Marriott smiled. The usual contempt of small-ship people for their larger consorts.

  He shaded his eyes to watch a line-handling party of Germans preparing to receive them alongside. Just a few months ago and they might have been taking the wires of a returning U-Boat, fresh from the killing ground, the Atlantic.

  Marriott raised his glasses. Cuff's MGB was here too, and there were several figures in boiler-suits walking along her deck, an officer he did not recognise speaking with Cuff's Number One.

  He saw a heaving line snake over the jetty to be seized by one of the waiting Germans.

  'Stop engines. Slow astern port outer!'

  Fenders squeaked between wood and stone and more lines were passed rapidly ashore.

  'Finished with engines.' In the sudden silence Marriott looked around, seeing the familiar haze of smoke from the big Packards, the sound of a generator quite different as the echo was cast back from solid concrete.

  Fairfax clattered into the bridge. 'All secure, sir.' He hesitated. 'Anything wrong, sir?'

  'No.' He looked at the idling seamen by the guardrails, Silver right in the bows just to make certain that the Jack had been properly secured as they had made fast. 'That is –' He could not explain it. 'Somebody walked on my grave, I think.' But it would not go away. 'I'm getting past it, Number One.'

  Fairfax smiled but his eyes remained anxious. He had heard about Marriott's nightmares. The lingering memories which would not leave him alone.

  A seaman called, 'Messenger, sir!'

  A youthful sailor in belt and gaiters clambered aboard, and would have fallen between the fenders had not Leading Seaman Rae grabbed his arm.

  'What's your name? Death?'

  Fairfax sighed. 'Look at this one, sir. Green as grass!'

  Marriott touched his arm. 'So speaks a real old sweat!'

  But it was true. The young rating in his issue clothing and heavy boots looked more like a sea-scout than a sailor.

  He appeared in the bridge and was confronted by another problem. Two lieutenants. Which one was the captain?

  Marriott solved it for him. 'I command here. Do you want me?'

  The youth stared at him with awe. 'Y-Yes, sir. Commander Meikle is in the Base... Engineer's... office –' He broke up the sentence so that he would not miss out any detail. 'He sends his compliments and –'

  'And he wants me there, right?'

  The youth nodded, relieved. 'Yessir.'

  'Very well.' Marriott looked at Fairfax. 'Come and talk with me while I put on some regulation shoes, eh?'

  He paused by the ladder as they both heard Lowes say loftily, 'How long in the Andrew, did you say? Six months? God, you should have been with us!'

  Marriott chuckled. 'There's still hope for him after all!'

  The Base Engineer's office adjoined one of the many great workshops which had been brought back into service by the combined efforts of their original crews and their new owners.

  The first workshop was typical of any naval dockyard, Marriott thought. It stank of oil, dirt and cold metal, and one false step could send you sprawling down a slipway, or knocked senseless by one of the great steel tackles which dangled from the roof.

  Welding torches threw harsh light over the crouching figures in their protective masks, and the noise made ordinary speech impossible. A naval rating opened a door for Marriott and he was surprised how the din seemed to fade as it was closed again behind him.

  The Base Engineer Officer, a round, comfortable-looking commander with purple cloth between his tarnished gold stripes, was puffing at his pipe behind his deck. Commander Meikle seemed to shine amongst the untidiness, the hanging plans and blueprints, his beautiful cap jammed beneath one arm, the other holding some kind of document. Leading Writer Lavender was sitting on a camp stool scribbling in his note pad and did not look up as Marriott was announced.

  Meikle asked shortly, 'Good run?'

  'Yes, sir.' Marriott looked at the fourth figure by the wall. He was a tall officer in smudged white overalls who when he stepped out of them was revealed as an RNR Lieutenant Commander.

  Meikle said in the same clipped tone, 'This is 'tenant Commander Dobell.'

  The newcomer said heavily, 'Sorry it has to be like this, Marriott.'

  Marriott stared from one to the other. 'Like what?'

  Meikle put down his cap on the deck and folded his arms.

  'Your boat is to return to England. Lieutenant Glazebrook's also.'

  'I see, sir.' So that was it. Something was in the air. A refit? More work perhaps?

  'When do I leave, sir?'

  The one called Dobell made to speak but Meikle said, 'You don't, I'm afraid. A small passage-crew will be arriving for each boat. Lieutenant Commander Dobell will be taking them to the UK.'

  Marriott felt the room closing in on him. He had misunderstood; he had to be wrong.

  Dobell said bluntly, 'Your boat's in no shape for further service. I've read all the reports on both machinery and hull. The hull is as ripe as a pear, but you must know that?'

  Meikle glared at him. 'I'm sorry, Marriott, but there it is. The boats are to be paid-off, here in Kiel.' He looked away and added, 'So if you'd like to complete the arrangements.'

  Marriott nodded, unable to find any words.

  They were taking the boat away. It was all he could remember.

  Meikle said, 'Make a signal when you're ready. A week should do it, eh?'

  Outside Marriott stood with his back pressed against the wall, letting the din of machinery shock his mind back into the present. He realised that Fairfax was waiting for him.

  Fairfax exclaimed, 'I'm glad your meeting's over, sir! There's some lunatic from the base staff on board asking to see our repairs log. I told him –'

  Marriott looked past him. He could just see the masthead pendant of his boat showing above the dock wall.

  'It's over, Number One. They're taking her away.'

  Fairfax stared at him with stunned disbelief. 'I don't understand.'

  He thought of Beri-Beri. 'She's run out of luck.'

  12

  The Last Watch

  Lieutenant 'Cuff Glazebrook tossed his cigarette on to the road and ground it in with his heel.

  His German driver picked up the jack and gently kicked the wheel he had just changed.

  'All fix, Herr Leutnant!' His glance lingered on the crushed cigarette.

  'About bloody time too!' Cuff heaved himself into the jeep and waited impatiently for the driver to start up.

  It was not yet dusk and yet it was much darker than usual after a brief drizzle which made the road and hedgerows shimmer in the grey light.

  Cuff glanced at his driver. Perhaps it was just as well he was here. At first, when he had been unable to 'borrow' a jeep from the pound, Cuff had lost his temper. Now, having the time to think about it made him feel differently.

  He had been having a drink in the new HQ at Plön, and had intended it to be the first of many. It had been a busy day, supervising the transfer of men and stores from his MGB, being driven to Plön where he had been allotted a cabin in the fine-looking barracks which had until recently been occupied by the Kriegsmarine.

  He had been so busy that he had had barely time to think about what was happening. His boat being taken away like so much salvage. Cuff was not a sentimentalist on any level, and he had viewed the whole operation more with seething resentment than a sense of loss. But he was not so blind that he did not see a change in the future. He and his command had gone through a lot together, more than most.

  He sighed as the jeep swayed around a tight bend. Perhaps it was his old luck again which had found him sober when the telephone call had come. Cuff had imagined it to be a mistake but the German steward had insisted. The mention of a fuel depot was enough to convince him. It had been Frau Ritter, her voice strangely hushed and unsteady. 'I would not call you, but –'

  'What is it?' Anyone might be listening to the call, a bored operator tapping the line.

  'Hemmings is here. I think he drinks – he is very wild!'

  Cuff had tensed instantly. He had only seen Hemmings once since their brief discussion. He had not even been able to see her again. As he clung to the windscreen in the swaying jeep he tried to recall exactly what she had whispered. He had noticed how strong her German accent had become on the line.

  One thing was certain. Hemmings had lost his bottle over something he had heard. A possible inspection of the depot by the security boys. Properly handled, Hemmings could have coped. Now, Cuff was not so sure.

  He saw the wire fence of the fuel depot in the far distance and growled, 'Slow down! Langsam, for Christ's sake!'

  Everything looked as usual. The sentry at the gate stepped out of his box and shouldered his rifle, his gaze on the approaching jeep. The gate, Cuff noticed, was shut, and there were no German workers about. The depot had obviously kept to union rules again.

  The sentry slapped his rifle. 'All correct, sir!'

  Cuff looked past him. 'Where's CPO Hemmings?'

  'I dunno, sir. But the place is secured.'

  'Well, unsecure it. I want to see him.' He looked at the sailor and added gently, 'So bloody well chop, chop!'

  The sentry sighed and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He made a big job of unlocking the gate, dragged his feet as much as he dared.

  Even from here Cuff could see that the office was shut and in darkness. In the poor light anyone in there would need something to read by.

  The driver revved the engine, his face unconcerned and empty, the expression of one who is not involved.

  The sound of the shot followed by a scream froze the sentry in his tracks, while the driver stared at the open gate as if he expected to see an attack.

  There was a second shot and then silence.

  Cuff unclipped his webbing holster and dragged out his heavy Smith and Wesson revolver.

  The sentry gasped, 'What, what –'

  'Call the guard, then get round the rear of the house.'

  In his mind he knew it was her house. It had to be.

  He broke into a shambling run, only half-aware of the sentry yelling for his off-watch companions.

  The door was just ajar and Cuff smashed it inwards with his foot and almost fell into the room.

  She was crouching at the foot of the stairs which led up to her room. She stared at him wildly, her hair falling over her face, her breasts thrusting against her blouse as she tried to regain her self-control. Chief Petty Officer Hemmings was propped against the opposite wall, a pistol in one hand and half of his head blown away. There were blood and fragments of bone on the wallpaper and yet all Cuff saw was a sealed letter.

  She called across the room, 'It is written to his wife in England. He tried to burst into my room. I think he heard me telephoning you. He was mad! He was shouting that he had written to his wife to ask for her forgiveness, but all the time he kept saying his other letter to your Kapitän Meikle would destroy you!'

  'What did you do with that one?'

  There were things he had to know, and know immediately. At any second the others would arrive. By then it might be too late.

  'I destroyed it.'

  Cuff had seen too many dead men to worry about the one whose solitary eye gleamed up at him from the horror of his face.

  'There were two shots.'

  She nodded. 'He fired at me first.' She gestured shakily to a ragged hole beside the stairs. 'After that –'

  Cuff strode over to her. It was all suddenly crystal clear. He even found time to notice that she had put on her best blouse, the one she had been wearing when he had first laid eyes on her.

  He said harshly, 'The security men will be here at any moment.' He saw her eyes widen with a new fear as he reached over and tore the blouse wide open from her shoulder to her breast. As she tried to step away he struck her bare shoulder with the palm of his hand, and before she could evade him swung his hand back again and lashed her across the mouth.

  Something seemed to explode inside her and he seized her wrists as she tried to struggle, to claw at his face even as blood ran from her lip and on to the torn blouse.

  He waited for her to hang helplessly in his considerable grip and said harshly, 'There was blood on your sleeve. You couldn't have got that from across the room. You killed him, didn't you?'

  She lowered her face as he released his hold on her.

  'I had to. For you. For us.'

  Cuff stooped down and recovered his revolver.

  She was staring at his every move, waiting for him to attack her, denounce her to the sentries who were running around the back of the house.

  He said, 'Remember, you called for my help because you had discovered what Hemmings was doing. I was the only British officer that you knew. The rest will be exactly as you told me, see?'

  He looked at his thick wrists and big hands. He felt that he wanted to laugh his head off. His hands were as steady as rocks.

  'You stick with me, Hertha, and you'll be all right.'

  They faced the door as an army sergeant and two redcaps clattered into the room.

  The sergeant's dark eyes flashed in an upended table light as he took in everything at a searching glance.

  'I'm Glazebrook, Sergeant. Frau Ritter called me on the phone.'

  The sergeant nodded and lowered his face to within inches of the dead man's smashed skull.

  'Walther P38, nine-millimetre job. Point-blank.'

  Cuff realised that one of the redcaps had taken out his notebook and was writing busily.

  He could feel the laugh welling up again like something solid. Just like a Manchester bobby, he thought.

  The sergeant said off-handedly, 'My name's Thornhill, sir. S.I.B.'

  He looked at the woman and asked, 'Did he try to rape you?'

  She dropped her eyes. 'No. He, he –'

  'I see.' He took the letter from the other redcap and opened it with his finger.

  Cuff saw his eyes moving along the pages. Suppose she had been mistaken and Hemmings had put something about him as well?

  But the sergeant seemed satisfied. 'He must have been a neat sort of cove, sir. Asks her forgiveness and so forth –' He glanced up sharply, 'And Frau Ritter phoned to tell you that Hemmings was going to kill himself, was that it, sir?'

  'No. She wanted help. I'm the only officer she's met. She said that Hemmings had heard that the depot was to be investigated.' He forced a smile. 'By your lot, I suppose!'

  The sergeant shrugged. 'Probably.' He seemed to come to a decision. 'I'll have my men here all night, Lieutenant – er, Glazebrook.' He looked at one of his men. 'Get this corpse taken away and have someone clear up the mess.' He looked at the woman, the reddening mark on her shoulder, her bruised and cut mouth. His glance shifted to the bullet hole in the wall. 'You were lucky, Frau Ritter.' He added, 'Go and change into something more suitable, will you?'