by V M Knox
Clement visualised the deceased Donald Crawford. The man had been suffocated and his corpse grotesquely displayed for maximum effect. Why had the murderer gone to such lengths? Was it only a warning to Sarah, a way of telling her that her husband’s killer knew about her covert activities? Surely, if it were to frighten Sarah into leaving, then the killer had achieved his objective. So why the pick up? What else had recently happened to make the enemy plant break cover?
Chapter 12
Friday 28th February
Half an hour past midnight, the little ship crept its way into the black waters of Scapa Flow. Above Clement a strong green light flashed across the sky in the darkness making the waters appear blacker and the land masses like a risen leviathan.
Clement stood beside Tom in the wheel house as the Northern Lights danced their celestial brilliance over the sea. ‘Spectacular, aren’t they? I’ve never seen them before.’
‘A mixed blessing, Vicar.’
Clement turned to look back on St Margaret’s Hope, the shoreline receding with every second. No lights could be seen anywhere ashore. He thanked God that Tom Harris had both local knowledge and a conscience. He stared at the mesmeric Lights. Their presence was more than an extraordinary spectacle, he saw that their brilliance lit up the heavens and the surrounding land. ‘Could we go by way of Stroma Island, Tom?’
The fisherman’s eyes widened. ‘You’re a brave man, there’s no denying it, Vicar.’
Was it fear in Tom’s voice or incredulity at his request or something else? Clement had seen Stroma Island from the kirk, but the lighthouse which had reputedly been bombed only last Saturday was not visible from the mainland. Was there something on the other side of the island he didn’t know about? ‘Tell me about the lighthouse on Stroma?’
‘It’s at the northern end of the island, above a whirlpool, and it’s a place to stay away from, especially at night.’
‘How does one get onto this island?’
‘In daylight, by boat to the western end. Then a walk of about three miles over rocky ground passing several crofters’ cottages with unfriendly dogs. It’s always windy there.’
Clement shot a sideways glance at the hardened fisherman. He hadn’t seriously entertained an island location for the rendezvous, but Tom’s local knowledge, said almost as an after-thought, ruled it out as a feasible place to land an aeroplane, and he didn’t believe Tom was lying. Why had the attack occurred? Had it been just a release of unused bombs from a raid elsewhere? But there was nowhere else around Stroma, other than the well-defended Scapa Flow and the Royal Air Force Base at Castletown, from which a squadron of fighters would surely bring down a lone German fighter. Why hadn’t it been intercepted? What purpose had strafing the lighthouse accomplished? Always questions and no answers. ‘When is dawn?’
‘We’ll see some light around six.’
‘Could we hug the coastline?’
‘Anything in particular you hope to see, Vicar?’
‘Not really.’ But he prayed the Aurora would persist for some hours because he wanted to see the shoreline between Gills Bay and Thurso, especially around Dunnet Bay.
‘Suits me. But I can’t guarantee you’ll see much before sunrise.’
Tom didn’t talk much after that. Perhaps it was the early hour, but Clement didn’t think so. From the man’s intense expression, Clement assumed Tom’s concern was for enemy shipping, above and below the surface.
He turned his gaze on the receding land masses that enclosed Scapa Flow. While ever the heavenly lights flashed, it was possible to see some distance. But without them, with only the stars and little moonlight, the sea was horribly dark.
An hour and a half later they entered Pentland Firth.
Tom pointed towards the dark shore. ‘There’s Gills Bay.’
Clement stared into the gloom. Taking his telescope from his pocket he trained it on the shore. The dark silhouette of the bell tower of Canisbay Kirk against the starry night sky filled the scope. Moving it to his right, he scanned the cliffs and familiar surrounding hills and jetty of Gills Bay, but all was in darkness.
It was almost three o’clock when Tom’s boat rounded Dunnet Head, the massive promontory looming over the seas, the sound of the crashing waves audible across the water. Dunnet Bay spread out before them in the darkness off the port beam of the boat. He knew from the maps that the inlet was wide and faced almost due north-west. From the corner of his eye Clement caught the flare, illuminating the heavens. Above him the Northern Lights flashed their shimmering green ribbons once more over the sea. Clement reached for his telescope and trained it on the coast. Sweeping the instrument along the shoreline, he saw in the bright green glow, at the far eastern end, a dark groyne protruding into the bay. It was tucked well around, in the lee of Dunnet Head.
‘Is that a pier?’
‘Aye. Dwarwick Pier. Not much used now and it’s not for the faint-hearted, especially in a nor’-westerly.’
Clement nodded. He heard the anxiety in Tom’s voice, but Clement had no intention of asking the fisherman to take him there. He did concede that while a landing at Dwarwick Pier may be hazardous in a north-westerly wind, from its location, in an easterly or even southerly breeze, the place was well protected by the mass of Dunnet Head. It was also very well protected from prying eyes in any weather, especially if not much used. He moved the telescope along the shoreline. From what he could see, the pier appeared to be surrounded by deep water so it would be possible for a ship, in favourable conditions, to tie up there. Lifting the telescope, he scanned the surrounding countryside still shrouded in darkness. ‘Are there any villages there, Tom?’
‘No, just farmers.’
With no villages or public buildings of any kind in the immediate area, Clement thought Dwarwick Pier was about as ideal a place for a pick-up as he had ever seen.
Lowering the telescope, he contemplated his theory. But he had no proof for any of it.
The little ship rolled on the swell as it entered the narrow estuary of Thurso Harbour, the engine struggling against the out-going tide. The diversion around Stroma Island and Dunnet Bay had delayed their arrival into the northern port, and from Tom’s concerned expression, Clement was left in little doubt that the fisherman was relieved to finally be tied up at the wharf. Thanking Tom for the crossing, Clement jumped ashore. It was just after half past six. Drizzling rain began to fall. He huddled into his greatcoat. In the early dawn light he scrutinised the waterfront. In front of him was a long building where two men sat mending nets in a doorway. Further to his left, rising steeply from the river’s inlet, a street disappeared between the houses. Clutching his pack, Clement walked along the wharf and taking the snaking street, headed into town to find Olrig Street where, so Tom had told him, he would find the police station.
Clement saw the small sign hanging outside another grey stone building about half way up the street and next to a church of some size. But the police station was closed, the door bolted shut and snow clung to the window sills and around the doorway. Thurso Police Station, so a sign board told him, would not open for another three hours. Turning, Clement looked around for a place out of the weather. Finding none, he returned to the waterfront. For a moment, he considered taking refuge with the fishermen mending their nets. It was unwise; the fewer people who knew of his movements the better. People talk. He’d said that before.
From where Clement was standing on the street above the quay, he could see Tom’s boat still tied up alongside the wharf, but neither Tom nor Flip were on deck. Clement wondered if Tom had decided to catch a few hours’ sleep. He walked towards the boat, hopeful of a place out of the weather. Climbing aboard, he found the hatch into the wheelhouse locked. Clement turned around, his eyes focused on searching for Tom and Flip between the buildings, but other than the two fishermen mending their nets, no one was about. He hoped Tom was below or buying provisions and not gossiping in some fishermen’s haunt. But while that was a r
isk, Clement didn’t believe Tom would talk about him at all now. Tom knew just enough about the English vicar’s presence in Caithness to get himself into trouble. That, surely, would keep the man’s mouth closed.
Leaving Tom’s boat, Clement walked along the wharf to the point and stared into the westerly wind, to a wide-open bay off to his left and beyond to the port of Scrabster. On the sand below him were several upturned wooden dinghies. He pulled a balaclava from his pack, and tugging it over his head, jumped from the quay and walked towards the small craft. Selecting one, he crawled under it. Wrapping his coat around him, he burrowed himself into a small patch of dry sand. At least he would be protected from the rain and wind. He closed his eyes, but his thoughts were on Dwarwick Pier.
Just before nine he pulled himself out from under the dinghy, his muscles aching and the pain in his hips an instant reminder that was not a young man. Dismissing this, he brushed the sand from his clothes and looked along the beach. No one was about. He hurried back into the town.
Thurso Police Station was a formidable building. Constructed of grey stone with narrow recessed windows and a heavy entry door, it exuded deprivation and austerity. Clement pushed the heavy panelled front door open and stepped inside. Before him was a long room with a cream painted wall on one side and a long reception desk on the other. A fire, recently lit, struggled to burn in a fireplace at the end of the room. He walked towards the desk and tapped the bell.
Within seconds a man in a constable’s uniform appeared. Clement recognised the young man. He had seen him with his wife on Sean’s bus, the day Clement had arrived in Caithness. ‘Could I see Inspector Stratton?’
The constable’s eyes roamed over Clement’s damp, sandy clothing. ‘Well, if it isn’t the Vicar going to South Ronaldsay! You’re a little off-course, aren’t you, Reverend? Something happened?’
Clement smiled. ‘Could I see the Inspector, please, Constable.’
‘Of course! Please, won’t you sit down?’
Clement walked towards a row of chairs lined up along the wall. Turning the last one to face the fire, he sat and warmed his hands. Within minutes the Constable returned. ‘This way, Reverend.’
Clement stood, reluctantly leaving the growing flames, and followed the young man along the corridor.
Inspector Stratton was, Clement guessed, approximately forty to fifty years of age with a ring of slightly greying, light-brown hair around an otherwise bald head. Round spectacles sat on the Inspector’s nose, the small dark blue eyes darting upwards as Clement entered the office. Stratton possessed the air of a well-respected, professional man; he wore a three-piece tweed suit and Clement decided that Stratton was the kind of man that is held in high esteem by townspeople and from whom opinions are sought for all manner of things.
‘My Constable says you are a Vicar? What seems to be the problem?’
Clement turned to see if the young Constable had left the room before speaking. ‘I believe you know of my existence in Caithness. I am Hope.’
Stratton stared at him. Perhaps it was because since leaving St Margaret’s Hope, Clement had decided not to wear his clerical collar, or his unexpected English accent, but from the man’s blank expression Clement wondered whether Stratton had even heard him. He was about to repeat himself when Stratton jumped from his seat and rushed around the desk.
‘I have been expecting you to make contact. How can I help?’
‘May I?’ Clement gestured towards the chair in front of Stratton’s desk.
‘Of course, forgive me. Please, do sit down.’
Clement could see the man’s gaze assessing his appearance. ‘Have you told anyone of my anticipated presence in Caithness?’
‘No. I was asked not to and I am a man of my word.’
‘Not even your Constable or Mrs Stratton?’
Stratton’s face clouded. ‘I have told you I have not. And there isn’t a Mrs Stratton.’
Stratton’s reaction surprised Clement. It certainly hadn’t been his intention to offend. But regardless of Stratton’s manner and whether or not there was, or ever had been, a Mrs Stratton, it concerned Clement only as far as maintaining his anonymity. But he wondered, if like himself, Stratton was a widower. Loss and grief effect people differently. ‘I apologise for my appearance. I was hoping to get a lift with you when you leave for Huna today. What time will you be going?’
A frown creased Stratton’s forehead. ‘I hadn’t planned on going there today, Reverend Hope. What makes you think I am?’
‘Reverend Heath telephoned you. On Wednesday. About the death of Donald Crawford.’
Stratton was staring, the intense, bird-like eyes had not blinked since Clement had asked his question.
‘You do know about the sad death of Mr Crawford, inspector?’
Stratton leaned back in his chair. ‘You had better tell me about it.’
‘Perhaps you should use my real name. After all, the people in Huna and Canisbay know it. I am Reverend Wisdom.’
Stratton’s eyebrows lifted. It was the smallest of reactions but perhaps, like numerous others over the years, Stratton thought his name appropriate for his vocation.
‘I am surprised, though, that Reverend Heath didn’t telephone you about it. I suppose they think it is a local matter, but in view of the manner of Mr Crawford’s death, I thought, at the very least, you should be informed.’
Stratton opened a drawer in his desk and produced a form and began to fill it out, but there were no words of surprise or regret for Donald Crawford’s passing.
‘Tell me, Reverend Wisdom, in your own words, what you know?’
Clement gave Stratton a detailed description of the scene in the barn and where he had taken Sarah Crawford. But he refrained from telling Stratton about Sarah’s Special Duties role or the stolen wireless. Neither did Clement mention the gunman in the bell tower of Canisbay Kirk.
Stratton continued to scribble notes.
Clement watched the man’s grip around the pen, the thick wrist and sturdy fingers. But the face was devoid of emotion.
‘And why would Mrs Crawford be so hasty to leave, Reverend?’
‘She was naturally distressed. But the people in Huna and Canisbay…’ Clement paused. ‘Well, small places, Inspector! I’m sure you understand. I believe Mrs Crawford found it all rather stifling. Especially after she told me that she believed the locals never liked her husband.’
Stratton stopped writing and looked up from his notes. ‘You seem convinced that Mr Crawford’s death was not accidental?’
‘I am. For the reasons I have explained.’
‘A misplaced hay fork isn’t conclusive evidence of a crime, Reverend Wisdom.’
‘At least you should look at the barn, Inspector, and at Mr Crawford’s injuries.’
Stratton frowned. ‘Very well. I have to go to Castletown today anyway, but I can go to Huna first.’ The Inspector paused, the intense eyes on him. ‘I have been instructed not to ask questions about why you are here and I’m required to provide you with whatever assistance you request. I’m not all together happy about it, but it appears I have no choice. Regardless, I won’t have you interfering with my investigations. I don’t care who you are.’
‘Understood. Should we take the doctor with us?’
‘There is no need for that. I can check Mr Crawford’s injuries and confirm that death has taken place. And as so many people appear to know about it, I think I can determine the time of death accurately enough for the certificate. I’ll get the car brought around.’ Stratton lifted the receiver on his telephone.
‘Perhaps we could meet again, after you have spoken to all concerned?’
Stratton raised his eyes and looked over his round spectacles. ‘Why?’
‘I would just like to know what they tell you.’ Clement sat back in his chair. ‘I would also request that you do not mention that you have seen me. No one is to know where I am.’
Stratton removed hi
s spectacles from his nose and placed them on his desk. ‘And where will you be?’
Good question, Clement thought. ‘I don’t know yet.’
Through the window, Clement saw a black car pull up at the front. Stratton stood and reached for his coat and hat. Following the Inspector along the corridor, they left the police station by the front door. A little further down Olrig Street, Clement saw a bus pull up and a few people alighted. Many of the passengers wore military uniforms of one kind or another. He remembered the Royal Air Force Base in Castletown and wondered what was taking Inspector Stratton there.
‘I forgot my glasses. Get in, Reverend, I won’t be long.’ Stratton hurried back into the building while Clement waited in the car. Minutes later Stratton returned and they drove out of Thurso.
During the drive east, Clement learnt that Stratton had started as a young constable in Glasgow where he grew up until attaining the rank of Inspector. But after the death of his wife of only two years, he had requested a transfer to Thurso where he’d remained. Clement wanted to share with Stratton that he understood the heartache of widowhood, but he couldn’t. Chatter, whether idle or well-meaning, had the potential to compromise. But he felt the lost opportunity. Not sharing the agony of grief was contrary to everything he believed.
Clement stared through the window at the passing countryside. As the miles passed, he wondered what he had learned about the character of the man sitting beside him. It wasn’t much. He had seen men like Stratton before; they were used to being in-charge, above all, they reserved judgement and kept their own counsel.
The car slowed through the village of Castletown. The High Street was long with few shops. Residences, municipal buildings, a drill hall and a park fronted the street. From what he could see, the town consisted almost solely of grey stone dwellings. One shop, a General Store and Post Office was half way down the High Street, while a butcher’s shop and veterinary surgery appeared to be the only other enterprises apparent. Military personnel, however, abounded on the streets and came and went from various buildings. Stratton passed no comment.
