by Bill Knox
‘Any chance you’ll have some time off tomorrow night?’ he asked.
‘I might.’ She took her eyes off the road for a moment. ‘Does that mean you think you’ll still be here?’
‘It looks that way. Maybe for longer unless things settle.’
‘I see.’ She frowned slightly, letting the car coast to a halt near the start of the pier. Her pert face was serious in the glow of the panel lights. ‘Webb, a district nurse hears a lot. You’re right. Trouble is being stirred up – stories from the way Dave owes money to different people onward. There’s even been talk of the men from here going over and physically throwing the sharkmen off Camsha.’
‘That sounds like Alec MacBean at his best.’
She shook her head. ‘He may talk. But Fergie Lucas is the one who really has it in for Dave. Fergie is popular in the village – plenty of the younger fishermen would be right behind him if he started anything.’
‘Dave Rother is fairly good at taking care of himself,’ mused Carrick. ‘So are his men. Lucas and his friends could find themselves up against more than they reckoned.’
‘Perhaps.’ Sheila Francis rubbed a slim hand along the rim of the steering wheel. Then she smiled wryly. ‘I could be free about seven tomorrow, unless the telephone rings. When I get the chance I know a beach where there’s not as much as an old beer can on the sand and the water’s almost warm.’
‘Good.’ Carrick grinned, reached for the door handle, then stopped. ‘Should I ask if Dave will mind?’
‘No.’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ll pick you up here. Good-night, Webb.’
He climbed out and the little Austin purred off, headlamps tracing its way through the sleeping village. Lighting a cigarette, he thought over what she’d said. If Fergie Lucas tried his crazy idea of taking over the sharking base there would be a few broken heads – or worse – on either side. But for a few days at least the salvage job on the Harvest Lass should keep Lucas fully occupied and that might be time enough for things to cool down.
Starting along the pier, he noticed Marlin had a few deck lights burning and grinned. Probably one or two of the crew still had to wander back – with a clutch of hangovers to share in the morning. Though they’d try to hide the fact. While Captain Shannon turned a blind eye on a man who merely looked grey he came down like the wrath of God on anyone who couldn’t disguise the rest.
Some small line-boats were clustered near the shore end of the pier. He passed them, came near to a row of three larger seine-netters tied side by side almost under Marlin’s bow, then came to a sudden halt.
A shadowy figure was padding around the deck of the middle boat of the trio, working in silence near the shadowed wheelhouse in a way that held no ordinary purpose.
Dropping his cigarette and quickly grinding it out, Carrick peered into the darkness for a moment, heard a faint clink of metal on metal and then a soft gurgling. Moistening his lips, he took a few quiet steps nearer the boat.
As he did, the reek of kerosene reached his nostrils. Swearing under his breath, conscious the man below only had to glance up to see him silhouetted against the night sky, Carrick watched a moment longer. The figure on the middle boat moved again, setting down the fuel can he’d been holding, dragged something which rustled along the deck, then lifted the can and began pouring again.
Tight-lipped, Carrick reached the edge of the pier and dropped lightly to the deck of the nearest boat. He landed near the stern, hugged the shelter of her piled nets for an instant, and listened. Above the soft lapping of the water he heard a rustling, another clink of metal, then silence.
Rising, he took one look across then quit the shelter of the nets. The middle boat’s deck was deserted again. But the reek of kerosene was stronger than ever.
Abandoning stealth, Carrick swung himself over the narrow gap between the two hulls, reached the seine-netter’s wheelhouse, and found the fuel can lying on its side next to a kerosene-soaked pile of old fish-boxes and sacking. Beyond it, the wheelhouse door lay open, the interior an ink-black darkness broken only by the faint luminous glow from the compass binnacle.
But there was someone in there. He could sense it, could almost feel the other man’s presence. Hesitating, he glanced towards Marlin. All the help he needed was there, but he couldn’t take time to fetch it – not without giving his quarry a chance to escape.
Easing nearer the doorway he took a deep breath, tensed, then made a sudden dive forward into the wheelhouse gloom. As he did, a figure sprang from the shadows and a club sliced down at him – but the sheer speed of his entry saved Carrick. The blow intended for his head smashed against his shoulder, numbing it with pain, but still leaving him free to grapple the attacker before the club could be used again.
Struggling, the other man cursing, they went down together and grappled, rolling on the deck. Carrick collided with a metal stanchion, twisted his body away as the club slammed down again, then desperately slammed a fist into his attacker’s stomach.
The blow brought a low whoop of pain. It was too dark to see the man’s face, but he was medium height and strong – strong enough to come straight back in again. Carrick dodged a hand which clawed for his eyes, pistoned another blow into the man’s stomach in reply, then managed to tear himself free.
Rolling clear, he started to scramble up. Then something exploded against his head and he felt himself falling while the whole world whirled. Hitting the deck planking, dazed and semi-conscious, he heard quick, heavy breathing and a scuffle of feet. A match rasped outside, there was a grunt, then the kerosene-soaked bonfire ignited in a searing blast of heat and yellow flame. Suddenly it was brighter than day around him – and the scorching tongues of fire were already leaping higher, spreading fast.
Groggily, Carrick groped around for support, felt the wood of a locker, and managed to heave himself upright. Swaying, coughing as smoke and heat seared at his lungs, he clung there for a moment in a daze while the crackling flames began to grow to a roar and the wheelhouse glass cracked and shattered with a sound like pistol-shots.
Gradually his head began to clear and he became vaguely aware of voices shouting somewhere outside. There was a fire extinguisher clipped to the bulkhead and he staggered across, pulled it loose, then turned back towards the flames.
A billow of sparks greeted Carrick as he neared the doorway. Throwing up an arm to protect his face, he lurched through into the open air and stood coughing, gasping for breath while he tried to bring the extinguisher round.
Before he could succeed, a pair of powerful arms suddenly grabbed him. Spun round bodily, he was smashed back against the deckrail.
‘Here’s one o’ the devils,’ bellowed a voice almost in his ear.
Through smoke-stung eyes he saw an angry, bearded face and a massive fist swinging back to hit him. But the blow didn’t land. An even larger hand grabbed the man’s arm and held it. Then Clapper Bell’s face swam into his vision. The bo’sun peered incredulously, then grinned.
‘It’s one o’ our officers, friend,’ declared Bell loudly. ‘Take that ruddy fire extinguisher he’s got. We’ll need it.’
Gladly, Carrick surrendered the fire extinguisher as the bearded fisherman released him with a muttered apology. Putting a steadying arm around him, Bell guided him back from the flames. Gradually, Carrick took in the rest. Several figures, some from Marlin, and the others fishermen, were already battling the blaze with extinguishers, water buckets and hastily wetted sacking. Others were on the outermost seine-netter, starting up her engine.
‘We’ll get you out o’ this,’ decided Clapper Bell. ‘What the hell happened anyway, sir?’
‘I tried to tackle the character who started this.’ Carrick winced at the pain throbbing through his head. ‘Don’t ask me what he hit me with, but it felt like half of Portcoig.’
In the background the outer fishing boat’s engine coughed to life and her mooring lines were slipped. She edged out, then waited, ready to tow her sister boat clear if th
e fire looked like spreading.
‘Somebody’s usin’ his head,’ grunted Bell. ‘Come on now – it’s our turn.’
Ignoring Carrick’s protests, he steered him back through the milling fire-fighters, across the inner seine-netter’s deck then half-pushed, half-lifted him back up to the pier. As they reached it a portable floodlamp flared to life at Marlin’s bow. Another moment and a hose-jet projected beside it. There was a warning shout, the fire-fighters scattered, and the hose began lancing water.
‘First things first,’ declared Bell, grinning again. He dragged a small flask from his hip pocket and uncapped it carefully. ‘Here, sir.’
Sitting thankfully on a bollard, Carrick took a long swallow from the flask. It was neat rum, which sent him coughing. But the fierce spirit helped blast the last of the mist from his mind. He sat for a moment watching the hose-jet at work, seeing it make fast work of extinguishing the flames on the seine-netter.
‘Panic over,’ said Bell confidently. He retrieved the flask and took a quick swallow before he tucked it away again. ‘Our bloke on gangway duty saw flames an’ rang the alarm bell, so we turned out. The locals started arrivin’ about the same time. Some o’ them think they saw a man headin’ away from the pier.’ He stopped, looking past Carrick, and his expression changed. ‘Here’s the Old Man comin’, sir. He looks fit to be tied.’
It was a reasonable description. Wearing a duffel coat over brightly patterned pyjamas, the pyjama legs tucked into sea-boots and his moon-shaped face still heavy with sleep, Captain Shannon had all the appearance of an ageing, homicidally inclined teddy bear.
Carrick tried to get to his feet as he reached them. Scowling, Shannon waved him down again.
‘Stay there, mister. Stagger like that and the locals will have you drunk by morning.’ He glared across at the hose-jet still playing on the seine-netter. ‘All right, spell it out for me.’
Carrick did. As he finished the hose-jet was finally turned off and the waiting fishermen and Marlin’s fire-fighters moved in again, slapping busily with wet sacking at the last lingering tongues of flame.
Grunting, Shannon glanced along the pier, where a thickening crowd was gathering.
‘Bo’sun …’
‘Sir?’ Bell stiffened, being careful not to breathe in Shannon’s direction.
‘Put a couple of men on keeping that mob from spilling any nearer. Then get over to that boat again and see what you can find.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
As the burly figure set off, Shannon turned to Carrick again and chewed ill-naturedly on a stray tendril of beard. ‘First Rother has his sharks set adrift, then this happens over here. Tit for tat – or that’s how I’d read it.’ He grunted under his breath. ‘Other people will too, mister. This man you saw would you know him again?’
Carrick shook his head.
Muttering under his breath, Shannon looked around then bellowed, ‘Master Wills …’
A moment passed, then a smoke-blackened Jumbo Wills trotted to join them.
‘Sir?’
‘Finished playing at fire brigades?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Wills grinned uneasily. ‘The damage isn’t too bad actually and …’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ snapped Shannon, cutting him short. ‘Gather up half a dozen of the hands. Make sure nothing that floats leaves this pier unless I know first.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Wills moistened his lips and hesitated. ‘Suppose someone tries?’
‘You stop them. Throw them off the pier. Now move!’
Wills gulped, nodded, and trotted off. Watching him go, Shannon drew a deep, groaning breath.
‘Mister, I’d give a lot to know what the good Lord gave that young idiot in place of brains. If he ever gets command of anything bigger than a rowing boat …’ He stopped, his attention suddenly switched towards the crowd being held back at the far end of the pier.
An argument of some kind seemed to have broken out. There were shouts, curses, then the men on guard were literally shoved aside and two figures marched purposefully into the smoke-laced glare of light. As Carrick recognized them he swallowed hard and struggled up to his feet.
‘Here comes all we needed,’ said Shannon in near disbelief. ‘Rother …’
Another moment and Dave Rother reached them, Yogi Dunlop hovering like an escort a few paces to the rear.
‘Captain, your men didn’t seem too happy about letting us through,’ said Rother crisply. ‘But I wanted to see you – and now, not later.’
‘Why?’ Shannon eyed him coldly.
Rother shrugged. ‘You’d soon have heard we’d been back in the village.’ He thumbed towards the smoke-wreathed seine-netter. ‘Some of the locals seem to have the idea that Yogi or I might have been playing with matches. I wouldn’t like you to come round to the same idea.’
‘It might not be hard,’ answered Shannon coldly.
‘Give me some credit,’ sighed Rother, unperturbed. ‘If ever I wanted to start a fire it would be a real one. But I’ve a feeling you’d go jumping to conclusions.’
‘Why aren’t you out at the island, Dave?’ asked Carrick quietly.
‘I’m on a little private errand of my own, boy.’ The fair-haired sharkman’s face tightened a fraction. ‘A domestic thing, believe me.’ Coming closer, he eyed Carrick carefully. ‘You look like you caught the rough end of this deal. Doesn’t he, Yogi?’
The big harpoon gunner grinned dutiful agreement.
‘Still, you always had a thick skull,’ mused Rother. ‘I’m more worried about you, Captain. Run around in pyjamas at your age and you’re inviting a chill in the bladder. You should wrap up better – we don’t want to lose you.’ He glanced at Carrick again. ‘Just remember, I’m not involved in it. Right?’
Ignoring Shannon, he swung away back the way he’d come with Dunlop trailing at his side.
Spluttering incoherently, Marlin’s captain had barely recovered from the outrage by the time they’d vanished back into the crowd. Then he covered up by bellowing fresh instructions to his men aboard the seine-netters, finally calming down as Clapper Bell came clambering back up on to the pier.
A paint-blistered kerosene can in one hand, the bo’sun reached them then stopped and looked back. A small group of fishermen had climbed up after him and were waiting at the edge of the pier, muttering angrily.
‘Well?’ demanded Shannon. ‘Any luck?’
‘Some, sir.’ Bell hefted the fuel can. ‘He used this – it belonged to the boat, kep’ in the stern locker, where you’d expect it to be.’
‘And the locker forced open?’
‘Aye. An’ I found this, sir.’ Bell held out his other hand. On his broad palm lay a heavy bone-handled clasp-knife, the hinged blade open but snapped off short, the broken piece of blade lying beside it. ‘The knife was lyin’ near the wheelhouse. The wee broken bit was at the stern locker.’
Shannon looked at the knife, then, lips pursed, took it from him and passed it to Carrick. In the glare cast by Marlin’s spotlight the initials ‘D.R.’ burned deep into the bone handle stood out plainly.
‘Nice friends you have, mister,’ grated Shannon, his round face a cold fury. ‘D.R. – David Rother. For all he cared you might have been barbecued in that wheelhouse. Now you know why he came back to see if we’d found this.’
Carrick shook his head. It seemed too simple an explanation.
‘Sir …’ Bell thumbed back towards the waiting fishermen. ‘They know about the knife. In fact, it was one o’ them found it.’
They looked over at the angry, restless group of smoke-blackened figures. One of them, stocky and scowling, gave a wolfish grin as Carrick’s eyes met his own. Stepping forward, Fergie Lucas made himself spokesman.
‘What about it now, eh?’ he bellowed. ‘You Fishery snoops get out o’ the way an’ we’ll deal with that bastard Rother an’ his stinking sharkers. We’ll fix them, once an’ for all.’
The men around him rumbled a noisy agreement. Shan
non waited till it died, glaring at them.
‘Just try it,’ he invited icily. ‘Try it, and I’ll see every last one of you jailed – if I’ve got to tow you there on a raft.’ Ignoring their fresh muttering he turned to Bell and lowered his voice. ‘Clapper, you’ll find Rother along the pier or not far away. That long-haired gunner is with him. Take a couple of men and bring them aboard Marlin. Knock any heads together you have to, but get them aboard in one piece. Now.’
Bell spat happily on his hands and set off.
Chapter Four
Twenty minutes passed before Rother and Yogi Dunlop were brought back. By then the crowd on the pier had thinned but there were still enough of them remaining to form a threatening, jostling escort along the pier. It took half a dozen of Marlin’s crew to keep the gangway clear once the two men had been taken aboard.
Captain Shannon was waiting in the spartan comfort of the Fishery cruiser’s wardroom. His lack of sleep still showed, but he’d changed into uniform. Carrick joined him there, head throbbing in a lower key after a cold-water soaking, just as the shouts and jeers outside heralded the arrivals.
‘Good,’ said Shannon softly. Clasping his hands behind his back, he faced the wardroom door hungrily. There was a knock and it opened. Clapper Bell entered first, Dave Rother and Dunlop angrily at his heels, the seamen who’d helped bring them hovering in the companionway outside.
‘Any trouble, Bo’sun?’ asked Shannon curtly.
‘A wee job findin’ them, sir – that’s all. They were up in the village,’ reported Bell laconically. He glanced at Yogi Dunlop and grinned slightly. The long-haired gunner had a smear of blood on one corner of his mouth. ‘Mind you, they weren’t too pleased.’
‘Your men dragged us here,’ rasped Rother. Thin face flushed, he glared indignantly at Shannon. ‘Being in command of this tub doesn’t make you God, you fat old goat. Just how much do you think you can get away with?’
All expression wiped from his bearded face, Shannon ignored the shark-boat skipper. ‘Stay, Bo’sun,’ he ordered. ‘But close that door.’