Stormtide (13 page)

Lucas’ fist was coming back for a third time when Carrick arrived. Knocking the man’s arm aside, Carrick pistoned the flat of his left hand hard into that grinning face. Swearing, Lucas staggered back while the men still holding Rother hesitated.

‘Shove off,’ rasped Clapper Bell, towering over them. ‘Move, you maggots.’

They let Rother go and edged away. Lucas stayed where he was, muttering under his breath, right hand straying under his jacket flap and fingering the hilt of the sheathed gutting knife at his hip.

‘Don’t be a damned fool,’ said Carrick softly, poised ready. ‘The odds are wrong.’

For a moment Lucas stayed as he was. Then, reluctantly, his hand left the blade.

‘Another time,’ he said curtly. Then he carefully checked the knot in his black tie and went off, followed by his friends.

‘Damn them,’ said Dave Rother painfully, still nursing his stomach. ‘Thanks, Webb.’

Carrick shrugged. ‘Forget it. We’ll get you back to Camsha if you want.’

‘No need.’ Rother drew a deep, wincing breath and straightened a little. ‘Maggie MacKenzie’s boat is in. She’ll take me.’ He paused. ‘I haven’t seen you since you found Benson.’

‘They gave me another job.’ Carrick said it neutrally, then asked, ‘How did things go this morning?’

‘Rough.’ Rother’s eyes smouldered. ‘The mortuary first – which was the home-made psychological bit. Then that character Rankin trying to play cat and mouse again.’ He paused then asked point-blank, ‘Do you think I killed Benson?’

‘I haven’t heard anyone prove it yet. So – no, right now I don’t.’

‘Can I quote you?’ asked Rother caustically. He nursed his stomach again and grimaced. ‘Thanks anyway. I’ll get on my way.’

‘Dave,’ – stopping the sharkman, Carrick pulled the length of braided line from his pocket – ‘ever seen anything like this before?’

‘Up to my neck in trouble and I should play sailor knots?’ Rother stared at him.

‘It could matter.’

Rother sighed, examined the braiding, then shook his head. ‘No. Do I ask why it matters?’

‘Not right now.’

‘Have fun then,’ said Rother dryly.

He nodded to Clapper Bell and walked on down the pier. Two minutes later the little ferry launch growled out, heading for Camsha.

Death’s final ceremonial retains an old-fashioned dignity in the Scottish West Coast islands, a dignity heightened by rigorously disciplined simplicity.

John MacBean’s funeral procession came past the pier at Portcoig at 2 p.m., following a route from his cottage home to the village cemetery on a hillside about half a mile along the shore of the bay. The motor hearse which had brought his body from the hospital mortuary at Broadford had been dismissed at the cottage. The plain oak coffin, topped by a single wreath, was on a low, open carriage pulled by two horses in plain leather harness, their heads topped by black mourning plumes which were whipped by the wind.

The carriage at other times did duty as a peat cart. The horses, carefully groomed for the occasion, were
giant Clydesdales more used to ploughing on a hill farm.

Behind them came the traditional walking mourners, led by the parish minister, with Alec MacBean a grim-faced figure by his side. Some two hundred men, crofters and fishermen, shepherds and shopkeepers, followed in a procession which was four deep and which kept instinctively to the same orderly pace. It was an all-male procession – again that was tradition. Women mourned at home, those who wanted to visit a graveside did so later, when a bare mound of earth would hide what had gone before.

Clapper Bell was standing at the pier gates. As the procession wended past, he took out a large, off-white handkerchief and carefully blew his nose. Leaving
Marlin
, Carrick reached him as the tail-end of the mourners began to vanish round a bend in the road.

‘He’s with them,’ said Bell with a faint grin. ‘Up front in the second row an’ looking as innocent as they come. So he’ll be busy for a spell.’

Carrick nodded. Fergie Lucas was going to be fully occupied for the next half-hour – or longer, depending on the minister’s graveside tendencies. The same thing applied to most of the male population of Portcoig.

‘Got your toolkit?’ he asked quietly.

‘Uh-huh.’ Bell tapped his pocket.

They set off in the opposite direction to the funeral procession, walking along empty streets where every window blind was drawn. Even the dogs were indoors.

‘I know one thing,’ mused Bell, glancing around. ‘You’d better have a good story ready if we’re caught.’

‘You didn’t have to come,’ reminded Carrick. The edge of a blind twitched on the other side of the street
as someone behind it gave way to curiosity. ‘All I needed was the toolkit.’

‘Leave you on your own?’ Bell grunted disparagingly. ‘Then you really would get caught. I’m coming – though I wouldn’t if I’d any sense.’

They walked through the village and deliberately passed the isolated row that was Glenside Cottages. Fergie Lucas’, number six, was last in the dilapidated line, which helped. Further on, reaching open country, they left the road and doubled back through a maze of thick gorse and old drystone dykes. At last they were behind a final drystone wall, only yards from Lucas’ back door.

‘I’ll take it from here,’ murmured Carrick. ‘Keep your eyes open. Whistle me out if you see trouble shaping.’

He took the little toolkit from Bell, clambered over the dyke, and crossed quickly to the cottage. Then Carrick waited a moment. The only sound was the wind whispering its way through the overgrown garden.

Relaxing a little, he looked around. The back door was locked but the grimy window just beside it was held by a single snib-bolt. A narrow wafer of toughened steel from the toolkit eased the snib back, the window went up with a disused squeak of protest, and Carrick climbed through.

He was in a shabby, stone-floored kitchen which smelled of bad drains and stale food and looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. The only other room held a few sticks of furniture and an unmade bed with crumpled, grubby sheets. His feet met an empty beer can and sent it rolling across the threadbare carpet.

Grimacing, Carrick got to work. Starting with an old chest of drawers, he searched carefully, replacing
each article as he’d found it. In one drawer he found Lucas’ Merchant Navy papers. The most recent of them was more than a year old.

He moved on, checked through a corner cupboard, and he was going to close the door again when he saw a battered shoebox. Lifting the lid, he looked inside then pursed his lips.

The box held a collection of discarded oddments, from a battered silver cigarette case to a pair of broken sunglasses. But Carrick brought out the one item which mattered, a lifeboat whistle on a cord lanyard … a lanyard braided in the same odd way as the necklet which mattered so much to Harry Graham.

The lanyard in his pocket, any doubts gone, Carrick left the way he’d come. It took a few seconds and another of the little pieces of metal in the toolkit to resnib the window from outside, then he made the short dash back to the drystone wall, clambered over, and dropped down again beside Clapper Bell.

‘All quiet,’ reported the bo’sun happily. ‘Any luck in there?’

‘Enough.’ Carrick brought out the lanyard. ‘That braiding more or less does it, Clapper. If Harry Graham saw this, heaven help Lucas.’

‘If?’ Bell’s rugged face twisted in a puzzled frown. ‘You mean we don’t let on?’

‘No – not to Graham.’ Carrick paused. ‘But I’ll need to get Shannon’s help on the next part.’

‘Just like that?’ Bell stared at him in near horror. ‘Then start prayin’ the Old Man is in a good mood. That way he’ll maybe only want our guts for a flamin’ necktie!’

Shaking his head in despair, still not certain what was going on, he followed Carrick back through the bushes towards the road.

Captain James Shannon was in anything but a suitable mood. It showed in such danger signals as the way his stumpy body quivered with outrage as he glared at Carrick across
Marlin
’s chartroom table.

‘Do you know there’s a charge called breaking and entering, mister?’ he demanded hoarsely, his beard bristling. ‘As for this,’ – he flicked a contemptuous hand at the whistle and lanyard lying between them – ‘even if you’re right about what it means we’re talking about murder, not morals.’

‘But they could both be linked,’ said Carrick stubbornly.

Shannon’s nostrils flared. ‘Explain, mister and better make it good.’

‘Fergie Lucas has been fanning trouble for Rother ever since the Grant girl died.’ Carrick paused. ‘Maybe just to keep his own nose clean – maybe for other reasons.’

‘Such as?’ asked Shannon sarcastically.

Carrick shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir. But – well, suppose young Benson saw someone prowling on Camsha that night. Benson was on his own over there, so maybe he fought shy of tackling him. But suppose Benson followed that same someone back across the sand to the shore road, saw him drive off, and went after him on his motor-cycle. If he was spotted …’

‘If,’ snapped Shannon. ‘And if again – if by someone you mean Lucas don’t damned well pussyfoot.’

‘Lucas then,’ agreed Carrick without giving way. ‘Lucas and maybe others. My guess is that’s what happened. They saw Benson following, waited, and shot him off that motor-cycle. Maybe that wasn’t what they meant to do. But it happened and all the rest was rigged, to make us think Benson was still alive.’

‘And Gibby Halliday’s murder?’

‘You said it yourself, sir. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He would have spoiled everything.’

‘It’s still weak, mister,’ grunted Shannon, unconvinced. But he looked more thoughtful. ‘What about the police statements? Lucas has witnesses to say he was at the pier most of the evening. Even if they’re lying, you saw him yourself – and that was less than an hour after Rother’s sharks started drifting. There wouldn’t be time to take Benson’s body out to that ruin and hide it.’

‘Not then. But there would be later,’ said Carrick quietly.

Shannon sighed. ‘And transport?’

‘Would depend on who was helping him.’

‘All right, I’ve heard worse.’ Partly convinced, Shannon rested his hands on the chart table. ‘I’ll talk to Inspector Rankin, see if he’ll run a full background check on Lucas.’

‘And Alec MacBean,’ suggested Carrick.

‘All right. But Rankin isn’t going to like it.’ Shannon sighed again and shoved the lanyard and whistle towards Carrick. ‘Better keep this for now. And you’d better remember MacBean claims he was practically in Lucas’ pocket all the time. For the rest, we’ll need to take it slowly. Agreed?’

‘Agreed, sir.’ It was better than Carrick had hoped would happen.

‘Then it’s settled.’ Shannon prowled across the chartroom and looked out of a window towards the village. ‘They’re starting to come back from the funeral now. I want a positive check that Lucas sails on the
Heather Bee
the way Graham suggested he would. And I hope he does, believe me.’

‘Something separate. The police have picked up a story that a mob of these idiots may cross to Camsha
tonight and try to burn out Rother’s base. Maybe that’s why we had our prowler last night, to make sure we couldn’t interfere.’ Shannon pursed his lips. ‘Well, they’ll find out different. I’ve agreed to prevent any attempt to cross by boat. The police will take care of the road approach.’

Going over, Carrick saw the thin trickle of blackclad figures coming along the shore road.

‘When will they try it?’

‘Not till late on, mister.’ Shannon smiled without humour. ‘They’ve some drinking to do first. Then they’ll talk about it for a spell. The time to worry is when the talking stops and the bottles are empty.’

It came down to watching and waiting, which was always the worst part. The slow hours, knowing that an invisible fuse could be burning through the sullenly quiet village.

Mainly quiet, at any rate. An hour after the mourners returned, two of the Mallaig boats sailed out. Their skippers were stern-willed men who herded their crews aboard under a combination of lurid threats and the size of their fists. An hour later, the
Heather Bee
followed them out of the bay through a squall of rain.

Fergie Lucas was aboard. More of a surprise, so was Alec MacBean. The erstwhile principal mourner wore an old sweater and dungarees like the rest of the salvage crew and was in the wheelhouse as the seinenetter nosed out towards her salvage job.

In the village, the rest of the mourners were too occupied to miss either man. Bottles and hip flasks circulating while they waited on Portcoig’s two bars opening, they gathered in cottage kitchens, sheltered in doorways from the rain or simply wandered
around, oblivious to the downpour. Glasses clinked while John MacBean’s memory was toasted and the Camsha sharkmen were cursed in equal measure.

As the rain eased off Inspector Rankin arrived by car. Once the detective was aboard, Shannon ushered him straight to the day-cabin and the two men talked alone for some time. Then Rankin left, sour-faced, contenting himself with a grunt and a nod as he passed Carrick near the gangway.

‘He’ll check Lucas again,’ murmured Shannon, coming beside Carrick. ‘But he’s not happy about it.’

They watched the detective climb back into the police car. As it drew away a drunken fisherman came weaving down the pier. He stumbled, fell, got up again, then unexpectedly went staggering back the way he’d come.

‘One less to worry about,’ grunted Shannon. ‘There’ll be more.’

There were, as late afternoon became evening and the weather stayed a blustering, rain-laced grey. A few times Maggie MacKenzie’s ferry launch broke the monotony of their vigil at the pier, tossing its way out across the bay with passengers aboard.

One trip was different from the rest. The launch bucked through the waves towards the
Lady Jane
, still lying anchored in the middle of the bay. Harry Graham was the sole passenger. He stayed on the whisky-laden coaster about ten minutes then the launch brought him back again, almost disappearing at times in the spray.