Stormtide (5 page)

‘Over here,’ hailed Dave Rother, sitting with a small group of his men. ‘I’m buying, Webb.’

‘It makes a change.’ Carrick took a vacant seat, ordered a whisky, listened with half an ear to Rother’s
light-hearted banter, but noticed that the sharkmen were still being left in isolation as far as the other fishermen along the bar were concerned.

‘
Slainche
.’ He used the Gaelic toast absently, took a sip of the liquor, then set the glass down. ‘I want to talk with you, Dave.’

‘Now there’s a surprise,’ said Rother sardonically. He glanced at his companions. ‘That’s meant as a hint. I’ll see you later.’

The others rose and drifted off. Lighting a cigarette, Rother settled back and waited. He wore a blue knitted-wool jacket over his shirt and slacks and his thin, long-nosed face was expressionless. The hand which held the cigarette had a deep scar running across the palm, a reminder of a time when the sharkman had held a running rope for a fraction too long.

‘Your popularity rating doesn’t seem what it used to be, Dave,’ said Carrick quietly, nodding slightly towards the bar.

‘That’s true,’ agreed Rother almost lazily. He ran a finger round the rim of his glass. ‘Does it worry you?’

‘Should it?’ parried Carrick. ‘You tell me.’

Rother shrugged. ‘I’ve an idea you know already. Maybe you’ve heard a story.’

‘I have – or some of it.’

Carrick watched the expressionless face opposite. In another time Dave Rother would probably have found his slot in life as a freebooting privateer captain. Instead, he’d been Royal Navy for a spell, a submarine service lieutenant. But he’d resigned his commission under the threat of a court of inquiry into the complete disappearance of a startling quantity of surplus Admiralty stores. Not very long afterwards he’d appeared on the West Coast and had commenced his shark-fishing operation.

It was the kind of job which needed a Dave Rother. Basking sharks were the largest fish in the North Atlantic bar none, thirty feet long and often bigger, a minimum of five tons in weight. Only the giant Pacific whale-sharks topped them for size.

Rother went after them with his little boats and harpoon guns, caught and killed them, then processed the shark liver for its precious oil, wanted by industry and drug companies. Even an economy-sized basker would yield more than a ton of liver, meaning close to £100 cash in terms of oil.

There was money in it. But it was money won the hard way. The big sharks lived on tiny plankton. Yet they died hard, and a side-swipe from their massive tails could stove in a boat’s side or smash a man’s ribcage to pulp. Even so, the mere sight of those big black sail-fins above the water was enough to excite any sharkman.

‘All right,’ said Rother wearily, misunderstanding his silence. ‘You know about the girl. But don’t blame me. We had a few drinks and a few laughs together, that’s all.’

‘You’ve a man named Benson.’

‘A boy,’ corrected Rother sharply. ‘Still in his teens – and he swears he didn’t touch her.’

‘So?’

Rother gave a fractional shrug. ‘Laddie, when I want to let off steam I head back to civilization. Up here I work. I keep my nose reasonably clean and the same goes for my men if they want to draw their pay … booze and the odd brawl excepted.’ He emptied his glass at a gulp. ‘We’re the outsiders, we want to keep on good terms with the locals … though they’re a difficult shower at the best of times.’

‘No trouble before the girl drowned?’

‘None that mattered.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Carrick finished his own drink, signalled a passing barmaid, and waited till she brought two fresh glasses of whisky. Paying, he leaned closer over the table as she left. ‘Dave, the way MacBean was alone on that boat isn’t going to help.’

‘They’re blaming us, yes.’ Rother set his glass down angrily. ‘All right, but how did that fight last night start? MacBean’s men caught young Benson on his own. They were thumping sixteen different kinds of hell out of him and starting to put in the boot when some of my lads showed up.’

‘I saw Benson this afternoon,’ mused Carrick. ‘He said you’d fired him.’

‘That’s right. For his own sake – and mine,’ said Rother grimly. ‘I didn’t like doing it. Right now he’s over on the island, and he stays there till he leaves. This afternoon’s trip here was so he could telephone a man he knows down south who’ll maybe give him a job. Even then I had to send Yogi along as a ruddy bodyguard. Otherwise someone else might have decided to take up where Lucas and his pals stopped last night.’

‘But he doesn’t see it that way?’

‘Would you?’ Rother pursed his lips. ‘There have been other things. Like the fire we had on Camsha. Nearly a thousand pounds’ worth of equipment lost and it was no accident. But I can’t prove a damned thing.’ He glared at the fishermen clustered along the bar. ‘Any one of that bunch could have started it.’

‘What about the girl’s uncle? Any trouble from that direction?’

Rother shook his head. ‘None I know about. I went to see Graham after Helen’s body was found – just to say she’d been a nice kid, that sort of thing. Nobody knew then she’d been pregnant. I’ve seen him a couple of times since, just passing – he hasn’t said
anything.’ He grimaced slightly. ‘The
Harvest Lass
may have changed that. He’s going to lose money.’

‘How about the MacBean brothers, then?’

‘I almost liked John. As long as he had beer money he was happy.’ Rother’s face hardened. ‘Alec MacBean is someone else. He works with Graham up at the distillery as charge-hand – and he has a reputation for being a trouble-making bastard.’

‘And now his brother is dead …’ Carrick didn’t finish. ‘Dave, I’d like a talk with young Benson.’

‘Any time. He won’t leave till the end of the week.’ Rother took a long drink from his glass then his mood changed as if he’d flicked a switch. ‘Yogi told me you met Sheila. Like what you saw?’

‘I wouldn’t complain,’ Carrick grinned at him. ‘She’s wasted on a low-living sharker.’

‘There’s not much dividend in it for me,’ sighed Rother sadly. ‘She’s a girl who sets her own pace. I found that out.’

‘Does she know about Helen Grant?’

Rother shrugged. ‘It was all over before she came. But knowing Portcoig, she’ll have been told a few times since.’

‘But she hasn’t mentioned it?’

‘Not to me,’ answered Rother curtly, then suddenly frowned past him.

Shoving through from the door and past the crush along the bar, Yogi Dunlop reached their table a moment later. The big harpoon-gunner’s face was angry as he bent over Rother and murmured in his ear. Rother’s eyes widened a little then he swore softly and shoved his chair back.

‘Trouble?’ asked Carrick. Behind them there was already a hush among the other drinkers almost as if they’d been waiting for something to happen.

The shaggy-haired gunner nodded silently and glanced at Rother.

‘Nothing we can’t handle on our own,’ said Rother grimly. Rising, he glared at the expectant faces along the bar. He told them loudly and bitterly, ‘In case any of you didn’t know, some clever bastard just cut loose those dead sharks we brought in. They’re drifting in the bay now – drifting over here.’ His mouth tightened. ‘All right, this time we get them back. Next time we don’t. If they wash ashore near the harbour they can stay there till they rot … and this whole village is going to be nothing but stench and flies till you get rid of them on your own.’

He stalked out, Yogi Dunlop at his heels. The men along the bar stayed silent till they’d gone, then someone raised a cheer. It spread, became laughter and a thumping of glasses on the bar.

Quietly, Carrick slowly finished his drink and left. It was beginning to dusk over outside, but he could see the long, black shapes drifting here and there in the middle of the bay. One boat was already out there among them; Rother’s launch was starting out from the harbour.

On its own it wasn’t much more than petty spite. But he wondered what would come next.

He could have gone back for another drink and been sure of finding company. Or, further along, an equal amount of light and noise was spilling from the Harbour Bar. But for once Webb Carrick felt in a solitary mood. Uneasy without completely knowing why, he walked slowly down the deserted street. The rest of Portcoig seemed already settled for the night, doors firmly closed and windows tightly curtained. A solitary motor-cycle passed him, engine puttering, its rider not sparing him a glance.

At the end of the street he reached the bay. The tide was well out and the on-shore wind was heavy with the pungent smell of seaweed. Piping and shrilling in a constant chorus, hundreds of terns and gulls were feeding among the newly exposed rocks or pattering quick-footedly between the sandy pools. Out beyond them, in the greying dusk, Rother’s boats were still working off Camsha Island.

He stayed there for a moment, lighting a cigarette, then went on towards the pier. Two men were standing together at the faraway T-end and as he headed in the same direction, passing
Marlin
’s berth, a leading hand on duty at the Fishery cruiser’s gangway saluted gravely.

‘All quiet?’ Carrick returned the salute with a faint smile.

‘Yes, sir.’ The man glanced enviously towards the village. ‘Down here, anyway – except for those sharker characters. They went boilin’ out in a hurry.’

‘They would,’ agreed Carrick dryly, and left him.

Clustered fishing boats were tied two and three deep along both sides of the pier, deserted, the water lapping listlessly against their hulls, mooring ropes creaking faintly. Combined with the gathering dusk, it was a scene to delight any artist. But then artists didn’t have to be up in time to take those same boats out to sea at the first hint of dawn.

The two figures on the T-end had their backs to him and Carrick was almost there before he realized who they were. Then he started to turn back, but it was too late. Hearing his footsteps, they swung round. Harry Graham greeted him with a friendly nod and Alec MacBean managed a grunt of recognition.

‘Come to see the circus?’ asked MacBean sardonically. He thumbed over his shoulder towards the little boats working out across the bay, still recapturing the drifting shark carcasses. ‘The man who did that to Rother can have a drink on me any time.’

‘Rother doesn’t feel that way,’ said Carrick quietly.

‘It’s only a taste o’ what he’s due,’ rasped MacBean, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’ll find that out, believe me.’

‘Easy, Alec,’ said Graham warily. The tall, thin distillery manager stuck his hands in the pockets of the light raincoat he was wearing and kept his voice sympathetic. ‘Everybody knows how you feel, man. But we’ve got enough trouble. There’s no sense in making more.’

MacBean didn’t answer. Graham shrugged apologetically, then asked, ‘Have they any notion who sent those things drifting, Chief Officer?’

‘None.’ Carrick drew on his cigarette and looked at Graham consideringly. Maybe, after all, it wasn’t such
a bad thing they’d met. ‘But I’ve a notion there could be a few candidates around.’

‘Perhaps.’ Graham sucked his thin lips briefly. ‘Still, we’ve been on the pier about an hour and we haven’t seen any kind of boat coming in from the island. Have we, Alec?’

‘No. Even if we had …’ MacBean didn’t bother to finish. Turning away, he looked out into the dusk again.

‘Alec and his brother were fairly close,’ said Graham quietly. ‘There are times when a man has a right to be bitter, Carrick.’

‘I want nobody making excuses for me,’ grated MacBean without glancing round.

‘I know, Alec.’ Graham sighed a little. ‘Even so, I suppose it could have happened. Someone come in from the island, I mean.’ He burrowed slightly deeper into his raincoat against the light wind. ‘We’ve been pretty busy, loading gear on a boat I’ve hired to go out to Moorach tomorrow. The sooner we start trying to salvage the
Harvest Lass
, the more chance we’ve got.’

Carrick tossed the rest of his cigarette away. The glowing stub died as it hit the water. ‘Even when she’s patched she won’t come off easily,’ he warned. ‘How about insurance?’

‘She’s covered,’ agreed the distillery manager with minimal enthusiasm. ‘But did you ever hear of an insurance company that paid out full value?’

‘None that stayed in business,’ said Carrick dryly. ‘What boat are you using?’

‘The
Heather Bee
.’ Graham brightened a little. ‘She’s big enough for the job and her skipper is a local man, Dan Elder. He knows what he’s doing.’

‘He should. My brother taught him.’ Alec MacBean joined them again with a scowl still on his face. ‘You
said you’d have another world wi’ him before you left, Harry.’

Graham nodded and they started back. Walking with them, Carrick followed the men to the opposite side of the pier from where
Marlin
lay and stopped at the edge. Lying below them was a blunt-bowed eighty-foot seine-netter. She was broad beamed, with a dark, varnished hull and an overall air of inbuilt strength. Some of her deck lights were on and three men were working around her fo’c’sle hatch.

‘Any problems now, Skipper?’ hailed Graham.

A muscular figure in a red wool shirt shook his head. ‘None, Mr Graham. An’ that’s the last o’ the gear stowed away.’

‘How about you, Fergie?’ demanded MacBean. ‘Sure you’ve got all you need?’

‘And more.’ The stockily built man who answered was surly. He had light brown hair cropped short and an aggressive young face which wasn’t improved by a broad white patch of sticking plaster above one eyebrow. ‘Hell, man – we’ve enough junk aboard to build another damned boat from scratch.’

‘The
Harvest Lass
will do,’ answered Graham with a surprising curtness. ‘Make another check against your list.’

The man shrugged. Beside him, the fishing boat’s skipper stifled a grin and asked, ‘Will you be back before we sail, Mr Graham?’

‘I’ll be too busy.’ Graham shook his head. ‘There’s a coaster coming in tomorrow for a load of whisky. But I’ll call you by radio before noon.’ He glanced at MacBean. ‘We may as well leave them to it. Coming?’

‘Eh … no.’ MacBean rubbed a hand along his jaw-line. ‘I want a word wi’ Fergie.’

Graham frowned. ‘All right. But remember I want you at the distillery early tomorrow. We’ve plenty to do.’

‘I’ll walk back with you,’ said Carrick easily. ‘As far as the village, anyway.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Graham gestured a farewell to the men below then turned away. They started off, Carrick keeping pace with the distillery manager’s long, quick stride.

‘Was that Fergie Lucas down there?’ asked Carrick.

‘Yes.’ Graham’s sniff was eloquent. ‘It was his damned fault as much as anyone’s that the
Harvest
Lass
was wrecked. So I’m giving him the job of helping get her off again … Stewart, the other deckie, is going too.’

‘Compulsory penance?’

‘Partly. But they also know what they’re doing.’ Graham broke his step to avoid a tangle of mooring ropes. ‘And it’ll keep them out of the way of fresh trouble.’ He flicked a sideways glance at Carrick. ‘You’ll find Alec MacBean an equal problem.’

‘I’d heard,’ agreed Carrick. ‘But it sounds like you could keep him busy tomorrow. How much whisky are you shipping out?’

‘Our usual quarterly quota, 20,000 gallons of matured malt in 100-gallon casks – plus a special order, another 16,000 gallons in 2,000-gallon bulk tanks.’ Graham scowled in the fading light. ‘All of it still at 105 degree proof, Customs sealed and under bond. That’s where the real work comes in. We’ve to account for every damned drop at either end of the trip or the taxman is on our top.’

‘It’s a lot of liquor,’ said Carrick appreciatively as they skirted a pile of fish boxes.

‘For here, yes. But not by head office standards. Broomfire Distillery is the smallest in the company
group, though they’ve a habit of forgetting it.’ Graham sounded slightly bitter. ‘Our single-malt is all seven-year-old spirit, top quality. But the bulk stuff is three-year spirit they want for blending – too young the way I see it. Not that head office give any particular damn what I say.’

They walked on in silence until they reached the shore end of the pier and the first cottages were just ahead.

‘Mind if I ask you about something very different?’ asked Carrick quietly.

‘I was waiting on it.’ Graham came to a halt, his manner chilling. ‘You mean my niece’s death?’

Carrick nodded.

‘Why?’

‘Because of what’s happening here,’ said Carrick, his face expressionless. ‘Things are building up to a feud, Rother’s men against the rest. And I don’t mean just pin-pricks like some idiot cutting a few sharks loose.’

Graham stood tight-lipped for a moment, then shrugged. ‘There isn’t much to tell. Helen was nineteen, my sister’s child – and with brains as well as looks, studying geology, always collecting the odd pebble or chipping some rock. She visited up here any time she could and I liked it when she came. I live alone, and she was good company.’ He paused, then added in ice-cold fashion, ‘You’ll have heard she was pregnant?’

‘Yes.’ Carrick chose his words carefully. ‘Did she give you any hint …?’

‘No.’ It came fiercely. ‘The girl said nothing to me. All I noticed on that last visit was that she seemed a lot quieter than usual. Afterwards – well, the doctor who carried out the post-mortem reckoned she’d been nearly three months with child.’

The old-fashioned phrase carried its own built-in hurt, and by outside standards the West Coast islands clung to a fiercely Calvinistic outlook when it came to morals. For a moment Carrick wondered which mattered most to Graham – that his niece had died or that disgrace had been brought to his doorstep.

‘The village think the father could be Dave Rother – or young Benson,’ he said softly.

‘Not because of anything I’ve said,’ rasped Graham. ‘Let’s get that clear. For all I know she was sleeping with some of her university friends. I’ve little time for Rother or his people – they’re outsiders here. But I can’t judge them on that alone and if I did know the man, knew for sure, I think I’d kill him.’ He held out his hands, the long, thin fingers spread wide. ‘With these, Carrick – that’s how I feel about it. So I’ve got to be sure.’ His hands closed slowly again and he drew a deep breath. ‘Helen wasn’t a bad girl. She was more a child, a child who panicked. But the shame stays. With her and with me. And there’s no more to say.’

Before Carrick could answer the tall, thin figure was stalking away from him into the dusk. An old Ford was parked a little way along the road and Graham stopped at it and climbed aboard. A moment later the engine fired, was revved hard, then slammed into gear. The car took off almost viciously, wheels scrabbling, cutting across the road in a full-lock U-turn.

Brakes squealed a protest as another approaching car swerved to avoid collision. Graham didn’t slow, his engine still at full throttle, the Ford rapidly heading inland. The car he’d so nearly hit coasted to a stop beside Carrick.

‘Who on earth was that maniac?’ asked Sheila Francis through the opened driver’s window.

‘Graham from the distillery.’ Carrick went over to her. ‘He – well, let’s say I was probing an old wound.’

‘Oh.’ Her voice showed an immediate understanding. Hands resting on the steering wheel, neat in her blue nursing uniform, she grimaced. ‘Then let me know if you do it again. I’ll make sure I’m not around.’

‘Sorry.’ Carrick answered absently. Till five minutes before he’d thought of Harry Graham as a fairly colourless individual with a minor mean streak. Now he felt he’d been given a brief glimpse inside the man but still wasn’t completely sure of all he’d seen – except that Graham was no person to trifle with.

‘What’s wrong?’ Sheila Francis reacted to his expression with a frown. ‘Webb, if you were talking about Helen Grant …’

He nodded. ‘You know about her?’

‘Most of my patients made sure I did the first time I was seen talking to Dave.’ She grimaced at the memory then looked at him again. ‘Going anywhere special?’

‘No.’

‘Then get in.’ Reaching over, she swung open the passenger door. ‘I’ve finished my calls, but Maggie MacKenzie told me to look in on the way home. She won’t mind an extra visitor – and we can talk there.’

Carrick went round, climbed in, and she set the car moving again. It was a small Health Department issue Austin and her black nursing bag was lying on the back seat.

‘Whose side are you on?’ she asked suddenly, her eyes on the road. ‘Do you back Dave or the village?’

‘I’m supposed to be a professional neutral,’ he reminded her wryly.

‘There’s no such animal.’ She changed down a gear for a bend ahead. ‘I use the same line often enough
but it isn’t true. When it comes to Dave, I like him – but I wouldn’t particularly trust him.’ Her eyes flickered in his direction for a moment. ‘Would you?’

Carrick shook his head but didn’t answer.

The Austin travelled through the village, then slowed at the far end, turned into a narrow lane, and climbed a steep gradient for about a hundred yards. She stopped it and pulled on the handbrake outside a small, white-walled cottage with a black slate roof, a tiny garden and a view which encompassed the entire bay. Carrick got out, waited till the girl joined him, then they went together up the path to the front door. It opened as they arrived and Maggie MacKenzie stood there smiling a welcome.

‘God!’ The smile died as she saw him. ‘Sheila, you didn’t tell me you’d have a man wi’ you – look at me!’ She was in an old dressing gown, her feet in slippers, a scarf wrapped turban-style round her head with metal curlers showing. ‘It’s the night I wash my hair and – oh, come on in anyway, both of you.’

Inside the cottage was bright and neat with chintz curtains, matching chair-covers and an array of polished brass ornaments above the hearth, where a peat fire smouldered.

‘Sit down now you’re here.’ Maggie MacKenzie waved towards the chairs, then bustled to add another cup and saucer to the tray already waiting on a table. Turning, she unplugged a bubbling coffee percolator. ‘Some folk have been having a busy night, eh?’