap Kerr's sealed holster. ‘If you see what I mean.'

Menzies was on his feet again, gasping in air like a partly-drowned man. ‘Jesus, I thought I was done for!'

Kerr watched Kipling as he stooped over the gaping corpse; he had shot him right between the eyes, and the back of his head had been blown out. Nevertheless he saw Kipling kick the blade from his fist before opening his jerkin to look for other weapons, his expression detached, only his thin nostrils dilating slightly to show what it was costing him.

A yell came from overhead, ‘Signal, sir!
Recall!
'

Somebody was being sick, and another gasped, ‘Thank Christ for that!'

Kerr made himself wait as Kipling slipped a few small items into his pockets.

He wiped his face with his forearm. ‘Oddly enough, I was thinking about pirates when I was on watch.' He wanted to laugh, but knew he would not be able to stop.

Kipling straightened up. ‘There won't be any charts or log
books. We might as well clear out an' let her go under.' He stared at the naked women as if he needed to remember everything here.

Kerr released the door. ‘You saved my life just now.'

Kipling answered casually, ‘Worthwhile then, wasn't it?' He waited for Menzies to go and muster the boarders.

Then, when they were alone, he said, ‘He may look like a pirate, Number One, but he's a Jap soldier. I hope our people know what they're doing.'

They stood side by side on the listing deck and waited for the motor-boat's engine to roar into life.

Kipling was very aware of Kerr's distress. A true gentleman, he thought. Completely out of his depth in this sort of war.

‘Sea's the best place for these poor sods.' He pulled out the leather wallet he had taken from the dead man's jacket. Details of his army service, no doubt. The Skipper's brother would be interested in that, if anybody would listen to him.

He opened the wallet in the warm sunshine and saw the photograph of a young girl. Daughter or lover, sister or wife? She was not unlike the girl down in the cabin.

Kerr said, ‘I'll tell the captain what you did. I'll never forget it.'

He was thinking of the woman's smooth skin under his fingers. How could anyone do that?

Kipling smiled.
He was learning
.

‘I know what I was taught, Number One. The quick and the dead. No third party allowed.'

As the motor-boat pushed off from the listing hull Kerr saw the ship slowing down again, men already lining the iron-deck ready to hoist it up to the davits. The Oerlikon guns were still trained towards the fishing boat.
Serpent
was, at that moment, the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

Kipling turned and looked back. The fishing boat was already raising her bows to the cloudless sky. Where were the other members of the crew, he wondered. Murdered and thrown overboard? Or were they in league with their attackers?

They might never know. Nobody would want to speak of it.

Kerr said, ‘What were they doing there in the first place? They know the risks of going so close to the mainland.'

What would he say if I told him
? It might almost be worth it to discover.

Kerr was saying, ‘Oh – by the way, you should be getting your second stripe very soon.'

Kipling shaded his eyes and peered at the ship. Barrington-Purvis was climbing down from his control position. He grinned evilly.

‘Oh good. Mummy
will
be pleased!'

Kerr felt suddenly weary. Empty.

While the boat's crew busied themselves hooking on to the falls, he stared back at the oily whirlpool where the fisherman had given up the fight.

Menzies said quietly, ‘
Thanks
, sir.'

Kerr asked, ‘For what?'

The leading hand looked at his ship alongside, the searching, anxious faces.

‘For gettin' us home. That's what.'

Kipling waited for Menzies to leave and then said, ‘I'd very much appreciate it if you forgot about the Luger, Number One.'

Kerr gripped his arm tightly. It had been a close thing.

‘What Luger?'

Even as the motor-boat's dripping keel rose from the water alongside, the bridge telephones rang out and the surge of froth beneath the stern showed that the Chief's hands had been itching to open the throttles.

It was as if the ship herself knew what had happened and shared the shame with those who had seen it. She was eager to go.

Kerr looked up at the bridge and saw Brooke silhouetted against the blue sky. Waiting for him.

‘When we get back to H.K. I'll buy you the biggest drink you've ever had, Sub!'

But there was no reply. Kipling had melted away.

Just for an instant he recalled his attacker's fixed stare as he had raised the bloodstained blade. He himself had not been able to move. At least he now had the chance to live with the realisation.

I was afraid
.

The Peninsula Hotel,
the Pen
as Jeremy Brooke had called it, was a magnificent building on the Kowloon side. It seemed very modern in appearance when compared with most of the others.

The hotel was only a short walk from the Star Ferry, but Brooke was feeling the noon sun by the time he reached it.

They had returned to the harbour in the early morning, to a strangely peaceful and untroubled atmosphere: so much at odds with the horrific discoveries aboard the sinking fishing boat, details of which had pervaded the whole ship like a fever.

Here, in Kowloon, there was only the detachment and serenity usual on a Sunday; and while the small, beautifully dressed children of rich Chinese played on the grass overseen by watchful amahs, a military band was completing a programme of Gilbert and Sullivan for men and women who sat in deck-chairs and sipped their drinks.

In the harbour it was the same. Smart awnings, church pendants hoisted for morning service and Divisions, a few boats' crews sweating and panting while they practised for the coming naval regatta.

Only the merchant ships were busy; they always were. Any lighterage company or fresh-water supplier could make a fortune in a matter of months.

The hotel had a circular driveway, not unlike the Savoy in London, Brooke thought, what he had seen of it. Like Kowloon
itself, there was an air of opulence and confidence about the place. A mark of the Colony's continued expansion.

He had written a full report for the Commodore in charge at
Tamar
, and sent a briefer version to Stallybrass aboard his flagship. He had expected to be called immediately to one or the other. Instead he had received a message from his brother to meet him without delay at
the Pen
.

Kerr had described the mutilated bodies, and told him about Kipling's unhesitating action, which had saved his life and probably those of the small boarding-party as well.

Kipling had been less talkative.

‘With all respect, sir, the first lieutenant is a good officer, but he's not used to this sort of caper.'

‘And you are?'

‘I've made no secret of that, sir. I was with the Special Service in the Med. Your brother – I mean, Commander Brooke was with us a few times. Intelligence always wanted to know what was going on. As for the fishing boat – I was prepared, that's all.'

And what of the wallet Kipling had taken from the man he had shot dead? It proved nothing. The man might have stolen it from some careless Japanese soldier.

Brooke paused on the circular driveway and admired the fountains in the centre. Nothing added up.

After Dunkirk and the Battle of Britain, an enemy invasion had never been ruled out. But at least they had been ready for it, as they still were in England.

He thought of the war he had left behind. The convoys, the endless sacrifice to get food to the tables and weapons to defend them . . . He shook off the memory and mounted the steps where smart page-boys were waiting to drag open the doors for him.

The vast gilt and marble lobby was packed with people, sitting or standing about while waiters dashed back and forth with trays of drinks. The Peninsula was obviously a favourite rendezvous for the wealthy traveller and the powerful businessman. There were a few uniforms in the lobby: old China hands for the most part, elderly and white-haired, probably only too pleased to be recalled to some volunteer regiment.