San Andreas (24 page)

‘Thank you, sir,' she said. ‘That was very kind of you. Makes me feel more than halfway better already. See, Archie, I can't be all that stupid.'

‘Nobody ever suggested you were. How long will it take her to come round, Dr Sinclair?'

‘Five minutes, fifteen, twenty-five? Impossible to say. People vary so much in their recovery times. And even when she does come out of it she'll be fuzzy for some time, not mentally clear enough to remember and answer what might be difficult questions.'

‘When she is, call me, please. I'll be on the bridge.'

Half an hour later McKinnon joined Margaret Morrison in the small lounge off the mess-deck. She was pale and unsmiling but looked composed enough. He sat down opposite her.

‘How do you feel now?'

‘Bit sick. Bit nauseated.' She half-smiled. ‘Dr Sinclair seemed to be more concerned about the state of my mind. I think that's well enough.'

‘Fine. Well, not fine, it was a damnable thing to happen to you, but I feel less like commiserating with you than congratulating you.'

‘I know. Janet told me. I'm not one for mock shudders, Archie—but, well, he could have done, couldn't he? I mean, cut my throat.'

‘He could have done. He should have done.'

‘Archie!'

‘Oh God, that wasn't very well put, was it? I meant that for his own sake he should have done. He may just possibly have given away enough rope to hang himself.'

‘I don't understand what you mean.' She smiled to rob her words of offence. ‘I don't think anyone understands quite what you mean. Janet says you're a very devious character.'

‘Be you white as snow, etcetera. Only the truly honest get maligned in this fashion. A cross one has to bear.'

‘I have difficulty in seeing you in the role of martyr. Janet said you had lots of questions to ask me.'

‘Not lots. Just one. Well, a few, but all the same question. Where were you this afternoon before we stopped?'

‘In the mess-deck. Out there. Then I went to relieve Irene just before the lights went out.'

‘Anyone enquire about the health of the patients in Ward A when you were out there?'

‘Well, yes.' She seemed faintly surprised. ‘I often get asked about the patients. Natural, isn't it?'

‘This late afternoon, I meant.'

‘Yes. I told them. Also natural, isn't it?'

‘Did they ask if anyone was asleep?'

‘No. Come to think of it, they didn't have to. I remember telling them that only the Captain and First Officer were awake. It was some sort of joke.' She broke off, touched her lips with her hand and looked thoroughly chagrined. ‘I see. It wasn't really such a joke, was it—it let me in for half-an-hour's involuntary sleep, didn't it?'

‘I'm afraid it did. Who asked the question?'

‘Wayland Day.'

‘Ah! Our pantry boy—ex-pantry boy, I should say, and now your faithful shadow and worshipper from afar.'

‘Not always as far away as you might think, gets a little embarrassing at times.' She smiled and then was suddenly serious. ‘You're barking up the wrong tree, Archie. He may be a bit of a pest, but he's only a boy and a very nice boy. It's unthinkable.'

‘I don't see a tree in sight. Agree, unthinkable. Our Wayland would never be a party to anything that might harm you. Who were the others at your table? Within hearing distance, I mean.'

‘How do you know there was anyone else at my table?'

‘Margaret Morrison is too clever to be stupid.'

‘That
was
stupid. Maria was there—'

‘Sister Maria?' She nodded. ‘She's out. Who else?'

‘Stephen. The Polish boy. Can't pronounce his surname—no one can. Then there were Jones and McGuigan, who are nearly always with Wayland Day—I suppose because they are the three youngest members of the crew. Two seamen by the name of Curran and Ferguson—I hardly know them because I hardly ever see them. And, yes, I seem to remember there were two of the sick men we picked up in Murmansk. I don't know their names.'

‘You
seem
to remember?'

‘No. I do. It's because I don't know their names, I suppose. I'm sure one's a TB case, the other a nervous breakdown.'

‘You could identify them again?'

‘Easily. Both had red hair.'

‘E.R.A. Hartley and L.T.O. Simons.' McKinnon opened the lounge door. ‘Wayland!'

Wayland Day appeared within seconds and stood at respectful attention. ‘Sir.'

‘Go and find Mr Patterson and Mr Jamieson. Oh yes, and Lieutenant Ulbricht. My compliments to them and ask them if they would please come here.'

‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir.'

Margaret Morrison looked at the Bo'sun in amusement. ‘How did you know that Wayland was so close?'

‘Ever tried to lose your shadow on a sunny day? I can prophesy things—nothing to do with the second sight—such as that Lieutenant Ulbricht will be the first along.'

‘Oh, do be quiet. Has this been of any good to you? Another stupid question. Must have been or you wouldn't have sent for those three.'

‘Indeed it has. Another little complication but I think we can manage it. Ah, Lieutenant Ulbricht. That was very quick. Please sit down.' Ulbricht took his seat by the side of Margaret Morrison while McKinnon contemplated the ceiling.

She said in a vexed voice: ‘There's no need for that.'

Ulbricht looked at her. ‘What do you mean, Margaret?'

‘The Bo'sun has a warped sense of humour.'

‘Not at all. She just doesn't like me being right.' He looked round, greeted Patterson and Jamieson then rose and closed the door with a firm hand.

‘As serious as that, is it?' Patterson said.

‘I'd rather we weren't overheard, sir.' He gave them a brief résumé of the talks he'd had with Janet Magnusson and Margaret Morrison, then said: ‘One of those nine people within hearing distance of Sister Morrison knew that Captain Bowen and Mr Kennet were the only two patients in Ward A who were awake and made the fullest use of that information. Agreed?'

No one disagreed.

‘We can rule out Sister Maria. No hard reason, except that it's inconceivable.'

‘Inconceivable.' Both Patterson and Jamieson spoke at the same time.

‘Stephen? No. He's pro-British enough to make us all feel ashamed and he'll never forget that it was the Royal Navy that saved his life in the North Sea.'

Margaret Morrison looked up in surprise. ‘I didn't know that.'

‘Neither did we, Sister, even although he is in the engine-room department. Not till the Bo'sun told us. His agents are in every nook and cranny.' Patterson seemed slightly aggrieved.

‘Wayland Day, Jones and McGuigan. No. They're hardly out of kindergarten and haven't lived enough or been steeped enough in sin to make apprentice counter-espionage agents, junior grade. That leaves us with four suspects.'

‘Curran and Ferguson are out. I know them. They are shirkers and malingerers of the first order and haven't the energy, interest or intelligence to make the grade. That apart, they spend all their spare time holed up in the carpenter's shop in the bows and leave it so seldom that they can hardly know what's going on in the rest of the ship. Final proof, of course, is that though they may not be very bright they're hardly stupid enough to set off an explosive charge in the ballast room while they are sleeping in the carpenter's shop directly above. That leaves Simons and Hartley, two of the sick men—or allegedly sick men—that we picked up in Murmansk. Don't you think we should have them up here, Mr Patterson?'

‘I do indeed, Bo'sun. This is becoming interesting.'

McKinnon opened the door. ‘Wayland!'

If possible, Wayland Day made it in even less time than the previous occasion. McKinnon gave him his instructions, then added: ‘Have them here in five minutes. Tell them to bring their pay-books.' He closed the door and looked at Margaret Morrison.

‘Wouldn't you like to leave now?'

‘No, I wouldn't. Why should I? I'm as interested and involved in this as any of you.' In a wholly unconscious gesture, she touched her throat. ‘More, I would say.'

‘You might not like it.'

‘A Gestapo-type interrogation, is that it?'

‘How they are treated depends entirely on Mr Patterson. I'm only venturing an opinion, but I wouldn't think that Mr Patterson goes in very much for thumbscrews and racks. Not standard engine-room equipment.'

She looked at him coldly. ‘Facetiousness does not become you.'

‘Very little does, it seems.'

‘Hartley and Simons,' Jamieson said. ‘We had them on our list of suspects. Well, more or less. Remember, Bo'sun?'

‘I remember. I also remember that we agreed that the CID were in no danger of a takeover from us.'

‘Something I have to say,' Ulbricht said. ‘Discouraging, but I have to say it. I was here from the time the generator lights went out until they came on again. With their red heads, those two men are unmistakable. Neither of them left their seats in that time.'

‘Well, now.' Margaret Morrison had an air of satisfaction about her. ‘Rather puts a damper on your theory doesn't it, Mr McKinnon?'

‘Sad, Sister, very sad. You really would like to prove me wrong, wouldn't you? I have the odd feeling that I will have been proved wrong before
this trip is over. Not by you, though.' He shook his head. ‘It's still sad.'

Sister Morrison could be very persistent. She put on her best ward sister's face and said: ‘You heard what the Lieutenant said—neither of those two men left their seats during the crucial period.'

‘I should be astonished if they had done.' Margaret Morrison's prim frown gave way to perplexity which in turn yielded to a certain wariness. McKinnon looked at Ulbricht. ‘Lieutenant, we are not just dealing with Flannelfoot number two: we are dealing with Flannelfeet numbers two and three. We have established that it was number two, a crew member, who blew the hole in the ballast room when we were alongside that sinking corvette. But no crew member under suspicion was within hearing range of Sister Morrison. So the finger points at Hartley or Simons. Maybe both. It was clever. There was no way we could reasonably associate them with the misfortune of the
San Andreas,
for at the time the first hole was blown in the ballast they were still in hospital in Murmansk, where one or both had been suborned. Of course neither was going to leave his seat during the time of the attack. That could have been too obvious.'

Ulbricht tapped his head. ‘The only thing that is obvious to me is that Lieutenant Ulbricht is not at his brightest and best today. Hit me over the head with a two-by-four long enough and I'll see the point as fast as any man. Of course you have the
right of it. Obvious.' He looked at Margaret Morrison. ‘Don't you agree?'

There was a distinct tinge of red in the normally pale face. ‘I suppose so.'

‘There's no supposing.' The Bo'sun sounded slightly weary. ‘What happened was that the information was passed on before—well before—the engines stopped. How long before the engines stopped did Wayland Day ask you the question about Ward A?'

‘I don't know. I'm not sure.'

‘Come on, Margaret. Can't you see it's important?'

‘Fifteen minutes?' she said uncertainly. ‘Maybe twenty. I'm really not sure.'

‘Of course you're not. People don't check their watches every five minutes. But during those fifteen or twenty minutes one of those two men left his seat and returned?'

‘Yes.' Her voice was very low.

‘Which one?'

‘I don't know. I really don't. Please believe me. I know I said earlier that I could easily identify them—'

‘Please, Margaret. I believe you. What you meant is that you could identify them as a pair, not individually. Both look uncommonly alike, both have red hair and you didn't even know their names.'

She smiled at him, a grateful little smile, but said nothing.

‘You do have the right of it, Bo'sun. Apart from that, I'm convinced of it because there's no other explanation.' Patterson rubbed his chin. ‘This interrogation business. Like Mr Jamieson and yourself, I don't really think I'm CID material. How do we set about it?'

‘I suggest we first try to establish their bona fides—if any—to see if they are what they say they are. Hartley claims to be an Engine-Room Artificer. I'll leave him to you. Simons says he's a Leading Torpedo Operator. I'll speak to him.' He looked at his watch. ‘The five minutes are up.'

Patterson didn't invite either man to sit. For some seconds he looked at them coolly and thoughtfully, then said: ‘My name is Chief Engineer Patterson. I am in temporary command of this vessel and have some questions to ask. The reasons for the questioning can wait. Which of you is E.R.A. Hartley?'

‘I am, sir.' Hartley was slightly taller, slightly more heavily built than Simons, but otherwise the resemblance was remarkable: Margaret Morrison's confusion over the pair was more than understandable.

‘You claim to be an E.R.A. Can you prove it?'

‘Prove it?' Hartley was taken aback. ‘What do you mean—“prove it”, sir? I don't have any certificates on me if that's what you're after.'

‘You could pass a practical test?'

‘A practical test?' Hartley's face cleared. ‘Of course, sir. I've never been in your engine-room but that's no matter. An E.R.A. is an E.R.A. Take me to your engine-room and I'll identify any piece of equipment you have. I can do that blindfold—all I have to do is touch. I'll tell you the purpose of that or any piece of equipment and I can strip it down and put it together again.'

‘Hm.' Patterson looked at Jamieson. ‘What do you think?'

‘I wouldn't waste our time, sir.'

‘Neither would I.' He nodded to the Bo'sun, who looked at Simons.

‘You L.T.O. Simons?'

‘Yeah. And who are you?' McKinnon looked at the thin arrogant face and thought it unlikely that they would ever be blood-brothers. ‘You're not an officer.'

‘I'm a seaman.'

‘I don't answer questions from a Merchant Navy seaman.'

‘You will, you know,' Patterson said. ‘Mr McKinnon is hardly the equivalent of the Royal Navy's ordinary seaman. The senior seaman aboard, the equivalent of your warrant officer. Not that it matters to you what he is. He's acting under my orders and if you defy him you defy me. You understand?'