he just blunders around, getting in everyone’s way. Normally it’s not a problem, he doesn’t interfere with the sailing, and as for all those blazers in the clubhouse, well, they’re just wankers too, they deserve someone like Lampky telling them when to wear a tie and what hand to wipe their arses with.”
“I’d’ve thought the club would be keen to keep John Dawson onside.”
“Dead right they are. But Lampky doesn’t like the idea that anyone might gain influence through money. Apart from him of course. But it’s all right when he does it, because Lampkins back to Queen Victoria’s time have been members of the Royal Seafield.”
Colm laughed again, and shook his head.
“Ah, the wankers like all that though, portraits on the wall, the glorious tradition, all that codology. Still, they pay their fees, and half of them never sail at all, they just sit around eating and drinking, so the more the merrier to be honest. If I want a drink I’ll go up the town a stretch; the pint is shocking in the club bars. Not to mention all those double-arsed old dears and wankers in rugby shirts braying in your ear.”
I laughed. “Is that how the club divides up: sailors and wankers?”
“That’s how the world divides up, far as I’m concerned. Speaking of which, are you going to take a look around the boat or what? ’Cause Lampky was right about one thing: it is a busy day.”
I slipped Colm a twenty and said I’d be five minutes. He looked at the money for a few seconds, and I wondered whether he was going to hand it back. Then he nodded at me, and said, “It’s a Hunter 23. Twenty-three feet, four berths, and it sits here all summer, waiting to be used. I’m not religious, but it’s a sin to own a craft like this and not sail her.”
“Is Peter much of a sailor?”
“He knows his way around a boat. Quiet chap, you wouldn’t talk much with him. But he can handle himself well, always places in competitions. Or used to, he hasn’t been out in a while.”
“Has anyone been out in the boat recently?”
“Anyone else? Not that I know of. I could ask the other lads, if you like.”
I told him I’d like, climbed on board the cruiser and went below. There were sofa berths at the fore of the boat, behind the anchor well. These berths had a saloon table between them, and their brown cushion seats lifted off to give stowage space beneath. Fore of the engine well on the port side, there were lockers, a small toilet and four pine shelves running the length of the boat. There was a cooker halfway back on the starboard side, and aft of this, a double-berth cabin. And there wasn’t a single other thing on board: no cutlery or crockery, no waterproofs or sweaters, no blankets or bedding, no books or maps, no compasses or navigational instruments, no clock, no radio. There wasn’t even any dust. I ran a finger over the table. It smelled of ammonia and pine. Someone had cleared the place out, and recently, and cleaned up afterward. They’d made a thorough job of it too, like they were scared of what they might leave behind. But you can never cover your tracks, not entirely. There’s always a human trace remaining. The job is to find it.
I felt about in the engine and anchor wells, and checked to see if there were any flaps or pockets in the storage pods beneath the sofa berths. I looked beneath the mattress in the aft cabin, and knocked to see if either of the bedroom lockers had false backs. I checked the hanging wall lockers on the port side, and the floor-to-ceiling locker aft of it — and finally spotted something. In the tight space between the locker and the wall, a few tiny fragments of blue plastic were caught on the corner of the locker at about chest height. A few more scraps lay on the floor. It looked like a plastic bag had been wedged behind the locker and then ripped out. I could see more scraps a bit further in. I tried to reach my hand into the space, but it wouldn’t fit.
I went up and
“I’d’ve thought the club would be keen to keep John Dawson onside.”
“Dead right they are. But Lampky doesn’t like the idea that anyone might gain influence through money. Apart from him of course. But it’s all right when he does it, because Lampkins back to Queen Victoria’s time have been members of the Royal Seafield.”
Colm laughed again, and shook his head.
“Ah, the wankers like all that though, portraits on the wall, the glorious tradition, all that codology. Still, they pay their fees, and half of them never sail at all, they just sit around eating and drinking, so the more the merrier to be honest. If I want a drink I’ll go up the town a stretch; the pint is shocking in the club bars. Not to mention all those double-arsed old dears and wankers in rugby shirts braying in your ear.”
I laughed. “Is that how the club divides up: sailors and wankers?”
“That’s how the world divides up, far as I’m concerned. Speaking of which, are you going to take a look around the boat or what? ’Cause Lampky was right about one thing: it is a busy day.”
I slipped Colm a twenty and said I’d be five minutes. He looked at the money for a few seconds, and I wondered whether he was going to hand it back. Then he nodded at me, and said, “It’s a Hunter 23. Twenty-three feet, four berths, and it sits here all summer, waiting to be used. I’m not religious, but it’s a sin to own a craft like this and not sail her.”
“Is Peter much of a sailor?”
“He knows his way around a boat. Quiet chap, you wouldn’t talk much with him. But he can handle himself well, always places in competitions. Or used to, he hasn’t been out in a while.”
“Has anyone been out in the boat recently?”
“Anyone else? Not that I know of. I could ask the other lads, if you like.”
I told him I’d like, climbed on board the cruiser and went below. There were sofa berths at the fore of the boat, behind the anchor well. These berths had a saloon table between them, and their brown cushion seats lifted off to give stowage space beneath. Fore of the engine well on the port side, there were lockers, a small toilet and four pine shelves running the length of the boat. There was a cooker halfway back on the starboard side, and aft of this, a double-berth cabin. And there wasn’t a single other thing on board: no cutlery or crockery, no waterproofs or sweaters, no blankets or bedding, no books or maps, no compasses or navigational instruments, no clock, no radio. There wasn’t even any dust. I ran a finger over the table. It smelled of ammonia and pine. Someone had cleared the place out, and recently, and cleaned up afterward. They’d made a thorough job of it too, like they were scared of what they might leave behind. But you can never cover your tracks, not entirely. There’s always a human trace remaining. The job is to find it.
I felt about in the engine and anchor wells, and checked to see if there were any flaps or pockets in the storage pods beneath the sofa berths. I looked beneath the mattress in the aft cabin, and knocked to see if either of the bedroom lockers had false backs. I checked the hanging wall lockers on the port side, and the floor-to-ceiling locker aft of it — and finally spotted something. In the tight space between the locker and the wall, a few tiny fragments of blue plastic were caught on the corner of the locker at about chest height. A few more scraps lay on the floor. It looked like a plastic bag had been wedged behind the locker and then ripped out. I could see more scraps a bit further in. I tried to reach my hand into the space, but it wouldn’t fit.
I went up and
Similar Books
