Stormtide

by Bill Knox

  ‘She can be salvaged but it won’t be easy,’ said Carrick, and saw him wince. ‘She’s badly ripped below the waterline and after you get her off it will still be a repair-yard job.’

  ‘I’m more interested in what happened to John,’ muttered Alec MacBean. ‘I’ve that right – I’m his only relative.’ He scowled. ‘What kind o’ an accident is it when a man gets strangled in his own winch?’

  ‘Not unique,’ said Shannon neutrally. ‘I’ve heard of it happening.’ He glanced from Carrick to the bottle. ‘You’ll find a spare glass in the locker, mister.’

  Carrick nodded his thanks, found the glass, and poured himself a drink. He sipped it neat. There was no water on the table and Shannon would have regarded the suggestion as an insult to his single-malt.

  ‘I still wish you hadn’t need to cut the scarf,’ sighed Sergeant Fraser. ‘You know how it is, Chief Officer. There’ll be a fatal-accident inquiry, before a jury.’

  ‘At which he’ll give evidence,’ snapped Shannon impatiently. ‘Trying to stir up a murder case, Sergeant?’

  Fraser flushed. ‘Captain, I’m not looking for work. I wouldn’t be here if Carbost wasn’t the only police station within miles of this place. And as for having to drive over that damned goat-track of a road to get here …’

  ‘You’ll have two witnesses, Sergeant,’ soothed Carrick. ‘Our bo’sun was with me. The only thing that puzzled us was why the man was alone aboard.’ He glanced at Harry Graham. ‘How often did that happen?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ Graham shook his head and frowned. ‘I’m no fisherman, Chief Officer. I’m manager at the Broomfire Distillery up the glen.’ He glanced at MacBean. ‘Alec can tell you my share in the Harvest Lass is just money invested.’

  Carrick considered the grey-haired man with a new interest. Whisky was Portcoig’s other industry and its Broomfire distillery was justly famed. There were plenty of similar distilleries scattered around the islands, most of them outposts of mainland whisky empires – money-making outposts prized for the uniquely individual quality of their bottled glory.

  The Portcoig operation was only a few years old, but Broomfire Supreme was already established as a single-malt connoisseur’s delight. He’d been told it often enough by Shannon. Most of it went for export and that, in the opinion of Marlin’s commander, was an unmitigated disgrace. Broomfire was too good for uneducated foreign palates.

  He put the thought aside and tried again. ‘But John MacBean would usually have a regular crew, correct?’

  ‘Two men at least,’ nodded Graham.

  ‘And should have had last night,’ grated Alec MacBean. His eyes, blue like the dead man’s, glittered angrily. ‘Fergie Lucas and Peter Stewart should have been with him and you can blame that damned sharkman Rother and his people that they weren’t.’ He leaned forward. ‘If anyone killed John it was those sharkers – that’s how the village will remember it.’

  ‘Meaning they stopped his crew getting aboard?’ Carrick raised a surprised eyebrow.

  ‘No,’ murmured Sergeant Fraser. He finished his whisky with a long, practised swallow, carefully ran a finger along his lips and glanced at Shannon. ‘But on the other hand, yes. There was a brawl outside the Harbour Arms at closing time last night. We had a patrol car over – as we’ve had most nights lately. My lads arrived in time to see Lucas and Stewart having their heads knocked against a wall by some of Rother’s sharkmen.’ He smiled slightly. ‘They were in no state to go anywhere.’

  ‘And how many o’ Rother’s men were arrested?’ snapped Alec MacBean. ‘Not a damned one!’

  Sergeant Fraser shrugged. ‘They scattered. Anyway, I’ve heard different stories how it started.’

  ‘It started when Rother’s men attacked them,’ said MacBean harshly. ‘Or are you on Rother’s side, Sergeant?’

  Fraser’s face froze, then he rose ponderously to his feet. ‘I’ll forget I heard that,’ he said softly. ‘Captain, my thanks for your hospitality. We’ll have the body taken ashore. Maybe later Chief Officer Carrick will let me have a written statement.’

  Shannon nodded. Pushing back their chairs, Graham and MacBean muttered their own thanks and the trio went out, the policeman last, stopping briefly in the cabin doorway to give a slight, apologetic shrug.

  As the cabin door closed again Shannon sighed, got up, and crossed over to the brass-rimmed porthole. The porthole glass was partly obscured by a large, aggressive-looking tomato plant. The plant had been a gift from his wife a few patrols back and somehow it lived and flourished on a diet which was mainly cold tea and tobacco ash.

  ‘It might be an idea to base ourselves on Portcoig for a couple of days, mister,’ he mused, parting the foliage and looked out towards Camsha Island. ‘When Skua was here last there was trouble brewing.’

  ‘I heard, sir.’

  ‘Did you?’ Shannon grunted under his breath, found his cigarettes, and offered one to Carrick. They shared a light from a kitchen match Shannon struck with his thumbnail.

  ‘Ever been to an island funeral, mister?’ asked Shannon unexpectedly.

  Carrick shook his head.

  ‘It’s an experience.’ Shannon brooded for a moment. ‘I remember one that ended up like World War Three. Have you heard what started this trouble?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Skua’s captain heard a hazy story about one of Rother’s men and a local girl – that she became pregnant and drowned herself off the end of the pier.’ Shannon sniffed sceptically. ‘I didn’t think the average female worried about that sort of thing any more. Still, you could maybe have a talk with Rother and find out more about it.’

  ‘I’ll try him.’ Carrick finished his drink.

  ‘Good.’ Shannon considered the empty glass briefly, then deliberately corked the whisky bottle and put it back in his locker. ‘I’ll probably stay aboard – I’ve a load of damned Department forms to catch up on. But usual shore leave tonight as far as the crew are concerned. Just tell them to keep their noses clean for once.’

  An old-fashioned black motor hearse was backed up facing the gangway when Carrick went out on deck. The rear doors were open, waiting, and a mutter of voices was coming from further aft.

  A moment later Pettigrew appeared. Behind him, aided by a couple of seamen, a black-coated undertaker and his assistant came into sight carrying a plain wooden coffin. They struggled up over the gangway with their burden and loaded it into the hearse. The rear doors closed. With a nod of thanks the two men went round, climbed into their seats, and the hearse purred off along the deserted pier.

  Pettigrew came back aboard with an expression of relief on his thin face.

  ‘They didn’t waste any time,’ said Carrick dryly.

  ‘No.’ Pettigrew looked at the little slip of white he held in one hand. ‘One of those characters gave me his card. What the hell am I supposed to do with it?’

  ‘Keep it. Maybe they give trading stamps for introductions,’ said Carrick mildly.

  Pettigrew glared at him. ‘Very funny. When do we sail?’

  ‘We don’t.’ Carrick shook his head. ‘Not before morning anyway.’ He looked past Pettigrew, eyes narrowing slightly. A small convoy of boats was coming through the channel into the bay. Dave Rother’s shark-catching team were returning home. ‘I’m going ashore for a spell. You and Jumbo toss to settle who minds the shop.’

  He left Pettigrew grumbling, crossed the gangway, and headed towards the village. The main street was smooth tarmac, but the lanes leading off it were either pebbled or surfaced in rough slabs. Most of the houses were small and stone-built, with lace curtains at their narrow windows. Some had fishing nets draped across ropes in their small gardens, a few had hopeful TV aerials lashed to their squat chimneys.

  ‘Stinking snoop!’

  The shout, in a boyish treble, came from a lane. He turned in time to see a fair-haired youngster scurry round a corner and heard a cackle of laughter from a grizzled old fisherman who’d been working on a net.
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br />   Grinning wryly, Carrick walked on. There were few people around and the ones he passed either ignored him or nodded a brief greeting. It amounted to the average fishing village reaction to Fishery Protection uniform.

  He’d started off with no particular intention. But curiosity guided him towards Harbour View Cottages, where John MacBean had lived. When he found them they were just another row of small stone houses. Most of the front-room windows had blinds drawn shut, island tradition when there was a death among neighbours.

  Suddenly, a voice hailed, then Sergeant Fraser came from one of the doorways and crossed towards him.

  ‘Looking for me, Chief Officer?’

  Carrick shook his head. ‘Just walking.’

  ‘Aye.’ Fraser nodded his understanding. ‘John MacBean had the middle one in the row – that one with the green door. I came to have a word with his neighbours.’

  ‘For your report.’

  ‘Reports make the world go round,’ said Fraser dryly. A faint smile creased his heavy face. ‘You know that too, I imagine. Still, I’m finished here. The next thing’s the post-mortem over at Broadford Hospital then the inquiry is pretty well wrapped up as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Other people may think differently,’ mused Carrick.

  ‘If you mean we may have trouble tonight …’ The policeman didn’t finish, but nodded. ‘We’ll have a patrol car over again, just in case.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s time I got back to Carbost. My car is at the harbour if you’re heading that way again.’

  Carrick nodded and they started back the way he’d come. The dull cloud overhead was thickening, with a hint of rain in the air, and they walked silently for a few moments.

  ‘Sergeant, we’ve our own interest in this,’ he said quietly. ‘What’s the story you’ve heard about this feud with Rother’s people?’

  ‘Feud?’ Fraser slowed and scratched his chin. ‘That’s maybe a strong word, Chief Officer. A few brawls, a middling-sized fire that was probably just an accident …’

  ‘And a patrol car you send over most nights,’ finished Carrick bluntly. ‘There was a girl in it, right?’

  ‘Aye.’ The policeman nodded a greeting to a passing figure. ‘So they say, anyway. Her name was Helen Grant. She … well, she went for a late-night stroll along the pier about three months back. They found her drowned the next morning.’ He shrugged. ‘Accidental death – she couldn’t swim, must have fallen over the edge.’

  They were nearly back at the harbour. Sergeant Fraser stopped beside a small black Ford station wagon and opened the door.

  ‘I heard she was pregnant,’ said Carrick quietly. ‘Who was the man?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Fraser gruffly. ‘For a start, she wasn’t local – just a student lassie from Glasgow who came visiting to Portcoig a few times. But she had a family back in Glasgow. It was bad enough on them losing a daughter. The way I saw things they’d only have been hurt a lot worse if we’d built it up into a suicide.’ His mouth hardened. ‘Accidental drowning, Chief Officer. The rest of it is between her and her Maker. Agreed?’

  He got into the Ford, slammed the door shut, and started the motor. Then, suddenly, he wound down his window.

  ‘If you want gossip, Chief Officer, there’s your best bet.’ Fraser thumbed out across the bay. Aunt Maggie’s small red and white launch was coming in again, heading towards the harbour from Camsha Island.

  The station wagon grated into gear and the policeman set it moving in an angry way that sent gravel spurting from the tyres.

  By the time the ferry launch nosed in, Carrick had positioned himself near her landing stage on the pier. He watched the spry, grey-haired woman who moved quickly along the boat from the tiller to tie a bow-line round an iron ring set in one of the massive timbers, then deliberately walked nearer as the ferry’s three passengers disembarked and came up the steps towards him.

  Big Yogi Dunlop, the gunner from Dave Rother’s Seapearl, was built like a barrel, had dark, shaggy hair, and dwarfed the girl by his side. She was the redhead who had appeared from the shark-catcher’s wheelhouse. Trailing a yard or so behind, their companion was a tall, thin youngster in an old jersey and slacks. His face badly swollen, one eye blackened and half-shut, he walked carefully as if every step hurt.

  ‘Hello, Chief – seeing you is a bit o’ luck,’ boomed Dunlop happily, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘The boss gave me a message for you. He says you can buy him a drink at the White Cockade tonight.’

  ‘What time?’ asked Carrick. There were only two bars in Portcoig and the White Cockade was the more popular.

  He was looking at the girl. Seen close-up, her sweater and trousers outfit moulded a figure which might have been hand-carved for perfection. The tanned, lightly freckled face was strong on character, with calm grey eyes which were slightly amused as they met his own. She had a pert nose and a slightly dimpled chin and her copper-red hair, long and straight, was tied at the nape of the neck by a long white ribbon.

  ‘About nine, I suppose,’ answered Dunlop vaguely. ‘That’s his usual, right, Peter?’

  The boy with the damaged face shaped a sound of sullen agreement and shuffled his feet as if anxious to get away.

  ‘Yogi …’ Carrick glanced significantly towards the girl.

  ‘Hell, I forgot,’ declared the gunner cheerfully. ‘Sorry, Chief. This is Sheila Francis, the new district nurse here. And the lad is Peter Benson, who – uh – well, he’s been workin’ with us.’

  ‘Was working with you,’ said Benson in a bitter mumble. His normally thin features twisted with an effort. ‘Why bother to cover up? I don’t damned well care. Not now.’

  Dunlop sighed sympathetically. ‘You know how it is, boy. The boss gives the orders, not me.’ He switched his attention back to Carrick. ‘Do I tell the boss you’ll be there?’

  ‘Yes. But he can do the buying.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The gunner grinned, then beckoned to Benson. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get you fixed up like the boss said. An’ cheer up, for God’s sake. He’s doin’ you a favour.’

  Benson scowled, but followed the big man obediently along the pier towards the village, leaving Carrick with the girl.

  ‘Yogi wouldn’t win prizes for introductions,’ mused Carrick.

  ‘I’ve had better,’ she agreed wryly. ‘But at least I know who you are. Dave talked about you.’

  Carrick grinned. ‘Which makes a bad start. On your day off?’

  She nodded. ‘Dave promised me a trip and this was it.’ Her smile faded. ‘It – well, it didn’t turn out like I expected. We heard the radio messages. I knew John MacBean – not well, but I’d talked to him.’ Glancing past him along the pier, she frowned. ‘That boy with Yogi – Peter Benson. Dave said MacBean’s two crewmen attacked him last night. Then there was some kind of general battle. Was that why MacBean was alone out there?’

  ‘It seems that way.’ A gull swooped down, landed near them with a quick wing-flutter, then strutted fearlessly. Carrick shrugged. ‘He was a damned fool taking a boat like the Harvest Lass out on his own. Did Dave say what started the fight?’

  A sudden caution in her grey eyes, Sheila Francis shook her head. The white hair-ribbon brushed tantalizingly along her neck.

  ‘And now Dave has fired him.’ Carrick waited, saw no response, and tried a different tack. ‘Meeting Dave tonight?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ she said wryly. ‘Having a day off doesn’t mean too much in a place like this. I’ve some patients to look in on tonight.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not the White Cockade. I’ve landed in enough hot water since I came here without looking for more. Portcoig’s view of a district nurse is that she should be above wanting a drink.’

  ‘And what does the nurse feel about it?’

  Her laugh was a soft chuckle. ‘I’ll tell you some other time. Goodbye, Chief Officer.’

  ‘If Rother is Dave, then I’m Webb,’
he told her. ‘Otherwise I call you Nurse.’

  ‘I’ll remember.’ She smiled at him again, then left, strolling confidently along the pier.

  Watching, Carrick gave a silent whistle of appreciation, then turned and made his way down the ferry steps towards the launch. All he could see of its owner was her trousered bottom and legs. The rest of Maggie MacKenzie was hidden under a raised engine hatch.

  ‘Hello, Maggie,’ he said mildly.

  ‘Go away,’ came her muffled voice. ‘Come back in an hour, whoever you are. I won’t be ready till then – there’s a fuel line needs clearing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go out on your old tub if you paid me,’ said Carrick with a grin. ‘Come on out of there, Maggie.’

  ‘Eh?’ She did, wriggling out smartly, an adjustable wrench clutched in one hand. ‘And just what’s wrong with …?’ As she saw him, she stopped and sighed. ‘So it’s you, is it?’ Using her free hand she wiped her forehead and left a smudge of oil in the process. ‘Come to work or watch?’

  ‘To talk.’

  ‘I know what that usually means,’ sniffed Maggie MacKenzie. A small, neat woman, still with a reasonable figure, she was probably in her late fifties. Skin tanned dark by the weather, she considered him with a trace of annoyance. ‘Could that captain of yours not have sent Mr Pettigrew? I like my men mature.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ promised Carrick with a twinkle. ‘But coming here was my own idea.’

  ‘That’s even worse.’ She still looked interested. ‘All right, sit down somewhere. You’re too big to have standing around.’

  Carrick settled in the stern thwarts. Maggie MacKenzie joined him, took the cigarette he offered, and cupped her hands round the flame of his lighter.

  ‘When you say “talk” you mean you want to hear the local gossip,’ she declared after a first puff of smoke. ‘Well, what do you want to know?’

  Carrick lit his own cigarette first. ‘How much trouble John MacBean’s death could cause.’