Stormtide

by Bill Knox

  Silently, Clapper Bell obeyed then took up a strategic position beside it.

  ‘You’ve some kind of complaint, Mr Rother?’ asked Shannon with an icy sarcasm.

  ‘You’ll find out the hard way,’ snarled Rother. ‘We were grabbed in the street, roughed up, then hauled up that pier like …’ Suddenly his voice died. He stared at the broken clasp-knife Shannon had left lying on the wardroom table.

  Yogi Dunlop had seen it too. He took a shuffling step nearer then stopped and glanced at Rother, his manner uneasy.

  ‘Go on, Mr Rother,’ encouraged Shannon softly.

  Rother shook his head and sighed. ‘Forget it. Where did you find that?’

  ‘It was on the seine-netter,’ said Carrick. Going over, he picked the knife up and held it in the flat of his hand. ‘Your initials, Dave.’

  ‘My knife,’ answered Rother curtly. ‘Or it was.’

  ‘Was?’ Shannon raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Meaning you lost it?’

  ‘Gave it to someone.’ Rother scowled briefly, then, without asking, dragged one of the wardroom chairs from the table and sat down. ‘All right, Captain. No complaints. I’ll tell you why, if you’ll listen.’

  ‘I’ll listen,’ agreed Shannon woodenly.

  ‘That was my knife. Till a month ago, till I gave it to one of my crew. Correct, Yogi?’

  Dunlop grunted agreement. ‘The fool kid lost his own an’ kept moaning about it. Plenty of our people knew.’

  ‘It just happens I came ashore tonight looking for him,’ said Rother grimly. ‘For a separate reason, one that doesn’t matter here. I haven’t found him yet.’

  ‘Peter Benson?’ asked Carrick bluntly.

  Rother blinked, then nodded.

  ‘Better tell the rest, Dave,’ said Carrick. He gave Shannon a mildly apologetic glance, then went on: ‘You think it was Benson who cut those sharks loose and he’d vanished from Camsha when you got back, right?’

  ‘How the hell did you know?’ asked Rother almost wearily.

  ‘Someone else had the same idea,’ answered Carrick obliquely. Captain Shannon’s gathering scowl held its own warning and he explained quickly, ‘Benson is the youngster who was beaten up last night, sir.’

  ‘I know that much, mister,’ growled Shannon. ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘He was out of a job from the end of this week. Maybe he decided to walk out now – and wanted to leave a few reminders behind him.’

  Rother nodded wryly. ‘I’ll admit that’s how it looks to me now. The young devil was alone on the island tonight – I made him stay there. Remember I told you that, Webb?’

  Considerably deflated, Shannon stood tight-lipped for a moment.

  ‘Can you prove any of this, Rother?’

  Grinning with relief, Yogi Dunlop answered for him. ‘The bit about the knife is easy enough, Captain. We’ve over thirty men on Camsha. Most o’ them could swear to it.’

  ‘And he’s gone,’ added Rother grimly ‘So has the old motor-cycle he kept in a hut on the main shore near the island.’ His eyes glittered angrily. ‘I’ll knock hell out of the little basket if I ever get my hands on him.’

  Shannon grunted and turned his attention to Carrick. ‘Couldn’t you have told me some of this before, mister?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘I didn’t have the chance,’ reminded Carrick defensively. ‘Anyway, I didn’t know how it fitted, sir.’

  Beginning to enjoy the situation, Rother chuckled. ‘I warned you about going off half-cocked, Shannon,’ he reminded, loafing back in the chair. ‘You should have listened. Now how about telling that mob waiting on the pier they’re wasting their time?’

  A knock on the wardroom door robbed Shannon of a chance to reply. It opened and Pettigrew entered with an unhappy expression.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Shannon.

  ‘We’ve got a fishermen’s deputation at the gangway, sir,’ reported the middle-aged junior second unenthusiastically. ‘They want to see you.’ His eyes flickered towards the two sharkmen. ‘They’re demanding to know what’s happening.’

  ‘Demanding?’ Shannon bristled at the word. ‘Damn their impudence. Tell them to go to …’ He stopped and sighed. ‘No, better not. Not right now. All right, I’ll see them. While I’m doing that, I’ve a job for you.’

  ‘Me, sir?’ Pettigrew didn’t quite groan.

  ‘You.’ Shannon turned to Dave Rother. ‘Did you bring a boat over?’

  Rother nodded. ‘We’ve a dinghy along the pier.’

  ‘Right.’ Shannon swung back to Pettigrew. ‘They’ll give you a full description of a man called Peter Benson. Then make sure they get to that dinghy in one piece.’

  Pettigrew nodded, then remembered his other reason for coming. ‘We’ve still a shore-leave man adrift, sir. It’s Halliday.’

  ‘Again?’ murmured Carrick and grinned. One of the engine-room greasers, Gibby Halliday always turned up eventually. But even when sober his blood-alcohol content would probably be impressive.

  ‘Damn Halliday,’ snapped Shannon. ‘Put him on report, man. Carrick, you’d better come with me till I fix this deputation. We’ll bring them aboard – that’ll give Pettigrew more of a chance to get these two ashore.’

  He stumped out of the wardroom. Following, Carrick grimaced a wry farewell towards Dave Rother. The sharkman raised one hand in a laconic acknowledgement then gave a heavy wink.

  Rother, at least, seemed unworried. But following Shannon along the companionway Carrick had doubts of his own.

  The figure he’d grappled with in the darkness of that wheelhouse might conceivably have been young Benson. But his opponent had been viciously determined, and cool enough to start the fire before making his escape.

  Somehow none of that fitted with his own notion of Peter Benson’s character. Even if all the rest fitted. And he was still puzzled about the way he’d been struck, by a blow that might have come out of nowhere.

  ‘We haven’t got all night, mister,’ said Shannon suddenly, cutting across his thoughts. Marlin’s captain had reached the companionway door that led to the main deck and was waiting on him. ‘Let’s get this over with. Then I’ll get that young idiot’s description off to the civil police. At least we’re on an island – he won’t find it easy to get off.’

  * * *

  The fishermen’s deputation, when they came aboard, were four in number. All were skippers, two from local boats and two from Mallaig boats using the bay, all were older men of the type any Fishery Protection captain took seriously.

  Shannon led them to his day-cabin, opened a bottle, and poured them each a drink. They thanked him, sipped slowly in dignified style, then the oldest, elected spokesman, came straight to the point.

  ‘Are you locking up those sharkers, Captain?’

  ‘No. But we’re looking for one of their men who had a grudge against a few people – young Benson,’ said Shannon bluntly. ‘He seems to have bolted.’

  ‘That one, eh?’ The skipper’s leathery face showed an understanding and he glanced at his companions. ‘The lad who fathered that bairn – aye, it makes sense.’ On the strength of the information he emptied his glass at a single gulp. ‘Even so, I’ve a duty to give you a warning, Captain. The fishing fleet aroun’ this part o’ the inch has had its fill o’ these sharkmen, one way an’ another.’

  ‘I see.’ Shannon reached for the bottle again, but stopped as the man shook his head. ‘I’d have thought men like you would have more sense than …’

  ‘Not us, Captain.’ The skipper held up a hand to stop him. ‘But we’ve younger men wi’ less patience.’

  ‘And Fergie Lucas leading them?’ suggested Carrick.

  The man nodded. ‘Him among others, Chief Officer. One more wee incident like tonight an’ Satan himself won’t stop them taking those sharkmen apart.’

  ‘And we won’t particularly feel like stoppin’ them,’ grunted another of the skippers.

  Shannon kept his temper, but his voice took on a new edge. ‘You’d better t
hink about that one again. Or the only fishing you’d do afterwards would be with a piece of string and a bent pin off the edge of the pier. That’s a promise.’

  ‘You might be there too, Captain,’ murmured the spokesman. ‘That Department o’ yours likes things nice an’ peaceful. The way they saw it, they might give someone else the job o’ driving that fine big boat o’ yours.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before – and I’ll hear it again.’ Shannon looked at the man for a moment, then, surprisingly, gave a sound close to a chuckle. ‘So to hell with you too, Skipper. Now we know where we stand, do we have that other drink?’

  The fishermen glanced at each other their manner uncertain. Then, grinning shamefacedly, they nodded in turn.

  Before they left the bottle had gone round a third time. But it had been worth it. Their attitudes slightly thawed, the four skippers went away promising they’d at least try to calm things down among the crews.

  Shannon saw them ashore. When he came back he grimaced at Carrick and yawned.

  ‘That’s it for tonight, mister. Better get some sleep.’

  ‘I will,’ agreed Carrick. ‘Any sign of Gibby Halliday, sir?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Shannon sniffed heavily at the reminder. ‘He’ll keep till morning, then I’m going to have his guts, drunk or sober.’

  Gibby Halliday turned up soon after dawn. The last boats of the fishing fleet were leaving, heading out of the bay for the start of another day’s work, when the wash from a propeller blade brought his body drifting sluggishly from the dark shelter of the pier.

  They brought him up to the pier and laid him there, a scrawny figure in off-duty sweat-shirt and slacks. A bottle still protruded from his hip pocket and the bold, tattooed figure of an anatomically provocative female mocked them from one hairy arm while water from his clothes formed a growing pool on the planks below.

  It was easy enough to see how he’d died. His head had been smashed in, the skull almost pulped under what must have been a rain of blows.

  Jumbo Wills was Marlin’s officer of the watch. He was on the pier when the dead greaser was taken out of the water and came back aboard looking sick. Already up and dressed, Carrick got to the spot minutes later, pushed his way through the men clustered round the body, and found Captain Shannon standing there, staring down.

  ‘Drunk or sober,’ said Shannon, almost to himself. His mouth tightened bitterly. ‘He must have been coming back when your damned firebug was escaping. Probably never even knew what was happening – just got in the way.’

  ‘Does Andy Shaw know?’ asked Carrick quietly. Gibby Halliday had been one of the chief engineer’s squad for a long time.

  ‘I’ve sent for him.’ Shannon drew a long breath. ‘Rother’s boats have left base. But get out there and talk to anyone you find. I want any lead we can on this Peter Benson. God help him if some of the crew get their hands on him before the shore police do.’

  Andy Shaw was arriving as Carrick left. Unshaven, rumpled enough to have slept in his clothes, Marlin’s chief engineer headed past without a word. Face the colour of paper, he walked like a man who didn’t want to get where he was going.

  Even when sober, Gibby Halliday would have shared his last cigarette with any man. Shannon was right. Guilty or not, Peter Benson would have short shrift and find little mercy if he fell into the hands of the dead greaser’s friends. No amount of discipline could change that.

  Passing the empty, fire-damaged seine-netter, now lying alone with her superstructure charred and blackened, Carrick went aboard the Fishery cruiser.

  Five minutes later, aided by a group of grim-faced deckhands who didn’t need any urging, he had the ship’s motor-whaler in the water and her falls slipped. With three seamen aboard as crew he gunned the whaler’s engine and sent it arcing away from Marlin’s side until the bow pointed straight for Camsha Island.

  Clear of the pier, the lumpy swell began to toss them about. The sky overhead was grey and the wind had risen several points overnight. Instinctively he glanced towards the mouth of the bay and saw white breakers forming a foaming line along the shoal rocks.

  It would be a lot rougher out in the open sea. He thought briefly of the additional difficulties for the Heather Bee and her crew on their salvage bid, then dismissed the thought as the seaman nearest him leaned forward.

  ‘Do we turn the place over when we get there, sir?’ asked the man hopefully. ‘I was thinking, maybe those sharkers have this kid hidden away somewhere.’

  Carrick shook his head. ‘I want one of you to stay with the boat. The other two can look around. But no heavy stuff. Understood?’

  The seaman’s face fell but he nodded, then cursed as a wavecrest took them on the starboard bow, drenching a curtain of spray over the whaler. Carrick watched him for a moment. There might be more than one kind of problem ahead … with Marlin’s crew a prominent factor.

  All because of one dead teenage girl.

  The slipway at Camsha Island was deserted as the motor-whaler nosed in past the clutter of long black basking-shark carcasses, each moored to an oil-drum buoy. Another shark, about thirty feet long and a male, had been winched out of the water and lay on a trolley halfway up the slipway ready to be moved on to the processing plant.

  The smell was the worst part of it. Heavy and rancid, it met their nostrils as soon as they’d tied up and were ashore. But it was a smell that meant money once the shark livers had been boiled down and their oil extracted and barrelled.

  The rest of the carcass was usually towed out to sea and dumped. City experts talked wisely about other by-products, commercial ways of using everything from the coarse, sandpaper-like skin to the rows of tiny, needle-pointed teeth, of the protein in the flesh and the fertilizer possibilities of anything left over.

  Maybe that would come. But right now all there was came down to the smell … and a multitude of black flies which buzzed around as Carrick and the two seamen walked towards the nearest of the huts.

  ‘Lookin’ for someone?’ called a voice.

  They stopped and a small man in overalls limped across from a dump of fuel drums. A cigarette dangled from his lips and his overalls were smeared yellow and red with crusted fluid and blood. He saw one of the seamen sniff as he came near and grinned.

  ‘Name’s Len Hastings. You try wadin’ up to your armpits in shark liver an’ you’ll stink as much as I do.’ He glanced keenly at Carrick. ‘Got some word o’ that kid Benson? Dave Rother’s out wi’ the boats, but I could radio him.’

  ‘Nothing yet.’ Carrick looked around. ‘Left on your own?’

  ‘No, tea-break time.’ The man brushed a fly from his face with a practised flick. ‘We’ve a brew-up near the fuel dump. Diesel oil smells a treat after this lot. Anything I can do, Chief?’

  Carrick nodded. ‘Where did Benson sleep?’

  ‘End hut, end cubicle. Help yourself.’

  Gesturing the seamen to stay, Carrick set off along a sandy path which led through coarse, tufted grass. He reached the hut, found the door lying open, and went into a long, narrow corridor with cubicles lying off it all along one side. The place smelled of disinfectant and the floor was scrubbed clean, signs that Dave Rother hadn’t forgotten all of his Navy background.

  Like the rest, Benson’s cubicle had a curtain over the doorway. He shoved it back, went in, and raised a mild eyebrow at the array of magazine pin-ups pasted round the walls. Benson seemed to have a predilection for blondes and bosoms. Grinning at one which had acquired a pencilled moustache, he glanced around.

  The bunk bed still had its blankets folded, but was creased as if someone had been lying on top of it. When he opened the tall locker beside the bed he found a dark suit and other clothes hanging on the rail and some laundered shirts lying on a shelf. Turning away, he kicked a pair of light tan shoes which had been placed neatly beneath the cubicle’s window.

  Puzzled, frowning, he prowled the rest of the space. Everything was in place, as if Peter Benson had just walked out and mig
ht return in a moment.

  A small suitcase under the bunk told the same story, down to a savings bank book with a credit of a few pounds. The bank book gave Benson a Glasgow address. Thoughtfully, Carrick put it in his pocket, then added a snapshot photograph which showed the tall, thin youngster grinning at the camera with a catcher-boat in the background.

  Nothing else looked likely to help. Closing the case, he pushed it under the bed again and left the hut.

  Outside, a winch engine had begun clattering. Going back along the path, Carrick reached the slipway in time to see the trolley-mounted basking shark being dragged by a wire cable into the entrance to the main processing shed, a few men in stained overalls guiding it along. Marlin’s two seamen were watching, Len Hastings by their side, more flies than ever annoying them.

  ‘Find what you wanted, Chief?’ asked Hastings as Carrick reached them.

  ‘Enough to get by on,’ said Carrick non-committally.

  ‘Good.’ Face screwed into an expression of sympathy, the little man raised his voice above the noise of the engine and the squeal of the trolley wheels. ‘Your lads told us about that engine-room bloke bein’ killed. That’s bad – but it just doesn’t figure. Not wi’ young Benson.’

  ‘Why?’ The trolley and its carcass were inside the shed. Carrick waited while the doors slammed shut. ‘He had a king-sized chip on his shoulder, hadn’t he?’

  Hastings nodded wryly. ‘True enough, Chief. An’ the boss givin’ him the chop didn’t help. But I still can’t see him belting anyone’s skull in. An’ at least the boss had promised him his back pay – that’s better than the rest o’ us were getting, believe me.’

  Behind them, the ratings shuffled impatiently and swatted at the buzzing flies. Carrick tried lighting a cigarette, but it didn’t help much.

  ‘Money’s short?’

  ‘Has been for months.’ The little man grimaced. ‘Still, the boss says things will be okay pretty quick now, so we’re hangin’ on.’ He chuckled gloomily. ‘All hang together or all hang separate, that’s how it is. At least we’ve managed to squeeze beer money out o’ him.’