by Duncan Kyle
I said, 'Any chance of a cup of something? Tea, coffee?' `When I can. Not now.'
`When you can will be fine.'
I sat down and looked across at him. 'Been in Lerwick long?'
`Five years.'
`Like it?'
Ì like it fine.'
`Bit cold, isn't it?'
Not really, no. We get the winds, but not the ice and snow like Scotland. It's a good place to be a bobby.' `Because it's small?'
Àye. You get to know the local people. It's no like the big cities.'
I said, 'You know Jim Anderson, from Sandness.' He looked guarded. 'I know him.'
I smiled. 'It's okay. I understand. But everybody's looking for him. Mr Elliot and Mr Willingham, too. It may be you'll know something that will interest them, too.' Àye,' he said. 'It may be.'
`Somebody told me about a climb he did.'
Òch aye. He climbs fine. He was over to Foula in the summer on the high cliffs. Ringing birds, so they say.' He shook his head a little, unimpressed by that kind of unnecessary risk-taking.
Ì don't know him,' I said. 'He's a friend of a friend. I gather he's a nice bloke.'
Òch aye. He's all right, Jim Anderson. Wee bit mad, you know. Climbing and all. He's a good sailor; too.' The policeman gave a tight little smile of recollection. 'I've been out with him. Fishing, you know. He doesnae get worried in the rough water.'
I asked, Sas he a boat?' and when he looked guarded again, added, 'If he has, they'll need to know.'
Àye, maybe you're right.'
`What kind?'
`Shetland model. They mostly are, up here. Good sea boats for men that can handle them.'
`Where's he keep it?'
`Down in the small boat harbour when he's to this side of the island. Walls, maybe, most of the time.'
Ìs it here now? They'll need to know.'
Àye. It was this morning.'
`Show me where?'
He gave me a look of amiable warning. 'You'll not be trying something foolish, sir?'
`With you?' I said.
Ì'd be a handful for you.' He walked to the window and pointed. 'You can just see her, sir. See the edge of yon roof?' The harbour was silver in the moonlight.
`No. Oh, yes I can. The pale one?'
Àye. She's twenty-six foot. Decked in. Good sea boat.' `Lucky man,' I said. Àye.'
`Harbour's busy, too.'
Àlways is,' he said. `For a wee place there's a lot of boats in and out. Fishin' boats mainly, but others, too. Even cruise ships sometimes. Och, we get all kinds. They come ashore, you know, the fishermen. Into the pubs, after the girls. I've seen six nationalities in one pub.'
`Gets rough? '
Òch aye. Now and then. Some are worse than others, you know. Depends how full their pockets are. All seamen are alike. A few drinks and maybe one gets nasty. English, Norwegians, Germans, Poles, Finns, all the same. All bar the Russians.'
`Russians?' I said, startled.
Òch aye. They come in here. There's a few here now. They're the best of the lot. Never any trouble.'
Òh? Why's that?'
Och, I don't believe they have the money. Not to come ashore on a wee kind of rampage. Or maybe they go to the salt mines if they get in trouble.'
Russians! I thought. Russians in Lerwick. Legitimately in Lerwick. Part of the scenery. I said. 'Which are the
Russian ships?'
He pointed towards the mass of fishing boats tied up in the harbour near the fish quay. '
There's three or four in there.'
Ànd they come ashore as they like?'
Òh aye. There's often a few Russians in Lerwick. You see 'em look in shop windows. Not buying, you understand. Not often. That's why I reckon they've no money.'
I looked at the lines of fishing boats with deep concern. Easy come, easy go. Free access. And the phony Sergeant Gustaffson has been sent to climb that hill with his radio, to find out what to do with me !
I said, 'It seems odd to be looking at Russian boats.' Àye. Visitors always think that. You see over there. That wee boat on a mooring.'
I followed the direction of his pointing finger.
`The little one? By itself.'
Ùsed to be Anderson's,' he said. 'Little Shetland model. Sold it and bought the bigger boat.'
His tough appearance was misleading. He was a pleasant man. Straight, confidence in himself, but not self-confident, strong, self-contained as a Brazil nut, happy where he was, happy to chat about this place he knew and liked. We talked until Elliot returned. When he entered the room I was careful to get in first.
`The constable here says there are Russian fishing beats in the harbour.'
Elliot's face showed surprise, then anxiety. He asked questions and got answers. Like me he was startled by their freedom to come and go. Then he said tightly, 'Thanks, constable. I think the sergeant will need you now.'
`Very good, sir.'
When he'd gone, Elliot turned to me. 'Police have only eight men available. They're mounting a search for Anderson, but . .
I nodded. 'You'll never find him here. Not if he doesn't want to be found. You're in a close community. They'll stick together.'
Elliot looked at me quickly. Why wouldn't he want to be found?'
`Like I said, it's a tight community. He'll know about the fire and he'll know about the postman. Perhaps he even knows more than that. There's a lot of space up here, a lot of tiny villages, remote crofts. He can keep his nose down forever, and —' I thought of the implacable Miss Petrie and her they-shall-not-pass performance at her cottage door — '
and they'll form an impenetrable ring round him. If he wants it.'
Willingham had returned while I was talking. He said tightly, 'We'll find him, don't you worry.' I took no notice, nor, I saw, did Elliot. Willingham flushed and his apparentlypermanent anger intensified a little. 'London will square the post office in Aberdeen.'
`Right.' Elliot looked at us both, for once showing a trace of uncertainty. I voiced his thought. 'What next?'
`We wait. What else?'
Willingham said, 'I'll join the search. The more bodies the better.'
I said, 'Watch the door close in your face. The police haven't much chance. You have none at all.'
`You, of course, have a better idea!'
Ì can think of one place to look.'
`You can, can you?'
Ànderson has a boat.'
`How do you know?' Elliot asked quickly.
Ì asked a policeman, like the song says.'
Elliot said, 'Get him!'
But the constable had already left to tramp the post-midnight streets. I said helpfully, 'I know which boat it is and where it's moored.'
`Tell me.'
Ì'll do better. I'll show you.'
They didn't want that, either of them. They wanted me safe and secure in the police station and tried to circumvent
me by asking the sole remaining bobby if he knew.
Fortunately he didn't. And a boat is such a convenient hiding place — for a man or anything else — that they daren't let it pass.
Elliot said wearily, 'Okay, Sellers. Show us.'
À pleasure.'
We went out into the empty night. The wind had dropped now and it was cold and still. Together we tramped down the steep hill towards the waterfront and turned right along the quay. Several of the fishing boats wore the hammer and sickle flag. We continued past them.
`That one,' I said, and pointed.
The Shetland model rode easily on her mooring, wide-bellied, bow both ends in the fashion of the Viking galleys. She didn't look as though anybody might be on her.
`Deserted,' Willingham said flatly.
`How would she look if he was aboard?' I asked.
Elliot looked round. 'We need a dinghy to get out there.'
There was a small rowing boat turned upside down on the sloping ramp and we righted it and launched it. 'Shall I wait here?'
`You will not!' Elliot
said sharply. 'Get in. I'm not losing sight of you again.'
There wasn't far to go. Less than a hundred yards at a guess. We came away from the ramp, heading between two moored fishing boats on to the shining water. There were the small clatters and bumps of a harbour's background noises and somewhere not far away, a little engine was idling. Willingham did the rowing. Elliot sat in the bow, looking towards Anderson's boat. I sat in the stern.
It was as we came by the stern of the big fishing boat to our left that what I'd thought was a donkey engine turned out to be something else. The idling note was suddenly a sharp rising roar, very close, and a dark shape drove out at us from behind the bulk of the fishing boat. There wasn't a chance of avoiding it; not a thing any of us could do. We were hit fair and square amidships, rolled over instantly, plunged into the cold water of the harbour.
The shock of sudden immersion smashed the breath out of me and the boat, as it rolled, caught me a painful blow on the leg. I splashed and struggled, got my head to the surface and glanced round. As I shook the water from my face to look round, something slid powerfully by me. A hand grasped at my sleeve, gripped tightly, and I felt myself being drawn rapidly through the bitterly cold water.
I tried to turn my head to look up and as I did so, my other arm was grabbed. Two men were holding me, each by one arm; between them sat another. I stared up at his face in astonishment. The last time I'd seen it was in the Scanda Hotel in Gothenburg. He wore seaman's clothing now but the eyes behind the rimless glasses were the same. I was looking up at Pavel Marasov, the polite Russian press attaché !
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Marasov bent close and low to make his voice audible above the engine's noise. 'Where is it, Sellers?' he yelled.
I shook my head. Already my teeth were chattering. The water moving by me as I was dragged along was sucking the warmth from my body.
`Where?' he repeated.
Ì don't know.' It was difficult even to speak as water from the boat's bow washed at me.
`Then where is Anderson?'
Ì don't kn — ' My mouth filled suddenly with water. I began to choke and was roughly hauled higher. 'I don't know,' I shouted.
Marasov stared at me. I was trembling now with the brutal cold. I managed to say, 'We'
re looking.'
He continued to stare at me for a long moment, while the water raced by. I gaped up at him helplessly. Then he bent closer. 'Find him, Sellers. Find him. Find the transparency. Nobody must see it, understand? Work alone! Stay away from those men. If you do not, the girl Hay will not be seen again.'
I gasped, 'Is she . . . is she . . okay?'
`So far,' he said. 'Remember what I say.'
The best I could manage was an awkward nod of my head. The engine noise diminished suddenly and I could feel that the way was coming off the boat. Marasov said, his voice louder now that it no longer competed with the revving engine, 'Stay away from the American, and the other, the man Willingham. I cannot save you again.'
While I was still gaping at him the grip on my arms was released. I sank suddenly, my mouth filled with water, and I choked again. When I surfaced, and after I'd finished coughing, I realized I was only a few feet from a stretch of rocky shore. I swam weakly towards it and hauled myself out of the water. I was desperately cold, teeth chattering so hard it hurt, body trembling violently. Looking around, I managed to make sense of my whereabouts. I was at the south end of the Lerwick harbour a good distance from the small boat harbour where we'd been knocked into the water. And I was in trouble. There had seemed to be no wind when I walked with Elliot and Willingham down the hill from the police station. But now I realized the air was anything but still. It flowed slowly around me, working with the water in my soaking clothes to chill me to the bone. And there was no prospect of dry ones. Also, the police were on the streets, Elliot and Willingham would already have swum ashore and put out an alert on me. Then there was Marasov. For a moment I began to think about Marasov, but there were priorities more urgent than that. Elliot's phrase came into my mind. My grade A class one problem was dry warm clothes! I made myself walk up towards the road. It was absolutely quiet now. Nothing moved. I looked furtively around me and began to move quietly back towards the town. Up a side street I saw suddenly the familiar end of a phone box, checked quickly that none of the local bobbies was visible, and hurried towards it.
Money or no money, Lincoln didn't like answering the , phone in the wee small hours. He sounded irritable even as he spoke his own name.
I said, 'It's John Sellers.'
Òh Christ. At this time?'
Ì need a boat. First thing in the morning. When can I get one?'
Ì have a boat. Where do you want to go?'
`Not sure yet. But early.'
`There's a hire charge, Sellers. Especially to you.' `Never mind that. What kind of boat is she?'
`Converted lifeboat. Cabin cruiser now. She's good. What time?'
Èight,' I said.
Bloody hell!' Then he sighed audibly. 'All right.' `Where is she?'
`Hays Dock. North end. See you there at eight.' What's her name? Just so I'll know.'
`Katrina.'
I said, 'Sorry to disturb.'
Ì'm used to it,' he said wearily. 'But what the hell happened to you earlier. I waited half an hour!'
`Sorry,' I said. 'I had to move. Buy you a large Scotch sometime.'
`You'll do more than that.' He hung up.
Hays Dock. North end of town. I was a long way from it, a good half mile, and my chances of walking there unobserved, in still dripping clothes, along the deserted quayside, were nil. I'd have to lengthen the journey, work my way round the back of the town. Oh, Christ!
I climbed a bit, sticking to shadows as much as possible, then slowly worked my way north like a hunted cat through a network of alleys, slithering from hiding place to hiding place. And about halfway, climbing a narrow passageway just below the police station, I suddenly found myself with a good view of the harbour. I didn't care about the harbour at that second. I didn't care about anything but getting out of the murderous cold. But something caught my eye. An
absence, not a presence. Something missing that ought to have been there: where was Anderson's boat? Not the one he owned now; she was still on her mooring. But the other one, the one he'd sold. That one had disappeared!
I got going again, and made suddenly incautious by the need to move fast, nearly ran into one of the coppers. Fortunately my senses were temporarily sharper than his and I managed to make myself part of the shadows until he'd gone by. Then I hurried on. When I finally reached Hays Dock, I groaned. The boat was there, sure enough, but she was moored twenty yards out and this time there was no convenient dinghy to hand. I forced myself to enter the water again and swam slowly out to her. My clothes weighed me down like lead ingots, the cold and my own weariness had drained the strength from my limbs; it was no more than swimming one length of a small pool, but it felt like swimming the Channel. As I came under the bow I saw her name was Catriona, but spellings didn't matter. This was the one. I scrambled up the three steps of the waist ladder into the stern well and found the cabin door locked. Too bad. Sorry, Lincoln. I kicked it in and scrambled inside.
There were curtains, but they were flimsy and I didn't dare use a light. I searched in the semi darkness until I found some sweaters, dampish but a great deal drier than my own clothes, in one of the lockers. There were also, thank God, spare trousers and sailing boots, plus oilskins, a duffel coat, and what have you. I stripped, towelled myself down with the duffel coat, then dressed quickly. I felt a bit better, now, but badly weakened. I rummaged round, then, trying to make out what made the thing go, and came to the conclusion Lincoln must do pretty well, because Catriona had been nicely converted. There was a push-pull fuel switch, self-starter, a simple throttle, forward-astern lever. It ought to be simple. The starter seemed to make a tremendous noise and didn't fire her first time. I stuck my head out and looked round apprehe
nsively, but all remained quiet so I tried again. She caught this time and the engine chugged beneath my feet with quiet efficiency. I slid up on deck, slipped the mooring chain, wincing even at the sound of the little splash, then hurried below and set her moving slowly ahead. My instincts told me full steam ahead; logic said nice and slow. I stuck with logic and thought about whether anyone would notice, or even worse, might think the movement of the boat worth reporting. In seaports, they say, there are eyes everywhere. I came slowly out of the dock mouth.
Hell's delight, lights! An unlit boat was certainly suspicious. I hunted for, and found the switch, got the masthead lights on, and decided one light was as bad as another and put the cabin light on, too.
Still the harbour remained quiet. No other vessels were under way; there was no sign of movement, no running up and down the quayside, no pointing or shouting. I opened the throttle a bit and, looking round the cabin saw a sink, a stove, lockers. Food perhaps? A few tins. Bully beef and beans, soup, a couple of bars of chocolate, tea and coffee and a great treasure, a half-full bottle of The Grouse beautiful elderly Scotch Whisky. I had a mouthful of that, for starters, then crammed some chocolate into my mouth. It's scarcely a gourmet combination, but I felt the benefit as the whisky warmed my windpipe and the chocolate filled chilly little corners of my gut.
Nipping back and forth between the wheel and the stove, I put on a kettle of water and lit the Calor gas. I opened a can of beans and ate them hungrily, with a spoon. When the water boiled, I made tea, laced it thoroughly with The Grouse and began to feel like the man I remembered.
By this time, I'd also found the charts and was considering my route. Across the channel from Lerwick lay the island of Bressay. On the far side of Bressay lay Noss. On the far side of Noss lay the Holm of Noss. If Anderson had decided to get out of everybody's way, he could hide there as well as anywhere and the missing boat had half confirmed my guess.
