He glared at her, and saw her flinch. ‘Of course I do! You know it’s not actually the island in the book, though, don’t you?’ He could hear the harshness in his voice, but he left the words hanging.
Maggie shifted in her seat and the brightness seemed to drain from her face. ‘Well never mind,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sure it’ll be perfect.’
Tom adjusted the choke and pushed Maggot towards the river mouth. Aunt Emily was right. Saying sorry was harder than he’d thought.
CHAPTER 10
Tom dropped Maggie and Joel back at the stone harbour, and made sure he kept out of their way for the rest of the day. In the evening he drove to the tree-fringed bay where Jim Rothwell’s houseboat creaked and tugged at her mooring. But before he reached the bay, Jim was gliding towards him in Swallow, and a few minutes later Tom had anchored Maggot and clambered aboard.
‘So you saw that beauty I caught on Saturday morning, then?’
Tom thought back to the moment just before Skylark had crashed, when he’d clocked Jim holding a decent-sized fish. ‘Yeah. Just.’
‘I didn’t know that machine of yours could go so fast.’
‘Neither did I.’
‘Keeping out of the way of the big boys, were you?’
‘That helicopter? Yeah, kind of.’
‘Anyway, six pounds of char. Gave me quite a fight on the way up.’ He nodded towards the bamboo poles set on either side of the boat, each with a spherical bell at the tip, and a double line plunging into the depths.
They drifted for a while, the silence broken eventually by a pair of swans flying low over the water, wings creaking.
‘So, how come you’re not out flying on this fine evening? Something on your mind?’
‘Maybe.’
Jim pulled out his pipe and a box of matches and began the mysterious ritual of lighting up. The sight of Jim screwing up his face in concentration as he struck a match and cupped his hand over the bowl always made Tom smile. Jim stretched his legs under the bench. Tom did the same. A scent like fresh-cut hay mixed with autumn bonfires and a hint of fresh toast filled the air. It was the smell of wisdom, Tom thought.
‘Out with it then, lad. That Snaith boy been up to no good again?’
‘Not really. I’ve just got a feeling something bad’s going on. But I don’t know what.’
The sun was sheening on the mercury-smooth water, forcing them to squint. How different everything seemed in daylight. Were there really criminal minds plotting to commit some atrocity in the tranquillity of the English Lake District? What if he had imagined it all? But he hadn’t imagined the cruiser, sunk deliberately, with the speedboat looking on. Then there were the three people on the three fell tops; the Teal squeezed into the tiny bay, the meeting in the quarry like something out of a spy movie; the suspicious ice cream van; the RAF helicopter; tattoos; police everywhere.
‘What have you seen?’
Tom waved an arm towards Raven Howe. ‘Not one big thing. Lots of little things. Things no one else would have noticed.’
‘A pattern, you mean?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘Ah! Yes. The extraordinary privilege of flight.’
Tom looked at him blankly.
‘You can make all kinds of connections from the air that you can’t from the ground. See things you’re not meant to see.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. I suppose that is why I do it.’
‘Can you go to the authorities and tell them what you have seen?’
Tom thought about the helicopter pilot with the identical tattoo to ponytail man in the ice cream van; his disbelief, his threat. What if he were mixed up in this too? And what real evidence did he have?
‘I don’t think so. Not yet.’
‘You’ll need to join a few dots, then.’ Jim tightened the reels, first on one side, then on the other. ‘And I imagine you’ll need some help with that. Is there anyone else you can trust?’
‘You mean anyone who would believe me?’
‘I suppose that is what I mean.’ Jim chuckled and expelled a blue cloud. They both watched the smoke disperse into the windless air. It was like the vapour trail of a shared memory: the disbelief that had met Tom’s theory that his father had not died in the Middle East when his Tornado had been shot down, but was being held hostage by insurgents. The RAF police and Foreign Office had listened with the same pitying expression on their faces. Only Jim had taken the idea seriously.
‘Your aunt was excited about some new guests arriving.’
Tom felt himself reddening. He knew he would end up disappointing everyone, because he was such useless company. But what could he do now? He’d never have imagined things could change so fast. They had, though.
‘Anyway, you’ll need some extra eyes and ears. People who can see what you’ve seen and tell you you’re not mad.’ Jim let out a bark of laughter. ‘I speak from experience.’ He clenched his teeth around his pipe and began to reel in the lines. ‘Nothing biting today.’
He began to row back to where Tom had left Maggot anchored. The only sound was the rhythmic splash of the blades cutting through water.
‘Have you eaten the fish yet?’ asked Tom after some time.
‘In the fridge. But I’m hoping my good luck will continue for a while longer.’
‘Why?’
‘Brian Wilkins, the head chef at the Damson Howe Hotel happened to mention a couple of weeks ago that he was after a big char. Said he needed it for someone very special.’
‘Did he say who?’
‘He did. But he shouldn’t have.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s top secret.’ He took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed the tip decisively at Tom’s chest. ‘Look, Tom, it could be that whatever you have seen is something suspicious. On the other hand it might be nothing bad at all – it could all be the police, and so on and so forth, protecting this person. They go to great lengths these days with the threat of terrorism so high. Massive preparation for a visit like this.’
‘A visit like what?’
Jim took a puff of his pipe and blew out a jet of smoke to the side of his mouth. ‘After opening the new freshwater study centre at Dowthwaite House on Wednesday, the person I’m speaking about is going to get on board the Teal and go for a cruise down to Birthwaite Bay – at three o’clock. There is going to be a reception on the boat involving people from the tourism industry, while they head down the lake. There will be a massive security cordon. No one will get near her. And my fish – if I manage to catch another whopper – is going to be the starter. Can you believe that?’
‘Near her? Near who, Jim? Who is it?’
‘I mean the Teal, of course. No one will get near the Teal. Come on, let’s get you back. Sounds like you’ve got work to do.’
Back in the workshop, his mind racing, Tom pulled out his sketch map and grabbed a pencil. He marked the three peaks where he had seen the three people. Jim might be right – it could all have been the security operation getting under way. He had some idea how thorough these things had to be. Berthing the Teal in Dowthwaite Bay had obviously been some kind of dry run. Then there were Joel’s rubber seals, police RIBs, the Puma helicopter. But could that explain everything? He suddenly wished, with an intensity that was like an electric shock, that he could ask his father. He would be able to join the dots. And then, as it so often did, the image of the burning wreckage of his plane flashed into his mind: twisted metal, black smoke, the open cockpit in the silent desert.
He went to the door and let the fragrant air cool his face. A duck quacked somewhere on the river. He wiped his palms on his T-shirt and went back to the map. He drew a vessel moored at Dowthwaite Bay, and labelled it, ‘Teal’. He then drew three straight lines between the three summits – Raven Howe, Brockbarrow and Rigg Knott – forming a triangle across the end of the lake, its topmost point being Brockbarrow behind his own home. He wrote ‘ICV’ and sketched an ice cream van where he’d first seen the v
ehicle at the quarry. He looked at the position of the doomed cruiser, which he had marked with a cross. Finally, with shaking hands, he drew a line from the jetty at Dowthwaite Bay, through the entrance of the bay out into the open water, the route the Teal would have to take at the start of her VIP tour down to Birthwaite Bay.
Tom felt his whole body break into a shudder as he looked at the map with a sudden clarity. The cross, representing the sunken motor cruiser, was at the centre of the triangle. And the line of the Teal’s route went right through the cross! The cruiser had been a dummy for the Teal, marking her position in full sight of the three peaks: a sitting target. He put his pencil on the desk and put his head in his hands.
What he had drawn in front of him was as innocent-looking as a piece of geography homework. But now he knew what was going on. The orderly lines he had drawn on the map, the neat intersection of the Teal, cruiser and trig points, was a sketch of an assassination plot. Someone was planning to send the Teal, and whoever was on board, to the bottom of the lake on Wednesday afternoon.
CHAPTER 11
When Maggie and Joel pulled the boat on to the beach on Ransome Holme on Monday afternoon, the first thing they did was remove a pile of beer cans and carrier bags that were scattered around the remnants of a fire.
‘Not exactly Treasure Island, is it, Maggie?’
‘Nah, I s’pose not.’
‘And those were probably not made by Man Friday,’ said Joel, pointing to the letters ‘SBS’, which had been gashed clumsily on a tree.
‘You’re getting your desert island adventures mixed up there, Joel,’ said Maggie, throwing a stick for Archie. ‘But at least it’s an island. And it’s all ours!’
‘What is it about you and islands anyway? It’s just a piece of rock surrounded by water.’
‘Why are you so unromantic? An island isn’t just a piece of rock. It’s an idea, a miniature kingdom, our own little secret world. Anyway, let’s stake our patch before someone else does.’
‘Tom said something about some boys,’ said Joel.
‘But he didn’t really explain what he meant. He keeps his cards close to his chest, doesn’t he?’
‘He’s a bit shy, I suppose.’
‘And I don’t ever seem to be able to say the right thing.’
‘Laughing when Archie knocks him into puddles probably doesn’t help!’
‘I tried to say sorry. But he’s just . . . prickly.’
‘Yeah, but he likes birds and knows about fishing and—’
‘But how did he know?’ said Maggie, looking back at the little harbour.
‘Know what?’
‘Where you were fishing. And even what kind of fishing you were doing? Don’t you think that’s weird?’
‘Maybe he climbed up a hill and watched us.’
‘Have you seen his limp? I can’t see him hiking up hills any time soon.’
‘I wonder what happened to him.’
They put up the tent and made a campfire with a circle of stones. In the afternoon sunshine the clearing seemed less secluded than when they’d first seen it. And even on the widest part of the island there was no escape from the steady purr of outboard engines, the distant murmur of tour guides on the steamers and the occasional plastic bump of kayakers in the channels on either side.
Maggie looked around her. ‘Come on,’ she said, trying to hide the flatness in her voice. ‘Let’s go and explore. Then we’ll light the fire.’
Ransome Holme was shaped like a wedge. The broad southern end was where they had set up camp, and the rest of the island tapered off to a pebbly spit. Opposite the spit, across a narrow channel, was a tiny reed-fringed islet which appeared as if a fragment of the main island had been snapped off and floated away.
‘If Ransome Holme is Italy, then that little island is Sicily, being kicked off into the Mediterranean, like a football,’ Maggie said.
At the end of the spit was a mound of stunted bushes which had somehow twisted itself into the shape of a bowl, forming a natural shelter facing the lake.
‘And this will do as a lookout,’ said Joel, stooping into the bushes.
Maggie followed and sat on the mossy ground, leaning her back against the trunk of the rowan that formed the centre of the bush.
‘It’s a perfect spyhole,’ she said, pulling Archie in after her. ‘We can sit here in total secrecy and look at the world going past.’
A steamboat glided by, steered by a red-faced man in a stripy blazer, its polished hull slipping through the water with the faintest whisper.
‘Look,’ said Joel, pointing to a patch of reeds on the shore of the islet.
They watched as a small bird with a long red bill darted into the reeds from the channel, followed by three jet-black chicks.
‘Rallus aquaticus,’ Joel said, as they disappeared from view. The way Joel pronounced Latin words with a slight flourish always made Maggie think of boy wizards casting spells. ‘Water rail,’ he explained. ‘Pretty rare to see one – they’re so shy and well disguised.’
They heard the danger before they saw it: a muffled thud of bass over the gargle of a propeller. Then, as if from nowhere, the roar of an engine filled the air, as a massive black ski boat, bristling with tow poles, burst into view.
As the boat came closer, Maggie could see that there were three boys about her own age in it. The one at the wheel was bouncing his hips in a clumsy dance to the techno beat, a can of energy drink in one hand, baseball cap swivelled on his head. He pointed to the channel in front of Maggie and Joel. The engine was cut to idle and the boys seemed to be discussing something.
Maggie grabbed Joel’s arm. ‘They’re playing dares, Joel! He’s going to try for the gap.’
Suddenly Joel was up and plunging into the water. ‘They’ll run aground – and they’ll destroy that nest in the process.’
The channel was deeper than it looked and his voice came high-pitched and tight as he waved and shouted, ‘Stop! There’s a bird nesting here! It’s too narrow!’
But the boat was rocketing towards him. Maggie could hear the music over the bubbling violence of the engine. She watched, paralysed, as the bow slapped the water, heard herself screaming at Joel to get out of the way. Now the boy who was driving had seen him. He spun the wheel like a lunatic, turning the boat aside at the last possible moment. Maggie saw the flash of fury on his face, as the boat carved away into its own wash.
She crouched back into the bush holding Archie’s collar and gestured to Joel who was now sprawled, half-submerged in the reed bed, to keep still. The engine was idling somewhere nearby and the boys were talking angrily.
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘Wait till I get hold of him!’
‘Come on. Let’s go and hunt him down.’
CHAPTER 12
Joel crawled out of the reeds and waded across to Maggie, who was shaking.
‘It’s OK,’ said Joel. ‘I was planning on jumping out of the way anyway.’
As Maggie and Joel arrived back at the clearing they expected to see the black ski boat moored up in the little bay and they braced themselves for a confrontation. But Bobalong was alone.
‘Here, Archie, what is it?’ called Maggie, as the dog bounded off towards the exposed end of the island again. A few moments later the dog returned with something in his mouth and dropped it at Maggie’s feet. It was a white plastic canister, about the size of a hen’s egg. Maggie picked it up and prized open the lid. Coiled inside was a scrap of paper with a handwritten note on it.
They’ve gone to refuel but they will be coming back for you. If you don’t want to get hurt, leave the island now. Destroy this note.
They stared at the scrap of paper that was lying on Maggie’s palm like a delicate insect, and looked around them. Somewhere through the trees there was the crack of a sail as a yacht tacked out in the channel. But they were alone on the island.
‘Maybe,’ said Joel, ‘one of the other eighteen islands would be better for camping?’
‘If you want to chicken out and go home, feel free. I’m staying. And I hope those idiots do come back, so I can tell them what I think of them. Anyway, Tom said this was the only place we could camp.’
They set to work building a fire and kept an almost solemn silence while Joel struck a match. The flames built, then there was the first hiss of sap, followed by the nutty taste of smoke hitting the back of the throat.
Maggie threw the note into flames. ‘It must be from Tom. And they must be the boys he warned us about. But how can he have got that message to us without us seeing him?’
‘I honestly do not have a clue,’ said Joel. ‘Pigeons?’
‘Anyway, we need to worry about those idiots coming back. The one driving the boat had a certain kind of face.’
‘What kind?’
‘The dangerous kind.’
Joel, who had begun to shiver in his wet clothes, suddenly started shaking with laughter.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Well, Mags . . . isn’t this the adventure you wanted? Now we’ve got some real pirates to tackle.’
She punched him on the arm. ‘Don’t call me that,’ she said, ‘or I’ll make you walk the plank, or something!’
Later, when the sun was sinking behind the trees on the western shore, Maggie was turning some sausages in a pan over the fire, watched intently by Archie, whose fur was steaming in feathered peaks.
‘He went in to chase some ducks,’ explained Maggie as Joel returned from the lookout. She divided the sausages between two plates with some hunks of buttered bread, and handed one to Joel. ‘We should do that tomorrow.’
‘What, chase ducks?’
‘No, you numpty, go for a swim. I want to swim right round the island.’
‘I’ll row alongside to protect you,’ offered Joel, putting a generous squirt of brown sauce on his sausages. ‘You know, in case the pirates come back. Good job they haven’t turned up.’
‘Yes, but strange too,’ said Maggie.
They sat on a log facing the fire, the sausages burning their mouths. The circle of light cast by the fire heightened the gloom. A gentle breeze was knocking some halyards against a metal mast in the channel and a goose honked somewhere. The lake was settling down for the night.
Spylark Page 5
