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Fishy pauses in contemplation. ‘Well, yer cannae turn off the AIS withoot raising an alarm, but yer could transfer it to another boat. It would only stop transmitting for a few minutes, while yer made the switch.’
‘One boat could pretend to be another,’ I say.
‘Aye. It’s possible.’
The idea seems to trigger a memory in Fishy, who goes into the cottage and returns a few minutes later with a folder.
‘Ever heard of pair trawling?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘It’s where two boats fish together, each towing a warp – a towing cable attached to the same net. By combining, the trawlers have more power, and can pull a bigger net and move faster. It’s useful in shallow waters where the noise from a single vessel can scare fish away, but two vessels, working together, can herd fish into the path of the net.’
He shows me a photograph of two boats on the open sea, about two hundred yards apart.
‘They’re pair trawling,’ he says, showing me where the cables touch the water. He points to the nearer of the two boats. ‘That’s the Arianna II.’
‘And the other boat?’
He turns over the photograph. The caption is written in smudged ink. Neetha Dawn.
Fishy raises his eyes to mine, as we both recognise the name. This was the nearest trawler to the Arianna II when Angus Radford sent the mayday call. The Neetha Dawn rescued the crew from the sinking vessel before the coastguard chopper and RNLI lifeboat arrived.
‘It could be a coincidence,’ says Fishy, scratching at his unshaven cheek.
‘Who owns the Neetha Dawn?’ I ask.
‘It used to belong to Sean Murdoch, but he sold her a while back. Now he owns a pub in St Claire.’
‘The Waterfront Inn?’
‘Aye.’
I look again at the photograph, thinking out loud. ‘That’s how a boat can be in two places at once.’
19
Cyrus
It’s still too early for the Waterfront Inn to be open. The pavement outside has been hosed down and two men in soiled jeans and threadbare sweaters are washing the windows, leaving soap suds at the corners of the glass. Both are smoking roll-your-own cigarettes and talking to each other in a language that I don’t recognise.
I wish them good morning and they lower their heads. I remember the illegal camp near Rattray Lighthouse and wonder how many businesses are hiring undocumented migrants and what they’re paying them. There must be a labour hire company or a broker organising the workers.
The rear entrance to the pub is in an alley lined with industrial bins and empty beer kegs awaiting collection. A woman appears carrying a rubbish bag in each hand. She tosses them into a wheelie bin and wipes her hands on the back of her jeans, gazing towards the harbour where Filipino crewmen are repairing fishing nets.
The woman returns to the pub, but I manage to wedge my foot in the door before it closes. Stepping inside, I smell the cooking fat and bottled gas and soapy water of a kitchen. Copper pots hang from hooks above the bench and a meat sauce is bubbling on the stove. Chilli con carne.
The woman is cutting up vegetables on a scarred wooden table that reminds me of a piece of polished bone or bleached driftwood.
‘We’re not open,’ she says, without looking up. ‘There’s a café on the corner that does a full Scottish – haggis, tattie scones, eggs, bacon.’
‘Sounds like a heart attack on a plate,’ I say.
‘Aye, that’s why Scottish life expectancy is falling.’ She finally makes eye contact. ‘How can I help you?’
‘My name is Cyrus Haven. I was looking for Sean Murdoch.’
‘He’s sleeping.’
