by Peter Tonkin
Unconsciously, his foot went down a little harder on the accelerator and the Aston Martin came round the head of the bay into storm-shuttered Tsuen Wan like doom. He stuck to the coast road and to begin with the land sloped up on the left, hulking steeply into the clouds, while the sea reached away on the right over the little strait to Tsing Yi Island. But soon the sea receded. One bridge leaped right, towards the island, then another, and the great bulk of the Kwai Chung container terminal loomed. The road swung left then right again, then it sped straight through Cheung Sha Wan and Sham Shui Po. She knew this road. It was Lai Chi Kok Road. As the familiar districts sped past, her excitement mounted even further and her desire to speak grew too strong to be controlled.
‘Where is everyone?’ she said, as much to herself as to him.
‘Typhoon parties, if they’ve got any sense.’ His voice was preoccupied. Driving conditions were not easy, even though the road was straight and uninhabited. Buildings began to loom on either side. The highway narrowed.
She sniffed. ‘That’s pushing it a bit! I’m sure the wind is moderating. They probably won’t go to Five, or close the bridge, or close Kai Tak.’
‘You’re an old salt,’ he said. ‘I’ll take your word. I’ll bet they’re glad they decided on Government House for the reception, though, rather than the Royal Yacht.’
‘That was it!’ she said abruptly, glancing left. She knew it because it cut across Lai Chi Kok Road at an odd angle, running exactly east/west while all the others came and went at precisely ninety degrees.
‘What?’ In spite of the desultory conversation, he had been concentrating on driving, and hardly surprisingly. The road might have been straight but it was narrow, bounded by highsided buildings and, now that they were in the city proper, full of a kind of blizzard of wind-borne rubbish. Cross streets hosed more detritus into the air from either side, depending on the vagaries of the squalls within the steady gale. Boxes, cans, the odd bigger bin danced and hopped and rolled in front of them. Everything might be closed and shuttered but the electricity was still switched on and the street lighting was supplemented by a bright array of shop signs which swung and vibrated, flickered and flashed, Ailing the whole street with an unsettling, unpredictable array of shadowy movement. Out of the restless shadows the occasional surprise leaped out: a pram — thankfully empty; a streamer of gaudy canvas stripped from a roadside stall; a banner blown from a pole somewhere, painted with a long green and gold dragon, weaving through the air head first in sinuous flight, apparently alive.
‘What?’ he said again, wisely refusing to take his eyes off the empty, busily restless road ahead.
‘Boundary Street! That was Boundary Street. We’re nearly there!’
He seemed to jump out of a trance at her words and slammed the brakes on, pulling over to the side of the road at once. He left the lights on and the engine turning over. He put the big square gearshift in neutral and pulled up the handbrake.
He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Checked it against his watch. ‘Look, Robin,’ he said. ‘Let’s look at the reality of this situation here. It’s coming up to midnight. Everywhere is closed and storm-shuttered. We’re in the middle of the first typhoon of the season and the Aghtest security situation the Crown Colony has seen in fifty years. Everybody is uptight to the point of paranoia. Nobody is going to let you into an only partially secure section of a public utility to visit a man accused of mass murder.
‘Even if the sergeant of the guard refers it up to his inspector, the inspector is almost certainly going to be unavailable because he is involved in the security guard watching Government House. In the unlikely event that there is an inspector available and in a fit state to make a decision, then that decision will be to refer the matter up to the chief superintendent. And I can tell you for a certain fact that the chief superintendent is at Government House himself. I can tell you that he will not be available because he is at the reception and has his Do Not Disturb flag up. And in the highly unlikely event that he will come to the phone, he will ask the inspector how he has the brass-balled gall to disturb him while talking to the Prince of Wales. And if the inspector actually tells him, then he will certainly tell the inspector to drop dead at bloody once and the inspector will tell the sergeant and the sergeant will tell you. Honestly. Believe me. This is what will happen.’
‘If it happens, then it happens, Andrew. I’m not made of porcelain. I won’t chip or crack. I’ve been told to drop dead before. But if you don’t try then you won’t succeed. Let’s go —’
Wordlessly, Andrew Atherton Balfour shoved the gearshift into first, checked the mirrors and released the brake. The Aston Martin rolled forward, past the end of Prince Edward Road and into the Mong Kok Tong. Still wordlessly, he swung into Nathan Road and went up through the gears as the Vantage powered more purposefully southwards. He was thinking about the woman beside him and the thoughts were tinged with awe. He was a man used to working and living alone. He was an important cog in an influential machine and he got on very well with his colleagues and his friends, and their friends too. But the fact was that he had not been unduly disturbed to miss the opening ceremony and the reception at Government House, and, he now suddenly realised, he would rather be here with this extraordinary woman, playing Sancho Panza to her Don Quixote, than chatting with the Prince of Wales.
Her eyes remained on the shopfronts, shifting right and left almost aimlessly. To the right, the roads ran down for a few yards and then opened to the Yaumatei typhoon shelter with its bobbing mass of boats, most of them apparently as shuttered as the shops. But it all simply flowed by — and over — her. Only the familiar front of Chung Kieu, alone unshuttered, caused her eyes to focus for an instant. The great shop, packed with its gaudy wealth of Chinese native luxury produce, stirred her, the bright, embroidered silks, gleaming pearls and intricately carved jade reminding her forcefully of Andrew’s words on Lan Tao Island as they swept down towards the new bridge. Perhaps this was the future for Hong Kong.
But then she put everything else out of her mind again as they came under the bridge and he began to signal his upcoming left turn. As he turned into Gascoigne Road, Andrew caught his breath and mentally berated himself for having come this way.
Perhaps because of the sound he made, Robin turned in her seat as well and found herself looking left and upwards at the squat building which stood immediately in front of the bright tower of the hospital. ‘Convenient,’ she said. ‘Do you think that’s why he’s in the Queen Elizabeth?’
‘No. It’s just coincidence, I’m sure.’
On the corner of Nathan Road and Gascoigne, immediately in front of the hospital which could only be approached after another two left turns, stood the South Kowloon Law Court building. ‘They’re probably joined by some sort of tunnel,’ she said gloomily. ‘They’re certainly close enough together. Practically back to back.’ There was a road up beside the courthouse which led to the hospital. Andrew decided to take the next one instead. The buildings fell away and they found themselves almost disorientatingly plunged into the great pool of relative darkness around the hospital to the north and the Gun Club Hill barracks to the south. Straight ahead were the more distant, darkened buildings of the polytechnic and the railway station, then the bay and, even more distantly, far across the water, the lights of Kwun Tong.
Andrew swung into Wylie Road and began to climb uphill again, through the dark open areas towards the bright loom of the hospital. Robin moved almost convulsively and he glanced over and down at her. Granted that she was illuminated by the backwash of the headlight, her face was stark white and lined with absolute shadows. She looked like someone in the grip of a seizure and he was genuinely concerned that she might be having some kind of attack. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. No reply. ‘Robin, are you all right?’
‘I’ll survive,’ she said. ‘Just get me there.’
He swung the Aston Martin’s brutal snout to the left for the last time and pulled up by t
he bright entrance of the hospital. Suddenly he felt more like Little John or Virgil Earp than Sancho Panza. ‘We’re there,’ he said and killed the engine.
Chapter Nine
To Andrew’s surprise, Robin didn’t jump out of the car and rush into the hospital. Instead, she reached back and wrestled the top of her weekend case open. A moment’s rummaging brought out a flat little vanity case which she placed in her lap. ‘I need some light,’ she said. He hit the courtesy light without hesitation then watched in fascination.
The light and the open lid revealed a pale, lined, exhausted face beneath a windswept riot of curls reflected in a square make-up glass. This won’t do. I look like someone’s grandmother recently deceased and that will not help the cause one little bit — even here.’ She reached into the case and began to pull out various bits and pieces which he eyed with bachelor ignorance and not a little suspicion. In a very short time indeed, however, Robin was performing a kind of magic which simply deepened his awe of her. That stuff must be what they called foundation, he thought, with only memories of amateur dramatics to help him. And that must be blusher — hadn’t Mother called it rouge? And lip gloss. But what in God’s name was that sparkly powder stuff? It looked like Tinkerbell’s magic powder from Peter Pan. That brush looked big enough to shave with!
‘Hold this,’ she ordered. He obeyed, and found himself in possession of the shaving brush covered with magic dust. ‘Don’t sneeze,’ she said. Immediately he felt a desire to do so. His nose crinkled.
She was putting some kind of edging round the lip gloss with swift, deft movements. Then she picked up a small palette full of colours and a long black pencil. The colours went on her eyelids and the pencil outlined her eyes. Her lashes and brows needed no attention. She looked at herself while he held his breath with the brush trembling. As soon as she took it back, the desire to sneeze vanished. She brushed the soft bristles over her face with a swift series of movements then put the top back on the powder box. ‘Right,’ she said and pulled out something which looked like a lengthy little bottle brush. She dragged this roughly through her curls twice and the windswept mess was transformed. ‘One last thing. Hope you don’t mind. I won’t get it on the leather, I promise.’ She took out a tiny phial of amber liquid and twisted it open. For the first time in its existence the Aston Martin’s interior smelt of something other than premium hide.
‘What is that?’
‘Chanel.’
‘Oh.’ He should have guessed.
She clipped the vanity case closed and tossed it onto the back seat. Then she was out before he could move. He reached up to turn off the courtesy light only to find her head and shoulders thrust back into the cockpit as she reached back for her briefcase. Their noses almost touched and he faltered in his normally decisive movements. The transformation was astonishing. The pale, exhausted creature who had staggered half fainting into his life an hour ago was gone. In her place was a cool, confident, dynamic ship’s captain and senior executive with irresistible decisiveness surrounding her as potently as the scent of Chanel.
‘Let’s go,’ she snapped.
He strode off at her shoulder, not even glancing back to check the thud of the central locking or the chirrup of the alarm engaging. The wind battered his back but not hers. Rain spattered onto his suit shoulders but her raincoat shrugged it off. She was right, he thought. The weather was calming down. He just hoped she was right about their ability to pull this off. She was certainly giving it one hell of ago.
He leaned forward as she swept into the light and put his fingertips on the door which was already yielding to her automatically. There was a small foyer, empty, and a teak reception desk at the far side of it. Robin Mariner, every inch the captain now, strode across and slammed her briefcase onto the wood. The noise she made obviated any necessity to ring the bell. The door behind the desk opened at once and a young Oriental orderly in white came out, frowning. ‘We’re here to see Captain Richard Mariner,’ snapped Robin.
‘Sorry, is not possible,’ said the young man with massive calm.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am his wife. This is his solicitor.’ She punched the locks on the briefcase and slammed the lid open. Her hand went in and out with the speed of a conjurer performing a trick. A blue book appeared between her fingers. ‘This is my passport. You have no power to stop us seeing him.’
‘Is not poss …’ The young orderly turned and vanished into his refuge.
Robin tossed the passport into her case and slammed it. She whirled away from the desk, jerking the case after her. Andrew followed automatically, wondering whether his heart was fluttering with nervousness or excitement. She was heading for the lifts.
‘What floor is he on?’
‘Top.’
‘Is not possible! Missy! Is not!’ called the orderly.
Robin hit the lift button and the doors began to open at once. But suddenly there was a scurry of feet and the young Oriental was there in front of them, his arm thrust across the open door holding the snarling mechanism still as he said, frowning with concern, ‘There is an armed guard. You understand? An armed guard.’
His long eyes flicked up to the companion lift display and back. They followed the direction of his gaze and saw that the other car was on its way down. ‘Stand back, please,’ said Robin, and the young man obeyed.
Andrew slammed his own hand against the door until first she then he had stepped in. She hit the top button and the DOORS CLOSED button at the same time. The doors closed and the car was in motion at once and for the first few moments of its motion they could hear the sound of the other car arriving, its door opening, someone stepping out and an angry gabble of conversation fading.
With almost boyish excitement, Andrew looked across at his companion in adventure, but that one glance sobered him at once. He thought he had never seen a face more grimly determined in his life. Irrespective of her sex, here was a person taking a desperate gamble in the full knowledge of the terrible magnitude of the stakes. There was a kind of gritty heroism here which even the carefully applied make-up could not conceal. He breathed in, stretching his ribs until his sides ached, unconsciously making himself larger, like a threatened animal.
The lift car stopped with a jerk. The door wheezed open.
Still slightly inflated, Andrew stepped out, his shoulder and side eclipsing his companion protectively. He took three steps along a long corridor and he stopped. Four doors down on the right, a man in uniform sat at attention outside a doorway. He held a square black gun which Andrew did not recognise as a Heckler and Kock SP5 across his lap. At the sound of the lift doors opening, the man looked down the corridor and Andrew found himself the subject of a cold, unmoving stare. When Robin stepped round him he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to hold her back, but he failed to move fast enough.
‘We are here to see Captain Richard Mariner,’ she said crisply in an unexpectedly loud, carrying voice. ‘Please let us in at once.’
The uniformed guard stood up, lifting the gun into prominence simply by moving it across his chest into a sort of ‘slope arms’ position. In spite of the fact that he was armed, he was not obviously threatening. He did not seem to be undecided, thought Andrew; he was simply waiting for something else to happen. The solicitor hurried a little, trying to keep up with the human dynamo in front of him.
‘Captain Richard Mariner,’ she said again in that piercing, carrying voice. Abruptly Andrew realised she was calling to him, asking him to reply, to alert them to his whereabouts. ‘We are here to see Captain Richard Mariner.’ The last near-bellow drowned out the sound of the second lift door opening, but as it echoed into silence, there came all too audibly one word and a metallic click. The guard sprang to attention and suddenly his gun was no longer simply across his breast. It was pointed at them. There came another click as he, too, flicked off the safety.
There was a moment of absolute stillness. Then, from behind them, came a quiet, beautifully modulated voice which carri
ed effortlessly over the hiss of the closing lift doors.
‘Captain Mariner, Mr Balfour,’ it said. ‘My name is Daniel Huuk. I am a captain in the Royal Hong Kong Naval contingent and I have been detailed to guard the accused Richard Mariner tonight. Captain Mariner is not available for interview at this time, I’m afraid. May I escort you back to the foyer?’
*
Robin held herself in check until he turned back onto Gascoigne Road, heading south towards Tsim Tsa Tsui Tong East, Hong Chong Road and the cross-harbour tunnel. Then she simply started to shake. Andrew did not look at her, feeling terribly deflated — defeated — himself, suddenly at the verge of exhaustion, extremely worried about losing concentration and doing something silly with the car. ‘It’s been a bad day,’ he said, soothingly, desperately keen to give her something to cling to.
‘Let me tell you, Andrew Atherton Balfour,’ she said, her voice thick and husky with tears. ‘Let me tell you about my day.’ She fell silent, and he risked a glance, fearing she was losing control of herself. The bright signs directing them to Kai Tak illuminated her face, making it seem to be made of marble. It was set, still, apart from the twin floods of liquid glistening on her cheeks. With that vision in front of his eyes, he looked back at the road, signalling the right turn and pulling into the right lane for the feeder into Hong Chong Road and preparing for the near U-turn down between the polytechnic and the railway station to the Kowloon entrance to the tunnel.
‘Let me tell you about my day,’ she repeated, clearly taking herself in hand. ‘Since the last time I enjoyed a decent night’s sleep, I have driven down the full length of England with two irate six-year-olds in the back seat. I have had a fight with my son, destroyed a letter from my husband and discovered that all his telephone calls have been wiped off the answerphone. I have had a plate of beans, a glass of whisky and two hours’ sleep. I have received the most terrifying phone call of my life. I have arranged for my children to be sent back up the full length of England and then driven my husband’s E-type for the first and last time in my life.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I have ridden in the Eurostar express to Paris and caught the Concorde. I have talked to one nice man and one exceedingly nasty one, eaten two croissants and one rather chewy salmon steak. I have consumed, I guess, six cups of coffee. I have been subjected to what I believe you called “tight security” and I have come through a typhoon. All for no reason. I have had three hours’ sleep in forty-eight. I have eaten beans, croissants and a sliver of fish. I have come halfway round the world. All for no reason at all.’
