Stormtide (14 page)

Dusk brought the first real hint of trouble. Sent ashore with a couple of ratings, Jumbo Wills came panting back with the news that a mob of fishermen were gathering outside the White Cockade bar, which had just closed its doors for the night.

‘They’re on their way here, sir,’ he reported breathlessly. ‘I got near enough to hear them – they’re planning to raid Camsha.’

Unimpressed, Shannon grunted, ‘Half the stupid devils would end up drowned if they tried it.’ He turned to Carrick. ‘All right, mister, you know what to do.’

Ten minutes later, when a shouting crowd some fifty strong finally arrived at the pier,
Marlin
had quit her berth and was patrolling slowly about five hundred yards out. As she completed another turn and came back her main twenty-one-inch searchlight came to life and lanced through the gloom, pinning the mob in its beam.

‘Listen to me.’ Shannon’s voice bellowed metallically across the water as he used the bridge loud-hailer. ‘I’ll arrest any man who tries to take a boat out. Understood?’

Fists shook and there were shouts of rage. But the rain, the wind and the occasional drenching spray helped decide the matter for the men on the pier. Gradually, still arguing, they drifted away again.

Scowling but satisfied, Shannon kept
Marlin
on the same monotonous patrol for another half-hour while dusk gave way to night and the moon came up, shining fitfully through the heavy, steady-moving cloud. Every now and again the twenty-one-inch beam swept across to inspect the pier.

It stayed deserted. Any belief that the Fishery cruiser might be disabled had been firmly squashed. And a brief message from the radio room completed Shannon’s feeling of victory. Inspector Rankin’s police road block on the coastal road had turned back four car-loads of fishermen – detaining two of the original drivers after they failed breathalyzer tests.

At 11 p.m. he ordered
Marlin
’s return to the pier.
She came alongside quietly, tied up, then lay with her diesels purring and deck lights blazing. But not a man aboard felt she’d be needed again.

‘Take over, Mister Carrick,’ said Shannon cheerfully. ‘Better keep a skeleton watch on duty but you can stand down the rest.’

Then, making a noise which almost sounded as if he was humming a tune, the bearded little figure disappeared in the direction of his cabin.

Pettigrew took over the watch at midnight, while a clatter and rumble from out in the bay marked the coaster
Lady Jane
bringing up her anchor. She gave a short, farewell blast on her siren then her masthead lights began heading out for the open sea. Watching them, Carrick thought of the buffeting she’d take out there and was glad he wasn’t aboard.

He was turning to go below when Pettigrew suddenly nudged him and pointed. A police car was coming fast along the pier, bouncing over the boards, its headlamps blazing. The car braked to a halt opposite the gangway. Jumping out, Sergeant Fraser came hurrying aboard and arrived on the bridge seconds later.

‘How soon can you sail, man?’ he blurted without preliminaries.

‘Any time.’ Carrick glanced at Pettigrew and thumbed towards the bridge intercom. As Pettigrew buzzed Shannon’s cabin he turned back to the policeman. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Maggie MacKenzie’s boat is overdue.’ Fraser moistened his lips. ‘An’ I’d better tell you now, Chief Officer. She’s got Nurse Francis with her – they went out this evening to an emergency call across the bay. That was hours ago an’ there’s been no word o’ them since.’

Carrick stared at him, feeling his stomach gripped by a sudden, chill fear.

‘Maybe they’re still over there,’ he suggested hopefully.

‘Maggie’s no fool,’ grated Fraser. ‘She’d have got word back to someone before now – they’ve been gone three hours, an’ the last thing she told her neighbour was she’d be back in less than two.’

‘Where were they going?’

Fraser shook his head helplessly. ‘Man, since I found out I’ve tried every home wi’ a telephone across there. None o’ them called for the nurse, none o’ them have seen anything o’ Maggie’s boat.’

The sudden blare of
Marlin
’s alarm klaxon swung them round. In his shirt-sleeves, tie hanging loose, Shannon was standing behind them. He kept his thumb on the klaxon button for a moment longer then let it die.

‘I heard,’ he said shortly. ‘All right, Fraser. We’ll start looking. Get back up to the village and drag out any men you can. Some on the fishing boats, the rest along the shore – you know the drill.’

Fraser nodded but hesitated. ‘Suppose they’ve drifted outside the bay … ?’

‘Then, if they’re in that eggshell, God help them,’ snarled Shannon. ‘Move, man.’

Nodding, Fraser spun on his heel and hurried down the companionway ladder. As he crossed the gangway
Marlin
’s crew were already scrambling to their stations and her diesel exhaust had begun to quicken.

Searchlights blazing, searing white magnesium flares bursting high above her at regular intervals, the Fishery cruiser combed her way round the bay with
every look-out available pitting his eyes against the blustering, spray-lashed night.

Behind her, smaller lights were soon bobbing and twinkling in the darkness as the first of the Portcoig boats joined in the hunt. Hunched in the command chair, one ear tuned to the growing chatter coming from the VHF receiver, Captain Shannon stayed impassive as he gave an occasional curt order. His task was to employ
Marlin
’s potential in the best possible way. The rest he left to the oilskin-clad men being drenched on the bridge wings.

But as time went on he spared a grimly understanding glance at the two scuba-suited figures waiting at his side. Carrick and Clapper Bell had line harnesses clipped ready round their waists. If and when there was a sighting their turn would come.

‘The MacKenzie woman knows her business,’ said Shannon gruffly. ‘Whatever’s happened, the odds are she’ll be coping.’

Carrick nodded silently then grabbed the radar mounting for balance as
Marlin
heaved and pitched round on another leg of her search.

They were halfway towards their next turn when an excited voice crackled from the radio, cutting across the rest of the searchers’ chatter.

‘West o’ you,
Marlin
. We’ve got something. But we’ll need help. Over.’

‘Acknowledge, mister,’ snapped Shannon. ‘Ask for a red flare. Then get aft with Bell and wait there.’

As the red flare curved skywards, astern and near the mouth of the bay, the Fishery cruiser corkscrewed round on full rudder with her deck mats vibrating. Minutes later she reached the spot, close to the barrier of shoal rocks flanking the entrance channel. A small line-boat was heaving in a fury of broken water, her
feeble spotlight trained on an upturned red and white hull which almost disappeared in each fresh sea.

Creeping in cautiously,
Marlin
brought her search-lights into play, stabbing the night around. Fragments of wreckage tossed here and there. But there was nothing more.

Waiting aft, Carrick grabbed the deck phone as it buzzed.

‘I’ll leave it to you, mister,’ said Shannon’s voice in his ear. ‘It looks bad. But there’s always just the chance …’

‘We’ll check,’ said Carrick greyly.

‘On your own timing, then.’ Shannon sounded tired.

Reclipping the handset, Carrick drew a deep breath. There might be an air space under that overturned hull. People had survived that way before. If there wasn’t, then there might be a body.

Someone had to find out.

As
Marlin
edged in closer Carrick checked the safety line round his waist. Then, while Bell did the same, he made sure the deckhands beside them were ready. Nodding to them, he crossed to the rail, waited for the next wave to pass, then launched himself over the side feet first.

The cold sea met him like a numbing shock as he went under and he came up gasping, the line at his waist tugging slightly as it continued to be paid out from
Marlin
’s deck. He heard a curse and a splutter in the water beside him as Clapper Bell caught up. But the bo’sun signalled he was intact and they began swimming towards the wallowing hull.

Waves slammed Carrick’s body and a fang of hidden rock grazed his side, tearing the suit. But he kept on, the safety line still trailing, and at last his hands grabbed the overturned launch and he clung
there, breathing hard. Another moment and Bell was there beside him while the launch heaved sluggishly in the white-foamed, spray-drenched night. Easing over, he tapped Bell on the shoulder, signalled he was going down, then let go and duck-dived beneath the hull, feeling blindly as he worked his way along its upside-down decking.

At last his lungs wouldn’t take any more. Kicking down and out, Carrick surfaced among the waves close to the hull and it was Clapper Bell’s turn. The Glasgow-Irishman’s burly shape went under like a whale and stayed down for a long time. When he finally bobbed up and shook his head, Carrick knew they’d done enough. A double tug on the safety line gave the wash-out signal to
Marlin
and they began swimming back.

The search didn’t give up. Another half-hour later
Marlin
had begun combing outside the bay, leaving the fishing boats to continue their attempts inside its shelter.

But one boat didn’t seem content to leave it at that. She came plugging out into the heavier swell with a signal lamp blinking furiously from her wheelhouse.

‘What the hell does that one want?’ demanded Shannon impatiently, scowling at the lamp through the whirling clear-view screen.

‘She’s making “must come aboard”, sir,’ answered the duty petty officer beside the coxswain. He reached for their Aldis lamp. ‘What reply, sir?’

‘Damn whoever it is.’ Shannon sucked his lips. ‘All right, acknowledge. Tell her to come in on our lee. Mr Wills, reduce speed to slow ahead, keep steering way.’

As the Aldis lamp began clicking and the Fishery cruiser’s engines slowed Shannon glanced at Carrick,
who was standing near the after companionway with a blanket round his shoulders.

‘Mr Carrick …’

Carrick didn’t hear him. His mind was still back at the overturned launch, the rest a dull feeling of helplessness. For once, Shannon merely shrugged, then reached for the bridge intercom himself and ordered a deck detail to be ready.

The fishing boat came alongside with fenders out and her engine throttled back. Her skipper skilfully narrowed the gap between the two hulls, the fenders bumped hard and then, as the boat lifted on a wavecrest, two figures waiting on her deck jumped across and were grabbed by
Marlin
’s deck detail.

A minute later Sergeant Fraser and Harry Graham were brought up the companionway stairs to the bridge. Fraser, his uniform soaked with spray, was grim-faced. Barely recognizable in an oilskin coat and wool cap, Harry Graham stood beside him with his mouth in a tight-set line.

‘Something wrong with your radio?’ asked Shannon wearily.

‘No.’ Fraser glanced around. ‘Where can we talk, Captain? It’s important.’

‘The chartroom. Take over, Mr Wills.’ Frowning, Shannon slipped down from the command chair, signalled Carrick to come with him, and led the way.

Four men in the chartroom’s cramped space was a crush, but once they were inside Shannon closed the door.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

Fraser moistened his lips. ‘We couldn’t use the radio, Captain – not for this. The
Lady Jane
is missing now.’

‘The whisky coaster?’ As far as Carrick was concerned it somehow seemed ridiculous. He stared at Fraser. ‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as we can be.’ Fraser fumbled for his cigarettes. The pack he brought from his pocket was sodden and he tossed it aside. ‘Can I … ?’

‘Here.’ Shannon slid his own pack and matches across the table. He was puzzled and showed it. ‘You say you couldn’t radio. Why the devil not?’

‘There’s good reason, Captain,’ said Fraser. He took a cigarette, lit it, and drew thankfully on the smoke. ‘Very good reason, believe me.’

‘Then spell it out,’ said Shannon bleakly. ‘The weather’s bad, agreed … worse here than inside the bay. But anything the
Lady Jane
’s size is safe enough.’

‘I didn’t say weather, Captain.’ Fraser exchanged a glance with Graham, as if seeking support. ‘All I said was she was missing. That’s – well, for want of a better word.’

Bewildered, Shannon stared at him. ‘Then explain, damn it.’

‘Aye.’ Fraser drew on the cigarette again, as if for comfort. ‘Captain, I sent men searching the shore like you asked. One o’ them found a body newly washed up.’ – he saw Carrick tense and shook his head – ‘No, a man’s body, Chief Officer. A man wi’ his throat cut.’

‘John Vasey,’ said Graham in a low voice. ‘He was the
Lady Jane
’s engineer. That leaves three men – the captain, the mate and a deckhand.’

‘And that’s why we didn’t radio,’ said Fraser grimly. ‘That, and because it could explain what’s happened to Maggie MacKenzie.’

Carrick grabbed him by the arm. ‘What the hell are you trying to say?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ said Graham wearily, pushing the wool cap back on his head. ‘It looks like the
Lady Jane
has been pirated. And if Maggie and the Francis girl are aboard you can blame me.’

‘You’d better know something else straight off,’ added Sergeant Fraser with a bitter edge to his voice. ‘It could be your sharkman friend Rother we’re after.’

Captain Shannon made a swallowing noise and Fraser almost managed to smile.

‘Captain, you may have put his shark-boat under arrest, but she’s not at Camsha Island. As far as we can make out Rother sailed that
Seapearl
out as soon as it was dark tonight, while you were still busy keeping the Portcoig men off his neck. What’s more, he’s got a crew aboard who might have been hand-picked from the worst o’ that whole Camsha bunch … nine o’ them.’

‘I said spell it out,’ rasped Shannon harshly.

Fraser nodded. ‘First, I finally managed to find out that Maggie had taken the launch over to Malloch Head. The Francis girl had been called out to an old woman wi’ some kind of heart trouble. The launch got there, the woman’s family met them, and the Francis girl gave her some pills. They waited a bit, then left again for Portcoig before eleven o’clock.’