by David Blake
Having driven all the way from London, he decided to leave the car where it was for now and walk round to take a closer look. As he did, he hoped that the boat would provide somewhere to stay for a few nights, at least, but preferably a week or two, so giving him time to find a suitable flat nearby.
CHAPTER TWO
BEING CAREFUL NOT to stumble over the many mooring lines that led to the quay from the boats alongside, Tanner followed the path as he’d been instructed. Every now and again he caught a glimpse of the yacht he was heading for, through a separation in the trees or over the roof of another boat. It wasn’t long before he found himself rounding a turn in the path to come face to face with the yacht that was supposed to be his temporary new home.
Matthew Bardsley had described it to him lovingly and at length. According to him, Seascape was a traditional 1930s gaff-rigged Norfolk cruising yacht. It was made of dark mahogany wood and had been painstakingly painted with a smooth thick layer of varnish, giving it a warm, natural glow.
The yacht was twenty-four foot in length, excluding the bowsprit, and was covered by a large white canvas awning, which lay over the boom and cabin, all the way to the back of the boat. There, a pair of high wooden crutches supported the boom, the end of which jutted awkwardly out from the back.
From where Tanner stood, the whole thing looked like a large old-fashioned white tent, the sort of thing a troop of Boy Scouts would use for a weekend’s camping trip.
Stopping about ten feet away, he spent a few moments looking over her from the smooth varnished hull which reflected the sun as it danced around the surrounding water, all the way up to the top of the mast, where a small blue and red triangular flag fluttered occasionally in the gentle breeze.
She was beautiful, but he could hardly tell which end was the front and which was the back. From where he was standing, he couldn’t even see how he was going to get inside. Before he’d accepted the offer of living on board, the yacht’s owner, Commander Bardsley of the Metropolitan Police, an old family friend, had emailed a picture to him, but that was of her sailing out on a Broad with all the sails up. She looked completely different moored up here, and considerably smaller.
Approaching the yacht, he rested his left foot tentatively on the side, just below where he thought the canvassed entrance might be. After testing that it would take his weight, he stepped on board. What he’d told the lady back at the shop was true; he’d never been on a boat before, at least nothing as small as this, and he’d no idea whether standing on the side would make it tip over. Fortunately, all that happened was that it rocked back and forth ever so slightly.
Safely on board, he began examining the canvas awning, trying to work out how it would open. It soon became clear that he was indeed standing beside some sort of a rectangular doorway, fastened to the deck by a couple of small elasticated hooks. Not wishing to risk losing his balance, he stepped off the boat, crouched down and unclipped the hooks. He began rolling the freed section of canvas up, much as he would have done had it been the zipped entrance to a tent. When he reached the top, he climbed back on board and discovered another couple of elastic hooks on the inside. Having used them to fasten the top, he leaned forward and peered into the gloomy interior.
There wasn’t much to see; just a small enclosed area with two deeply varnished mahogany bench seats on either side. A thin long metal rod curved up from the back of the boat like the neck of an elegant black swan. At its end was a smooth cylindrical wooden handle, from which hung a neatly coiled rope. Opposite that, to the left, were two folding doors. They were only about three feet high, so he couldn’t see what possible use they could be, at least not for an adult, but they were doors none the less, so they must lead somewhere.
It was only when Tanner swung his leg in through the canvas doorway and down onto the nearside bench that he saw a crisp white envelope lying there.
Retrieving it, he stood up straight, and smacked his head up against a solid-looking wooden beam which seemed to stretch the length of the yacht and over which the canvas awning had been draped. This was one part of a boat he did know something about, although he couldn’t remember from where. It was the yacht’s boom, and was what you had to duck under when you tacked, or gybed, or something.
Reaching up, he placed the palm of his hand on its smooth underside. It certainly felt sturdy enough, and he could see why you’d want to avoid it when it swung over your head.
Looking down at the envelope, Tanner saw that it was addressed to him. Commander Bardsley had told him he’d be leaving him some sort of note, so finding the letter wasn’t too much of a surprise.
Sitting on one of the hard polished bench seats, Tanner opened up the envelope and slid out a folded piece of A4 paper. On one side was a handwritten letter, and the other a schematic diagram of the boat.
A lot of the contents of the letter had already been relayed to him by the woman at the shop, but there were some other useful pieces of information. For example, it told him that there was a toilet at the front of the boat, as well as a basin and a gas hob. Unfortunately there was no fridge, freezer, or microwave. There wasn’t even a shower.
Referring to the diagram on the back, he soon discovered the double gas hob, which was very much like a camping one. It was hidden under the front section of the bench seat opposite the one he was sitting on – not the first place he would have thought to look for a kitchen appliance. Staring down at it he raised a single eyebrow. He didn’t mind so much about the lack of cooking facilities; he’d hardly envisaged himself spending hours creating culinary masterpieces: but he could see that the lack of a shower was going to be a problem, and he certainly wouldn’t have minded having a microwave to hand.
Reminding himself that it was only going to be temporary, he read on, and was relieved to learn that he’d be able to use the shower facilities inside the marina building. He slid the letter back inside its envelope, folded it in half and stood up to push it into the back pocket of his dark blue jeans.
Crouching down, he lifted a small brass latch that held the two wooden doors together, opened them up and peered inside.
‘Well, that’s going to be cosy!’ he said.
The cabin area laid out before him was compact to say the least. From what he could see of the dark interior, it consisted solely of two long benches, each topped with a long red rectangular cushion.
Peering forward, he saw that there was another cabin at the front, but that was even smaller than this one, and the roof was so low he’d be lucky if he’d be able to kneel up in it, let alone stand.
Bardsley had written something about the roof; Tanner pulled out the letter, found the relevant section, and read it to himself again, then examined the top edge of the coach roof which, apparently, lifted up somehow.
Noticing that there were folds of canvas tucked around the inside edges, he hooked the palms of his hands around its lip and gently pushed it up. As he did so, two slats of wood swung down on either side to keep the roof in a lifted position, and he nudged the bottom of each onto a thin ledge, where the varnish had been rubbed away. He then eased the top down onto the supporting slats and stood back.
He’d successfully managed to raise the ceiling height. Once again he checked the letter, but it only confirmed what he’d already concluded; that only one end of the coach roof could be lifted. The other looked as if it was going to have to remain where it was.
With a shrug, he stepped inside and attempted to stand up straight. He couldn’t. He was five foot ten, and at its highest point, the ceiling must be around five eight, maybe five nine at a push.
‘At least it’s a roof, I suppose,’ he said. ‘And it is over my head, just about.’
Easing himself down onto one of the red cushions, taking care not to bang his head on anything as he did, he stared around.
A moment later, out loud again, he asked himself, ‘Where the hell’s the toilet?’
Another quick examination of the diagram had him off the bench
and onto the floor. There he began crawling on his knees towards the front of the boat, far along enough to be able to poke his head inside the forward cabin.
On his right he saw that there was another cushioned bench. Apparently, it was a third bed, although Tanner couldn’t see how anyone other than a small child, or maybe a dog, would be able to fit into it. According to the diagram, the toilet should be on the left, but all he could see was a solid wooden shelf. Spotting a couple of hinges at the back, he said, ‘Don’t tell me it’s underneath here!’
Lifting it up, he found that it was.
‘So, emergency use only then!’ he said, plonking the lid back down.
Deciding to come out for both air and space, he returned to the yacht’s well, as described in the drawing – the area under the canvas where the boom was. There he resumed his original seat.
He’d already decided that he’d not be able to stay there long-term. He’d reached that conclusion when he saw the toilet. But for now he had no choice, and so began thinking about the practicalities of spending a few days on board. He’d brought a sleeping bag with him, along with his pillow, so he’d at least be comfortable at night. Food wasn’t going to be a problem, as he could eat his evening meal at the pub, and he rarely bothered with breakfast. Lunch was always just a coffee and a sandwich taken, so all he’d need to buy was some milk, tea, coffee and some form of snack food. Apparently, there was a kettle knocking about the place somewhere, along with some cups. As long as the marina did have a working shower, he knew he’d survive.
So, with a plan in place, he clambered out of the boat to make his way back to the shop. There he’d check the notice board, to see if anyone was offering a flat to rent. Failing that, he’d ask for a copy of the local newspaper.
CHAPTER THREE
Monday, 15th April
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Tanner awoke naturally. Instinctively, he checked the time on his phone, and was pleased to see he still had ten minutes before his alarm was due to go off.
He’d slept surprisingly well, far better than he’d been expecting. The gentle lapping of water against the outside of the hull, the same rhythmic knocking sound he was listening to now, must have sent him off pretty much straight away, as he didn’t remember doing so. He hadn’t been forced to spend the night fighting his way through a seemingly endless number of ever-darker dreams either, as he’d found himself having to do since the death of his daughter nine months before. Recently his dreams had become so disturbing that he’d often woken up gasping for air, desperate to distinguish between what was real and what, hopefully, wasn’t.
The call of nature forced him up. Feeling brave, he successfully navigated the use of the emergency toilet services in the port bow. After that, he grabbed a towel along with a plastic bag in which he’d packed his toiletries, and set off for what he’d discovered the previous evening, the humble shower housed within the even more humble marina building.
On his return, he dressed whilst standing inside the well of the yacht, having closed the canvas doorway first. The night before, when he’d changed for bed, he’d discovered that the yacht’s well was the only sensible place for doing so. Trying to undress in the cabin had felt more like taking part in a game of Twister than getting ready for bed.
Once dressed in his somewhat creased white office shirt, dark grey suit and navy-blue tie, it took him about three times longer than normal to make an instant coffee. He sat down with a sense of having achieved something, and with mug in hand, spent a few minutes flicking through the local newspaper he’d picked up the day before with the milk and coffee.
Finding an article on the third page about a series of robberies that had been taking place, he settled down to read. There wasn’t much to it. Just that the person, as yet unknown, had been breaking into boats moored up in isolated locations along the Rivers Bure, Ant and Thurne. It finished with the usual local outrage that the police weren’t doing enough to find those responsible, and then the obligatory comment from the police that they were doing everything they possibly could to bring the criminals to justice.
After noting that the officer who’d made the comment was Detective Chief Inspector Barrington, the man who was going to be his new boss, he turned to the classified section at the back. He’d already circled three possible flats the evening before, and he read through the ads again. None of them had sounded particularly appealing, and being read in daylight didn’t seem to help.
Checking his watch, he finished his coffee, placed the empty cup on the bench opposite, and folded the newspaper away so that it was ready to take with him. He slipped into his black office shoes, retrieved his phone, wallet and car keys, closed the small cabin doors and clambered out.
After closing up the awning, and with his new job now firmly in focus, he set off to begin his first day working as a Detective Inspector for Norfolk Police.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FEELING OF mild anxiety that accompanies anyone starting a new job stayed with Tanner as he drove the six and a half mile route from Ranworth Marina to Wroxham Police Station, where he was to be based. It was a journey that was in stark contrast to his previous commute into London. The only section of it that could be classed as even vaguely similar was when he had to cross the low bridge over the River Bure, where the traffic was moving at what he considered to be average London speed. But even having to stop and start his way over that was hardly a burden, quite the opposite in fact, as it gave him the chance to enjoy a picture postcard view of the river. With its waterside shops, restaurants, boats and houses, it was a truly idyllic scene. There was even a gaggle of white swans for him to watch, taking it in turns to crane their elegant long necks towards a mother and two small children, no doubt in a bid to try and entice food out of them.
Arriving at Wroxham Police Station a few minutes later was another new experience. He’d had his interview for the position at Norfolk Constabulary’s head office, just outside Norwich, and he’d yet to meet his new boss.
The building itself was different from any police station he’d been to so far in his career, the most obvious difference being just how small it was. With only one ground floor level, a red brick exterior, a dark grey tiled roof with matching-coloured doors and window frames, to Tanner it looked more like a hospice, or a care home for the elderly.
Parking between a police patrol car and a Vauxhall Astra, Tanner stepped out, glanced over at the building and checked his watch. It was just gone ten to nine, making him eight minutes early.
Locking his car, he faced away from the building to straighten his tie, did up the middle button of his suit, slipped his left hand into his trouser pocket and turned to make his way towards the entrance, doing his best to look as confident and relaxed as possible.
Inside the heavy front door, he was presented with a typical police reception area that smelt of an unsubtle mixture of pine disinfectant and bleach. To his immediate right was the front desk, behind which sat a uniformed policeman who Tanner presumed to be the duty sergeant, a tired looking man with a round shaved head and a double chin covered in a light dusting of grey stubble. His eyes were fixed on a computer monitor, and he didn’t even seem to notice that someone had just walked in.
Approaching the desk, Tanner cleared his throat, and with brisk formality said, ‘Detective Inspector John Tanner to see Detective Chief Inspector Barrington.’
Without smiling, the duty sergeant looked over at him. ‘I take it you’re the new DI?’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘OK, take a seat. I’ll let the boss know you’re here.’
Tanner gave him a half smile by way of a thank you.
It wasn’t returned.
As the duty sergeant picked up his phone, Tanner walked over to a row of blue plastic seats. He stood facing them, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, and took a closer look at some of the posters displayed on the wall, moving slowly up and down the room as he did. He rarely liked to be seated when waiting for somethi
ng, especially if he was feeling apprehensive. His preference would have been to pace up and down whilst staring at the floor, which he found helped him to think. However, it seemed to give an impression of impatience, not the image he wished to give to his new boss, so he pretended to take in interest in the station’s community advertising.
‘Detective Inspector Tanner?’
Spinning around, Tanner saw he was being addressed by a portly dark haired man with small eyes and a rounded, puffy face; the cheeks of which were red and blotchy.
As Tanner smiled in acknowledgment, the man stretched out a welcoming hand, saying, ‘Welcome to Wroxham! I’m DCI Barrington. If you follow me, we can have a bit of a chat before you get started.’
Placing a guiding hand on Tanner’s shoulder, he led the way through to an open-plan office area filled with a mixture of uniformed and non-uniformed police personnel who were either staring at computer screens, or talking quietly on the phone.
As he followed DCI Barrington down past the desks, he heard one of the many phones ring. Turning his head towards the sound, he saw a non-uniformed officer with curly dark brown hair, medium build, probably in his late thirties, reaching over his desk to answer it.
Following his gaze, Barrington said, ‘That’s DI Burgess, but I’ll introduce you to him and the rest of the team a little later. But first…’
DCI Barrington stopped beside a door into a separate glass partitioned office, and showed Tanner inside.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE CHIEF INSPECTOR’S office was a modern-looking room bathed in natural light from a large window overlooking the car park to the front. On one wall hung a large Ordnance Survey map of the Norfolk Broads; but of more interest, to Tanner at least, was the rich aromatic smell of freshly made coffee.
