Five minutes and a few loud-hailer exchanges later the two feuding boats were tied up one on either side of Marlin, fenders rubbing against the Fishery cruiser’s sides as they rolled with the swell. Beefy and red-faced, the skipper of the Mallaig drifter was first to climb aboard. He reached the fo’c’sle deck and stood belligerently, still drenched from head to foot in detergent spray. Then, as Dave Rother clambered over the starboard side and crossed the deck, the Mallaig man gave a deep-throated growl and seemed ready to start things all over again.
‘Cool it,’ said Carrick wearily, planting himself firmly between the two antagonists. ‘You’re in enough trouble and the Old Man’s on his way.’
Rother shrugged, unimpressed. But the drifter skipper subsided a little, muttering to himself. Glancing past them, Carrick wryly noted the support both men had waiting on the sidelines. Rother’s two sister shark-boats were hovering about two cable lengths astern. Over on the port side other company was arriving in the shape of a cluster of assorted seine-netters and line-boats, keeping their distance but hungry to know what was going on.
‘Base radioed me one of your men is dead,’ said Rother suddenly. He grimaced. ‘Hell, you don’t really think it could have been young Benson, do you?’
‘We’ll maybe know when we find him,’ said Carrick grimly, then eased back a fraction as Captain Shannon stumped along the deck towards them.
‘You,’ said Shannon curtly, pointing to the Mallaig man and ignoring Rother. ‘Who are you and what started this piece of idiocy?’
‘Name of Craig, skipper of the drifter Moonchild,’ snarled the Mallaig man. ‘Captain, let’s see Fishery Protection earn its keep. This bloody maniac tried to ram us.’
‘Ask him why,’ suggested Rother coldly.
Shannon glanced at him briefly, then swung back to Skipper Craig. ‘Well?’
Craig licked his lips a fraction and looked uncomfortable. ‘Ach, one of his damned shark-markers got tangled in our nets. We were cutting it loose that’s all.’
‘Was it?’ demanded Shannon.
‘There happened to be thirty feet of dead shark on the end of the thing,’ answered Rother dryly, tucking his thumbs in the waistband of his slacks.
‘It has still fouled our nets, damn you,’ rasped the Mallaig man, his face getting redder. ‘Should I lose a whole set o’ gear over one o’ your sharks?’
‘Anything more to it, Dave?’ asked Carrick neutrally.
‘A lot.’ Rother nodded and stood silent for a moment while the rope fenders creaked on either side. ‘Look, you know how we work. We nail a shark, hitch a flag-buoy marker on our end of the harpoon line, leave it, and start hunting again. Either we collect on the way back and tow in a string of the brutes or we radio another of the boats to do the job.’ He gave a bitter glance at the drifter skipper. ‘Except lately all we’ve come back to is a drifting buoy and a cut line … and this time we caught someone at it.’
‘An’ I’ve told you why,’ bellowed Skipper Craig indignantly. ‘Don’t blame me for the rest, Rother. If folk aroun’ the islands wish your guts would rot out that’s not my doing.’ Turning, he spread his hands appealingly to Shannon. ‘Captain, the man’s a bloody lunatic. Before he tried to ram us he fired on us wi’ that damned gun. Suppose he’d hit us?’
‘All right,’ rasped Shannon impatiently. ‘Rother, your turn. Did that happen?’
‘Two practice harpoon sticks and Yogi aimed wide.’ Rother grinned slightly. ‘If he’d wanted, he could have planted the real thing right up this idiot’s fat …’
‘That’s enough.’ Shannon glanced away and cleared his throat quickly.
‘What happened to your nets, Skipper?’ asked Carrick, stifling a grin.
‘We cut them an’ ran.’ Skipper Craig shuffled his feet and looked sheepish. ‘They’re back there somewhere.’
‘Britain’s maritime glory,’ murmured Rother with a heavy sarcasm.
Shannon grunted and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘Rother, I’m putting your boat under arrest. You’ll return to Portcoig.’ He saw the Mallaig skipper begin to grin and sniffed. ‘No need for you to look so happy. The same applies to you. Mr Carrick …’
‘Sir?’
‘Take a couple of men and take charge on Rother’s boat. I’ll put Pettigrew on the drifter.’
‘What about my gear?’ protested the drifterman.
‘You can pick it up on the way.’ Shannon considered the collection of boats around them. ‘That’s it for now, Mr Carrick. I’ll break up the spectators. You’ll find us back at Portcoig.’
* * *
Their unwelcome Fishery Protection passengers aboard, the lines holding the fishing boats were slipped. As they drew clear Marlin’s diesels quickened and she started off, curving towards the nearest of the hovering flotilla.
‘That’s it, Dave,’ said Carrick wryly, grabbing a stanchion aboard the Seapearl as the Fishery cruiser’s wash sent them lurching deeper in the swell. ‘You heard the man. We go back.’
Balancing beside him, Rother gave a short chuckle which held an amused malice. ‘Then get on with it,’ he invited caustically. ‘Earn your keep – Shannon hasn’t done me any favours.’
Shrugging, Carrick took stock. The half-dozen men of the shark-catcher’s crew were clustered in a scowling group near the wheelhouse. He’d brought Clapper Bell and a rating named Logan, a quietly dependable hand who’d once been a fisherman.
‘Take the helm,’ he told Logan. As the man edged past into the wheelhouse Carrick turned to the muttering group. ‘Break it up. Some of you get a hose working. I want that detergent shifted before it settles.’
They didn’t react for a moment. Then one cleared his throat and spat carefully over the side.
‘You heard,’ rumbled Clapper Bell. ‘Move.’
Silent, they stayed where they were and Dave Rother chuckled, saying nothing.
‘Then maybe one o’ you feels like doin’ something different,’ declared Bell with a heavy scowl. ‘Who’s the brave lad? Let’s have him, if you’ve anyone with guts enough.’
Suddenly, Yogi Dunlop shoved forward from the rest. The harpoon gunner’s clothes were still sodden with detergent and his long hair was matted.
‘You?’ asked Bell hopefully.
‘Me, you big-mouthed ape,’ snarled the gunner.
Carrick felt an elbow nudge his side.
‘I’ll bet five quid on Yogi,’ murmured Rother.
Smiling slightly, watching the two big men beginning to circle one another in almost ritualistic style, Carrick hesitated, then nodded. ‘You’re covered,’ he agreed out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Get your money out.’
Suddenly the circling ended as Yogi Dunlop lunged forward with his fists swinging. A wild left hook took Clapper Bell to the side of the jaw and the bo’sun staggered, lost his balance on the detergent-greased deck, then slithered backward to thud against the wheelhouse.
Shaking his head slightly, he recovered quickly, then came forward with the next roll of the deck. The extra momentum took him smashing into the harpoon gunner and this time it was Dunlop who went sprawling, ending up in the scuppers as a wave broke against the shark-catcher’s side, drenching both men and their audience in spray.
Dunlop hauled himself to his feet, dived for Clapper Bell like an angry bull, and got in one thudding blow at the bo’sun’s middle. Bell hardly blinked, side-stepped clear of the next, and they began circling again to a chorus of encouragement from the sharkman’s crew-mates.
Then it was Clapper Bell’s turn. Dodging a crotch-aimed kick from his opponent, he pounced quickly, grabbed a full handful of that long, matted hair, yanked in a way that almost tore it out by the roots, then smashed his free fist like a piston under the man’s exposed jaw.
Eyes suddenly glazing, Dunlop wobbled with his mouth hanging open. Still gripping the man’s hair, Clapper Bell swung him bodily round, rammed him hard against the wheelhouse then pistoned a single forearm smash into Dunlop’s belt-line.
He let go … and Dunlop slid slowly down the wheelhouse wood until he met the deck.
‘Now,’ declared Clapper Bell cheerfully, glancing round. ‘Like Mr Carrick said, we want a hose. Right?’
The Seapearl’s crew showed no further interest in arguing.
‘About that five quid,’ said Dave Rother a little later. He was sprawled back on the bunk in his tiny cabin below and fractionally aft of the wheelhouse, smoking a cigarette. A mug of coffee in one hand, Carrick was leaning against a bulkhead and looking through the only porthole. The Seapearl was tossing and rolling along, heading at a plugging eight knots for Portcoig. ‘Mind waiting a few days, Webb?’
‘No, it’s all right.’ Outside the porthole the sea was becoming lumpier by the moment. But in contrast the sky had cleared to a brilliant, almost dazzling blue with only a few tendrils of white cloud being streaked along by the gusting westerly wind. ‘Money tight?’
‘If you’ve asked around you’ll know it is.’ Rother waved his cigarette expressively. ‘Nothing to worry about. I’ve a deal coming up that will take care of things, and a fat cheque due for last month’s shipment of shark-oil. But right now I’m next best thing to flat broke.’
‘What kind of deal is it?’
Rother grinned and shook his head. ‘You’ll hear when it happens. Let’s leave it that way.’ His face clouded slightly. ‘But one thing is certain, I’ll be quitting this part of the world … and to hell with it in the passing.’
Carrick raised an eyebrow. ‘Going away altogether?’
‘Uh-huh. What’s happened with young Benson puts the lid on things.’ Rother eased up on his elbows, looked ready to add something more, then tensed at a shout from the wheelhouse.
It came again, an excited bellow. ‘Sharko, boss – a big’un! Port side – do we go for him?’
Scrambling from the bunk, Rother dived for the porthole. He stared, swore, and pointed for Carrick’s benefit. A great black triangular sai1 was moving slowly through the wavecrests about four hundred yards away. It vanished briefly then reappeared, still travelling almost parallel with the Seapearl.
‘Look at that dorsal-fin!’ Eyes glinting eagerly, Rother swung round. ‘Webb, how about one try? Just one – and to hell with Shannon.’
Carrick hesitated. The great black fin out there had to be at least five feet from its limp tip to the thickening base. The creature beneath had to be a giant of its kind, a giant that could vanish again at any moment.
‘One try,’ urged Rother. ‘That’s all.’
The temptation was too much. Carrick nodded. ‘One try. Better make it good.’
‘We will.’ Rother was already at the door. Another moment and he was running along the deck, shouting orders as he went.
The shabby, paint-blistered shark-boat swung into action with a practised precision, each man of her crew knowing his task. Shoving his way behind the helm, Dave Rother swung the Seapearl’s blunt bow and almost simultaneously began juggling with the engine throttle. Slowing, shuddering as she took a couple of heavy seas broadside on, the boat first dropped back a little, then increased speed on a new, curving course, which meant she was now pursuing that still lazy black fin from astern.
Crammed beside Rother in the wheelhouse, Carrick saw two figures struggling with the harpoon gun on its crude bow platform. A wave drenched over them, then the spray cleared and he blinked. Yogi Dunlop had a new, unexpected assistant gunner. Beside him on the platform, shielding a box of powder cartridges from the spray, Clapper Bell was enjoying himself.
‘Yogi …’ Rother yelled through the wheelhouse doorway and waited till the man half-turned. ‘Double load. And take the brute close. Right?’
Dunlop grinned and waved. The long harpoon stick, tipped with a foot of barbed, fine-honed steel, was already waiting in the muzzle. Doubling-up on the powder charge would do awesome things to its effectiveness if a man didn’t object to the possibility of blowing the whole gun off its mounting.
‘He’s gaining on us,’ murmured Carrick.
Rother peered ahead at the black dorsal-fin and frowned as he eased the throttle levers forward a fraction.
‘Too fast and we’ll scare him, Webb. That should do it.’
The engine beat increased. Then, above it, came an odd, rough note which made Carrick wince.
‘Prop-shaft, Dave …’
‘Prop,’ corrected Rother ruefully. ‘I know. We’ve had it before. But we’ll last out. At least …’ He stopped and cursed.
The big dorsal-fin was slowly submerging again. It slipped beneath the waves, was gone for a full minute while the Seapearl thudded on, then reappeared as lazily but now slightly to starboard. Relaxing, Rother corrected the shark-boat’s helm and the gap gradually closed.
‘Look at him now,’ he said tensely. ‘He’s big all right.’
Gliding along just below the surface, the basking-shark’s elephantine bulk seemed to stretch for ever. Swimming placidly, a great black living mass, it had to be at least fifty feet long, almost barrel-shaped, the head fringed by distended gills and tipped by snout-like jaws. It was the cearbhan of Gaelic fishing legends, the cursed, net-wrecking muldoan, sailfish, sunfish – there were plenty of other names – prehistoric in its size, ponderous, almost ridiculously fearsome by its very existence.
‘Keep like that, damn you,’ murmured Rother, nursing the throttles again. Seapearl’s bow drew level with a vast spread of tail, crept further along, closer and still closer through the heaving seas until the boat was almost scraping the creature’s side. At the bow, Yogi Dunlop had the harpoon gun swung round and crouched tensely, waiting.
Suddenly the great sail-fin quivered and the vast spread of tail began to flex. The basking-shark had at last sensed their presence, was reacting with the beginnings of a swift, undulating movement.
Yogi Dunlop waited a fraction of a second longer, timing an approaching wave. It met the boat, sent it heaving, then he yanked the firing cord at the exact moment of the barrel’s maximum depression.
Several things happened simultaneously. The gun’s flat bang, the slamming underwater impact of the harpoon as it stabbed deep into the shark just ahead of that dorsal-sail, the initial whip of the harpoon line … and then the sea seemed to explode.
Surging out of the waves, almost twice a man’s height in its size, a great tail lashed in a blind frenzy. The Seapearl’s hull gave an enormous shudder as it took a first then a second slamming blow just for’ard of the wheelhouse, blows which would have demolished many a lighter craft.
Thrown violently, Carrick grabbed for support as Dave Rother toppled against him and a solid wall of water hit the wheelhouse glass. The boat was still pitching and twisting like a creature gone mad, line snapping out from her bow, a great boiling patch of sea marking where the basking-shark had dived. From the stern came a tortured, erratic whine as their propeller blades briefly hit empty air.
‘We’re in him. Fair and sure. Got him and …’ Dave Rother’s shout of triumph died as he watched the line still vanishing overboard at express speed while the shark continued its plunge into the depths. The spliced-on marker barrel tore free of its lashings and disappeared in the same way an instant later.
‘Where the hell’s he planning to stop!’ Rother scrambled to reach the helm again, suddenly tightlipped. But as he got there the remaining line gave a convulsive wriggle, stopped running, and the marker barrel shot out of the water some thirty feet ahead, splashed down again, then bobbed idly.
Swearing, Rother slammed the heavy gear lever to full astern and ignored the protesting machinery noises coming from below. Spinning the wheel, he almost broadsided the boat to avoid running over the slack line, then, as they lost way, rolling wildly, he shook his head disconsolately.
‘Gone, damn the thing. The biggest I’ve had the chance at, bar none.’
At the bow, Yogi Dunlop and Clapper Bell leaned sadly on the harpoon gun. A couple of deckhands were already hauling in the useless line.
The harpoon was still on its end. The steel barbs and half the head had snapped off clean, the rest was coated in black, evil-smelling slime.
‘The bastard,’ said Rother softly. ‘He’s down there laughing at us.’ He glanced at Carrick and grimaced. ‘Not my day, is it?’
Carrick shook his head with an answering grin then thumbed towards the compass.
‘He might surface again,’ said Rother hopefully; ‘Maybe if we hung around for a spell …’
‘Maybe, but we’re not,’ said Carrick positively. ‘Portcoig, Dave. You had your chance.’
He almost added that the great fish down below had earned a chance too. But he doubted if anyone else aboard Seapearl would have seen it that way.
By mid-afternoon, when they passed Moorach Island to starboard, the sea was still running high and, despite a brilliant blue sky, a strong wind continued to whip at the rigging. Bringing the shark-boat in close, Carrick saw that salvage work on the wrecked Harvest Lass was already under way. She was beached on the ridge of rock as before but figures were moving on her deck and the seine-netter Heather Bee, which was lying at anchor a hundred yards or so out.
The sight jogged Carrick’s memory. Turning over the helm to Logan, he went along to Dave Rother, who was lounging on deck near the stern.
‘Dave, I was to give you a message from Sergeant Fraser. He’d feel happier if you weren’t around Portcoig tomorrow afternoon. Not while John MacBean’s funeral is taking place.’
‘I don’t go looking for trouble,’ grunted Rother. ‘You can tell him I’ll keep my crews on Camsha. Or at sea.’
‘Fine – as long as you mean your other boats,’ warned Carrick. ‘This one doesn’t sail till Shannon lifts the arrest.’
Rother gave a cynical shrug and looked out towards the island. ‘Shannon doesn’t worry me. I’m a damned sight more concerned about Peter Benson. Maybe I can get an answer this time – do you think he killed your engine-room man?’
‘Let’s say it looks that way. I’d rather wait till we find him.’ Carrick rested his hands on the sharkcatcher’s low rail and considered her skipper’s thin, scowling face. ‘Some people might say that if Benson didn’t then you could be a candidate.’
‘They might.’ Rother took the reminder without concern then stuck a cigarette in his mouth and left it unlit. ‘But they shouldn’t say it too often – I’ve a high sensitivity threshold about some things.’ He switched abruptly. ‘Still seeing Sheila Francis tonight?’
‘Yes.’ Carrick raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘Old-fashioned curiosity.’ Rother tongued the cigarette to the far corner of his mouth, adding cryptically, ‘Have fun, laddie. Always have it while you can. Hell knows what’s round the next corner.’
Marlin’s grey hull was already alongside Portcoig pier when the shark-catcher finally plugged into Camsha Bay. It was close on 4 p.m. and another recent arrival was tied up near the Fishery cruiser’s stern, a small-sized coaster with a green hull, white superstructure and a small black stub of a funnel aft. The Broomfire Distillery boat appeared to have kept to schedule.
Easing in towards the pier’s T-end, Rother let his fenders nudge the thick wooden piles just long enough for the Fishery cruiser’s trio to scramble over. Then the Seapearl’s engine rumbled, she spat exhaust, and her battered hull swung away, heading across for the island.
‘Not a bad character to know, that Yogi,’ mused Clapper Bell, scratching his stomach with one hand. ‘Funny thing he was tellin’ me, though. Just about every man Rother’s got is some kind o’ ex-navy – though a few o’ them finished their time in detention barracks.’
Beside him, the leading hand grinned. ‘Maybe he hand-picked them, sir.’
‘Maybe,’ said Carrick dryly. ‘Well, check back aboard – both of you. Tell the Old Man I’ll be along in a minute if he asks.’
He let them go ahead, then followed slowly, interested in the coaster. The Lady Jane, registered at Glasgow, lay with her hatches open and a radar scanner turning idly above the compact island bridge.
Loading was already under way. Her twin cargo derricks were manoeuvring a large stainless-steel tank aboard from a heavy truck waiting on the pier beside her. The yawning midships hold space gave a glimpse of stacked whisky casks below.
‘No samples available, Chief Officer,’ commented a dry voice above the clatter of the winches. Harry Graham’s tall figure stalked out from the side of the truck and came towards him. ‘If there were, you’d be in a long, long queue.’
Carrick grinned at the grey-haired distillery manager. ‘Let’s say I live in hope.’
Graham grunted, keeping an eye on the bulk tank as it lifted again. The winches stopped, the heavy tank swung gently for a moment, then the winch engines renewed their clatter and it began a slow downward progress towards the for’ard hold.
‘You came in on the Seapearl.’ It sounded close to an accusation.
‘That’s right.’
‘The whole village knows why, of course,’ said Graham, frowning a little. ‘What happens to Rother now?’
‘Captain Shannon’s decision,’ shrugged Carrick, then switched away from the subject. ‘We passed Moorach Island on the way in. Your salvage team looked busy.’
Graham nodded. ‘I had a radio talk with the skipper. They’re fairly hopeful about patching up the Harvest Lass but the rest is like you thought. They’re not so happy about refloating her.’ He shrugged. ‘I should go out myself – but I’m too busy here.’
‘You’re not wasting time,’ mused Carrick. The bulk container had reached the coaster’s hold and another truck was already bouncing its way along the pier. ‘Why all the rush?’
‘Tomorrow’s funeral.’ Graham watched the new arrival pull up. It was loaded with whisky cases and the man in the driving cab was Alec MacBean. ‘I’ve rearranged the whole loading schedule to have the job finished by midday tomorrow. They’d stop for John MacBean’s funeral anyway and afterwards,’ – he gave a faint grimace – ‘well, if mourning follows island tradition there won’t be much work done. Most of them will find it hard enough to stand upright.’
Climbing out of the driving cab, Alec MacBean scowled around then headed towards them, a cigarette cupped in one hand. He gave a curt nod in Carrick’s direction, then ignored him.
‘We’re runnin’ behind schedule, Mr Graham,’ he complained.
Graham pursed his lips apologetically. ‘Back to work, Chief Officer, I’ll see you again.’
‘Try and catch the murdering devil Benson first,’ suggested MacBean sourly. His mouth twisted. ‘Not that anybody did anything when my brother got killed. But then he didn’t rate – he wasn’t Fishery Protection.’
‘And he died in an accident,’ said Carrick wearily. ‘This is something separate. Anyway, finding Benson is a police job – and even then they’ll need proof. Too many people are forgetting that.’
Both men looked at him sharply.
‘You think there’s any doubt?’ queried Graham.
‘Let’s say I don’t like the old approach of “Hang him now, we’ll give him a fair trial tomorrow”,’ retorted Carrick with a degree of irritation. ‘They’ll find Benson. But I want to know more about several things going on here before I start shaping any opinion.’
Graham shrugged in silence. MacBean looked away, muttering under his breath.
‘You don’t have to agree,’ Carrick told them curtly. ‘Just remember I said it.’
He left them and went on down the pier.
Marooned aboard Marlin as officer of the watch, Jumbo Wills greeted his return gloomily while making a vain attempt to hide a magnificent black eye.
‘The Old Man’s gone ashore, Webb,’ he reported. ‘He left word he probably won’t be back much before midnight.’
‘We’ll survive.’ Carrick considered him with a twinkle. ‘But what the devil happened to you? Don’t tell me he hit you on the way!’
Wills glared at him balefully through the undamaged eye. ‘It happened while you and Pettigrew were still out playing at captains,’ he said bitterly. ‘There was a wholesale brawl on the pier just after we got back – a bunch of locals and a couple of Rother’s people who’d come over from Camsha. The Old Man sent me with some hands to break it up.’
‘And?’ Carrick inspected the eye more closely. It was a magnificent bruising, going from black through purple to a yellowed brown at the edges.
‘Well, the moment we tried to stop them everybody started knocking hell out of us.’ Wills’s young face screwed up in a painful perplexity. ‘Webb, do you ever have the feeling you’re having a bad week, the kind of week you could have done without?’
‘Like this one right now,’ agreed Carrick with a grin of sympathy. ‘Duck quicker next time. But what about the Old Man? He said he’d be here.’
‘He was, till a police car arrived with a note for him. Then he went off in it.’ Wills fingered the swollen eye tenderly then itched the skin below. ‘There’s a CID conference being held at Portree about Gibby Halliday’s murder and they need him. But you know how that’ll shape. Our beloved captain will end up having an expense account dinner with the Chief Constable.’
‘On the Chief Constable, you mean,’ murmured Carrick. ‘Where’s Pettigrew?’
‘Ashore too. He came in with the Mallaig boat half an hour ago, moaned about it, then took off for the village.’ Wills looked puzzled. ‘One of the hands saw him there, talking with Maggie MacKenzie.’
‘Then heaven help Pettigrew,’ said Carrick dryly. ‘If Aunt Maggie gets him on the hook he won’t find it easy to wriggle off again.’
The second mate considered the possibility with a hopeful malice then grinned.
‘She’d fix him,’ he declared hopefully. ‘Poor old Pettigrew.’
Early evening crept on with the wind moderating and the sun still beating down on the bay. Along the pier, more truckloads of whisky arrived beside the coaster and were taken aboard amid a constant rumble of winch engines.
Most of the time Carrick stayed in his cabin. It was hot down there, but he stripped down to vest and undershorts, then lay on his bunk, smoking an occasional cigarette and trying to think. He had a growing, uneasy feeling that he now knew enough of what was happening to be able to put the pieces in some theoretical kind of order.
Peter Benson had vanished, leaving behind almost everything he owned. Then, while Dave Rother hinted at some mysterious deal just over the horizon, there was MacBean’s well-stoked hatred of the sharkmen, Fergie Lucas’ equal vendetta and the odd contrast of Graham’s refusal to be labelled. And so far two men had died. One by accident, another because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
How much of it really went back to the dead girl, how much of it belonged somewhere else? Or maybe the whole feeling really came down to imagination and that thump on the head he’d taken.
At last, when the hands of his wristwatch were leaving six-thirty, he gave up and rose. Splashing water on his face from the cabin basin, he used a towel then glanced at the mirror. A tired-eyed face stared back at him, complete with a dark stubble of beard along the jaw-line. Grimacing, he reached for his razor.
Fifteen minutes later, feeling fresher and wearing an off-duty grey shirt and dark-brown slacks, Carrick went ashore. Things were quiet at the village end of the pier and he walked along a little, sniffing the peat-smoke in the air and watching the dozens of gulls parading endlessly along the rocks near the water.
An empty whisky truck clattered past on the road, heading in the direction of the distillery. Then, moments later, Sheila Francis’s little Austin saloon purred into sight and drew up beside him.
‘Been waiting long?’ she asked with a smile as he climbed in.
‘No, just arrived.’ He gave her a long, admiring look once he’d closed the door and settled back. Her hair was caught back by a ribbon the way it had been the first time they’d met. She wore a short blue linen button-up shirt dress, sleeveless, the open neck giving a glimpse of the swimming top below, the last few buttons left casually undone and showing her long, sun-tanned legs to firm perfection. ‘Where’s this place you’re taking me?’
‘Not far, but not many people know about it. I wouldn’t if Maggie MacKenzie hadn’t told me.’ She set the car moving and glanced at him oddly. ‘I didn’t expect you to turn up. With all that has been happening, I mean.’
‘Asking if I’m playing truant?’ He grinned at the thought, lit two cigarettes, and placed one between her lips. ‘Not particularly. Things are quiet for a change and there was nobody around to stop me. Have you seen Aunt Maggie today?’
‘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.