cuts are flotsam traps. The body couldn’t have got far from where it went in.’
‘And it fetched up in the lowest of them,’ Gently said. ‘Except for French’s half-decker boathouse.’
‘Speltons’ quay,’ Parfitt said.
‘There or somewhere just above it,’ Gently said.
Parfitt stared hard at Gently.
‘I want you to take the Club launch,’ Gently said.
‘White Heron,
she’s moored by the bridge, I’ve got the use of her while I’m here. Take her up through the bridge and prowl along both banks. See what you can find, witnesses, indications. Tomorrow is hand-over day. We haven’t a lot of time to do it.’
‘I’ll handle it,’ Parfitt said. ‘I’ve brought Joyce with me. He can do some leg work.’
‘Send him higher up,’ Gently said. ‘We’re not so sure of ourselves yet. But you stick to the first two hundred yards. I’ve a feeling it was somewhere there.’
‘Me too,’ Parfitt said. ‘Have you had any luck here, sir?’
‘Drop the sir,’ Gently said. ‘I’ve been watching the manager drink whisky. Now I want to talk to the son, but I don’t seem able to ferret him out.’
‘Have you tried the
Kiama?’
Parfitt said.
‘No,’ Gently said. ‘What’s the
Kiama?’
Parfitt turned, pointed to a plot of land which lay behind the building shops. A long black yacht-hull stood on the plot, shored up with oil drums and timber packing. It had a straight stem and a counter stern and there was carving on the counter which had traces of gilding. A very long bowsprit projected over its stem. The oil drums were nested in a bed of nettles.
‘That’s the
Kiama,’
Parfitt said. ‘She was a famous boat in my father’s day. Now she’s pulled out there to rot and all the yard-hands do their scrounging on her.’
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Gently said.
‘Damn all, probably,’ Parfitt said. ‘But all the big yachts like her are finished. No room any more. Listen behind you.’
From behind them, from the river, came the surges of many engines and the wash of turbulent water and the creak of boats at moorings.
The
Kiama
had a delicate sheer line and her bilge was turned like a woman’s cheek.
Gently went over to the
Kiama,
climbed the ladder which lay against her counter. From the ladder he stepped on to a planked deck and from the deck over a coaming into her well. The saloon doors stood open and her big hatch was pushed back and in the saloon a young man was standing with a closed book in one hand. The young man had brown eyes and the brown eyes were fixed on Gently. The brown eyes were close together and the face and the skull were both narrow. The head was set flush on the shoulders with a very short neck and the head was highest at the back and the ears were large though flat. The nose was large. The complexion was fresh. The mouth was handsome but small. The chin was small also. The young man had good shoulders. He was wearing a coffee-coloured sports shirt and dark brown slacks and Magister yacht shoes and a gold wristwatch. The book was Thomas Carew’s
Poems.
He was holding it with a finger in his place. He said:
‘Who are you – what are you after?’
‘Superintendent Gently, C.I.D.,’ Gently said. He stepped down into the saloon, stood leaning in the hatchway. The saloon of the
Kiama
had less than full standing headroom. ‘You’re John French,’ Gently said.
‘All right, suppose I am,’ John French said. ‘What do you want now?’
‘Just to talk to you,’ Gently said. ‘Sit down again. This place will do. It’ll probably do better than the office.’
John French hesitated, sat. His large ears had become red. He sat on one of the wide settee-berths which ran down each side of the
Kiama’s
saloon. Each of the settee-berths was a double and at the end of each was a large sideboard locker and because the berths were so wide they were equipped with settee-backs which slotted into the lockers and the after bulkhead. The saloon coamings had oval
‘And it fetched up in the lowest of them,’ Gently said. ‘Except for French’s half-decker boathouse.’
‘Speltons’ quay,’ Parfitt said.
‘There or somewhere just above it,’ Gently said.
Parfitt stared hard at Gently.
‘I want you to take the Club launch,’ Gently said.
‘White Heron,
she’s moored by the bridge, I’ve got the use of her while I’m here. Take her up through the bridge and prowl along both banks. See what you can find, witnesses, indications. Tomorrow is hand-over day. We haven’t a lot of time to do it.’
‘I’ll handle it,’ Parfitt said. ‘I’ve brought Joyce with me. He can do some leg work.’
‘Send him higher up,’ Gently said. ‘We’re not so sure of ourselves yet. But you stick to the first two hundred yards. I’ve a feeling it was somewhere there.’
‘Me too,’ Parfitt said. ‘Have you had any luck here, sir?’
‘Drop the sir,’ Gently said. ‘I’ve been watching the manager drink whisky. Now I want to talk to the son, but I don’t seem able to ferret him out.’
‘Have you tried the
Kiama?’
Parfitt said.
‘No,’ Gently said. ‘What’s the
Kiama?’
Parfitt turned, pointed to a plot of land which lay behind the building shops. A long black yacht-hull stood on the plot, shored up with oil drums and timber packing. It had a straight stem and a counter stern and there was carving on the counter which had traces of gilding. A very long bowsprit projected over its stem. The oil drums were nested in a bed of nettles.
‘That’s the
Kiama,’
Parfitt said. ‘She was a famous boat in my father’s day. Now she’s pulled out there to rot and all the yard-hands do their scrounging on her.’
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Gently said.
‘Damn all, probably,’ Parfitt said. ‘But all the big yachts like her are finished. No room any more. Listen behind you.’
From behind them, from the river, came the surges of many engines and the wash of turbulent water and the creak of boats at moorings.
The
Kiama
had a delicate sheer line and her bilge was turned like a woman’s cheek.
Gently went over to the
Kiama,
climbed the ladder which lay against her counter. From the ladder he stepped on to a planked deck and from the deck over a coaming into her well. The saloon doors stood open and her big hatch was pushed back and in the saloon a young man was standing with a closed book in one hand. The young man had brown eyes and the brown eyes were fixed on Gently. The brown eyes were close together and the face and the skull were both narrow. The head was set flush on the shoulders with a very short neck and the head was highest at the back and the ears were large though flat. The nose was large. The complexion was fresh. The mouth was handsome but small. The chin was small also. The young man had good shoulders. He was wearing a coffee-coloured sports shirt and dark brown slacks and Magister yacht shoes and a gold wristwatch. The book was Thomas Carew’s
Poems.
He was holding it with a finger in his place. He said:
‘Who are you – what are you after?’
‘Superintendent Gently, C.I.D.,’ Gently said. He stepped down into the saloon, stood leaning in the hatchway. The saloon of the
Kiama
had less than full standing headroom. ‘You’re John French,’ Gently said.
‘All right, suppose I am,’ John French said. ‘What do you want now?’
‘Just to talk to you,’ Gently said. ‘Sit down again. This place will do. It’ll probably do better than the office.’
John French hesitated, sat. His large ears had become red. He sat on one of the wide settee-berths which ran down each side of the
Kiama’s
saloon. Each of the settee-berths was a double and at the end of each was a large sideboard locker and because the berths were so wide they were equipped with settee-backs which slotted into the lockers and the after bulkhead. The saloon coamings had oval
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