Free Stormtide by Bill Knox Page A

a deep, groaning breath.
    ‘Mister, I’d give a lot to know what the good Lord gave that young idiot in place of brains. If he ever gets command of anything bigger than a rowing boat …’ He stopped, his attention suddenly switched towards the crowd being held back at the far end of the pier.
    An argument of some kind seemed to have broken out. There were shouts, curses, then the men on guard were literally shoved aside and two figures marched purposefully into the smoke-laced glare of light. As Carrick recognized them he swallowed hard and struggled up to his feet.
    ‘Here comes all we needed,’ said Shannon in near disbelief. ‘Rother …’
    Another moment and Dave Rother reached them, Yogi Dunlop hovering like an escort a few paces to the rear.
    ‘Captain, your men didn’t seem too happy about letting us through,’ said Rother crisply. ‘But I wanted to see you – and now, not later.’
    ‘Why?’ Shannon eyed him coldly.
    Rother shrugged. ‘You’d soon have heard we’d been back in the village.’ He thumbed towards the smoke-wreathed seine-netter. ‘Some of the locals seem to have the idea that Yogi or I might have been playing with matches. I wouldn’t like you to come round to the same idea.’
    ‘It might not be hard,’ answered Shannon coldly.
    ‘Give me some credit,’ sighed Rother, unperturbed. ‘If ever I wanted to start a fire it would be a real one. But I’ve a feeling you’d go jumping to conclusions.’
    ‘Why aren’t you out at the island, Dave?’ asked Carrick quietly.
    ‘I’m on a little private errand of my own, boy.’ The fair-haired sharkman’s face tightened a fraction. ‘A domestic thing, believe me.’ Coming closer, he eyed Carrick carefully. ‘You look like you caught the rough end of this deal. Doesn’t he, Yogi?’
    The big harpoon gunner grinned dutiful agreement.
    ‘Still, you always had a thick skull,’ mused Rother. ‘I’m more worried about you, Captain. Run around in pyjamas at your age and you’re inviting a chill in the bladder. You should wrap up better – we don’t want to lose you.’ He glanced at Carrick again. ‘Just remember, I’m not involved in it. Right?’
    Ignoring Shannon, he swung away back the way he’d come with Dunlop trailing at his side.
    Spluttering incoherently, Marlin ’s captain had barely recovered from the outrage by the time they’d vanished back into the crowd. Then he covered up by bellowing fresh instructions to his men aboard the seine-netters, finally calming down as Clapper Bell came clambering back up on to the pier.
    A paint-blistered kerosene can in one hand, the bo’sun reached them then stopped and looked back. A small group of fishermen had climbed up after him and were waiting at the edge of the pier, muttering angrily.
    ‘Well?’ demanded Shannon. ‘Any luck?’
    ‘Some, sir.’ Bell hefted the fuel can. ‘He used this – it belonged to the boat, kep’ in the stern locker, where you’d expect it to be.’
    ‘And the locker forced open?’
    ‘Aye. An’ I found this, sir.’ Bell held out his other hand. On his broad palm lay a heavy bone-handled clasp-knife, the hinged blade open but snapped off short, the broken piece of blade lying beside it. ‘The knife was lyin’ near the wheelhouse. The wee broken bit was at the stern locker.’
    Shannon looked at the knife, then, lips pursed, took it from him and passed it to Carrick. In the glare cast by Marlin ’s spotlight the initials ‘D.R.’ burned deep into the bone handle stood out plainly.
    ‘Nice friends you have, mister,’ grated Shannon, his round face a cold fury. ‘D.R. – David Rother. For all he cared you might have been barbecued in that wheelhouse. Now you know why he came back to see if we’d found this.’
    Carrick shook his head. It seemed too simple an explanation.
    ‘Sir …’ Bell thumbed back towards the waiting fishermen. ‘They know about the knife. In fact, it was one o’ them found it.’
    They looked over at