Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 19
Work on the boat was proceeding all too fast. At this rate the goddess would
be on the high seas before spring. There stood the Ocean Dream, immensely tall and
towering queenly above the pigmy boats on the ways, looking every inch a thoroughbred.
Her owner was climbing down the ladder propped against her hull; he’d just
changed into painting gear and it looked like there was very little more to do. The upper
hull glittered white in the feeble February sun; below the waterline the red antifouling
paint appeared to be complete, too. The goddess was nowhere to be seen.
“She’s looking good,” Bill ventured.
“Thanks.”
“On your own today?” A guy had to be subtle. A guy didn’t openly express
interest in another guy’s woman.
“Yup.”
So much for that. “Uh, when are you going back in the water?” The owner held
himself upright like a pongo but he’d always been quite friendly. Maybe Dad’s age; it
was difficult to tell with old guys. He’d never volunteered his name and, taking the hint,
neither had Bill.
“Soon.”
Didn’t give much away. Maybe they were going to run drugs between here and
the States. It was reckoned to be a profitable business. The marina already bore the
stigma of illegality; a liveaboard couple at the end of the wharf, Royboy and Rasha, had
a small grow op aboard. Quite good stuff they produced, right under poor old Dad’s
nose, too. Should he shop them? So far as Bill was concerned, it presented a worrisome
conflict of interest.
“And then I guess you’ll be taking off for the blue yonder?”
The guy gave him an irritated look. “Not for a while yet.”
Of course, there’d be no end of fitting out to do if they were going to run drugs.
Secret lockers built into the fabric of the hull, undetectable even to the trained eye.
Guns hidden in hollowed-out slots in the keel. Red Duffy would help with that work for
a share of the profits.
The guy had opened his can of paint and was sizing up the hull. The Ocean
Dream’s keel rested on a heavy trolley that ran on rails leading, by way of a traverser,
to the haul-out elevator. There were two vertical posts welded to the port side of the
trolley and the boat was roped to these posts, preventing it from toppling. As an additional
precaution, an eight-foot baulk of timber was wedged under the starboard side of
the hull.
Bill backed off nervously. The guy had mounted a stepladder with a hammer,
and was about to knock away the small wooden wedge between the baulk and the hull.
Probably he wanted to paint underneath where the wedge was. He was increasing the
odds of disaster, but only marginally because the port side of the boat was still secured
to the trolley posts. One hoped. It would do a hell of a lot of damage if the Ocean
Dream toppled onto those other boats.
The guy began to bash at the wedge with his hammer.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 20
The wedge came free, dropping to the ground. The guy, bursting with confidence,
pushed the baulk away. It fell to the ways with that odd hollow bonking sound
that heavy timber makes when it hits the deck.
Was it Bill’s imagination, or did the Ocean Dream’s mainmast move against the
cold sky just a fraction?
THE SAME SUNDAY MORNING: THE CRUNCH
Lionel Slade watched the baulk fall away with satisfaction, dropping his hammer. A
small square of unpainted hull was revealed. Less than five minutes work and the painting
would be complete, and he could tell that crook Duffy to put him back in the water.
Duffy’s fee for haul-out and dry-land storage was extortionate and the sooner he was
free of the guy, the better. Once the major interior work was complete he’d quit the
marina altogether and drop anchor in the inlet for the final finishing off. It wasn’t that he
couldn’t afford Duffy’s charges. It was a matter of principle.
He couldn’t wait to get away from this place. The longer they stayed here, the
greater the chance of one of his ex-clients locating his bolt-hole. Yesterday he’d been
on deck doing some varnishing, and he could have sworn he recognized a jockey-sized
guy chatting to someone near the yard gates. Nasty-looking little rat-faced fellow. He
hadn’t been able to place him at first, but later that evening it had come back to him; he
looked like the guy he’d seen among his disappointed clients vandalizing his office door
last December. It couldn’t be the same man, could it? That would be too much of a
coincidence. But it was a sign that his nerves were on edge. The sooner they got away
from this hellhole, the better. It was frustrating to have all that loot sitting in the boat and
nowhere to spend it.
Susi seemed happy enough but she didn’t have his responsibilities, swanning off
to Peterville in the Volvo most days while he was slaving his guts out, and coming back
laden with TV dinners, all that kind of crap. TV dinners wouldn’t be available in mid-
Pacific. He was beginning to have second thoughts about Susi. Sure, she was decorative
enough, but he couldn’t make her understand that he didn’t want to talk about his
ex-business in Victoria. It was all in the past and he’d drawn a line under it, but she
was forever questioning him. She was probably the kind of woman who would shop
him if she ever found out the truth, or at least try a little blackmail. Well, he had her
passport and life savings together with a wad of money her dad had given her, locked
up on board in the strong box. He knew this had begun to grate on her but she was
scared to ask for it in case he looked on it as the last straw, and booted her out.
Maybe he—
What was happening? Jesus, the ladder was overbalancing!
He swiveled on the rung, quickly checked the ground for obstructions, and
jumped. He landed heavily but managed to miss the paint pot and his small pile of
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 21
equipment. The ladder fell painfully across his back. Crouching, he shrugged it aside
and glanced up at the hull angrily. Accidents always infuriated him.
The huge bulk of the hull was toppling toward him.
Rage turned to terror. With a scream of fright he scuttled toward the keel,
seeking sanctuary under the reverse curve of the hull. The ground beneath him shook to
an almighty crash and splintering of fiberglass. He lay whimpering, paralyzed with fear,
in a low tunnel formed by the hull’s reverse curve and the canting keel. He didn’t want
to move again, ever. He was safe here, and the world out there was a terrifying place.
“Mr. Slade! Are you OK?”
He wanted to call out, but he couldn’t. He lay there huddled, knees drawn up.
He couldn’t think.
“Thank God!” A stooping silhouette appeared in the bright triangle at the end
of the dark tunnel. “You’re OK, are you? Hold on, I’m coming in.”
It was one of the yard men. He crawled toward Slade who soon found himself
being dragged out into daylight, whether he wanted it or not. He lay there trembling,
blinking up at a circle of faces. Behind them, the masts of Ocean Dream slanted away
across the yard.
“What the hell happened?”
The accusing tones of Red Duffy brought him to his senses. Fear turned to
rage. Rage gave him strength. He crawled to his feet. He’d never liked Duffy from the
start, the red-whiskered fatty, and he was damned if he’d be harangued by him.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” he shouted. “The goddamned boat fell over! And
why? Because you bastards didn’t secure her properly. By Christ, Duffy, I’m going to
sue you for every cent you own!”
Duffy stepped forward and seized him by the coverall collar. “ You tied the
knots! You’ll be the one sued, you dumb jackass. Look what you’ve done!” Showing
surprising strength he dragged Slade away from the stern of the capsized boat and
stabbed a meaty finger toward the yard.
It was a scene of devastation. In falling, the Ocean Dream had taken the next
boat with her resulting in a domino effect, and a further two boats lay on their sides amid
a tangle of masts and rigging.
“There’s hundreds of thousands of damage there,” a yard man said in tones of
awe.
“Not good, eh?” said a kid whom Slade had seen hanging around the yard on
many occasions. He seemed to be regarding the scene with a kind of horrified glee.
He presented an easier target than Duffy. “Do you know anything about this,
kid?” Slade snarled. “Have you been fooling around with the knots?”
“Easy, there,” Duffy said. “His dad’s a cop. You can’t shift the blame onto him.
You tied the knots, Slade, you face the consequences.”
“Sure, I tied the knots. Who untied them? that’s what I want to know. The
security at this marina’s a joke. This kid here, how did he get in? He’s not a boat
owner. OK, so he may not be responsible for all this, but if he can get in, anyone can.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 22
“Only fool would knock away the starboard support without checking his knots
first,” Duffy said. “Vandalism’s beside the point. You were too goddamned idle to secure
your boat properly and this is the result.”
“Anyway, your insurance will cover the damage, Mr. Slade,” said a newcomer
whom Slade recognized as Charlie Hood the salesman.
“I don’t have insurance. You can’t get insurance when you’re going blue water
in a wooden boat. Not at the kind of price I’d want to pay, anyway.”
“I could have sold you a policy at a very reasonable premium.”
Slade switched his anger from Duffy to Charlie Hood. “I bet you could! And
would it have covered this?” He made a grand gesture with his arm, losing his balance
in the process. Hood caught him. Slade shook him off angrily. “The fine print would
have ruled out this kind of accident, you can bet your life on it. It’s easy to be wise after
the event, eh? You recommended this goddamned marina, Hood, and now look
what’s happened!” Suddenly he found nothing else to say, and as he regarded the
scene of destruction he felt tears in his eyes. He wheeled away abruptly and crouched
down, ostensibly examining the damage to Ocean Dream’s hull.
“It’s not only the damage, it’s the loss of goodwill,” he heard Duffy telling the
others. “If news of this gets around, people will think twice about bringing their boats
here. It doesn’t take much to get a marina a bad name. I’ll thank you people to keep
your goddamned mouths shut about this.”
LATER THAT MORNING: POLICE PRESENCE
It was an alarming situation for Slade. Whatever Duffy said, a spectacular accident
such as this was bound to find its way into the papers. How long would it be before
some little old lady, subscribing to the Victoria Times Colonist, connected the Lionel
Slade who’d had a brush with death in Noss Cove with the Lionel Slade who had defrauded
her in Victoria?
To make matters worse, a plainclothes RCMP officer arrived on the scene
within ten minutes of the accident. Slade recognized him as a man he’d seen lunching in
the Globe several times. He didn’t look like a policeman, more like a professor of medieval
history, but he had the correct ID. It was worrying; he’d never reckoned on a
police presence in this out-of-the-way spot.
The Mountie was angry at first, haranguing Duffy as they all stood regarding the
wreckage. “What the hell’s going on here, Red?” Apparently the two were old acquaintances.
Duffy was surprisingly deferential. “Just a little accident, Eric. We’ll have it all
tidied up in a couple of days. Nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing to worry about? Jesus, Red, my son was nearly flattened by this
bloody boat and you say there’s nothing to worry about? The lad was shaking like a
leaf when I met him outside!”
“Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t have been here in the first place.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 23
“That’s beside the point.” The Mountie considered the matter while he regarded
the Ocean Dream lying on her beam ends, and seemed to calm down. “I guess
you’re right. I’ll have a word with him. And if you catch him in here again, let me
know, eh?”
“Understood. Not that it’ll do any good. The marina’s a magnet to lads of his
age.”
“Maybe.” The Mountie regarded the inlet and hillsides with an expression that
Slade could not quite fathom, sighed, and said, “You’ll be Lionel Slade, right? Mr.
Duffy tells me you’re the owner of this boat.” The name Slade obviously meant nothing
to him. He held out his hand. His manner was reassuringly respectful as he introduced
himself. “Eric Devoran. Staff Sergeant, Peterville Detachment.”
“Yeah, it’s my boat.” Somehow, Slade had to get rid of this guy. The last thing
he wanted was a police investigation with its attendant publicity. Fortunately this Mountie
looked pretty ineffective; lanky, equine, mild of manner. “Accidents will happen to
the best of us, eh?”
“So you think it was an accident.” The Mountie was strolling over toward the
trolley, looking up at the ropes that still dangled uselessly from the steel posts. “Experienced
sailor, are you, Mr. Slade?”
“I reckon so. But like I said, accidents will happen.”
The Mountie fingered the end of a rope. “You probably heard my son was here
at the time of the, uh, incident. The way he tells it, you were accusing Mr. Duffy of negligence.
You suggested the incident was caused by vandals who entered the marina due
to poor security procedures. Isn’t that so, Red?”
Duffy lit a cigarette, collecting his thoughts and alert for adverse publicity. “Well,
hell, that’s what he said, sure enough. That’s what he said, in the heat of the moment.
It’s not what he meant, for sure. Mr. Slade knows as well as I do, the security at this
marina is as tight as a maiden’s… As tight as a drum.”
“He’s right,” Slade said in some relief, similarly conscious of the newsworthy
aspect of the disaster. “Heat of the moment. Ask yourself, officer, if you suddenly find
thousands of dollar’s worth of damage done to your boat, wouldn’t you lose your cool
for a moment and look for a scapegoat? Let’s face facts. I guess I didn’t secure the
lines properly. This mess is my own goddamned fault.”
“You heard that, Mr. Devoran?” Duffy said, alert for the main chance. “Mr.
Slade admitted liability. Put that in your notebook, eh? All caused by his negligence.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Slade said in some alarm, wondering about the
fine print in Duffy’s insurance coverage. Even if he was not insured himself, there was
no doubt the yard would be covered against this kind of accident and he had no desire
to prejudice any claim Duffy might make.
“How far would you go, Mr. Slade?” the cop asked.
“Well, Jesus, it’s all a mystery to me,” Slade muttered, feeling trapped. “I mean,
I thought I’d tied those lines securely. But that was a little while back. Maybe the
weather, expansion and contraction and God knows what all.... Maybe they’d loosened
of their own accord.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 24
“So you should have checked them before knocking out the starboard timber,”
Duffy pursued.
It was a high price to pay for the sake of avoiding police involvement and further
publicity, but pay it he must. “OK, I guess I should have. Must have slipped my
mind. A lot on my mind right now, what with the refitting and winding down the business
and suchlike.”
“What kind of business are you in, Mr. Slade?” the cop asked.
He felt an ulcerous pain start up in his stomach. Was the guy onto something,
or was he just plain inquisitive? He leaned against one of the trolley posts feeling
hunted. “Oh, this and that—”
“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Slade?”
“Bit queasy. It’s the shock, I guess.”
“You’ve gone quite pale. I’m sorry, all this happened and here’s me bombarding
you with questions. Well....” The Mountie took a last look around. “It seems
there’s nothing here for me to worry about. Bad luck, I’d say, and maybe a bit of carelessness.
It’s lucky nobody was hurt. Be sure you check your lines in future, Mr.
Slade. See you around.”
I hope not, Slade thought, watching him go and beginning to worry once again
about the media. All it needed was for a journalist to drive by, spot the mess and start
asking questions, and the name of Slade would be blazoned from Cape Scott to Victoria.
Then again, there was no point in getting paranoid. There were three plus factors.
One: his clients didn’t know he owned the Ocean Dream; Two, it was the devastation
that would make the news, not so much he personally; and Three: little old ladies
didn’t like to admit they’d been made fools of, although the sums involved might counteract
any reluctance.
And the minus factor was the damage to the boat. The hull was holed, although
Ocean Dream’s fall had been cushioned by its unfortunate neighbor to some extent.
There was also considerable internal damage to bulkheads and other woodwork due to
the flexing of the hull. It was not going to be a cheap fix.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK: DISCUSSIONS IN THE GLOBE
By the following Tuesday, details of the accident at Duffy’s marina had received coverage
in the Victoria Times-Colonist, the Peterville Echo and the local TV station. As if
this were not bad enough, Slade’s problems were compounded in a discussion with
Duffy two days later.
“I’ve claimed on my yard insurance for the other boats,” the marina owner told
Slade. “They’re sending a man round later today. As for your boat, you’re on your
own, fella.”
“What! You’re saying your insurance doesn’t cover me?”
“No, I’m saying I’m not claiming for the damage to your boat.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 25
“For God’s sake, Duffy, why not? What difference does it make to you? It’s
the insurance company’s loss, not yours!”
Duffy regarded him steadily. “I did n’t take kindly to you trying to put the blame
on my yard. Look on it as punishment.”
A lump of anger grew in Slade’s chest. “You’re just being vindictive!”
“You’re darn right. And there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it.
Now, are you gonna authorize me to carry out repairs?”
“You? Repair my boat? You’ve got to be crazy!”
“Fine. I can give you the names of a couple other outfits that can do the work.
Course, they’re a ways off. You’ll have to truck the boat to their yard. That’ll cost a
mint.”
“I’ll get subcontractors in and do the work here!”
“No, you won’t. It’s my men do the work or you get the hell out. So I guess
you’re stuck with me, boyo.”
Slade thought about it. An experienced wheeler-dealer, he knew when to cut
his losses. And in this case he had very little alternative. “Let me have an estimate,” he
muttered.
A curious and neutral calm settled over the pair as they surveyed the yard. All
the boats were upright and chocked up now. Additional local help had been found and
repairs were under way to all the damaged boats except Ocean Dream. The hillsides
sang with the buzz of grinders and the slapping of power hammers. The unseasonable
warm spell had come to an end and a misty west coast drizzle was falling. Slade was
beaten; it was as simple as that. His own rough estimate of repair cost was around forty
thousand. Duffy would overcharge him, sure, but the man wouldn’t be stupid about it.
Slade was on site and could keep track of the hours.
“Ah, the hell with the estimate,” he said finally. “Go ahead with the job.”
They shook hands.
The injustice of it all came home to him after a few beers in the Globe bar that
evening. He could afford the repairs, sure, but it was goddamned unfair that he should
have to open that strong box under the forward berth and dig into his precious funds for
an incident that was not his fault. Some other bastard had loosened his ropes and in any
normal situation he would have told that cop.
Susi was watching him over the table with a worried expression. He was beginning
to dislike that look. She’d spent the whole day pissing around in Peterville.
Probably meeting her dad, leaving her shipmate saddled with all the work and worries.
Sooner or later they’d have to get rid of the Volvo and that would clip her wings more
than somewhat. The local bus service was rudimentary.
“What’s it going to cost?” she asked.
“How the hell would I know?”
“Li, we’re in this together.” She put on a sweet reasonable tone. “Just tell me
what you think, roughly.”
“Maybe fifty thousand after that bastard Duffy’s add-ons.”
“Fifty thousand! Can you afford it?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 26
Now wasn’t that just like her? “Can we afford it, you mean. Yeah, we can afford
it, sure. Between us.”
“Between us?”
“Like you said, we’re in this together, aren’t we?”
She was looking scared. “But I don’t have much money! Just my savings from
the spa and a bit my dad gave me. It’ll clean me out and it still won’t put much of a
dent in fifty thousand!”
“That’s true enough. But remember, I’ll be paying the balance. That’s a hell of
a lot more than you’ll be paying.”
Now she was getting angry. “Li, this isn’t fair!”
“Not fair? Considering the bill you’ve let me in for, you’re getting off lightly,
girl.”
“What are you talking about, Li? I haven’t cost you anything, and I’ve worked
my butt off helping you fit the boat out.”
“All right, who was it loosened the lines and wrecked the boat? It sure as hell
wasn’t me. It had to be you, fooling around polishing the cleats and forgetting to make
the lines fast again afterwards. You could have killed me!”
“Li! You’ve already admitted it was you!”
“Only to keep the cop quiet. What I say and what I think are two different
things. Anyway, regardless of that,” he continued hastily, before she could ask why he
needed to keep the cop quiet, “we pool our resources. It’s simple enough. What’s
mine is yours, what’s yours is mine.”
“But that means I don’t have any control over my own money!”
He smiled. “You won’t have any money by the time Duffy’s bill’s paid. And as
to control — you can only have one skipper on a boat. Otherwise you get confusion,
anarchy and fatal errors. You’d have learned that, if you had any experience of blue
water sailing.”
But his enjoyment of the verbal fencing came to an end all too soon. A voice
spoke from over his shoulder.
“I hear you’ve had a spot of bother with the ketch, Mr. Slade.”
He looked up to find a face of surpassing ugliness goggling down at him. After
a moment’s horror he recognized it as belonging to the wealthy widow he’d met at the
end of Waterside Road. Mrs. Rooke-Challenger, wasn’t it? Whatever. He fixed an
unctuous expression on his own face, then remembered he was retired. This was no
time to start developing another client list. He grinned ruefully instead.
“Yes. All Duffy’s fault, of course. Security at the marina is just a joke.”
“Absolutely. If I’ve told Duffy once, I’ve told him a thousand times. ‘Hire security
guards, man! Dress them in uniforms; people respect that. Arm them to the fullest
extent the Law will allow.’ But does he listen? Not on your life.” The last couple of
sentences had been accompanied by a fixed and curious stare in Susi’s direction.
“Mrs. Rooke-Challenger, this is Miss Sutcliffe.”
“And where are you from, Miss Sutcliffe?
“Vancouver.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 27
The old lady seemed dissatisfied with this reply. “Is that so? Is that so?”
“Yes,” said Susi firmly. “And where are you from, Mrs., uh, what was it again?”
Ignoring her, Mrs. Rooke-Challenger continued, “And failing security guards,
what we need is a strong police presence in Noss Cove. The local policeman would still
be investigating your little accident right now, were he not in the habit of persecuting innocent
motorists and giving futile lectures to any audience fool enough to listen, leaving a
young child unguarded in the house.”
“Would the young child be Bill Devoran, Mrs. Uh?” Susi asked.
“Young Wilberforce, yes. I do so detest abbreviations.”
“I’ve met Bill several times at the marina. He must be all of fifteen. In my opinion
he’s quite capable of looking after himself.”
Noticing the old girl turning a funny color, Slade said quickly, “I didn’t want to
bother the police with the accident. Duffy and I can handle the matter between us.”
“Very wise. And as for your inflated opinion of Wilberforce’s capabilities,
young lady, I see it as my duty to call on him on a daily basis. He is not capable of
looking after himself. He does not eat proper foods, he does not wash, he does not
change his clothes, and the place looks like a pigsty. Which is of course to be expected
in a young lad, but precisely the same situation obtains when his father is home. That
man’s a disgrace to the Mounties!” Her sharp old gaze was roving the bar as she
spoke, ensuring that her words had reached the far corners. Suddenly she stiffened.
“There!” she said in a dramatic whisper. “There’s your culprit, or I’m a Dutchman!”
“Eh?” Slade swiveled in his chair, following her gaze.
Sitting alone at window table was the rat-faced guy.
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger seated herself uninvited as a waitress arrived. “Get me
a gin-and-tonic, will you, gal? Now, as I was saying. I have no little skill in data gathering,
as you may have heard. And I’ve gathered data on that fellow over there from
the register at this very hotel. He signs his name as Wilf Ferris and he gives his address
as Victoria. Both of those data are patently false, but they do provide a starting point.
He comes here roughly once a month, and according to the owner of this establishment
he does very little except skulk around Duffy’s marina. He owns a white van. It can be
viewed in the car park at this moment. Now what do you deduce from that?”
“Not a heck of a lot,” Susi said.
“He also uses a camcorder. I’ve observed it on his person, and I’ve observed
it in his van. The van was locked. Now, it’s beginning to add up, isn’t it?”
Slade shot Susi a resigned look. They were trapped by this old nutter. Sure,
he’d been puzzled by the man Ferris’s appearances, if his name was in fact Ferris. But
he didn’t think he was going to learn anything from Mrs. Rooke-Challenger, who’d obviously
been reading too many crime thrillers.
“Explain, please,” he said tiredly. He was getting a headache. Either it was the
beer, or it was this old fool. Or both.
“Well, clearly he’s a muckraking reporter! The Island is full of them, rank amateurs
most of them. Freelance journalists, that’s what they call themselves. And when
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 28
they find there’s no muck to rake, why, they create some. And since they’re already on
the spot they’re first with the news!”
Now there was a horrifying thought. For the next few nights Slade brooded
about it. It would explain why the little runt was present at that disturbance outside his
Victoria office, certainly. And it could explain his visits to the marina, and maybe even
the accident to Ocean Dream. It would explain how the report and photos reached the
media so quickly. He found he’d clenched his fists. If he found that little shit anywhere
near the Ocean Dream he’d break his scrawny little neck, that’s what he’d do!
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