Raven, James

by Brutal Revenge

  “All right,” Parker said, coming to a decision, “So I'll take your word for it that there's treasure up there. Now you can tell me who it belongs to, how that person came by it, and how the fuck you intend to swipe it.”

  THREE

  In theory the treasure belonged to the Crown, but it was unlikely that the Receiver of Wrecks would ever know that it had been discovered three months earlier, quite by chance, in just forty feet of water less than five hundred yards off the island of Stack.

  The story of a sunken Spanish treasure ship somewhere beneath the waters of the Inner Hebrides had been passed down through the ages. Historians believed it was part of the Spanish Armada and that it went down in a violent storm off the Isle of Mull in 1588.

  Ancient records showed that some Armada galleons headed round the north of Scotland to escape the English and at least one of them was laden with gold and jewellery.

  Over the years scores of professional treasure hunters and salvage teams had gone in search of the mystery wreck. But, as it turned out, they had been looking in the wrong places. No one had ever explored the possibility that the ship had met ill-fortune close to the sheer south-facing cliffs of Stack.

  Yet it was there, over four hundred years later, that one Ruari MacDonald, aged eighteen, had come across it.

  That day was warm and sunny. The wind that usually belts down from the Minch was having a rest and the isles of the Inner Hebrides were at peace with the elements.

  Young Ruari, anxious to make use of his recently acquired aqualung, had managed to persuade his father to take him out to the string of half-submerged rocks below the island's high basaltic cliffs.

  He’d chosen that particular spot because he’d never before explored it. Unknowingly, he had swum above the wreck for several minutes on that day before his attention was drawn to an alien shape that stood out in the swirling grey water. He was compelled by curiosity to take a closer look. He propelled himself downwards and the sea floor rose to meet him, a rolling, twisting terrain of various colours over which scores of tiny fish hovered with lethargic grace. When he reached the dark oblong shape that protruded above the sea floor, he found it had been uncovered by a subsidence in the floor at that point. It was encrusted in a mass of thick black scabs that in turn were partially covered by hard green coral growth.

  He drew a long sharp knife from his belt and worked at the scabs of black until he had chipped away about five square inches of it. He hit metal then and moved his efforts to another part of the object.

  It took only a little while for him to realize it was a cannon. There aren't many things that resemble it in shape and size.

  Feverishly he swam over the cannon, running his fingers delicately along its rough top, and then began to slice away indiscriminately with his knife at other bits of coral growth and black encrustations that did not seem to merge perfectly with the scene as a whole.

  It took him only thirty more seconds to stumble on the wreck. Very little remained of the huge, once proud vessel because over the years it had broken down into heaps of decomposed wood and rusty metal.

  Some of it, thankfully, was in the grip of that ubiquitous black substance which looked for all the world as if it had been poured over parts of the wreck while molten hot and then allowed to solidify.

  Ruari explored the area while keeping a careful eye on his watch. In his mind he was already making plans for coming back another time, equipped then with a full tank of air and a pick.

  Finally it was time to surface. He had almost used up the air in his tank and probably had just enough to get back up.

  He decided to take a piece of the wreck with him as proof of his discovery. He lowered himself to his knees, cut away a chunk of the black substance which enveloped a likely part of the wreck, and then gouged out a fragment of what appeared to be more coral growth from underneath. It felt like wood, he thought, and there were several sharp bits sticking out from it.

  It was a lump about the size of an orange and he was able to hold it in one hand as he struck out towards the surface.

  When just that one piece of coral was later broken up it was found to contain seven gold coins.

  *

  Naturally Ruari MacDonald’s discovery caused a lot of excitement on the island. In the week that followed Ruari went down time and again to the wreck and brought up gold coins and small artefacts by the handful.

  Others who knew how to dive took turns as well and among the items they brought to the surface was a silver dinner plate, more gold and silver coins, a few pewter spoons, gold rings, and ornate necklaces and brooches.

  Most of the objects had been remarkably well preserved under that strange black concretion which had prevented them from being attacked by corrosive elements over the centuries.

  Since it was such a close-knit community there was no question of finders-keepers. It was assumed right from the start that although Ruari had found the wreck and its treasure, it belonged to them all.

  Meanwhile Ruari and the other divers plundered the wreck without thought to its archaeological value.

  And after two weeks they’d collected all the treasure they could find. They had unearthed more than fifteen thousand coins, most of them gold, plus a sizeable collection of small and obviously valuable artefacts.

  Most of the islanders, particularly the older ones, looked on the treasure a gift from God. For so long they had faced hard times. The dwindling population of 220, which had once numbered 1,500, was rapidly approaching danger level and it was feared by all that Stack would join the list of Hebridean islands that had become uninhabited owing to the decline in their populations.

  On top of this there was no longer a fishing industry on the island where once it had thrived, and the islanders were these days just managing to make ends meet through some tourism and by earning a few extra pounds from side-line occupations such as weaving and oyster catching.

  There were other islands in both the inner and outer Hebrides in the same sorrowful situation as Stack. Each in itself a tragedy of modern times, suffering now because they had long ago been left behind by the inexorable march of progress.

  But Stack differed now from those other islands in one significant respect. It had not been forsaken by God. He had blessed the island with a great and wonderful gift, a gift that was surely meant to be used to secure a future for its inhabitants. This was something many of the islanders came firmly to believe. And it was this belief which led eventually to the momentous decision that was taken.

  FOUR

  The meeting was called on a Saturday night and all the islanders, except the children and a few old folk who were housebound, went along. It took place in the church hall, which was really nothing more than a huge corrugated iron shed with backless wooden benches inside and a sad-looking excuse for a pulpit.

  There was a hushed, almost reverent silence, when Alastair MacDonald, Ruari's father, stood up. He was one of six of the island's most respected family heads who were sitting on the bench at the front of the hall behind the pulpit.

  He removed his fraying cloth cap and coughed to clear his throat.

  Having got the attention of all those present, he stepped forward and stood next to the pulpit, a stout red-cheeked man with short clipped hair.

  He welcomed everyone by saying, “I've no need to tell you why you're here. You all know well enough what we've got to be discussing tonight. I intend to start things rolling myself by stating that I, as father of the lad who found the actual wreck, fully support the view held by Ross Mor.” He turned and gestured with his hand towards the man who was sitting on one end of the bench behind him. “I know many more of you do as well, but there might be some among you who do not agree. Well, you can put your views to him in just a minute.

  “But first of all I would like to thank God publicly here tonight for what he has sent us. With the money we are sure to be getting for the treasure we need not worry about our financial well-being for years to come. Aye, it is a
blessed thought.”

  Everyone in the hall agreed with him and there was a lot of smiling and nodding of heads before he raised his hands and they became silent.

  “But it must be remembered that this wealth is for the island,” he went on. “To be used for the good of all of us. Old and young alike will benefit if we are able to use this money wisely to bring prosperity to the island once again.”

  MacDonald returned to his place on the bench andRoss Mor came forward. Mor was in his late fifties and was one of a family line that stretched way back to before the island's earliest records were kept. He was a big man, well over six feet, with powerful shoulders and an ape-like stance that was curiously threatening. An enormous dark bushy beard completely covered his mouth when it wasn't open and he had brows to match that were like thick fluffy shades over his narrow eyes. His weather-beaten skin was also dark, besides being heavily lined, and this was because at one time the Celtic blood of his family had been mixed with the Nordic.

  He hadn’t yet recovered from his wife's death five months earlier and so was still a pitiful sight, somber and haggard, his eyes devoid of life and heavily bloodshot.

  There was only one bright spot now - Anna, his daughter. But she was twenty already, ripe to become a bride, and he knew that sooner or later she too would have to desert him.

  Anna had been very much on his mind when the idea concerning the treasure had come to him. He was in MacDonald's boat at the time, pulling up the rope which Ruari had tied to a sack-full of coins. Perhaps if he hadn't been thinking about his daughter he would have dismissed the crazy notion out of hand; cursed himself for having contemplated such an outrageous stunt.

  But the fact was he had been thinking about her, wondering how he could possibly make life less of a struggle for her than it had been for her mother.

  Anna was sitting in the second row from the front wearing the long summer dress her mother had made for her. She was not a pretty girl by any means. Her nose was too long and her mouth too small; it was clear there was more of her father in her than her mother.

  But her body compensated for her less-than-perfect looks. She had large round breasts and small firm buttocks and therefore attracted the attention of the few red-blooded males around her age on the island.

  Mor smiled at her and when she smiled back his confidence grew. He turned to his audience and said, “I'm thankful you are all prepared to listen to me. Most of you already know what I'm going to say and I hope you've given it some thought already.”

  A woman shouted, “Is it true that you want us to keep the treasure a secret and no report it to the Receiver?”

  He grinned. There were no secrets on Stack. News always spread like wildfire.

  “Aye, that's true,” he said.

  “But would that no be illegal?”

  “Aye, it would,” he replied. “But as I see it we've got to look out for ourselves if we don't want to be evacuated to the mainland in years to come. The government will not help us, as we all know from bitter experience. So it’s up to us, all of us here tonight, to see that there is a future for our young ones here on Stack.”

  “What exactly are you getting at Ross?” This time itwas Angus Campbell, a rugged looking crofter in the front row who was sandwiched between his two heavyweight sons.

  “What I'm getting at is this,” Mor said. “If we tell the Receiver of God's precious gift to us it’ll become the property of the Crown and to be sure we'll be lucky to get a fraction of its worth as our reward for finding it. Plus, it could take years for all the legal matters to be settled. But if we tell no one and then sell the gold ourselves we’ll all be wealthy. And we’ll all have a future.”

  A voice from the back said, “But how would we go about it? We can’t just put it on eBay.”

  The remark sparked a nervous burst of laughter which seemed to ease the tension somewhat.

  “We’ll sell it gradually,” Mor said, after a few seconds. “Over a period of many months – to dealers and collectors. We’ll make sure that nobody will ever know where it came from.”

  Mor gave them time to talk it over amongst themselves and more people plucked up the courage to lob questions at him. After a time it became clear that the majority were rather struck on the idea of deceiving the establishment and were merely seeking an assurance from Mor that it wouldn't lead them all into trouble.

  They no longer had any loyalty to the mainland or the government. For too long they had been ignored and Stack had been starved of investment. Their concerns had never been taken seriously and their fears for the future had been dismissed out of hand by arrogant politicians.

  Finally, it was put to the vote and every single person was in favour of Mor's plan.

  Mor undertook, along with Alastair MacDonald, to take charge of the operation. It was agreed that a meeting would be held in the hall each week so that they could report on their progress.

  Everyone was also sworn to secrecy and made to promise that they would not let mention of it slip during trips to the mainland or when the ferry from the mainland called at the island.

  As the meeting drew to a close there remained only one question to be answered.

  How the hell were they going to carry out the plan?

  “With the help of someone on the mainland,” Mor said. “Someone you will all be familiar with.”

  FIVE

  Maclean's plan was diabolically simple.

  They'd just go out to the island, load the treasure into a boat, and motor away with it. There were no police officers based on the island and therefore no one to stop them.

  Stewart racked his brain for a suitable phrase that could be applied to the task and came up with the brilliantly original saying, 'like taking candy from a baby.'

  Maclean said he couldn't see how it could fail to work. He was convinced in fact that it would prove to be the easiest blag any of them had ever pulled.

  He revealed that the treasure was stored in a number of suitcases and crates in a house on the island owned by a guy names Ross Mor.

  “They took me to see it but I was blindfolded because they didn’t want me to know the exact location,” he said. “But needless to say I’ve since found out.”

  “Just how much treasure is there and how heavy is it?” This from Stewart.

  “Most of it is in the form of coins,” Maclean said. “There are thousands of them, plus jewellery and other artifacts. So it’s not as bulky as you might imagine. I counted three large suitcases and four wooden crates.”

  “So how come you got involved?” Hodge asked him. “You said you hadn’t been back to the island in years.”

  “They approached me out of the blue eight weeks ago,” Maclean said. “They knew about the antiques business and they needed someone in the know to help them get rid of the treasure. I fit the bill perfectly. I’m one of them and because of that they trust me. So they offered me a deal and I accepted.”

  In the beginning Maclean had gone along with Mor's amateurish attempt to cheat the Crown and for a time had actually intended distributing the treasure on their behalf for a modest commission. He was to be given small amounts at a time and had agreed that he would bring the cash to the island after each sale, receiving his fee when it had all been sold.

  But it quickly dawned on him that he didn’t have to settle for a measly commission. The tight bastards were exploiting his expertise and expecting him to do all the work.

  And they assumed he would simply go along with it because he was an islander himself. But they’d been wrong about that.

  Although Maclean remembered most of the islanders from his early life on Stack, he no longer regarded himself as one of them. In fact he still looked on his departure at seventeen as the wisest move he had ever made. Not that there had been much for him to stay for, since both his parents had died within a few months of each other. His mother had succumbed to a debilitating cancer and his father to a sudden heart attack.

  Indeed, he was thankful now t
hat he had not kept in touch with his old friends and relatives on Stack. Had he done so they might eventually have come to discover that his antiques business was merely a legitimate front for his more lucrative, albeit illegitimate, activities. And then they would never have taken him into their confidence.

  Parker was intrigued by the thought of stealing the treasure. But there was one thing that worried him and he decided to raise it with Maclean.

  “What about the islanders themselves,” he said. “Can we expect them to put up a fight?”

  Maclean chuckled. “I hardly think so. Most of them are doddery old men and women. Those that are fit and able enough will melt at the sight of a couple of sawn-offs.”

  Parker leant forward and examined again the map that Maclean had spread out on the table. It was a three foot square map, courtesy of the Scottish Tourism Board. It showed Stack as a shapeless blob of an island only seven miles long by three miles across.

  It had a typical Hebridean landscape. There were cliffs along one side, stretches of sand dunes, large areas of machair, a tiny loch (or lochan) and a small village which had grown up around the tiny harbour with its concrete pier. The highest point on the island was a hill that rose to a mere 400 feet and there were very few trees according to the map.

  “Tell me again about their telephone link with the mainland,” Parker said.

  Maclean smiled. He was pleased that Parker was showing an interest. The Londoner was a solid villain with a good track record. He would be a good man to have on board.

  “There are only about forty telephones on the island,” he explained. “These are served by a small telephone exchange which was recently updated to receive broadband. But it’s unmanned and nothing more than a concrete shed. All we've got to do is get inside and fuck up the works. Then the island will be completely cut off. So there’s no way they can raise the alarm, even if they want to. It means we’ll be long gone before the cops get wind of what’s happened.”