by R. S. Sutton
‘Another one?’ He got up, shaking feeling back into his wrist. ‘It’s causing a lot of interest, this boat. Got authorisation?’ He threw his pencil on the table as Valerie pulled an A4 sheet from the folder and handed it over.
‘Know anything about it?’ Blinking once or twice as her eyes became accustomed to the dark room, Valerie watched him run a finger down the paper. ‘Or was it just towed in?’
‘Just towed in. Not much else I can tell you. Couple of fishermen found it driftin’.’ He moved over to the door and motioned with the sheet of paper towards two men. ‘Young Ben over there next to the railings, he was one of them. He’ll tell you all, or as much as he can about it. Just buy him a pint.’ He returned the notes and started riffling through the desk drawer.
‘Thanks.’ Valerie stood in the doorway, replacing the paper. ‘I’ll have a word with him.’
‘Keys.’ He threw a ring of three across the room. ‘You’ll need those.’
The young men were at the corner of the car park, where it narrowed alongside the river. The tarmac gave way to a pathway of uneven flagstones held down with iron fixings. Further along, fishing boats moved gently at their moorings. One of the men was gesturing across the harbour, while the other seemed more interested in Valerie as she approached.
Valerie tapped the file on her knuckles. ‘I’m looking for Ben.’ The taller of the two had black hair permed in unfashionably tight curls, the over-gelled locks catching the flashes of sun.
‘Why? What’s up? Who wants… to know?’ The last couple of words fell away as he looked her up and down. ‘Well, well,’ he said, recovering. He was one of the few in the male population afflicted with a high registering, squeaky voice. There was an attempt to shift it down to a more manly octave. ‘What have we here?’ He flicked at his long hair, letting it fall again over the collar of his red bomber jacket. ‘Not often we get the pleasure of such a lovely piece of work.’
From the immature chat-up line, and eyes that roved between her breasts and crotch, she presumed the nearby BMW, with the over-wide wheels and bean-can exhaust, belonged to him.
‘Turn it up, Sid.’ The young man she now knew as Sid looked at the ground, kicking at an imaginary stone. ‘Never stop going flat out, do you?’ Thank God for that, thought Valerie as who was who became clear, couldn’t be doing with much of Sid.
The one she now presumed to be Ben looked a little younger than her, but his face was already being worn by persistent sun and wind. It was not possible to say if his blond hair was natural or the result of weather and saltwater.
‘Got to get after it,’ said Sid. ‘We’ll all have to stop when we’re dead.’
Can’t come soon enough for me, thought Valerie. ‘I’d like to have a word with Ben, if that’s okay with you, Romeo?’
‘Sure, okay. Carry on.’ He leant back against the railings and pulled out a rather nice, silver cigarette case. It was finely engraved, with an enamelled flag in one corner. Valerie guessed it to be from the nineteen thirties. ‘Would you?’ He pressed a button and the lid flew open, revealing a few cigarettes rolling around the gold-plated interior.
‘No thanks, I’ll stick to my own.’ Besides being a status symbol, she guessed the case was to hide the fact that he bought the cheapest cigarettes on the market, or didn’t like looking at the compulsory artwork each pack carried. ‘I’d like to talk with Ben alone. If that’s okay?’
‘Oh, right, sure.’ He stopped leaning on the fencing and flicked at his cigarette. ‘Don’t forget to get in touch if you want showing around. Just ask at the pub, everyone knows me.’ A sharp gust of wind blew at his hair as he went over to the BMW. ‘See you later, Ben.’ Along with Sid, the smell of cheap aftershave disappeared.
‘Jesus,’ said Valerie, ‘he’s a bit of an acquired taste, isn’t he?’
‘Oh, don’t mind Sid.’ Ben nodded towards the car as they were battered by a chorus from the harsh exhaust. ‘Weird, but harmless.’
‘I understand you brought in Sun Dancer?’ Valerie looked across the river towards swaying masts and small powerboats pulling at coloured warps. ‘By the way, where is she?’
‘Yeah, over there, the cream one with the blue boot topping.’ He nodded over the river to where a yacht, that must have been all of forty feet long, was tied up.2
‘Can you take me over? I understand a pint or two wouldn’t go amiss for your troubles.’
The young man looked at his watch. ‘Sure, make it lunch and you’ve got a deal.’
‘Yours?’ asked Valerie as Ben untied a small dinghy from the harbour wall.
‘Anyone’s, really.’ Steadying the small craft with his foot, he offered an outstretched hand. ‘As long as it’s returned to where you found it, no one minds. We take turns to chuck a litre of varnish over it now and again.’
The tide was on the ebb as Ben, rowing at an angle, kept them on course for the marina. He bent into the smooth, regular strokes that only comes with habitual boat work.
‘What’s to do with it then? We’ve already had the police and harbour authorities going over her like ruddy surveyors.’
‘Southern and East want a report. You know, insurance. Then it’s somehow got to be taken back to the Medway.’
‘That’s all?’ he asked as they approached one of the larger floating jetties.
‘Loose ends, always loose ends. Someone’s got to tie them all up.’ Perfectly balanced, she walked confidently across the forward thwart and onto the jetty.
‘Not the first time you’ve done that,’ said Ben, throwing a clove hitch around the nearest bollard.
Valerie looked up at the mast before pulling the keys from her pocket. ‘Impressive boat.’ She jumped into the cockpit.
‘Knock a bloody big hole in two hundred thousand.’
Valerie opened the aft hatch and disappeared down the steps. ‘Lights?’
‘Switches by the chart table.’ Hanging on to the sliding roof and swinging down, he followed her into the cabin. ‘The rocker switches to the side of the radio will get a little light going.’
Valerie did as she was bid and the cabin came to life as the strips stopped flickering and settled into a steady illumination.
‘Master cabin behind you, others are forward. Galley is starboard.’ Ben swept an arm around. ‘And this is the main lounge area.’
‘Did they race it?’ asked Valerie. ‘Hell of a waste if it wasn’t raced.’
‘Don’t know, but I suppose it must have been at some time,’ said Ben. ‘There’s racing pennants in the lockers, and the deck layout looks like it was. Tactical compasses, multi-geared winches and all unnecessary cabin clobber is easily removed.’
‘You can earn your lunch,’ said Valerie. ‘Have a look around the pointed end. I’ll search around here and the master cabin.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘No idea.’ Valerie pushed her hair back. ‘Anything, anything that looks… I don’t know… anything.’
The aft cabin had a king-size bed neatly in-between the perfectly fitted drawer and wardrobe units. A small dressing table and stool stood next to the entrance to an en-suite shower. Like all vessels, it had been designed with “a place for everything and everything in its place” firmly planted in the architect’s mind.
‘Anyone been on this boat?’ she asked, meeting back up with Ben in the main cabin.
‘Police, harbour authorities, customs,’ replied Ben. ‘And now you. Why?’
‘There’s nothing here, just like it’s been cleaned from top to bottom. Few clothes, sailing stuff. But that’s it. It’s as clean and tidy as, I don’t know. Even the books and charts are ranked in size like a public library. It’s just too clean and… and, nothing. I don’t get it. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.’ Ducking her head, she made her way back on deck.
Ben received envious looks as he ushered Valerie across the
stone floor towards the bar in the Harbour Arms. The girls that he usually had in tow could never be described as plain or ordinary, but the woman he was now motioning to a bar stool was: ‘Bloody gorgeous,’ the barman said quietly through the side of his mouth to a nearby customer.
‘Bloody right,’ said the man with a beer halfway to his lips. ‘Couldn’t I just—’
‘Ben,’ the barman put a cloth to a dripping beer tap, ‘what will it be?’
‘Guinness.’ Ben briefly rubbed his hands together. ‘Pint.’ As he turned, he realised he did not know Valerie’s name. ‘And, for you…?’
‘Valerie, Valerie Stone.’ She looked around the busy, low-ceilinged room festooned with hop vines and glass fishing floats. ‘Diet Coke or Pepsi, as long as it comes from a bottle, lots of lemon.’
‘Only on tap.’ The barman shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry.’
Valerie leant on the bar and looked at the cooler shelf. ‘J2O orange, industrial amount of ice. Got a menu?’
‘It’s quiet at the moment, so just the specials.’ The barman finished polishing a glass and nodded towards a chalk board displaying a menu written in perfect italics. Around the board a large Donald Duck, with one foot missing, looked out of place hanging from the few yards of oiled netting.
‘One of the lads pulled it up in a lobster pot,’ said Ben in reply to Valerie’s incredulous expression.
‘In?’ said Valerie.
‘Yeah, in. That’s what he said. Not sure if someone was using it as bait. But if they were it worked. There was a ten-pounder in there. Must have eaten Donald’s foot.’
Returning to the menu, she ran an eye down the list and looked back at Ben. ‘All good?’
‘Usually, but steer clear of the curry. The chef’s from the sub-continent, thinks we need gastro education. Never uses one chilli when six will do.’
‘Only the brave,’ said the barman handing over Valerie’s drink, ‘but to be fair it does say “hottish” underneath.’
‘Think I’ll have the spicy chicken salad,’ said Valerie. ‘As long as it’s not—’
‘No, no,’ cut in the barman, ‘just normal spicy.’
Closing his eyes, Ben savoured the creamy top of his beer before wiping the back of a hand across his lips. ‘Fish and chips.’
‘For a change.’ The barman shouted the order through the hatch, before returning to glass polishing. Just as she was about to start a little small talk, Valerie’s mobile went off. Sliding from the stool, she closed her eyes and blocked out the background burble with a free hand.
‘Jane?’
‘Yes, Miss Stone. Any joy?’
‘No, nothing. The boat looks like it’s just come off the production line. Clean as a new pin.’
‘I’ve been having a bit of a think,’ said Jane.
Jane’s ideas were seldom useless, but Valerie still put a sarcastic slant to her answer. ‘Oh yeah, about what?’
‘Bringing the boat back from the Exe is going to be quite expensive. Why don’t we… er, you do it? More money for us. You used to race a lot, didn’t you? You know one end of the boat from another.’
‘Yes, but I’m not all that hot on navigation,’ said Valerie. ‘It’s got to be a couple of days from the Exe to the Medway. And it’s a bloody big boat. Not sure.’
‘Course you can, get help from someone. All you have to do is sail along the south coast then turn left when you get to the end. Simple.’
‘Oh yeah, simple,’ said Valerie. ‘And what about the car?’
‘Store it at a garage for two or three days, then more expenses picking it up again,’ said Jane. ‘If we’ve got a licence to print money for a few weeks, let’s get the presses running.’ She let Valerie think for a minute before adding, ‘I’ll make an appointment to see this guy Preston next week, it’ll fit in perfectly.’
‘Leave it with me,’ said Valerie, looking across to the barman carrying a tray, ‘lunch has just arrived.’
Taking a fork to the middle of his mushy peas, Ben made a well and filled it with vinegar and black pepper. ‘All right?’ he asked, pointing to Valerie’s plate before tasting the mixture in front of him. More dashes of vinegar followed before he pronounced the concoction satisfactory by starting to clear the plate.
‘Fine.’ Being rather more interested in Ben’s culinary modifications, she leant her head to one side and gave him a friendly frown. ‘Yours okay?’
‘Yeah. Fresh cod.’ He jabbed a bent fork towards the fish. ‘It’ll have been landed this morning. One or two of the boats go out line fishing the wrecks. Sell the fish door to door and around the pubs.’
Valerie mulled the job over in her mind while looking around. A large copper urn of dried flowers was conspicuous in the fireplace. Highly polished brasses decorated leather straps and horse hames were fixed either side of a warped darts board. She guessed the pub was little used by tourists, which gave it a homely feel.
‘What you doing for the next few days?’ Unless she uncovered something pretty quickly, or thought of some way to string it out, the whole case was going to come to an abrupt halt. Two or three days delivering a boat would help money-wise.
The young man suddenly perked up. ‘Nothing, nothing,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Steady up, Casanova, don’t turn into your hot-blooded mate, for God’s sake. Fisherman, right? Go to sea day and night?’
‘Sure,’ said Ben. ‘Why?’
‘Done any sailing?’ Valerie pushed the last third of her lunch to one side before laying the knife and fork across the remains.
‘Yeah, some racing, some cruising, makes up the money when the fishing’s ’ard.’
‘So, you can navigate? Read charts? Get from A to B?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ said Ben. ‘But you don’t need much nowadays. With satellite navigation you just switch it on and away you go, just like in your car. Easy.’
Valerie thought of the ever-narrowing lanes the car navigation system had sometimes led her along. ‘Really,’ she said wearily, thinking that if it was up to her the boat would probably end up at a Premier Inn somewhere up the M20.
‘Want to get The Sun Dancer back home, do you?’
Valerie nodded. ‘That’s the idea. What about it?’
‘My turn to ask if you can sail a boat? Or am I going to end up single-handed on a forty-foot yacht?’
‘Yes, sure I can sail, racing mostly. How would you like to earn a few days’ wages taking the yacht back to the Medway?’
‘With you?’ Attempting to look nonchalant, he swung around, leaning his back to the bar. ‘A few days on the boat with you?’
Valerie put a twenty- and ten-pound note on the counter and pushed them towards the barman. ‘Don’t get any ideas, sunshine. Since I was put up for canonisation, the Pope insisted I put a restriction notice on them.’
‘What?’ Ben eased from the stool.
‘My knickers, they carry a no-entry sign.’ An old man seated in the corner coughed as his gin and tonic momentarily went the wrong way.
‘Yes? No?’ said Valerie, making for the door.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, then added softly, ‘Pity about the knickers.’
‘Don’t want to know what the money is?’ said Valerie.
‘Er, I—’
‘Don’t worry.’ She took cigarettes and lighter from her pocket. ‘I’ll not rob you.’
Walking back across the car park, Ben looked at his watch. ‘Tide won’t be on the flood for a while. Anything you need to do?’
‘Get this to a safe place.’ Valerie nodded towards the Jaguar as she put the Zippo to a cigarette.
‘Bloody hell. It’s sex on wheels. Yours?’
Blowing smoke away from Ben, she nodded. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Sure, my place. Er, me mum’s place.’
&n
bsp; Notes
2The ‘boot topping’ is the line of contrasting paint at the waterline along the length of a boat between the topsides (hull above the water) and the antifouling (protective paint below the water).
Five
To the side of the council house, the gravel crunched underneath the tyres as the E-Type was squeezed next to the wisteria.
Ben’s mother looked on from the kitchen steps as Valerie started pulling the cover over the Jag.
‘Well, give her a hand, yer great lummox.’ Between the occasional tut and head-shaking, she turned back into the kitchen. ‘Sweet Jesus and little fishes. Men.’
‘How long will it take?’ Valerie asked Ben. ‘Here to the Medway, I mean.’
‘Couple of days, if the wind’s okay.’ Behind the small vegetable plot of runner beans and sprouting potatoes, the ash trees swayed in the rising breeze. ‘Shouldn’t take any longer. Come on, let’s get inside.’
‘Tea?’ Ben’s mother rubbed pastry remains from her hands with the corner of a gaudy-coloured apron.
‘Yeah, we’ve got time.’ He looked accusingly at his watch. ‘Any sign of Uncle Dan?’
‘He’ll be here, give him a chance,’ his mother replied. ‘You only called him a few minutes ago.’ She continued to pour out tea before placing dark, sticky flapjacks on the table.
‘Uncle Dan will help us fuel up and get a few stores in,’ Ben explained between guzzling tea and filling his mouth with honeyed flapjack. ‘And there’s the harbour master to clear and coastguard to inform.’ He casually threw deck shoes, jeans and a jumper into a backpack. ‘We’ll need him if we’re going on this tide.’
Ben’s mother disappeared, returning moments later with socks, underpants, spare jeans, shirt and an oil-stained sailing jacket. ‘Men!’ She hid her mother’s love inside the rebuke while throwing the lot across the table.
