Duncan Kyle - Terror's Cradle

wondered what Anderson could know. A fire was a fire. An accident, almost invariably. But this whole set-up said clearly that he must know there was more to it than that. He must be highly suspicious and he'd communicated his suspicion to Miss Petrie; now, already, one line of defence was mounted.

I turned away angrily, knowing the defence was, for the moment at least, impenetrable, and I hurried back towards the galley shed, hoping Lincoln would still be around. Turning into St Sunniva Street, I could see the crowd was still there, but the TV camera had stopped work. I prayed that Lincoln hadn't. Forcing my way into the shed again, I looked round for him anxiously. There wasn't a sign. Damn! I felt a sudden,. leaden sense of despair, and stood for a long moment, body slackening, in the realization that the roads were closing round me.

`Sellers!'

The call came from above and I turned and looked up. There was a kind of balcony at the end of the shed above the doors, and Lincoln was leaning over, a half-bottle in his hand. I ran up the steps towards him and he held the bottle out to me. 'Here. You look as though you need it.'

`Thanks.' I took a swift swallow. 'He wasn't there.'

`No? That's funny. I was sure that's where he'd be.' He looked at me shrewdly, reading my face, my weariness, the anxiety I couldn't have concealed if I'd tried. Then he said flatly, 'This must be a hell of a story. Big-name features man tear-arsing round at this time of night with the features pages all locked up and gone.'

Ìt's important,' I said. 'That's all.'

Ì can see it is.' His eyes didn't leave my face. 'This is a funny day. Something's on.'

`Funny?' I said.

`Two stories. Both Sandness way.'

`What's the second?'

`The post van was attacked this morning. Out by Walls. Same parish as Sandness.' He let the words come slowly, watching their impact on me.

I made myself sound like a suitably detached newspaper professional as I digested it. '

Anybody hurt? How much stolen?' But I had no doubt at all about who'd done the attacking, or why.

`Somebody flagged the van down, then coshed the driver, and searched the mail. Didn't take anything as far as I know. There wouldn't be much. Small bundles of letters to mum and dad, that's all.. It's an elderly population, what there is of it, in West Mainland.'

I said, 'But they got nothing?'

Ì told you. There were four or five registered letters, apparently, maybe with a bit of money in them. They weren't touched. There's no way of knowing about the rest. What's going on, Mr Sellers?'

I said, 'Don't ask me. I'm here to talk to Anderson. Flow well do you know him?'

He shrugged. 'I know most people who might make copy. I have to. Birds make copy sometimes.'

I forced a smile. 'Snowy owls?'

`Don't knock 'em. They bring in the tourists, and I've done a few pieces about the snowy owls on Fetlar.' `Where's that?'

Òne of the islands. Good distance north of here. Not many people. I expect that's why the owls are there.'

`But Anderson's found some more, hasn't he?'

Àh, come on! You're not up .here about snowy bloody owls!'

`Has he?'

'So they say.'

`Where?'

Àll right. You're paying me. But don't wreck my livelihood. I was saving this one.'

`Go on.'

`They're on Noss. That's another island. They're actually on the Cradle Holm. Anderson and another bloke have been keeping observation for weeks, turn and turn about.'

`Who's the other man?'

`Dunno. Some volunteer from England. In December and

January! These bird men are bloody mad !'

Ànd what's the Cradle Holm?'

'No you bloody don't! That's a bloody good story. Worth money. Picture story in colour.'

I said impatiently, 'It's not what I'm interested in.' `You would be.'

`Look, I swear–`Fleet Street promises! Not likely. I've had some.'

I heard myself sigh involuntarily. 'Do you want me to write it down? I John Sellers solemnly swear on behalf of the Daily News that we won't print a line about the Cradle Holm without the permission of Jack Lincoln. If we do, two hundred quid. Is that what you want?'

Ìt'd set my mind at rest.' His face showed he meant it.

I wrote on a page of his notebook. I'd resigned, of course, so the thing was not valid. But he wasn't to know and I didn't want his story anyway.

He folded the paper and put it into his wallet. 'It's proper name is the Holm of Noss. It's a sea stack, nearly two hundred feet high and absolutely sheer on all sides. Right?'

`Go on.'

`The whole of Noss is a bird sanctuary. The Cradle Holm is at the southeast corner. There's a gap of about sixty feet between the cliffs of Noss itself and the sides of the Holm. Dreadful spot altogether. Well, there's an old tale about it. The top's flat and there'

s more than an acre of it and in the old days, eighteenth century some time, one of the local landowners didn't like to see an acre of good grazing go begging. So he brought in a clever climber from one of the islands – Foula, they say – and promised him a cow if he could climb up the Holm.'

Ànd did he?'

`So the story goes. He started by climbing up the mast of a boat to get past the overhang, then shinned up. Then they threw a hammer and some stakes across and he knocked them in. Then a rope, and he fastened it to the stakes his end while the other end was secured on Noss itself. You follow?'

`Perfectly.'

`Well, they slung a wooden box cradle from the rope and from then on the shepherd used to put sheep in the cradle one at a time, climb in alongside and pull himself across by the rope.

`The climber. Did he get the cow?'

Lincoln shook his head. 'Would have, but he was too cocky. Wouldn't go back across the rope. Said he'd climb down the way he'd come up. He didn't make it.'

Ànd?'

`Fell. Killed.'

Ìs it still in use?'

`No. Not for donkey's years. It's all gone n(4— stakes, rope, cradle.'

I nodded. 'Fascinating, I agree. But what's the point?'

`Point?' he said. 'I'll tell you what the point is. Jim Anderson did the climb again a few weeks ago. Solo. Must be nuts. Then when this other bloke came to help with the observations, they fixed up a rope contraption called a Tyrolean traverse. They go back and forward now like ping-pong balls.' He shuddered.' You should see it. Like a hole down to hell.'

`Worth two hundred any time, with pictures,' I said. `Keep it for us.'

He grinned. 'Told you.'

`You can tell me something else. Do you know Miss Petrie? I mean reasonably well?'

`Yes.'

`What's she like?'

`Nice old soul. Taught generations of 'em. She made 'em work, but they liked her. She's a kind of monument.' `Does she trust you?'

Às far as anybody does. Yes, she knows me well enough. I've started being local you know. After ten years I've just started. They trust each other up here, but not outsiders. Or not much.'

`Then do me a favour, will you? Tell her I'm all right. If looks could kill I'd have died on her doorstep. I need to talk to her but she won't talk to me.'

Ìt would come better from the minister.'

Ì haven't got the minister,' I said. 'Just do it'

`Tonight?'

`Tonight.'

He thought for a moment, then nodded. Ì'll be ten minutes or so. I've got to check all's well with the TV boys and so on. Wait for me.'

`Thanks. And –' I pointed to the bottle in his pocket.

`Want a lot for your money in Fleet Street,' Lincoln said. But the bottle came out and I took a pull at the whisky. `Where will you be?'

Ì'll wait outside.'

Òkay.' He vanished down the wooden steps, busy and energetic, enjoying his life, making for the people at the far end of the big shed. I followed a moment or two later, but turned the other way at the bottom of the stair and went out into St Sunniva Street. There were still plenty of people there, talking good-naturedly; a community engaged in community pleasure. I leaned against a wall and waited for Lincoln to finish inside. I had just bent my head to light a cigarette, cupping the flame against the wind, when a voice said, 'It really does seem to be Mr Sellers.'