Under Suspicion (9 page)

‘Hi there, skipper,’ hollered Jason the Young Sporting Blade. ‘I’m Jase. This here’s Debsy.’ The arm round my waist gave an affectionate squeeze, eliciting a silly giggle from me. ‘Dragged her along for the fun.’

Sinclair’s eyes swept over me and dismissed what he saw.

Jason clambered over the low side rail. ‘Marlin or tuna today, what d’you reckon?’

I’d done a little bit of research. The marlin/tuna season ended last month. Had he slipped up, or was it a carefully considered master stroke that would
confirm his role as a dilettante poser?

‘Never know your luck.’ Sinclair’s reply was slick, diplomatic. ‘But you’re more likely to hook a barracuda or a shark.’ Well fielded. Avoided lies
and
didn’t show the client up. He put a hand on the rail and vaulted expertly onto the white plastic deck-boarding.

Time to reinforce my image. ‘Jaaaase, help me!’ I put a tentative sandal on the low gunwale and pressed. The boat shifted and tilted under my weight. ‘Ooooh,’ I wailed.

‘Honestly, Debs, you
are
a bit of a wet.’ Jason took my arm and heaved me on board. Boys together, a shared glance with Sinclair said it all. His ingrained attitude to females, as normal as breathing, was now being given carte blanche, in the call of duty, of course. United in their male superiority, they clambered up the short ladder to the con deck above the cockpit and went into a huddle over the bank of dials.

Abandoned to my own devices, I edged along the narrow space between shiny chrome rail and cabin wall, making for the tiny triangle of deck in front of the curtained saloon. Gingerly I lowered myself onto the smooth whiteness, settled my brightly coloured cotton bag beside me and leant back against the glass, eyes closed, face tilted to the warm rays of the sun, top buttons of shirt seductively undone
à la
Saint Tropez fashion model…

‘Can’t stay there, doll.’ A voice from overhead intruded on the peaceful slap of water against the hull.

Lazily I opened my eyes and lazily closed them again. ‘Why not?’ I practised a spoilt super-model pout.

‘’S a bit rough outside the land shadow,’ the voice continued, indifferent to my charms. ‘When we hit them bigger waves out there, you’ll get a good soaking. Might even be washed overboard.’ A hoarse chuckle. ‘Be a bit of a bummer for your
amigo
if you turned up on the end of his line, eh?’

Let him think he’d spooked me. ‘
Eeek
.’ With the squawk of alarm he’d anticipated, I scrambled to my feet.

Grinning down at me from the upper con deck was a chubby-faced man, close-cropped head, broad square shoulders, square shovels of hands. A jerk of his thumb indicated that I’d find a seat inside. Obediently this little lady gathered up her beach bag and scuttled to her appointed place in the main-deck cabin.

There I readopted the recumbent Saint Tropez pose against the clotted-cream-shade, smartly practical, faux leather upholstery. Set in teak woodwork with brass inlay was an impressive instrument panel, a duplicate of the one on the con deck above. With VHF radiotelephone, satellite Global Positioning equipment and radar screen,
The Saucy Nancy
was well equipped for her operations, legitimate or otherwise. Speaking of operations – that black swivel chair out on the rear deck with its straps, harness and
footboard looked uncomfortably like something out of a primitive reference book for nineteenth-century surgeons. Well, I was leaving everything in that area to Jason. The epic struggle between man and fish would go unobserved by DJ Smith. I’d be below feigning seasickness and sussing out the best place to plant the bug. Not that I would escape the tedium of a virtual-reality demonstration when we were back in the office. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist using that swivel chair of Gerry’s for a rerun.

Jason’s voice drifted down from the con deck. ‘300 hp Turbo Diesels, Debsy!’ The ladder creaked and his designer trainers came into view, followed by his legs, tanned with a fuzz of blond hair and his expensively casual pale blue Bermuda shorts.

He flopped down onto the cushions beside me. ‘Did you hear that, Debs?
300 horses
. With that power—’

‘Oh, Ja-ase, stop going on about those stupid engines.’ I yawned theatrically. It wasn’t hard. That sort of thing bored me rigid. ‘When are they going to serve the free drinks?’

‘How should I know? Just like a woman to ask something like that.’ His injured look wasn’t faked. ‘Once we get going, I suppose.’

‘But we
are
moving, Jase.’ I abruptly abandoned the Saint Tropez pose. ‘Ooooh, there’s nobody at the controls. Where are the crew?’ My voice rose in a squeak of panic. ‘We’ve been
cast adrift
.’

‘Don’t be so
silly
, Debs.’ With the slightest hint of an appreciative wink, he pushed me back onto the seat. ‘John’s up there steering from the con deck. Once we’re out of the harbour, Steve and Jaime will select the lures for the sea conditions and set up the outrigger and stern lines.’

The male mind seems more than a little obsessed with such technicalities. I’d have to sidetrack Jason to stop him trotting out all those boring details.

A bald head poked through the hatchway leading to the lower cabin. A small diamond-shaped scar on his temple showed pink against the swarthy skin. The crewman’s gaze was directed at my Lord and Master. ‘When we pass entrance of the marina,
el capitan
come to talk with you about the choosing of the lures.’ The head withdrew.

‘Jaime, I presume,’ I muttered. ‘Well, Jase,’ I raised my voice to carrying-level, ‘while you’re confabbing with
el capitan
, I’ll have a chance to get into my book.’ From the depths of my striped beach bag I plucked a fat tome. Pointedly, I held it up in front of me, flicked it open and began to read.

From the other side of the book barrier came, ‘I get the message, Debsy.’

‘Great,’ I said, reading on.

‘
Romance, glamour, seismic sex…
’ His finger traced the words on the front cover. ‘If you’re looking for that, Debs, I’m ready when you are.’

‘Oooh, Jase!’ I dropped the book, snuggled up to
him and pulled his head down to mine. ‘Fat chance, asshole,’ I murmured into his ear. ‘You’re on duty, remember.’

‘Of course, I don’t mean
now
, Debs.’ He lolled back against the soft leather, arms spread wide. ‘You’ll just have to control yourself.’ Leaning forward he nuzzled my ear…

When the low thrum of those 300 horsepower engines changed to a throaty roar, I knew I was going to be in trouble. We’d cleared the artificial mole that protects the marina, and
The Saucy Nancy
began to act – well, saucily. Out here, away from shelter of the land, the waves were disconcertingly large and flecked with white-caps. I eyed them uneasily. It’s funny, I’m a pretty good windsurfer and waves, even big ones, are something to be enjoyed, skimmed over, treated as an exciting challenge. But it’s entirely different matter when I meet these waves as a passenger on a boat. Perhaps it’s something to do with not being in control. And the powerful
Saucy Nancy
was already challenging the waves head-on, with predictable effects on my stomach. But I mustn’t let Jason suspect. I’d never hear the end of it. He’d always be bringing it up. Bringing it up… My stomach gave a queasy lurch. I closed my eyes to shut out the oscillating horizon…

‘I can see you’re beginning to relax and enjoy yourself, Debs.’ Jason’s voice was just audible above the roar of the engines. ‘We’re about to set the outriggers
and the stern lines. Want to join us?’

‘No thanks, Jase. I’m fine as I am.’ From my recumbent position I had a mercifully restricted view of the stern and creaming wake. Just then,
The Saucy Nancy’
s sleek bows sliced into a wave, checked, pointed skywards and, in a whirling kaleidoscope of blues and greens as sky met sea, raced on. If I
really
concentrated, maybe – just maybe – I could restrain the urge to puke…

After what seemed an age, the roar of the engines died to a slow rumble. I opened my eyes. The boat seemed to be more or less stationary. I eased myself into a more vertical position and tested for queasiness – on the Q scale, perhaps 4. Out on deck, Jason was bent over an oil drum stirring it with a stick, while Steve and Jaime were setting out rods at intervals round the sides of the boat.

‘What are you doing, Jase?’ I called.

‘Come and see, Debsy. I’m making dinner for our shark.’

Some kind of fish stew? I really should have known better and stayed where I was, but curiosity overruled better judgement. It was cool and shady in the cabin. Out on deck, the glare and the heat delivered a knockout punch. I tottered across to where he was standing, put my arm round his waist, and peered into the drum. ‘Let me see—’

An overwhelming stench rocketed the Q scale to 10, triggering an unstoppable retching from my
stomach muscles. This morning’s breakfast enriched the fishy slurry.

‘Debsy!’
His anguished scream rose above the cry of circling seagulls.

In disgrace, I slunk off to the sanctuary of the cabin once more…

‘Strike!’ The shout percolated a queasy half-slumber.

‘Go for it,
hombre
!’

‘Ya-
hee
!’ Jason, exultant.

Cautiously I opened an eye and levered myself upright. Through the open doorway, I could see Jason harnessed into the swivel chair, feet braced, arms straining to hold the bowed rod. The crew were grouped at the stern collecting in the other rods in well-rehearsed action.

Tick tick tick tick tick.
The ratchet on Jason’s giant reel whirled round with the sound of a Geiger counter gone mad.
Zwing
the line shot out as some monster of the deep made a dash for it.

Jaime stood behind the chair shouting instructions. ‘Let him run, Hayson!’ His gloved hand reached over and locked the clutch. ‘Check,
now
.’

The tip of the rod arched, dipped. The harness tightened. Steve danced about camcording for posterity the titanic struggle between man and fish. None of them had eyes for me. Certainly not Jason in his Hemingway role, braced legs and straining back, grunting with the effort. Nor Jaime, gazing astern at
the leaping shape glimpsed dark against the boiling water churned up by its frenzied struggles. Nor Steve, eye glued to viewfinder zooming in on Jason’s gritted teeth and white-knuckled grip. That left Sinclair up on the con deck at the reins of his 300 horses, but hopefully all his attention would be on scanning the briny with that radar fish-finder for the next scaly victim.

Excited shouts. ‘
Cuidado
! He going to jump!’

‘Wow! How big is
that
!’ Jason’s voice squeaky, ecstatic.

Fighting back nausea, I slid off the banquette.

‘Clutch! Clutch!
Clutch!
He dive!’

Ripping
tickticktick
of line streaking out.

‘Keep pressure, Hayson. When he come up, he come like bullet from gun.’

A couple of tottering steps and I was at the hatch staring into the lower cabin, dim and shadowy in contrast to the glare from sun and sea. If challenged, I’d say I was looking for somewhere dark to lie down, somewhere away from that heaving horizon and blinding sunlight flashing and sparkling and stabbing at my brain.

The boat lurched violently. I grabbed at the hatch frame and half-fell down the carpeted treads. Down below, the engine noise was very loud, the air heavy with the smell of hot diesel. I stood there, hand pressed to mouth as my hyper-sensitive stomach heaved in protest. Lucky Jason, out there in the fresh
air enjoying himself. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. Not much headroom, hardly space to swing a cat – certainly not one of Gorgonzola’s proportions. On my right was a compact galley-sink and gleaming fridge, on the left, a smart red-cushioned bench and table. Directly in front of me I could just make out a narrow white door with the letters WC in shiny brass. No pictures. No clutter. No secure hiding place for the listening device in my pocket. No hiding place at all. Not even under the table that was designed to clip against the wall. When hinged up, it would reveal the underside. Where else could I conceal the bug? I had no luck with the two cupboards, one above and one below the sink. Both were locked.

Down in the lower cabin the motion of the boat was horribly intensified, making it difficult to think. An undignified rush to that WC was on the cards… the smell of diesel…the noise… Precious minutes passed before it dawned that I would be wasting my time, that it would be useless to plant a bug here. We’d not pick up anything, the engine noise would drown all talk. I should have thought of that immediately. I
would
have thought of it, if I hadn’t been… Another crippling wave of nausea swept over me. My one thought was to get out of this claustrophobic hell, escape to the fresh air, lie down and close my eyes.

I’d one foot on the lowest stair tread when the cabin above darkened. I caught a glimpse of the camcorder dangling by its strap. Steve.

‘Found the heads, doll?’

Heads? In my woozy state, the word conjured up severed heads with staring eyes, dripping gore John-the-Baptist style. Vomiting imminent.

‘Bogs, WC, toilet,’ Steve spoke slowly and kindly as to an idiot. ‘Steady on, doll. You look as if you need to pay them another visit.’

I smiled weakly, fighting to control the nausea.

‘Shame you’re not enjoying yourself. Just when your lad’s landed a big ’un too.’

The thought of the glassy eyes and bloody gills of shark or barracuda gasping its last was the final straw. Steve moved hastily aside as I cleared the remaining steps with the agility and speed of an Olympic athlete and made it to the rail just in time.

For the next couple of hours – it felt like days – I lay on the soft cushions of the smartly practical banquette in a haze of queasiness punctuated by dry retching, only intermittently aware of shouts and cries. Jason landing another prize catch, or losing it? I didn’t care.

I must have fallen asleep. A hand on my shoulder was shaking me gently. Reluctantly I opened my eyes. Steve loomed over me.

‘You’ll be OK now, doll. We’re almost back at the marina.’