The Man was angry, a consignment was still missing and his best laid plans were coming apart. Fred and Jacko had gone the way of Brock and Bracknell was on his own. The Robinson was down and he felt as though his lunch was coming up. The churning in his stomach felt like a dodgy curry, but right now it was fear, alone and stranded without transport, he knew the anger was directed towards him and that was an unhealthy place to be. Unless he shifted the balance of power in his favour, there would be little choice except for him to walk, in a manner of speaking and whoever walked from The Man didn't walk very far, or for very long. There was no pension plan and little post retirement anything. Desperation will drive a man over the edge and Bracknell teetered, he sat forlornly on a bollard and crumpled. He reached inside his jacket for a hip flask, unscrewed the captive top and poured scotch into his mouth. Eventually he got up and started to wander across the waterfront, draining the flask and stashing it back in his pocket when the last dregs had slipped down his throat. Dusk had eased away to night with a blazing sunset which never reached him, oblivious to the spectacle, he trudged on. His intake of whisky had grown steadily over the last few months, the strain of running an operation for The Man was telling, the rewards were welcome enough, he wasn't going to grumble, but the need to keep one step ahead of everyone slowly ground him down and the lower he went, the more he drank, until the contents of the hip flask barely touched him. He needed a break, a stroke of luck that would give him the ear of The Man and then he could wangle a break, give the job to somebody else and let the heat die down for a while. Bracknell was still hanging around the waterfront when he saw the ketch slip quietly onto a mooring and tie up and two dark figures launch the tender and motor ashore. A single mast head light marked her position. Bracknell leaned against a lamp. The fucking boat was back, with two people and right now it looked as though the boat and the Range Rover were completely unconnected. He had just about persuaded himself there was no point hanging around when the tender came into view under the wash of the street lights along the front and crunched on to the strip of gravel thrown up against the wall. Bracknell watched them land and his spirits lifted, two men had sailed yesterday and to-day, a man and a woman had stepped ashore. This could be the stroke of luck he wanted; maybe the God's had decided to smile on him for a little while. He chose to enjoy it while it lasted, shaking his head violently to clear his thoughts and slipping easily into the role of a well-oiled holidaymaker, teetering away from the lamp post and collapsing heavily on a nearby bench. They climbed a flight of stone steps a couple of yards away up to street level. The girl's hair glinted in the lamp light and he swore it burned with a deep red. The feeling was euphoric after the darkness of the last hour. This was it, his chance, to sort the bastard out once and for all. Consciously steadying himself, exaggerating his movements, he played the drunk and gingerly got to his feet. Upright, he swayed slightly, mimicking the intense concentration required to move forward and as they drew away he moved after them, keeping his distance. Oblivious to his presence they walked the streets back to the flat Josie and Kurt had evacuated in a hurry, Bracknell watched them push open the ground floor door and disappear, sobered up instantly and jogged the last ten yards, easing the door and listening to them climb the stairs, tracking them by the sound of their voices and the scuffling on the steps. He followed them up as he stayed at least a full flight behind. Giving them time to go inside and close the door. He made a note of the door number and quietly slipped back to the street, dropping back into character as the drunk as he left the building. Bracknell loitered in the doorway, pretending to piss up the door frame and then stumbled off, turning the corner and straightening up to walk briskly back to his own gaff. He had to take the chance they were settled for the night, which would give him the time to make his preparations, to set his trap for the morning.
Josie closed the door behind Charlie and collapsed against it. "God I'm tired and I haven't done anything."
Charlie reassured her. "It's more what you've been through, the last couple of days have been a roller coaster ride; think about it. Five days ago, a week ago, you, Kurt, Jardine, me even, we were all set to bury Steel, even if there wasn't a body to bury. The memorial service was almost inevitable then suddenly; he's back, battered but still very much in the land of the living."
"I know all that, but why so tired?" Josie frowned.
"Put the kettle on then we'll talk." Charlie ordered and Josie rolled off the door and went through into the kitchen. Charlie headed for the front of the flat, drew the curtains and switched on the light. He was lighting the gas fire when she brought the tea in. "We only left the herbal when we cleared out, there is some food though." She explained and handed him a mug of black tea. She put her own mug on the table and slipped out of her wind-cheater, dropping it over the back of a chair, then stripped the Browning and its holster from the small of her back and put the gun and its leather pocket separately on the coffee table beside her mug. Josie flopped into on the chair, swung round and hooked her legs over the arm, turning her back on the fire and facing the door. Charlie saw it. "I think you can relax, for a while at least." He had thrown on a heavy black jacket as they left the ketch and now drew a Webley revolver from the pocket and laid it alongside the Browning. Josie picked it up and examined the weapon, drawing a bead on the picture rail; she stroked the hammer with her thumb. "Double action hammer?"
"That's right; it was my father's service revolver. It's uncomplicated, robust and it works." Charlie said and, removing his jacket, threw it on top of Josie's. She checked the safety was still on, that she hadn't accidentally released it and laid it back on the table. Charlie handed her the mug and sat down with his own. "Drink your tea and tell your uncle Charlie, he's nothing pressing for a while and I think you need to talk."
"You're right, but are you the one I should be talking to?" She said over the rim of her mug.
Charlie sat up, she had his attention. "What are you trying to say?"
"I'm confused Charlie, these last weeks have turned me upside down, inside out and wrung me out to dry," she rested the mug on her chest and let her head fall back on the chair arm, she stared at the ceiling, "we nearly lost him and my feelings are astonishing, surprisingly so."
"Why, you've known him a long time and you seem to get on OK, though I suspect the relief of finding him alive has kicked down a few barriers, "Charlie looked at her carefully, weighing his words before he spoke them, "but there are other barriers which you want to keep, probably for a long time."
Josie frowned again. "You see too much, that's your trouble. You see far too much for comfort."
He chuckled and she heard the rich depth of his voice, there was something almost huggable about the sound. "That's what I was trained to do, to see too much." He sipped his tea.
"So, come on then, if you see so much, tell me what I'm missing?" Josie said.
"Nothing, that's what you're missing, absolutely nothing, but you're not sure you're reading the signals clearly. When you read them en Clair, then you'll know what to do."
He said. She turned her head towards him, her eyes suddenly bright in the lamplight; she was on the edge of tears. "Are you sure?"
"One hundred per cent, no, but give it your best shot," Charlie reassured her, "now, come on, get some rest, we both need it. Tomorrow will be busy and when we've got the stores Steel wants we're sailing back. Josie finished her tea, put the mug down, scooped up her ironmongery and traipsed off to bed. Charlie secured the flat for the night, checking the door locks and the windows. The street outside was empty, except for a wire thin cat, rangy with the struggle for survival as it launched itself from under a parked car, locked on to its prey, then all was still again. He let the curtain drop, picked up the Webley and his jacket and let himself into the bunk-hole, sliding into the top bunk he rolled his jacket into a pillow and slept in his clothes, with the Webley an inch away from his fingers.
Bracknell walked back to his own flat and let himself in, l
ocked the door and went to the bathroom where he stripped and stood under a hot shower for five minutes then, gradually turned the temperature down until the icy needles of spray pricked his skin. He shut off the shower, stepped out and rubbed himself down with a coarse towel. Bracknell walked through to his room, dragged his holdall on to the floor and collapsed on the bed; he was asleep within minutes and slept heavily. He woke in the early hours with a thick head and a rough tongue, he'd been out too long for a power nap and not long enough to be a good sleep. He found his watch and checked the time. The rectangle of the window was still dark; no early sun struggled to break through the blinds. He threw off the towel and dressed, choosing dark coloured jeans, shirt and sweat-shirt and slipped his feet into black trainers. Bracknell made himself a substantial breakfast, piling his plate with eggs, bacon and the rest, washing it down with strong black coffee. He sat quietly with his second cup, the pot held at eye level, staring at the dark square of glass. Now that he had made a choice he felt calmer than he had for a long time and it settled him in a way that the hip flask could never do. The meal finished he carefully cleaned up, leaving the place as tidy as he could, not an overly tidy person by nature, but there was a form of departure in what he did. Bracknell made himself a final cup of coffee and carried it through to the room he had used as his bedroom and carefully packed his belongings, clearing his razor and soap, wash-bag and towel from the bathroom and putting them away. He touched no one else's belongings, but removed all sign of himself. Satisfied, he closed the holdall and locked the zip. He had left a few items out and tucked them into a small sports rucksack; the embossed white logo on the black material had been carefully obscured with permanent marker and tugged the drawstring, sealing it with an overhand knot in the doubled cord. He rinsed the coffee cup and left it upside down on the drainer. Picking his coat from the hook in the small square hall between the rooms he shrugged it on and collected his luggage before he left. The town was quiet as he made his way through the streets towards the railway station where he left the holdall in a luggage locker and zipped the key into a pocket in the top flap of the rucksack. He left the station and took a walk along the front, watching the boats in the bay, checking on the ketch, realising very quickly that the boat was quiet, the man and woman must have spent the night ashore, planning to return some time in the morning. he was satisfied with the situation and found what he was looking for, an old boat, with the oars tucked under the seat and a couple of inches of water sloshing about in the bottom, but still reasonably seaworthy, it's dilapidation appeared more cosmetic than structural.
He stood by the boat and watched the activity around him, people coming and going along the front and the erratic traffic moving through the ferry terminal, the early arrivals for the first crossing were already drawing into white painted lanes, mustering for a roll call that was still a couple of hours away the other side of daybreak. He dropped his bag in the bow, slipped the mooring then pushed the battered craft into the shallows and jumped aboard, slipping the oars from under the seat and tucking them into the row-locks Bracknell took the strain and dug the blades into the water, slightly to begin with, he got the hang of it and made steady progress. Ten minutes put him alongside the ketch, the hull between him and the town, obscuring him from casual sight. Bracknell threw his bag over the rail and scrambled after it, leaving the old rower to float away on the tide. He boarded and walked openly forward and lifted a small hatch in the foredeck, he eased himself through the aperture and carefully replacing the hatch cover, curled up on what felt like a coil of rope.
Mara rode at anchor, hugging a lee shore and Steel had the watch, kept awake by caffeine and time out on deck with the wind gusting around his ears, while the boat slept on. Langhers woke first, stretching and groaning at the confines of the bunk spaces and the commotion punctured the deliciously erotic dream Jones was enjoying. It took a couple of seconds to re-orientate himself in the cabin, before he burst out of the top of his sleeping bag. "Bastard, I was really getting into that!"
Langhers wriggled halfway out of his bag. "Sorry mate didn't mean to wake you."
"I would probably have been awake soon anyway, don't worry about it." Jones mumbled and reached for his tobacco tin. He lit his first roll up of the day and lay back in the bunk, blowing smoke at the cabin roof. Langhers dragged himself out of the bag, pulled on his jeans and went for a piss over the side. He put the kettle on as he went past the stove; the battered vessel had never been off the night before. Jones lived on coffee and roll-ups with an occasional meal thrown in for appearances sake, Kurt muttered a growly "Morning," to Steel as he went past and got on with it. Steel pulled his thoughts back on line and rubbed his face, yawning like an elephant and ran through his checks. The numbers added up, Mara hadn't moved during the night and the visual cross checks looked the same. Jones emerged from the fug of the cabin, the stub of a roll up hanging off his lip. "I'll take it Steel," he said and slid into the chair as Steel moved out, "any problems?"
"Nah, nothing, few lights further out just before dawn, radio's quiet, just the odd call now and again and the forecast looks pretty reasonable too; westerly, two to three, visibility good." Steel reported.
"I can live with that, shouldn't affect the diving."
"I've been thinking about that Paul, you can't dive every bloody pot marker we find. You'd be well on your way to a hydraulic bend by lunch-time!"
"No intention, I've been doing a fair bit of plotting over the last few weeks and I've got a few prime spots worked out, I'm not interested in the pots clustered together, it’s the one out on its own I'm after, that gives the best chance."
"And no-one touches a pot that isn't theirs." Langhers chipped in.
"A pot might be out on its own, but it's relatively safe, so long as the markings on the blob are clear enough, nobody will go near it."
"Except us, because we're pot-robbing bastards, in short, divers." Was Steel's comment and Jones gave a dry chuckle.
"Maybe true once, but not so much now." Jones explained.
Langhers sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, "Somebody’s bound to screw it up.”
Jones slipped an old chart from the drawer under the table and laid it on top. It was the same sheet as the one already there, but this was dotted with carefully plotted positions and a fine neat print. The pencil marks were slightly smudged, but still clearly legible. He found a sharp black pencil in the drawer and used it as a pointer. "This cost me a packet in heavy and chasers and a few thick heads as well. God these bastards can drink!"
Langhers and Steel crowded in, limiting Jones' elbow room, to get a look at the chart. Jones tapped the chart and pointed out of the cabin window. "That," he said, "is the village of Fascadale, two miles out, is the pinnacle; Bo Fascadale." The pencil swung northwards and rested on a patch of sea that looked just like the rest. "That's where we start, a very small needle and extremely large haystack, but we have to start somewhere." Jones rummaged and found a red pencil, putting the black aside he began to circle some of the plots, grouping them together. "These are the ones I can identify, because they belong to the lads I've spent hours getting pissed with, I spun a line about not wanting to disturb their fishing ground while I was out looking for scallops, the rest, for them it's open season. They don't belong to the local boys, so we can drop in and take a look, or I can anyway." Jones checked his watch, pulled the tide tables off the shelf above the chart table and scribbled on a scrap of paper. "We have about three hours before the conditions are right on the pinnacle."
"Breakfast then," exclaimed Langhers cheerfully."
"Later," said Jones, putting his enthusiasm on hold, "let's finish this first. Kurt, you con the boat, Steel, you're my rope man. If need be, Kurt can you be ready to drop if the shit hits the fan. I want you both suited."
"Providing you've got one to fit." Muttered Langhers.
"I've got a pile of dry-suits, all different sizes, try them for size." Jones said and Langhers nod
ded his acceptance. Jones stared at the chart for a minute or two and the wheelhouse was silent except for the crackle of the radio and the slap of the water against the hull. He eventually scribbled a series of co-ordinates on to a page torn from a notebook and tossed the pencil down. "Right, I think we're ready. Kurt get on with the breakfast, Steel, will you sort out the diving gear and ropes while I put these into the GPS?" Jones switched to Way-marks and keyed in the co-ordinates. Langhers went below and clattered through the preparations for breakfast as Steel went out on deck and stripped the tarpaulin from the gear. Two hours passed quickly, breakfast was a leisurely affair, then Jones got Mara under way, the anchor weighed and Mara turned her head towards the first plot on the screen. Langhers took the wheel and soon got the feel of the boat, Steel and Jones laid out the ropes on deck and went through the final checks for the dive, signals were discussed and agreed and ten from the site they pulled on dry-suits, neck seals were checked for a fit and zips drawn shut. Steel relieved Langhers at the wheel while he was fitted with a suit; he pulled on the arms and left his head and shoulders out of the zip.
Jones watched the water colour change ahead as he closed on the pinnacle, moving in from the east the sounder would give little warning, so he swung her around in a wide circle to come in from the west, where the slightly gentler gradient would give more warning. Eased back the throttles on Mara's twin diesels when the trace on the echo sounder began to rise, coasting her in until the sounding pinged back at fifteen metres. He handed over to Langhers, telling him to keep the boat into the waves, with roughly that depth beneath the keel and went out on deck where Steel waited. He looped the rope around Jones chest and tied it off, before Jones attached his ancillary equipment, knife to his right thigh, torch, delayed SMB and a small reel of line. A weight-belt and the aqualung followed and finally his fins and mask, after a good spit on the lens and a swill with fresh water. He perched his backside on the bulwark, "I'm going for the bottom at about twelve, then around the pinnacle and down to twenty, twenty five, get Langhers to follow me around, once I'm in move forward and work the rope from the bow." and settled his mask on his face and rolled backwards. Steel let the rope run freely through his fingers and acknowledged Jones' OK signal. Jones purged his suit, rolled over and kicked hard, driving himself down and Steel took up the slack on the line, keeping the tension between the pair of them so he could feel the signals when they came and Jones himself, pulling slightly on the line as he went for the bottom. Twelve meters down Jones stopped, cleared his ears and eased air into his jacket, slowing his descent. The visibility was good, ten to fifteen metres. The light was good and the torch stayed in his pocket. Jones reached above his head and took a bight of rope in his hand, drawing it gently down; Steel felt the slight increase in tension and waited, repeating with a slow pull on his end. Jones gave a single pull, I am OK and Steel acknowledged by repeat, and then let the rope run as he worked his way forward and climbed on to the bow. Langhers touched the throttles and tweaked Mara’s head to go with the rope. The motion of the boat increased as she turned her bows across the waves and lost her head, Steel let the line pay out, juggling the tension as the boat bucked and rocked until Langhers head her head back into the waves by playing the throttles. Steel leaned against the rail and watched the blue polypropylene line plunge into the water and disappear from sight five metres down.
Jones touched down on bare rock, the final metres of the pinnacle rose in front of him and took a minute to settle himself before he increased his buoyancy and lifted clear of the rock. He swung out to the right, skirting the top of the rock and tucking himself into the eastern lee side, the rock dropped away beneath his fins, plunging to nearly sixty metres. His destination lay on a ledge at thirty eight and there was no time to lose. He eased himself away from the rock and dumped the buoyancy from his jacket, now negative, he began to drop. Rolling head down he kicked again and went for the ledge. Eight minutes into the dive, he reached the ledge and unpacked his torch from the pocket of his jacket and began a sweep of the rock; the beam punched a hole in the gloom which had folded around him. The slightest trace of a current stirred the water and the anemones crowding the wall opened their fronds and reached out for food. It was clear; nothing indicated that anything had been left for collection. Jones checked his time, depth and air and signalled to Steel that he was on his way up. Steel acknowledged the call and began to haul in the rope as Jones made his way up the face. He broke the surface twenty three minutes after starting the dive and checked his computer. It gave him no decompression penalty but a time lag before his next dive. Steel walked the rope around the deck to the boarding ladder hanging over the stern as Jones swam around and climbed aboard. He sat down and ripped off his mask and hood as Steel stripped him of his fins and unbuckled the weight-belt. Jones shed the rest of his kit and gestured for Steel to open the zip. The rush of air around the suit as the zip seal broke was welcome. Jones dragged the neck seal over his head and drawing his arms from the suit he rolled it down to his waist and sat down again. Steel readied the cylinder for refilling and bungee-d it to the bulwark alongside the compressor, disconnecting the demand valve. Jones blew his nose; clearing a huge blockage of blood and snot he wiped the blood on the back of his hand. Steel poured a cup of soup from a Thermos and handed it to Jones, who took it and swallowed a mouthful. The heat surged through his stomach. "There's nothing there is there." Steel remarked.
“No, not a thing.” Jones replied.
“You knew that before you went in.” Steel suggested.
"Yes, I did." Jones replied.
"Then what's all this about," Steel took in the Mara, her occupants and the equipment, with a sweep of his hand. "What are we doing here, what are you doing here?"
"Working the off-chance, the off-chance that we might get lucky and that is so far off, it's almost in the next bloody universe. I've spent the last eighteen months up and down this coast, looking for that one glint, that one tell-tale sparkle that will show me I'm close to finding the needle in the haystack. Look, I've said this before, not two days ago, there are thousands of miles of coastline around this country, some of them are easy to watch, others are almost impossible and this stretch is about as close to impossible as it gets. Christ, the army use it for training and we've no idea half the time whether they're coming or going. I'm sorry to say, but I am using you and these people, but I haven't got a choice, it is some, small measure of comfort that you seem as keen as I do to find out what is happening. The plots on the chart are my best guess, that's how it is, you look at what minute fragments of certainty you have and then you follow a hunch and I'm doing that. My hunch tells me, you stumbled on something and somebody got really panicky, yes, they over-reacted, but we have little else to go on, the ace in the hole is you." Jones explained.
"So we carry on?" Steel demanded.
"We carry on and we mark this site." Jones said and took another mouthful of soup. Steel tucked the Thermos back in the wheelhouse and set to assembling a marker buoy. A forty pound marker and an orange blob buoy linked by twenty metres of nylon line. Jones took the helm from Langhers and, watching the colour change over the pinnacle, where the darker blue water lightened as the rock caught the sunlight in the shallow water, eased off to the twelve metre mark and gave the word. Steel threw the blob over the side and hurled the weight after it, the weight dragged the rope down and the waves caught the blob and teased out the rope. Jones watched it and nodded at Steel's enquiring glance. "It'll do," he said, "the slack in the rope should cope with most tidal variations, it should stay afloat most of the time and if it doesn't then it should pop up again soon after high water." He nudged the throttles forward and Mara punched her way through the waves, as Jones tapped up the next way-mark on the GPS and so a regular routine for the day began. Paul Jones conning the boat between the way-marks, handing over to Langhers for the dive as Steel tended the rope linking him to the surface and for the next three dives the end result was nothing. Jones was pushing
himself close to the limit, his computer was checking the times and depths against the algorithm in its memory and the penalties were increasing, with each successive venture beneath the water his available time diminished and the potential for lengthy spells hanging around on a shot line at a decompression stop increased. He surfaced from his third dive half a mile out from the lighthouse at Ardnamurchan at twenty past three, dragged himself back aboard and slumped exhaustedly on the engine box. Steel stripped him of his gear and stowed it away, there was no rush to recharge the cylinder this time. Jones needed a rest and Steel pulled open the zip. "Right that's it for to-day, we're heading back to Tobermory and we start again in the morning." Jones dragged himself from the suit and dropped it in a heap at his feet.
Jones got to his feet, unzipping his woolly bear. "Don't forget to mark it, you know the drill."
"Get your head down, we'll sort it, the blob's ready, we'll take Mara home."
Jones ducked through the wheelhouse and collapsed on his bunk and was asleep in minutes. Langhers took the Mara around for a pass over the site and Steel hurled the sinker and its float over the side, hoping that Jones had a stock of buoys and sinkers somewhere. He had to admire the thinking behind the floats, if Jones' deductions were right and these were a selection of the exchange points, leaving a marker might stir things up a bit. He watched the orange blob disappear astern as Langhers conned them home. An hour later the Mara rode at anchor in Tobermory, tucked in the lee of Calve Island. Jones was still asleep and Langhers sat with Steel at the stern, both men silent for most of the time and sharing a desultory conversation. The compressor clattered away recharging the cylinders and Steel fidgeted, checking the gauge until they reached their working pressure. Langhers chewed on a sandwich and occasionally threw a chunk over the side at a pair of swans who appeared, almost from nowhere and not long after Mara was secured to her mooring. A calm settled over the bay as the late afternoon dragged into the evening.
*****
Chapter Twenty Three
Iceline Page 24
