by Jan Jones
Penny made a face at him. “I haven’t lost this info. It’s there somewhere, but it’s faded. One of those memories that wasn’t important enough to keep.”
“Have a think anyway. It’s a shame there wasn’t a tag on either of the brewery cartoons.”
“Tag?” queried Penny.
“It’s how street artists sign their work. Look, you can see an example here. It’s their logo, if you like. It’s similar to the way a conventional artist signs a canvas. It could be their name or initials, all stylised. A tag ‘owns’ that piece of wall for them. Sometimes they paint the tag just by itself if they’re pressed for time or space.”
“That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe it.” Penny stared at him, half appalled, half amazed. “Who is going to be daft enough to sign something when it’s been illegally painted on a wall?”
Leo shrugged. “Some people just want recognition. Unfortunately I can’t see a tag on these. I’ll keep looking for comparisons online.”
“Noel does that,” said Penny, getting up to go. “As soon as he’s faced with a problem to solve, he searches for information on his computer before he does anything else. Wouldn’t it be simpler to watch the brewery all night? Or check the CCTV footage?”
Leo laughed. “You think I’m an amateur? Checking the CCTV was the first thing I did. Sadly, the camera wasn’t recording.”
“No! Didn’t the council check when they turned it around yesterday?”
“It seems not.”
“That’s scandalous after all the money they took off us in rates to put the harbour system in. I hope it works now.”
“I imagine so. I believe your Caitlin had rather a lot to say on the subject.”
Penny smiled fondly. “Bless her. She’s very good for Noel. He sits and thinks a problem through. She gets up and does something about it.”
Leo continued to scroll through graffiti images. It looked idle, but Penny knew him now. He was thinking hard under the surface. “As it happens,” he said, “I am inclined to keep watch tonight. This graffiti puzzles me. There are two different sorts. The big splashy words placed in strategic locations where everyone, including tourists, will see them and be offended but which are easy to wash off. And the cartoon ones on the brewery doors and further out from the town centre which are more permanent.”
“Perhaps the words were done in a hurry because they are in more visible locations and the vandal might be seen?”
“In that case, it’s a very well-prepared vandal. Someone is going round with a can of emulsion as well as a set of spray paints. That’s not normal.”
“It does seem a bit weird,” conceded Penny. “Are you really going to keep watch? You might not need to. I wouldn’t put it past Iain Ramsay to rig up a cold shower with a pressure switch booby trap above the brewery doors to deter would-be artists tonight.”
Leo grinned. “There would be a story in that too. Don’t worry about me. It won’t be the first time I’ve been on a stake-out. Do you want to join me?”
What? Penny’s heart did a disturbing wobble. Alone with him, at night, in the cockpit of the boat? “Sorry, too busy,” she said, louder and faster than normal. “I’ve got a fatted calf to cook for Noel this evening. Judging by his normal appetite when he comes home, it’ll be as if he hasn’t eaten since he went back at the beginning of term.”
“Calf? I thought you said it was lamb?”
Penny exhaled thankfully. She hadn’t upset him. He was his usual teasing self. He hadn’t meant anything special by the offer.
Leo watched Penny getting ready to leave. He hadn’t really expected her to say she’d stay, but it would have been nice to have had her company this evening. Stop it, Leo. He gave himself a tiny talking to. He was fine on his own, especially when he had a job to do. He’d use the time to do some digging on the internet about Terry Durham.
Talking of which, he could do with knowing more about this essay prize he’d agreed to judge. The more informed he was, the easier it would be to steer any conversation with Durham towards something interesting rather than the standard public relations line.
“Tell me about the Salthaven Prize. How does it work?”
Penny paused in her gathering up of handbag and keys. “It’s for Year 12 students. They are given a topical question or dilemma under exam conditions and have until lunchtime to write the essay. It’s supposed to show their level of knowledge on current affairs and the ability to see different points of view. Noel won it four years ago. Julian was ecstatic. They do it off the top of their head without access to any material.”
“Good heavens. The old-fashioned method.”
Penny shrugged. “It’s an old prize. Set up in the days when young men were expected to go into law, politics or the church. The money was to help them on their way. My year was the first time it had been opened up to girls. Rosamund and I decided it was sheer prejudice when our brilliant expositions on how close Orwell’s version of 1984 was to the reality failed to win.”
Leo tried to picture Penny as a sixth-former and failed. She was essentially a now person. “Who sets the question?” he asked.
“Do you know, I have no idea. I assume the topic is decided by the town council. They were the signatory on Noel’s cheque.”
His editor would no doubt know. “I’ll ask Harry when I go into the Messenger office.” He glanced at his watch. “Which I should be doing right now. Or I might ring Terry Durham himself, come to think of it.”
He followed her up the cabin steps. She stopped, frowning. “Is the river higher than usual?”
Ah, she’d noticed that too. “Yes. One of the other boat owners was warning me it would be this week. Something to do with moon phases.”
“You’ll be all right though? Maybe you should moor further up river?”
“Penny, Firefly is a boat. She’s designed to float.”
“She’s not designed to float on dry land though, which is what will happen if the harbour floods,” she retorted, stepping ashore. “It’s happened before, several times. It’s never a pretty sight, Leo.”
“I’ll be fine.”
There was an infinitesimal pause. “Well, it’s up to you, but if not, you know where I am. I’ve got a spare room if need be.”
An unexpected tenderness flooded him. “Thank you,” he said. This was Penny, so it was an offer she’d make to any friend, but it was still oddly lovely that she cared.
There was no point doing any graffiti watching until after the Seagull Brewery closed for the night. Leo chatted on the phone for a while to the former colleague who was renting his London flat, then got a couple of hour’s sleep before having a late pint in the Tap in case there were any suspicious characters there (there weren’t). Afterwards he sat in the cockpit of his boat, thinking about Ed’s call earlier and reflecting on how his life had altered. Ed had been filling him in on the Fleet Street gossip, discussing the hirings and firings, and dropping hints that big changes were in the wind for him. He’d clearly been piqued that Leo hadn’t risen to the bait and asked what sort of changes. Six months ago, Leo would have done. In the aftermath of his accident he’d been desperate for any drips of information about the fast-paced world that had been his working life. Now though…
The thing was, Salthaven had reorientated his focus. It had connected him anew with the grass-roots journalism that he’d enjoyed when he first started out. Working on the Messenger was giving him time to breathe.
As if to prove it, before he began investigating Terry Durham now, he amused himself with a brisk five hundred word picture of the harbour and the river for a future article. This was the sort of thing the readers liked. He described how the place changed character as the afternoon lengthened: the cafes along the river all closing between five and six o’clock, lights winking off, workers gathering at bus stops or hurrying up New Cut to catch the shops near the market square before they shut. There was a short lull before the restaurants opened, pubs became busy and the noise from the harbou
r increased on the evening air. Leo finished the article with the quiet after the restaurants and pubs went dark for the night, footsteps heading home, the glow of curtained windows on the boats, the peaceful lapping of the river.
There. Harry would love it. Leo closed the file and moved on to his research. Firefly rocked gently at her moorings as he shifted, making himself comfortable. It was by no means the first time he had worked through the night, but his years of meeting deadlines on the national papers seemed like another life now. Salthaven stories were smaller, but he felt closer to them. They mattered to the community. The feeling of connectivity added an extra sense of purpose as he tracked Terry Durham’s business dealings back through the years.
As the night wore on, there was little traffic to disturb him. The odd motorcycle roar was very noticeable where it wouldn’t have been in the city. There was nothing to be seen at the brewery, though. He hadn’t been able to moor Firefly as close to it as he’d have liked, but he still had a clear line of sight to the archway, and no one took a paintbrush to it all night. Maybe the perpetrators hadn’t noticed that the fish had been covered again. Or perhaps they suspected no one would get away with graffiti in the same place for a third night running. Maybe they were simply wary of spray-painting doors on a Friday night when there might be more of a police presence around the harbour.
At dawn Leo made another mug of tea and sat in the cockpit to watch the sun rise over the town. For once it was a clean morning, crisp and autumnal. It was the sort of morning when it would be nice to have a dog to walk, or a child to wrap in a long scarf and take to the football.
Leo’s hand tightened on his mug. He did have a son, but the privilege of taking Daniel to the football belonged to his ex-wife and her new partner. He stared upriver until his vision cleared. Then shaded his eyes. A lone rower was moving with easy-flowing strokes through the water. Poetry, he thought. Perfect. Somebody at one with the boat, at one with the river. That was what today was built for.
Leo watched as the morning gradually filled with light and the figure became more distinct. The lad was an athlete, purposeful and focused. He pulled into the side without a splash, tethered his boat and climbed the few rungs of the metal ladder still showing above the water with the ease of long practice. Then he crossed to the Brewery Tap.
What? Leo shot to his feet so fast that Firefly rocked under him. Surely this lithe, beautiful rower wasn’t responsible for the graffiti?
His unwary movement disturbed the lad who swung around, his eyes searching the decks of the boats. There seemed little point concealing himself. Leo stepped across to the quay, noting in a corner of his mind that the tide was high enough for him to do it easily for the third morning in succession. Maybe he should be thinking about moving the boat upriver. “Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “You’re up and about early.”
The lad’s mouth set in a determined line. “No law against that. You are up early yourself.”
He didn’t appear to be carrying any aerosols, but they could have been hidden in his small rucksack. “I couldn’t sleep,” said Leo. He indicated the brewery. “Work here, do you?”
Away down by the square, Leo heard the noise of lorries revving and voices calling to each other. It was Saturday, of course. The market traders had arrived. Ahead of them, a black-clad figure strode briskly out of New Cut. A few seconds later, he’d thrown his leg astride a gleaming motorbike and was roaring away.
“See?” said the young man, gesturing at the motorcyclist. “There are lots of people up early.” He turned on his heel.
“So there are.” Nevertheless, Leo sauntered after him towards the brewery, watching as he turned up New Cut.
At the corner, the rower gave an outraged yell. “Again! They’ve done it again!”
Leo hurried to where the lad stood, his hands balled into fists as he glared at the yard gate. Evil-looking aliens leered at them in shades of acid-green, toxic-purple and electric-salmon. Leo had missed the graffiti artist at work. He couldn’t believe it.
“So tell me again why you were up early?” demanded the young man, taking a menacing step towards Leo.
“I was watching the front,” snapped Leo, furious with himself for not having given a thought to the yard entrance. “I’m a journalist with the Messenger. Leo Williams.”
“You’re Leo Williams? Oh, this is a great start, isn’t it? I’m Noel Plain, this is my fiancée’s brewery - and while you were delaying me on the quay, the vandal was probably escaping. Thanks a bunch.”
CHAPTER FOUR
As Noel strode angrily down New Cut - presumably on his way to wherever Caitlin Ramsay and her family lived - Leo experienced a sinking feeling. He identified it, with painful honesty, as disappointment. He’d wanted Penny’s son to like him, and they had now got off on totally the wrong foot. He could hardly blame the young man. Noel was concerned about his fiancée’s business, furious about the graffiti being painted on it and frustrated at not being able to help.
As the early morning light strengthened into day, an idea that had been niggling at his brain since yesterday surfaced. Was the Seagull Brewery being targeted for any reason other than it provided nice flat doors as canvases? Surely there were equally suitable surfaces in Salthaven? Curious, he strolled past the riverside shops, reaching as far as the harbour without seeing any more graffiti other than a couple of scrawls on a fish & chip restaurant. Now that was strange.
It was also strange that the side of Market House with its ‘Keep Out’ notices hadn’t attracted any attention. A long, high brick wall out of sight of any CCTV cameras should have been a ready invitation - but instead, the leering aliens had been painted in an awkward corner on the brewery yard doors.
While he was pondering, his phone went. Absently, he pulled it out of his pocket. His ex-wife’s name leapt at him from the screen. Instantly, the graffiti was as banished from his mind as if it had never existed. Kayleigh never phoned unless she absolutely had to. Daniel. Something must be wrong with Daniel. Oh God, when was the next train?
“What’s the matter? What’s happened?” he asked sharply.
Kayleigh’s voice was clipped. “Nothing’s happened, Leo. I’m just letting you know Daniel will already be at your parents when you visit this week. Peter and I have been invited to an NBK wedding in France. We’re driving down to the ferry now. Peter’s friend owns a chateau and has invited us to stay until the weekend.”
Annoyance flooded Leo, mixed with relief that his son was all right, but he made himself answer civilly. “It’s a shame you didn’t tell me in advance. You must have known it was a no-kids do. I could have made arrangements to take Daniel somewhere as it’s half term.”
“We didn’t realise we could stay the whole week until a couple of days ago,” she replied, with no attempt at sincerity. “I’m sure your mother will take Daniel out. You could go with them if you can tear yourself away from your job for an extra day.” And she cut the connection.
Leo was so furious as Kayleigh’s petty behaviour that he was dialling Penny’s number and listening to the ring tone before he belatedly realised what time it was.
“Leo? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
She had that dragged-out-of-sleep sound, the same as he would have done himself if he hadn’t already been up all night when Kayleigh rang. Which she’d timed on purpose, he suddenly realised, so she’d have the twin satisfaction of waking him up, plus having him too sleepy to make a fuss. “Nothing,” he said contritely. “I mean, there is, but I was calling to let off steam and wasn’t thinking about the time and… Go back to sleep. I’ll ring later.”
He could hear Penny moving. “No, I’m awake now. You might as well get it off your chest. I’ll put the kettle on while I listen. Noel’s arrived, by the way. He got here last night.”
“I know. I’ve met him. He doesn’t like me.”
Penny’s voice rose. “How can you have met him? Where are you? Please tell me you aren’t sitting on my doorstep along with t
he milk bottles? I will never live it down with the neighbours.”
Leo gave a reluctant chuckle. “I’m not on your doorstop. I’m on the boat. I was watching the brewery this morning when I saw a rower coming downstream. He made straight for the Seagull, we accosted each other, then he discovered that the graffiti artist had struck the yard gates out of sight. We might even have seen the person who did it - someone came out of New Cut and rode away on a motor bike - but we were too busy having a difference of opinion to pay them any attention.”
In the background he heard the whistle of Penny’s kettle. “Oh dear,” she said, sounding as rueful as he’d felt earlier. “That’s a bit unfortunate. Yes, Noel does like to go rowing in the mornings. He practically lives up at the boat club on Oakerby Ground during the summer. Even when he was still at school he’d cycle to the boatyard before breakfast, row for half an hour, then cycle back again. He doesn’t get this unnatural desire for exercise from me, obviously. Is that why you were ringing? To warn me you’d argued with Noel?”
Leo’s anger swept back, but less heated than it had been before. “No, I was ringing to say Daniel is apparently going to be at my parents’ house for the week and Kayleigh has only just seen fit to tell me. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“So you can have a whole week with him?” Her voice was warm and generous. “That’s brilliant. Are you going down there now? Don’t worry about lunch tomorrow. You can meet Noel properly another time.”
“That’s just the thing. I can’t go down. I’ve got meetings set up. I’ve got article deadlines. Kayleigh knew I would have, which is why she delayed telling me she was going away until they were virtually out of the door. She delights in making it as awkward as possible for me to spend time with my own son. She knew Mum wouldn’t have told me because my parents have always been very moral about not going behind either of our backs.” Leo knew he sounded grouchy and self-centred but couldn’t stop himself.
