by Bill Knox
‘And that’s what I’d better do,’ admitted Carrick wryly.
They went back to the Austin and got aboard. Another police car was arriving as they drove away.
For most of the distance back to Portcoig the road was empty of traffic. They passed the Broomfire Distillery, closed and in darkness, then, as if in answer to Inspector Rankin’s prophecy, a light drizzle of rain began to fall.
Still making indignant noises behind the wheel, Sheila Francis switched on the wipers. Carrick said little until the first lights of Portcoig appeared ahead. But there was one question on his mind and at last he asked it.
‘How many people would know about that beach, Sheila?’
‘Not many.’ She shrugged. ‘Most of them would be locals, I suppose.’
‘What about Dave Rother?’
She kept her eyes on the road but her fingers tightened lightly on the wheel.
‘Sheila?’ Carrick waited.
‘He knows,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘I told him about it. But – well, that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Not on its own.’ Carrick tried to sound convincing. But there were times when the sharkman could be his own worst enemy and this was certainly shaping up to be one of them.
‘There’s Harry Graham,’ declared Sheila suddenly. ‘Or even Fergie Lucas … or it could be someone else, someone you don’t even know exists.’
Carrick nodded, but didn’t answer. She looked at him again, sighed, and concentrated on driving.
Located at the east end of Portcoig’s main street, the district nursing post was a small, neat cottage which served as living quarters and a treatment centre. Carrick waited till Sheila was in the cottage and the door had closed then walked slowly through the village towards the pier. The wind was rising and dark clouds overhead threatened more rain on the way. By the time he reached Marlin he was glad of the oily warmth which was waiting aboard and the hot, steaming coffee one of the duty ratings brought from the galley.
He found Jumbo Wills on the bridge deck with Clapper Bell. When they saw him coming they both looked relieved.
‘Webb, we’ve a small problem,’ said Wills sceptically. ‘Clapper thinks we’ve had a prowler aboard.’
‘I’m certain o’ it, sir.’ The bo’sun glanced scathingly at the second mate. ‘Though some people think it’s just a case o’ too much beer.’
‘What happened?’ asked Carrick with a sigh.
Bell shrugged. ‘I came back early – some o’ the lads were talking about having a poker game. But they weren’t around so I came up on deck for a smoke. An’ I’m damned sure I saw someone in the water, swimmin’ away from us towards the shore. It was just for a couple o’ seconds, but he was there.’
Wills shook his head. ‘Nobody else saw anything. Maybe it was a seal, Clapper.’
‘A seal?’ The bo’sun gave him the kind of glare he usually reserved for unpolished brasswork.
‘Checked, Jumbo?’ asked Carrick quietly.
‘All I can,’ shrugged Wills.
‘Then leave it for now. Benson’s been found.’ He gave them a quick outline then glanced around. ‘Where’s Pettigrew?’
‘Still ashore.’ Wills moistened his lips. ‘Look, if Benson was murdered then – well, who killed Gibby Halliday?’
‘First correct answer wins a prize,’ grunted Clapper Bell bitterly. ‘Any orders for us, sir?’
‘Not yet. Maybe when the Old Man gets back. But you’d better make certain most of the crew stay on watch till we know.’
Wills nodded. Scratching his chest, Clapper Bell looked out at the night.
‘Bloody seals,’ he muttered indignantly then lumbered away.
Midnight came round, bringing the last of the Fishery cruiser’s shore-leave men straggling back from the village. Pettigrew was with them and Carrick stopped him as he made a bee-line course towards his cabin.
‘Not tonight,’ said Carrick shortly. ‘You can get your head down later.’ He considered the junior second with interest. ‘Where were you anyway?’
‘Making a … a social call.’ Pettigrew gave an embarrassed scowl. There was liquor on his breath and his usually grey face reddened. ‘Mind your own damned business.’
‘All right.’ Suddenly understanding, Carrick found it hard not to grin. ‘But be careful – Maggie MacKenzie could eat you for breakfast.’
Pettigrew spluttered indignantly, the red flush spreading. Then he took another look around, the fact gradually registering that there were more of the crew around than usual. A sound like a groan came from his lips.
‘Are we going out?’ he asked wearily.
‘No, but I’d be on my feet when the Old Man arrives,’ advised Carrick. He told him why and Pettigrew swallowed on a yawn.
‘Oh God,’ said the junior second sourly. ‘That’s all we needed.’
For once, Carrick had to agree with him.
Captain Shannon returned at 1 a.m., bringing Detective Inspector Rankin and a subdued-looking Sergeant Fraser with him. Summoned to join them, Carrick found the three men standing in a grim-faced semicircle in Shannon’s cabin.
‘Close the door,’ said Shannon heavily. ‘Rankin, you’d better bring him up to date.’
Bald head gleaming in the cabin lights, the detective nodded.
‘There still isn’t much more, Chief Officer,’ he admitted with a grimace. ‘Our police surgeon won’t be pinned down on what really matters, time of death. His guess is within an hour or so of midnight last night, either way. But try to squeeze it tighter and he just throws his hands up.’
‘Mind you, the man’s trying,’ murmured Sergeant Fraser from the background. ‘There’s always the same trouble wi’ a body found in the open. The overnight temperatures make a mess o’ their calculations.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten, Sergeant,’ said Rankin sardonically. ‘Mind if I go on?’
Fraser cleared his throat hastily and looked down at his feet.
‘Right,’ said Rankin heavily. ‘So the situation is that Benson could have been alive – or dead – at any time that matters last night. Then, somewhere, someone blasts him off that motor-cycle with a load of buckshot at close range.’ He saw Carrick’s questioning expression and nodded. ‘The spread of shot tells us that much. And it was effective enough – the medical reckoning is he’d be dead before he hit the ground.’
‘After which someone picked him up, added the motor-cycle, and drove to the cottage,’ grunted Shannon. ‘What’s your chances there?’
‘Damned few.’ Rankin shoved his hands deep in his pockets and scowled. ‘The wheel-marks back there were too faint to do more than tell us they were made by a car or light truck – even on wheelbase calculations they won’t take us much further. As for finding a shotgun around here, they’re almost ten a penny. Right, Fraser?’
The sergeant nodded warily. ‘Most folk have one, sir. For game shooting or vermin … I’ve known weans practically cut their teeth on the things.’
‘So there we are.’ Rankin crossed over to the cabin porthole and looked out at the night. ‘Captain, I’d appreciate some help. Can you give me a boat and some men to take me across to that sharking base?’
‘Mister?’ Shannon glanced questioningly at Carrick.
‘We’re on full standby, sir.’ Carrick paused. ‘If you want, I’ll …’
‘Not you, Chief Officer,’ said Rankin softly, turning from the porthole. ‘I’ve too few men available to refuse offers. But you’ve a reputation of being friendly with Rother. I’d prefer you to do something else, if Captain Shannon is willing. I’ve other men going to talk to this character Fergie Lucas and I’m sending Sergeant Fraser to see this distillery manager, Graham. I’d like you to go with Fraser.’ He glanced at Shannon. ‘Agreed, Captain?’
Shannon nodded but seemed puzzled.
‘This car business doesn’t fit with Rother,’ he declared reluctantly. ‘Damn it, he came over from his base by boat last night and went back the same way. That’s positive – we h
ad to sneak him along the pier to the boat when he left.’
‘When he left,’ agreed Rankin, unimpressed. ‘Tell them, Sergeant.’
‘The man has an old Volvo station wagon, Captain,’ explained Fraser cautiously. ‘Sometimes he leaves it in the village, other times over across the bay, handy for the island. He – well, he was seen driving it last night.’
Shannon’s bearded face clouded. ‘When?’
‘Almost an hour before that fishing boat was set on fire,’ said Detective Inspector Rankin. He looked pointedly at Carrick. ‘Sergeant Fraser’s regular patrol car crew were here in case of trouble when the pubs closed. They were on their way back to base when they saw the Volvo pass … which didn’t matter then. But it does now.’
Rankin left minutes later aboard the motor-whaler with Pettigrew, two constables and a dozen of Marlin’s crew as a substantial back-up force. As the boat thrust off into the night, pitching in the heavy swell and quickly vanishing into the darkness and drizzle, Sergeant Fraser glanced almost apologetically at Carrick.
‘Our turn, Chief Officer,’ he said with a touch of reluctance. ‘Ready?’
Carrick did not answer for a moment, still looking out at the night, wondering what kind of reception the motor-whaler’s party would find waiting on Camsha. But at the same time he felt almost glad he wasn’t with them. With a murder charge waiting in the background the task of questioning Dave Rother was one best left to strangers.
‘Ready?’ asked Fraser again.
He nodded, wondering briefly how the sergeant felt about having to handle Graham, then followed the man down Marlin’s gangway to the waiting car.
Like most distillery managers, Harry Graham lived beside his all-important charge. The journey took about fifteen minutes, Fraser driving with a silent, gloomy air and a savage disregard for the brake-linings. But he slowed as their headlights glinted on the Broomfire perimeter fence, then, immediately beyond it, he turned the car down a narrow lane.
The lane led to a small two-storey house which had a light still burning in one of its downstairs windows. Graham’s car lay outside and the policeman coasted to a halt beside it.
Switching off, he glanced at Carrick. ‘Better let me do the most o’ the talking. I won’t say I know how to handle him but – well, he’s more used to me.’
‘He’s your inquiry,’ said Carrick dryly. ‘I’ll listen for a spell.’
They climbed out into the drizzle and started for the house. The path to the front door was through a small front garden carefully netted against rabbits. The porch had an old-fashioned brass door-pull and when Fraser yanked it a bell clanged somewhere inside. After a minute they heard footsteps, light showed round the door edges, then it opened and Harry Graham frowned out. The frown gave way to surprise as he saw his visitors.
‘Something wrong, Sergeant?’
‘Aye. Can we come in?’ asked Fraser.
Graham nodded, beckoned them in, closed the door, and led the way to a small study. It had some old sailing-ship prints on one wall and a work-lamp was burning over the desk, which was scattered with papers.
‘Sit down, both of you.’ Graham saw them settled then took the chair at his desk and eased it round to face them. ‘I was finishing off some forms for tomorrow’s coaster shipment, otherwise you’d have had to get me out of bed. What’s the trouble, Sergeant?’
‘That lad Benson has been found.’ Fraser carefully balanced his cap on one knee. ‘He was dead – shot in the head.’
Graham’s thin face twitched. ‘Suicide?’
Silently, Fraser shook his head.
‘So you came here.’ The distillery manager took it calmly but his lips pursed for a moment. ‘Why?’
‘I was sent,’ said Fraser woodenly. ‘You’re not the only one on the list.’
‘But I’m on it.’ Reaching along the desk, Graham opened a drawer and brought out a small, framed photograph. He handed it to Carrick. It was a studio portrait of a young, fair-haired girl. She’d been trying to appear serious but the mouth looked very close to laughter. ‘You didn’t know my niece, Carrick. That’s a good likeness. You’d agree, Sergeant?’
Fraser nodded. Quietly, Carrick gave him back the photograph and it was returned to the drawer.
‘I’ve never killed a man without reason,’ said Graham suddenly. He considered Fraser with a strange crinkle of a smile. ‘You know that, Sergeant.’
‘I know it.’ Fraser moistened his lips. ‘Some people might think you had a reason – or had found one.’
‘No.’ Graham ran a hand over his short, grey hair and waited.
‘Then there’s no reason why you can’t tell us where you were last night,’ murmured Carrick.
‘At the distillery, at Alec MacBean’s house, then at the pier’ – counting the places on his fingers Graham glanced up – ‘where we talked, Chief Officer, remember?’
‘And afterwards?’ probed Carrick softly.
‘Here on my own. I went early to bed.’ Graham’s voice took on an impatient edge. ‘Anything else?’
Slowly, Fraser unbuttoned his tunic pocket and started to bring out his notebook. ‘Some names and times …’
‘I’m damned if I will,’ snapped Graham. ‘If you’ve time to waste, come back tomorrow. But it’s late, I’m tired, and I’ve a full day’s work ahead.’
He got to his feet. Sighing, Fraser quietly fastened his tunic pocket again and started to rise. But Carrick stayed seated, meeting the distillery manager’s glare.
‘Tell me one thing, Graham,’ he said softly. ‘What have you got that’s going to tell you who made Helen go off that pier?’
Graham hesitated.
‘It would do no harm, man,’ said Fraser quietly.
Shrugging slightly, Graham turned back to his desk, opened the same drawer again, and took out an envelope.
‘I’ve got this, Carrick. It may matter some day.’ He shook the envelope and a slim loop of fine, braided cord slipped to the desk and lay under the work-lamp’s beam. A man’s gold signet ring was on one end. Seeing the question in Carrick’s eyes, he nodded. ‘They found it round her neck, afterwards.’
Lifting the necklet, Carrick fingered the flat braiding on the cord, saw it was a complex mixture of reeving bends and sennet knotting, then examined the ring more closely. The signet face was a grinning skull and there were no markings on the underside of the shank.
‘Nothing that helps,’ agreed Graham harshly. Taking the necklet, he pushed it back in the envelope. ‘A jeweller told me a ring like that would be hand-made. I asked him to find out more – he couldn’t.’
‘But you think you can?’
‘I’ve patience for most things,’ retorted Graham. His lips tightened. ‘But not for all. I’ve shown you what you wanted. So now will you leave?’
Nodding, Carrick rose and the man saw them out. As the house door slammed shut behind them, Fraser started to walk back to the car.
‘Sergeant,’ – Carrick put a hand on his arm – ‘you and Graham seem to share a few secrets. Maybe a few too many. How long have you known him?’
The policeman hesitated, then rubbed the thin line of medal ribbons on his tunic. ‘Since I got some of these.’
‘In the army, like Maggie MacKenzie’s husband?’
Fraser nodded and smiled slightly. ‘Graham, MacKenzie and a few others. Our whole unit came from this part o’ the world.’
‘And you all still remember it,’ mused Carrick. ‘Does Inspector Rankin know?’
‘No,’ said Fraser shortly, and started off.
‘So between us we’ve managed to achieve sweet damn all – less, if that’s possible.’ Detective Inspector Rankin, seated at Marlin’s wardroom table, delivered his verdict with a raw sarcasm which wasn’t helped by the way he felt. The swell in the bay had become a broken pattern of lumping, angry waves, the weather was building up, and he still looked green after a plunging return crossing in the motor-whaler. He considered the plate of sandwiches in front of him
with open nausea. ‘Captain, does this damned boat have to roll so much?’
‘My ship …’ – Shannon lingered on the word with a touchy emphasis – ‘my ship is tied up at a pier, well sheltered, and all we’re getting wouldn’t disturb a sleeping child.’
‘Have it your way.’ Rankin pushed the sandwiches away and closed his eyes for a moment.
It was 3 a.m. and the wardroom atmosphere was an equal mixture of weary defeat and tobacco smoke. Standing near the starboard plating, Carrick balanced as the Fishery cruiser heaved again, heard her fenders rub the pier in protest, and saw the detective wince.
They had other company in the wardroom. Pettigrew was munching his way through another pile of sandwiches with noisy relish, Sergeant Fraser sat wrapped in a gloomy silence and a detective sergeant who’d arrived aboard looked almost asleep.
‘I take it Rother wasn’t particularly helpful,’ murmured Shannon with a touch of malice.
‘He made plenty of noise about wanting to cooperate,’ said Rankin savagely. ‘And made a pretty good job of looking surprised. But the rest was a double act with that harpoon gunner of his. They admit they picked up the station wagon over here and drove around looking for Benson.’
‘But didn’t find a trace,’ grunted Pettigrew through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘It’s pretty weak.’
‘Not as weak as our situation,’ rasped Rankin. ‘Anyway, that station wagon is being turned over to the forensic boys.’ He glanced at Fraser with a chill disgust. ‘And the same goes for Graham’s car, first thing in the morning. Nobody can carry a motor-cycle and a dead body around without some trace being left.’
‘Graham’s car doesn’t look big enough to cope with that kind of load,’ mused Carrick, fighting back a yawn and not quite succeeding. ‘What about Fergie Lucas?’
‘He’s been seen – and MacBean for good measure,’ answered Rankin with unconcealed irritation. He pointed to the detective sergeant. ‘Tell them.’