Night of Error
Action thriller by the classic adventure writer set in the Pacific.When Mark Trevelyan dies on a journey to a remote Pacific atoll, the verdict that it was natural causes doesn’t convince his brother, Mike. The series of violent attacks that follows only adds to his suspicions. Just two clues – a notebook in code and a lump of rock – are enough to trigger off a hazardous expedition, and a violent confrontation far from civilization…
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DESMOND BAGLEY
Night of Error
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Collins 1984
Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1984
Cover layout design Richard Augustus © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008211370
Ebook Edition © August 2017 ISBN 9780008211387
Version:2017-07-05
CONTENTS
For STAN HURST, at last, with affection
The Pacific Islands Pilot, Vol. II, published by the Hydrographer of the Navy, has this to say about the island of Fonua Fo’ou, almost at the end of a long and detailed history:
In 1963, HMNZFA Tui reported a hard grey rock, with a depth of 6 feet over it, on which the sea breaks, and general depths of 36 feet extending for 2 miles northwards and 1 1/2 miles westward of the rock, in the position of the bank. The eastern side is steep-to. In the vicinity of the rock, there was much discoloured water caused by sulphurous gas bubbles rising to the surface. On the bank, the bottom was clearly visible, and consisted of fine black cellar lava, like volcanic cinder, with patches of white sand and rock. Numerous sperm whales were seen in the vicinity.
But that edition was not published until 1969.
This story began in 1962.
And when with grief you see your brother stray, Or in a night of error lose his way, Direct his wandering and restore the day. To guide his steps afford your kindest aid, And gently pity whom you can’t persuade: Leave to avenging Heaven his stubborn will, For, O, remember, he’s your brother still.
JONATHAN SWIFT
I heard of the way my brother died on a wet and gloomy afternoon in London. The sky was overcast and weeping and it became dark early that day, much earlier than usual. I couldn’t see the figures I was checking, so I turned on the desk light and got up to close the curtains.
I stood for a moment watching the rain leak from the plane trees on the Embankment, then looked over the mistshrouded Thames. I shivered slightly, wishing I could get out of this grey city and back to sea under tropic skies. I drew the curtain decisively, closing out the gloom.
The telephone rang.
It was Helen, my brother’s widow, and she sounded hysterical. ‘Mike, there’s a man here – Mr Kane – who was with Mark when he died. I think you’d better see him.’ Her voice broke. ‘I can’t take it, Mike.’
‘All right, Helen; shoot him over. I’ll be here until five-thirty – can he make it before then?’
There was a pause and an indistinct murmur, then Helen said, ‘Yes, he’ll be at the Institute before then. Thanks, Mike. Oh, and there’s a slip from British Airways – something has come from Tahiti; I think it must be Mark’s things. I posted it to you this morning – will you look after it for me? I don’t think I could bear to.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I said. ‘I’ll look after everything.’
She rang off and I put down the receiver slowly and leaned back in my chair. Helen seemed distraught about Mark and I wondered what this man Kane had told her. All I knew was that Mark had died somewhere in the Islands near Tahiti; the British Consul there had wrapped it all up and the Foreign Office had got in touch with Helen as next of kin. She never said so but it must have been a relief – her marriage had caused her nothing but misery.
She should never have married him in the first place. I had tried to warn her, but it’s a bit difficult telling one’s prospective sister-in-law about the iniquities of one’s own brother, and I’d never got it across. Still, she must have loved him despite everything, judging by the way she was behaving; but then, Mark had a way with his women.
One thing was certain – Mark’s death wouldn’t affect me a scrap. I had long ago taken his measure and had steered clear of him and all his doings, all the devious and calculating cold-blooded plans which had only one end in view – the glorification of Mark Trevelyan.
