“Shall I put these below?” Stella enquired, holding the two bags.
“Do that, while I release the mooring lines,” he told her going out on deck.
With the lines untied he returned to the wheelhouse and flicked on the ignition switch and pressed the starter button. The engine started on the first attempt, roaring into life and filling the night air with blue smoke. Easing the boat away from the quayside, he made a quick sweep of the surrounding area for inquisitive onlookers; seeing none, he pushed the throttle lever forward to increase speed and headed out towards the deep water channel.
Stella’s curiosity had got the better of her when she had carried the bags below. Something hard that felt metallic had prompted her to open her lover’s bag. Its contents at first had revealed nothing more than the usual items of clothing and shaving equipment, but as she explored further and found a pistol, which she was pretty sure was of German manufacture, and a road map clearly showing a pencilled-out route northwards, she had suddenly become very frightened. Repacking the bag as she had found it, she contemplated what to do next, but hearing her name being called and told to come up to the wheelhouse had jolted her back to reality.
“You’ve been a long time down there, what have you been doing?”
Stella had to think quickly for an answer. “I was in the galley and about to make some coffee,” she lied.
“Never mind coffee! Take the wheel and keep it on the course it’s on now while I find the chart we need to take us to the island.”
Taking the wheel Stella stared into the darkness while keeping a careful eye on the course indicator as she had been told.
Taking several charts through to the chart room behind the wheelhouse he dropped them on the table, then switching on the table light, he systematically sorted through each chart until he found the one he needed, and set about plotting a course to take to reach the island.
“So what is this island called?” Stella asked trying to keep her tone composed and not show the nervousness she was feeling.
Looking up from the chart table Bayer studied the back of her shapely body while running his hand over the knife in his pocket. It would be so easy to kill her now, he thought, and put her lifeless body over the side. She’d given him all the pleasure he’d needed, so why put off what had to be done? She was no further use to him and by tomorrow, if his luck held, and weather permitting, he would be on his way home, so why keep her alive?
“Stracandra Island,” he answered straightening up and taking the knife from his pocket.
“I’ve never heard of that place. How long will it take to get there?” she asked, turning to look at him briefly before turning back to concentrate on keeping the boat on course.
Walking slowly he came and stood behind her. “Only a few hours,” he said quietly, his finger on the release button that would eject the blade from within the handle. One thing he had never been was indecisive; he had killed for the love of it in some cases. But as he stood and caught the aroma of her perfume and looked at her perfect figure and thought of the unrelenting satisfaction she had brought him, he suddenly felt neither a willingness or enthusiasm to take her life. Putting the knife back in his pocket, he put his arm around her waist and gave her a new course to steer.
The weather steadily improved during the latter part of the evening which continued through to the early hours and Bayer was pleased with their progress as he took over the wheel and sent Stella below to prepare some food and coffee from the small amount of rations they had been able to bring on board with them. In the confines of the small galley, Stella got on with the task she had been given but with the nagging thoughts still playing on her mind of what she had seen in her lover’s travel bag earlier. Doubts began to turn to fear and she found her hand beginning to shake as she spooned the coffee into the mugs. She knew nothing about his private life or what he did or where he came from; she had been too intent on their lovemaking, which he was extremely good at, and it had only been after three days into their steamy relationship that he had disclosed that his last name was Crane. A sudden impulse made her stop what she was doing and, without hesitating, walk over to the bag, unzip it and take out the gun, then holding the weapon in both hands she stared at the symbol on the side showing an eagle holding a globe with a swastika. Stella knew nothing about weapons but she now knew enough to know that this one was of German manufacture – what disturbed her most was that it was being carried by her lover. But for what purpose? The only logical explanation she could come up with was that he was a spy, or part of one of these fifth column groups she had read about and was now trying to get out of the country. She turned the pistol over in her hands while wondering what to do. It suddenly dawned on her that maybe he was just using her to get to where he was going and after that she would be no further use to him and her life could be in serious danger. Stella studied the Walther for a few moments to familiarize herself with its workings, – could she kill to protect herself? She grimaced at the thought. She knew she would have to if it meant saving her own life, she thought, slipping the weapon in her coat pocket. She felt a little calmer now, knowing she had the means to retaliate if necessary, so after placing the plate of sandwiches and coffee on a rather disgusting looking tray she found she made her way cautiously up to the wheelhouse.
“You took your time?”
“Yes, I know. I had trouble with that damn stove, it’s a bit temperamental,” she replied laying the tray down on the chart room table. “How much farther?” she asked, putting his mug of coffee to hand then offering him a sandwich.
He handed her the binoculars. “That’s the island in front of us. Another hour should see us there,” he told her, taking a bite from the sandwich.
Stella could make out the distinct line of the island against the lightening sky and the more she studied its high rugged features, which looked devoid of human inhabitants, the more convinced she became that this was a well-conceived plan her lover had carefully put together, for a means of escape.
“Take the wheel, will you? I want to check the chart – make sure you keep her on the course she’s on,” he ordered in an uncompromising tone.
From the chart Bayer could see that the lighthouse and buildings, and also what looked like a jetty, lay at the most southerly point of the island. Returning to the wheelhouse he focused the binoculars on the area in question until he picked out the tall structure of the lighthouse standing defiantly against the elements. Lowering the glasses momentarily to get a clearer view with his naked eye he studied the terrain; satisfied with what he saw, he then refocused the binoculars on the cottages, one of which would give him much-needed shelter until being picked-up.
Stella could also make out the distant tower with the array of smaller objects off to the right, which she guessed was the cottages which once housed the keepers and their families.
“Is that where we are making for, where the lighthouse is?” she asked looking at his dark features that seemed to look sinister against the side windows of the wheelhouse.
“Yes!”
“Does anybody else live on the island?” she asked apprehensively.
“No, we’ve got it all to ourselves.”
Alone on an island with a possible killer, a killer who could strike at any time; the thought sent a chill through her. How had she been so stupid to let love put her in such a dangerous position, her only salvation being the weapon in her pocket? Taking her right hand off the wheel she put it in her coat pocket and ran her fingers over the smooth cold metal which was reassuring but suddenly brought a thought to mind – was the gun loaded? She hadn’t checked it when handling it in the galley; what if her lover had unloaded it in case she found it? Stella knew she needed to know and the only way she could do that was by making an excuse to go below.
“Can you take the wheel? I need to go below, a bodily function,” she said, in a tone that had a matter of urgency about it.
“Don’t be too long, I’ll need you to give me a
hand to dock when we get there,” he replied taking the wheel from her.
To make things look more natural, she placed the empty plate and mugs on the tray and took them with her and after leaving them in the galley, she locked herself in the tiny cubicle that served as a toilet. It took her a few minutes to work out that the magazine was in the handle grip and how to get it out, but she eventually managed it and to her relief found it contained several rounds of ammunition. Putting the Walther back in her coat pocket she was just about to make her way back to the wheelhouse when she felt the Mary Wade begin to slow down, which made her stop and stare at the narrow stairway in front of her that led up to where her lover was and an uncertain future. Pulling herself together, she ascended the stairs where she found the wheelhouse bathed in the soft grey light of dawn which made it easy to pick out the stone jetty that protruded out to sea and rugged features of the keeper’s cottages, one of which looked badly damaged.
Picking up the binoculars she focused them on the remains of the first building. “Well the first cottage is just a ruin, its roof and walls at the front are completely destroyed,” she declared switching her gaze to the second cottage.
“Yes, I know,” Bayer answered.
“What happened?” Stella asked, lowering the glasses and looking at him for an answer.
He pushed the throttle lever forward to bring the boat down to a more manageable speed for what he had in mind before answering her. “I believe a German submarine fired at it in the early days of the war, but the second cottage wasn’t hit so that’s the one we will be using during our stay here,” he replied, bringing the boat around in a slow arc until the Mary Wade’s starboard side lined up nicely with the jetty.
“You know that for sure, do you?” she asked sharply.
“Know what?” he asked, concentrating more on the manoeuvre he was trying to undertake than the question that was being asked.
“That the cottage is fit to live in?” she snapped.
He glared at her, annoyed at her persistence. “Never mind about the bloody cottage you stupid bitch, get on the jetty and get the damned ropes through the mooring rings and tied off before we finish up on the rocks!” he shouted.
Expecting to be chastised with a slap to the face like he had done on the way over from Oban, Stella moved quickly to the cabin door and slid it back and made her way forward to do as she had been ordered.
With the boat eventually secure alongside the weathered stonework of the jetty Bayer shut down the engine then contemplated what his next moves were; that would be to use the Mary Wade’s transmitter to contact Norway followed by scuttling the boat, but first he needed Stella out of the way. Thinking back to what Metzger had told him in Bristol about the location of the cottage key in the adjacent storeroom he decided to send her on ahead – this would then give him the time he needed to carry out what he had to do. Going below he brought up their travel bags and dropped them on the deck, then one at a time passed them over to her.
“Right! Take them up to the cottage. You’ll find the key to unlock the door hanging on a hook in the storeroom next to the cottage. There’s no need for you to come back to the boat; as soon as I’ve made sure everything is secure here, I’ll come and join you, okay?”
Stella just nodded in acknowledgement; she was still smarting from the abusive way he had spoken to her earlier. Picking up the bags she turned and made her way along the jetty to the rough-hewn steps that led up to the buildings above.
He waited until she was out of sight before switching on the transmitter and giving it a few moments to warm up. Then using the details which he had put to memory that Metzger had given him, he soon made contact with Stavanger and was told to be ready to be picked-up at first light the following morning. With the sun beginning to appear through broken cloud in the east he knew the fishing boat would now have been reported stolen, so he needed to send it to the bottom as soon as possible before it was seen by either a passing ship or aircraft. Well-trained in the art of sabotage, he set about cutting a length of rope from a longer piece he found on deck, then returned to the wheelhouse and lashed the wheel so the boat would head away from the island and out into deep water. Satisfied with his handiwork he started the engine then went below to the engine room, and using his knife, cut the hose and opened the seacock and did the same with the one in the forward compartment. Standing on the stairway he grinned to himself as a steady gush of water spread across the floor of the lower deck. Going back on deck he knew his timing had to be perfect if his next move was to be successful. With the boat rocking gently against the stonework, he jumped onto the jetty and quickly released the mooring lines and threw them onto the deck then went back aboard and dropped them below through an open hatch cover and any other loose items he found before carrying out the final phase of the sinking operation. He knew it would be a leap-of-faith as he took hold of the throttle lever and slowly eased it forward and felt the boat gain momentum from the powerful engine. With the Mary Wade’s side scraping along the protruding structure, he stood on the narrow ledge of the gunwale that ran around the boat’s side, holding on to a masthead wire for support. The gap between the two was a wide one and he fell heavily when landing on the jetty. Slightly winded but with no bones broken he stood up and took out the binoculars from their case, having had the foresight to hang it around his neck before his hasty departure. He was pleased to see the boat get well-clear of the island before it started settling low in the water from the added weight within its hull, until its gallant engine finally gave out, and going down by the stern it gracefully succumbed to a watery grave. Waiting until the surface had subsided of escaping air from the stricken vessel he then spent several minutes scanning the area carefully for any flotsam that may have come up from the wreck. Apart from a patch of fuel oil which seemed to be drifting out to sea by a prevailing wind, he could see little sign of any floating debris which made him wonder if the boat had turned over before hitting the bottom, trapping any loose items inside the hull.
Standing in the middle of the room Stella had looked around at the place she was supposed to live in over the next few days. A thick layer of dust covered the whole of the room, pictures hung at odd angles on the walls and a crude attempt had been made to put the curtains back up after the bombardment by the U-boat. Dirty crockery lay in an overflowing bowl of filthy water fed from a dripping tap and the discarded remnants of a meal lay strewn on the table covered over with green mould. Broken glass and china from a display cabinet lay piled in a corner with the shattered remains of a mirror, while a black damp scar ran down the wall giving all the hallmarks of a leaking roof. She hadn’t even ventured into any of the other rooms – she had seen enough by what she had seen so far. “You must be joking if you think I’m going to stay here in this rubbish dump,” she said quietly to herself while turning to go back outside, slamming the door hard behind her as she left. Reaching the cliff edge and the steps that went down to the jetty, she suddenly stopped in disbelief at what she was seeing; her only means of getting off the island heading out to sea and sinking while Andrew stood and watched the whole event through binoculars.
“You bastard!” she shouted at the top of her voice. Taking the pistol from her pocket and holding it with both hands, she took aim and fired several shots at him.
Running for cover, Bayer heard the bullets whistle close overhead and saw them splash harmlessly into the sea on the far side of the jetty. Flattening himself against the cliffside he knew he was in a precarious position if she decided to come down to look for him. He desperately tried to remember how many rounds there had been in the Walther when he last checked it. The figure five came to mind and if his memory was right she still had two bullets left, having fired three – not good odds with only a knife to protect himself with. He needed to make her fire the other two and the only way he could do that was to show himself and hope she missed when she fired. Working his way slowly forward using the boulders for cover he reached the bottom of the st
eps without being seen and with bated breath eased out to take a look. Two shots rang out almost immediately, the first ricocheting off the jetty stonework in front of him but the second found its mark going through his clothing and tearing a path through the flesh of his upper right arm which made him cry out from the pain. “You bitch,” he hissed, taking off his jacket and jersey and the belt from his trousers, which he looped around his arm pulling it tight to stem the bleeding; he then set about cutting a piece of his shirt sleeve into a strip and bound it firmly around the wound. Feeling a little more comfortable, he slipped his jersey and coat back on and decided to risk another look to see if she was still there. To his surprise she was standing motionless, arms by her side, her right hand still clutching the Walther with a fixed look on her face staring down at the sea. Holding the switchblade in a manner so it was concealed from view he moved out from his hiding place and slowly walked forward. Stopping at the bottom of the steps he looked up and he could see that she was crying.
She gave him a long concentrated look. “Why Andrew? Why all this? Whatever have I done to you to deserve it? All I have ever done is give you my love. I know you must be German because of the swastika I saw on the pistol, so I presume you intend to kill me. But I’d like to know why you have brought me all this way to do it?” she asked, wiping her eyes.
Still a little unsure whether the pistol was empty he decided on the soft approach. “You were useful, Stella, to get me away from the mainland and over to here, and also you are a very good lover. I would go as far as saying the best I’ve ever had. And yes, you are right, I am German, and it’s vital I get back to Germany as soon as possible.”
Stracandra Island Page 26