Stormtide (3 page)

Yawning, Carrick finished the last of the coffee, took another long draw on his cigarette, stubbed it out, and was thinking again about the dead fisherman when there was a knock at the cabin door. It opened and Clapper Bell looked round.

‘Got a moment, sir?’ asked the bo’sun cheerfully.

‘Yes.’ Carrick eyed the big Glasgow-Irishman with a suspicion born of experience. Bell came in, closed the door, and beamed at him.

‘The word is we’ll be staying overnight at Portcoig, sir,’ began Bell. He rubbed a massive paw of a hand warily along his chin. ‘At least, so I’ve heard …’

‘From a reliable source.’ Carrick finished it for him. ‘Don’t ask me, Clapper. I don’t know.’

‘We will,’ said Bell confidently. ‘The Old Man told Cookie to draw up a galley stores list. And he asked the engine room how much fuel the tanks could take.’

Carrick sighed. ‘So?’

‘So probably we’ll be goin’ ashore tonight.’ Bell eyed him innocently. ‘Except that I’ve hardly the price o’ a decent drink till next pay-day. And – uh …’

‘And there’s a barmaid at Portcoig with starving children to support,’ said Carrick wearily. He swung himself up from the bunk, reached for his jacket, and found his wallet. ‘How much?’

‘Two quid – uh …’ Bell grinned, palmed the notes and began to ease back towards the door. ‘Thanks.’

‘Hold on.’ Carrick beckoned him back. ‘Now it’s your turn. You mumbled something about Dave Rother being a sharkman. I’ve had the same thing from the Old Man, but they just don’t get on, never have. Rother pulled a fast one on him years ago. But what about you?’

Bell shrugged, the grin fading into a reluctant frown. ‘He’s a pal o’ yours.’

‘We’ve had a few drinks together,’ corrected Carrick. ‘Let’s have it.’

‘I thought you’d know.’ Bell sucked his teeth unhappily. ‘
Skua
’s bo’sun told me what happened.’

Carrick raised an eyebrow.
Skua
was their sister ship; they’d relieved her at the start of the patrol.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, Rother’s base is at Portcoig, right? An’ his boys used to get on fine wi’ the locals …’

‘Used to?’

Bell nodded. ‘Not any more they don’t. There’s the next best thing to open bloody war goin’ on now. The locals want the sharkmen out. In fact, they tried to burn them out so I was told. An’ Rother’s played rough too.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Bell grimaced. ‘But,’ – he glanced down at his hand – ‘well, I’ll bet you this two quid we soon find out.’

Carrick quickly shook his head.
Marlin
’s bo’sun seldom took chances where money was concerned.

Marlin
reached Skye and the mile-wide curve of Camsha Bay at 4 p.m., her speed coming down to a four-knot crawl as she came through the buoyed entrance channel that led to Portcoig.

‘It all looks peaceful enough,’ said Jumbo Wills hopefully. He was leaning beside Carrick on the boat-deck rail, still in overalls, ready to disappear again at the first sign of Shannon. ‘But if Clapper is right …’

‘He’s always right,’ said Carrick resignedly. ‘That’s why I told him to pass the word around the crew. Then they can at least try to keep out of trouble ashore.’

Silently, they watched the Fishery cruiser’s slow, curving approach towards Portcoig. The tiny harbour made an ideal base for small craft. Even the shoal rocks which lurked outside played their part in offering shelter from the Atlantic and once inside the bay there was a gentle, grassy foreshore where sheep were grazing.

Beyond that, heather-clad slopes began a rapid rise towards the shadowed, jagged peaks of the Cuillin hills. There were no trees. Instead, a line of sun-bleached telephone poles followed the narrow, single-track road which snaked into the hills from Portcoig’s scatter of houses.

Carrick glanced round. Half a mile across the bay was Camsha Island, where Dave Rother had his shark-catching base. A low-lying blob of land, separated from the north shore by a stretch of tidal sand and shingle, people could walk out to it from the other side of the bay when the tide was right. Maybe base was too impressive a description. It amounted to a long concrete slipway and a collection of huts, the largest hut a processing factory and the others used as living quarters for his men or to hold supplies for the three boats he operated.

‘Webb.’ Jumbo Wills nudged him and nodded towards Portcoig pier, a long, stone structure ending in a T-shaped wooden head. Several small seine-net boats were tied along it and a group of men were waiting near the end. ‘We’ve got a welcoming committee.’

‘Including the local law.’ One of the men wore police uniform. Then he smiled slightly, spotting a small red and white motor-launch which had rounded the pier with a solitary figure in its open cockpit. ‘There’s something that hasn’t changed. Aunt Maggie is still in business.’

Coming in smartly, the little launch slipped neatly between two of the fishing boats and tied up. Most people who came to Portcoig met Maggie MacKenzie. A widow, she wasn’t young any more and nobody knew who’d first given her the nickname Aunt Maggie. But it fitted. She and her boat constituted the ferry service which linked Portcoig with half a dozen little crofting communities scattered around the local coast.

That could mean carrying children to school, sheep to market or tourists round the bay – anything, in fact, that needed a boat for hire.

‘I’d call her indestructible,’ mused Wills. ‘She even had a glint in her eye about Pettigrew last trip.’

‘Once she discovered he wasn’t married – and on the Old Man before that, till she discovered he was,’ grinned Carrick. The grin faded as he remembered why they’d come. ‘Better get to that bow-line – unless you want another roasting.’

The Fishery cruiser was still slowly, barely moving as she edged in towards a vacant berth. Wills didn’t need a second telling. Nodding, he started off at a trot.

Three of the reception committee came aboard as soon as
Marlin
’s gangway was positioned. Led by the police officer, two sober-faced men in Sunday-best suits came across it and were met by Captain Shannon. One of the men had a black tie in mourning and Shannon took all three straight to his day-cabin.

After a spell they reappeared and went aft to the deck-house being used as a temporary mortuary. When they returned to the day-cabin Carrick was summoned to join them.

When he entered he found Shannon and his visitors seated round the table in the small, sparsely furnished cabin. A bottle of Shannon’s prized single-malt whisky was on the table and each man had a filled glass.

‘My chief officer,’ said Shannon shortly. ‘He found the body.’

‘And cut the scarf?’ The police officer, a sergeant, nursed his whisky glass with a frown shaping on his beefy face.

‘Would you expect him to bring the blasted winch back?’ asked Shannon icily. He glanced at Carrick. ‘This is Sergeant Fraser from Carbost, the nearest police station. Then Alec MacBean, the dead man’s
brother’ – the man in the black tie, thin and middle-aged, nodded – ‘and Harry Graham, who was half-owner with John MacBean of the
Harvest Lass
.’

Graham, a tall man, grey-haired and the oldest of the trio, cleared his throat. ‘We hear the boat is badly damaged. Eh … how bad?’ He blinked quickly at his companions. ‘It can wait, of course. But I might as well know now.’

‘She can be salvaged but it won’t be easy,’ said Carrick, and saw him wince. ‘She’s badly ripped below the waterline and after you get her off it will still be a repair-yard job.’

‘I’m more interested in what happened to John,’ muttered Alec MacBean. ‘I’ve that right – I’m his only relative.’ He scowled. ‘What kind o’ an accident is it when a man gets strangled in his own winch?’

‘Not unique,’ said Shannon neutrally. ‘I’ve heard of it happening.’ He glanced from Carrick to the bottle. ‘You’ll find a spare glass in the locker, mister.’

Carrick nodded his thanks, found the glass, and poured himself a drink. He sipped it neat. There was no water on the table and Shannon would have regarded the suggestion as an insult to his single-malt.

‘I still wish you hadn’t need to cut the scarf,’ sighed Sergeant Fraser. ‘You know how it is, Chief Officer. There’ll be a fatal-accident inquiry, before a jury.’

‘At which he’ll give evidence,’ snapped Shannon impatiently. ‘Trying to stir up a murder case, Sergeant?’

Fraser flushed. ‘Captain, I’m not looking for work. I wouldn’t be here if Carbost wasn’t the only police station within miles of this place. And as for having to drive over that damned goat-track of a road to get here …’

‘You’ll have two witnesses, Sergeant,’ soothed Carrick. ‘Our bo’sun was with me. The only thing
that puzzled us was why the man was alone aboard.’ He glanced at Harry Graham. ‘How often did that happen?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ Graham shook his head and frowned. ‘I’m no fisherman, Chief Officer. I’m manager at the Broomfire Distillery up the glen.’ He glanced at MacBean. ‘Alec can tell you my share in the
Harvest Lass
is just money invested.’

Carrick considered the grey-haired man with a new interest. Whisky was Portcoig’s other industry and its Broomfire distillery was justly famed. There were plenty of similar distilleries scattered around the islands, most of them outposts of mainland whisky empires – money-making outposts prized for the uniquely individual quality of their bottled glory.

The Portcoig operation was only a few years old, but Broomfire Supreme was already established as a single-malt connoisseur’s delight. He’d been told it often enough by Shannon. Most of it went for export and that, in the opinion of
Marlin
’s commander, was an unmitigated disgrace. Broomfire was too good for uneducated foreign palates.

He put the thought aside and tried again. ‘But John MacBean would usually have a regular crew, correct?’

‘Two men at least,’ nodded Graham.

‘And should have had last night,’ grated Alec MacBean. His eyes, blue like the dead man’s, glittered angrily. ‘Fergie Lucas and Peter Stewart should have been with him and you can blame that damned sharkman Rother and his people that they weren’t.’ He leaned forward. ‘If anyone killed John it was those sharkers – that’s how the village will remember it.’

‘Meaning they stopped his crew getting aboard?’ Carrick raised a surprised eyebrow.

‘No,’ murmured Sergeant Fraser. He finished his whisky with a long, practised swallow, carefully ran a
finger along his lips and glanced at Shannon. ‘But on the other hand, yes. There was a brawl outside the Harbour Arms at closing time last night. We had a patrol car over – as we’ve had most nights lately. My lads arrived in time to see Lucas and Stewart having their heads knocked against a wall by some of Rother’s sharkmen.’ He smiled slightly. ‘They were in no state to go anywhere.’

‘And how many o’ Rother’s men were arrested?’ snapped Alec MacBean. ‘Not a damned one!’

Sergeant Fraser shrugged. ‘They scattered. Anyway, I’ve heard different stories how it started.’

‘It started when Rother’s men attacked them,’ said MacBean harshly. ‘Or are you on Rother’s side, Sergeant?’

Fraser’s face froze, then he rose ponderously to his feet. ‘I’ll forget I heard that,’ he said softly. ‘Captain, my thanks for your hospitality. We’ll have the body taken ashore. Maybe later Chief Officer Carrick will let me have a written statement.’

Shannon nodded. Pushing back their chairs, Graham and MacBean muttered their own thanks and the trio went out, the policeman last, stopping briefly in the cabin doorway to give a slight, apologetic shrug.

As the cabin door closed again Shannon sighed, got up, and crossed over to the brass-rimmed porthole. The porthole glass was partly obscured by a large, aggressive-looking tomato plant. The plant had been a gift from his wife a few patrols back and somehow it lived and flourished on a diet which was mainly cold tea and tobacco ash.

‘It might be an idea to base ourselves on Portcoig for a couple of days, mister,’ he mused, parting the foliage and looked out towards Camsha Island. ‘When
Skua
was here last there was trouble brewing.’

‘I heard, sir.’

‘Did you?’ Shannon grunted under his breath, found his cigarettes, and offered one to Carrick. They shared a light from a kitchen match Shannon struck with his thumbnail.

‘Ever been to an island funeral, mister?’ asked Shannon unexpectedly.

Carrick shook his head.

‘It’s an experience.’ Shannon brooded for a moment. ‘I remember one that ended up like World War Three. Have you heard what started this trouble?’

‘No, sir.’

‘
Skua
’s captain heard a hazy story about one of Rother’s men and a local girl – that she became pregnant and drowned herself off the end of the pier.’ Shannon sniffed sceptically. ‘I didn’t think the average female worried about that sort of thing any more. Still, you could maybe have a talk with Rother and find out more about it.’

‘I’ll try him.’ Carrick finished his drink.

‘Good.’ Shannon considered the empty glass briefly, then deliberately corked the whisky bottle and put it back in his locker. ‘I’ll probably stay aboard – I’ve a load of damned Department forms to catch up on. But usual shore leave tonight as far as the crew are concerned. Just tell them to keep their noses clean for once.’

An old-fashioned black motor hearse was backed up facing the gangway when Carrick went out on deck. The rear doors were open, waiting, and a mutter of voices was coming from further aft.

A moment later Pettigrew appeared. Behind him, aided by a couple of seamen, a black-coated undertaker and his assistant came into sight carrying a plain
wooden coffin. They struggled up over the gangway with their burden and loaded it into the hearse. The rear doors closed. With a nod of thanks the two men went round, climbed into their seats, and the hearse purred off along the deserted pier.

Pettigrew came back aboard with an expression of relief on his thin face.

‘They didn’t waste any time,’ said Carrick dryly.

‘No.’ Pettigrew looked at the little slip of white he held in one hand. ‘One of those characters gave me his card. What the hell am I supposed to do with it?’

‘Keep it. Maybe they give trading stamps for introductions,’ said Carrick mildly.

Pettigrew glared at him. ‘Very funny. When do we sail?’

‘We don’t.’ Carrick shook his head. ‘Not before morning anyway.’ He looked past Pettigrew, eyes narrowing slightly. A small convoy of boats was coming through the channel into the bay. Dave Rother’s shark-catching team were returning home. ‘I’m going ashore for a spell. You and Jumbo toss to settle who minds the shop.’

He left Pettigrew grumbling, crossed the gangway, and headed towards the village. The main street was smooth tarmac, but the lanes leading off it were either pebbled or surfaced in rough slabs. Most of the houses were small and stone-built, with lace curtains at their narrow windows. Some had fishing nets draped across ropes in their small gardens, a few had hopeful TV aerials lashed to their squat chimneys.

‘Stinking snoop!’

The shout, in a boyish treble, came from a lane. He turned in time to see a fair-haired youngster scurry round a corner and heard a cackle of laughter from a grizzled old fisherman who’d been working on a net.

Grinning wryly, Carrick walked on. There were few people around and the ones he passed either ignored him or nodded a brief greeting. It amounted to the average fishing village reaction to Fishery Protection uniform.

He’d started off with no particular intention. But curiosity guided him towards Harbour View Cottages, where John MacBean had lived. When he found them they were just another row of small stone houses. Most of the front-room windows had blinds drawn shut, island tradition when there was a death among neighbours.

Suddenly, a voice hailed, then Sergeant Fraser came from one of the doorways and crossed towards him.

‘Looking for me, Chief Officer?’

Carrick shook his head. ‘Just walking.’

‘Aye.’ Fraser nodded his understanding. ‘John MacBean had the middle one in the row – that one with the green door. I came to have a word with his neighbours.’

‘For your report.’

‘Reports make the world go round,’ said Fraser dryly. A faint smile creased his heavy face. ‘You know that too, I imagine. Still, I’m finished here. The next thing’s the post-mortem over at Broadford Hospital then the inquiry is pretty well wrapped up as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Other people may think differently,’ mused Carrick.

‘If you mean we may have trouble tonight …’ The policeman didn’t finish, but nodded. ‘We’ll have a patrol car over again, just in case.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s time I got back to Carbost. My car is at the harbour if you’re heading that way again.’