Stormtide (11 page)

‘This morning. She ferried me across the bay to one of the farms – I’ve an expectant mother over there.’ The Austin had left the village and was gathering speed along the narrow, climbing road. She drove in silence for a moment, then added suddenly, ‘I’d another patient when I got back to Portcoig, someone you know. It was Fergie Lucas.’ Carrick showed his surprise. ‘I thought he was out salvaging the
Harvest
Lass
!’

‘No.’ Sheila shook her head. ‘He said he was having the day off, and I don’t blame him. He had a fairly
nasty burn on his left arm from helping put out last night’s fire. It needed cleaning and dressing.’ Taking the car round a sharp right-hand bend, she frowned as she used the horn to scatter some newly clipped sheep wandering ahead. ‘I wanted him to make an appointment to have the burn dressing changed at the end of the week. But – well, he said something that puzzled me. That he might not be around by then.’

‘Meaning he’ll be stuck out at Moorach. Salvaging the
Harvest Lass
isn’t going to be easy.’

‘I suppose so.’ She shrugged wryly. ‘It’s just that – well, the moment he’d said it he looked as though he wished he hadn’t.’

Around another bend in the road they passed the Broomfire Distillery, a tight collection of modern buildings nestling in a fold between two hills. It was surrounded by a high chain-link fence, but the main gate was open and a truck was loading casks at the main warehouse block. Harry Graham’s staff were working overtime to meet his new schedule for the coaster.

Graham hadn’t mentioned that Fergie Lucas was still ashore. Carrick sighed. There was no reason why the distillery manager should have told him, but it might mean trouble later.

His eyes strayed to Sheila Francis again, noting the way the sun slanting through the windscreen was picking new highlights in her copper-red hair. He smiled to himself and pushed the rest from his mind.

Five miles out of Portcoig they turned off the road and began travelling down a bumping track which seemed to wind endlessly through a mixture of rock and heather and tall yellow broom.

Here and there the track was almost overgrown. The only sign of life along it was a surprised rabbit which flicked its ears and disappeared into the heather. Lurching and bouncing, the car travelled on then suddenly they were stopping a short distance from the edge of a cliff with the sea an expanse of blue below. To the left, the derelict remains of an old crofting cottage explained the track’s existence.

‘We’ve arrived,’ declared Sheila then laughed at his expression. ‘There’s a path leading down, idiot. Like to bring that basket from the back seat?’

He collected the basket and followed her out. They were some two hundred feet above the sea, but a narrow ledge of rock hidden by a tangle of bushes started them off on a scrambling route which led down to a tiny, sandy bay. When they reached it, the sand was warm and deep beneath their feet and quiet wavelets were rippling in only yards away.

‘Will it do?’ she asked, kicking off her shoes.

‘Aunt Maggie did you a major favour. People spend a lifetime looking for a spot like this.’ Setting down the basket near the foot of the cliff, Carrick stared up at the rocks above. Nothing stirred. They might have been alone in the world.

He turned. The pastel dress was lying on the sand near the water’s edge and Sheila Francis had begun wading out. Her black two-piece swimsuit, minimal in coverage yet practical, moulded to the curves of her slim, bronzed body. Thigh deep in the rippling water, she looked back, laughed, then tightened the ribbon tying her hair before she took a few more steps out and launched into a lazy backstroke.

Carrick stripped down to his trunks and followed her into the cool, crystal-clear water. She circled slowly till he reached her, then pointed to a rock
jutting from the sea about two hundred yards out from the bay.

‘Let’s go out there. Now …’

The backstroke’s easy rhythm suddenly changed and the water frothed as she set off in a pulsing, powerful beat. Grinning, Carrick took the challenge and started in pursuit. But the girl was faster than he’d expected. Halfway out she was still leading and he found he was having to positively churn along in his crawl-stroke. When he finally drew level there was less than twenty yards to go to the rock.

‘Truce,’ he gasped hopefully. ‘I give up.’

She nodded, eyes sparkling, and they finished the distance together then clambered on to the rock. It was long, smoothed by time and the sea, and they explored it like children, finding a hermit crab in the pool near its base and some tiny fish trapped in another awaiting the tide’s release.

At last Sheila Francis sat down on a ledge and smiled contentedly as he joined her on the warm, grey rock.

‘Like my private island?’ she asked, droplets of water still clinging to her body. ‘You’re my first official visitor.’

‘That makes it even better.’ He flipped a pebble at the water below and watched it splash. ‘Any special rules out here?’

She shook her head and seemed to shiver slightly as he put his arm around her. Then, slowly, her face turned and her lips shaped to meet his own.

The sun was edging down towards the horizon when they finally started for the shore. Swimming unhurriedly, occasionally diving down to chase some small fish through the fat, dark green wrackweed
below, they at last waded back to the soft sand of the bay.

There were towels in the basket, covering a coffee flask and some sandwiches. They dried themselves down, dressed again saying little, then Sheila Francis spread one of the towels as a picnic cloth and began to pour the coffee into paper cups.

Patting his pockets, Carrick swore mildly.

‘Cigarettes,’ he explained. ‘I left mine back at the car. Got any?’

She shook her head and he glanced ruefully at the climb up the cliff.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he promised and set off.

The upward climb was steep and he was breathing heavily when he reached the top. The Austin was where they’d left it and he collected his cigarettes and lighter from the front parcel shelf. Turning to go back, he saw something glinting bright over at the ruined cottage, noted several large gulls pecking and scraping at the fallen stonework nearby, and strolled over with a mild curiosity.

The gulls took to the air as he approached and circled overhead, keening indignantly. But the smile forming on his lips faded as he spotted a chromed metal tube half-hidden by a slab of masonry. Stooping, Carrick dragged the slab aside, saw the finned shape of an exhaust, then, suddenly tight-lipped, threw more of the rubble clear.

Front wheel smashed and handlebars twisted, the old motor-cycle lay with fuel from its tank a dark stain on the ground beneath. Remembering the gulls, he left it and crossed to where they’d been pecking.

When one of the gable walls of the cottage had collapsed it had fallen in a jumbled heap, long since a home for tall weeds. But there were no weeds growing where the gulls had gathered.

Carefully, grimly, he removed the top layer of masonry, then stopped, staring down at the result.

Peter Benson hadn’t got far when he’d left Camsha Island. There were cuts and scratches on his young, lifeless face, but they’d nothing to do with the way in which he’d died.

That came down to the shotgun blast which had torn away one side of his skull.

Feeling sick, Carrick glanced at the circling gulls and knew their purpose. He replaced the stones, took a deep breath, then headed back down the cliff to Sheila Francis.

When they came back together from the beach Sheila Francis took one long, silent look at the ruined cottage, bit her lip slightly, then turned away.

‘There’s a farm with a telephone about two miles from here, near the road,’ she said quietly. ‘I know the people.’

Carrick nodded. Down on the beach, when he’d told her what he’d found, he’d seen the horror on her face. But only for a moment. Then her nursing background had swept into place like a protective professional shutter.

‘I’ll stay. Get hold of the police at Portree and try to raise Captain Shannon at the same time.’ He saw a protest forming and thumbed towards the setting sun. ‘At the earliest it’s going to be near enough dark before they get here. I’ll take a look around while there’s still some kind of light.’

She didn’t like it, but didn’t argue. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the cottage again, nodded gravely, and went over to the car.

Left alone, Carrick stood for a moment, then began a methodical search of the ground around the tumble-down cottage, gradually working back towards it. Within minutes the hovering gulls had lost their fear and were settling again, pecking at the rubble, and he threw some pebbles to chase them off.

After twenty minutes all he’d succeeded in finding was a faint trace of tyre tracks where a vehicle had backed up close to the cottage. He threw another stone at a big, black-headed gull bolder than the rest, then crossed to the motor-cycle. From the bright metal showing around most of the damage, it had crashed on its side along a road surface. Some fresh grass and earth were jammed in parts of the front-wheel spokes near the hub.

Added to that terrible shotgun wound in Benson’s head, it was enough to paint a grim outline. Leaving the inevitable basics of where, why and when – where had Benson been killed, why had it happened, when had it happened?

He glanced thoughtfully towards the mound of masonry where the youngster lay buried. But that part was best left to the forensic men with their tweezers and their little plastic bags.

It had been a well-chosen hiding place. A long time might have passed before the body was discovered. A long, long time if he and Sheila hadn’t come this evening, if he hadn’t left his cigarettes behind …

Sitting on what had once been a windowsill, Carrick brought out the cigarettes, lit one, and ignored the squawking, hovering gulls.

Suppose Benson had been killed before that fire on the fishing boat. Then why had someone gone to so much trouble to frame the youngster, trouble which had escalated to include killing a harmless character like Gibby Halliday?

Someone? The same tendril of doubt he’d known earlier crept back as he remembered his own brief, hectic battle aboard the fishing boat. There might have been two men, a simple way of accounting for that otherwise uncanny blow which had struck him down.

Two men.

He found himself wondering if Dave Rother could kill in cold blood. Wondering and having a good idea of the answer.

Sheila had been gone almost an hour and, as he’d prophesied, it was grey dusk before headlamp beams lanced their way along the track towards him. Another minute and the little Austin braked to a halt near the cottage, two police cars pulling up behind it.

As men climbed out of the cars Sheila reached him first. ‘They asked me to wait at the road end and guide them in,’ she explained quickly. ‘Captain Shannon’s here too.’

Shannon was already coming over, side by side with a large, bald-headed man in a heavy tweed suit. The other policemen, mostly in uniform, were unloading equipment from the cars.

‘You’re sure it’s Benson, mister?’ asked Shannon as he reached them.

‘I’m sure, sir.’ Carrick gestured towards the rubble. ‘He’s over there.’

‘That upsets a few elaborate theories,’ said Shannon caustically. He glanced at the man beside him. ‘Including yours, Inspector.’

The bald-headed man nodded wryly. ‘Detective Inspector Rankin, from County Headquarters,’ he introduced himself wearily. ‘All right, Captain. Let’s take a look.’

Rankin led the way, Shannon close behind. They vanished into the gloom of the ruin, a torch glinted, Carrick heard the sound of masonry being thrown aside, then after another minute the two men returned together.

‘Anything else to tell us, Chief Officer?’ asked Rankin bleakly.

‘Some tyre tracks lead up to the cottage, but they’re faint. That’s about all.’

Rankin shrugged and glanced up at the sky. ‘Like to bet it’s going to rain?’ he asked of no one in particular. ‘That’s my usual luck. Or if they’re killed indoors we’ve a heatwave.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll start my people working. Chief Officer, if you want to take Miss Francis back to Portcoig now that’s fine by me. But I’ll want you later.’

‘He’ll be aboard
Marlin
,’ said Shannon heavily.

‘Good.’ Giving a nod, the detective strode off towards the waiting group by the cars.

Sticking his hands deep in his pockets, Shannon grunted into his beard. ‘Well, you heard him, mister. I’ll stay and keep an eye on things here.’ He switched his attention to Sheila, frowning. ‘Once you’re home, young woman, stay there. And my advice is you keep anything you’ve seen or heard to yourself.’

Her mouth tightened.

‘I don’t gossip, Captain,’ she advised coldly. ‘And I don’t need orders – I’m not one of your crew.’

‘No, you’re not.’ Shannon considered her again and gave a fractional smile in the gloom. ‘Maybe we should both be thankful for that.’

He went off after Rankin before she could reply.

‘Damn him,’ said Sheila at last, still indignant. ‘That came down to “Get rid of her and make sure she keeps her mouth shut”.’

‘And that’s what I’d better do,’ admitted Carrick wryly.

They went back to the Austin and got aboard. Another police car was arriving as they drove away.

For most of the distance back to Portcoig the road was empty of traffic. They passed the Broomfire Distillery,
closed and in darkness, then, as if in answer to Inspector Rankin’s prophecy, a light drizzle of rain began to fall.

Still making indignant noises behind the wheel, Sheila Francis switched on the wipers. Carrick said little until the first lights of Portcoig appeared ahead. But there was one question on his mind and at last he asked it.

‘How many people would know about that beach, Sheila?’

‘Not many.’ She shrugged. ‘Most of them would be locals, I suppose.’

‘What about Dave Rother?’

She kept her eyes on the road but her fingers tightened lightly on the wheel.

‘Sheila?’ Carrick waited.

‘He knows,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘I told him about it. But – well, that doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Not on its own.’ Carrick tried to sound convincing. But there were times when the sharkman could be his own worst enemy and this was certainly shaping up to be one of them.

‘There’s Harry Graham,’ declared Sheila suddenly. ‘Or even Fergie Lucas … or it could be someone else, someone you don’t even know exists.’

Carrick nodded, but didn’t answer. She looked at him again, sighed, and concentrated on driving.

Located at the east end of Portcoig’s main street, the district nursing post was a small, neat cottage which served as living quarters and a treatment centre. Carrick waited till Sheila was in the cottage and the door had closed then walked slowly through the village towards the pier. The wind was rising and dark clouds overhead threatened more rain on the way. By
the time he reached
Marlin
he was glad of the oily warmth which was waiting aboard and the hot, steaming coffee one of the duty ratings brought from the galley.

He found Jumbo Wills on the bridge deck with Clapper Bell. When they saw him coming they both looked relieved.

‘Webb, we’ve a small problem,’ said Wills sceptically. ‘Clapper thinks we’ve had a prowler aboard.’

‘I’m certain o’ it, sir.’ The bo’sun glanced scathingly at the second mate. ‘Though some people think it’s just a case o’ too much beer.’

‘What happened?’ asked Carrick with a sigh.

Bell shrugged. ‘I came back early – some o’ the lads were talking about having a poker game. But they weren’t around so I came up on deck for a smoke. An’ I’m damned sure I saw someone in the water, swimmin’ away from us towards the shore. It was just for a couple o’ seconds, but he was there.’

Wills shook his head. ‘Nobody else saw anything. Maybe it was a seal, Clapper.’

‘A seal?’ The bo’sun gave him the kind of glare he usually reserved for unpolished brasswork.

‘Checked, Jumbo?’ asked Carrick quietly.

‘All I can,’ shrugged Wills.

‘Then leave it for now. Benson’s been found.’ He gave them a quick outline then glanced around. ‘Where’s Pettigrew?’

‘Still ashore.’ Wills moistened his lips. ‘Look, if Benson was murdered then – well, who killed Gibby Halliday?’

‘First correct answer wins a prize,’ grunted Clapper Bell bitterly. ‘Any orders for us, sir?’

‘Not yet. Maybe when the Old Man gets back. But you’d better make certain most of the crew stay on watch till we know.’

Wills nodded. Scratching his chest, Clapper Bell looked out at the night.

‘Bloody seals,’ he muttered indignantly then lumbered away.

Midnight came round, bringing the last of the Fishery cruiser’s shore-leave men straggling back from the village. Pettigrew was with them and Carrick stopped him as he made a bee-line course towards his cabin.

‘Not tonight,’ said Carrick shortly. ‘You can get your head down later.’ He considered the junior second with interest. ‘Where were you anyway?’

‘Making a … a social call.’ Pettigrew gave an embarrassed scowl. There was liquor on his breath and his usually grey face reddened. ‘Mind your own damned business.’

‘All right.’ Suddenly understanding, Carrick found it hard not to grin. ‘But be careful – Maggie MacKenzie could eat you for breakfast.’

Pettigrew spluttered indignantly, the red flush spreading. Then he took another look around, the fact gradually registering that there were more of the crew around than usual. A sound like a groan came from his lips.

‘Are we going out?’ he asked wearily.

‘No, but I’d be on my feet when the Old Man arrives,’ advised Carrick. He told him why and Pettigrew swallowed on a yawn.

‘Oh God,’ said the junior second sourly. ‘That’s all we needed.’

For once, Carrick had to agree with him.

Captain Shannon returned at 1 a.m., bringing Detective Inspector Rankin and a subdued-looking Sergeant
Fraser with him. Summoned to join them, Carrick found the three men standing in a grim-faced semicircle in Shannon’s cabin.

‘Close the door,’ said Shannon heavily. ‘Rankin, you’d better bring him up to date.’

Bald head gleaming in the cabin lights, the detective nodded.

‘There still isn’t much more, Chief Officer,’ he admitted with a grimace. ‘Our police surgeon won’t be pinned down on what really matters, time of death. His guess is within an hour or so of midnight last night, either way. But try to squeeze it tighter and he just throws his hands up.’

‘Mind you, the man’s trying,’ murmured Sergeant Fraser from the background. ‘There’s always the same trouble wi’ a body found in the open. The overnight temperatures make a mess o’ their calculations.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten, Sergeant,’ said Rankin sardonically. ‘Mind if I go on?’

Fraser cleared his throat hastily and looked down at his feet.

‘Right,’ said Rankin heavily. ‘So the situation is that Benson could have been alive – or dead – at any time that matters last night. Then, somewhere, someone blasts him off that motor-cycle with a load of buckshot at close range.’ He saw Carrick’s questioning expression and nodded. ‘The spread of shot tells us that much. And it was effective enough – the medical reckoning is he’d be dead before he hit the ground.’

‘After which someone picked him up, added the motor-cycle, and drove to the cottage,’ grunted Shannon. ‘What’s your chances there?’

‘Damned few.’ Rankin shoved his hands deep in his pockets and scowled. ‘The wheel-marks back there were too faint to do more than tell us they were made by a car or light truck – even on wheelbase
calculations they won’t take us much further. As for finding a shotgun around here, they’re almost ten a penny. Right, Fraser?’

The sergeant nodded warily. ‘Most folk have one, sir. For game shooting or vermin … I’ve known weans practically cut their teeth on the things.’

‘So there we are.’ Rankin crossed over to the cabin porthole and looked out at the night. ‘Captain, I’d appreciate some help. Can you give me a boat and some men to take me across to that sharking base?’

‘Mister?’ Shannon glanced questioningly at Carrick.

‘We’re on full standby, sir.’ Carrick paused. ‘If you want, I’ll …’

‘Not you, Chief Officer,’ said Rankin softly, turning from the porthole. ‘I’ve too few men available to refuse offers. But you’ve a reputation of being friendly with Rother. I’d prefer you to do something else, if Captain Shannon is willing. I’ve other men going to talk to this character Fergie Lucas and I’m sending Sergeant Fraser to see this distillery manager, Graham. I’d like you to go with Fraser.’ He glanced at Shannon. ‘Agreed, Captain?’

Shannon nodded but seemed puzzled.

‘This car business doesn’t fit with Rother,’ he declared reluctantly. ‘Damn it, he came over from his base by boat last night and went back the same way. That’s positive – we had to sneak him along the pier to the boat when he left.’

‘When he left,’ agreed Rankin, unimpressed. ‘Tell them, Sergeant.’

‘The man has an old Volvo station wagon, Captain,’ explained Fraser cautiously. ‘Sometimes he leaves it in the village, other times over across the bay, handy for the island. He – well, he was seen driving it last night.’

Shannon’s bearded face clouded. ‘When?’

‘Almost an hour before that fishing boat was set on fire,’ said Detective Inspector Rankin. He looked pointedly at Carrick. ‘Sergeant Fraser’s regular patrol car crew were here in case of trouble when the pubs closed. They were on their way back to base when they saw the Volvo pass … which didn’t matter then. But it does now.’