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see Lucas and Stewart having their heads knocked against a wall by some of Rother’s sharkmen.’ He smiled slightly. ‘They were in no state to go anywhere.’
    ‘And how many o’ Rother’s men were arrested?’ snapped Alec MacBean. ‘Not a damned one!’
    Sergeant Fraser shrugged. ‘They scattered. Anyway, I’ve heard different stories how it started.’
    ‘It started when Rother’s men attacked them,’ said MacBean harshly. ‘Or are you on Rother’s side, Sergeant?’
    Fraser’s face froze, then he rose ponderously to his feet. ‘I’ll forget I heard that,’ he said softly. ‘Captain, my thanks for your hospitality. We’ll have the body taken ashore. Maybe later Chief Officer Carrick will let me have a written statement.’
    Shannon nodded. Pushing back their chairs, Graham and MacBean muttered their own thanks and the trio went out, the policeman last, stopping briefly in the cabin doorway to give a slight, apologetic shrug.
    As the cabin door closed again Shannon sighed, got up, and crossed over to the brass-rimmed porthole. The porthole glass was partly obscured by a large, aggressive-looking tomato plant. The plant had been a gift from his wife a few patrols back and somehow it lived and flourished on a diet which was mainly cold tea and tobacco ash.
    ‘It might be an idea to base ourselves on Portcoig for a couple of days, mister,’ he mused, parting the foliage and looked out towards Camsha Island. ‘When Skua was here last there was trouble brewing.’
    ‘I heard, sir.’
    ‘Did you?’ Shannon grunted under his breath, found his cigarettes, and offered one to Carrick. They shared a light from a kitchen match Shannon struck with his thumbnail.
    ‘Ever been to an island funeral, mister?’ asked Shannon unexpectedly.
    Carrick shook his head.
    ‘It’s an experience.’ Shannon brooded for a moment. ‘I remember one that ended up like World War Three. Have you heard what started this trouble?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘ Skua ’s captain heard a hazy story about one of Rother’s men and a local girl – that she became pregnant and drowned herself off the end of the pier.’ Shannon sniffed sceptically. ‘I didn’t think the average female worried about that sort of thing any more. Still, you could maybe have a talk with Rother and find out more about it.’
    ‘I’ll try him.’ Carrick finished his drink.
    ‘Good.’ Shannon considered the empty glass briefly, then deliberately corked the whisky bottle and put it back in his locker. ‘I’ll probably stay aboard – I’ve a load of damned Department forms to catch up on. But usual shore leave tonight as far as the crew are concerned. Just tell them to keep their noses clean for once.’
        
    An old-fashioned black motor hearse was backed up facing the gangway when Carrick went out on deck. The rear doors were open, waiting, and a mutter of voices was coming from further aft.
    A moment later Pettigrew appeared. Behind him, aided by a couple of seamen, a black-coated undertaker and his assistant came into sight carrying a plainwooden coffin. They struggled up over the gangway with their burden and loaded it into the hearse. The rear doors closed. With a nod of thanks the two men went round, climbed into their seats, and the hearse purred off along the deserted pier.
    Pettigrew came back aboard with an expression of relief on his thin face.
    ‘They didn’t waste any time,’ said Carrick dryly.
    ‘No.’ Pettigrew looked at the little slip of white he held in one hand. ‘One of those characters gave me his card. What the hell am I supposed to do with it?’
    ‘Keep it. Maybe they give trading stamps for introductions,’ said Carrick mildly.
    Pettigrew glared at him. ‘Very funny. When do we sail?’
    ‘We don’t.’ Carrick shook his head. ‘Not before morning anyway.’ He looked past Pettigrew, eyes narrowing slightly. A small convoy of boats was coming through the channel into the bay. Dave Rother’s shark-catching team