by V M Knox
He swivelled in the chair, his ears straining. If Sarah had not obeyed his instructions to keep the door locked, she may not have moved into the McAllister’s house either. He couldn’t hear anything but he needed to know. Holding his hand over the beam of light, he made his way through the house and along a hallway that he guessed led to the bedrooms. Sarah Crawford was in the end room. He could see her lying asleep on her side, her hair loose and falling over the pillow. The sight of her made him feel uncomfortable. He was the intruder, and he hoped if she awoke suddenly she wouldn’t scream. He switched off the torch and crept towards the bed. Placing his hand over her mouth, he wakened her.
Sarah’s reaction was immediate; instantly awake, eyes wide and confused, fear so starkly evident, even in the darkness.
‘It’s only me,’ Clement whispered.
He saw the woman’s expression change from fright to contempt. He removed his hand from her mouth and she sat up, pulling the bed covers over her shoulders.
‘I hope you have a good explanation for this intrusion?’
‘Get up quickly and dress warmly. We don’t have much time.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘You’re leaving. It’s too dangerous for you to stay here.’
‘I’m not!’
‘I am insisting. Is there anyone else in the house?’
‘No.’
He frowned. Whilst her being at home had made her departure from Huna easier, he was annoyed that she had not followed any of his instructions. ‘Before we go, I need you to get me a London telephone number. I’ll pass on what we know while you dress.’
Sarah reached for a shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘Why the change of plan?’
‘Because I cannot stay in Canisbay or Huna to watch your back.’
Sarah Crawford stared at him. ‘And what makes you think I need you to protect me?’
He felt frustration rise in him. ‘Isn’t the manner of your husband’s death enough for you? He was not just killed, he was brutally murdered. If the killer knows both you and your husband attended the schedules, how long do you think it will be before he strikes again?’
‘All the more reason for me to stay! To show him that I am not intimidated.’
The woman’s response amazed him. ‘What frightens you, Sarah?’
She paused. ‘Donald would have died instantly. He wouldn’t have known anything about it.’
Clement shook his head. ‘While I believe Donald’s killer first asphyxiated him in the annexe, then threw his body into the window, I cannot be completely sure. What if he was only rendered unconscious before being thrown...’
Clement saw her eyes widen. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘As I said, it cannot be ruled out.’
Sarah sat at the small exchange. Her hands shook as she placed the headphones over her ears. ‘What’s the number?’
He waited while she connected the call.
‘Hold the line,’ she said then standing passed the headset to him.
‘Captain Winthorpe, please,’ he said as he sat in the worn chair.
Sarah left the sitting room. He heard her footsteps disappear along the corridor.
‘The Captain is not available.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Nora Ballantyne?’
‘One moment.’
The line crackled. Minutes passed.
‘Hello?’ a sleepy voice finally said.
‘Miss Ballantyne, this is Clement Wisdom. I need to speak with Johnny.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed him, Major.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
There was a pause. ‘Island holiday. With old friends.’
Clement stared at the frayed sitting room carpet. Johnny had said he was going north, to the Faroe Islands and Norway, and thanks to Nora, he now knew it was with the Royal Navy. That could only mean Johnny was in Orkney.
‘Thank you,’ he replied.
The line went dead. The information could not wait. With Johnny in Scapa Flow, Clement decided against Thurso. Tom Harris could take them both to St Margaret’s Hope.
Sarah entered the sitting room carrying a small bag and clutching her red tam o’shanter.
He looked up at her. ‘Do you have another cap? One less recognisable than red plaid?’
‘No. Besides, it’s really warm. And it’s dark outside. Who’s going to see it?’
Clement nodded but he didn’t like it.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘St Margaret’s Hope.’
‘At this hour?’
‘It’s important you leave here. Besides, if you are going to do this sort of work, you’d better get used to odd hours.’
‘I’m a Wireless Operator, not Mata Hari!’
Clement blinked. Never in his life had he spoken so abruptly to a woman. He felt badly about it, especially in light of what Sarah had been through in the last twenty-four hours. But right now, he didn’t have the time to discuss it. ‘Either way, you are leaving now and Tom Harris is expecting us at three o’clock.’
He saw her gaze around the room as though seeing it for the last time. Perhaps she was reminiscing, but her composure surprised him. He had expected greater resistance. Did she believe she would never return to the shop in Huna? Was that her intention; an opportunity to escape? Huna had, quite possibly, not been the happiest episode of her life. He glanced at the small bag in the woman’s hand. Life. Could all she cared about be bundled up into so small a space?
Clement knew it could.
He watched Sarah from the corner of his eye as the woman pulled on her long overcoat and slipped her feet into a pair of boots by the back door. No tears fell from Sarah Crawford’s eyes as she closed the door. In fact, she showed no emotion of any kind. He saw her turn the lock.
‘Is it your habit to lock the door when you leave?’
‘Why?’
‘Everything must appear as if you could soon be back.’
Clement watched her thick, strong wrists as she unlocked the door. Perhaps, he thought, she did not realise the detail required for even the smallest deception. Anything out of the ordinary could arouse suspicion.
He felt the frown cross his forehead. He had watched Sarah turn a key but in his mind’s eye he saw the pencil under the bed in the annexe. It occupied his thoughts as he followed Sarah into the yard. Had the pencil been deliberately left under the bed? If so, then the killer, whoever he was, was no ordinary collaborator. But for what purpose? He audibly gasped as it struck him. Clement felt the detached, calculating presence of an assassin; a well-trained enemy plant who knew exactly what he was doing. He thanked God that he had left the pencil in the dust. Had he taken it, the killer would know that someone not only suspected that Donald Crawford’s death was murder, but also knew what had been hidden in the walls of the annexe. Moreover, leaving the pencil under the bed also told Clement that the murderer was watching and waiting. Clement felt a shudder run down his spine, the killer’s proximity like breath on his cheek.
‘What’s wrong?’
Her voice jolted him back to the present.
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ he said but he felt a sinister presence wrapping silently around him.
‘There are two bicycles in our shed. It’s easier than walking in this weather. We can leave them in the fisherman’s shed on the jetty.’
‘Who uses the shed?’
‘No one much. Tom uses it sometimes to store his fishing nets.’
They crossed the yard to an out-building on the far side. Neither of them spoke. Opening the door, Clement wheeled the bicycles into the yard and checked the tyres. Swinging his pack onto his shoulders, he waited while Sarah placed her small bag into the handle basket and together they walked in silence towards the gate to the street.
The wind had increased and it was snowing again as Clement closed the gate to Crawford’s yard. But eve
n though he knew they were heading west into the inclement conditions, it wasn’t the weather that worried him. He checked the street in all directions, his senses on high alert. Opposite was the red telephone box. He stared at it but no one was there. Swinging his leg over Donald Crawford’s bicycle, Clement pedalled into the strengthening wind. Sarah was already ahead of him. He pushed hard, making up the distance until she was only slightly in front of him. He thought her pace was becoming faster. Perhaps it was the weather, but he sensed that now she couldn’t wait to leave.
Ten minutes later they passed the closed and locked barn. He noted she did not glance at the building this time. Sarah Crawford. Was there no one in this woman’s life she regretted leaving? If there had been rumours about her and Sean Mead, had he only ever represented escape from her life of bitter resentment, and nothing more? Sarah Crawford was not like any woman Clement had ever met. She appeared to be totally independent, reliant on no one. Yet, in the barn, he had glimpsed a tender side to her; a side, he surmised, not much seen. Her shaking hands when she had connected the telephone call also belied her air of stoic indifference. Perhaps it said more about Donald Crawford than it did about his widow.
They pedalled on in silence. Off to his right was Wallace’s farm, but only the black outline of the farm roof and some out-buildings were discernible against the starry night. Fifteen minutes later they passed the kirk. Ten minutes after that they descended the hill towards Gills Bay.
Despite his heightened nerves, there was no warning.
The face came out of the night.
Only the downward deflected bicycle lamp coming towards them gave any indication that anyone else was on the road. Then just as suddenly, the rider was gone, disappearing into the gloom like an apparition that melded into the night, as though imagined.
‘Sarah?’ came back from the cyclist.
‘Don’t answer. Keep going!’ he whispered but Clement’s pulse was racing. The sudden encounter confirmed their complete vulnerability.
The sight of someone on a bicycle pedalling east and on the road at that hour alarmed him. He thought it was one of the McCrea boys but he couldn’t be sure. There was no time to investigate it now. He needed to get Sarah away. He looked up. Ahead, Tom Harris’s boat was tied up at the long stone jetty, a lit, shaded lamp tied to the mast.
Clement glanced back along the road. ‘Did you recognise the person on the bicycle?’
She nodded. ‘Malcolm McCrea.’
‘You’re sure? It couldn’t have been his brother, Stewart?’
‘I saw his coat and hat. It was Malcolm. He saw me and possibly you.’
In Clement’s mind it wasn’t conclusive proof but, perhaps it no longer mattered. He stared back into the gloom. ‘McCrea may not have recognised either of us. He called out your name, but it was said as a question. It could be that he only saw your red cap and made the same assumption you did. Regardless, there isn’t much we can do about it now.’ They rode down the hill. Off to his left was the shed and in front was the long stone jetty. Clement swung his leg over the bike and walking it along the jetty a few yards, lifted it, dropping it into the dark waters of Gill’s Bay.
‘What are you doing?’
‘The bicycles should be disposed of permanently.’
‘But I need them.’
‘Not if you’re dead, you won’t.’
Sarah held his gaze for a few seconds before sliding off her bicycle. He knew what he’d said was harsh, but there was no time for discussion. Without waiting for further objections, he lifted her bicycle and dropped it into the black sea. ‘Can you think of any reason why either McCrea would be on the road at this hour?’
She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t look good, does it?’
‘I think that is an understatement. If the traitor is Malcolm McCrea, you don’t have a moment to lose.’
She was looking at him, her eyes wide. ‘Traitor? You think Malcolm was on his way to kill me?’
‘I think the killer is close by and is intent on removing anyone who could identify him.’
‘I don’t know who he is!’
‘He doesn’t know that. But he does know that someone, most probably you, also operated the wireless.’
Sarah stared out into the night.
He could see the fear on her face. ‘When we get to St Margaret’s Hope, stay there. I will pass on your location to Special Duties Branch.’
A burst of fast-moving air skimmed his cheek.
He recoiled by instinct and although sudden and unexpected, he knew precisely what it was. Dropping his pack, Clement grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to the hard stone jetty. ‘Stay down!’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Don’t move!’ Twisting around, Clement could just make out the shed behind them about twenty feet away, too far away for shelter and in the opposite direction to Tom Harris’s boat. Clement knew, by the bullet’s trajectory, that it had been fired from somewhere in front of them, from across the water. Raising his head, he looked over her prostrate body and scanned the dark sea and surrounding land mass. A low light, like the glow from a candle, flickered in the night and was then extinguished. But it was enough. ‘I think it came from the bell tower at the kirk.’
‘What did?’
‘A bullet. Someone is trying to kill you!’
A suppressed frightened gasp escaped Sarah’s lips and Clement felt the strong pragmatic woman burrow into his chest.
‘Stay calm and do as I say, Sarah.’ He felt the woman’s head nod against his chest but her whole body was shaking. He stared out across the black waters, his breathing exaggerated. How had the sniper located them in such limited visibility? Telescopic sights? Perhaps. But at night? Surely the distance was too great? He stared again into the darkness. A direct line could be drawn between the kirk and the Gills Bay jetty. Their only cover was the night.
‘What do we do now?’
‘He’s waiting.’
‘For what?’
‘For us to move.’
He heard her whimper. A minute passed. Two. But no further shots were fired. Clement began to question what had happened. Had he imagined it? He had felt something. But he hadn’t imagined the glimmer of light. Someone was in the bell tower. Clement’s hand went to his coat pocket to retrieve his telescope, but it was metal and could reflect the limited moonlight. Was that how the gunman had located them? Had the light, for only a second, glinted on the bicycles? Nothing now must give away their location. He pushed the instrument down in his pocket.
‘Just stay down, Sarah. I don’t think he can see us, so he doesn’t know whether we are alive or dead.’
‘How did he see us at all?’
‘I don’t know, but he will assume if we are alive, we will seek cover near the shed, so his eye will be focused there for any movement. Thank the dear Lord that there is almost no moon tonight.’
‘I cannot believe it! Malcolm McCrea is trying to kill me!’
‘We must not give him a second chance. Are you wearing any metal?’
‘Just my belt buckle, I think.’
‘You need to be sure. Use your cap to conceal the buckle, undo it then hide it in a pocket.’ He waited. There was no sound other than the waves slapping against the stone walls of the jetty.
‘We cannot wait any longer. I’m going to count backwards from three. On the count of one, get up as fast as you can and run for Tom’s boat. Don’t stop no matter what happens. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Three, two, one!’
The sound of their boots on the hard stone echoed in the night air. Clement stared at his feet. All he could see were the uneven, weathered stones beneath his running footsteps. The slabs were irregular and the danger of tripping was great. He grabbed Sarah’s hand and continued running. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sarah’s coat flapping as she ran towards the fisherman’s boat. He knew his grip was tight, but she had not remove
d her gloved hand. Shots rang out, sharp and rapid, but it was not the silenced single shot from a sniper’s rifle. Machine gun fire now coursed the jetty, strafing the area wildly. He felt his pulse pounding in his ears and his throat was gulping air. He prayed they would soon be beyond the machine gun’s range, but the familiar spitting sound continued to punctuate the night. Short bursts of rapid fire filled his ears. Up ahead, Tom had extinguished his shaded lamp. Bullets pinged off the stones around Clement’s feet. Some were wide, spitting into the water off to his right. Clement realised the firing was random, spraying in all directions and cast over a wide area. They had a chance. Tom’s little dog, Flip, was barking. It was like a homing beacon in the darkness. As they ran, he glanced up and to his right at the kirk’s bell tower. Yellow flashes of rapid fire spat out from the window. The barrage had not lessened. He could hear the bullets hit the water beside him and up ahead. ‘Tom, start the engine!’ he yelled.
A moment later the small craft’s motor sprung into life.
The machine gun was still firing, the pinging and spitting intensifying. Looking forward, Clement could see the fisherman was casting off the ropes which tied the vessel to the wharf. As they approached the boat, Clement gripped Sarah’s hand. ‘Jump!’
They landed heavily as a line of bullets dug deep into the deck beside them, splintering the timbers. Scrambling over the deck, Clement pushed Sarah down beside the wheel house on the seaward side as the little ship pulled away from the jetty. He stared back at the dark coast, praying that the ship’s engine was safe from the incessant hail of bullets. From the little window high up in the kirk, he could still see the yellow flashes of machine gun fire as the gunman continued to strafe the bay. But as the minutes passed, the ship put sufficient distance between them and the shore and the firing ceased.
The range of the weapon astounded him. Clement didn’t know of a gun that had a range greater than one mile. Special Units perhaps had such a weapon, but he knew nothing about that. He thought of Malcolm McCrea. If it was the lad in the bell tower, the boy was far more than a youth with a political axe to grind.
