by Bill Knox
‘Necessities first,’ agreed Carrick. He thanked Hastings, signalled the two ratings, and they retreated thankfully down the slipway, away from the smell and the flies.
The shark-catching game wasn’t all open-sea adventure or salt-spray excitement.
Maggie MacKenzie’s little ferry launch was buzzing across the water on some errand as the motor-whaler came in towards Portcoig. She raised an arm and shouted something, but it was lost on the wind and the launch was bucking in the waves.
The swell was considerably less near the pier and the motor-whaler came neatly alongside Marlin. At the Fishery cruiser’s stern, Clapper Bell was just in the act of climbing down a ladder. He was wearing full scuba gear and a rubber wet-suit and he paused, face-mask shoved back and breathing tube dangling loose, till the motor-whaler was near him.
‘The Old Man’s got me checkin’ under the pier round about where Gibby Halliday got tossed in,’ he reported. ‘You should see the junk lyin’ down there. And there’s a ruddy great conger eel sniffin’ around with razor-blades for teeth.’
‘Kick it on the snout,’ advised Carrick cheerfully. ‘Any luck, Clapper?’
The bo’sun snorted. ‘Enough chunks of scrap iron to start a business. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m lookin’ for. The Old Man’s on the bridge. You can tell him I’m havin’ one more go, but if that eel gets nasty he can expect me straight back.’
Face-mask down, he bit on the breathing tube and went backwards into the water with a splash. Then he vanished, his progress marked by a bubble-trail leading along the edge of the pier.
Leaving the ratings to hoist the whaler aboard, Carrick scrambled up on deck and headed for the bridge. On the way there were plenty of signs, from the mooring lines being thinned onward, which pointed to the Fishery cruiser being ready to sail. It was the same when he reached the bridge. Pettigrew was there with the duty helmsman and a brace of look-outs; Captain Shannon’s cap was lying on the command chair.
‘He’s back there,’ said Pettigrew morosely, thumbing towards the little chartroom aft. ‘Don’t stand on his toes. Things are bad enough.’
Carrick went through and found Shannon already had company in the bulky, uniformed shape of Sergeant Fraser. The policeman contented himself with a nod and waited.
‘Learn anything, mister?’ asked Shannon bluntly.
‘We’ve these, sir.’ Carrick laid the bank book and snapshot on the chartroom table. ‘He’d left most of his kit behind.’
Shannon grunted. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just that he can’t have much money. The sharkers haven’t been paid for a spell.’ Carrick glanced at Sergeant Fraser. ‘Any trace of Benson yet?’
‘Damn all sign of him or that motorbike.’ The policeman shook his head gloomily. ‘We’re watching the ferry crossings and the usual. But out here we’ve only got one cop to God knows how many miles of heather. Now,’ – his gloom deepened – ‘well, I was on my way here when I heard about your crewman. I can’t cope with murder on top o’ the rest. Headquarters are sending a CID squad from the mainland.’
‘Which could take long enough.’ Shannon was unimpressed. He stopped as Pettigrew stuck his head round the door and snatched the radio-room flimsy the junior second offered. A glance at it and he handed the flimsy back. Then, as Pettigrew left, he went straight on: ‘You’d better take that bank book and photograph, Sergeant. And anything you want from the old iron the bo’sun has been bringing up.’
Sergeant Fraser nodded. ‘The old faithful blunt instrument. The forensic people can play wi’ them, Captain. And I’ll make the arrangements for the autopsy on Halliday.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘Twice in twenty-four hours – that’s pretty good going.’
‘John MacBean’s death is now officially accidental,’ said Shannon sardonically. ‘The post-mortem confirmed it – and that he’d a gutful of beer. That’s what brought the sergeant over, to tell us.’
‘We’ll still need a fatal-accident inquiry before a sheriff,’ reminded Fraser quickly. ‘But that’s a formality now.’
‘Like it was with Helen Grant?’ asked Carrick, unable to stop himself.
Fraser glared at him then turned deliberately to Shannon. ‘You’re sailing, Captain, so I won’t hold you back,’ he said grimly. ‘MacBean’s body is being released today, they’re planning the funeral here tomorrow afternoon – and I’d like it if you’d tell Rother’s sharkers to stay away. For their own sake.’
Nodding curtly, he strode off. An odd rumbling noise came from Shannon’s throat and he combed a hand over his beard.
‘Mister …’ He changed his mind. ‘Oh, never mind. Get Clapper Bell back aboard, all hands stand ready to clear harbour. We’re going out.’
‘Sir?’
‘We may have a man dead, but Department still say we should be working,’ grated Shannon. ‘That damned oil-slick has turned up again.’ He flicked a finger at the chart in front of him. ‘Here, on the fifty-fathom line north of Oigh Sgeir lighthouse, and the keepers are tracking it.’
Carrick raised an eyebrow. The slick had moved a long way since the last report. But he could think of better things to do than go chasing it.
‘Taken root, mister?’ asked Shannon heavily. ‘Or do you want it in writing?’
‘No, sir.’ He spoke to empty air. Shannon had already left. Carrick shrugged and reached for the intercom phone.
Marlin slipped away from the pier at 0950 hours, swung on a west-south-west course once she’d cleared Camsha Bay, and built up quickly to full speed. With her shallow draught that meant tossing and rolling as she bored through the lumping seas which drenched along her decks. At her stern, the Fishery ensign snapped and flapped in the wind while her radio aerial lines sang a thin protest over the roar of the diesels.
As always, the vibrating power had a quickly soothing effect on Shannon. He was sipping coffee in the command chair and telling the beginnings of a story from the ‘Bishop and the Duchess’ seam when the slim white finger of Oigh Sgeir light appeared ahead. At the same time as the radio room patched through the crackling voice of the head lighthouse keeper the starboard look-out spotted the slick.
‘Tell him we’ve got it,’ ordered Shannon, setting aside his cup. ‘All right, mister. Let’s see if those damned hose-booms fall off this time.’
Grinning, Carrick passed the word on the bridge intercom. By the time they’d swung round to circle the slick the hose-booms were out, like two giant broomsticks, and Jumbo Wills was standing by over his charges.
It was a small slick, roughly a quarter-mile long, but narrow, a dirty blue-black ribbon on the grey sea with fragmented flotsam and a few dead seabirds trapped in its sticky grip. Occasionally a wave which wouldn’t be smothered by its presence broke through, throwing congealed lumps of semi-solid into the air.
Breaking it up took about an hour and a half. First they came in close and used a sampling can on a line. That was for later, when Department chemists would analyse the sample and try to trace its origin. If the ship concerned could be traced the owners were liable to find themselves on the heavy end of considerable penalties.
Then it was the turn of the hose-booms. Keeping the slick to leeward, Marlin swept systematically up and down its length with the detergent sprays operating. Gradually the slick lost its form and shape and began to lump, disintegrate, and gradually sink.
At last Shannon was satisfied. The hose-booms secured, Marlin’s siren blew a farewell blast as they swung away from the lighthouse, and Carrick had a dog-leg course ready which would take them back to Portcoig.
Pettigrew changed that within minutes when he brought along another message from the radio room. One glance at it and Shannon stiffened in his command chair.
‘Starboard helm, bring her round to 035 degrees,’ he ordered sharply. ‘Full power.’
As the helmsman brought the Fishery cruiser curving on her new course and the engine-room telegraph clanged, Shannon crumpled the radio message into a tight ball and turned to Carric
k.
‘Rother again, mister. There’s a Mallaig skipper on the air howling that the Seapearl is trying to sink him. Then some jabber about nets and sharks.’ He threw the crumpled paper across the bridge and scowled. ‘God knows what’s going on, but we’ll get there and knock their heads together.’
The sky had cleared and the sun was breaking through, highlighting the scene, when they saw the two boats almost dead ahead. Using the bridge glasses, Carrick whistled softly between his teeth.
Seapearl and a big, yellow-hulled drifter were stationary in the water, rolling in the swell with less than a stone’s-throw distance between them. Figures were running about on both boats – and the shark-catcher’s harpoon gun was pointed squarely at the drifter’s wheelhouse!
Behind him, Shannon had seen it too. The little hunched figure in the command chair swore crudely.
‘Let them know we’re here, mister,’ he ordered. ‘Then muster a boarding party. We’re going to need it.’
White wake foaming astern, Marlin raced on while her siren boomed a warning. The reaction on the two boats was identical: a momentary pause while the figures on deck turned to stare, then renewed activity. As the distance closed Carrick could see a steady rain of missiles going in both directions, from chunks of wood to tin cans. The harpoon gun on the sharkcatcher stayed trained as before, with Yogi Dunlop’s bulky shape crouching for shelter behind its mounting.
‘Boats approaching to port, sir,’ reported one of the lookouts.
Shannon checked and grunted. Rother’s two sister shark-catchers were plugging in the direction of the mêlée, still about a mile distant but coming on as fast as they could. He looked at the scene ahead then suddenly chuckled into his beard.
‘Get those hose-booms out again, mister,’ he ordered. ‘Keep them at a forty-five-degree lift. Helmsman, fancy playing thread the needle?’
The helmsman blinked then grinned his understanding and nursed the wheel round a fraction.
‘Maintain speed, sir?’ queried Carrick in a deadpan voice, reaching for the intercom phone.
‘Maintain speed,’ confirmed Shannon. ‘Stand by detergent sprays. Tell them to jump to it, mister.’
The hose-booms were angled out and ready when the distance was down to less than a cable’s length. Marlin’s siren boomed again, but the battle ahead showed no sign of slacking.
‘In we go then,’ said Shannon softly, sliding down from his chair and balancing beside the helmsman. ‘Watch our paintwork, laddie. Mr Carrick, sprays ready?’
‘Standing by,’ confirmed Carrick, the intercom at his lips.
With little more than two hundred yards to go the fishermen ahead suddenly seemed to realize what was happening. The hail of missiles between the two boats died and faces stared open-mouthed at the Fishery cruiser’s apparent head-on rush.
‘Ease to starboard … back … that’s it,’ encouraged Shannon, eyes glued ahead. ‘Now damp them down, mister!’
‘Sprays on,’ ordered Carrick.
Detergent jetting from her angled booms, Marlin cut through between the two fishing boats with the gap on either side so narrow it seemed a man could have jumped across. As the detergent swept its path the fishermen scattered for cover, throwing up their hands to protect themselves, slipping and falling, shouting curses while Marlin rocketed through. Then her churning wake hit the smaller craft like a hammer-blow, throwing them around like corks in a bathtub and leaving their shattered crews clinging to any support they could find.
‘Reduce speed to half ahead,’ ordered Shannon happily. He slapped the helmsman on the back as the telegraph rang. ‘Nicely done, laddie. Bring her round.’
Engine revolutions falling, Marlin began a wide circle in answer to her helm. Both boats were wallowing in the continuing swell, all signs of fight gone from the figures still staggering on their detergentsoaked decks.
‘Secure hose-booms, sir?’ asked Carrick, feeling fairly shattered himself. One slip of judgement on Shannon’s part and the result could have been disaster.
‘Secure booms,’ confirmed Shannon, grinning. ‘Mister, I want both skippers brought aboard as soon as we’re alongside.’ The grin faded. ‘Then we’ll sort this little lot out, believe me.’
Chapter Five
Five minutes and a few loud-hailer exchanges later the two feuding boats were tied up one on either side of Marlin, fenders rubbing against the Fishery cruiser’s sides as they rolled with the swell. Beefy and red-faced, the skipper of the Mallaig drifter was first to climb aboard. He reached the fo’c’sle deck and stood belligerently, still drenched from head to foot in detergent spray. Then, as Dave Rother clambered over the starboard side and crossed the deck, the Mallaig man gave a deep-throated growl and seemed ready to start things all over again.
‘Cool it,’ said Carrick wearily, planting himself firmly between the two antagonists. ‘You’re in enough trouble and the Old Man’s on his way.’
Rother shrugged, unimpressed. But the drifter skipper subsided a little, muttering to himself. Glancing past them, Carrick wryly noted the support both men had waiting on the sidelines. Rother’s two sister shark-boats were hovering about two cable lengths astern. Over on the port side other company was arriving in the shape of a cluster of assorted seine-netters and line-boats, keeping their distance but hungry to know what was going on.
‘Base radioed me one of your men is dead,’ said Rother suddenly. He grimaced. ‘Hell, you don’t really think it could have been young Benson, do you?’
‘We’ll maybe know when we find him,’ said Carrick grimly, then eased back a fraction as Captain Shannon stumped along the deck towards them.
‘You,’ said Shannon curtly, pointing to the Mallaig man and ignoring Rother. ‘Who are you and what started this piece of idiocy?’
‘Name of Craig, skipper of the drifter Moonchild,’ snarled the Mallaig man. ‘Captain, let’s see Fishery Protection earn its keep. This bloody maniac tried to ram us.’
‘Ask him why,’ suggested Rother coldly.
Shannon glanced at him briefly, then swung back to Skipper Craig. ‘Well?’
Craig licked his lips a fraction and looked uncomfortable. ‘Ach, one of his damned shark-markers got tangled in our nets. We were cutting it loose that’s all.’
‘Was it?’ demanded Shannon.
‘There happened to be thirty feet of dead shark on the end of the thing,’ answered Rother dryly, tucking his thumbs in the waistband of his slacks.
‘It has still fouled our nets, damn you,’ rasped the Mallaig man, his face getting redder. ‘Should I lose a whole set o’ gear over one o’ your sharks?’
‘Anything more to it, Dave?’ asked Carrick neutrally.
‘A lot.’ Rother nodded and stood silent for a moment while the rope fenders creaked on either side. ‘Look, you know how we work. We nail a shark, hitch a flag-buoy marker on our end of the harpoon line, leave it, and start hunting again. Either we collect on the way back and tow in a string of the brutes or we radio another of the boats to do the job.’ He gave a bitter glance at the drifter skipper. ‘Except lately all we’ve come back to is a drifting buoy and a cut line … and this time we caught someone at it.’
‘An’ I’ve told you why,’ bellowed Skipper Craig indignantly. ‘Don’t blame me for the rest, Rother. If folk aroun’ the islands wish your guts would rot out that’s not my doing.’ Turning, he spread his hands appealingly to Shannon. ‘Captain, the man’s a bloody lunatic. Before he tried to ram us he fired on us wi’ that damned gun. Suppose he’d hit us?’
‘All right,’ rasped Shannon impatiently. ‘Rother, your turn. Did that happen?’
‘Two practice harpoon sticks and Yogi aimed wide.’ Rother grinned slightly. ‘If he’d wanted, he could have planted the real thing right up this idiot’s fat …’
‘That’s enough.’ Shannon glanced away and cleared his throat quickly.
‘What happened to your nets, Skipper?’ asked Carrick, stifling a grin.
‘We cut them
an’ ran.’ Skipper Craig shuffled his feet and looked sheepish. ‘They’re back there somewhere.’
‘Britain’s maritime glory,’ murmured Rother with a heavy sarcasm.
Shannon grunted and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘Rother, I’m putting your boat under arrest. You’ll return to Portcoig.’ He saw the Mallaig skipper begin to grin and sniffed. ‘No need for you to look so happy. The same applies to you. Mr Carrick …’
‘Sir?’
‘Take a couple of men and take charge on Rother’s boat. I’ll put Pettigrew on the drifter.’
‘What about my gear?’ protested the drifterman.
‘You can pick it up on the way.’ Shannon considered the collection of boats around them. ‘That’s it for now, Mr Carrick. I’ll break up the spectators. You’ll find us back at Portcoig.’
* * *
Their unwelcome Fishery Protection passengers aboard, the lines holding the fishing boats were slipped. As they drew clear Marlin’s diesels quickened and she started off, curving towards the nearest of the hovering flotilla.
‘That’s it, Dave,’ said Carrick wryly, grabbing a stanchion aboard the Seapearl as the Fishery cruiser’s wash sent them lurching deeper in the swell. ‘You heard the man. We go back.’
Balancing beside him, Rother gave a short chuckle which held an amused malice. ‘Then get on with it,’ he invited caustically. ‘Earn your keep – Shannon hasn’t done me any favours.’
Shrugging, Carrick took stock. The half-dozen men of the shark-catcher’s crew were clustered in a scowling group near the wheelhouse. He’d brought Clapper Bell and a rating named Logan, a quietly dependable hand who’d once been a fisherman.
‘Take the helm,’ he told Logan. As the man edged past into the wheelhouse Carrick turned to the muttering group. ‘Break it up. Some of you get a hose working. I want that detergent shifted before it settles.’
They didn’t react for a moment. Then one cleared his throat and spat carefully over the side.