Stormtide by Bill Knox Read Free Book Online Page A

back.
    ‘Trouble?’ asked Carrick. Behind them there was already a hush among the other drinkers almost as if they’d been waiting for something to happen.
    The shaggy-haired gunner nodded silently and glanced at Rother.
    ‘Nothing we can’t handle on our own,’ said Rother grimly. Rising, he glared at the expectant faces along the bar. He told them loudly and bitterly, ‘In case any of you didn’t know, some clever bastard just cut loose those dead sharks we brought in. They’re drifting in the bay now – drifting over here.’ His mouth tightened. ‘All right, this time we get them back. Next time we don’t. If they wash ashore near the harbour they can stay there till they rot … and this whole village is going to be nothing but stench and flies till you get rid of them on your own.’
    He stalked out, Yogi Dunlop at his heels. The men along the bar stayed silent till they’d gone, then someone raised a cheer. It spread, became laughter and a thumping of glasses on the bar.
    Quietly, Carrick slowly finished his drink and left. It was beginning to dusk over outside, but he could see the long, black shapes drifting here and there in the middle of the bay. One boat was already out there among them; Rother’s launch was starting out from the harbour.
    On its own it wasn’t much more than petty spite. But he wondered what would come next.

Chapter Three
    He could have gone back for another drink and been sure of finding company. Or, further along, an equal amount of light and noise was spilling from the Harbour Bar. But for once Webb Carrick felt in a solitary mood. Uneasy without completely knowing why, he walked slowly down the deserted street. The rest of Portcoig seemed already settled for the night, doors firmly closed and windows tightly curtained. A solitary motor-cycle passed him, engine puttering, its rider not sparing him a glance.
    At the end of the street he reached the bay. The tide was well out and the on-shore wind was heavy with the pungent smell of seaweed. Piping and shrilling in a constant chorus, hundreds of terns and gulls were feeding among the newly exposed rocks or pattering quick-footedly between the sandy pools. Out beyond them, in the greying dusk, Rother’s boats were still working off Camsha Island.
    He stayed there for a moment, lighting a cigarette, then went on towards the pier. Two men were standing together at the faraway T-end and as he headed in the same direction, passing Marlin ’s berth, a leading hand on duty at the Fishery cruiser’s gangway saluted gravely.
    ‘All quiet?’ Carrick returned the salute with a faint smile.
    ‘Yes, sir.’ The man glanced enviously towards the village. ‘Down here, anyway – except for those sharker characters. They went boilin’ out in a hurry.’
    ‘They would,’ agreed Carrick dryly, and left him.
    Clustered fishing boats were tied two and three deep along both sides of the pier, deserted, the water lapping listlessly against their hulls, mooring ropes creaking faintly. Combined with the gathering dusk, it was a scene to delight any artist. But then artists didn’t have to be up in time to take those same boats out to sea at the first hint of dawn.
    The two figures on the T-end had their backs to him and Carrick was almost there before he realized who they were. Then he started to turn back, but it was too late. Hearing his footsteps, they swung round. Harry Graham greeted him with a friendly nod and Alec MacBean managed a grunt of recognition.
    ‘Come to see the circus?’ asked MacBean sardonically. He thumbed over his shoulder towards the little boats working out across the bay, still recapturing the drifting shark carcasses. ‘The man who did that to Rother can have a drink on me any time.’
    ‘Rother doesn’t feel that way,’ said Carrick quietly.
    ‘It’s only a taste o’ what he’s due,’ rasped MacBean, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’ll find that out, believe me.’
    ‘Easy, Alec,’ said Graham warily. The