Nothing But the Night

by John Blackburn

  ‘I don’t think that you or the inspector need reproach yourselves, My Lord. After all, the Home Office refused to listen to me and my anxieties were largely intuitive.’ Kirk spoke slowly because the events he had witnessed still distressed him. The smoke oozing out from the launch, the gout of orange flame and a scream of pain from John Forest. Then, when he and Marcus had pulled themselves to their feet, nothing except a drifting grey cloud and timbers leaping out of the sea as if on springs. ‘All you received was the warning of a private individual and you had no reason to take it seriously.’

  ‘We had every reason, General Kirk. We knew of you by reputation and events have proved you correct. But please don’t address me by that wretched title. I’ll answer to Captain, or Chief Constable, or just plain Cameron, but My Lord makes me feel like a blasted bishop.’ The laird pulled out a large purple handkerchief and blew his nose with quite unnecessary violence.

  ‘Now, let’s hear from you, Lieutenant. Your people have only managed to recover the fragments of three bodies to date and I gather it’s unlikely they’ll find any more.’

  ‘Highly unlikely, sir. As you of course know, the tide runs through that sound like a mill race. The rest of the bodies and all the floating wreckage will be far out in the Atlantic by now. We’ve got divers looking for the hull of course, but they won’t be able to go down if the weather breaks, and the barometer is falling.’

  ‘Quite so. The hull was metal, I take it?’ Cameron nodded. ‘And from the small amount of wreckage you did find it was impossible to discover if the vessel was sabotaged or how it was done.’

  ‘Completely impossible, sir. Our first thought was that a wartime mine might have been responsible; we’re still finding them along this coast, but the eyewitness accounts ruled that out at once. I have a theory about the sabotage, but it may not hold too much water.’

  ‘Well, let’s hear it, man. Any theory is better than nothing at all.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ The young officer was looking nervously at Yeats as if reluctant to disturb his grief. ‘If it was sabotage and the saboteur knew her business, the problem of explo­sives might not be difficult. There was a small dynamite store in the shed where the Dormobile was found and, though he has no inventory, the caretaker considers that some cartridges and fulminate detonators are missing. Very lax behaviour on the part of his employers, but there you are.’ He shrugged, still looking towards the bowed figure of Yeats.

  ‘No, the explosive would not have been the real worry. Many bank robbers have stolen dynamite from quarries and so on. But the timing mechanism must have been complicated. Remember that Mrs Harb could have had no idea when the launch would next be used.’

  ‘That’s jumping the gun a bit. We’ve still only a suspicion as to who this saboteur is.’ The Chief Constable had been up all night and he did not trouble to conceal a yawn. ‘All the same, you’re beginning to interest me, so go on, boy. What timing device would operate, not only when the launch was next used but ensure that she had reached the open sea before blowing up?’

  ‘The fuel system, sir.’ The lieutenant turned to Yeats. ‘Doctor, am I right in saying that the launch was piloted by Mr L’Eclus who intended to return to Bala that same evening after landing the five other guardians who were on their way back to London?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Yeats had answered with the slightest nod of his head and he continued: ‘Is it also correct that you kept supplies of petrol at the orphanage jetty but no diesel oil and Mr L’Eclus intended to refuel at Torar?’

  ‘I believe so. I think I remember George saying that there had been a leakage of oil from the main supply, but I’m not really sure.’ Yeats’s voice had a slight stammer. ‘No, I’m sorry, but after what happened I just can’t remember anything clearly.’

  ‘If the fuel tanks were low, L’Eclus might have switched over to the reserve during the crossing.’ Cameron stood up and paced the narrow strip of floor as though it were a quarter deck. His legs were very short below his kilt but he had a chest like a gorilla and still swung a hammer to open the local highland games.

  ‘Yes, I see your point, Lieutenant. There is no diesel oil at Inver House, but plenty of petrol. If somebody had drained the second tank, refilled it with petrol and wired detonators and a stick or two of dynamite tightly against the engine, what would have happened when the reserve switch was operated?’

  ‘In my opinion exactly what did happen, sir.’ The officer consulted a notebook. ‘I telephoned the Niobe’s makers and they confirmed my suspicions. The switch to the reserve supply is automatically controlled and comes into opera­tion once the main tank contains less than a gallon of fuel. For approximately ten minutes after that the engines would be running on a mixture of petrol and diesel fuel and simply produce an abnormally high power output which might not be noticed by the coxswain. But once neat petrol reached the combustion chambers, the cylinder head gaskets would either expand or be blown open and the dynamite detonated.’

  ‘And she would go up in just the way she did.’ The laird nodded approvingly. ‘My congratulations, Lieutenant Reed. An intelligent theory and probably the correct one.’ Once again his handkerchief came into operation.

  ‘It is also supported by information which Inspector Grant received some time back but ignored. Tell General Kirk about that, Inspector.’

  ‘Of course, Chief Constable, though I have no guilt over ignoring that information and it is easy to be wise after the event.’ The policeman had flushed at the implied rebuke. ‘Two nights ago one of the children at the orphanage woke up in the small hours of the morning and looked out of the dormitory window. She claimed to have seen a human figure prowling around the grounds but, as it was a dark night and she couldn’t even say if the figure was male or female, we dismissed the story as childish imagina­tion.’

  ‘And because you dismissed it, six more people have died.’ For the first time Eric Yeats looked up. ‘So simple, isn’t it, gentlemen? You substitute petrol for diesel fuel, introduce dynamite and they die; all of them. Alec Mason, Peter Fletcher, L’Eclus and Sylvia Rheinhart, Straker and old Malcolm Starr. Six good friends gone in a single moment of time and now General Kirk tells me that those other deaths were murder as well.’ He turned and stared at Marcus.

  ‘Why, Levin? Why should anybody want to do these things? Is that single woman responsible or is the general right? Is some organization at work which hopes to destroy our whole Fellowship? Who have we harmed? What has caused such hatred against us?’

  ‘Take it easy, Dr Yeats.’ Marcus was studying the man’s hands which had been shaking so badly that he now gripped the chair arms to control them. ‘Slasher’ Yeats had always been a jolly, extroverted man in the past. An after-dinner speaker, a presenter of prizes, the non-playing cap­tain of a hospital rugger club. He had also earned his nickname by being one of the fastest and steadiest surgeons of his generation. Now he could hardly have signed his own name. ‘They’ll find that woman very soon and then we’ll know the truth about everything.’

  ‘You say take it easy. Eleven of us have been killed already and you can say that.’ Yeats’s lips were like worms crawling across his face. ‘If it hadn’t been for the firework party, every single member of the Fellowship would have been on that launch, gentlemen. Those of us who could spare the time decided to stay on, you see. The anniversary party was pretty dull for the kids and we intended to give them a really good one on November the fifth. Without that . . .’ Yeats lowered his head, obviously ashamed of the tears in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, Doctor. Anna Harb will be found before she can do any more harm.’ Cameron opened a filing cabinet and produced a glass and a bottle of clear liquid. ‘Police reinforcements are arriving from the mainland and troops are on their way. Now, please drink this. It’s pure Skye whisky and there is nothing better for the nerves.’

  ‘How long will it take to search the whole island, Chief Constable?’ Kirk had stood up and was looking out of the window at the little s
leepy town which was already swarm­ing with reporters and morbid sightseers. Beyond it lay long ridges of hills and deep valleys, normally deserted except for sheep and wild goats, crags where eagles nested and caves that had never been explored. Now police and local volunteers were beating those hills for a phantom and before long troops and aircraft would join them. One woman against an army, but Kirk had never realized the emptiness of the Western Islands and he knew it might take a long time to find her. He also felt a slight twinge of guilt for his dislike of John Forest. The man had paid for his story and now lay in hospital, concussed by a piece of falling wreckage that had struck the ferry. The fellow had been correct when he described the difficulties involved and, one day, Kirk intended to apologize to him.

  ‘God knows, General.’ The laird was standing before a map on the wall. ‘This island is thirty miles long and six­teen miles across at its broadest point. Since the First World War, the population has been steadily decreasing and we now number less than five thousand souls, most of them concentrated in and around Lochern.’ His finger traced the outline of Bala which was rather like a thumbless hand with Lochern at the base of the palm and four promontories pointing out into the Atlantic.

  ‘Empty crofts, gentlemen, deserted farm buildings and many, many caves. In the summer parties of climbers and hill walkers often arrive without tents or hotel bookings because there is so much free accommodation for them. Only last year our local traders’ association petitioned the council to tear the roofs from all disused buildings as they were ruining business.’ Cameron turned to the bowed figure on the chair. The whisky had given Yeats a trace of colour but his eyes still showed strain and utter misery.

  ‘Inver House was almost a ruin when your Fellowship purchased it seven years ago, Doctor, and there are five deserted houses on the peninsula where it is situated. You have my promise that Anna Harb will be found, but it may take some time.’

  ‘But when you find her, will the danger have passed, Chief Constable?’ Marcus had derided Kirk’s theory that there was a conspiracy at work against the Van Traylen Fellowship, but recent events were changing his mind. He had seen the woman, he had looked into her face. He knew she was insane and he could easily imagine her making a further attack on her child or on individual members of the Fellowship who she believed had stolen Mary from her. She might have used a knife, or a gun, or her bare hands, but this cold-blooded planning did not fit her personality at all.

  ‘How can we be sure that Harb is working alone on the island, or that she was responsible for the sabotage of the launch? The use of dynamite and the substitution of petrol for diesel oil implies a specialized knowledge which she probably did not possess.’

  ‘Ah, but she did, Sir Marcus.’ Inspector Grant took a folder from a filing cabinet. ‘This is the Yard’s dossier on Harb. Until recently it was incomplete because, during the years ’60 and ’61 she was out of the country and lived with this man.’ He handed Kirk and Marcus two photostat copies of a report in French. ‘The Sûreté have now filled in the blanks for us and I think you may have heard of him, General.’

  ‘Yes, I knew him . . . knew of him, that is.’ Kirk was studying a photograph clipped to the top of the sheet. A good face, as far as it went, he thought. A broad forehead, a strong nose and a pair of clear, smiling eyes. The trouble was that it did not go far enough. The lower lip ran straight down to join the neck almost without the dignity of a chin and the general effect was of a classical sculpture of which the artist had grown bored and left unfinished.

  ‘Robert Nord. Resistance hero known by the code name of “The Sparrow”,’ Kirk translated. ‘Member of a group which attacked and destroyed a German troop train out­side Lille, January ’43. Led the attack on the Villavignette radio station in September of the same year. Between January ’44 and the end of hostilities is claimed to have destroyed a minimum of eighteen military vehicles. Granted membership of the Legion of Honour, June ’45.

  ‘So much for the hero.’ Kirk frowned as he read on down the close typing. The sparrow had had its flight, but it couldn’t settle down in captivity. The years of peace showed convictions for fraud, theft and malicious wounding. Then, when the Muslim rebellion in Africa turned to civil war, M. Nord had found his vocation again as a member of the O.A.S., the Secret Army Organization, and his plastiques had roared in the streets of Algiers and Oran. Finally had come his last blow. To bring the war home to the people of France itself, a band of saboteurs had landed at Marseilles and placed time-bombs in a petrol refinery. Eight men, a woman and a child had died in the ensuing explosion and their murderers soon followed them. On December 8th, 1961, a guillotine had neatly removed Nord’s head.

  ‘Yes, Mark,’ Kirk said as he handed the sheet back to the inspector. ‘If Harb was this joker’s girl friend, she would have known how to blow up that launch all right.’

  ‘But I still don’t see the motive.’ Marcus was staring at the photograph as if Nord’s chinless face fascinated him. ‘From what I saw and from Haynes’s notes, we know that the woman has an obsessive hatred towards her daughter and feels that the Fellowship stole Mary from her. We also know that she was on drugs and such people can often be used as tools by their suppliers. But I just cannot believe that she sabotaged the launch single-handed.’

  ‘It does sound improbable, Sir Marcus.’ The Chief Constable nodded. ‘All the same, Harb’s fingerprints were found in that Dormobile which was hired in London and we know she must be on Bala. By noon tomorrow I shall have over a thousand troops combing the island and they are bound to find her in time. When they do, she will be made to talk and then we shall know the truth.

  ‘Excuse me, though.’ The phone rang and he stomped across to his desk. ‘Yes, this is the Chief Constable speaking. Oh, good afternoon, Mrs Alison. What is that? Two hours ago and you say that you’ve searched the buildings and the grounds thoroughly?’ A dark shadow crept across the leathery skin as he listened.

  ‘Now, madam, I am quite sure there is no need for anxiety, but please hold the line for a moment.’ He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Grant.

  ‘I told you to have a man stationed inside the orphanage and to seal off the whole area, Inspector. Has that been done?’

  ‘No, sir, it has not.’ Once again the policeman bridled at the implied rebuke. ‘Mrs Alison herself, the matron, refused to let me put a constable inside the grounds because she said it might distress the children who are being kept in ignorance of the events.

  ‘As for sealing off the entire area, I am not a magician, Chief Constable.’ He crossed over to the map and pointed at the most northerly peninsula. ‘Two men, one of them a dog handler, have been told to patrol the orphanage walls during the hours of darkness and a road block has been set up here. Counting police reinforcements and local volun­teers I have less than sixty men at my disposal and you have ordered me to search the entire island. The Morfar peninsula is seven miles long, all of it difficult country with plenty of cover. There is a party of volunteers with binoculars on Ben Tarbert, there is the road block, but with respect, sir, I can’t do more till the troops get here.’

  ‘All right, Inspector.’ Cameron lifted the telephone. ‘Mrs Alison, as I have said, I am sure that there is no need to worry. The little boy is playing a game with you and will be hiding somewhere. Boys do that; I’ve got three of my own. He’ll come out as soon as he is hungry and my advice is that you give the dinner gong an extra loud bang. All the same, I’d better have his description, just in case.’ He picked up a pencil and a memo pad.

  ‘Sidney Molson . . . seven years and one month old . . . tall for his age and fair-haired . . . wears a dental brace. You missed him approximately two hours ago.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Alison. We have a patrol outside the orphanage so I’m quite sure Sidney is somewhere in the grounds and safe and sound. For the time being keep all the children together and I’ll be with you as soon as possible.’ The Chief Constable spoke with the false confi­dence of a frigh
tened man and his knuckles were dead white as he replaced the instrument.

  ‘You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for, Inspector Grant. If anything has happened to that child, the blame will be mine. I should have told you to concentrate every man you’ve got on Morfar and leave the rest of the island till the soldiers arrive.’ He took his coat from a rack and stood staring at them in turn; Kirk and Marcus and the naval officer, Grant and Yeats and finally back to Kirk.

  ‘You all heard that, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Another of ’em. A little boy called Sidney Molson missing since eleven o’clock. Obviously playing a joke and hiding somewhere . . . children do . . . bound to turn up before we get there.’ There was a rumble of heavy vehicles and he crossed to the window to watch a convoy of army lorries move into the square.

  ‘Thank God those chaps are here at last. We’ll find her soon, General. A thousand men, they promised me. Dogs and helicopters and track-laying vehicles too. All that against one woman.’ Cameron pulled on his coat and his voice was barely audible above the roar of the convoy.

  ‘I’ve lived on Bala most of my life, gentlemen. Family been here for over twenty generations. Usually felt it was a friendly island; home, warmth, security. Now, I’m not sure . . . Not sure about anything any more.’ As he put on his hat, Marcus saw that the laird’s hands were shaking as badly as Yeats’s had done.