by Peter Tonkin
Commander Victor Lee stood up. ‘The prisoner will be here in an instant, sir. There was a last-minute hitch, an unforeseen circumstance. We could find no clothes to fit him.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ snapped Morgan. ‘No clothes?’
‘At the time of his apprehension, sir, he was wearing a ship’s overall which has subsequently been retained for forensic analysis. It was heavily bloodstained. Since he was formally charged, he has been a patient in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital where he has been wearing a hospital gown. It was not until …’
Lee’s voice droned pompously on. Robin rocked back, paying no further attention to it, very near breaking point. She had spent this morning making sure that she was properly attired and had not spared even one thought for her poor Richard.
How dare they! How dare they take even the clothes from his back! She burned with outrage and hatred of the unfeeling system which could have done this to Richard. Wisely under the circumstances she turned the guilt she felt at her own oversight into rage against the system. It kept her going. It turned maudlin self-pity into fierce fighting spirit; and Richard needed one much more than he needed the other.
Chapter Fifteen
The sole survivor of the Sulu Queen walked briskly along the underground passageway between the two uniformed guards, wondering vaguely whether he should be more concerned than he was. He understood what was happening to him in much the same way as he remembered the last few days, as though this was some kind of dream. But the last few days were all he could remember still, so he had no real yardstick against which to measure his current confusion. He was suspicious that more was going on than he clearly understood, that perhaps more had actually happened than he clearly remembered. It was very disorientating. But it was not really real.
Far more real, overpoweringly so at times, was the immediacy of simple sensation. He could smell the cologne worn by the guard on his left and the fact that the other guard would have benefited from wearing it as well. The echoing of the tintinnabulating footsteps seemed to redouble once the sound got inside his head. He could taste, on the air washing through his nose and mouth, the dusty brick, the thick, oily paint; the sharp, citrine steel all around.
But it was what the survivor could feel that was almost too much to bear. The throbbing in his temple and at the back of his head as the unaccustomed effort of walking drove blood through damaged tissue. The itching of the bandage maddeningly tight round his head. The feeling that his skull was going to explode because of the constriction of the shirt collar round his neck. The tightness of the shirt round the bruised barrel of his chest compounded by the equal tightness of the jacket which pulled across his shoulders like a strait-jacket and cut into his armpits almost as painfully as the too-tight trousers cut into his crotch. But the discomfort there was as nothing compared to the agony of size twelve feet in size ten-and-a-half shoes.
Itwasironic, really, whenyouconsideredthathisfavourite and most comfortable suit had been made for him by Kiam Sin down on Des Voeux Road.
The memory popped into his head and was gone again in a flash, so swiftly that he hardly registered it but he was still frowning with the disquiet it engendered when they arrived at the door which gave onto the magistrate’s court itself. The underground passageway became a corridor in a building and the overpowering wave of sensation varied in its content but not in its impact.
His face was bland but closed as he came at last into the shabby courtroom. He followed the guards down to the dock and stood there, concentrating on the sensations of light and sound from the windows and the crowd. The metal edge of the dock itself was warm and almost oily beneath his hands. The black hairs on the back of his hands stirred as the skin tensed and relaxed, reacting to the change in atmosphere. Words echoed around him and he looked up, trying to sort them out of the background noise into some kind of sense and relevance.
Almost by chance, his gaze fell upon a golden-haired woman in French blue twin-set and pearls. Recognition hit him like a thunderbolt. He knew her! He strained with superhuman effort to follow that golden thread of recognition back into the jumbled maze of his memory. If he could just recall, he knew, one series of memories in which this lovely woman had featured in the lost days before he awoke in the hospital, then everything would click back into place.
But no. All he could remember was the look on her face when he had come into the little reception room in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital and found her there yesterday afternoon. And, on the same shallow level, he recognised the big, square, red-headed man at her side. His attention began to wander again and he looked around the courtroom wondering why there were so many people here. Wondering who they all were. Wondering who the beautiful blonde woman in the twin-set and pearls with the red-headed rugby player by her side actually was.
*
Robin sat, numbed, watching the recognition die in the eyes of the man she loved. And yet this was not the man she loved at all. This was his shell, perhaps, but it was not him. She watched his attention wander and become subsumed into near vacancy, and for the first time she began to wonder if his brain had been damaged permanently. She found it hard to breathe suddenly; the room began to waver. Had she not been sitting, she would undoubtedly have fallen. Her hands and feet went numb and icy cold. A humming filled her head and it required the greatest effort of will not to slip away into the darkness just beyond her dazzled vision. Even so, she found herself leaning on Andrew’s broad shoulder, very close to fainting dead away. But the buzzing in her ears was more than her incipient faintness; the whole court was astir with speculation, which faded into silence as the magistrate asked around, his face set in lines of almost dyspeptic disapproval. ‘As this case seems to have aroused a great deal of speculation already,’ began the magistrate in a voice as thin as his hair, ‘I should remind all those present, especially anyone representing a newspaper, that I have no intention of lifting standard reporting restrictions on this case. The name and residence of the accused, and the crime of which he stands accused, are the limits of what may be reported at this stage — if, indeed, we proceed to an indictment. Mr Po, I see you are learned counsel for the prosecution. Can we please establish who the defendant is and of what he stands accused?’
A slight, almost boyish figure stood up. So slight and boyish was Po Sun Kam, in fact, that he had been all but invisible up to this point, his meagre frame obscured by the bulk of Commander Lee. ‘Sir,’ he began in a quiet voice which nevertheless carried to the furthest reaches of the silent court. ‘The accused is Captain Richard Mariner of Ashenden, South Dean, East Sussex in England and he stands accused of the murders of Charles Macallan, chief engineer of the motor vessel Sulu Queen and also of Brian Jordan, first officer of the Sulu Queen.’ He paused for a heartbeat, then proceeded. ‘I should inform you, sir, that these stand as specimen charges at this time. It is the Crown’s intention to prove that on or about midnight on the night of Thursday 8th May of this year, 1997, Captain Mariner, either alone or in confederacy with a person or persons unknown, wilfully and with malice aforethought murdered all the officers and crew of the motor vessel Sulu Queen.
‘The Crown expects to proceed on specimen charges of murder against Captain Mariner. The Crown has proceeded with only two specimen charges at this time because of the understandable difficulty of formally identifying forty deceased persons dressed in night attire, none of whom were carrying any form of identification. But I am assured that the ship’s records and company records will allow the Crown to check passports, fingerprints and dental records against the deceased persons in question, many of whom seem to have been either shot or chopped to pieces.’
Stipendiary Magistrate Morgan once again quelled a buzz of speculation with a cold stare. ‘If there is any further disturbance, I shall order the court to be cleared,’ he warned, his voice a nasal, sheering drawl. ‘One step at a time, please, Mr Po. Has the accused admitted his identity?’
‘In the presence of Commander Lee and of a
nother naval officer, as well as of Dr Chu of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, the accused admitted that a photograph of Richard Mariner was in fact a photograph of himself at the time of his formal arrest at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital at thirty minutes past four on the morning of Saturday 10th May.’
The reply was so guarded that, had he not already been aware of the unusual circumstances surrounding the case, Mr Morgan must have grown suspicious now. He swung round and looked steadfastly at the prisoner. ‘Captain Mariner,’ he said more urgently. The accused’s wandering gaze slowly focused on the magistrate and even then it was by no means certain that the tall man in the over-tight suit was actually paying attention. ‘Captain Mariner,’ said Mr Morgan again, ‘do you formally admit that you are the Richard Mariner referred to in the charge?’
The accused frowned, clearly lighting to follow the legalistic wording.
‘Are you Captain Richard Mariner of Ashenden, South Dean, East Sussex?’
‘Oh yes. That’s me. Mariner. Ashenden.’
The magistrate hesitated, obviously calculating whether this child-like affirmation, such as might have been elicited from a well-tutored three-year-old, constituted a formal admission of identity.
‘Captain Richard Mariner,’ said the accused again, with more force and certainty. ‘Yes. That’s me all right.’
The magistrate nodded. ‘And do you understand the nature of the charges against you?’
‘Yes. They say I killed Chas Macallan and Brian Jordan. They say I killed them all. Everyone on the Sulu Queen.’
‘I see, Captain Mariner. And how have you replied to this accusation?’
‘Sir.’ Learned counsel for the Crown was trying with some energy to attract the magistrate’s attention.
‘I know, Mr Po. This is thin ice. I shall skate with the utmost care and I will avoid any possibility of dismissal at a later date through incorrect procedure now. Now, Captain. How did you reply when you were arrested by Commander Lee?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You do not remember how you answered the accusation Commander Lee put to you?’
‘I remember that. I said that I don’t remember whether I did what they say or not. I don’t remember anything before I woke up in hospital last Saturday morning.’ He looked around the court with a slight frown, like a man uncertain whether or not he was behaving properly in a strange situation. Like a guest not sure which knife to use at dinner with the Queen.
Robin’s heart twisted in her breast so poignantly that for a terrible moment she thought it was going to break. Tears started onto her cheeks. She wished with all her being that she could run across the dusty, stuffy little room and fold him in her arms and comfort him. It was a feeling familiar to her, but she had only ever felt such an intense sensation when preparing to fly to the protection of her babies. She had never before seen Richard in this light and it came as a disturbing shock to her that the husband whose intellect, leadership, decisiveness and strength she had always idolised should be reduced to this child-like state. At once, and not for the first time, she wondered with something close to terror whether she herself had the strength and resolution to set things right. And this time there was no cosy distancing from the reality of things through an apt Shakespearian quotation. When she breathed in, the shuddering sound she made was so striking that the magistrate looked narrowly at her. His face set in lines of absolute disapproval, thin lips turned down.
‘Captain Mariner,’ said Mr Morgan after a moment’s hesitation, ‘please let me be clear about this. You say you have no recollection whatsoever of anything that happened to you before you woke up last Saturday morning in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘I make no comment as to the common nature of pleas of amnesia such as yours in cases involving extremes of violence, but I would like to be absolutely certain in my own mind. You say you have no recollection whatsoever of the events which occurred on the Sulu Queen during, let us say, the forty-eight hours before midnight on Thursday, 8th of May?’
‘That’s right. I don’t remember anything.’
‘Of course this must be entered as a plea of not guilty. Y ou are aware of this fact, Mr Po?’
‘Indeed, Sir, the Crown is fully aware —’
‘And, while admitting again the thinness of ice beneath me, I must observe that unless you can find a way round absolute amnesia, you may find it difficult to establish the full actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea.’
‘The Crown is confident, sir. We can produce prima facie evidence in a matter of days.’
‘I see, Mr Po.’ Stipendiary Magistrate Morgan’s watery blue eyes stared apparently casually over the assembled onlookers, dwelling, perhaps, on the familiar faces of one or two well-known reporters. ‘I rule that the accused, Captain Richard Mariner, be detained at the Siu Lam Psychiatric Centre for a time not exceeding eight days while the Crown prepares its case.’
‘Sir?’
‘Commander Lee?’
‘The … ah … Crown requests, sir, that the prisoner be remanded to the secure rooms in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital where he has been held so far.’
‘Very well, Commander. The court assumes that the charges at the Queen Elizabeth will be no more expensive than those at the Siu Lam facility, either for holding the accused or for his treatment.’
‘That is the case, My Lord.’
‘Very well. Take him down.’ Morgan’s long pale fingers flashed to his thin lips, and then away again.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Even as Robin’s lips parted to protest the casual order, so her barrister was on his feet and addressing the magistrate. All movement, all sound, ceased.
‘Mr Thong?’ purred Morgan, this time speaking round the slight obstacle of a cough sweet. ‘You represent Captain Mariner, I assume?’
‘Quite so, sir.’ The barrister paused and rearranged the papers before him a little fussily. ‘I have been retained to act in this case though I understand that when the matter comes to trial I might not actually lead —’
‘You intrigue me, Mr Thong. I must ask how a defendant with no memory nevertheless has the presence of mind to acquire the services of learned counsel.’
‘I have been briefed, My Lord, by the accused’s wife and company.’
‘His wife, Mr Thong?’
‘Indeed, My Lord. In that the Crown has been so assiduous in establishing the identity of the accused, they have, by definition, also proved his antecedents and relations.’
‘A good point. And so?’
‘So, My Lord, I stand before you on behalf of Captain Mariner’s wife and company to request —’
‘Not bail, Mr Thong. Not bail in the matter of the mass murder of some forty unfortunate souls, surely.’
‘No, My Lord. Access. My clients request access to the accused, whether in Siu Lam or in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Access for themselves and for such officers as they might appoint.’
‘Officers, Mr Thong? That is a matter for the authorities.’
‘We have in mind, My Lord, the accused’s defence and such medical experts as that defence shall call, My Lord.’
‘Early days, Mr Thong. Surely this application would be better made in eight days’ time?’
‘Even so, My Lord, we are anxious to establish right of access, even under these highly unusual circumstances. It may be, for instance, that in eight days’ time my clients will wish to see Captain Mariner coming to court wearing clothes that actually fit him, My Lord.’
‘Point taken, as I believe the Americans say, Mr Thong, point taken. Very well. I so rule. The court recognises you as Captain Mariner’s defence and accords you the usual rights of access. Now, is there anything more?’
The barrister glanced down at the solicitor and launched into a speech which was obviously carefully prepared — the first part of a carefully prepared plan. ‘Sir, the crown has admitted that they can provide a prima facie case in a week. We waive all formal time li
mits, therefore, and apply to proceed to transfer as soon as possible. We would agree to a formal transfer to the Crown’s specimen charges, in seven days, if that is agreeable to you, sir.’
*
It was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon by the time Robin reached the Heritage Mariner office in Jardine House. She was, she discovered, too late to make the acquaintance of Mr Feng the manager who normally returned to the bosom of his family soon after 3.30 p.m. She didn’t, for the moment, care. All she wanted was Mr Shaw, his telephone and some contact numbers for Anna Leung at the China Queens office in Singapore or, failing that, for the Seram Queen wherever she was beyond the island of Taiwan in the western reaches of the China Sea. Having seen Richard again and having agreed plans to gain access to him and to ease his plight as soon as possible, she was full of decisive energy and certain in her heart of hearts that today was a good day when nothing was likely to go wrong.
Such was her fierce good humour that she was not cast down to discover that Miss Leung apparently kept the sort of hours favoured by Mr Feng. There was no answer from the China Queens office in Singapore. ‘Right, Mr Shaw,’ she said, hanging up on the dreary, unanswered ringing tone, ‘please give me the number I need in order to contact the Seram Queen. No, wait. Have you a copy of the current crew list? I’d like to have an idea of the names at least of the men I’m going to talk to.’
Mr Shaw obliged with a flimsy fax which proved that the two offices did occasionally contact each other, in spite of the working habits of the people controlling them. Robin took the ill-printed paper and pored over it with some interest. But it was simply a list of names and titles. No one aboard was familiar. She frowned, all too aware of the dereliction this realisation revealed. Heritage Mariner owned this vessel. She was a director of Heritage Mariner, a company which prided itself on the family atmosphere it fostered. She should at least have recognised the names. Still, she shrugged, she had enough to worry about without getting sidetracked now. She began to punch in the numbers which would put her through to the radio room aboard the distant ship. Why worry about the crew of a vessel she had never been aboard? When was the last time she had given any serious thought to the wellbeing of her children? She should be calling Cold Fell, not Seram Queen! What sort of a mother was she, for crying out loud?
