David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

Nordvik, watching the performance with the air of an old hand who had seen it all before merely observed once more: ‘Heavy weather.’

It had been dark for an hour. All Paul could see of the water was a slight white frill of foam by the hull, illuminated by the ship. Clinging to a stanchion, he gulped air, tasting the salt that ringed his lips like a rime. It brought a hint of astringency that helped settle his stomach and, slowly, the miasma of nausea that had settled over his brain like a fog cleared. He made his way gingerly along the deck and collapsed onto a wooden bench situated, optimistically in his opinion, for passengers to appreciate the aesthetics of sea travel.

He sat dozing for a while wrapped in the greatcoat, until the discomfort and the cold sent him below. He found Pinker asleep, snoring in Paul’s lower bunk, despite having volunteered to take the upper and using that one the previous evening. The man’s bag lay on the floor where he had discarded it, clothes hanging out, and, slopping back and forth at the bottom of the basin, a couple of inches of discoloured bile.

Paul looked down upon it, grateful at least that Pinker hadn’t stayed at dinner long enough to consume the stew. There was a faint aroma to the fluid but not one strong enough to compel him to empty the basin. That was the cabin steward’s job, after all, and he was no doubt used to such things.

The rolling of the boat had tempered a little and catching one leg in his half-divested trousers while undressing Paul managed to bruise no more than an elbow and a kneecap. Spurning the basin, he walked down the corridor to the bathroom to clean his teeth only to find that Pinker — or perhaps one of the other passengers — had beaten him to it. The basins were swimming with vomit, as were the pans in the two stalls. The excess washed back and forth across the floor. Tiptoeing back to the cabin he ran a regretful tongue over his neglected teeth. But it wouldn’t keep him from sleep; he had become accustomed in the trenches to going without the small luxuries of attending to one’s toilet with any sort of regularity.

He stood looking at Pinker who alternately snored and gargled some watery residue in his throat that he had failed to expel earlier. The man’s case lay on the floor, open and disregarded, and Paul picked it up and laid it on the chair. There were a few papers inside that Paul had seen earlier, a letter with a Northampton address and an empty paper bag that might once have held sandwiches. He shut the case and hauled himself into the upper bunk, turning out the light. It had been a long day and full of surprises and he hadn’t realised how tired he was until he was stretched horizontally. His stomach seemed to have settled and, if he was able to ignore Pinker’s snoring, expected to sleep well. There remained the possibility that despite leaving the Lithuanian assassin, Yurkas, in the alley, the man Kell had warned about might still be on board. He yawned. That was something he was happy to leave for Valentine to worry about. It was his line of work, after all. At least they could rule out Pinker. It was inconceivable, he decided with one of the last cogent thoughts to pass through his head before sleep, that any secret agent could make as much noise as Pinker did in his sleep…

A persistent tapping disturbed him. Half asleep, he imagined someone was trying to get into his skull and rolled over to get away from them. He came up hard against the bulkhead and woke up. The tapping continued. It wasn’t in his skull. It was somewhere in the cabin. He opened his eyes and made out the pale outline of the porthole. The hollow thrum of the engine vibrated the ship. He fumbled for the electric light switch above the bunk.

The tapping was coming from the door.

He pushed the blanket aside and manoeuvred his legs over the edge of the bunk, remembering he was in the upper berth. Pinker, seasick, had taken his bunk. Paul felt for the ladder with bare toes and climbed down.

The tapping persisted.

‘Coming,’ Paul muttered.

Pinker had rolled over, showing his back.

Paul reached for the bolt but found the door already unbolted. Pinker, he assumed. Going to the lavatory and forgetting to lock the thing when he came back. Anyone could have got in.

Valentine stood in the corridor in his dressing gown, blond hair tousled.

‘I heard a noise.’

There’s a revelation, Paul said to himself. The damned ship was nothing but noise.

‘Didn’t you hear anything?’

‘I can’t hear anything through the racket Pinker’s making.’

‘What racket?’

Paul turned around. Pinker was silent.

‘Someone was in the corridor,’ Valentine said.

‘Go to bed for God’s sake.’

‘You didn’t hear anything?’

‘No. It was probably Pinker going to the lavatory. He’s sick.’

Valentine peered over Paul’s shoulder.

‘What’s he doing in your bunk?’

‘I found him there when I came to bed,’ Paul said. ‘Too sick to climb into the top one, I suppose. I didn’t want to wake him. What does it matter?’

What he’d really thought was that there’d be Pinker’s vomit on the sheets and he hadn’t fancied sleeping in it.

‘Go to bed,’ he said again and began to close the door. He stopped halfway. ‘How did you know it was my bunk?’

‘Pinker was talking about bunks at lunch, remember? He made a joke of being in the upper.’

‘No.’

Valentine pushed past him and started shaking Pinker’s shoulder. Paul slumped. He felt exhausted.

Pinker didn’t stir.

‘Leave him alone, for God’s sake,’ Paul said, shutting the door. ‘It’s the first time he’s been quiet all night.’

Valentine rolled Pinker onto his back. The handle of a knife protruded from his chest.

Paul jumped, suddenly wide awake. ‘Good God!’

Pinker’s face still looked pinched but now in effigy, eyebrows knotted and lips pursed as if he were considering some kind of choice. Whether to live or die? The matter seemed to have been taken out of his hands.

‘This was meant for you,’ Valentine said.

‘Me?’

‘It’s your bunk, isn’t it?’

If Valentine had heard a noise, why hadn’t he? He had been sleeping right above Pinker when it happened.

Valentine pulled Pinker’s wallet from beneath his pillow and started going through it.

‘He was from Northampton,’ Valentine said.

‘I told you that.’

Valentine stripped off the bedclothes. Pinker was still fully clothed, his shirt and waistcoat and the bed sheets stained with blood. Valentine began rolling him this way then that, as if looking to see what else he might find. Paul thought it was a disrespectful way to treat the little man. He’d seen a lot of corpses over the past couple of years and although many of them had necessarily received short shrift, one had tried to do one’s best for the poor fellows. He was about to say as much when Valentine said:

‘This is a bit sticky.’

‘It’s more than a bit sticky for poor old Pinker.’

‘What I mean is, whoever killed Pinker thinks they’ve killed you. As soon as they see they haven’t they’ll want to have another go.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Bound to.’

‘We’d better call the captain, then.’

Valentine gave him a withering look. ‘So the Danish police can detain us when we get to Copenhagen? You shared the cabin with him. If I know anything about the police they’ll assume you did it. Anything for an easy life.’

‘Why would I want to do it?’

‘I know that, old man,’ Valentine said with studied patience. ‘But how can we explain to them why someone else did? That they had meant to kill you because you’re on a secret mission to Russia? What do you think they’d say to that, pat you on the head and say, “That’s all right, Mr Filbert, go right ahead?”’