Stormtide

by Bill Knox

  Fraser nodded but hesitated. ‘Suppose they’ve drifted outside the bay … ?’

  ‘Then, if they’re in that eggshell, God help them,’ snarled Shannon. ‘Move, man.’

  Nodding, Fraser spun on his heel and hurried down the companionway ladder. As he crossed the gangway Marlin’s crew were already scrambling to their stations and her diesel exhaust had begun to quicken.

  Searchlights blazing, searing white magnesium flares bursting high above her at regular intervals, the Fishery cruiser combed her way round the bay with every look-out available pitting his eyes against the blustering, spray-lashed night.

  Behind her, smaller lights were soon bobbing and twinkling in the darkness as the first of the Portcoig boats joined in the hunt. Hunched in the command chair, one ear tuned to the growing chatter coming from the VHF receiver, Captain Shannon stayed impassive as he gave an occasional curt order. His task was to employ Marlin’s potential in the best possible way. The rest he left to the oilskin-clad men being drenched on the bridge wings.

  But as time went on he spared a grimly understanding glance at the two scuba-suited figures waiting at his side. Carrick and Clapper Bell had line harnesses clipped ready round their waists. If and when there was a sighting their turn would come.

  ‘The MacKenzie woman knows her business,’ said Shannon gruffly. ‘Whatever’s happened, the odds are she’ll be coping.’

  Carrick nodded silently then grabbed the radar mounting for balance as Marlin heaved and pitched round on another leg of her search.

  They were halfway towards their next turn when an excited voice crackled from the radio, cutting across the rest of the searchers’ chatter.

  ‘West o’ you, Marlin. We’ve got something. But we’ll need help. Over.’

  ‘Acknowledge, mister,’ snapped Shannon. ‘Ask for a red flare. Then get aft with Bell and wait there.’

  As the red flare curved skywards, astern and near the mouth of the bay, the Fishery cruiser corkscrewed round on full rudder with her deck mats vibrating. Minutes later she reached the spot, close to the barrier of shoal rocks flanking the entrance channel. A small line-boat was heaving in a fury of broken water, her feeble spotlight trained on an upturned red and white hull which almost disappeared in each fresh sea.

  Creeping in cautiously, Marlin brought her search-lights into play, stabbing the night around. Fragments of wreckage tossed here and there. But there was nothing more.

  Waiting aft, Carrick grabbed the deck phone as it buzzed.

  ‘I’ll leave it to you, mister,’ said Shannon’s voice in his ear. ‘It looks bad. But there’s always just the chance …’

  ‘We’ll check,’ said Carrick greyly.

  ‘On your own timing, then.’ Shannon sounded tired.

  Reclipping the handset, Carrick drew a deep breath. There might be an air space under that overturned hull. People had survived that way before. If there wasn’t, then there might be a body.

  Someone had to find out.

  As Marlin edged in closer Carrick checked the safety line round his waist. Then, while Bell did the same, he made sure the deckhands beside them were ready. Nodding to them, he crossed to the rail, waited for the next wave to pass, then launched himself over the side feet first.

  The cold sea met him like a numbing shock as he went under and he came up gasping, the line at his waist tugging slightly as it continued to be paid out from Marlin’s deck. He heard a curse and a splutter in the water beside him as Clapper Bell caught up. But the bo’sun signalled he was intact and they began swimming towards the wallowing hull.

  Waves slammed Carrick’s body and a fang of hidden rock grazed his side, tearing the suit. But he kept on, the safety line still trailing, and at last his hands grabbed the overturned launch and he clung there, breathing hard. Another moment and Bell was there beside him while the launch heaved sluggishly in the white-foamed, spray-drenched night. Easing over, he tapped Bell on the shoulder, signalled he was going down, then let go and duck-dived beneath the hull, feeling blindly as he worked his way along its upside-down decking.

  At last his lungs wouldn’t take any more. Kicking down and out, Carrick surfaced among the waves close to the hull and it was Clapper Bell’s turn. The Glasgow-Irishman’s burly shape went under like a whale and stayed down for a long time. When he finally bobbed up and shook his head, Carrick knew they’d done enough. A double tug on the safety line gave the wash-out signal to Marlin and they began swimming back.

  The search didn’t give up. Another half-hour later Marlin had begun combing outside the bay, leaving the fishing boats to continue their attempts inside its shelter.

  But one boat didn’t seem content to leave it at that. She came plugging out into the heavier swell with a signal lamp blinking furiously from her wheelhouse.

  ‘What the hell does that one want?’ demanded Shannon impatiently, scowling at the lamp through the whirling clear-view screen.

  ‘She’s making “must come aboard”, sir,’ answered the duty petty officer beside the coxswain. He reached for their Aldis lamp. ‘What reply, sir?’

  ‘Damn whoever it is.’ Shannon sucked his lips. ‘All right, acknowledge. Tell her to come in on our lee. Mr Wills, reduce speed to slow ahead, keep steering way.’

  As the Aldis lamp began clicking and the Fishery cruiser’s engines slowed Shannon glanced at Carrick, who was standing near the after companionway with a blanket round his shoulders.

  ‘Mr Carrick …’

  Carrick didn’t hear him. His mind was still back at the overturned launch, the rest a dull feeling of helplessness. For once, Shannon merely shrugged, then reached for the bridge intercom himself and ordered a deck detail to be ready.

  The fishing boat came alongside with fenders out and her engine throttled back. Her skipper skilfully narrowed the gap between the two hulls, the fenders bumped hard and then, as the boat lifted on a wavecrest, two figures waiting on her deck jumped across and were grabbed by Marlin’s deck detail.

  A minute later Sergeant Fraser and Harry Graham were brought up the companionway stairs to the bridge. Fraser, his uniform soaked with spray, was grim-faced. Barely recognizable in an oilskin coat and wool cap, Harry Graham stood beside him with his mouth in a tight-set line.

  ‘Something wrong with your radio?’ asked Shannon wearily.

  ‘No.’ Fraser glanced around. ‘Where can we talk, Captain? It’s important.’

  ‘The chartroom. Take over, Mr Wills.’ Frowning, Shannon slipped down from the command chair, signalled Carrick to come with him, and led the way.

  Four men in the chartroom’s cramped space was a crush, but once they were inside Shannon closed the door.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  Fraser moistened his lips. ‘We couldn’t use the radio, Captain – not for this. The Lady Jane is missing now.’

  ‘The whisky coaster?’ As far as Carrick was concerned it somehow seemed ridiculous. He stared at Fraser. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as we can be.’ Fraser fumbled for his cigarettes. The pack he brought from his pocket was sodden and he tossed it aside. ‘Can I … ?’

  ‘Here.’ Shannon slid his own pack and matches across the table. He was puzzled and showed it. ‘You say you couldn’t radio. Why the devil not?’

  ‘There’s good reason, Captain,’ said Fraser. He took a cigarette, lit it, and drew thankfully on the smoke. ‘Very good reason, believe me.’

  ‘Then spell it out,’ said Shannon bleakly. ‘The weather’s bad, agreed … worse here than inside the bay. But anything the Lady Jane’s size is safe enough.’

  ‘I didn’t say weather, Captain.’ Fraser exchanged a glance with Graham, as if seeking support. ‘All I said was she was missing. That’s – well, for want of a better word.’

  Bewildered, Shannon stared at him. ‘Then explain, damn it.’

  ‘Aye.’ Fraser drew on the cigarette again, as if for comfort. ‘Captain, I sent men searching the shore like you asked. One o’ them found a body ne
wly washed up.’ – he saw Carrick tense and shook his head – ‘No, a man’s body, Chief Officer. A man wi’ his throat cut.’

  ‘John Vasey,’ said Graham in a low voice. ‘He was the Lady Jane’s engineer. That leaves three men – the captain, the mate and a deckhand.’

  ‘And that’s why we didn’t radio,’ said Fraser grimly. ‘That, and because it could explain what’s happened to Maggie MacKenzie.’

  Carrick grabbed him by the arm. ‘What the hell are you trying to say?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ said Graham wearily, pushing the wool cap back on his head. ‘It looks like the Lady Jane has been pirated. And if Maggie and the Francis girl are aboard you can blame me.’

  ‘You’d better know something else straight off,’ added Sergeant Fraser with a bitter edge to his voice. ‘It could be your sharkman friend Rother we’re after.’

  Captain Shannon made a swallowing noise and Fraser almost managed to smile.

  ‘Captain, you may have put his shark-boat under arrest, but she’s not at Camsha Island. As far as we can make out Rother sailed that Seapearl out as soon as it was dark tonight, while you were still busy keeping the Portcoig men off his neck. What’s more, he’s got a crew aboard who might have been hand-picked from the worst o’ that whole Camsha bunch … nine o’ them.’

  ‘I said spell it out,’ rasped Shannon harshly.

  Fraser nodded. ‘First, I finally managed to find out that Maggie had taken the launch over to Malloch Head. The Francis girl had been called out to an old woman wi’ some kind of heart trouble. The launch got there, the woman’s family met them, and the Francis girl gave her some pills. They waited a bit, then left again for Portcoig before eleven o’clock.’

  ‘But Maggie wouldn’t come straight back,’ interrupted Graham. He chewed his lip. ‘She had a package with her, one I wanted taken out to the Lady Jane’s captain – some papers head office need. I took the package to her house just after Nurse Francis had phoned saying she’d need the boat.’ He shrugged unhappily. ‘So Maggie said she’d do the emergency run first then drop the package off on the way back.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Carrick quietly.

  Fraser shook his head. ‘Just that I contacted Harry once the engineer’s body was found. Then suddenly everything seemed to fit.’

  Nobody spoke for a moment while Marlin’s diesels grumbled underfoot and her hull pitched in steady rhythm with the lumping swell.

  At last, Shannon made a noisy business of clearing his throat. ‘You’re saying that Rother – or someone – seized the coaster before she sailed. Then that Maggie MacKenzie arrived alongside to deliver that package …’

  ‘And would know the crew,’ muttered Graham.

  ‘So they would have to hold her, and the Francis girl.’ Shannon nodded agreement. ‘If they sailed the Lady Jane on schedule and dumped Maggie’s launch on the way out of the bay the rest fits all right.’

  Carrick moistened his lips. ‘How much is that load of whisky worth?’

  ‘A lot, Chief Officer.’ Harry Graham rubbed one thin hand against the other and hesitated, calculating. ‘It’s still at 105 degree proof. Broken down to bottling strength, the retail value should be around nine hundred thousand pounds – including tax. Stolen, looking for buyers, probably about half a million pounds. He wouldn’t find it difficult to move, that’s certain.’

  Half a million pounds, maybe a million and a quarter dollars, hell alone knew how much in other currencies. Carrick’s mind chilled at the prospect. It was a prize worth seizing, one the men concerned had already proved themselves ready to kill to achieve.

  ‘If these women and the rest of the Lady Jane crew are still aboard …’ began Shannon, then stopped.

  The same thought was in all their minds. One body had been washed up, but others might still drift in. At the very least, five lives were in a danger increasing by the moment.

  ‘Do your people know, Sergeant?’ asked Shannon suddenly.

  Fraser stubbed his cigarette and nodded. ‘I called Inspector Rankin. He’s organizing a general alert.’

  ‘Right.’ Shannon pulled open the chartroom door, a new snap in his voice. ‘Mr Carrick, don’t stand there like some kind of lost sheep. Get us out of this damned bay while I check some courses – I want emergency speed and full radar scan. Let’s find this damned booze boat, wherever it is.’

  Chapter Eight

  Captain James Shannon liked to boast that Marlin’s radar was sensitive enough to spot a gull and tell what it had for breakfast. But for one small ship to find another by night in tumbling seas and among a scattered maze of islands was something very different.

  So he gambled on what he would have done. Slamming her way through the blustering darkness, the Fishery cruiser carved a heaving course towards the south. Down there, beyond the ‘cocktail-shake’ islands of Rum and Eigg and Muck, lay a host of smaller, mainly uninhabited outcrops. They had high cliffs and deep inlets. A flotilla of coasters could have tucked away among them and been secure from the most thorough sea and air search.

  The rest was luck, though the storm was gradually blowing itself out. Scowling in his corner of the crowded bridge, Pettigrew had been working the radar screen on its fifteen-mile scan. Suddenly, he muttered to himself, clicked over to the ten-mile scan, peered again, then beckoned Carrick over.

  ‘This blip.’ He pointed near the far edge of the screen. ‘Anything we should know about out there?’

  ‘No.’ Carrick looked round at Shannon. ‘Contact, sir.’

  ‘Range and bearing?’

  Pettigrew answered. ‘Due west at eight miles. Bearing two-eight-zero.’ He paused apologetically. ‘A rain squall was blanketing that stretch, sir. It’s just cleared.’

  Keeping clear of the activity, Sergeant Fraser and Harry Graham glanced at each other. Graham moistened his lips but waited until Marlin was heeling round on the new course. ‘If it’s the Lady Jane …’ he began.

  Shannon cut him short. ‘We’ll find out first. You’re forgetting that damned shark-boat should be with her.’

  Checking again over Pettigrew’s shoulder, Carrick shook his head. The screen showed only that single blip, one that seemed strangely stationary.

  For twenty long minutes the Fishery cruiser shuddered and rolled through the lumping seas, closing the gap towards the radar contact which remained exactly where it had first been spotted. Then, at half-mile range, the twenty-one-inch searchlight’s searing white beam lanced out and Shannon swore in surprise as it lit the scene ahead.

  They’d found Dave Rother’s Seapearl, the sharkcatcher showed no sign of trying to escape. She lay bow-on to the waves, her decks almost hidden by the spray which broke from each creaming swell.

  ‘What are they playin’ at?’ demanded Sergeant Fraser, puzzled. ‘If Rother’s tryin’ some trick …’

  ‘No.’ Carrick had the bridge glasses trained ahead. He could see the taut hawser stretching from the boat’s stern, ending in a makeshift half-submerged raft of canvas and timbers. ‘They’ve a sea-anchor out. It could be engine trouble – and they’ve lost their radio aerial.’

  That was only part of it. The Seapearl showed every sign of having taken a battering from the storm, and the way sea and wind were continuing to moderate couldn’t have come a minute too soon for her.

  ‘Good.’ Shannon considered coldly for a moment. ‘Hold course but reduce to half-speed. Mr Carrick, signal them we’re sending a boat. Then take a boarding-party over – and warn every man on it to be ready for trouble.’

  Nodding, Carrick reached for the Aldis lamp.

  The clacking signal shutter brought an answering flicker from the shark-catcher’s wheelhouse. Still slowing, keeping the smaller craft trapped in the twenty-one-inch beam, Marlin came round in a gradual curve then stopped briefly while the rubber Z-boat was lowered and Carrick’s party clambered down.

  Engine snarling, the Z-boat pitched its way across while the Fishery cruiser began her circling course again. Blanketed
by the spray, the boarding party had only an occasional glimpse of the Seapearl until they were almost beside the scarred hull. Another moment, another wave, and they were bumping against it and scrambling aboard.

  ‘Hey there!’ A massive, oilskin-clad figure lurched forward to help the last men up. Yogi Dunlop grinned uneasily at them. ‘Good to see you. Good to see anyone …’

  Shoving forward, Carrick grabbed him by the shoulder and had to shout above the noise of the waves.

  ‘Where’s Rother?’

  ‘Aft – in the engine room. But …’

  Carrick signalled Marlin’s party closer. ‘You know what to do. If anyone gets awkward, sort him out.’

  He left them to it and headed aft along the lurching, foam-creamed deck. The engine-room hatchway was ajar and he shoved it back then clambered down the iron ladder into the oily, dimly lit area below, an area still warm but with its machinery silent.

  ‘Dave?’ Grim-faced, he looked around.

  ‘Over here.’ Dave Rother wriggled into sight from a space under the engine block.

  His hands and face were smeared with dirt and grease and he sat on the grating where he was, twisting a wry welcome. ‘All right, you caught us. Just don’t take the credit for it.’

  ‘Where are they, Dave?’ demanded Carrick sharply.

  ‘Who?’ Rother asked it tiredly.

  ‘Maggie and Sheila.’

  Rother rubbed a bewildered hand across his forehead, leaving a new black smear. ‘Back in Portcoig, I’d say. What’s the panic anyway? So I duck out of the bay when the boat’s under technical arrest, but …’

  ‘Dave, give me one straight answer.’ Carrick moistened his salt-caked lips, already sensing Sergeant Fraser’s careful theory had been wrong. ‘What the hell were you doing out here?’

  ‘Taking a gamble on the weather and chasing sharks – I lost on both.’