by Bill Knox
‘A lot.’ Her mouth tightened at the thought. ‘No one here needs a crystal ball for that. Things have been heading from bad to worse as it is, ever since …’
‘Ever since Helen Grant drowned?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘If you know that, why ask?’
‘I’d like more of the story, Maggie. More than I could get out of Sergeant Fraser, though he practically admitted he covered up a suicide in his report.’
‘For the girl’s family.’ The woman nodded and considered the lapping water pensively. ‘Aye, as police go that man Fraser’s decent enough. And what’s your interest in it all? I’d have thought pregnant fish were more in your line.’
He ignored the thrust. ‘Who do people say the man was, Maggie?’
She frowned and flicked ash from her cigarette. ‘You never waste time, do you? Well, some say it was Dave Rother. Others say that lad I just brought over, the one that looked like he’d been hit by a truck.’
‘Young Benson?’
‘Him,’ she agreed dryly. ‘Maybe she liked mixing her men. I’d say Dave Rother was the one she really was set on, though he was older. But if Rother wasn’t around then she’d settle for young Benson.’
‘Then what’s your guess?’ he asked.
Maggie MacKenzie shook her head. ‘I suppose either o’ them could have rolled her in the heather. Or it could have been someone else. Even her own uncle has no real idea.’
Carrick raised an eyebrow. ‘What uncle?’
‘Harry Graham – the Graham who is half-owner of the Harvest Lass,’ she said patiently. ‘You met him, didn’t you?’
He nodded, surprised.
‘I saw him going aboard after you came in.’ She rubbed a hand along the boat’s painted wood. ‘Mind you, before the girl began mixing with Rother’s sharkers she went around with a local lad, Fergie Lucas … the same Fergie who would have been on the Harvest Lass last night if he hadn’t started beating up young Benson then found himself with a lot more on his hands.’
Carrick swore softly, and she chuckled.
‘What you could call a tangle, isn’t it?’
‘A mess,’ he confessed. ‘Maggie, couldn’t Lucas have been the father?’
‘It would have taken some doing,’ she said with a dry amusement. ‘Fergie Lucas was away from here for nearly six months, working on some cargo ship on the Australia run. He didn’t come back to Portcoig until just weeks before she died.’
He shrugged, gave up, and thanked her.
Most of Marlin’s crew were already ashore. Almost the only sounds aboard were the background hum of the generators and the below-deck’s rasp of music from a transistor radio; the Fishery cruiser lay quietly at her berth as the evening wore on. Overhead, the dull cloud gave way before a freshening wind and the sky became blue, streaked with cotton-wool white.
Captain Shannon stayed in his cabin. The wardroom steward took him a meal on a tray, then made another trip with a bottle of beer. In the wardroom Carrick found himself eating alone until Andy Shaw, the chief engineer, arrived. Shaw was unshaven, but was wearing a tie with his crumpled shirt, a sure sign he was going ashore.
‘Ach, there’s just the one trouble,’ said Shaw gloomily, poking at his plate with a fork. ‘A man getting decently drunk is one thing. But what happens wi’ that damned engine-room squad of mine? They get straight on the High Court cocktails – and after that they’re like bloody hospital cases for a day.’
Carrick grinned sympathetically. The engine-room squad were welcome to their choice. It amounted to a vicious half-pint mixture of sherry, cheap wine and cider, a mixture which could topple any ordinary man into near oblivion. Even a seasoned drinker could be launched into a trouble-making stupor after a few glasses of the stuff. Yes, ‘High Court’ was a sardonically appropriate name.
‘Next time sign on teetotallers,’ suggested Carrick between mouthfuls. ‘They’d be easier to handle.’
Shaw stared at him in horror. ‘An’ what the hell would a teetotaller know about engines?’ he demanded devastatingly.
That kind of argument couldn’t be won. Carrick finished his meal, collected his cap, and went on deck. Stopping near the gangway, he lit a cigarette and looked around. The sun was beginning to come low on the horizon, already casting lengthening shadows and turning the far edge of the sea to a reddish gold. Along the pier some of the seine-netters had sailed but new arrivals were taking their places.
He watched another boat come in and tie up. A truck was waiting for it and the fishing boat’s crew immediately opened the deck hatch and began to unload their catch, already cleaned, boxed, and packed around with ice.
The truck would take that ribbon of road across the island then cross by vehicle ferry to the mainland. By the next night city families would be sitting down to eat that silver harvest.
Though their fish would cost them several times more than the fisherman collected for his sweat.
That was life. Carrick grimaced, glanced at his watch, and decided it was time he headed towards the White Cockade. He lit a cigarette and went ashore.
In the guidebooks the White Cockade, Portcoig, was listed as a tourist hotel. But in practical terms that came down to a sensible recognition of the priorities – a big, horseshoe-shaped bar with some fringe tables, a tiny dining room partitioned off in one corner, and a few token bedrooms vaguely located on the upper floor. The bar door lay open when Carrick arrived, but even so he stepped into an atmosphere which seemed compounded equally from smoke, liquor fumes and noise.
Several of Marlin’s crew were already elbowed up along the counter and he exchanged greetings with other faces he knew – a couple of seine-net skippers from the Mallaig fleet drinking with a prosperous-looking fish buyer, a local coastguard out of uniform and a garage foreman who’d rented him a car on previous trips. But the crowd thinned considerably at one side of the horseshoe and the reason was grinning in his direction from a table just beyond it.
‘Over here,’ hailed Dave Rother, sitting with a small group of his men. ‘I’m buying, Webb.’
‘It makes a change.’ Carrick took a vacant seat, ordered a whisky, listened with half an ear to Rother’s light-hearted banter, but noticed that the sharkmen were still being left in isolation as far as the other fishermen along the bar were concerned.
‘Slainche.’ He used the Gaelic toast absently, took a sip of the liquor, then set the glass down. ‘I want to talk with you, Dave.’
‘Now there’s a surprise,’ said Rother sardonically. He glanced at his companions. ‘That’s meant as a hint. I’ll see you later.’
The others rose and drifted off. Lighting a cigarette, Rother settled back and waited. He wore a blue knitted-wool jacket over his shirt and slacks and his thin, long-nosed face was expressionless. The hand which held the cigarette had a deep scar running across the palm, a reminder of a time when the sharkman had held a running rope for a fraction too long.
‘Your popularity rating doesn’t seem what it used to be, Dave,’ said Carrick quietly, nodding slightly towards the bar.
‘That’s true,’ agreed Rother almost lazily. He ran a finger round the rim of his glass. ‘Does it worry you?’
‘Should it?’ parried Carrick. ‘You tell me.’
Rother shrugged. ‘I’ve an idea you know already. Maybe you’ve heard a story.’
‘I have – or some of it.’
Carrick watched the expressionless face opposite. In another time Dave Rother would probably have found his slot in life as a freebooting privateer captain. Instead, he’d been Royal Navy for a spell, a submarine service lieutenant. But he’d resigned his commission under the threat of a court of inquiry into the complete disappearance of a startling quantity of surplus Admiralty stores. Not very long afterwards he’d appeared on the West Coast and had commenced his shark-fishing operation.
It was the kind of job which needed a Dave Rother. Basking sharks were the largest fish in the North Atlantic bar none, thirty feet long and often bigger, a m
inimum of five tons in weight. Only the giant Pacific whale-sharks topped them for size.
Rother went after them with his little boats and harpoon guns, caught and killed them, then processed the shark liver for its precious oil, wanted by industry and drug companies. Even an economy-sized basker would yield more than a ton of liver, meaning close to £100 cash in terms of oil.
There was money in it. But it was money won the hard way. The big sharks lived on tiny plankton. Yet they died hard, and a side-swipe from their massive tails could stove in a boat’s side or smash a man’s ribcage to pulp. Even so, the mere sight of those big black sail-fins above the water was enough to excite any sharkman.
‘All right,’ said Rother wearily, misunderstanding his silence. ‘You know about the girl. But don’t blame me. We had a few drinks and a few laughs together, that’s all.’
‘You’ve a man named Benson.’
‘A boy,’ corrected Rother sharply. ‘Still in his teens – and he swears he didn’t touch her.’
‘So?’
Rother gave a fractional shrug. ‘Laddie, when I want to let off steam I head back to civilization. Up here I work. I keep my nose reasonably clean and the same goes for my men if they want to draw their pay … booze and the odd brawl excepted.’ He emptied his glass at a gulp. ‘We’re the outsiders, we want to keep on good terms with the locals … though they’re a difficult shower at the best of times.’
‘No trouble before the girl drowned?’
‘None that mattered.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Carrick finished his own drink, signalled a passing barmaid, and waited till she brought two fresh glasses of whisky. Paying, he leaned closer over the table as she left. ‘Dave, the way MacBean was alone on that boat isn’t going to help.’
‘They’re blaming us, yes.’ Rother set his glass down angrily. ‘All right, but how did that fight last night start? MacBean’s men caught young Benson on his own. They were thumping sixteen different kinds of hell out of him and starting to put in the boot when some of my lads showed up.’
‘I saw Benson this afternoon,’ mused Carrick. ‘He said you’d fired him.’
‘That’s right. For his own sake – and mine,’ said Rother grimly. ‘I didn’t like doing it. Right now he’s over on the island, and he stays there till he leaves. This afternoon’s trip here was so he could telephone a man he knows down south who’ll maybe give him a job. Even then I had to send Yogi along as a ruddy bodyguard. Otherwise someone else might have decided to take up where Lucas and his pals stopped last night.’
‘But he doesn’t see it that way?’
‘Would you?’ Rother pursed his lips. ‘There have been other things. Like the fire we had on Camsha. Nearly a thousand pounds’ worth of equipment lost and it was no accident. But I can’t prove a damned thing.’ He glared at the fishermen clustered along the bar. ‘Any one of that bunch could have started it.’
‘What about the girl’s uncle? Any trouble from that direction?’
Rother shook his head. ‘None I know about. I went to see Graham after Helen’s body was found – just to say she’d been a nice kid, that sort of thing. Nobody knew then she’d been pregnant. I’ve seen him a couple of times since, just passing – he hasn’t said anything.’ He grimaced slightly. ‘The Harvest Lass may have changed that. He’s going to lose money.’
‘How about the MacBean brothers, then?’
‘I almost liked John. As long as he had beer money he was happy.’ Rother’s face hardened. ‘Alec MacBean is someone else. He works with Graham up at the distillery as charge-hand – and he has a reputation for being a trouble-making bastard.’
‘And now his brother is dead …’ Carrick didn’t finish. ‘Dave, I’d like a talk with young Benson.’
‘Any time. He won’t leave till the end of the week.’ Rother took a long drink from his glass then his mood changed as if he’d flicked a switch. ‘Yogi told me you met Sheila. Like what you saw?’
‘I wouldn’t complain,’ Carrick grinned at him. ‘She’s wasted on a low-living sharker.’
‘There’s not much dividend in it for me,’ sighed Rother sadly. ‘She’s a girl who sets her own pace. I found that out.’
‘Does she know about Helen Grant?’
Rother shrugged. ‘It was all over before she came. But knowing Portcoig, she’ll have been told a few times since.’
‘But she hasn’t mentioned it?’
‘Not to me,’ answered Rother curtly, then suddenly frowned past him.
Shoving through from the door and past the crush along the bar, Yogi Dunlop reached their table a moment later. The big harpoon-gunner’s face was angry as he bent over Rother and murmured in his ear. Rother’s eyes widened a little then he swore softly and shoved his chair back.
‘Trouble?’ asked Carrick. Behind them there was already a hush among the other drinkers almost as if they’d been waiting for something to happen.
The shaggy-haired gunner nodded silently and glanced at Rother.
‘Nothing we can’t handle on our own,’ said Rother grimly. Rising, he glared at the expectant faces along the bar. He told them loudly and bitterly, ‘In case any of you didn’t know, some clever bastard just cut loose those dead sharks we brought in. They’re drifting in the bay now – drifting over here.’ His mouth tightened. ‘All right, this time we get them back. Next time we don’t. If they wash ashore near the harbour they can stay there till they rot … and this whole village is going to be nothing but stench and flies till you get rid of them on your own.’
He stalked out, Yogi Dunlop at his heels. The men along the bar stayed silent till they’d gone, then someone raised a cheer. It spread, became laughter and a thumping of glasses on the bar.
Quietly, Carrick slowly finished his drink and left. It was beginning to dusk over outside, but he could see the long, black shapes drifting here and there in the middle of the bay. One boat was already out there among them; Rother’s launch was starting out from the harbour.
On its own it wasn’t much more than petty spite. But he wondered what would come next.
Chapter Three
He could have gone back for another drink and been sure of finding company. Or, further along, an equal amount of light and noise was spilling from the Harbour Bar. But for once Webb Carrick felt in a solitary mood. Uneasy without completely knowing why, he walked slowly down the deserted street. The rest of Portcoig seemed already settled for the night, doors firmly closed and windows tightly curtained. A solitary motor-cycle passed him, engine puttering, its rider not sparing him a glance.
At the end of the street he reached the bay. The tide was well out and the on-shore wind was heavy with the pungent smell of seaweed. Piping and shrilling in a constant chorus, hundreds of terns and gulls were feeding among the newly exposed rocks or pattering quick-footedly between the sandy pools. Out beyond them, in the greying dusk, Rother’s boats were still working off Camsha Island.
He stayed there for a moment, lighting a cigarette, then went on towards the pier. Two men were standing together at the faraway T-end and as he headed in the same direction, passing Marlin’s berth, a leading hand on duty at the Fishery cruiser’s gangway saluted gravely.
‘All quiet?’ Carrick returned the salute with a faint smile.
‘Yes, sir.’ The man glanced enviously towards the village. ‘Down here, anyway – except for those sharker characters. They went boilin’ out in a hurry.’
‘They would,’ agreed Carrick dryly, and left him.
Clustered fishing boats were tied two and three deep along both sides of the pier, deserted, the water lapping listlessly against their hulls, mooring ropes creaking faintly. Combined with the gathering dusk, it was a scene to delight any artist. But then artists didn’t have to be up in time to take those same boats out to sea at the first hint of dawn.
The two figures on the T-end had their backs to him and Carrick was almost there before he realized who they were. Then he started to turn back, but it
was too late. Hearing his footsteps, they swung round. Harry Graham greeted him with a friendly nod and Alec MacBean managed a grunt of recognition.
‘Come to see the circus?’ asked MacBean sardonically. He thumbed over his shoulder towards the little boats working out across the bay, still recapturing the drifting shark carcasses. ‘The man who did that to Rother can have a drink on me any time.’
‘Rother doesn’t feel that way,’ said Carrick quietly.
‘It’s only a taste o’ what he’s due,’ rasped MacBean, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’ll find that out, believe me.’
‘Easy, Alec,’ said Graham warily. The tall, thin distillery manager stuck his hands in the pockets of the light raincoat he was wearing and kept his voice sympathetic. ‘Everybody knows how you feel, man. But we’ve got enough trouble. There’s no sense in making more.’
MacBean didn’t answer. Graham shrugged apologetically, then asked, ‘Have they any notion who sent those things drifting, Chief Officer?’
‘None.’ Carrick drew on his cigarette and looked at Graham consideringly. Maybe, after all, it wasn’t such a bad thing they’d met. ‘But I’ve a notion there could be a few candidates around.’
‘Perhaps.’ Graham sucked his thin lips briefly. ‘Still, we’ve been on the pier about an hour and we haven’t seen any kind of boat coming in from the island. Have we, Alec?’
‘No. Even if we had …’ MacBean didn’t bother to finish. Turning away, he looked out into the dusk again.
‘Alec and his brother were fairly close,’ said Graham quietly. ‘There are times when a man has a right to be bitter, Carrick.’
‘I want nobody making excuses for me,’ grated MacBean without glancing round.
‘I know, Alec.’ Graham sighed a little. ‘Even so, I suppose it could have happened. Someone come in from the island, I mean.’ He burrowed slightly deeper into his raincoat against the light wind. ‘We’ve been pretty busy, loading gear on a boat I’ve hired to go out to Moorach tomorrow. The sooner we start trying to salvage the Harvest Lass, the more chance we’ve got.’