by V M Knox
‘You’re right about that. How did you know where to find this bus?’
‘I was at Mey Castle delivering a message when I saw the bus being driven into a derelict barn. Very suspicious behaviour! So I followed him. He was in a hurry too. If he hadn’t been, I may have given up following him. I tracked him for about twenty minutes, then I saw him go into the church. So I waited. Imagine my surprise when I saw you enter it not long after. I figured he was doing something for you and I surmised you wanted the bus for something. You just didn’t want it seen, so when night fell, I decided to bring the bus closer. Three hours later and there are people all over the place! Then I heard a couple of shots. What’s going on?’
‘Did you see anyone else following the bus driver?’
‘No.’
‘I wish I had known you were there, Reg. Did you see anyone enter the kirk other than me and the man you followed?’
‘Yes. Three people went in. But not together. First a woman then two men.’
‘Then what?’
‘I heard a shot. Then a second. Then I saw someone leave the kirk. Seemed to be alone and in a hurry. Initially I thought it was you, but then three people came out, one of them the woman and this time one of the men was carrying something. I hope you can make some sense of it, Clement, because it looked like a revolving door to me.’
‘The person who left alone; did you see where they went?
‘Couldn’t be sure, but not to Gills Bay. Nor did whoever it was who passed me on the hill. What was the man carrying?’
‘The body of a brave man.’
‘Who?’
‘The bus driver. The bullet was meant for me.’
Reg exhaled. ‘Bad business.’
Clement saw Reg’s eyes flick to the rear-view mirror. ‘I know it sounds harsh, Clement, but don’t blame yourself. Innocent people get killed in wartime. We both know this.’
Clement nodded but the comment didn’t alleviate his guilt.
‘Where are they going?’ Reg asked tossing his head in the direction of Gills Bay.
‘Not sure, but they are smugglers, not murderers.’
‘I know where they’re headed then. Dwarwick Pier. I overheard something in the Mess last night that is beginning to make sense. Do you know some of these officers have bacon with their eggs?’ Reg paused. ‘You look exhausted, Clement and you could do with a bath and a good night’s rest.’
‘No question about it, Reg but it will have to wait. Can you remember anything about the person who left the kirk alone?’
‘Sorry, Clement. He just vanished in the night.’
Several seconds passed as Clement listened to the syncopation. ‘How flexible are your duties?’
Their eyes met in the mirror again and Clement saw the boyish grin. ‘Anything I could get into trouble for?’
‘More than likely.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Certainly.’
The grin became wider. Reg drove west, following the main road until the village of Mey came into view. Pulling off the road, Reg parked the bus in a grove of Sycamore trees and Clement told Reg all that had happened.
‘No wonder you look done in, Clement. But I’ll tell you something about that radio traffic. I spent yesterday with the elderly despatch rider I replaced. Nice old chap, George, but too talkative, especially with a whisky in his hand. He said the lads on Dunnet Head, at the signals station, have spoken of little else but those radio transmissions. And I hear it has been going on for a little while now. But even with the best fingers on the dial, they never could pin down his location. They were pretty sure it was the Jerries though. Always in Morse, always enciphered and never at a regular time. They were getting reports from an out-station operator in the area who was also picking up the traffic. Then a few days ago the out-station operator failed to transmit. It was all reported, of course. Since then, there’s been only one transmission intercepted.’
‘Did they ever get a fix on the transmitter?’
‘No, but it could be a U-boat in the area. The signal is strong, apparently, so probably less than ten miles.’
‘You’ve learned a lot in two days, Reg.’
Reg smiled. ‘Now I know who to thank for getting me and the lads out of Wick. Do you know the pubs there don’t serve alcohol?’
‘I did know.’ Clement smiled but he was thinking about young Captain Trevelyan. Even though the aged despatch rider had been replaced with Reg, Trevelyan had made a fundamental error; men not considered a threat learn things.
‘Who have you told about this, Reg?’
Reg chuckled. ‘No one to tell, Clement, until now. But I keep my eyes and ears open. And let’s face it, if Castletown is anything like Wick, then it is full of military personnel and gossip is the glue in any closed community. Especially in wartime.’
Clement stared through the front window of the bus. Closed communities. And a closed community does not share information with a Wise Man from the South. He thought on Sarah, Tom and Ian McAllister and the people of Canisbay and Huna who all knew about the black-market activities in their midst. Clement had thought the illicit trade had been used to disguise the traitor’s true activities, but perhaps that wasn’t quite correct. It wasn’t so much used to conceal as it had been to confuse. And, if Sean was to be believed, McAllister was not his enemy. Clement felt a sigh rising. But, if not McAllister, then who? It was the same familiar question that refused to be answered. And, like the wave on the sand, it always receded just as he felt he was getting closer. ‘What’s your opinion of these signal operators at the Y-station?’
‘I’ve only met them twice, but I can’t see any of them as your man - or woman. Besides, they are always on Dunnet, either at the station or in their billets. No time to wander about the countryside murdering people.’
It confirmed what Atcherley had told him. In the icy darkness Clement felt the pressure of failure.
Silence settled.
Tiredness and cold had contrived to confuse and thwart him. His adversary had all but won. The man had made good use of the bad weather to make Clement run around like a wild goose, exhausting himself. Now he was so debilitated he could no longer think. But a confrontation was inevitable. His enemy knew it and so did Clement.
‘I was sorry to hear about Mary, Clement. Very bad. Old Reverend Battersby informed the village. I suppose he’s still there. Doing a good job for his age. But they all asked about you.’
‘What were they told?’
Clement listened as Reg told him about the village. People he knew, lives he’d shared. He missed them all, even the post mistress whose ability to invent gossip from very little had always annoyed him. He pictured the buildings. The vicarage; his vicarage. But mostly he envisaged Mary. He could see her hand peeling beans and hear her knitting needles as they clicked their way into producing a pair of socks. He wanted to cry. He wanted to let the tears stream down his face until he couldn’t grieve any longer, but he couldn’t do it. Not until it was over, one way or another.
‘That you were injured and sent to the west-country for an undisclosed duration of time.’
Clement wiped his arm over his face, removing the salty tears and sat listening to Reg’s reminiscences of Fearnley Maughton. ‘At the time it caused some speculation. But like all gossip, it soon died away. And as far as I know that was the end of it. I haven’t been home myself since Christmas. I sent Geraldine away, she’s in Australia with Charles, our boy. She says she feels like a fish out of water. The Medical Corps have the house now, requisitioned as a hospital. Broke her heart to see them pulling out the rose garden. All things considered, it’s best she is away. So, what now, Clement?’
Clement let out a long sigh and watched his condensed breath float away. ‘My theory, such as it is, is that this man has a local accomplice and is planning to leave Caithness as soon as the weather abates, with or without the accomplice.’
‘From Dwarwick Pier?’
‘It would be my guess.’
‘And you don’t believe your man is one of the smugglers?’
‘Not any more. Neither, it would appear, is it someone at Dunnet Head Y-station. But I’ll tell you this, Reg, from first-hand experience; it is very difficult with all the bogs and lochs to walk, much less run, across country to Dwarwick Pier without several hours’ notice. And knowing that, whoever this person is they will have to be in place well before the rendezvous time, if the pick-up is by boat or submarine.’
‘Couldn’t be any other way?’
‘This country may be flat enough for radio transmissions, but I cannot see an aeroplane landing. Too many military installations and natural hazards. It could only land at a prepared strip or airfield and that is hardly likely.’
‘Dwarwick Pier it is then.’
‘And that means he will have to be hiding out somewhere in the lee of Dunnet Head well in advance of the allotted time. But all this can only be done if he knows the exact date and time of the pick-up.’
‘Another radio signal?’
Clement shock his head. ‘Another transmission is too risky. He is local, and therefore will know about the signal station on Dunnet Head. And in view of recent happenings he will know we are onto him. Do you know much about radio transmissions, Reg?’
‘Almost nothing.’
‘To get the location of a rogue transmitter, a wireless operator needs either a direction finder, or there must be three wirelesses which can be triangulated to get the fix on the location. I know the out-station in Huna did not have a direction finder. While I believe the killer knew about the existence of the out-station, I don’t believe he knew where the wireless was located. But once he saw it in the barn, he knew it was only a matter of time before he was exposed. That’s why he stole it. And that’s why he’s leaving.’
‘There is another alternative, Clement. Could he have learned something so important it couldn’t be transmitted?’
‘You could well be right,’ Clement said thinking of the lone fishing trawler, NN04.
‘So why is he waiting?’
‘I can only think it is about the weather and, therefore also about time. Time or timing is the key.’
‘So how will he know when it’s the right time?’
Clement stared through the bus’s front window stifling a yawn. ‘Good question! An event, I suppose. The man then knows he has a finite time to get to the pier.’
‘You should get some sleep while you can, Clement.’
He nodded. ‘You are probably right.’
Clement opened his eyes and sat up. Light was tingeing the land off to his left, the gentle glow shining through the mist illuminating the tussock grasses and casting long shadows. He looked at the bus windows. The strengthening rays of sunlight were making the condensation on the glass panes twinkle.
‘Morning! At least you’ve had a good rest, Clement.’
‘What time is it, Reg?’
‘Not yet nine. Looks like it may be a nice day. We could sure do with some decent weather.’
Clement sat up and rubbed the moisture from the window with the heel of his clenched fist and stared at the pale day. On the roadway beside him a patch of snow was slowly melting. ‘Of course! Staring me in the face!’
‘Clement?’
‘The weather, Reg. For the pick-up to take place, he needs calm seas and fair winds. And as you just said, the weather has broken! It is what he has been waiting for.’ Clement turned to face Reg. ‘The raid on Stroma Lighthouse! It was a rehearsal run.’ He stood and watched the increasing light of day, his mind racing. ‘The kirk! It can be seen for miles. And once hit, the killer takes off from wherever he is for Dunnet Head. Dear Lord. Today is Sunday. The kirk will be full of people.’
Chapter 23
‘How do you want to play this?’
Clement stared at his old friend for what seemed like eternity.
‘Here.’ Reg handed him a canteen of water and a ration pack. ‘I imagine you haven’t eaten for a while.’
‘Old habits, Reg?’
‘Lessons learned.’
Clement bit into the dried, salty meat. It tasted delicious in his dry mouth. ‘Morning Service is at ten. I must return to Canisbay to warn them.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘After you drop me off, drive back to the Royal Air Force Base in Thurdistoft and scramble some fighters to intercept the bomber.’
‘No need, Clement. Any enemy plane will be picked up on radar and tracked. They will scramble Two-One-Three Squadron anyway. But if we’re going back, we don’t have much time.’
Clement paused. Time. It had always been about time. Now he needed to think clearly. ‘He has to be somewhere close enough to the kirk to see the attack. Then he’ll leave and go to Dwarwick Pier.’
‘Shouldn’t we just go to the pier and wait for him?’
‘I have to warn them, Reg otherwise a lot of innocent people will die.’
‘You’re a decent man, Clement. Given that someone there is doing everything possible to kill you, no one would blame you for leaving them to their own devices.’
‘I have to, Reg. It’s how I am.’
‘I know. What do you have in mind?’
‘I am making an assumption that an attack will occur today and, if that is the case, then the pick-up will also be today. It is the first good weather we’ve had in a week and given how quickly it can change here, I cannot see them passing up this chance. Whether by boat or submarine, the pick-up will most likely happen at the high tide. And I know today’s high will be around four this afternoon.’
‘Limited visibility by then.’
‘Almost perfect - for him, that is. High tide, little moon and fading light.’
Clement looked away to a line of trees in the distance. ‘Can you take me back to about a mile this side of Gills Bay? I don’t what anyone seeing the bus.’
‘And then?’
Clement thought for a moment. ‘Drive to the Dunnet Hotel and park the bus around the back. Then go to the cottages near Dwarwick Pier. If you can, evacuate all the people who live there. Then occupy the cottage with the most commanding view of the bay and the pier. Put your cap in a window so I know where you are. I’ll join you there.’
Reg nodded and started the engine. Sitting on the long back seat, Clement checked his knife and pistol, and running his hand over his webbing, felt for the magazines of ammunition. He knew they were no match for bombs or the guns of a fighter aircraft but the action was automatic. As the bus pulled onto the road heading east, Clement thought about the people who would soon be walking to church. He prayed he had time to warn the innocent people of Canisbay. In his mind he saw the pale-faced child, Mary, and the boy, Billy, who had seen enough for his tender years. If he was too late, his friend and fellow priest, Aidan, along with the people he knew from the villages, would be blown to pieces while at prayer. Clement squeezed his eyes, a frown furrowing his brow. Something was nagging him. He had never been a superstitious man and he didn’t believe in premonitions or luck, but his inner voice was bothering him. He sat up. ‘Why didn’t they shoot down the fighter that attacked Stroma Island last week?’
Reg’s eyes flashed to the rear-view mirror.
Clement knew the question was rhetorical, at least for Reg who had been in Wick at the time. ‘What am I missing, Reg?’
‘Clement?’
Time. It had always been about time. He knew that. Days spent waiting for the weather to clear. Since the death of Donald Crawford, Clement had always believed the killer was the enemy spy he had come to investigate. Moreover, he had deduced that the man had an accomplice who did not reside in either Canisbay or Huna. But what if it was the other way around? What if his enemy was distant and the accomplice was local? Had the call placed by Donald Crawford even originated in Huna? Clement searched his mind. Crawford had told the caller to hold the line. That Donald Crawfo
rd had connected a call was all Clement knew for certain. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his face in his hands. It was possible that the call had been placed to someone doing a scheduled delivery at a prearranged time at the Frews’ house. Was that so unusual that Donald Crawford had listened to the call? There was no way of knowing. Perhaps it no longer mattered.
Twenty minutes later Reg slowed the bus just before the hill leading down into Gills Bay.
‘Can you get your hands on a couple of Sten guns, Reg?’
‘Already thought of that, Clement. Leave it to me. You just get to that pier before four o’clock this afternoon.’
‘God willing. And thank you, Reg.’ Clement smiled and grasped his old friend’s hand in farewell. Standing at the side of the road, he watched Reg turn the bus and drive away, heading west.
Clement stared at the morning sky. Low whitish clouds in long bands stretched over the pastoral scene that spread out before him. In places the sun was shining through and small patches of blue sky were making themselves visible. He looked up. A light south-easterly breeze blew into his face. In the sunshine the snow glistened and where it had melted, colour came to the meadows of Canisbay. Off to his left, Pentland Firth looked bright blue in the morning light. It lit up the land and buoyed the spirits. His eyes roamed over the gentle, green and white undulating hills. In front of him, he could see people entering the kirk. He imagined Aidan already in the vestry putting on his robes. In peacetime, the inviting sound of church bells would be ringing in the crisp air.
He started to walk. Morning service had not yet begun. On the breeze Clement caught the sound, faint and still some miles distant; a pulsating hum, like a malevolent gnat. In horror, Clement stared into the sky, his eyes widening as the sound intensified. A black shape appeared through the clouds and within seconds descended out of the morning glow.
Then the squeal.
As a lone fighter thundered overhead, Clement threw himself under the beech hedge at the edge of the road and rolled under it, wrapping his arms over his head. The menacing noise roared above him. Then two detonations in quick succession exploded the tranquil morning. Opening his eyes, Clement stared up through the branches. He could hear the plane above, banking and turning. Another run. He held his breath, but he heard no strafing.
