The Danger of Life

by Ken Lussey

  ‘Hello, is that Captain Smith? It’s Group Captain Sutherland here, calling from Mallaig.’

  ‘Hello, sir,’ said Smith.

  ‘I’m calling on a public line which could well be insecure. However, I need to know if you’ve heard anything from our friends who went for a boat ride earlier.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have talked to... to the gentleman you met earlier, sir. He reached his destination successfully. It seems that the people there didn’t know that their telephone wasn’t working, and when checks were made it was found that a slate that had blown off the roof had damaged the line where it entered the building. It proved easy to fix and they were able to let me know what was happening, using the telephone, before setting off to return here.’

  ‘Was any trace found of the two men we want to find?’

  ‘None at all, sir. There was no indication they’d been there, and the boats were all accounted for. However, shortly after my people arrived there, they were joined by the much larger group you told us about coming from the east. I don’t know the details, but the larger group felt they had found traces of the two men heading west. The larger group were sweeping across the ground both sides of the loch we discussed, towards Morar and Mallaig, and will continue to look for traces of the two men as they do so.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Bob. As he replaced the telephone he thought about the odd-sounding conversation he had just had and wondered whether security might not have been better served by a shorter and more natural-sounding discussion. Anyone who’d overheard what had just been said would have been intrigued, to say the least, and probably able to work out most of what was meant anyway. Oh well, he thought, that was part of what he became when he signed up to this world of shadows.

  ‘So where does that leave us, sir?’ asked Lieutenant Dixon. The five men were still sitting in the bay window of the guest house lounge. The storm outside showed no signs of abating, and the afternoon was looking increasingly dark and dismal. Bob reflected that it was one of those days that never really got light.

  ‘I was convinced that we were going to find Mallory and Quinlan at Swordland Lodge, or more likely at Tarbet,’ said Bob. ‘If what the harbourmaster told me is correct, no-one is going to be sailing anywhere until midnight at the earliest. I think we might usefully spend the daylight we’ve got left checking whether there are any vessels that appear to be preparing to sail, and perhaps take a closer look at them. Reading between the lines of what I’ve just been told, it seems that some trace of the fugitives has been found heading this way, but that it was unclear whether they would then have travelled north or south of Loch Morar. Let’s look at that quarter-inch scale map again.’

  The teacups and plates were moved to one side to allow space for the map on the table.

  ‘From what you’ve just said, sir, it seems that Lieutenant Colonel White’s men found traces of Mallory and Quinlan in Glen Pean, which links the west end of Loch Arkaig with the east end of Loch Morar. Once there they could pass either north or south of the loch.’

  ‘If they want a boat then Mallaig is the obvious place for them to head for, sir,’ said Petty Officer MacDonald.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Bob, ‘and as we’ve discovered it also has places you can hole up to get out of the storm. But I don’t want to overlook the possibility they were heading further south. I’d be grateful if Petty Officer MacDonald, Sergeant Potter and Private Jenkins could take a drive down to Morar and then to Arisaig itself. Ask about any moored boats, or any indications that anyone is preparing to sail tonight once the storm abates. Once you’ve done that, return here. You’d better take the car with windscreen wipers that work properly.’

  ‘That leaves you and I to look round Mallaig, sir,’ said Lieutenant Dixon.

  ‘It does, Andrew, though I am counting on some expert help. John MacLean, the harbourmaster, was wearing some impressive oilskins earlier. It seems a shame not to let him put them to good use. I’ll ask him to give us a conducted tour to make sure we don’t overlook anything.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  John MacLean appeared to be genuinely pleased to have been asked to help. ‘Sorry to drag you out into the storm, Mr MacLean,’ said Bob,’ but it would be very helpful to see whether any of the boats here are likely to be putting to sea before morning.’

  ‘Certainly, Group Captain. I need to do my rounds anyway, to make sure that anyone owing harbour dues has paid them.’

  The harbourmaster added a sou’wester hat to his ensemble and walked past Bob and Lieutenant Dixon to the door. ‘Mind it doesn’t bang in the wind, gentlemen.’

  Bob turned to follow. He and the lieutenant had both left their uniform caps in the guest house, feeling that commando cap comforters were less likely to be blown into the harbour. Both also wore their Denison smocks, and each carried a submachine gun, Bob a Sten gun and Dixon a Thompson. Bob was beginning to understand why those at Achnacarry able to get their hands on garments officially intended for paratroops prized them so highly. Bob had overcome his feelings of guilt at having been given two smocks in twenty four hours and had every intention of hanging onto this one. It might not look quite right when going to lunch with Lieutenant General Gordon in Edinburgh Castle, but for a wild day like today it was perfect.

  The harbour at Mallaig comprised an outer pier, which Bob remembered the harbourmaster had earlier called the Railway Pier, and an older pier located rather closer to the foot of the road into the village. MacLean led them out towards the Railway Pier, which had several vessels moored against its inner face.

  Lieutenant Dixon shouted, ‘Isn’t it dangerous having rail wagons on the pier when the sea is up like this?’

  ‘Not really,’ replied MacLean. ‘When the sea gets really high, the railway makes sure that there’s nothing out on the pier, but the truth is that some of the sidings that are the alternative are close to the shore and fairly prone to a sea coming in from the west. Two or three of the fishing boats moored along the sheltered side of the Railway Pier are preparing to leave. The others have shown no sign of life, so I imagine they are not going to risk it despite the value of the catches they might get. Those that are going are Mallaig-based, so I consider them my regulars. There are also two Clyde Puffers moored together here, and two motor gun boats also moored side by side, as well as a navy minesweeper. I doubt if any of them will be going anywhere until tomorrow at the earliest.’

  As they approached the landward end of the pier, a group of three commandos who had been sheltering in the lee of an inactive smokehouse walked quickly over and, with guns raised, asked to see their identification. Bob was pleased to see that Lieutenant Darlington’s men appeared to be on the ball.

  Walking along the pier, Bob found the pain in his chest was aggravated each time he braced himself against the force of the wind, blowing from behind his left shoulder. He tried to put it out of his mind, just as he had managed to do for much of the day. There were a couple of vans parked on the pier, and down on the boats he could see men in oilskins, busying themselves on boats that looked far too dilapidated and vulnerable to trust their lives to in any weather, still less in the aftermath of this storm.

  On reaching the last of the moored boats and having been challenged by a naval guard standing beside the gangway leading to the minesweeper, they turned and walked back to the landward end of the pier. Now they were having to bend into the wind. Bob could see that the two motor gun boats were also guarded, though here it was by men on the boats themselves. The commandos were still sheltering, and this time they saluted. Bob and Lieutenant Dixon returned the salute.

  ‘The landward end of the space between the two piers is usually home to smaller vessels,’ said the harbourmaster, raising his voice to be heard. ‘We can look, but at the moment the area is occupied by some of the very small fishing boats that operate from here, the sort of boats that would never put to sea until this storm had lo
ng gone, as well as the launches that service the base at Inverie.’

  ‘It looks to me as if it might be very easy to steal one of these,’ said Bob.

  ‘Can we see your passes, please?’ Bob turned to find two commandos standing behind them, guns raised.

  He showed his pass and returned the salute of the commandos. ‘Fair enough, perhaps it might not be so easy,’ he said.

  The smaller pier had four fishing boats moored to it, two deep, on its north western side. None showed any signs of life. On the far side of the pier was another Clyde puffer and what appeared to be a private yacht. ‘What’s that boat?’ shouted Bob, pointing at it.

  ‘She’s the Orca, Group Captain. Rather a nice yacht commandeered by the Admiralty earlier in the war and normally based along Loch Nevis at Tarbet. There’s another commando training unit there, though they never let anyone near.’

  Bob felt his pulse rise. Was it possible that Mallory and Quinlan had stolen a boat at Tarbet after all, and sailed it to Mallaig? ‘How long has she been here?’ he asked John MacLean.

  ‘She came in yesterday morning, Group Captain, I think she needs minor repairs to hull damage. You’ve probably seen we’ve got a slipway and two boatyards beyond the pier. I believe the intention is to haul her out there and effect the repairs.’

  Bob felt a surge of disappointment. ‘Is that everything?’ he asked. ‘There are no other boats in harbour that we’ve not seen?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid that’s it, Group Captain. As I told you earlier, the fishing fleet is a pale shadow of what it was before the war. Look, I’m getting wet, and cold. If there’s anything else you want to know, can we discuss it over a cup of tea back in my office?’

  It took perhaps five minutes for John MacLean to produce three steaming mugs of tea. These he placed on a desk in the back room of the harbourmaster’s office. ‘Group Captain Sutherland, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but did we go on that little tour just now to help you find a boat that might take to you Tarbet?’

  Bob wasn’t sure what the harbourmaster meant for a moment, but then the penny dropped. ‘No. I’m sorry, Mr MacLean, it would have been polite for me to have told you what we are looking for. There’s no longer a need for me to go to Tarbet. I’m sorry. The reason Lieutenant Dixon and I are here today is that we are seeking two dangerous fugitives. These men were based at the Commando Basic Training Centre at Achnacarry but are believed to be travelling overland in this direction. We think their aim is to steal a boat and try to escape, possibly to southern Ireland, where one of them has family.’

  ‘You say they are fugitives, Group Captain. What have they done?’ asked the harbourmaster.

  ‘They killed a nineteen-year-old Belgian commando trainee last Wednesday, a boy who never knew he was going to be a father. And on Friday they killed one of my officers, who had been investigating the first murder. And yesterday afternoon one of them shot me, though, as you can see, with less effect than he might have hoped for.’

  The harbourmaster looked down at the mug of tea he held between his hands. ‘Is that why there are so many soldiers about? It might have saved some time if you’d told me that to start with, Group Captain.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mr MacLean?’ asked Bob.

  ‘Is Pat Quinlan one of the men you are looking for?’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said Bob. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I think I might. Let me just explain the background. You may not have noticed but on the far side of the harbour, known locally as East Bay, there are a few new houses that have been built during the last ten years or so, plus three three-storey blocks of flats. I live with my wife Margaret on the upper floor of the first of the blocks you come to as you walk round East Bay. We’ve lived there since they were built and, as you can imagine, it’s very convenient for my job.

  ‘The first floor flat immediately below us is occupied by Alasdair Gunn, one of the longer-serving skippers fishing out of Mallaig. He’s lived on his own since his wife died five years ago. His boat is the Silver Darling, an 80ft steam drifter built sometime not long after the turn of the century. The navy didn’t want her because she’s old and expensive to run. And they didn’t want Alasdair Gunn because he’s even older. To operate her fully, Alasdair needs a crew of twelve, including himself, a mate, a cook, and nine deckhands. Finding a large crew in wartime has been difficult, and affording the coal needed to get up steam has also been difficult. As a result, the Silver Darling doesn’t put out to sea very often, though when Alasdair can raise a crew with any experience she can land some impressive catches.’

  ‘Is she out there now?’ asked Bob.

  ‘Yes,’ said the harbourmaster. ‘She’s the inner boat at the far end of the old pier. But you need to hear the rest of the story before deciding whether I’m right or not. At about this time last year Alasdair began putting to sea with only a partial crew on board for day trips or overnight trips. This is a small place, Group Captain, and I soon began to hear stories that he had met a sergeant in the pub here, a man who was helping set up the training at Glasnacardoch Lodge, beside the main road not far south of the village. The man was Pat Quinlan. He and Alasdair, and a couple of the old men who Alasdair had managed to rope into the enterprise, were sailing off to remote parts of Knoydart, Skye, Rum and elsewhere. The Silver Darling has a boat, stowed at the stern, and they were using this to put ashore and poach deer. Alasdair once told me that Quinlan was the best shot he’d ever seen, and only ever needed one round to kill his prey. Once they’d killed a deer they’d gralloch it, which means removing the innards to make it easier to transport, then bring it back to the Silver Darling on the boat. By early spring this year, they were going out every week or two, and could return with several deer each time. Pat Quinlan often stayed with Alasdair in his flat. By then everyone in the village apart from the policeman knew what was happening, but as everyone was enjoying the cheap venison, probably including the policeman, no-one had any interest in stopping it. They were even selling it to a butcher in Fort William when they had more than they could dispose of locally.’

  ‘You make it sound like it did stop, though.’

  ‘Yes. Pat Quinlan’s permanent base was at Lochailort, which meant he could travel here easily by train, or Alasdair would collect him in his van. But then he was posted inland, and couldn’t get to Mallaig so easily, or at all. Alasdair’s been out fishing maybe three or four times over the summer, but other than that the Silver Darling’s been sitting at the pier, gently rotting away.’

  ‘Do you think that Sergeant Quinlan might have renewed his old acquaintance with Alasdair Gunn?’

  ‘I’m fairly sure he has. I’m a heavy sleeper. But my wife sometimes has problems sleeping at all. She has a habit of sitting with the light out and the curtains open, looking out towards the harbour. She told me this morning that she’d had an interesting night. At about 2 a.m. she says she heard an odd noise from below, like gravel hitting a window. When she came to the window and looked down she got a sense there was someone standing outside the front of the building. There would have been no lights, remember, and in the storm there wouldn’t have been any moonlight.

  ‘Despite the sound of the wind and the rain she heard Alasdair leave his flat and go down to the front door. She then saw a flicker of a torch, lighting up two men in army uniform, which must have been Alasdair checking who was calling. A little later she heard someone leave Alasdair’s flat and got the sense they had gone out. After a while she heard an odd noise outside, and from the occasional flash of torchlight realised that it was Alasdair returning with a trolley he uses to move his fishing gear. It’s a bit like the sort of thing railway porters use to move luggage and he keeps it in a shed near the harbour. Then there was more movement on the stairs, and my wife saw three men wearing oilskins using torches to put things on the trolley. She said she thought they’d then gone back towards the harbour.’

>   ‘So she didn’t actually see where they went?’ asked Bob.

  ‘No, but she was awake enough to stay up and hear one man, who she thought was Alasdair, return about half an hour later and go into his flat. I’m wondering if the men you are looking for are on board the Silver Darling.’

  ‘Was she one of the ones preparing to leave?’ asked Lieutenant Dixon.

  ‘No, it didn’t look as if anyone was aboard when we were there just now, but they’d hardly advertise their presence in the circumstances,’ said the harbourmaster.

  ‘So, you think that Alasdair Gunn might be doing a favour for an old friend and helping him escape?’ asked Bob.

  John MacLean laughed. ‘Alasdair Gunn has never done a favour for anyone as far as I can remember. If he’s helping Quinlan now, it’s because he thinks there’s something in it for him.’

  Bob had a pretty good idea of what Mallory and Quinlan might have offered in return for their escape. ‘If they are on board, how long would it take to prepare to sail?’