Stormtide (7 page)

Before he could succeed, a pair of powerful arms suddenly grabbed him. Spun round bodily, he was smashed back against the deckrail.

‘Here’s one o’ the devils,’ bellowed a voice almost in his ear.

Through smoke-stung eyes he saw an angry, bearded face and a massive fist swinging back to hit him. But the blow didn’t land. An even larger hand grabbed the man’s arm and held it. Then Clapper Bell’s face swam into his vision. The bo’sun peered incredulously, then grinned.

‘It’s one o’ our officers, friend,’ declared Bell loudly. ‘Take that ruddy fire extinguisher he’s got. We’ll need it.’

Gladly, Carrick surrendered the fire extinguisher as the bearded fisherman released him with a muttered apology. Putting a steadying arm around him, Bell guided him back from the flames. Gradually, Carrick took in the rest. Several figures, some from
Marlin
, and the others fishermen, were already battling the blaze with extinguishers, water buckets and hastily wetted sacking. Others were on the outermost seine-netter, starting up her engine.

‘We’ll get you out o’ this,’ decided Clapper Bell. ‘What the hell happened anyway, sir?’

‘I tried to tackle the character who started this.’ Carrick winced at the pain throbbing through his head. ‘Don’t ask me what he hit me with, but it felt like half of Portcoig.’

In the background the outer fishing boat’s engine coughed to life and her mooring lines were slipped. She edged out, then waited, ready to tow her sister boat clear if the fire looked like spreading.

‘Somebody’s usin’ his head,’ grunted Bell. ‘Come on now – it’s our turn.’

Ignoring Carrick’s protests, he steered him back through the milling fire-fighters, across the inner seine-netter’s deck then half-pushed, half-lifted him back up to the pier. As they reached it a portable floodlamp flared to life at
Marlin
’s bow. Another moment and a hose-jet projected beside it. There was a warning shout, the fire-fighters scattered, and the hose began lancing water.

‘First things first,’ declared Bell, grinning again. He dragged a small flask from his hip pocket and uncapped it carefully. ‘Here, sir.’

Sitting thankfully on a bollard, Carrick took a long swallow from the flask. It was neat rum, which sent him coughing. But the fierce spirit helped blast the last of the mist from his mind. He sat for a moment watching the hose-jet at work, seeing it make fast work of extinguishing the flames on the seine-netter.

‘Panic over,’ said Bell confidently. He retrieved the flask and took a quick swallow before he tucked it away again. ‘Our bloke on gangway duty saw flames an’ rang the alarm bell, so we turned out. The locals started arrivin’ about the same time. Some o’ them think they saw a man headin’ away from the pier.’ He stopped, looking past Carrick, and his expression
changed. ‘Here’s the Old Man comin’, sir. He looks fit to be tied.’

It was a reasonable description. Wearing a duffel coat over brightly patterned pyjamas, the pyjama legs tucked into sea-boots and his moon-shaped face still heavy with sleep, Captain Shannon had all the appearance of an ageing, homicidally inclined teddy bear.

Carrick tried to get to his feet as he reached them. Scowling, Shannon waved him down again.

‘Stay there, mister. Stagger like that and the locals will have you drunk by morning.’ He glared across at the hose-jet still playing on the seine-netter. ‘All right, spell it out for me.’

Carrick did. As he finished the hose-jet was finally turned off and the waiting fishermen and
Marlin
’s fire-fighters moved in again, slapping busily with wet sacking at the last lingering tongues of flame.

Grunting, Shannon glanced along the pier, where a thickening crowd was gathering.

‘Bo’sun …’

‘Sir?’ Bell stiffened, being careful not to breathe in Shannon’s direction.

‘Put a couple of men on keeping that mob from spilling any nearer. Then get over to that boat again and see what you can find.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

As the burly figure set off, Shannon turned to Carrick again and chewed ill-naturedly on a stray tendril of beard. ‘First Rother has his sharks set adrift, then this happens over here. Tit for tat – or that’s how I’d read it.’ He grunted under his breath. ‘Other people will too, mister. This man you saw would you know him again?’

Carrick shook his head.

Muttering under his breath, Shannon looked around then bellowed, ‘Master Wills …’

A moment passed, then a smoke-blackened Jumbo Wills trotted to join them.

‘Sir?’

‘Finished playing at fire brigades?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Wills grinned uneasily. ‘The damage isn’t too bad actually and …’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ snapped Shannon, cutting him short. ‘Gather up half a dozen of the hands. Make sure nothing that floats leaves this pier unless I know first.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’ Wills moistened his lips and hesitated. ‘Suppose someone tries?’

‘You stop them. Throw them off the pier. Now move!’

Wills gulped, nodded, and trotted off. Watching him go, Shannon drew a deep, groaning breath.

‘Mister, I’d give a lot to know what the good Lord gave that young idiot in place of brains. If he ever gets command of anything bigger than a rowing boat …’ He stopped, his attention suddenly switched towards the crowd being held back at the far end of the pier.

An argument of some kind seemed to have broken out. There were shouts, curses, then the men on guard were literally shoved aside and two figures marched purposefully into the smoke-laced glare of light. As Carrick recognized them he swallowed hard and struggled up to his feet.

‘Here comes all we needed,’ said Shannon in near disbelief. ‘Rother …’

Another moment and Dave Rother reached them, Yogi Dunlop hovering like an escort a few paces to the rear.

‘Captain, your men didn’t seem too happy about letting us through,’ said Rother crisply. ‘But I wanted to see you – and now, not later.’

‘Why?’ Shannon eyed him coldly.

Rother shrugged. ‘You’d soon have heard we’d been back in the village.’ He thumbed towards the smoke-wreathed seine-netter. ‘Some of the locals seem to have the idea that Yogi or I might have been playing with matches. I wouldn’t like you to come round to the same idea.’

‘It might not be hard,’ answered Shannon coldly.

‘Give me some credit,’ sighed Rother, unperturbed. ‘If ever I wanted to start a fire it would be a real one. But I’ve a feeling you’d go jumping to conclusions.’

‘Why aren’t you out at the island, Dave?’ asked Carrick quietly.

‘I’m on a little private errand of my own, boy.’ The fair-haired sharkman’s face tightened a fraction. ‘A domestic thing, believe me.’ Coming closer, he eyed Carrick carefully. ‘You look like you caught the rough end of this deal. Doesn’t he, Yogi?’

The big harpoon gunner grinned dutiful agreement.

‘Still, you always had a thick skull,’ mused Rother. ‘I’m more worried about you, Captain. Run around in pyjamas at your age and you’re inviting a chill in the bladder. You should wrap up better – we don’t want to lose you.’ He glanced at Carrick again. ‘Just remember, I’m not involved in it. Right?’

Ignoring Shannon, he swung away back the way he’d come with Dunlop trailing at his side.

Spluttering incoherently,
Marlin
’s captain had barely recovered from the outrage by the time they’d vanished back into the crowd. Then he covered up by bellowing fresh instructions to his men aboard the seine-netters, finally calming down as Clapper Bell came clambering back up on to the pier.

A paint-blistered kerosene can in one hand, the bo’sun reached them then stopped and looked back. A small group of fishermen had climbed up after him and were waiting at the edge of the pier, muttering angrily.

‘Well?’ demanded Shannon. ‘Any luck?’

‘Some, sir.’ Bell hefted the fuel can. ‘He used this – it belonged to the boat, kep’ in the stern locker, where you’d expect it to be.’

‘And the locker forced open?’

‘Aye. An’ I found this, sir.’ Bell held out his other hand. On his broad palm lay a heavy bone-handled clasp-knife, the hinged blade open but snapped off short, the broken piece of blade lying beside it. ‘The knife was lyin’ near the wheelhouse. The wee broken bit was at the stern locker.’

Shannon looked at the knife, then, lips pursed, took it from him and passed it to Carrick. In the glare cast by
Marlin
’s spotlight the initials ‘D.R.’ burned deep into the bone handle stood out plainly.

‘Nice friends you have, mister,’ grated Shannon, his round face a cold fury. ‘D.R. – David Rother. For all he cared you might have been barbecued in that wheelhouse. Now you know why he came back to see if we’d found this.’

Carrick shook his head. It seemed too simple an explanation.

‘Sir …’ Bell thumbed back towards the waiting fishermen. ‘They know about the knife. In fact, it was one o’ them found it.’

They looked over at the angry, restless group of smoke-blackened figures. One of them, stocky and scowling, gave a wolfish grin as Carrick’s eyes met his own. Stepping forward, Fergie Lucas made himself spokesman.

‘What about it now, eh?’ he bellowed. ‘You Fishery snoops get out o’ the way an’ we’ll deal with that bastard Rother an’ his stinking sharkers. We’ll fix them, once an’ for all.’

The men around him rumbled a noisy agreement. Shannon waited till it died, glaring at them.

‘Just try it,’ he invited icily. ‘Try it, and I’ll see every last one of you jailed – if I’ve got to tow you there on a raft.’ Ignoring their fresh muttering he turned to Bell and lowered his voice. ‘Clapper, you’ll find Rother along the pier or not far away. That long-haired gunner is with him. Take a couple of men and bring them aboard
Marlin
. Knock any heads together you have to, but get them aboard in one piece. Now.’

Bell spat happily on his hands and set off.

Twenty minutes passed before Rother and Yogi Dunlop were brought back. By then the crowd on the pier had thinned but there were still enough of them remaining to form a threatening, jostling escort along the pier. It took half a dozen of
Marlin
’s crew to keep the gangway clear once the two men had been taken aboard.

Captain Shannon was waiting in the spartan comfort of the Fishery cruiser’s wardroom. His lack of sleep still showed, but he’d changed into uniform. Carrick joined him there, head throbbing in a lower key after a cold-water soaking, just as the shouts and jeers outside heralded the arrivals.

‘Good,’ said Shannon softly. Clasping his hands behind his back, he faced the wardroom door hungrily. There was a knock and it opened. Clapper Bell entered first, Dave Rother and Dunlop angrily at his heels, the seamen who’d helped bring them hovering in the companionway outside.

‘Any trouble, Bo’sun?’ asked Shannon curtly.

‘A wee job findin’ them, sir – that’s all. They were up in the village,’ reported Bell laconically. He glanced at Yogi Dunlop and grinned slightly. The long-haired gunner had a smear of blood on one corner of his mouth. ‘Mind you, they weren’t too pleased.’

‘Your men dragged us here,’ rasped Rother. Thin face flushed, he glared indignantly at Shannon. ‘Being in command of this tub doesn’t make you God, you fat old goat. Just how much do you think you can get away with?’

All expression wiped from his bearded face, Shannon ignored the shark-boat skipper. ‘Stay, Bo’sun,’ he ordered. ‘But close that door.’

Silently, Clapper Bell obeyed then took up a strategic position beside it.

‘You’ve some kind of complaint, Mr Rother?’ asked Shannon with an icy sarcasm.

‘You’ll find out the hard way,’ snarled Rother. ‘We were grabbed in the street, roughed up, then hauled up that pier like …’ Suddenly his voice died. He stared at the broken clasp-knife Shannon had left lying on the wardroom table.

Yogi Dunlop had seen it too. He took a shuffling step nearer then stopped and glanced at Rother, his manner uneasy.

‘Go on, Mr Rother,’ encouraged Shannon softly.

Rother shook his head and sighed. ‘Forget it. Where did you find that?’

‘It was on the seine-netter,’ said Carrick. Going over, he picked the knife up and held it in the flat of his hand. ‘Your initials, Dave.’

‘My knife,’ answered Rother curtly. ‘Or it was.’

‘Was?’ Shannon raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Meaning you lost it?’

‘Gave it to someone.’ Rother scowled briefly, then, without asking, dragged one of the wardroom chairs from the table and sat down. ‘All right, Captain. No complaints. I’ll tell you why, if you’ll listen.’

‘I’ll listen,’ agreed Shannon woodenly.

‘That was my knife. Till a month ago, till I gave it to one of my crew. Correct, Yogi?’

Dunlop grunted agreement. ‘The fool kid lost his own an’ kept moaning about it. Plenty of our people knew.’

‘It just happens I came ashore tonight looking for him,’ said Rother grimly. ‘For a separate reason, one that doesn’t matter here. I haven’t found him yet.’

‘Peter Benson?’ asked Carrick bluntly.

Rother blinked, then nodded.

‘Better tell the rest, Dave,’ said Carrick. He gave Shannon a mildly apologetic glance, then went on: ‘You think it was Benson who cut those sharks loose and he’d vanished from Camsha when you got back, right?’

‘How the hell did you know?’ asked Rother almost wearily.

‘Someone else had the same idea,’ answered Carrick obliquely. Captain Shannon’s gathering scowl held its own warning and he explained quickly, ‘Benson is the youngster who was beaten up last night, sir.’

‘I know that much, mister,’ growled Shannon. ‘What about the rest?’

‘He was out of a job from the end of this week. Maybe he decided to walk out now – and wanted to leave a few reminders behind him.’

Rother nodded wryly. ‘I’ll admit that’s how it looks to me now. The young devil was alone on the island tonight – I made him stay there. Remember I told you that, Webb?’

Considerably deflated, Shannon stood tight-lipped for a moment.

‘Can you prove any of this, Rother?’

Grinning with relief, Yogi Dunlop answered for him. ‘The bit about the knife is easy enough, Captain. We’ve over thirty men on Camsha. Most o’ them could swear to it.’

‘And he’s gone,’ added Rother grimly ‘So has the old motor-cycle he kept in a hut on the main shore near the island.’ His eyes glittered angrily. ‘I’ll knock hell out of the little basket if I ever get my hands on him.’

Shannon grunted and turned his attention to Carrick. ‘Couldn’t you have told me some of this before, mister?’ he asked curtly.

‘I didn’t have the chance,’ reminded Carrick defensively. ‘Anyway, I didn’t know how it fitted, sir.’

Beginning to enjoy the situation, Rother chuckled. ‘I warned you about going off half-cocked, Shannon,’ he reminded, loafing back in the chair. ‘You should have listened. Now how about telling that mob waiting on the pier they’re wasting their time?’

A knock on the wardroom door robbed Shannon of a chance to reply. It opened and Pettigrew entered with an unhappy expression.

‘Well?’ demanded Shannon.

‘We’ve got a fishermen’s deputation at the gangway, sir,’ reported the middle-aged junior second unenthusiastically. ‘They want to see you.’ His eyes flickered towards the two sharkmen. ‘They’re demanding to know what’s happening.’

‘Demanding?’ Shannon bristled at the word. ‘Damn their impudence. Tell them to go to …’ He stopped and sighed. ‘No, better not. Not right now. All right, I’ll see them. While I’m doing that, I’ve a job for you.’

‘Me, sir?’ Pettigrew didn’t quite groan.

‘You.’ Shannon turned to Dave Rother. ‘Did you bring a boat over?’

Rother nodded. ‘We’ve a dinghy along the pier.’

‘Right.’ Shannon swung back to Pettigrew. ‘They’ll give you a full description of a man called Peter Benson. Then make sure they get to that dinghy in one piece.’

Pettigrew nodded, then remembered his other reason for coming. ‘We’ve still a shore-leave man adrift, sir. It’s Halliday.’

‘Again?’ murmured Carrick and grinned. One of the engine-room greasers, Gibby Halliday always turned up eventually. But even when sober his blood-alcohol content would probably be impressive.

‘Damn Halliday,’ snapped Shannon. ‘Put him on report, man. Carrick, you’d better come with me till I fix this deputation. We’ll bring them aboard – that’ll give Pettigrew more of a chance to get these two ashore.’

He stumped out of the wardroom. Following, Carrick grimaced a wry farewell towards Dave Rother. The sharkman raised one hand in a laconic acknowledgement then gave a heavy wink.

Rother, at least, seemed unworried. But following Shannon along the companionway Carrick had doubts of his own.

The figure he’d grappled with in the darkness of that wheelhouse might conceivably have been young Benson. But his opponent had been viciously determined, and cool enough to start the fire before making his escape.

Somehow none of that fitted with his own notion of Peter Benson’s character. Even if all the rest fitted. And he was still puzzled about the way he’d been struck, by a blow that might have come out of nowhere.

‘We haven’t got all night, mister,’ said Shannon suddenly, cutting across his thoughts.
Marlin
’s captain had reached the companionway door that led to the main deck and was waiting on him. ‘Let’s get this over with. Then I’ll get that young idiot’s description off to the civil police. At least we’re on an island – he won’t find it easy to get off.’

The fishermen’s deputation, when they came aboard, were four in number. All were skippers, two from local boats and two from Mallaig boats using the bay, all were older men of the type any Fishery Protection captain took seriously.

Shannon led them to his day-cabin, opened a bottle, and poured them each a drink. They thanked him, sipped slowly in dignified style, then the oldest, elected spokesman, came straight to the point.

‘Are you locking up those sharkers, Captain?’

‘No. But we’re looking for one of their men who had a grudge against a few people – young Benson,’ said Shannon bluntly. ‘He seems to have bolted.’

‘That one, eh?’ The skipper’s leathery face showed an understanding and he glanced at his companions. ‘The lad who fathered that bairn – aye, it makes sense.’ On the strength of the information he emptied his glass at a single gulp. ‘Even so, I’ve a duty to give you a warning, Captain. The fishing fleet aroun’ this part o’ the inch has had its fill o’ these sharkmen, one way an’ another.’

‘I see.’ Shannon reached for the bottle again, but stopped as the man shook his head. ‘I’d have thought men like you would have more sense than …’

‘Not us, Captain.’ The skipper held up a hand to stop him. ‘But we’ve younger men wi’ less patience.’

‘And Fergie Lucas leading them?’ suggested Carrick.

The man nodded. ‘Him among others, Chief Officer. One more wee incident like tonight an’ Satan himself won’t stop them taking those sharkmen apart.’

‘And we won’t particularly feel like stoppin’ them,’ grunted another of the skippers.

Shannon kept his temper, but his voice took on a new edge. ‘You’d better think about that one again. Or
the only fishing you’d do afterwards would be with a piece of string and a bent pin off the edge of the pier. That’s a promise.’

‘You might be there too, Captain,’ murmured the spokesman. ‘That Department o’ yours likes things nice an’ peaceful. The way they saw it, they might give someone else the job o’ driving that fine big boat o’ yours.’

‘I’ve heard that before – and I’ll hear it again.’ Shannon looked at the man for a moment, then, surprisingly, gave a sound close to a chuckle. ‘So to hell with you too, Skipper. Now we know where we stand, do we have that other drink?’

The fishermen glanced at each other their manner uncertain. Then, grinning shamefacedly, they nodded in turn.

Before they left the bottle had gone round a third time. But it had been worth it. Their attitudes slightly thawed, the four skippers went away promising they’d at least try to calm things down among the crews.

Shannon saw them ashore. When he came back he grimaced at Carrick and yawned.

‘That’s it for tonight, mister. Better get some sleep.’

‘I will,’ agreed Carrick. ‘Any sign of Gibby Halliday, sir?’

‘Not yet.’ Shannon sniffed heavily at the reminder. ‘He’ll keep till morning, then I’m going to have his guts, drunk or sober.’

Gibby Halliday turned up soon after dawn. The last boats of the fishing fleet were leaving, heading out of the bay for the start of another day’s work, when the wash from a propeller blade brought his body drifting sluggishly from the dark shelter of the pier.

They brought him up to the pier and laid him there, a scrawny figure in off-duty sweat-shirt and slacks. A bottle still protruded from his hip pocket and the bold, tattooed figure of an anatomically provocative female mocked them from one hairy arm while water from his clothes formed a growing pool on the planks below.

It was easy enough to see how he’d died. His head had been smashed in, the skull almost pulped under what must have been a rain of blows.

Jumbo Wills was
Marlin
’s officer of the watch. He was on the pier when the dead greaser was taken out of the water and came back aboard looking sick. Already up and dressed, Carrick got to the spot minutes later, pushed his way through the men clustered round the body, and found Captain Shannon standing there, staring down.

‘Drunk or sober,’ said Shannon, almost to himself. His mouth tightened bitterly. ‘He must have been coming back when your damned firebug was escaping. Probably never even knew what was happening – just got in the way.’

‘Does Andy Shaw know?’ asked Carrick quietly. Gibby Halliday had been one of the chief engineer’s squad for a long time.

‘I’ve sent for him.’ Shannon drew a long breath. ‘Rother’s boats have left base. But get out there and talk to anyone you find. I want any lead we can on this Peter Benson. God help him if some of the crew get their hands on him before the shore police do.’

Andy Shaw was arriving as Carrick left. Unshaven, rumpled enough to have slept in his clothes,
Marlin
’s chief engineer headed past without a word. Face the colour of paper, he walked like a man who didn’t want to get where he was going.

Even when sober, Gibby Halliday would have shared his last cigarette with any man. Shannon was right. Guilty or not, Peter Benson would have short shrift and find little mercy if he fell into the hands of the dead greaser’s friends. No amount of discipline could change that.

Passing the empty, fire-damaged seine-netter, now lying alone with her superstructure charred and blackened, Carrick went aboard the Fishery cruiser.

Five minutes later, aided by a group of grim-faced deckhands who didn’t need any urging, he had the ship’s motor-whaler in the water and her falls slipped. With three seamen aboard as crew he gunned the whaler’s engine and sent it arcing away from
Marlin
’s side until the bow pointed straight for Camsha Island.

Clear of the pier, the lumpy swell began to toss them about. The sky overhead was grey and the wind had risen several points overnight. Instinctively he glanced towards the mouth of the bay and saw white breakers forming a foaming line along the shoal rocks.

It would be a lot rougher out in the open sea. He thought briefly of the additional difficulties for the
Heather Bee
and her crew on their salvage bid, then dismissed the thought as the seaman nearest him leaned forward.

‘Do we turn the place over when we get there, sir?’ asked the man hopefully. ‘I was thinking, maybe those sharkers have this kid hidden away somewhere.’

Carrick shook his head. ‘I want one of you to stay with the boat. The other two can look around. But no heavy stuff. Understood?’

The seaman’s face fell but he nodded, then cursed as a wavecrest took them on the starboard bow, drenching a curtain of spray over the whaler. Carrick watched him for a moment. There might be more than
one kind of problem ahead … with
Marlin
’s crew a prominent factor.