Stormtide (6 page)

‘Meaning what, Aunt Maggie?’ asked Sheila Francis. Flopping back in a chair, she removed her nursing cap and let her copper-red hair cascade around her shoulders. ‘If you mean the sharks, say so, will you? I’m too tired to try guessing.’

‘The sharks,’ agreed the woman. She gestured towards the window, where an old brass telescope was mounted on a tripod stand with the barrel trained out towards the bay. ‘I’d almost a ringside seat with that thing.’

Crossing over, Carrick used the eyepiece and adjusted the focus. A stretch of dark water leapt into close-up, then, as he eased the barrel slightly, he found himself looking at the shark-base huts on Camsha Island. They were dark shapes in the gathering night but lights were burning in most windows.

‘Maggie …’ he began.

‘Coffee first,’ she said firmly.

It came black from the percolator. She gave them a cup each, poured one for herself, then settled in a chair with a sigh of contentment.

‘How’s Mrs MacPherson’s boy, Sheila?’ she queried.

‘Still waiting.’ The girl sipped her coffee then explained for Carrick’s benefit. ‘He’s a five-year-old who swallowed a marble.’

‘Och, I wouldn’t worry. It’ll be like the old story about the horse and the bee.’ Maggie MacKenzie ignored Carrick’s unconcealed impatience and rocked gently in her chair. ‘This particular bee was swallowed by the horse. So there the bee finds himself, inside the horse’s stomach and as angry as Satan at a saints’ reunion. But it was snug and dark and warm down there, so the bee decided to have a rest before he stung the horse. Only he went to sleep … and when he woke up the horse had gone!’

Carrick grinned, heard Sheila Francis chuckle, then deliberately put down his cup and pointed towards the telescope.

‘All right, Maggie. What did you see?’

She considered him thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t want to get anyone into any kind of bother …’

‘You won’t. Not through me, anyway.’

‘And I wouldn’t like to be thought a nosy old bitch …’

‘No.’ He said it flatly. ‘Let’s have it, Maggie.’

‘Well,’ – she leaned forward almost eagerly – ‘I happened to be having my usual wee look around the bay at sunset, the way I do most evenings. That was when I saw someone I thought I recognized prowling around over on Camsha Island.’

‘Who?’ asked Sheila Francis, puzzled.

The older woman shrugged. ‘It looked like that young Peter Benson from here. He was sneaking around the huts near the slipway when I saw him – acting as if he was hiding from someone. Then I lost sight of him, an’ a wee while later the shark carcasses began drifting out into the bay.’

‘Benson?’ Carrick stared at her. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I couldn’t be, man. Not at that distance,’ she retorted in a slightly peevish voice. ‘But I still say it looked like him.’

Carrick frowned at his feet. ‘He loses his job at the end of this week. So he could be trying to get his own back.’

‘The lad has had a rough time all round,’ mused Maggie MacKenzie. ‘First he finds folk cold-shouldering him over Helen Grant’s death. Then those idiots from the
Harvest Lass
beat him up and while he’s practically still bleeding his own boss gives him the heave.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Well, if he did do it good luck to him. It shows he’s got some backbone.’

‘Dave will kill him if he finds out,’ said Sheila Francis in a worried voice.

‘He may have to find him first, Sheila,’ Maggie MacKenzie told her. ‘You see, there’s another wee thing. Just about the time the sharks started drifting I thought I saw someone leave Camsha, wading across
the shallows to the far side of the bay. Remember, the tide was out.’

For Carrick, it amounted to a feeling of relief. If Aunt Maggie was right then the whole incident shrank in importance. Dave Rother might howl his rage, but as long as young Benson had the sense to get well away …

‘At least it wasn’t anyone from the village,’ said Sheila Francis, as if reading his mind. She eased herself with a murmur of relief and swung her long, slim legs up on the chair. ‘Things are stirred up enough already.’ She looked pointedly at Carrick, then turned. ‘He hasn’t been exactly helping, Maggie. When I found him he’d been talking to Harry Graham. You can guess why.’

‘And being his usual tactful self, I imagine,’ said Maggie with a heavy sarcasm. ‘Men – they’re a damned menace, all of them.’

Carrick shrugged defensively. ‘It was worth it, Maggie. He’s a lot different underneath from what I expected. I’d say he has his own kind of patience – but I wouldn’t like to cross him.’

‘That’s sense, at least.’ The woman’s voice became suddenly serious. Reaching down, she silently picked up a poker from the hearth and used it to stir the smouldering peat fire. It sputtered to a fresh glow as she looked up. ‘The man may not look it now, but he was a Commando in the last war. So was my own husband till he was killed – they were in the same platoon. My Andrew used to say Harry Graham never rushed anything, but that he was the one man he knew who’d rather kill with his hands than waste a bullet.’

‘That’s what he said he had in mind, when he’s sure,’ said Carrick quietly.

‘Then he means it.’ She laid down the poker and tucked her dressing gown closer, sitting quietly for a
moment as if alone with her own memories. There was a silence in the room, broken only by the soft sputter of the fire and the ticking of the clock.

‘What was his niece like?’ asked Sheila Francis suddenly.

‘Pretty in her own way and fond of having a man around.’ The tanned face wrinkled in a smile. ‘Mind you, at that age I felt the same. A man’s a useful thing if you keep him in his place.’

Carrick grinned wryly at the thrust. ‘Was that the reason she kept coming up here?’

‘Maybe part of it. Though I’d the feeling things might not be too happy at her own home. She certainly had her freedom in Portcoig. Harry Graham didn’t worry about what she did and usually he was too busy at the distillery to know anyway.’ She stopped, her mouth firmly resolute. ‘Now that’s enough about it. There’s no use asking me more because I just don’t know. Nobody does.’

‘It might be better if it stays that way,’ said Sheila Francis quietly. She uncurled from her chair. ‘Is there more coffee in that pot, Aunt Maggie?’

‘Help yourself.’ The woman’s manner became brisk again. ‘I’ll take some too. And now it’s my turn. Webb, tell me about this Pettigrew man you’ve got aboard – starting with why he always looks so damnably miserable. He’s not much to look at, but when you get to my age that doesn’t matter so much as long as they’re in trousers.’

Carrick grinned and tried to answer.

It was close to midnight when Maggie MacKenzie gave a first polite yawn. Carrick and the girl took the hint, shook their heads at her mild protests, and left the cottage minutes later.

Outside the clouds had cleared and the black velvet sky sparkled with starlight. But it was cold and the on-shore wind had built up in strength.

‘I’ll drive you back to the pier,’ volunteered Sheila Francis as they reached her car. ‘After that I’m heading straight for bed – I had to be up at dawn this morning.’

‘I could always walk,’ said Carrick quizzically.

‘Why? I pass the pier to get home anyway,’ she declared with a mild irritation. ‘Look, I’m getting cold just standing here. So stop arguing and get in.’

He gave her a mock salute and obeyed. Starting the car, she turned it and drove back the way they’d come. As the long silhouette of the pier showed ahead, Carrick cleared his throat mildly.

‘Any chance you’ll have some time off tomorrow night?’ he asked.

‘I might.’ She took her eyes off the road for a moment. ‘Does that mean you think you’ll still be here?’

‘It looks that way. Maybe for longer unless things settle.’

‘I see.’ She frowned slightly, letting the car coast to a halt near the start of the pier. Her pert face was serious in the glow of the panel lights. ‘Webb, a district nurse hears a lot. You’re right. Trouble is being stirred up – stories from the way Dave owes money to different people onward. There’s even been talk of the men from here going over and physically throwing the sharkmen off Camsha.’

‘That sounds like Alec MacBean at his best.’

She shook her head. ‘He may talk. But Fergie Lucas is the one who really has it in for Dave. Fergie is popular in the village – plenty of the younger fishermen would be right behind him if he started anything.’

‘Dave Rother is fairly good at taking care of himself,’ mused Carrick. ‘So are his men. Lucas and his friends could find themselves up against more than they reckoned.’

‘Perhaps.’ Sheila Francis rubbed a slim hand along the rim of the steering wheel. Then she smiled wryly. ‘I could be free about seven tomorrow, unless the telephone rings. When I get the chance I know a beach where there’s not as much as an old beer can on the sand and the water’s almost warm.’

‘Good.’ Carrick grinned, reached for the door handle, then stopped. ‘Should I ask if Dave will mind?’

‘No.’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ll pick you up here. Good-night, Webb.’

He climbed out and the little Austin purred off, headlamps tracing its way through the sleeping village. Lighting a cigarette, he thought over what she’d said. If Fergie Lucas tried his crazy idea of taking over the sharking base there would be a few broken heads – or worse – on either side. But for a few days at least the salvage job on the
Harvest Lass
should keep Lucas fully occupied and that might be time enough for things to cool down.

Starting along the pier, he noticed
Marlin
had a few deck lights burning and grinned. Probably one or two of the crew still had to wander back – with a clutch of hangovers to share in the morning. Though they’d try to hide the fact. While Captain Shannon turned a blind eye on a man who merely looked grey he came down like the wrath of God on anyone who couldn’t disguise the rest.

Some small line-boats were clustered near the shore end of the pier. He passed them, came near to a row of three larger seine-netters tied side by side almost under
Marlin
’s bow, then came to a sudden halt.

A shadowy figure was padding around the deck of
the middle boat of the trio, working in silence near the shadowed wheelhouse in a way that held no ordinary purpose.

Dropping his cigarette and quickly grinding it out, Carrick peered into the darkness for a moment, heard a faint clink of metal on metal and then a soft gurgling. Moistening his lips, he took a few quiet steps nearer the boat.

As he did, the reek of kerosene reached his nostrils. Swearing under his breath, conscious the man below only had to glance up to see him silhouetted against the night sky, Carrick watched a moment longer. The figure on the middle boat moved again, setting down the fuel can he’d been holding, dragged something which rustled along the deck, then lifted the can and began pouring again.

Tight-lipped, Carrick reached the edge of the pier and dropped lightly to the deck of the nearest boat. He landed near the stern, hugged the shelter of her piled nets for an instant, and listened. Above the soft lapping of the water he heard a rustling, another clink of metal, then silence.

Rising, he took one look across then quit the shelter of the nets. The middle boat’s deck was deserted again. But the reek of kerosene was stronger than ever.

Abandoning stealth, Carrick swung himself over the narrow gap between the two hulls, reached the seine-netter’s wheelhouse, and found the fuel can lying on its side next to a kerosene-soaked pile of old fish-boxes and sacking. Beyond it, the wheelhouse door lay open, the interior an ink-black darkness broken only by the faint luminous glow from the compass binnacle.

But there was someone in there. He could sense it, could almost feel the other man’s presence. Hesitating, he glanced towards
Marlin
. All the help he
needed was there, but he couldn’t take time to fetch it – not without giving his quarry a chance to escape.

Easing nearer the doorway he took a deep breath, tensed, then made a sudden dive forward into the wheelhouse gloom. As he did, a figure sprang from the shadows and a club sliced down at him – but the sheer speed of his entry saved Carrick. The blow intended for his head smashed against his shoulder, numbing it with pain, but still leaving him free to grapple the attacker before the club could be used again.

Struggling, the other man cursing, they went down together and grappled, rolling on the deck. Carrick collided with a metal stanchion, twisted his body away as the club slammed down again, then desperately slammed a fist into his attacker’s stomach.

The blow brought a low whoop of pain. It was too dark to see the man’s face, but he was medium height and strong – strong enough to come straight back in again. Carrick dodged a hand which clawed for his eyes, pistoned another blow into the man’s stomach in reply, then managed to tear himself free.

Rolling clear, he started to scramble up. Then something exploded against his head and he felt himself falling while the whole world whirled. Hitting the deck planking, dazed and semi-conscious, he heard quick, heavy breathing and a scuffle of feet. A match rasped outside, there was a grunt, then the kerosene-soaked bonfire ignited in a searing blast of heat and yellow flame. Suddenly it was brighter than day around him – and the scorching tongues of fire were already leaping higher, spreading fast.

Groggily, Carrick groped around for support, felt the wood of a locker, and managed to heave himself upright. Swaying, coughing as smoke and heat seared at his lungs, he clung there for a moment in a daze
while the crackling flames began to grow to a roar and the wheelhouse glass cracked and shattered with a sound like pistol-shots.

Gradually his head began to clear and he became vaguely aware of voices shouting somewhere outside. There was a fire extinguisher clipped to the bulkhead and he staggered across, pulled it loose, then turned back towards the flames.

A billow of sparks greeted Carrick as he neared the doorway. Throwing up an arm to protect his face, he lurched through into the open air and stood coughing, gasping for breath while he tried to bring the extinguisher round.