Stormtide

by Bill Knox

  The man grimaced wryly. ‘They’re another double act. They say they were at the pier most of the night and they give plenty of names to back it up.’

  ‘Sometimes MacBean uses one o’ the distillery vans,’ mused Sergeant Fraser.

  ‘Then we’ll check it like the rest.’ Rankin winced as Marlin gave another roll and crockery clattered in the steward’s pantry. Then, pale-faced, he got quickly to his feet. ‘Let’s leave it there for tonight, Captain. I – well, I’ve things to do ashore.’

  Shannon nodded. ‘And in the morning?’

  Already heading for the door, Rankin stopped reluctantly. ‘I don’t know yet. I’ve got a car laid on to take Rother to Broadford Hospital – someone has to make a formal identification of Benson’s body, and he might as well do it. I’ll wait for him there.’

  He went out quickly, the detective sergeant and Fraser following with mumbled good-nights.

  Rubbing a tired hand across his beard, Captain Shannon watched them go then nodded to Pettigrew.

  ‘You’re off watch, mister. Webb, stay a minute.’

  Pettigrew needed no second invitation and headed for his cabin. Waiting, Carrick eyed Marlin’s commander cautiously. When Shannon used first names, which wasn’t often, it could sometimes mean trouble.

  Bringing out his cigarettes, Shannon passed one over, took another himself, then accepted a light.

  ‘You know Clapper Bell thought he saw a prowler aboard?’ he asked suddenly.

  Carrick nodded.

  ‘I got the report from young Wills.’ Shannon took a long, thoughtful draw on his cigarette. ‘Then I saw Bell and told him to make a quiet check around. So far, you’re the only other person aboard who knows that part.’

  ‘Sir?’ Carrick waited.

  ‘Bell knew no one particularly believed him, so he was thorough.’ Shannon’s voice took on a note of tightly suppressed fury. ‘One of the main power cable boxes on the bridge had been sabotaged. Everything would have been fine till we’d tried to leave this pier – then half the electrical circuits aboard would have blown and left us helpless.’

  Carrick moistened his lips. ‘You didn’t tell Rankin.’ He made it statement and question.

  ‘No.’ Shannon smiled grimly. ‘Mister, someone out there doesn’t like us. Or doesn’t want us to be able to sail in a hurry. I’d rather wait, say nothing and find out why.’ He glanced at his wrist-watch and his expression changed. ‘Well, now you know why if you find Bell going around with a self-righteous air. Just one other thing – I’ll be ashore with the chief engineer for a spell in the morning.’

  ‘Gibby Halliday?’ asked Carrick.

  Shannon nodded. ‘Too many people seem to have forgotten him. But his wife arrives tomorrow, to take the body back for a family funeral. We – well, somebody has to be there.’

  He stubbed his cigarette with a slow, weary deliberation, rose, and shrugged.

  ‘Get some sleep, mister. You’re liable to need it.’

  Chapter Seven

  The coaster Lady Jane began loading whisky again at 8 a.m., the racket as her winches spluttered to life crashing through Carrick’s sleep and forcing him cursing from his bunk. Dressed and shaved, he ate a solitary breakfast in the wardroom then went out on deck.

  The bay was a grey, greasy swell and there were layers of matching heavy cloud overhead. Along the pier, the coaster’s winches rumbled again and more casks swung from the truck beside her. Then, as the sound faded for a moment, he heard a chuckle and turned. Clapper Bell was grinning down at him from the searchlight platform.

  ‘Come on up,’ invited Bell, sheltering a cigarette from the wind in one cupped hand. ‘There’s not much to see, sir. But at least you look down on it.’

  Gloomily, Carrick climbed the ladder and joined him on the platform. Beyond the coaster, both sides of the pier were filled with fishing boats of all types and sizes, boats which heaved fitfully as the waves slapped their hulls.

  ‘Heard the weather forecast?’ asked Bell cheerfully. ‘The met. boys say the whole coast is in for a right belting.’

  The tied-up fishing boats made it certain. Whether they judged by the twinge of some sensitive corn, by hunks of dried seaweed or by the sheer ‘smell’ of the water, most fishing skippers seemed to possess a weather sense which ran well ahead of barometers.

  The bo’sun yawned. ‘Not that it matters much to us,’ he declared. ‘Hell, we look like bein’ stuck here till the backside rusts off the old girl.’ Taking a draw on his cigarette, he finished casually, ‘I saw the Old Man when he left this morning wi’ Andy Shaw. He said he’d talked to you about – uh – that seal I saw.’

  ‘The one that fixed our bridge electrics?’ Carrick nodded wryly. ‘Some seals are pretty clever that way.’

  Bell grinned. ‘This one used enough copper wire for a knittin’ pattern.’ The Lady Jane’s winches rasped again and he glanced along then smacked his lips. ‘That’s a lot o’ good liquor they’re loading.’

  Carrick didn’t answer. He was frowning at one of the boats moored further along. It was the Heather Bee, though her salvage anchorage off Moorach Island should have given ample shelter from most storms.

  ‘Some o’ them will be in for John MacBean’s funeral,’ said Clapper Bell as if reading his mind. ‘Never known a fisherman miss a good funeral – they should be bringin’ that whisky ashore, not shipping it out.’

  Absently, Carrick nodded then reached for a length of light line tied to the platform rail. Freeing the line, he borrowed Bell’s diving knife, chopped a length off, then worked on it with care for a couple of minutes.

  ‘Ever seen anything like this before?’ he asked, showing Bell the result. It was as near as he could get to the strange braiding on the necklet kept in Harry Graham’s desk.

  ‘Somewhere.’ The bo’sun’s rough-hewn face scowled in concentration. ‘It’s fancy – a kind o’ sennet knotting. I’ve seen it before, but not on any ship.’

  ‘Then where?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Bell shook his head. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It might.’ Shrugging, Carrick put the braided line in his pocket and left.

  Jumbo Wills and Pettigrew were in the chartroom looking bored. He told Wills to stay close to the radio room, set Pettigrew unwillingly to work on morning rounds, then went ashore with a personal sense of frustration. As Clapper Bell had said, Marlin was just sitting there. The police might be busy but Fishery Protection’s role seemed to amount to waiting without really knowing why.

  ‘Webb … Webb Carrick.’ Maggie MacKenzie’s voice suddenly hailed him as he neared the village end of the pier. The grey-haired ferrywoman abandoned her conversation with a couple of fishermen and came over. ‘I was going to come looking for you.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘The Benson lad – it’s all over the village that he was found murdered.’ She looked worried, her hands deep in the pockets of the anorak she wore over her usual sweater and slacks outfit. ‘I wanted to say I did see him like I told you that night.’

  ‘Nobody says different, Maggie,’ Carrick assured her.

  ‘But it maybe matters a lot more now.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Not that any of the folk here are likely to admit they were wrong about anything. They’re saying Dave Rother must have killed him, to keep the lad’s mouth shut about something.’

  ‘What’s your own idea, Maggie?’ he asked quietly.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve none. I only know that Sergeant Fraser is prowling around like a frustrated bull. But – well, there is something else. When you asked me the first time about Helen Grant I said Fergie Lucas had been away at sea …’

  ‘Six months, on the Australia run.’

  ‘That’s what he told people.’ She hesitated, the wind ruffling her grey hair. ‘One of the Mallaig boats has an extra hand aboard, a Glasgow man. He doesn’t know Fergie but he’s sure he saw him in Glasgow a few months ago.’

  ‘You mean when he should have been at sea?’ asked Carrick sharply.


  She nodded. ‘He says there was a fight in a bar near the docks. Fergie and a big Dutchman – and that Fergie got out just ahead of the police.’

  ‘When did you find out?’

  ‘Five minutes ago.’ She glanced back at the fishermen who were waiting. ‘The man’s over there. You can ask him yourself if you want.’

  Carrick considered for a moment then shook his head. ‘We can check if Lucas did ship out. But if he didn’t, Graham’s niece was at university in Glasgow …’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’ She pursed her lips. ‘But I’ll stay quiet about it.’

  ‘Do that, Maggie. Anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s all.’ Relieved it was over, she glanced at her wrist-watch. ‘I’d better go. I’ve a ferry run due.’

  ‘All right.’ He smiled at her. ‘And thanks, Maggie. How did you make out with Pettigrew last night?’

  ‘Him?’ She brightened and sniffed derisively. ‘The creature fell asleep in my best chair, damn him. The world’s running short of real men – ones my age, at any rate.’

  Leaving him, Maggie MacKenzie went back towards the fishermen. Carrick hesitated, thinking over what she’d said, then went on towards the village.

  Portcoig certainly knew about Peter Benson. He could sense it in the way small knots of people talking outside the few shops broke off their conversation and carefully avoided looking at him as he passed. The heavy, storm-threatening clouds above only added to the air of tension.

  The village was uncertain what might happen next. But it sensed more trouble was still to come.

  When he reached the district nursing post Sergeant Fraser’s car was parked outside, empty. The cottage door was lying half-open, he could hear Fraser’s voice rumbling inside, and he went in.

  He found them in the back room Sheila used as a dispensary. The policeman was hunched gloomily in a chair and Sheila was perched on the edge of a small desk opposite him. She was in uniform and looked angry.

  ‘Do I go out and come back again?’ asked Carrick mildly.

  ‘No, I’m going,’ declared Fraser, rising with a sigh. ‘I was only trying to do my job.’

  ‘Then try digging for muck somewhere else, Sergeant,’ she told him curtly.

  Flushing, Fraser started for the door. Carrick stopped him.

  ‘Anything new so far?’

  ‘Ask Inspector Rankin when he gets back,’ suggested Fraser unhappily. ‘I’m just doing his damned leg-work – I don’t get told why.’

  He went out. A moment later they heard his car start up and drive away.

  ‘Exactly what was that all about?’ asked Carrick, puzzled.

  ‘Dave – that man Rother, as our sergeant calls him.’ Sheila moved busily around the room, still angry, packing equipment into her nursing bag. ‘I should be out on calls by now.’

  ‘Slow down.’ Amused, he caught her by the arm as she went past. ‘What about Dave?’

  ‘He wanted to know how I’d describe what he called our “relationship”.’

  Carrick chuckled. ‘Was that all?’

  ‘All?’ The air almost crackled around her. ‘You didn’t hear the questions!’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said easily. ‘Fraser looked ready to curl up and hide – he didn’t like it either. Anyway, it’s my turn now.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

  ‘Tell me where Fergie Lucas lives when he’s ashore.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe I want to send him a postcard,’ he told her, then grinned. ‘Cool down. I want to check out an idea, that’s all.’

  Sighing, she crossed to a filing cabinet, fingered through some folders, then looked up. ‘Lucas, F., 6 Glenside – that’s a row of old cottages off the bay road. They should have been pulled down years ago.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Going over, he kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘One other thing …’

  ‘Well?’ Sheila said it with a resigned sigh.

  ‘Exactly how would you describe our relationship, nurse?’

  He got out quickly as a heavy, well-aimed book just missed his head.

  He passed Alec MacBean on the way back to the pier. In a dark Sunday suit, white shirt and black tie, MacBean emerged from a shop doorway still pushing a pack of cigarettes into one pocket. Their eyes met, MacBean gave a stony-faced flicker of recognition, and then the man strode off in the opposite direction.

  At the pier, the wind was gusting a fine damp spray across the wooden boards and an emptied whisky truck which drove away had its wipers going to clear the fine coating of salt from its windshield. Aboard Marlin he found a few ratings working unenthusiastically at cleaning ship and Clapper Bell passing the time by resplicing the end of a throwing line.

  ‘The radio’s quiet,’ commented Jumbo Wills sadly. ‘At least, we’re being ignored. Skua’s chasing a French trawler off Stornaway and Department are trying to raise a boat to cope with some Irishmen near the Clyde. But nothing for us.’

  Carrick shrugged and glanced over towards Camsha Island, where the three shark-boats were small shapes tied in line near the slipway.

  ‘Any sign of Dave Rother?’

  Wills nodded. ‘He came over by launch just after you left. There was a police car waiting for him.’ He glanced at his watch and grimaced. ‘Maybe we’ll hear something when the Old Man gets back.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Carrick vaguely, thinking over his own plans.

  Leaving Wills, he went, found Clapper Bell, and talked to him quietly for a few minutes. At first Bell grinned. Then he looked doubtful, rubbing a hairy paw along his chin. But at the finish the bo’sun grinned again and went off whistling towards his storeroom den aft knowing exactly what was wanted.

  After that, it came down to waiting. The weather stayed grey and gusty with Maggie MacKenzie’s little ferry launch almost the only boat moving, bobbing and tossing its way out and back across the bay on a variety of missions.

  The noon weather forecast was coming in when Captain Shannon returned with Andy Shaw. They drove up in a grey Fisheries Department car, climbed out at the gangway, and the chief engineer came straight aboard then went below as it drove off.

  Shannon walked along the pier instead. Several minutes passed before he came aboard, and he beckoned Carrick to follow him. They went to Shannon’s day-cabin, where he went immediately to the corner locker, took out a bottle, and poured himself a stiff measure of whisky.

  ‘Thank heaven that’s over,’ he said with a note of weary relief, taking a long gulp from the glass. ‘Help yourself, mister.’

  Carrick did, then asked, ‘How was Gibby Halliday’s wife?’

  ‘Quiet, too quiet.’ Shannon shook his head. ‘She’s just an ordinary little woman, nice, plain – probably still trying to get hold of the fact he’s dead.’ He took another swallow from his drink then settled heavily in a chair. ‘Anything happened here?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ answered Carrick and hoped he sounded convincing. ‘The noon forecast is in – there’s a westerly gale building up. But things have been quiet. Did you see Inspector Rankin?’

  Shannon grunted expressively. ‘Briefly. He says inquiries are continuing, which means they’re getting nowhere.’ He finished the drink and considered the empty glass with a scowl. ‘I met Harry Graham along the pier just now. At least he’s looking happy. The Lady Jane has finished loading, on schedule.’

  ‘Before MacBean’s funeral,’ mused Carrick. ‘That’s how he wanted it.’

  ‘He told me.’ Shannon gave a cynically amused sniff. ‘Not that he’s taking any chance of her crew getting involved in the tears and sympathy boozing afterwards. The Lady Jane will be moving out soon, then anchoring in the bay till she sails at midnight. They may have enough liquor aboard to fill a swimming pool, but if they want a drink they’ll have to swim back for it.’

  ‘He’s a hard man,’ grinned Carrick. ‘But why keep her there till midnight? The forecast …’

  ‘He’s more concerned she catch
es the tide at her next call.’ Shannon found a few drops in the bottom of his glass, and sent them after the rest. ‘Graham’s idea of bedside reading is probably his company balance sheet. He’s trying much the same thing with that seine-netter he hired to salvage the Harvest Lass. As soon as John MacBean gets his earth shovelled on she’s supposed to go back to work.’

  ‘Will you go?’ asked Carrick.

  ‘No,’ said Shannon bleakly. ‘I’ve had enough for one day. You can, if you want.’

  Carrick shook his head. It was the last thing he had in mind.

  The Lady Jane eased away from her berth at 1.30 p.m. and dropped anchor about a quarter mile out in the bay, rolling sluggishly in the lumping swell. Minutes later, as if her departure had been a signal, little groups of fishermen, all soberly dressed and without a jersey or seaboot in sight, began moving along the pier from their boats towards the village where other figures were gathering.

  It was sheer bad luck that the police car returning Dave Rother dropped him at the pier gates at almost the same time. He came grim-faced along the pier on his own, met curses from the first group he passed, then slowed as the next approached and he saw Fergie Lucas at its head.

  Viewing it all from Marlin’s deck, guessing what was going to happen, Carrick quickly left the Fishery cruiser and went towards them with Clapper Bell at his heels. But by then Fergie Lucas was blocking Rother’s path. Suddenly, two fishermen grabbed Rother by the arms and Lucas slammed his right fist twice into Rother’s stomach.

  Lucas’ fist was coming back for a third time when Carrick arrived. Knocking the man’s arm aside, Carrick pistoned the flat of his left hand hard into that grinning face. Swearing, Lucas staggered back while the men still holding Rother hesitated.

  ‘Shove off,’ rasped Clapper Bell, towering over them. ‘Move, you maggots.’

  They let Rother go and edged away. Lucas stayed where he was, muttering under his breath, right hand straying under his jacket flap and fingering the hilt of the sheathed gutting knife at his hip.

  ‘Don’t be a damned fool,’ said Carrick softly, poised ready. ‘The odds are wrong.’