Medusa (19 page)

It was Luis driving the tender and he cut the engine just right, sliding in to the concrete edge of the quay and throwing the painter to me as the little launch floated to a stop. ‘Good trip?' I asked.

‘
Si, bueno
. We take five hours, speed reach sixteen knots. No motor.' A flash of teeth in the dark face grinning up at me. He had enjoyed himself and I was glad. ‘Beeg sea, but everything very steady.'

‘What's the forecast?' I asked him.

‘Do'know. Carp attending it now. But we have nearly twenty knots, a levanter from Mahon to this place.'

I tossed my gear into the stern, gave Soo a final hug and jumped in. It might be blowing force five outside, but here, at the upper end of the long Macaret inlet, all was quiet, the water barely ruffled. By the time I got myself and my gear on board, Soo was already climbing the hill out of Addaia, the beam of the car's headlights altering as she took the sharp bends.

Carp came up out of the saloon. He looked pleased with himself. The ship had behaved itself – he called it a ship – and there had been no problems, the helm very easy on all points of sailing. ‘We have a fast run to Malta – with
luck.' He gave a gap-toothed smile. ‘Wind twenty to twenty-five knots, backing north-east, possibly north, viz good.'

‘A tramontana then?'

He nodded. ‘But no rain. There's a high to the west of us moving south. Seas two to three metres, so it could be bouncy.'

I glanced back at the quay and the loom of the land behind it. It was quite dark now, no sign of Soo. So this was it – the moment of departure. We hauled the tender up on to the stern, fixed the lashings, then went below. ‘Had any sleep on the way over?' It was unlikely for they would have been too busy in the rising wind and sea.

Carp shook his head. ‘Would you like some coffee?' he asked. ‘Something to eat?'

‘No thanks. We'll get our heads down for a couple of hours. We need to be away about two, then we'll be well clear of the island and in international waters by first light.'

I had the double bed in the port hull and had just drifted off when I felt a shake of the shoulder and opened my eyes to see Carp's face leaning over me. ‘We got company.'

‘Coastal patrol?' I had come fully awake in a flash, the duvet thrown back and my feet already feeling for the locker top beside the bunk.

‘No. Nothing official.'

‘Who then?' I was thrusting my bare feet into my sea-boots.

But Carp was already climbing the steps that led up to the saloon. ‘Come and see for yourself.'

He was standing in the open, beside the helmsman's seat, looking aft when I joined him, the rattle of a chain sounding loud in the quiet of the anchorage. No lights anywhere now, the houses all asleep, clouds low overhead. And there, a dim shape and barely fifty metres astern of us, was a fishing boat. ‘The
Santa Maria?
' I asked him.

He nodded. ‘Thought you'd want to know.' And he
added, i was asleep on the settee just inside the saloon door when I was woken by the thump of a diesel close alongside. You reck'n they've come in for shelter?'

I didn't say anything and we stood there watching as the chain was stopped with a clunk and they began to lower the dinghy, the
Santa Maria
gradually swinging bows-to-wind so that we lost sight of all that side of the vessel. Luis started to come up just as the dinghy came out from under the
Santa Maria's
stern and I told him to go back. ‘Two of us,' I said. ‘They must only see two of us.' Carp nodded, the night glasses trained on the dinghy, which had swung towards us, one man in the stern handling the outboard, the other amidships, his head tucked into his shoulders as the spray began to fly. ‘Who is it?' I asked.

‘The gaffer, I reck'n.' He passed me the glasses. ‘You have a look. I only seen the fellow once.'

It was Evans all right, I recognised the strong, column-like neck, the way it held his head. ‘I'll be in the port hull, right for'ard in the loo.' And I added. ‘If he wants to know where I am, as far as you know I'm at home.'

Carp nodded. ‘I'll see he doesn't bother you.' He gave me that gap-toothed smile. ‘Reminds me of the days when we used to slip over to Holland and come back into the Deben, crossing the bar at night and dumping a couple of bags full of de Kuyper's Geneva bottles with a float attached like we were laying lobster pots.'

I nodded and ducked below, sending Luis up on deck while I went to the double bunk I'd been using on the port side to make certain there was nothing lying around to indicate I was on board. Soon I caught the sound of the outboard approaching, then a voice hailing us. The engine died with a splutter and after a moment I heard the sound of Evans's voice – ‘Wrapped around the prop, eh? Which one?' Then feet on the steps down into the saloon and a voice much nearer: ‘Well, it's fortunate I found you. When we swapped boats I discovered I was missing a packet containing a spare aerial and masthead bracket picked up
with other radio gear duty-free in Gib on the way out. Stuffed it all in the bilges and conveniently forgot about it. You know how it is.'

I heard a non-committal grunt from Carp and Evans's voice went on, Tell me, did customs, police, anybody search the ship before you left yesterday?'

‘No, not yesterday,' Carp replied. ‘Day before we had an Inspector Mallyno on board with ‘is sidekick. The Heffy too.'

‘The Heffy?'

‘Ah. The Chief Inspector of police. Inspector Heffy.' Carp invariably got awkward names or words slightly wrong. He'd call a transistor a transactor or a tachometer a taxmaster, and always that slight sibilance as the breath whistled through those two broken teeth of his. ‘They was on board quite a while talking with the boss.'

‘Mike Steele?'

‘Ah, the boss.'

‘What were they talking about?'

‘Oh, this and that, I reck'n.'

A pause then. Finally Evans came right out with it. ‘Well, did they search the ship or not?'

‘How would I know?'

‘You said you were there.'

‘I was up the mast, wasn't I?'

‘How the hell would I know you were up the mast? I wasn't there.' Evans's tone was one of exasperation at Carp's odd turn of phrase. I couldn't hear anything after that. He must have turned away. Then a moment later, his voice sounding much louder, as though he had moved to the entrance to the starb'd hull, ‘And what about the starb'd engine compartment? Did they look in there, too?'

‘They may have done. That where you hid it?' I heard the steps being folded back. ‘Well, there you are, mate. You can see for yourself. There's nothing there.'

‘Right at the back.'

There was the sound of movement, then Carp's voice
again, much sharper. ‘No you don't. You're not pushing in among those pipes an' leads.'

Evans started to argue, then the stepped lid slammed down and Carp said, ‘You lost anything, you talk to the boss. I don't want that engine conking out again. Not halfway to Malta I don't. And anyways, if we find it, we'll know whose it is and see you get it back.'

A pause, then Evans said, ‘Okay, so long as you don't show it to anybody. I don't want it to get around that I slipped anything in under the noses of the customs people, not when we're trying to set ourselves up in the fishing here. All right?' And then, his voice fading as he turned away, ‘Where's your boss now? Do you know?'

I didn't hear the answer, the murmur of their voices lost as they went back into the saloon. I came out of the loo then and moved aft as far as the turn of the steps over the engine. I could hear Evans's voice then, sharp and hard as he said, ‘Felixstowe Ferry! What the hell are you talking about?' And Carp answering, ‘Well, ever since you came down to the Navy quay to take over the
Santa Maria
I bin wondering. Thort I recognised you, see. But red hair – that's wot fixed me.'

‘Red hair? What do you mean?'

‘Moira. That's wot I mean. Red Moira.' And Carp went on, his accent broader and talking fast: ‘Just before you get to the Ferryboat there's a dyke runs off to the left alongside a little tidal creek full of old clung-bungs used as houseboats. There was one, I remember, belonged to some bit actor feller – was on TV once in a while, then he'd be full of drink an' happy as a lark for a week. After that, broke again and morose as if he'd had sight of Black Shuck himself. Used to wander alone along towards the King's Fleet. Same name as yours.'

‘So what?' Evans's voice was harsh. ‘It's a common enough name.'

‘Well, he's dead now. Shacked up with this Irish broad. Red Moira she was known as all along the beach. Lived in
an old boat called the
Betty-Ann
that lay there in the mud, with a rickety old bit of flotsam planking the only way of getting on board. They had a son. Used to call ‘im Pat.'

‘You've got me mixed up with somebody else.'

‘Mebbe. But then this Navy fellow came looking for you, and the odd thing is that when he was a kid he was sent to stay with the Evanses. I'd see the two of you out swimming together, larking about, all over the place you were until you broke into a cabin cruiser, downed some drink and got pissed as farts. It was the other one fell into the ‘oggin, I remember, and Billie had to go after ‘im with the pilot boat, the tide fair sluicing and the poor little bugger carried right out towards the shingle banks.'

Evans said something about it being time they were in bed and the sound of their voices faded as the two of them went out into the night. Shortly afterwards the outboard started up, the sound of it gradually dying away as Carp called down to me that I could come out now. He was grinning. ‘Couldn't get away fast enough, could he? I reck'n it was him all right.'

‘The boy you knew as a kid?' He nodded, and I said, ‘I thought you said he had red hair.'

‘That's right. Real Tishan. But you can dye it, can't you? Dye it black and it alters the whole look of a man. And that funny moustache. That's why I couldn't be sure, not at first. But the way he said it was ‘is bedtime … You know there was a moment when I thort he was going to call up his mate and have a go at searching that engine compartment without permission. That's why I started telling him about Felixstowe Ferry. Pat Evans. That was the boy's name. Same name, you see. And both of them sent off to
Ganges
. It was the nearest place, outside of the Borstal over by Hollesley, to instil some discipline into the young rascals.'

He rubbed his hands on his denims. ‘Quite a dag up on deck, real wet, like a mist had come down. Care for some
coffee?' And before I could reply, he went on, ‘Had the nerve to ask me if we'd got any liquor on board. He'd run out, he said. What he was after, of course, was to start a drinking session, so as he'd get my tongue loosened up and mebbe learn something I wouldn't have told him otherwise. I said we needed what little we'd got on board for the voyage over.' He shook his head, rubbing his hands over the greying bristles of his chin. ‘Don't ever change their spots, do they? Well, wot about you? Shall I brew some coffee?'

He didn't feel like turning in and nor did I. We'd lost a precious half hour's sleep and already it was 01.37. ‘Coffee and a small glass of something warming,' I said. ‘Then we'll get under way.'

‘Didn't like my reminding him he'd been at Felixstowe Ferry when he was a kid, did he?' He grinned as he turned away towards the galley at the after end of the port hull. ‘It'll be instant, I'm afraid.' I heard the clink of metal, the sound of water running, then the plop of the butane burner igniting. ‘Funny about that hair of his,' he called out. ‘Makes you wonder what goes on in a man's mind, don't it?'

‘How d'you mean?' I asked.

‘Well, how long's he had it dyed, that's what I mean. Can't be just to conceal his identity, otherwise he'd've changed his name, wouldn't he? You see, we didn't reck'n they were married – Tim Evans and Red Moira. She was just a living-in girlfriend on a houseboat, that was our reck'ning. Partic'ly as she was pretty free with her favours. Well, not free if you know wot I mean. She charged – when she felt like it, or when she was short of cash.'

The kettle began whistling, and when he returned with the coffee, he said, ‘They claimed they was married. Mr and Mrs Evans.' He laughed. ‘But if they wasn't, then that makes son Patrick a bastard. Reck'n that's why he dyed his hair – not wanting to be tarred with his mother's red brush?' He was opening a locker beside the table. ‘Soberano
or a real genuine malt that Lennie scrounged from one of the yacht skippers at the Maritimo.'

He pulled out the bottle and poured two stubby glasses full of the golden liquor. It was Macallan twelve-year-old, a mellow dream after the sweeter, more fiery taste of Spanish brandy. ‘Little better than a whore,' he went on. ‘And a tongue on her that could lash an East Coast barge skipper into silence. An' she used it, too, whenever she was drunk, which was pretty often. No wonder the poor devil committed suicide. To be shacked up with a whore who's been sleeping around with other men is one thing, but a red-headed Irish bitch with a tongue as coarse as a barge-load of grit …' He shrugged. ‘Ah well, he's dead now, so who cares?'

Knowing the area, even the little mud creek back of the Ferryboat Inn with the dyke-top path running north to join the Deben riverbank, remembering the old houseboats I had seen there that cold, bleak spring day, their slimy bottoms sunk deep in the tide-exposed mud, I could picture what it must have been like for a boy to grow up in a home and a family atmosphere like that. And the father committing suicide. ‘How did he do it?' I asked.

‘Drowned ‘isself,' Carp answered. ‘Wot else? It's easy enough to do at the Ferry with the shingle beach dropping almost sheer and a sluicing ebb tide that runs over five knots at springs. He was missing two days before anybody took Moira's whimpers seriously. He'd done it before, gone off on ‘is own without her knowing where. Very unpredictable man. Once he slept out at Minsmere in the woods there two whole days. Bird-watching at the Reserve there is wot he said, but we all reck'ned it was because he'd ‘ad enough of it. They found ‘is body out by the Haven buoy … That's right, the same buoy that young lieutenant was found clinging to. It was a yacht outward bound for Dutchland wot found ‘im. Helluva way to start a cruise, fishing a body out of the water that's been dead – well, it must have been close on a week by then.'