by V M Knox
As they drove further east, Clement kept his eye on the land to his left, waiting to see the outline of Dunnet Head. As the road descended around the western end of the beach he checked his watch. It was just before ten. Twenty minutes since leaving Thurso. His eye shifted to the speedometer. Whether on the straight road or on bends, Stratton never went faster than thirty-five miles per hour. Clement wondered if the murderer had access to a car. In Canisbay he had seen only Sean’s bus and the delivery lorries belonging to McAllister and Sarah Crawford. There had been a car. Outside The Bell. But he hadn’t seen it there again. Clement’s gaze returned to the passing scenery and he began to calculate how long it would take to walk from Canisbay to Dunnet Beach. A minute later they drove over a low hill. In front of him was a long stretch of road. He glanced at the few buildings that made up the village of Dunnet, his gaze settling on a two-storied building on the left. Outside a sign told the traveller that it was The Dunnet Hotel. His eye lingered on the building which, he knew, billeted the officers from the Royal Air Force Base just south of Castletown at a place called Thurdistoft. A car was parked outside. Beside it, Clement caught sight of several bicycles leaning against the main door into the inn.
Stratton continued on without comment, but in those few seconds as they passed the hotel, Clement glimpsed a lane that went from the main road inland, presumably to Dunnet Head and Dwarwick Pier. It was narrow and hidden to the oncoming traffic behind a stone wall with a tall hedge behind it. ‘Could you pull over here, Inspector?’
Stratton stared at him, the eyebrows raised in surprise. But the man did as Clement requested and pulled the car up on the side of the road.
Clement reached for the door handle. ‘Thank you for the lift.’
Stratton’s face remained a study in astonishment as Clement said good bye.
Without waiting for the Police Inspector to drive away, Clement started walking towards the inn not twenty yards distant. He stared at a diminishing patch of blue sky as he walked. His instant decision had surprised even himself. He hoped it was one he would not regret. He wanted to see Dwarwick Pier and right now, he had the time. A second later, he heard the car pull onto the road and drive away, heading east. Pretending to tie a shoelace, Clement squatted on the road side and looked back. Stratton’s car had disappeared from view.
Swinging his pack onto his shoulder, he walked on. As he approached the parked car, he peered through the windows. A newspaper sat on the front seat, but there was nothing inside to indicate the vehicle’s owner. Leaving the front of the hotel, Clement turned into the lane that he hoped led north to Dwarwick Pier. But he wanted to know who owned the car. Making another instant decision, Clement walked to the rear of the inn as the unmistakable sound of fighter aircraft intensified in the sky above him. Looking up he could see a squadron of Hurricanes returning. Reaching for the door handle, he stepped inside.
A girl of no more than sixteen was standing at a sink washing dishes.
‘Hello,’ Clement said. ‘Do you know whose car is parked outside?’
The girl looked up and smiled. ‘Wing Commander Atcherley. He was here for breakfast, so if the car is still here, then he is too.’ She nodded in the direction of the dining room.
Clement returned the girl’s smile. Her frankness surprised him, but she had probably seen hundreds of unknown faces coming and going. Too many to be suspicious. Leaving his pack by the rear door, he walked through the kitchen and pushed open a swing-door into the main bar. Three men sat at a table by the window in an otherwise empty dining room.
Clement approached the senior ranking officer present, his hand out-stretched. ‘Good morning.’
Two of the men stood, their hands reaching for holstered pistols.
‘My name is Reverend Wisdom. Could I speak with you, Wing Commander?’
‘Your business with Wing Commander Atcherley?’ one of the junior officers asked.
Clement reached for his pass and handed it to the nearest officer who handed it to the Wing Commander. Atcherley studied it then looked at him for several seconds before handing it back. ‘What brings SIS to Caithness?’
The young officers looked surprised.
Clement pocketed the pass. ‘Are you aware, Wing Commander, that some unusual radio transmissions have been picked-up in Caithness?
Atcherley indicated the vacant chair at the table and Clement sat while the young officers exchanged glances.
‘This is Captain Trevelyan and Lieutenant Pickering,’ Atcherley said. ‘Captain Trevelyan is our liaison officer between the Royal Air Force Base here and our Royal Navy friends hereabouts.’
Trevelyan nodded. ‘It was reported and we are informed that it is being looked into. Although I wasn’t expecting it to be…’ the young man paused.
Clement smiled. At one time he would have elaborated. But not now. ‘Is it possible that the sender is someone at the Y-Station?’
‘Impossible!’ Trevelyan answered.
Clement’s eyes shifted to the young officer. The brusqueness of Trevelyan’s reply seemed naive to Clement, but perhaps it was more surprise on the young captain’s part that Clement knew of the existence of the Y-station.
Trevelyan went on. ‘They have all been thoroughly screened and besides they are, without exception, decent types.’
‘Excuse me, Captain, but all spies are. On the surface. That is their skill.’ Clement turned to face the Wing Commander. ‘Is there any time when only one person is on duty at the station?’
‘Never!’ Trevelyan replied.
Atcherley sat forward. ‘Reverend, the only person who enters and leaves there on a regular basis is the despatch rider. I could arrange for you to meet him, if you think it necessary. But, in any case, he doesn’t have access to the radio rooms and would never be left un-attended.’
‘And he’s a bit old for such endeavours, don’t you think, Sir?’ Trevelyan said, staring at Clement.
Clement smiled, ignoring the slur.
Atcherley shifted his gaze, their eyes meeting but neither commented on the young Captain’s remark.
Atcherley went on. ‘The despatch rider’s a local man. And perhaps he is a trifle older than I would like. But we are a little short staffed at present and beggars can’t be choosers, isn’t that the phrase?’
Reg Naylor flashed into Clement’s mind. ‘There is a small group of Pioneer Corps chaps in Wick who could be useful to you.’
‘Really? I’ll check them out. Thank you, Reverend.’
Clement looked at Trevelyan. ‘Do you know the Y-Station personnel, Captain?’
‘I’ve met them all.’
‘Are they billeted here?’
But it was Atcherley who responded. ‘No, poor sods. They live on Dunnet Head, spending their days in concrete boxes and the old lighthouse keeper’s house. Only time they leave there is to take leave. Which, as I understand it, isn’t often.’
‘Have any been on leave this last week?’
‘None,’ Trevelyan said.
Clement stood. ‘Thank you, Wing Commander. Gentlemen.’
‘Answered your questions then?’ Atcherley remarked.
Clement nodded. ‘I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention that you have seen me to anyone?’
‘Mum’s the word, Reverend. Give my regards to Winthorpe, when you next see him.’
The girl wasn’t in the kitchen when Clement returned. He collected his pack and left by the rear door. Once back on the dirt road, he struck out north towards Dunnet Head and Dwarwick Pier.
Clement watched his feet as he walked. His gut told him that his enemy had too much freedom of movement to be in the Services. That eliminated several thousand military personnel in Caithness but did little to discount the civilians of his acquaintance, especially the men who frequented The Bell.
Twenty minutes later the road bifurcated at a low stone dwelling. About fifty yards away was another crofter’s cottage. He stared at the road running up t
o his right. The track rose steeply to a large house on Dunnet Head and although he could not see them, he knew that somewhere on the wind-swept headland were the bunker-like buildings of the Y-station.
On his left, the track descended to Dwarwick Pier and the waters of Dunnet Bay. Since leaving the main road and arriving at the junction where he now stood, the terrain had been easy; no steep hills and a distinct, albeit narrow, track furrowed by the wheels of horse-drawn carts, led down to the bay. Even the snow that lay in patches over the ground presented no difficulty, being no more than ankle deep. It had taken him just on forty minutes to walk from the rear door of the hotel to reach the pier. It would be much less if one was running and familiar with the track.
Descending to a flat area adjacent to the pier, Clement saw a small, windowless shed. It was closed and a large padlock was evident on the door. He walked along the stone promontory. Standing at the end of the pier, he stared out over the waters of Dunnet Bay. The wind was fierce. Below him the deep waters churned, slapping the pier’s stone footings, the spray rising up the steep embankment. He pulled his coat around him, his body leaning into the wind. Dwarwick Pier was no place for a rendezvous in such conditions, just as Tom had said.
Clement turned and looked back at the steep hillside of Dunnet Head immediately behind him to his left. But the large house that he had seen from the track was not visible from the pier. Below him and to one side of the stone pier was a timber ramp that ran down from the flat area into the crashing waves. He stared at it as the swell came and went over the sodden timbers. It was devoid of any marine growth, scrubbed clean by regular use. Why had Tom told him the pier was rarely used? Clement scanned the surrounding fields, but no one was about today. He checked his watch. Almost noon. The morning had yielded valuable information, but now he had to leave. He estimated it would take him some hours to reach the kirk in Canisbay. He wanted to see the terrain in daylight and to reach the kirk just on dusk.
Looking east from the hill above Gills Bay, Clement could see Canisbay Kirk, the bell tower silhouetted against the gloom of a late-afternoon sky. Since leaving Dunnet, heavy rain had fallen and the temperature had decreased. Snow lay in patches around the district and the sea was grey. It was nearing four o’clock, an hour or so of dull light left in the wintry day before the invisible sun set. The walk from Dunnet Head had taken four soaking hours of inclement conditions over boggy ground, the slush and wet tussock grasses and unmarked lochs making for slow progress. He had, however, expected the snow to be heavier and deeper than it was. Aidan’s comments about snow and wind echoed in his memory. It was true. But even with the wind at his back, walking any distance was miserable. It was not something one would do without good cause and definitely not in the opposite direction. But it confirmed that if the killer intended to make a dash for the coast, he needed to be in place well before the rendezvous time. Or have access to a vehicle.
Keeping to the stone-walled fences and beech hedges, Clement approached the kirk from across the fields, coming out of the south-west. He checked the district for any movement before taking cover behind the stone wall at the intersection opposite the kirk. Nothing stirred. Crossing the road, he walked through the oldest headstones towards the kirk’s front door. Lifting the latch, he paused, listening for any voices. All was quiet. He walked in, glancing at the empty pews before going straight to the small door on his left that, he guessed, led to the belfry. Opening the door, he scaled the spiral staircase. It led up to a timber-floored space where bell ropes hung like stalactites in the centre.
A chill wind was his first sensation. His eye settled on three narrow, open windows. He walked towards the first, the one that faced south, and peered out. Below him was the intersection and road to Canisbay. He moved to the second. It had been where the gunman had stood. It looked west, across Gills Bay and the third looked east, towards Huna. Clement backed away and stood beside the barely moving stalactites, thinking. The panorama was extraordinary. There was an uninterrupted view in almost every direction and a direct line of sight to the pier in Gills Bay. He returned to the window facing west. The distance from the kirk to the stone jetty in Gills Bay astounded him. It had to be more than a mile and again he contemplated both the accuracy of the sniper and the range of the weapon. Moving to the southern window, Clement stared again towards Canisbay. He could see the whole locality, from The Bell to the roof tops of Huna and Wallace’s farm. Turning around, he scanned the floor for any casings from the hundreds of bullets that had been fired at him and Sarah, but the gunman had done a thorough job. Clement’s eye scrutinised the space before him, his gaze focusing on the walls. Behind the door into the belfry from the stairs was a white painted ladder. His eyes followed it upwards to a trap door some fifteen feet above him. Turning, he returned to the window to check the roads. About half a mile away, he saw a car driving inland towards Canisbay. He guessed it was Stratton, but in the dull light, he couldn’t be sure. Given that the Inspector had wanted to visit Castletown on his return to Thurso, it surprised Clement that Stratton was still in the district. Perhaps he had spent more time than anticipated in Crawford’s barn. For trained eyes, the barn told a different story from the one believed by the villagers.
Stratton had probably interviewed the McAllisters and the Wallaces at length. Clement wondered what had been learned.
The car held his gaze. It was mesmerising. He felt himself frowning, recalling the grey car that had been parked outside The Bell on the day Donald Crawford had died, but all cars looked much the same to Clement, especially at a distance. However, other than Stratton’s and the Wing Commander Atcherley’s cars, the only other vehicles he had seen around the district were buses or lorries. Clement watched as it drove towards Canisbay. With no hills of any size or groves of thick vegetation to conceal it, the car was visible. Highly visible. Even during the early twilight, he realised that no vehicle of any kind could travel the roads of Canisbay and Huna in daylight hours without being seen for miles around and he didn’t believe it was solely due to the height of the bell tower.
Waiting by the window, Clement checked his watch. A few minutes after five o’clock. Dusk was beginning to descend as he watched the car stop at The Bell. Two men got out. His hand reached for his telescope. Focusing the instrument, he stared at the forms hunched against the weather, hurrying into The Bell. He recognised Stratton immediately, but he couldn’t identify the second man, who wore a heavy coat and hat. Clement moved the telescope and focused it on the manse, then the home of the Frew spinsters. A thin spiral of smoke was coming from Aidan’s fire, but nothing was forthcoming from the Frew sisters’ fireplaces. He lifted his gaze. A few stars were already visible between the clouds. It would be completely dark within the hour. Turning from the window, he replaced the telescope and reached for his knife. Placing it between his teeth, he placed his foot on the lowest rung of the ladder and began to climb upwards.
Chapter 13
Clement pushed back the hatch and lifted himself into the dark space. Around him, pale specs of light filtered through between the tiles. It was cold and the incessant wind whistled its eerie screech through the cracks. With barely an hour of daylight remaining, he grasped a wooden beam above his head then placed one foot on the adjacent rafter, inching himself forward. Something hard hit his face. He recoiled from it but he knew what it was. Reaching out, his fingers traced along the wire until he felt several others. Placing his knife between his teeth, he took out his torch and flicked it on for one second only. But it was enough. Antennae wires, arranged like a metal bed head, criss-crossed the space in front of him and thick dust coated everything. He stared into the dark space before him. The amount of dust he had seen confirmed the antennae had not been installed recently.
Returning to the trapdoor, he placed one foot on the top rung of the ladder and descended to the belfry, his enemy’s unseen presence like the pervasive icy wind. He walked towards the window facing south and looked over the villages of Huna and Ca
nisbay. Somewhere out there his nemesis lurked. Twilight was descending. Nothing stirred. He turned and stared at the stalactite-like ropes in front of him. Still. Waiting for the hand of Robert Wallace or Ian McAllister to inform the region of invasion or the end of the war. Clement frowned trying to recall how long the nation’s church bells had been silenced. He thought it was more than a year now. Was it possible the antennae had been in place that long?
Wallace or McAllister. Both men fitted his physical profile of the killer. But if not these men, there was only one other who had ready access to the bell tower. He stared at the ladder behind the door that rose vertically to the trapdoor above his head. Had Aidan lied about being fearful of heights? Clement stared at the perpendicular ladder. It was certainly not for those afraid of heights. He searched his memory about it. Sarah had also told him about Aidan’s fears. Moreover, on the morning of Donald Crawford’s death, Aidan had gone to visit his neighbours to pay the rent and had seen both he and Sarah conversing in the graveyard. The Frews sisters had even given Aidan a sponge cake. Clement felt the relief. Aidan was the one person who had a water-tight alibi.
He looked around the belfry. While the bell tower was the best surveillance point in the area, he knew he couldn’t remain there. Not only was there a risk that the killer may return, but with the plummeting temperature, Clement needed a warmer place if he were not to freeze to death. From now on, he needed to be mobile and able to move at a moment’s notice. Donning the few remaining items of warm clothing from his pack, he scaled the ladder again and hid the bag in the rafters.
