I would like to dedicate this story to the beautiful and fascinating Shetland Islands, one hundred and six miles from the north coast of Scotland, where I spent a holiday – no, a glorious adventure – in 1991.
There is no hotel called the Norseman in Lerwick.
“Well he didn’t bring much kit with him,” Ann Mowat declared, cutting sandwiches into two perfect triangles. “Birdwatchers usually roll up with half a ferry load of gear.”
“Perhaps that’s not what he’s really here for, Mum,” said Cara. “Perhaps he’s up to no good. Does he look like a spy?”
“Get off with you,” Ann declared, pushing a plate of sandwiches at her daughter. “Here – here’s your tea, go and sit down and leave my bed and breakfast guest in peace.”
“Go on, Mum, what’s he like? You’ve had enough to say about him, he must have something going for him.”
“Oh ….” Knowing she would get no peace until she obliged, Ann threw the tea towel onto one of the worktops in the spacious kitchen and turned to face the girl. “He’s tall and dark and he’s got dark eyes...”
“Sounds okay for starters. Does he wear a wedding ring?”
“I didn’t look!” Ann declared in mock exasperation. “And I didn’t ask to see his marriage certificate while he was signing the visitors’ book. Look, he’s pleasant and polite and as long as he doesn’t come in roaring drunk at three o’clock in the morning, doesn’t leave the bathroom looking like the aftermath of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and pays his bill at the end of the week that’s about all the interest I’ve got in him. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Cara with a little smile playing about her mouth. “But I still think you’ve said more about him than you usually say about guests.”
In truth, this one did seem … well, different. Ann couldn’t put her finger on it. He was pleasant and polite, that much was true, and he didn’t look the type to come in roaring drunk at three o’clock in the morning etc etc (though she supposed you couldn’t tell just by looking at them), there was nothing unusual about his manner or his clothes and he seemed an educated man. All right, his haircut was rather more military than was customary on a man of his age but that meant nothing; he might be ex-forces, or he might just like having his hair cut that way. She couldn’t place his accent. He sounded vaguely northern but nothing like she was used to hearing from guests who hailed from the north of England. He was a bit of an enigma, she supposed, but as long as he paid his bill at the end of the week ….
At precisely seven forty-five the next morning Cara appeared in the kitchen and announced that Mr Dalton had arrived in the dining room.
“What are you looking so flustered for?” Ann asked, hiding her head in the pantry so that Cara couldn’t see her trying not to laugh.
“Well, I know you said a lot about him, Mum, but … bloody Hell, you didn’t tell me he’s drop-dead gorgeous!”
Drop-dead gorgeous was not the way Ann would have described him but then most articles in trousers were drop-dead gorgeous when you were fourteen and Cara seemed to suffer from this affliction more than most girls of her age. Ann supposed living on the Shetland Islands rather restricted her judgement and Lerwick, though the capital of the archipelago, wasn’t exactly a metropolis. Oh well, if this Mr Dalton, whoever he was, gave her a week’s harmless fancying, who was she to spoil it for her?
“So what are your plans for today?” Ann asked, setting the teapot down on the table.
He moved his phone; he had been looking at the Shetland website.
“I’m taking the ferry across to Bressay and going over to Noss.”
“Noss is well worth seeing, especially at this time of the year,” said Ann, taking his empty cereal bowl. “Just mind the skuas – they have no mercy.”
“I’ve been told to wear a tall hat.”
He smiled at her. Well he wasn’t bad when he smiled – it was the first time she’d seen him do it and it was rather a shame he didn’t do it more often. On her way back to the kitchen she couldn’t stop herself having a closer look at the visitors’ book. Nice handwriting too, if rather spiky. Didn’t graphologists say that was a sign of someone more interested in ideas than people? He’d written his address as ‘North of England.’ Very enlightening. Graham Dalton. He looked like a Graham.
It was a gloomy morning but the sun was trying to break through the clouds. The guest house was a short walk from Lerwick harbour. Graham Dalton walked down to the waterfront and found an isolated spot. He sat on a rock, took his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and keyed in a number.
“Nothing to report, Sir,” he said. “I saw nobody suspicious around the town yesterday. I’m making for Noss today, to see if I can find anywhere that looks like a reasonable hiding place for a cache of arms. Yes, Sir, I’ll report in at midday. SIG.”
Graham Dalton, aka Conrad Turner, aka Captain Black of Spectrum, stood up, replaced the phone in his pocket and made for the harbour.
The Kjella operated a shuttle service from Lerwick to the west side of the island of Bressay. Access to Noss, a small island inhabited only during the summer months by two wardens, involved a three-mile walk across the moors followed by an attempt to attract the attention of one of said wardens. It was a short crossing. Captain Black stood on the deck of the ferry watching Bressay increase in size. He loved the sea, yet he’d chosen to join the Air Force. Then the World Army Air Force. Then the World Space Patrol. Then – by invitation, or rather by head-hunting – Spectrum.
A handful of people, ramblers who were probably also birdwatchers, disembarked at the pier. Black strode on ahead. His reclusive nature eschewed company most of the time, he’d grown up relying on his own resources and making his own pleasure. He liked Bressay. He liked everything he had seen about the Shetland Islands. For most of the time they were dark and brooding yet mysteriously magnetic. Rather like him.
At the eastern side of Bressay Black stood on the grass above the small jetty and waved. Almost immediately an inflatable dinghy appeared out of the mist, skippered by a young man who looked like a student.
“Just yourself?” he called up to Black who was on his way down to the jetty.
“A few people came on the ferry from the other side but I left them behind.”
“I can get you over and get back before they arrive. Hop in – step straight into the boat, don’t stand on the side.”
Black got in. The young man looked up at him and grinned.
“You’ve done that before!”
Black smiled and sat down on the opposite side of the dinghy. As they chugged across to Noss he studied the shore, looking for caves or disused buildings. Nothing.
Captain Black had done his homework. Before leaving Cloudbase he’d had a quick look at the Shetland official website and drawn from Spectrum’s Information Centre what he could find on the history, geography and economy of the islands. He knew that both Shetland and Orkney had been ruled by Denmark until 1472 when they were handed over to James III of Scotland in lieu of the dowry of his prospective bride, the Danish king’s daughter. Originally intended as a lease agreement, the hand-over had never been reversed and so both island groups remained within Scottish jurisdiction. They didn’t feel Scottish. They definitely felt Norse. Black wondered if Captain Blue would have been a better proposition for this mission,
The islands consisted mainly of moorland, cliffs and miles and miles of peat which many islanders had the right to cut for use as fuel. There were few attractive beaches – Orkney drew the short straw for that – and hardly any trees. (Hm, not so many hiding places, then, with no forests to speak of.) The islands were windswept, the residents living in a perpetual gale from October to March. Most of them were crofters who owned a boat, they perhaps took in bed-and-breakfast guests and the women would knit the traditional pullovers which never seemed to lose their appeal. Sullom Voe oil terminal was an important source of employment on Mainland, with Northlink Ferries providing jobs on the boats and in the booking offices – online booking hadn’t completely taken over here even in the 2060s. The islands were basically rural and maritime. There were few opportunities outside Sullom Voe and Lerwick for paid employment.
The dinghy came to a halt beside a concrete pier.
“Thanks,” said Black and climbed expertly out.
“Excuse me, are you by any chance Navy?”
Black turned back to the smiling student. A hint of a smile crossed his own face.
“No,” he said and volunteered no further information; if the kid hadn’t heard how the famous Conrad Turner had flown a sabotaged bomber from an airfield and almost done for himself in the process he wasn’t going to enlighten him; he’d had enough grief from the media without stirring it all up again.
“What do you do now?”
“Freelance photographer.” He tapped the camera hanging from a strap round his neck. “I write and take photographs for nature publications.”
“You’ve come to the right place then – this is nature all right. Go up the track there towards the wardens’ house, my partner’s there and she’ll tell you about the route round the island and give you some literature about the birds.”
“Thanks,” said Black. “I think your next load of passengers has arrived.”
He nodded towards the shore of Bressay where a small knot of people waited, jumping up and down and waving their arms in a curious kind of dance.
Black had to pretend he was just another tourist. He listened patiently while the girl showed him the posters round the walls, giving information on all the species of birds he was likely to see. At the end of the monologue she handed him a sheaf of leaflets.
“Please would you stick to the designated route,” she emphasised, “it’s the breeding season and visitors have been known to be attacked by birds. But if you write for nature publications you probably don’t need me to tell you that.”
He thanked her politely, promised he wouldn’t stray from the footpath and stuffed the leaflets in the pocket of his black foul-weather jacket. Outside in the lively wind he zipped up the fleece over his tee-shirt and pullover and fastened the jacket. He fetched a woolly hat from one of the jacket pockets and pulled it over his black hair. It wasn’t just the skuas he had to protect himself from – summer temperatures here were often the same as winter temperatures in England.
Noss was a small island and the route round it was estimated to take five hours, give or take an hour for ambling, photography and perhaps a picnic. Black had grabbed some items and a couple of bottles of fizzy water from the Co-op in Lerwick before catching the ferry and stowed them in his small rucksack. And that was not all he carried. Safely hidden inside a shoulder holster, beneath his jacket, was his Spectrum-issue pistol.
The footpath took him round the perimeter of the island and onto high ground so that for most of the time he could see for some distance. It was a clear day – so far; there was always a possibility that the mist, notorious in this part of the world and a menace to shipping, would suddenly roll over the island, wiping out visibility and causing freighters to be anchored in the Sound of Bressay, unable to get into Lerwick harbour. Occasionally he had to leave the path to get closer to cliff edges so he could peer onto the small, stony beaches below. He was looking for disused boathouses, abandoned boats, anything that could suggest a sanctuary for someone smuggling arms. He hoped he wouldn’t damage any nests but if that was what locating a terrorist hideout meant it was tough luck on the terns and skuas. He reached the halfway point. He had seen nothing. He was a strong and experienced walker – he’d tackled the Pennine Way during his student days – and he knew he could circumnavigate the island in less than five hours. Provided, of course, that he didn’t spot anything suspicious.
Periodically he would look over his shoulder to see if anyone was behind him. As he suspected, the party from the boat had not managed to catch up with him. He didn’t want to stop for anything. If he’d seen nothing by the time he arrived back at the wardens’ house he would go back to Bressay and look round the east coast of the island.
It was getting on for two o’clock when Black arrived at the house.
“Have you done the complete circuit?” the girl demanded in amazement as he appeared at the door.
“Yes.”
“My goodness, you must be a keen walker.”
“Years of practice,” Black smiled.
“Get some good shots?”
She pointed to his camera.
“I think so.”
In fact he had nothing. His midday report to Colonel White had been devoid of any useful information. The entire island was clean. That meant he would have to look at Bressay. If he still found nothing he would have to start investigating Mainland. If that happened he would need to call for backup; there was no way in which he could search the entire island himself.
The dinghy landed him on Bressay shortly after half past two. He decided to walk round the north of the island to the pier instead of crossing the moor. There was something else he needed to do first, though. Spotting a reasonably comfortable-looking patch of level ground he dropped his rucksack, parked himself on the grass, fished out a long, thin article from the rucksack and sank his teeth into a baguette.
He was on the Kjella, returning to Lerwick, when he saw it. It looked like a pile of bricks. That was why he had missed it on the way out, that and the fact that the boat crossed the sound in a straight line outwards whereas on the return sailing she described a curve before entering the harbour. The pile of bricks was in fact the remains of a building. It sat on the stones of a curved bay on Bressay’s west coast. Nicely sheltered. And very convenient.
“I’m going to watch the place tomorrow,” said Black.
“Report in as soon as you have a definite sighting,” Colonel White ordered. “I’m putting Captain Scarlet and Captain Blue on red alert.”
“SIG.”
Captain Black switched off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He sat on the rock a little longer, aware that he was getting pins and needles in one leg yet not wanting to move just yet. It was close on midnight and still not properly dark; this far north the summer months had very little night (and the winter months had very little day, he reminded himself.) He had sat on the rock a mile or so from the harbour since returning from Bressay, watching the disused building through field glasses. There had been no activity and no boats had passed close enough to suggest they were going to land. Hardly an exciting evening yet he’d enjoyed it. Quietness and solitude – wasn’t that what he had always loved above everything else?
“What are you going to do today?”
Cara stood beside the table, arms folded, watching the guest pouring tea from the large pot.
“I’m going to walk past the harbour and find somewhere to sit and watch the birds.”
“All day?”
She looked at him with an expression of disbelief on her face.
“I’ve heard there’s a red-necked phalarope on the west coast of Bressay. I don’t want to miss it.”
Cara looked at him with her head on one side.
“What’s so fascinating about watching birds?” she demanded.
“Don’t you think they’re interesting?”
He looked up at her, a hint of a smile on his face. Cara felt her cheeks turning red.
“Hmpf, nobody takes any notice of them,” she declared. “There are so many of them nobody thinks they’re exciting. They’re just there.”
“They must look forward to the twitchers arriving, then.”
Cara grabbed his empty plate and fled to the kitchen.
“I do wish you’d leave him in peace,” said Ann in exasperated tones.
“Well I’m beginning to think he’s not the complete article,” said Cara, dumping the plate on the worktop. “Do you know, he’s planning to sit and look at Bressay all day, watching for some bird … says it’s called a red-necked something.”
Ann laughed softly.
“Have you looked in the mirror?” she asked. “Talking of all things red-necked ….”
“Did you spot your red-necked phalarope?”
Ann put a jug of milk on the table in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said. “No, I wasn’t lucky. So I’ll just have to go back today.”
It was on day four that he saw something.
“The boat was moored for about twenty minutes and he was transferring something from the boat to the building,” said Black. “I couldn’t see what it was but it looked like wooden cases. I’d hazard a guess it’s either weapons or parts for incendiary devices. Oh and the boat was registered in Wick – the very place where Spectrum ground staff first saw suspicious activity.”
“SIG Captain Black. I’m sending Captain Scarlet and Captain Blue for backup. They’ll be with you this evening. They’ll be staying at the Norseman Hotel in Lerwick; they’re a couple of birdwatchers who know you vaguely and have heard reports of a rare species nesting on Bressay. Our ground agent in Stromness is at your disposal with his boat; call him as soon as the three of you are together and you see any activity. It won’t take him long to get up there from Orkney.”
“SIG,” said Black, not envying his colleagues their stay at the Norseman – it was located near the noisiest part of the harbour and yesterday a local man had told him the food was diabolical.
Ann was rather nonplussed when her guest asked if she would mind him skipping breakfast in the morning – he had to get to his position as soon as he could because he’d been told the red-necked phalarope was most likely to appear in the early morning. If he wanted to forego his breakfast when he was paying for it that was fine by her but she’d never met a man so wrapped up in his hobby that it came before food. No wonder there wasn’t any spare flesh on him – he looked about six feet tall and made of solid muscle. That was fine, she said, would he like her to leave him some sandwiches in the fridge and a Thermos, which he could fill himself, on the worktop? He thanked her and said that would be an excellent idea.
Shortly after five the next morning Captain Black let himself out of the house as quietly as he could and walked to the end of the road where he had been told to liaise with Scarlet and Blue. Sure enough there was a red Spectrum saloon car parked not far from the corner, its occupants wearing civvies, like himself, rather than uniforms. Black slipped into the back seat. Captain Scarlet turned round.
“Good timing,” he said. “Right – tell us which way to go.”
Black directed them along the road past the harbour and towards the spot where he had been observing the suspicious behaviour.
“You didn’t ask your landlady to get up and cook breakfast before you came out, did you?” said Scarlet.
“No but she was determined I wasn’t going to go hungry,” Black replied, holding up a plastic bag in which was a Thermos of coffee and a pack of sandwiches wrapped in foil. “Did you two get fed and watered?”
“Yeah, for what it was worth,” said Blue. “It wouldn’t have passed muster on the base. Sure the Vikings could have done better than that.”
“You should know,” said Scarlet. “What excuse did you give your landlady for sloping off at such an ungodly hour?”
“I told her I was looking for a rare bird. A red-necked phalarope,” said Black.
Scarlet looked sideways at Blue.
“Don’t say a word!”
They left the car in an unobtrusive spot and took up positions on a rocky shore. A cynical little wind blew over the sound. Scarlet pulled up the zip of his foul-weather jacket.
“Can’t believe people come here for a summer holiday,” he declared.
“Here,” said Black holding out the foil package, “cheer yourself up - have an egg mayo sarnie.”
It happened quickly. The agent from Stromness, John Simison, was summoned and he pushed the turbo-powered motor launch to its limits, past Fair Isle and through the tidal race called the Roost which today, mercifully, was not throwing a force seven gale at anyone foolhardy enough to sail through it. Scarlet spotted him through his field glasses and took a phone from his pocket.
“John, there’s an old wooden jetty just along from Lerwick harbour ... Captain Blue will give you the co-ordinates ... pick us up there. We’ve got him.”
John’s boat bobbed up and down as his passengers raced down the wooden slats and embarked.
“Okay, make your way over to the island,” said Black, “and look leisurely - we want him to think we’re four blokes on a fishing trip or something.”
John was a taciturn man, better at thinking than talking. He expertly manoeuvred the vessel across the sound, narrrowly avoiding running her aground on the narrow, stony beach. Captain Scarlet raised his field glasses and studied the activity farther along the beach. A man was carrying a box from the dilapidated building. He placed it carefully on the shore and went back to fetch another. Scarlet studied the box. It had a symbol stamped on the side.
“Explosives,” said Scarlet. “He’s bringing them out; it’s my guess he’s expecting someone to turn up and take them off his hands, and probably take him somewhere too. Early Crimbo present for some terrorist group no doubt.”
Black suddenly leapt out of the boat and waded, up to his knees in water, as fast as he could. He reached shallow water and ran up the beach. Pulled the gun from its holster. The suspect heard something. His head jerked upwards.
“Don’t drop the case!” Black roared.
Feeling as if he was running in slow motion, Black raced up to him, desperate to stop him dropping it. One accident like that and Shetland would be one island short. He was aware of Scarlet and Blue sprinting up to him. The suspect was now covered by three guns.
“Put the box on the ground. Slowly,” said Scarlet in a menacing tone.
The suspect hesitated, looking at each Spectrum agent in turn.
“I said put the box down.”
Scarlet made a strange movement with his right foot, like a horse pawing the ground. The suspect failed to see Blue moving stealthily behind him. Strong, powerful arms clamped his elbows to his sides and prevented him opening his hands. He was still clutching the box tightly.
“Okay, come and fetch it,” said Blue quietly.
Scarlet walked up and gently took the box as Blue released the pressure on the suspect’s arms. As Scarlet carried the box towards its partner on the beach Blue clamped the man’s arms to his sides again. Black took two steps forward and began to frisk him for weapons.
“Oh no you don’t, my friend...”
Black saw the knee coming before it could make contact with him. He seized the man’s foot and flipped him backwards. Blue caught him before he landed on the stony beach.
“Handcuffs, quick.”
Within minutes the suspect was sitting in John Simison’s boat, once again covered by three guns.
“You don’t have to say anything without a solicitor being present,” said Scarlet, “but we’re taking you somewhere safe and believe me, when we get you there you’d better start talking.”
John turned the boat for the approach to Lerwick. A vicious wind gusted along the sound and the rain, which had been threatening since early morning, now came hammering down onto the hull. John, inside the small cockpit, was relatively sheltered; the rest of them were exposed to everything, sitting in the open stern. Black, with wet jeans and trainers, was looking cold and pinched and starting to shiver.
“Go to Hell,” said the suspect, looking away, an expression of contempt on his face.
Scarlet looked across the sound. Bressay was hardly visible now through the grey sheet of rain.
“I think we’re already there,” he declared quietly.
“Tell me you’re joking, Con,” said Paul. “You’re not going to the Shetland Islands for a holiday...?”
“Yes I am. I’ve got a week’s surface leave due before the induction course for the Mars mission and I don’t intend to waste it.”
“Well rather you than me. Take your thermals. And as you’re going to the seaside bring me some rock back. Or else.”
“Can’t do that,” said Conrad, poker-faced. “It’s illegal to remove material from the foreshore.”
Conrad had booked a room for one night at a small hotel in Scalloway, a town some seven miles south of Lerwick. It was not a particularly convenient arrangement because he was planning to move northwards until he reached Unst, the most northerly island of the Shetland group, but it was safer - he was unlikely to be recognised as long as he got out of Lerwick the minute he left the ferry. He was travelling light, as he usually did - the bare essentials of clothing, his camera and an expensive pair of binoculars, just in case he saw any interesting and rare species such as a red-necked phalarope.
The hotel was one of a row of houses cheerfully painted in pastel shades, every one different. The minute he stepped off the bus from Lerwick he realised it was love at first sight. Scalloway was a small but neat, clean, busy and endearing place. He felt well satisfied as he trudged along the street and rang the hotel’s doorbell.
A girl opened the door and invited him inside.
“Mum,” she called, turning her head towards the kitchen, “Mr Turner’s here.”
It was breezy but sunny and not particularly cold. This was an idyllic Shetland summer day; the islanders greeted each other with a remark on how lovely it was. Two girls strolled through Lerwick’s main street towards the harbour. They looked in shop windows as they walked but there wasn’t much that caught their eyes. The shops in Lerwick were fine for everyday items, basic tools and foul-weather gear but for clothes or anything exotic the islanders would travel to Aberdeen on the Hrossey and have a two-day orgy of shopping, struggling back onto the boat with so many bags it was a wonder she didn’t dip below her plimsoll line. The girls came to rest on a wooden bench at the side of the harbour. They looked around, assessing the meagre local talent. The fishing boats had left early that morning and would not be back until the evening and if they were honest, there was not a lot of variety there either.
“We’ve got this gorgeous man staying tonight,” one of the girls remarked.
“Tell me about it!” Cara Mowat declared, staring dreamily at the replica Viking longboat, the Dim Riv, undulating gently on the water; it was not yet Wednesday which was when she carried tourists on the weekly evening trip round the harbour. “Go on, then, what’s he like?”
“About six feet tall, dark hair, very short, brown eyes, looks like he needs a shave - how sexy is that ...?”
“Don’t!” said Cara. “Makes me think of Mr Dalton. You should have seen him, Kelly, he was gorgeous. How long’s your fella staying?”
“Only tonight. He’s pushing on tomorrow, to Mossbank he said, then going over to Yell.”
“Can I come over tonight?”
“He hasn’t booked in for dinner and anyway he isn’t very sociable. He said he’ll probably be out all evening; he likes being on his own. You probably wouldn’t see him.”
“You pig, Kelly, you just don’t want me to set eyes on him! You want him all to yourself!”
They play-fought for a few minutes, pretending to push each other from the bench onto the concrete promenade.
“What’s his name?” said Cara at last, retrieving the contents of her bag which had been kicked over in the fray.
“Conrad Turner.”
“Oh I think I’ll let you keep him,” Cara declared magnanimously. “I just don’t believe he could ever be as yummy as our Mr Dalton.”
I was pleasantly surprised, when reading through the fan fiction, to find that Captain Black has quite a following. Of course, we all know he wasn’t always the baddie and although he is described as reclusive in the various biogs that is not to say he was necessarily unhappy. Being an unobtrusive man he was probably well-liked and respected by everyone on Cloudbase. He must have had his admirers - let’s be honest, there’s more than one female in the world who is rather keen on men with dark, mysterious looks. I hope this story offers an interesting glimpse of Conrad Turner before he became Public Enemy Number One.