First there was the flat, heavy bang of the gun, then what seemed like a million seabirds rose from the island’s cliffs in a protesting cloud. A vast flurry of water appeared beside the shark-boat and a massive, black-backed shape lunged briefly to the surface before it dived deep. The fresh explosion of spray still gave a momentary glimpse of a great, lashing tail, then as the shape vanished, the harpoon line sang out and quivered taut while the shark-boat took the strain.
It had captured a giant. But it still had to kill – and even an average basking shark is larger than any elephant.
Half a mile of open water separated Her Majesty’s Fishery Protection cruiser Marlin from the drama being enacted off the island. But what the men on her bridge could see was enough for them to sense the rest.
‘Gawd, he’s got a big’un there,’ muttered the duty helmsman, a tall, horse-faced individual with permanent catarrh. He sniffed hard, hands balanced assuredly on the wheel-spokes. ‘There’s more on the end of that harpoon than I’d want to know.’
‘It’s money,’ said Webb Carrick absently, moving over to the bridge wing for a better view. Chief Officer Carrick knew the boat out there and the man certain to be in her wheelhouse. ‘He’ll manage. That’s Dave Rother and the Seapearl, out of Portcoig on Skye.’
Using the bridge glasses, he brought the scene into close-up. A bulky figure was dancing excitedly at the catcher’s bow gun and Carrick chuckled. Big Yogi Dunlop, always Rother’s gunner, drunk or sober, recognized a bonus on the end of that straining nylon line.
But the great fish below was far from finished. Suddenly the black triangle of its sail-like back-fin cut into sight above the waves, heading in a new direction. Another moment and it vanished again as the basking shark dived in search of deep water.
It was a fight for survival, and on the fishery cruiser’s deck an audience was growing. Any diversion was welcome.
Four hundred tons of slim, purposeful power with a crew of twenty-five, Marlin was on the second week of a routine Hebridean patrol and so far things had been uniformly dull. Even her big twin diesels throbbed in a bored murmur. The rest was overcast sky, a light but chill northerly wind and a choppy steel-blue sea. On the Scottish West Coast early afternoon in the month of June didn’t always mean sunshine and rising temperatures.
The little shark-catcher, a converted Admiralty MFV, began to fall astern. Slowly, Carrick lowered the glasses and glanced ahead. Marlin was rounding the westerly point of the island with a long stretch of open sea before the next blob of land broke the horizon.
‘Well, mister?’ A familiar voice rasped surprisingly close to his ear and he turned. Small and stout, bearded moon-like face set in a peevish scowl, Captain James Shannon had obviously padded up from his day-cabin in a trouble-seeking mood. Hauling himself up into the bridge command chair, legs dangling, Marlin’s master sniffed heavily. ‘Finished enjoying the scenery?’
‘Watching the Seapearl to port, sir,’ answered Carrick, unperturbed. ‘She’s caught herself another shark – a big one.’
‘The biggest shark around is the crook who owns that tub,’ grunted Shannon, then caught a sideways glimpse of the grin which crossed the helmsman’s face. ‘You. Watch that course, damn you. We’re not on a picnic.’
Flushing, the helmsman ironed all expression from his face, quickly eased the wheel, and stared ahead.
Shannon scowled at him for a moment. Senior captain in the Fishery Protection squadron, the bearded sixty-year-old could always make up in wrath what he lacked in size.
‘I’ll take over, mister,’ he announced unexpectedly. ‘Extra look-outs on the bridge in fifteen minutes. Until then we’ll maintain course and speed.’
‘Sir?’ Carrick raised a mildly questioning eyebrow.
‘Some damned aeroplane pilot flying out to Barra reported seeing what he thought was an oil-slick a few miles north of us.’ Shannon hunched deeper into the command chair. ‘Probably the sun broke through and caught some oily bilge that’ll have vanished long before we get there. But there’s a signal from Department saying take a look. I’ve told Wills to get the sprays ready for rigging, so make sure he isn’t making a mess of it.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Carrick left him, grimacing once he was past the little chartroom behind the bridge.
The detergent sprays, large hose-booms, had been added to Marlin’s equipment at the end of her last patrol. Ever since, Shannon had regarded them as a personal insult for what they did to the trim, destroyer-like lines of his 180-foot charge.
Reaching the main deck, Carrick headed aft. The shark-boat and her quarry had vanished behind the island, but there was plenty of activity getting under way at Marlin’s stern, where the distinctive Blue Ensign of the Fishery Protection squadron flapped lazily.
More or less aided by a couple of deckhands, a young, fair-haired figure in overalls and an ancient, dirtied shirt was struggling with one of the clumsy hose-booms. As Carrick arrived, a wave larger than the rest broke against Marlin’s side. She rolled, a light curtain of spray drenched across her stern – and the boom clattered loose with a swinging, drunken suddenness which almost swept both deckhands over the side.
Springing forward, Carrick helped the trio secure it again.
‘Look …’ The fair-haired youngster pointed helplessly while the deckhands stood back. ‘Look at it, Webb – who’ll tell the Old Man?’
The hose-boom’s swivel mounting had cracked across the metal. Carrick sighed and shook his head. Jumbo Wills, Marlin’s second mate, owed his nickname to his build and, like now, to an unhappy genius for stumbling into trouble.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ declared Wills indignantly, flushing under the deckhands’ grins.
‘No.’ Carrick fought down a chuckle of his own. ‘But other people might not see it that way. Leave it – I’ll get something rigged to hold it for a spell. And watch how you handle the other one.’ He glanced at the deckhands. ‘Move. You’ve had a long enough rest.’
Leaving them, Carrick headed for the shelter of the open stern companionway and made his way along to the scuba gear storeroom. As usual, the door was hooked open. Inside, sprawled back in comfort on a couple of equipment boxes, a bull-like figure looked up, nodded a greeting, and swung to his feet, all without disturbing the long ash on the cigarette dangling from his lips.
‘Like a mug o’ coffee, sir?’ Petty Officer William ‘Clapper’ Bell, their bo’sun, thumbed towards the pot steaming gently on a hot-plate in one corner. Ex-Royal Navy, six feet of solid, muscular Glasgow-Irishman, Clapper Bell used the tiny scuba room as his unofficial headquarters. ‘I was thinkin’ about having some.’
‘It can keep,’ said Carrick dryly. ‘Jumbo Wills needs some help.’
‘Again?’ Bell scratched his close-cropped red hair, his rugged face twisting in a grin. ‘What’s it this time? If he’s set fire to the paint store again …’
‘No.’ That had been a famous occasion. ‘One of the detergent booms has come unstuck.’
‘Those things?’ The bo’sun grimaced, dropped his cigarette on the deck, and stamped a foot on it. ‘All right, I’ll take a look. But one of those days the Old Man will drown our Mr Wills in a bucket – an’ I’ll bring the water.’
‘You’ll get in the queue,’ said Carrick dryly. Neither of them worried much about formal discipline when they were alone. Together they formed Marlin’s underwater diving team when needed and that kind of partnership developed its own personal code. ‘Another thing, Clapper. Send two men to the bridge – look-out duty. We’re trying to find an oil-slick.’
‘I hadn’t heard we’d flamin’ lost one,’ said Bell gloomily. Starting for the door, he thumbed again at the coffee-pot on the way. ‘Help yourself.’
Carrick found a mug and did, then perched himself on the compressor unit they used to recharge the aqualung cylinders. Sipping the coffee, he grimaced. Nobody liked the hose-booms or the stack of detergent drums piled below. But somebody had to do the job. Tug-owners needed only one experience of what an oil-dispersing detergent could do to decks and paintwork then fought shy of getting involved again.
So it had been handed to Fishery Protection. Webb Carrick grimaced down at the brass-buttoned naval uniform he wore over a thick white roll-necked sweater. He’d be in overalls for that caper. Overalls made him think of Jumbo Wills again and the grimace faded, his broad-boned face splitting in a brief grin which suddenly made him look considerably younger than his thirty-one years.
A stocky five-foot-ten in height, skin weather-bronzed and dark brown hair cut short, Carrick carried most things with an easy-going if slightly sardonic humour. Most, but not all. A strong nose and dark brown eyes gave additional strength to lips which were a little too thin and which could offer a warning.
Even Captain Shannon had learned there were times when his chief officer could be pushed too far.
Gulping more of the coffee, Carrick glanced out of the storeroom’s porthole. He’d been away from the bridge longer than he’d thought and the little island that had previously been on the horizon was now drawing near on the starboard bow. Its name on the charts was Moorach Island. What it amounted to was an ugly chunk of cliffs and rock, topped by grass, inhabited only by seabirds and seals.
Far behind it was another faint smudge of land. That was the sprawling island of Skye, mountains reaching up to the clouds, townships usually bustling with tourist traffic from the mainland. There’d be hell to pay if an oil-slick reached those beaches.
Setting down the mug, he headed back towards the bridge. Halfway there he stopped, frowning, as Marlin’s engine beat took a sudden drop in revolutions and the deck lurched under an equally sudden turn to starboard.
Carrick covered the rest of the distance in a hurry.
When he got there, Marlin was creeping in towards Moorach Island with speed down to little more than steerage way. Captain Shannon had quit the command chair and was over at the starboard bridge wing, beside one of the recently arrived look-outs. Both had glasses focussed on the shore ahead.
Hearing Carrick arrive, Shannon lowered his glasses.
‘Take a look,’ he invited curtly, passing them over.
Carrick used the glasses and winced. Stranded by the receding tide and lying half-over on her side, a fishing boat was jammed against a jagged ridge of rock. Planking had been ripped open below the waterline near her bow. She had part of a torn net still trailing in the sea which lapped against her exposed stern. But there was no sign of life aboard.
Shannon crossed over and jabbed the siren button. Marlin bellowed a long, inquiring blast, then another as he pressed again.
Carrick saw a seal make a panic-stricken dive from a ledge and the splash as it hit the sea. Gulls and terns rose by the score from their nests along the cliffs and circled angrily. But no one answered from the boat or appeared along the desolate shore.
‘Take the Z-boat,’ said Shannon soberly. ‘Check her over, mister.’
* * *
Carrick took two men with him, Clapper Bell and a lanky East Coast deckhand named Harry Roberts. The Z-boat, a rubber inflatable with a powerful outboard motor, foamed on her way as soon as the Fishery cruiser had anchored. But as they came nearer the island Carrick had to throttle back to thread through the scatter of low-tide rocks which guarded the shore.
‘She’ll drift the rest,’ called Clapper Bell at last, perched watchfully at the bow.
Cutting the engine, Carrick swung the propeller clear. Moments later the Z-boat nudged its way past a barely submerged reef, then, lifted by a breaking wave, touched the pebbled beach. They dragged the boat high and dry and Roberts secured the bow-line to a rock while Carrick and the bo’sun looked around.
They’d landed about fifty yards from the fishing boat, separated from her by a tangle of rock and seaweed. A fifty-foot seine-netter, she had the name Harvest Lass painted on her bow in faded gold lettering. Where the planking had been ripped, the interior of her fo’c’sle was exposed – a confused litter, including mattresses and bedding. The rest of the boat seemed relatively intact, but the deck area was still hidden by the angle at which she lay.
‘I’d hate like hell to have to refloat her out o’ there,’ mused Bell with a professional interest. ‘Even after that hole’s patched it’s goin’ to be a job to get her clear.’
‘That’s somebody else’s worry,’ said Carrick neutrally, collecting the lightweight radio he’d brought along and slinging its strap over one shoulder. ‘You and I will check the boat. Roberts, you take a prowl along the shore.’
Clapper Bell at his heels, he set off over the slippery weed and rocks. Reaching the stranded hull, they scrambled round towards her bow, then had their first clear view of the deck.
‘God Almighty,’ said Bell with a startled intake of breath.
For a moment Carrick stayed where he was, just staring.
The Harvest Lass had a motionless figure sprawled over her midships winch gear. His bald head was pressed oddly against the metal and he was dressed in an old blue work-jacket, serge trousers and heavy seaboots. Ropes still led over the side from the winch to the tattered fragments of net and the fish hatch lay open, awaiting a catch that would never come.
Pulling themselves up, they quickly crossed the slanting, already bone-dry deck and reached the dead man. He’d been middle-aged, with a small, dark moustache and light blue eyes which stared lifelessly from a tanned, thin face still twisted in a final horror.
The rest was easy enough to understand. Both ends of a grey woollen scarf were trapped in the winch, which was still in gear. When the scarf had been pulled in it had tightened round the fisherman’s neck, dragging him down, strangling him before he could escape.
There were scratches on his neck where he’d tried to claw the scarf loose. One hand still lay outstretched in a final, desperate effort to reach the winch controls. But the winch had tightened on until it finally jammed.
‘Poor basket,’ muttered Bell. ‘If he was alone …’
Carrick nodded, then headed for the wheelhouse. It was in tumbled disorder, but the big gear lever was still engaged, the engine throttle set at slow and the small, well-worn steering wheel had been tied with a piece of light line. He could imagine the rest. The Harvest Lass sailing on, only a dead man aboard, till she’d reached Moorach Island and had blindly smashed ashore.
Clapper Bell had gone down into the tiny fo’c’sle. He could see Roberts still working his way along the shore, though that was probably a waste of time now. Searching the wheelhouse, Carrick found a tattered logbook buried under some other papers. As he turned with it in his hands he bumped against an opened haversack hanging from a hook. It had a coffee flask and a package of sandwiches stowed inside.
Nobody would use them now. Going out on deck he saw Marlin had swung bow-on to the island, held by her anchor in a safe six fathoms of water. A faint shimmer of exhaust was coming from her squat stack and he knew Captain Shannon would be prowling impatiently on the bridge, waiting.
Shrugging slightly, he went back to the winch and looked down grimly at the dead man. There were better ways to die.
A couple of minutes passed before Clapper Bell padded back along the deck to join him. The burly bo’sun shook his head at the unspoken question.
‘Looks like he was on his own, sir. Though she’s pretty big for one man to handle an’ fish.’
Carrick nodded. Normally a boat like the Harvest Lass would operate with a crew of three aboard. But one experienced man could sail her at a pinch – provided nothing went wrong.
‘Got your knife?’ he asked.
Silently, Bell handed over the cork-handled diving knife he always carried sheathed at his belt. Carefully Carrick used the sharp steel and cut through the taut wool of the scarf. As the last strands parted the dead man’s body shifted slightly then, limbs still locked in a crab-like rigour, slid slowly to the deck.
Tight-lipped, ignoring the staring blue eyes, Carrick bent down, opened the work-jacket, and found a leather wallet in the inside pocket. It held some pound notes, a few creased papers and a driving licence.
‘John MacBean, Harbour View Cottages, Portcoig, Skye.’ He showed Bell the licence details, then returned it to the wallet.
‘So he’s not far from home,’ commented Bell dryly.
Carrick didn’t answer for a moment. Portcoig was a fishing village on the south-west coast of Skye, maybe fifteen miles away. Marlin had been there a few months back and he’d spent a night drinking with Dave Rother, who made Portcoig his shark-catching base.
He thought for a moment of Rother, probably still chasing that basking shark a few miles away. Rother was the type who made as many enemies as friends for a wide variety of reasons. But he would know MacBean. In a place the size of Portcoig everyone knew everybody.
‘The Old Man will be wonderin’ what’s going on,’ mused Clapper Bell significantly.
‘I’ll call him.’ Carrick grimaced slightly at the thought. ‘Tell Roberts he can stop beach-combing.’ His eyes strayed to the dead man again. ‘Then get a blanket, Clapper. Cover him up.’
He turned away, dragged out the little radio, switched on, and pulled out the built-in aerial. Marlin’s duty operator answered immediately when he called. Then, after a brief pause, Shannon’s voice came through in a crackling roar. Marlin’s captain had a firm belief that microphones only behaved when the user was shouting.
‘Well, mister? You took long enough. Over.’
Carrick gave him a quick, factual rundown on the situation, then waited, the murmur of the sea a background to the soft crackle of static from the hand-set.
‘Right.’ Shannon came back again. ‘Care to guess when it happened?’
‘Probably during the night, sir.’ Carrick had a hazy recollection that a body usually began stiffening after ten or twelve hours. ‘It looks that way.’
‘I’ll ask the coastguards to check with Portcoig that the damned fool did go out on his own,’ said Shannon brusquely. ‘But meantime we’ll take him aboard. Don’t worry about his boat – nobody’s going to sail her anywhere for a spell. Out, mister.’
The static took over again.
As soon as Roberts had joined them they made a crude stretcher from a grating, loaded the dead man on to it, then made the difficult journey back over the rocks to the Z-boat. The blanket-covered shape lying at the bow, they got the outboard motor going, and headed back across the water towards the waiting Fishery cruiser.
They were almost there, near enough to identify the crewmen waiting in a little group just below the bridge, when Roberts gave a mutter of surprise and pointed further out.
‘Look, sir.’
Carrick looked in the direction the deckhand indicated. The small, dark shape of another fishing boat was plugging towards Moorach Island at a steady pace. The silhouette of the harpoon gun at the bow made her easy enough to identify. Dave Rother and his Seapearl were going to be with them in a matter of minutes.
‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ muttered Clapper Bell with an unusual edge.
‘He probably tuned to the Fishery Protection frequency, heard some of the talk, and got interested,’ answered Carrick. Plenty of boats did the same when a Protection cruiser was around. He glanced again at the approaching shark-catcher, then concentrated on bringing the Z-boat round in a slow curve which would bring her alongside Marlin. ‘We’ll find out soon enough. Anyway, they’re from the same village.’
‘But Rother’s a sharkman,’ grunted Bell.
‘Meaning?’
The bo’sun shook his head and didn’t elaborate. As they eased in beside the Fishery cruiser’s hull, Roberts tossed a line to the men above. It was secured, they worked their way along to a lowered ladder, and Carrick clambered up. Reaching the deck, he almost collided with a thin, sour-faced figure.
‘What’s the rush?’ demanded Pettigrew, Marlin’s junior second mate.
Carrick took it with a smile. He made allowances for Pettigrew most of the time. It made life easier. By far the oldest of the ship’s three watchkeeping officers even though he ranked as junior, Pettigrew was a surly character in his fifties who had come back to sea for reasons he kept to himself. When he wasn’t on watch he spent most of his time in his cabin, sleeping or reading.
‘I missed your friendly face,’ said Carrick cheerfully. ‘Any more word from the coastguards?’
‘Who’d tell me?’ shrugged Pettigrew. He looked down at the Z-boat with distaste. ‘Well, at least we’re not chasing after that oil-slick. I’ll take over here. The Old Man wants you.’
Carrick headed for the bridge. Captain Shannon greeted him with a nod then thumbed in the direction of the approaching Seapearl.
‘Seen him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Shannon shrugged. ‘Well, he’s your friend, not mine. I’ve heard too many stories about how he operates. You can talk to him.’ The bearded moon-face scowled a little. ‘Then we’ll head for Portcoig and land that fisherman. Your guess was right, mister. The damned fool sailed from there late last night alone, and with his gut awash in beer. The coastguard say he’d some kind of problem gathering his usual crew.’
Carrick nodded his understanding and saw Jumbo Wills’ overalled figure heading along the deck towards the bow.
‘What about that oil-slick, sir?’
‘If there was one, it must have broken up. Department say they’ve spoken to two lobster boats who should have been right in the middle of it – we’ve to forget about the thing meantime. Which should relieve some people.’
‘Sir?’ Carrick could almost sense it coming.
‘Mister, I’ve seen that broken spray-boom,’ said Shannon softly. ‘A captain is supposed to know what’s going on aboard his ship. If we’d found that slick what were we supposed to do? Try scooping it up with damned soup spoons?’ He snorted, a glint of icy warning in his eyes. ‘Well, I’ve already dealt with that young fool Wills, and this time I’ll leave it at that. But it doesn’t happen again. Understood?’
Carrick nodded, wondering how badly Jumbo Wills had been blistered. ‘I’m having the boom fixed, sir.’
‘Between you, you’d better,’ said Shannon bleakly, turning away and reaching for the bridge intercom phone. ‘Don’t waste time over that damned sharkman, either. They’ll be waiting for us at Portcoig.
Nobody could have described the Seapearl as beautiful. Her original lines had been hacked away to allow for the harpoon gun’s platform, the wheelhouse was a strange, elevated structure, and the big deckhouse added aft looked like the work of a do-it-yourself weekend – which it had been. As she stopped and rolled gently in the swell within hailing distance of the Fishery cruiser, her dark, paint-blistered hull showed green with weed along the waterline.
There were crewmen on her deck. But the hail from the shark-catcher came from a lean, fair-haired man in khaki shirt and slacks who emerged from the tall, platform-like wheelhouse.
‘Ahoy, Marlin,’ – he bellowed across the gap, not bothering about any kind of megaphone – ‘anything we can do?’
‘About what, Dave?’ Out on the bridge wing, Carrick saved his lungpower and used a battery loud-hailer.
Dave Rother stared then waved a greeting. ‘Come off it, Webb. That Portcoig boat all the fuss is on about. Can we help?’
‘No. Only one man aboard, dead. Somebody called John MacBean,’ answered Carrick. ‘Know him?’
The metallic echo of the loud-hailer faded and for a long moment there was no reply.
‘I know him,’ shouted Rother at last. ‘What happened?’
An impatient rumble came from Shannon in the command chair. Carrick looked round, nodded, and raised the loud-hailer again.
‘Tell you when you get back to Portcoig. Where’s that shark you were chasing?’
‘Lost it,’ answered Rother ruefully. ‘You know the story – there’s no luck fishing with a woman aboard.’
Carrick blinked, forgot Shannon’s impatience and demanded, ‘What woman?’
‘The new nurse at Portcoig. Showing her how sharkers live.’ He turned, said something, and a girl emerged from the wheelhouse. She was tall, slim and a redhead, wearing a white sweater and black trousers. Rother cupped his hands again. ‘We chased here in case she could help. But if he’s dead and we can’t – well, that’s that. See you later.’
Rother took the girl’s arm and they went back into the wheelhouse. A moment later the shark-catcher’s propeller began to churn and she swung away, engine thudding.
Carrick laid down the loud-hailer and looked round. The helmsman was stony-faced but had a twinkle in his eyes. Shannon showed a thundercloud impatience.
‘If you’re finished, mister, we’ll get back to work,’ he said curtly, reaching for the intercom phone.
Taking his chance, the helmsman caught Carrick’s eye and winked.
Once under way, Marlin swung on a north-easterly course for Portcoig. Her twin 2,000-horsepower diesels gulping air with a steady roar, she built up speed and the white wash gradually thickened at her square-cut stern.
A routine weather report reached the bridge from the radio room. Conditions would be unchanged for the next twenty-four hours. The helmsman was relieved, Captain Shannon disappeared to his day-cabin, and soon afterwards Pettigrew arrived to take over the watch. Carrick handed over then went below to the little wardroom aft. The steward was working in his shirt-sleeves, cleaning up, but he had some coffee warming in the galley and brought a filled mug.
Carrick took the mug along to his cabin, peeled off his uniform jacket, kicked out of his thick-soled seaboots, then sprawled back on his bunk with the coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
They would be at Portcoig in about an hour. By the time the dead fisherman had been taken ashore and the inevitable formalities and reports completed he’d a feeling Marlin would stay there at least overnight.
Though, like everything else, that all depended on Captain Shannon. Shannon was rated as a superintendent of fisheries, which made him answerable only to the Department’s top brass. Shannon had spent a lifetime in Fishery Protection, and fairly soon would be compulsorily retired with a Civil Service pension and maybe a medal buried deep in the small print of some Honours List.
But until that happened his powers were impressive, his task that of keeping the peace and maintaining the law in the multi-million-pound Scottish fishing industry – an industry where life could be dangerously harsh and tempers often flared violently. There was a multiplicity of rules and regulations to enforce, covering everything from nets and gear to seasonal bans and operating lights. There were territorial boundaries to enforce, with fishing craft from a dozen European nations sniffing around the fringe all the way from small Dutch herring boats to big electronics-crammed Russian trawlers.
And the fisherman you arrested one day could be the same man you tried to save from drowning the next. Carrick grinned slightly at the thought. That had happened more than once. And having saved the man, they’d more than once had to arrest him again.
Most things came Marlin’s way, Like the rest of the Protection flotilla, she logged an average of 17,000 sea miles a year on her West Coast beat.
A lot of that distance meant the Hebridean chain: five hundred islands, from uninhabited pimples of rock onward, scattered in a great 130-mile off-shore chain. People romanced about the Hebrides. To the watchdog Fishery cruisers they meant dangerous shoals, treacherous, narrow channels and giant tidal rips, all exposed to the worst of Atlantic weather.
While the average fisherman and islander used the term ‘Fishery snoop’ as close to a curse and regarded a Fishery cruiser as a form of grey-painted plague.
But Marlin and her kind still patrolled regardless. She had no deck guns. Her authority was her thirty-knot speed, her Blue Ensign with the Fishery crest, and, above all, Shannon, with his right to be prosecutor, judge and jury when the occasion demanded.
Yawning, Carrick finished the last of the coffee, took another long draw on his cigarette, stubbed it out, and was thinking again about the dead fisherman when there was a knock at the cabin door. It opened and Clapper Bell looked round.
‘Got a moment, sir?’ asked the bo’sun cheerfully.
‘Yes.’ Carrick eyed the big Glasgow-Irishman with a suspicion born of experience. Bell came in, closed the door, and beamed at him.
‘The word is we’ll be staying overnight at Portcoig, sir,’ began Bell. He rubbed a massive paw of a hand warily along his chin. ‘At least, so I’ve heard …’
‘From a reliable source.’ Carrick finished it for him. ‘Don’t ask me, Clapper. I don’t know.’
‘We will,’ said Bell confidently. ‘The Old Man told Cookie to draw up a galley stores list. And he asked the engine room how much fuel the tanks could take.’
Carrick sighed. ‘So?’
‘So probably we’ll be goin’ ashore tonight.’ Bell eyed him innocently. ‘Except that I’ve hardly the price o’ a decent drink till next pay-day. And – uh …’
‘And there’s a barmaid at Portcoig with starving children to support,’ said Carrick wearily. He swung himself up from the bunk, reached for his jacket, and found his wallet. ‘How much?’
‘Two quid – uh …’ Bell grinned, palmed the notes and began to ease back towards the door. ‘Thanks.’
‘Hold on.’ Carrick beckoned him back. ‘Now it’s your turn. You mumbled something about Dave Rother being a sharkman. I’ve had the same thing from the Old Man, but they just don’t get on, never have. Rother pulled a fast one on him years ago. But what about you?’
Bell shrugged, the grin fading into a reluctant frown. ‘He’s a pal o’ yours.’
‘We’ve had a few drinks together,’ corrected Carrick. ‘Let’s have it.’
‘I thought you’d know.’ Bell sucked his teeth unhappily. ‘Skua’s bo’sun told me what happened.’
Carrick raised an eyebrow. Skua was their sister ship; they’d relieved her at the start of the patrol.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, Rother’s base is at Portcoig, right? An’ his boys used to get on fine wi’ the locals …’
‘Used to?’
Bell nodded. ‘Not any more they don’t. There’s the next best thing to open bloody war goin’ on now. The locals want the sharkmen out. In fact, they tried to burn them out so I was told. An’ Rother’s played rough too.’
‘I don’t know, sir.’ Bell grimaced. ‘But,’ – he glanced down at his hand – ‘well, I’ll bet you this two quid we soon find out.’
Carrick quickly shook his head. Marlin’s bo’sun seldom took chances where money was concerned.