Stormtide (8 page)

All because of one dead teenage girl.

The slipway at Camsha Island was deserted as the motor-whaler nosed in past the clutter of long black basking-shark carcasses, each moored to an oil-drum buoy. Another shark, about thirty feet long and a male, had been winched out of the water and lay on a trolley halfway up the slipway ready to be moved on to the processing plant.

The smell was the worst part of it. Heavy and rancid, it met their nostrils as soon as they’d tied up and were ashore. But it was a smell that meant money once the shark livers had been boiled down and their oil extracted and barrelled.

The rest of the carcass was usually towed out to sea and dumped. City experts talked wisely about other by-products, commercial ways of using everything from the coarse, sandpaper-like skin to the rows of tiny, needle-pointed teeth, of the protein in the flesh and the fertilizer possibilities of anything left over.

Maybe that would come. But right now all there was came down to the smell …
and a multitude of black flies which buzzed around as Carrick and the two seamen walked towards the nearest of the huts.

‘Lookin’ for someone?’ called a voice.

They stopped and a small man in overalls limped across from a dump of fuel drums. A cigarette dangled from his lips and his overalls were smeared yellow and red with crusted fluid and blood. He saw one of the seamen sniff as he came near and grinned.

‘Name’s Len Hastings. You try wadin’ up to your armpits in shark liver an’ you’ll stink as much as I do.’ He glanced keenly at Carrick. ‘Got some word o’ that
kid Benson? Dave Rother’s out wi’ the boats, but I could radio him.’

‘Nothing yet.’ Carrick looked around. ‘Left on your own?’

‘No, tea-break time.’ The man brushed a fly from his face with a practised flick. ‘We’ve a brew-up near the fuel dump. Diesel oil smells a treat after this lot. Anything I can do, Chief?’

Carrick nodded. ‘Where did Benson sleep?’

‘End hut, end cubicle. Help yourself.’

Gesturing the seamen to stay, Carrick set off along a sandy path which led through coarse, tufted grass. He reached the hut, found the door lying open, and went into a long, narrow corridor with cubicles lying off it all along one side. The place smelled of disinfectant and the floor was scrubbed clean, signs that Dave Rother hadn’t forgotten all of his Navy background.

Like the rest, Benson’s cubicle had a curtain over the doorway. He shoved it back, went in, and raised a mild eyebrow at the array of magazine pin-ups pasted round the walls. Benson seemed to have a predilection for blondes and bosoms. Grinning at one which had acquired a pencilled moustache, he glanced around.

The bunk bed still had its blankets folded, but was creased as if someone had been lying on top of it. When he opened the tall locker beside the bed he found a dark suit and other clothes hanging on the rail and some laundered shirts lying on a shelf. Turning away, he kicked a pair of light tan shoes which had been placed neatly beneath the cubicle’s window.

Puzzled, frowning, he prowled the rest of the space. Everything was in place, as if Peter Benson had just walked out and might return in a moment.

A small suitcase under the bunk told the same story,
down to a savings bank book with a credit of a few pounds. The bank book gave Benson a Glasgow address. Thoughtfully, Carrick put it in his pocket, then added a snapshot photograph which showed the tall, thin youngster grinning at the camera with a catcher-boat in the background.

Nothing else looked likely to help. Closing the case, he pushed it under the bed again and left the hut.

Outside, a winch engine had begun clattering. Going back along the path, Carrick reached the slipway in time to see the trolley-mounted basking shark being dragged by a wire cable into the entrance to the main processing shed, a few men in stained overalls guiding it along.
Marlin
’s two seamen were watching, Len Hastings by their side, more flies than ever annoying them.

‘Find what you wanted, Chief?’ asked Hastings as Carrick reached them.

‘Enough to get by on,’ said Carrick non-committally.

‘Good.’ Face screwed into an expression of sympathy, the little man raised his voice above the noise of the engine and the squeal of the trolley wheels. ‘Your lads told us about that engine-room bloke bein’ killed. That’s bad – but it just doesn’t figure. Not wi’ young Benson.’

‘Why?’ The trolley and its carcass were inside the shed. Carrick waited while the doors slammed shut. ‘He had a king-sized chip on his shoulder, hadn’t he?’

Hastings nodded wryly. ‘True enough, Chief. An’ the boss givin’ him the chop didn’t help. But I still can’t see him belting anyone’s skull in. An’ at least the boss had promised him his back pay – that’s better than the rest o’ us were getting, believe me.’

Behind them, the ratings shuffled impatiently and swatted at the buzzing flies. Carrick tried lighting a cigarette, but it didn’t help much.

‘Money’s short?’

‘Has been for months.’ The little man grimaced. ‘Still, the boss says things will be okay pretty quick now, so we’re hangin’ on.’ He chuckled gloomily. ‘All hang together or all hang separate, that’s how it is. At least we’ve managed to squeeze beer money out o’ him.’

‘Necessities first,’ agreed Carrick. He thanked Hastings, signalled the two ratings, and they retreated thankfully down the slipway, away from the smell and the flies.

The shark-catching game wasn’t all open-sea adventure or salt-spray excitement.

Maggie MacKenzie’s little ferry launch was buzzing across the water on some errand as the motor-whaler came in towards Portcoig. She raised an arm and shouted something, but it was lost on the wind and the launch was bucking in the waves.

The swell was considerably less near the pier and the motor-whaler came neatly alongside
Marlin
. At the Fishery cruiser’s stern, Clapper Bell was just in the act of climbing down a ladder. He was wearing full scuba gear and a rubber wet-suit and he paused, face-mask shoved back and breathing tube dangling loose, till the motor-whaler was near him.

‘The Old Man’s got me checkin’ under the pier round about where Gibby Halliday got tossed in,’ he reported. ‘You should see the junk lyin’ down there. And there’s a ruddy great conger eel sniffin’ around with razor-blades for teeth.’

‘Kick it on the snout,’ advised Carrick cheerfully. ‘Any luck, Clapper?’

The bo’sun snorted. ‘Enough chunks of scrap iron to start a business. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m
lookin’ for. The Old Man’s on the bridge. You can tell him I’m havin’ one more go, but if that eel gets nasty he can expect me straight back.’

Face-mask down, he bit on the breathing tube and went backwards into the water with a splash. Then he vanished, his progress marked by a bubble-trail leading along the edge of the pier.

Leaving the ratings to hoist the whaler aboard, Carrick scrambled up on deck and headed for the bridge. On the way there were plenty of signs, from the mooring lines being thinned onward, which pointed to the Fishery cruiser being ready to sail. It was the same when he reached the bridge. Pettigrew was there with the duty helmsman and a brace of look-outs; Captain Shannon’s cap was lying on the command chair.

‘He’s back there,’ said Pettigrew morosely, thumbing towards the little chartroom aft. ‘Don’t stand on his toes. Things are bad enough.’

Carrick went through and found Shannon already had company in the bulky, uniformed shape of Sergeant Fraser. The policeman contented himself with a nod and waited.

‘Learn anything, mister?’ asked Shannon bluntly.

‘We’ve these, sir.’ Carrick laid the bank book and snapshot on the chartroom table. ‘He’d left most of his kit behind.’

Shannon grunted. ‘Anything else?’

‘Just that he can’t have much money. The sharkers haven’t been paid for a spell.’ Carrick glanced at Sergeant Fraser. ‘Any trace of Benson yet?’

‘Damn all sign of him or that motorbike.’ The policeman shook his head gloomily. ‘We’re watching the ferry crossings and the usual. But out here we’ve only got one cop to God knows how many miles of heather. Now,’ – his gloom deepened – ‘well, I was on my way here when I heard about your crewman.
I can’t cope with murder on top o’ the rest. Headquarters are sending a CID squad from the mainland.’

‘Which could take long enough.’ Shannon was unimpressed. He stopped as Pettigrew stuck his head round the door and snatched the radio-room flimsy the junior second offered. A glance at it and he handed the flimsy back. Then, as Pettigrew left, he went straight on: ‘You’d better take that bank book and photograph, Sergeant. And anything you want from the old iron the bo’sun has been bringing up.’

Sergeant Fraser nodded. ‘The old faithful blunt instrument. The forensic people can play wi’ them, Captain. And I’ll make the arrangements for the autopsy on Halliday.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘Twice in twenty-four hours – that’s pretty good going.’

‘John MacBean’s death is now officially accidental,’ said Shannon sardonically. ‘The post-mortem confirmed it – and that he’d a gutful of beer. That’s what brought the sergeant over, to tell us.’

‘We’ll still need a fatal-accident inquiry before a sheriff,’ reminded Fraser quickly. ‘But that’s a formality now.’

‘Like it was with Helen Grant?’ asked Carrick, unable to stop himself.

Fraser glared at him then turned deliberately to Shannon. ‘You’re sailing, Captain, so I won’t hold you back,’ he said grimly. ‘MacBean’s body is being released today, they’re planning the funeral here tomorrow afternoon – and I’d like it if you’d tell Rother’s sharkers to stay away. For their own sake.’

Nodding curtly, he strode off. An odd rumbling noise came from Shannon’s throat and he combed a hand over his beard.

‘Mister …’ He changed his mind. ‘Oh, never mind. Get Clapper Bell back aboard, all hands stand ready to clear harbour. We’re going out.’

‘Sir?’

‘We may have a man dead, but Department still say we should be working,’ grated Shannon. ‘That damned oil-slick has turned up again.’ He flicked a finger at the chart in front of him. ‘Here, on the fifty-fathom line north of Oigh Sgeir lighthouse, and the keepers are tracking it.’

Carrick raised an eyebrow. The slick had moved a long way since the last report. But he could think of better things to do than go chasing it.

‘Taken root, mister?’ asked Shannon heavily. ‘Or do you want it in writing?’

‘No, sir.’ He spoke to empty air. Shannon had already left. Carrick shrugged and reached for the intercom phone.

Marlin
slipped away from the pier at 0950 hours, swung on a west-south-west course once she’d cleared Camsha Bay, and built up quickly to full speed. With her shallow draught that meant tossing and rolling as she bored through the lumping seas which drenched along her decks. At her stern, the Fishery ensign snapped and flapped in the wind while her radio aerial lines sang a thin protest over the roar of the diesels.

As always, the vibrating power had a quickly soothing effect on Shannon. He was sipping coffee in the command chair and telling the beginnings of a story from the ‘Bishop and the Duchess’ seam when the slim white finger of Oigh Sgeir light appeared ahead. At the same time as the radio room patched through the crackling voice of the head lighthouse keeper the starboard look-out spotted the slick.

‘Tell him we’ve got it,’ ordered Shannon, setting aside his cup. ‘All right, mister. Let’s see if those damned hose-booms fall off this time.’

Grinning, Carrick passed the word on the bridge intercom. By the time they’d swung round to circle the slick the hose-booms were out, like two giant broomsticks, and Jumbo Wills was standing by over his charges.

It was a small slick, roughly a quarter-mile long, but narrow, a dirty blue-black ribbon on the grey sea with fragmented flotsam and a few dead seabirds trapped in its sticky grip. Occasionally a wave which wouldn’t be smothered by its presence broke through, throwing congealed lumps of semi-solid into the air.

Breaking it up took about an hour and a half. First they came in close and used a sampling can on a line. That was for later, when Department chemists would analyse the sample and try to trace its origin. If the ship concerned could be traced the owners were liable to find themselves on the heavy end of considerable penalties.

Then it was the turn of the hose-booms. Keeping the slick to leeward,
Marlin
swept systematically up and down its length with the detergent sprays operating. Gradually the slick lost its form and shape and began to lump, disintegrate, and gradually sink.

At last Shannon was satisfied. The hose-booms secured,
Marlin
’s siren blew a farewell blast as they swung away from the lighthouse, and Carrick had a dog-leg course ready which would take them back to Portcoig.

Pettigrew changed that within minutes when he brought along another message from the radio room. One glance at it and Shannon stiffened in his command chair.

‘Starboard helm, bring her round to 035 degrees,’ he ordered sharply. ‘Full power.’

As the helmsman brought the Fishery cruiser curving on her new course and the engine-room telegraph
clanged, Shannon crumpled the radio message into a tight ball and turned to Carrick.

‘Rother again, mister. There’s a Mallaig skipper on the air howling that the
Seapearl
is trying to sink him. Then some jabber about nets and sharks.’ He threw the crumpled paper across the bridge and scowled. ‘God knows what’s going on, but we’ll get there and knock their heads together.’

The sky had cleared and the sun was breaking through, highlighting the scene, when they saw the two boats almost dead ahead. Using the bridge glasses, Carrick whistled softly between his teeth.

Seapearl
and a big, yellow-hulled drifter were stationary in the water, rolling in the swell with less than a stone’s-throw distance between them. Figures were running about on both boats – and the shark-catcher’s harpoon gun was pointed squarely at the drifter’s wheelhouse!

Behind him, Shannon had seen it too. The little hunched figure in the command chair swore crudely.