by Robin Flett
Behind him, a horn beeped twice. Time to go…
Back at the car, Ken handed the camera to his wife and drove down the ramp into yet another car ferry. It seemed you could hardly go six paces here without tripping over a boat of some sort. Island life for you. He can't be serious, I'll never get through there! Ken swallowed nervously and aimed at the narrow gap between two other cars. Jesus, they don't half pack them in on these things!
They all squeezed out the half-open doors and wandered into the passenger accommodation. Ten minutes later the Varagen backed away from the ro-ro ramp, the visor swinging down almost noiselessly over the bow. Using the side-thrusters, the captain swung the ship round in her own length and the vessel gathered speed away from Kirkwall, bound for the North Isles.
He had made two previous circuits and this time he was lucky, finding a space at the end of one row where someone had just pulled out. It was a tight squeeze for the Range Rover but Hollis was fed up looking for a place to park. It seemed that every vehicle-owner in Orkney had chosen that day to come into town. He walked briskly back through the car park onto Junction Road, crossing to the chandelry shop on the corner.
Hollis held the door open while a girl emerged carrying what appeared to be several wet suits in both arms.
'Thanks!' she smiled in passing.
Hollis closed the door behind her and eyed the skinny young man behind the counter. He was wearing a black tee shirt with the logo Runrig across the front and fashionably faded jeans. He chewed incessantly while watching Hollis impassively.
'I'm looking for Willie Harcus. Is he around?' asked Hollis.
This was the last hope.
'Naw, he's up at the slip,' the boy answered in a broad Glasgow accent. He sounded at least as bored as he looked.
Hollis was getting seriously concerned. The two boat-hire leads he had obtained at the Tourist Office had come to nothing. Both craft were already on virtually permanent hire to fishermen or divers. So much for his naive view of how easy it would be to hire a boat in an island community. It hadn't occurred to him that there would be a great many other calls on those that were available, at least during the summer months. It wasn't terribly encouraging, and time pressure was mounting.
'At the what?' Hollis asked.
'The slip, up at Hatston.' He looked Hollis over, chewing. 'That's Hatston, over there,' he pointed out the side window.
Hollis squinted through the plate glass. Another industrial estate.
'Along the road there, first right, past the Ortak factory, you'll see a compound on the right with some boats and a shed in it.' The boy waved a hand erratically as he spoke. 'Big lad, with a check shirt and green wellies!'
Hollis decided against moving the car: he would never get another space. He left the shop and walked uphill, away from the harbour, turning right into the sprawling estate, built on the site of a wartime naval air base It was a fine day for a walk, one of those beautiful, impeccable days when the blue sky and even bluer sea seem to go on forever. The second of his abortive phone calls had produced Willie Harcus' name as a possible source of boat hire. Although the man on the other end of the line had been less that optimistic.
The American was looking disaster in the face. He had to have some means of getting off Hoy. Some independent means. Hollis worked it over in his mind as he walked. Try as he might, he could see no alternative. He was beginning to understand that this was turning out to be the most crucial part of the plan. More so, surprisingly enough, than the problem of getting inside NorthTek tomorrow. Without seaborne transport he would end up stuck on a small island with a corpse of his own doing. Running around like a rat in a trap while the authorities flew in helicopter-loads of searchers with dogs, infra-red cameras and telescopic sights on the rifles.
No go.
The wire surrounding the compound was sagging and uneven. One of the angle-steel corner posts was split in half where it had rusted completely though. As a security measure it might just have kept out a drunken chicken. Inside was a random clutter of hull supports and mostly empty launching cradles and trailers. An untidy row of seven sailing dinghies lay on the chopped-up grass in one corner. To one side stood a small storage shed from which emitted heated voices.
By the time Hollis had found the open gate, the altercation had developed into a scuffle. Round the end of the shed a middle-aged man wearing a red check shirt was being held against the rough wooden wall by a lad in his twenties. Fists were flailing ineffectively on both sides. Hollis thought about waiting until they sorted themselves out. But the way his luck was going right now Willie Harcus would surely end up in the hospital. Not to mention the possibility of the police taking an interest in what was, after all, at the very least a breach of the peace.
And anyway, he didn't have time for this.
Hollis walked up to the pair and heaved them apart. 'Right lads, calm down!'
'What the fuck––?' The young man was so furious that spittle dotted the American's jacket as he shouted in Hollis' face. Without thought the lad’s fist came up from his side in one fluid movement.
Hollis moved rapidly back a pace, lifting his left arm almost vertically upwards in a block. The fist slid harmlessly along the outside of the extended arm at the same instant as four rigid fingers sank deep into the lad’s celiac plexus. The boy's breath caught in his throat and he doubled up, gasping for air. Hollis grabbed him and heaved him toward the gate, sending him sprawling across the opening into the loose mesh fence.
Willie Harcus looked at the young man sagging on he knees in the mud and nodded with approval.
‘He shouldn’t start things he can’t finish,’ Hollis observed.
'Serve the little bugger right!' grunted Harcus
'What was that all about?'
'He helps me here from time to time, when we need extra hands.' They both watched the lad stumble out the gate like a half-shut knife. 'Said he needs some money pretty badly, and wants me to give him some work. I told him we won't need any extra hands until the end of the season. Christ, he knows that well enough!' He waved a hand at a score of masts bobbing offshore. 'Most of those boats will be laid up in here over the winter. It's a busy time and we take on several lads on a casual basis for a few weeks to get things cleared away.' He shook his head, rubbing at a skinned elbow. 'He just blew up! Thanks for the help.'
'No charge.'
'You looking for me, are you?'
'If you're Willie Harcus, that's right.'
'Aye, that's me. That's me all right. I hope you're not looking for a job!'
'No.' Hollis shook his head, grinning. 'I'm trying to hire a small boat for some fishing. I'm told you might have something available?'
'Mmm,' Harcus picked up a flat cap from underneath a boat trailer and replaced it on his head. 'The only thing I can offer you is an old dory. Not very fancy, but she floats!'
It was like the chime of a bell that existed only in his mind. Hollis felt the tension release. 'Doesn't matter what it looks like, it'll do me fine.'
'Aye, well. It's down here, come and have a look.' Harcus led the way out the compound and down the slipway. 'Mind your feet here, that wet moss will have the feet from under you! He pointed to a small blue and white glassfibre boat moored to one side of the slipway. 'It's got the open-ended cabin top, so there's some shelter from the weather. You're not planning to go far offshore, are you?'
Not really. 'Oh, no. I thought I might wander about Scapa, do a bit of sightseeing and a bit of fishing. Maybe visit a couple of islands. Depends what the weather is like over the weekend.'
'That's right,' Harcus agreed. 'The weather governs everything up here, even in the summer,' he nodded to himself again. 'I can move her across to Scapa for you, no bother. Plenty of trailers here right now!'
Hollis stepped down carefully into the dory and looked about him. The cabin was a tangle of ropes and fuel cans, but the large Mercury outboard on the stern looked to be in good shape. Indeed it was possibly worth more than the hu
ll that supported it. A small steering wheel that bore an MG badge and had clearly once graced a motor car and a single throttle lever were the only controls. A jumbo-jet it wasn't.
But to Hollis it was worth its weight in gold.
'Just the weekend, did you say?'
Hollis nodded. 'That's right. How much to hire it till Monday?'
'Ah, well,' Harcus said self-consciously. He never liked talking about money. 'I'll have to charge you forty pound a day, or my partner will moan at me about it.' He shuffled his feet. 'He does the books, like. Proper businessman, with a degree and everything.' He looked up and grinned. 'But he could'na sail a boat to save his life!'
They both laughed.
Hollis pulled out his wallet and counted out eight twenty-pound notes. 'Friday to Monday, four days.' He added another three twenties. 'And you'll put the boat into Scapa for me, with a few cans of spare fuel?'
'Aye, no bother. It'll be sitting at the wee jetty over there whenever you're ready, you can't miss it.'
'That's great. Thanks.'
Willie Harcus watched his visitor walk back up the sloping surface back to the road. It occurred to him that he hadn't heard the man's name. He assumed he had missed it, in all the excitement. Not that it mattered all that much. He folded the notes and stuffed them into his trouser pocket. What his partner didn't know, he wouldn't grieve over...
Hollis walked back the way he had come. He felt no remorse. When he was finished with the boat he would abandon it somewhere along the mainland coast. Wherever was convenient at the time. It would find its way back to its owners all right, eventually. He made his way unhurriedly into town in search of the last few items he would need tomorrow.
Alison glanced anxiously at the sky as she shepherded the children along the side deck and into the passenger accommodation. The endless blue of the morning had long since given way to scudding gray. Shortly after lunchtime the wind had begun picking up from the south west. They settled in a corner alongside two teenagers who had a rucksack each and a pile of other bags stuffed under the bench seat.
Ken leaned on the rail with the stiffening wind making his eyes water. He had been hoping to video their departure from Westray but had already given that idea up. The world was looking very gray, indeed he could see rain falling under the low cloudbase not far off.
'Big change noo, eh'?' the cheery west highland voice cut into his thoughts.
Ken looked round at the elderly man wrapped up in the sort of strikingly multi-coloured garment you normally only saw in skiing programs on TV. He looked to be in his seventies. 'Yes, you could say that!' he nodded forward. 'There's rain coming too.'
The elderly man peered out at the overcast sky and grinned. 'Aye, we'll be having a lively crossing I think.' He zipped the coat up even tighter under his long chin. 'Better go and see to the wee wuman, she's no' a very good sailor!'
Ken watched him saunter off. The Varagen was just pulling away from the ramp and already he could feel the motion of the sea. He watched the village of Pierowall slide astern, then tucked the camera under one arm for protection and made his way below.
Alison moved over to make room for him on the bench. The ship was pretty crowded, much more so than the outward trip. Ken looked for a place to put the camera and finally decided it would be safest on the floor under the seat. He jammed it between a plastic carrier bag and a rucksack, it would be fine there––out of the way of passing feet.
Half an hour later both Ken and Alison were beginning to feel a little queasy. Absently they watched the group of children playing happily in the passageways, their own two among them. If any of them noticed the unsteady motion at all they gave no sign, totally absorbed in what they were doing. Ken was glad of the distraction: it kept his mind off other things.
It worked, for a while.
Ken was first to head outside, with an extremely preoccupied look on his face. His wife watched him go and knew that she wouldn't be far behind. This wasn't turning out to be a lot of fun. There must be at least an hour of the journey to go! That thought itself was enough to send her rapidly in Ken's wake.
By the time the Varagen reached the comparative shelter of Kirkwall Bay in the early evening, there were a number of greenish faces on board. Even some of the Westray folk, to whom the ferries were like a bus service, had decided they had picked the wrong day.
Ken felt absolutely terrible. His stomach muscles ached and his head was pounding. Even with the ship tied up alongside the pier his legs felt wobbly and unsafe, as if the deck were still heaving under him. To complete his feeling of misery, he got little sympathy from his son and daughter––both of whom thought the entire day had been wonderful. Alison, being in somewhat better shape, drove them back to the hotel.
After a couple of hours on dry land, and with two cups of hot coffee to settle his stomach, Ken felt a little more human. 'Christ, I don't want any more of that!' he commented to his wife after they had put the children to bed.
'Well, it looked so nice this morning!' Alison said. The rain pattered on the window as she spoke. 'I'm beginning to understand what they mean here when they say the weather here is "changeable".
'You could call it that.' Ken muttered. 'Bright sunshine this morning and a howling gale in the afternoon.'
'I don't think that was a gale!' said Alison. 'Just a wee blow, I heard someone say. I don't ever want to see a big one.'
'Was that an older man in a fancy jacket?'
'That's right. You heard him too, did you?'
'I met him outside on the deck before we left Westray. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.' Ken recalled the grinning, ruddy face.
'Madman!' observed Alison. She stood up and started to unbutton her blouse. 'I've had enough for one day. I'm going to bed.'
'Yes, I think you're right. Let's hope it's not like that going back on Saturday!'
'Don't even think about that!' she said, walking through into the en-suite bathroom.
Ken looked round the room. 'Where's that green bag you had in the car?'
'Beside the wardrobe.'
Ken raked through the medium-sized message bag that Alison used to carry around everything but the kitchen sink. 'Where did you put the video camera?'
'What?' The sound of running water stopped.
'I thought you put the camera into this bag on the boat?'
Alison put her head round the door. 'I didn't have that bag on the boat. I left it in the car,' she said sweetly. 'You had the camera, what did you do with it?'
Ken frowned. 'Can't remember, it must be in the car.' He watched his wife walk naked across the room and drop her underwear on a chair, breasts jiggling provocatively, and deliberately. He felt a stirring in his trousers. Alison pulled back the bedcovers and smiled at his expression. 'Well hurry up or I'll have to start without you!'
The mind works in odd ways. Especially the subconscious mind, which never sleeps, cannot sleep. It was ten past two in the morning when Ken awoke with the realisation crystal clear in his mind. As if a door had suddenly opened. He sat up involuntarily, wide awake. 'Shit!' he said out loud.
Alison rolled over and blinked drowsily at him in the not-quite-darkness. 'What is it?'
Ken looked round at her. 'Fuckin' hell, I left the camera on the boat!'
'What are you talking about?' Alison was only half awake.
'The video camera! I put it under the seat on the ferry! I was feeling so awful––I forgot to take it out!'
His wife sighed. 'Well, someone will likely have handed it in, go round and check tomorrow,' she looked at the digits on the bedside alarm clock. 'It is tomorrow. There's nothing you can do right now.' How could he possibly have been so stupid, she didn't say.
'Jesus!' Ken groaned. 'No-one is going to hand in something like that, are they?' He lay back down and stared at the dimness of the ceiling. 'It'll be long gone. shit!'
'Go along after breakfast and check. There are some honest people in the world, what harm can it do?'
&nbs
p; 'I suppose so,' Ken shook his head in the darkness. He wasn't ever going to see it again, he was sure of that.
19
Friday 23 August, 2013
At eight thirty in the morning Ken Basker walked through the door into the Orkney Ferries booking office on Kirkwall pier. He explained the problem to one of the girls and she went off to fetch the manager. 'I'm sorry,' he said in his lilting Orkney accent, 'nothing was handed in to us last night or this morning.'
'Damn.' Ken muttered.
'You can try again later,’ the manager suggested. ‘If someone found it they might bring it round here later today.' The man was sympathetic, but passenger's belongings were their own responsibility.
'I don't think there's much hope, but thanks anyway.'
Waste of time, Ken thought to himself as he walked back to the hotel. I knew it was just a waste of time.
At just before ten o'clock duty Sergeant John Stewart heard the public door open and looked up. Two rather scruffy-looking teenagers mooched in. Both were wearing hiking boots and outdoor gear and might as well have had campers stamped on their foreheads. Both also looked somewhat ill at ease inside a police station.
'What can I do for you, boys?'
The taller of the pair put a silver-gray video camera on the desktop. 'Somebody left this on the Varagen last night, coming back from Westray,' he said in a Northumberland accent.
'Ah. Did you see who it was?' Stewart picked up the camera and turned it around, looking for any identifying marks.
'I suppose it must have belonged to the two folk sitting beside us, but I don't know who they were. We were last out and the camera was under the seat behind my rucksack, they must have forgotten about it.' He grinned suddenly. 'They were pretty seasick!'
'Right, boys, thanks for bringing it in. Did you see if they had a car with them?'