“I suspect one and all, Wilberforce! Noss Cove is a prime example of your
apparently peaceful community where undercurrents of hatred, jealousy and corruption
fester, erupting occasionally in outbreaks of brutal violence. One only has to look at the
behavior of that so-called pillar of local society, May Vinge! My informants have given
me to understand she has something to hide. Be that as it may, we’ll have a quick game
of Mastermind while we drink our coffee.”
A stranger might have been baffled by the rapid change of subject, but Mastermind
was a pleasant tradition with Bill and his Gran. Or it would be pleasant, if only he
could win more often. So he laid out the small board and positioned his four colored
pegs, making sure there was absolutely no way the old girl could get a glimpse of them.
Her skill at the game was uncanny.
“Okay, Gran,” he said, determinedly not looking at his pegs. He’d sometimes
wondered if she could see their reflection in his eyes. Red, green, green, yellow.
“Right,” said the old girl. “Let’s make an assumption here. Let’s assume you’ve
decided to use only three colors, to throw me off the scent.”
Jeez, she was getting it right already!
“And let’s assume the color you’ve used twice is, uh, ahah! green, I think it
would be, Wilberforce, knowing your naive environmental preferences. You’d put
them in the middle, I think.” And she pegged in her first guess: blue, green, green, yellow.
Three right on the first guess! It was astonishing. It was more than luck, surely?
Could she read his mind? He’d sometimes wondered about that. In the past he’d tried
to foil her by popping in four pegs without looking at them until after her first guess.
Gran took her next guess. Red, green, green, yellow. Good grief! All correct
in two guesses!
And so the mini-tournament went on. By the time they’d finished their coffee
she was winning by five games to one. With a grunt of satisfaction she put the lid on the
box and stood. “Enough, Wilberforce.” She began to struggle into a coat. The elderly
bullterrier Colonel, scenting action, rose stiffly to his feet and waddled to the door. “I
propose to beard the Vinge woman in her lair this very afternoon. No more pussyfooting
around, Wilberforce! But first, I’m off to the marina to assist your father in his socalled
investigations. The game is afoot!”
He climbed into Gran’s Ford Fiesta thoughtfully. On the one hand there was
Dad, refusing to consider the possibility of murder most foul because of his shy and retiring
personality, not to mention his lack of imagination. And on the other hand there
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 75
was Gran, who had no hesitation in accusing the village librarian of that very murder because
she’d refused to hang Gran’s painting at the exhibition. A skilled defense lawyer
would make mincemeat of that one.
It was beginning to look as though he, Bill Devoran, would have to bring some
common-sense to the proceedings.
MONDAY MORNING: FIRST SUSPICIONS
“Time we were on our way,” Susi said.
“It’s only ten o’clock. I was going to ask you a few more questions. Here, if
Miss Drost doesn’t mind.”
“We can talk later, Sergeant. I mean, Eric.” First names had crept into the conversation
the previous night, and this morning Susi had brightened up slowly but surely
under the influence of Miss Drost’s coffee. “The most important thing is to get the box
from the boat. Once it’s in my hands I’ll be right as rain. So if you don’t mind, shall we
get along to Duffy’s?”
Devoran agreed with some reluctance. A few inconsistencies had occurred to
him during the night and Bill had pointed out a couple more over breakfast. He needed
to get a firm handle on the events leading up to the explosion before he could take the
investigation forward, and the only person who could help him do that, was Susi. But he
could understand her fixation on that box. “All her ID’s in there.” Bill had said earlier
through a mouthful of honey-coated Sugar Puffs. “Without it, she has no evidence of her
existence. “She’s a non-person, and she feels it deeply. She needs some token of identity
to give her a toehold in Society. I don’t have a driving license, so I can relate to her
feelings of deprivation.”
Maybe Bill had overstated the case, but then he usually did. It didn’t alter the
fact that Susi was in an almost impossible situation.
“Do you have the address of that cousin of Lionel’s?” he asked as they drove
down Waterside Road.
She thought about it. “No. I only remember him mentioning him once. He lived
in Burnaby; that’s all I know. The address might be in the strong box among Li’s papers.
What does it matter?”
“Presumably he’s Lionel’s next of kin.”
“I’d have said I was his next of kin.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Susi. The cousin is Lionel’s closest relative.”
“Does that mean he gets everything?” Her voice rose. “That’s unfair! He
hardly knew Li. They hadn’t seen each other for yonks! I mean, I was his common-law
wife, wasn’t I?”
He spoke carefully, wary of infuriating her further. “It’s possible the Court might
see it that way, but the fact is, Susi, you hadn’t lived with him for very long. The cousin
would have a strong case. In any case, did Lionel leave much of value? I understand
the boat wasn’t insured.”
“The strong box,” she muttered. “It has his money for the voyage in it.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 76
“Much?”
“Dunno. Enough to live on for the next year, anyway, Li said. You’re saying it
all belongs to some cousin he never saw?”
“No, I’m not saying that.” She seemed to have an unduly mercenary outlook,
giving that her lover had just died, but Devoran found it easy to forgive her that because
of her beauty. “I’m saying he has a strong case. There’s something else. We need the
cousin to identify the body.”
“I don’t suppose he’d recognize him.” she said sulkily. “Even if you could find
him. He hardly knew Li.”
“In that case, I’ll have to ask you to come along to the hospital with me.”
“You mean you want me to identify the body? Why? You know who it is.”
He sighed. This was getting very difficult. “We don’t know, Susi. We think we
know, but officially it could be anyone until the proper procedures are gone through.
We need you to take a look at him and state, officially, that it’s Lionel Slade.”
“But he’ll be all blown up!”
“They’ll have tidied him up by the time you see him.”
They arrived at the marina to find Red Duffy in his element. His confidence had
returned and he wore his baseball cap pulled low over his pink forehead, lending him a
military air as he barked commands at his men. “Sergeant!” He nodded briskly as they
joined him.
A large and boxy thing on wheels hummed beside him, connected to the marina
office by a thick black cable that sagged into the water here and there, arousing visions
of electrical mayhem. Several thin rubber tubes emerged from the box and disappeared
underwater around the sunken Ocean Dream. Meanwhile Charlie Hood and the yard
hands stood on the submerged deck of the yacht, wearing wet suits as they worked
waist-deep in water, often ducking under the surface to handle unseen equipment.
“What’s going on?” Devoran asked, bewildered by all this technical expertise
and hoping evidence was not being destroyed.
“Raising her,” Duffy said briefly.
And so they were. The water level was gradually receding down the yacht’s
masts. It was mysterious and not a little eerie. The remains of the cabin roof came into
view, streaming water, then the broad cockpit. The shape of the boat could be seen
clearly.
“Right, Charlie!” Duffy shouted. “That’s enough. Now walk her along to the
elevator.” He turned to Devoran. “This is the hard part. We’ve got inflatable bags
strapped to the hull, see? We’ve pumped air into them with this compressor, to raise
her. She’s off the bottom now, so we can move her.”
“How long before you empty her out?” Susi asked anxiously.
“That’s in the lap of the gods, Miss. The main thing is, she mustn’t tip over
sideways. The center of gravity is quite high now, see? Those floats are pushing a hell
of a lot of weight up. Gently does it, eh?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 77
Trying to sound at least marginally intelligent, Devoran asked, “Why not put the
floats inside her? Then they’d lift her up instead of pushing her up. She’d be more stable.”
Red Duffy regarded him pityingly. “That’s not the way boats are built. The
force could lift the decks and cabin clean off. There’s damage enough to the cabin roof
already. You have to lift the hull itself, see?”
Meanwhile the men were working their way along the dock with ropes, hauling
at what could be seen of the boat. It wobbled and lurched as they pulled. “Steady,
boys!” Duffy yelled.
Steady, boys, steady. The words spoke to the dormant sea-dog within
Devoran. He envied Duffy his easy knowledge of matters nautical. His gaze wandered
down the inlet to the bend where the Utley river flowed in. Beyond that lay the mighty
Pacific and the rest of the world, and for a moment he could readily see why Susi had
joined up with Slade. Palm-fringed beaches, endless sun.
“Woolgathering, Devoran?” A harsh voice broke into his reverie.
“M-Mother-in-law!” he stuttered involuntarily. He’d never been able to bring
himself to call her Adelaide, or even Mother. He felt most comfortable on official terms,
when he could address her as Mrs. Rooke-Challenger. “What brings you here? And
why isn’t Bill at school?”
She took in the scene at a glance while his son melted guiltily into the background.
Devoran didn’t pursue the matter. Bill would tell him it was Founder’s Day, or
Teacher’s Training Day, or Grief Counseling Day, or some such nonsense. His motherin-
law said, “I’ve come to render such assistance as may be required with your investigation.”
He was aware of a sinking feeling. “There’s really no way you can help, thanks.
And please stand outside the yellow tape. This is a police investigation.”
She ignored the request. “Have you identified the mystery client yet?”
“The mystery client?”
She uttered a sound not unlike a sneeze, conveying impatience. “I have already
informed you the victim was awaiting a client. Yet the client has not put in an appearance.
That tells me something, even if it means nothing to you.”
Fortunately Red Duffy and his team had progressed toward the boatyard elevator,
out of earshot of even Mrs. Rooke-Challenger’s stentorian tones. “What does it tell
you?”
“It tells me the mystery client has good reason to stay away. And what good
reason? you ask, or you should. Because the mystery client knows Slade is dead.
How does he know? Because he booby-trapped the boat.”
“Or perhaps he simply decided not to come. Or perhaps he broke a leg playing
floor hockey.”
She shot him a suspicious glance. “You are welcome to think that if it makes
your job easier.” She became aware of Susi’s presence, favored her with a searching
glance and found her wanting. “Huh,” she grunted.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 78
Susi said, “Lionel didn’t have any clients left. He told me he’d passed them all
over to a firm in Victoria.”
“By the by, I should warn you Thelma Drost is a very good friend of mine,
young lady.”
A halting conversation ensued until Susi exclaimed, “They’re lifting the boat
out!”
The marine elevator was recessed into the wall of the boat park; a short length
of track ran from this to a traverser from which boats could be rolled onto any of a
dozen or so side tracks. By the time Susi and Devoran reached the railings overlooking
the elevator, the Ocean Dream was emerging from the depths on a barnacle-encrusted
platform. Greased cables rolled slowly over pulleys. Charlie Hood stood in a tiny control
cabin where an electric motor groaned under the strain.
“Can’t you get her up any faster?” Susi called.
Hood poked a blond head from his cabin. “No way! The elevator’s not built to
take this kind of weight. I have to let the water flow out of the boat as she comes up.”
“Oh, Jesus,” somebody muttered. “Look at that!”
As the hull inched out of the water a jagged hole came into view, at least ten
foot long and two foot deep, spewing dark water, plastic kitchenware, lifejackets and
sodden paper. It wasn’t only the cabin roof that had blown off. The explosion had
knocked a hole through the hull, too. Devoran felt Susi’s hand on his arm.
“She’s finished. Wrecked,” she said quietly. “She was so beautiful.”
“She can be repaired, surely?”
“No way that can be fixed,” came the voice of Red Duffy from behind them.
“She’s a write-off. We’ll salvage what fittings we can, but the hull’s a goner.”
They watched in silence. The boat rose steadily until the full keel was revealed,
sitting on a wheeled truck. Devoran saw the two iron posts Susi had described, welded
to one side of the truck’s frame. These were roped to the base of Ocean Dream’s
masts, holding her upright.
The elevator platform reached ground level and stopped. The humming of the
electric motor ceased. Hood emerged from his cabin and propped a ladder against the
hull.
“Wait!” Devoran called. “I’ll go first.” He hurried along the slippery planked
floor. He couldn’t let Hood go up the ladder alone. Maybe the explosion was an accident,
but given the earlier disasters, maybe not. Ninety-nine percent of boat explosions
are accidents, so Red Duffy had said last night.
But just suppose his dreadful mother-in-law’s suspicions were correct? He
seemed to hear her accusing voice in his mind. Well, naturally there’s no evidence of
foul play. You allowed Mr. Hood to remove it. I shall have to mention this to
your superior, of course. It so happens he’s a member of my golf club.
“Up you go,” Hood said easily. “I’ll hold the ladder.”
The interior of the boat was even more unpleasant than he’d expected. Every
surface was wet and blackened. At least a foot of water sloshed around the floor. A
mass of soggy things floated there. The place stank, a salty metallic reek. Daylight
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 79
flooded in through long holes in the hull; not only the port side that they’d already seen,
but the starboard too. Red Duffy was right. The boat was a write-off. It really was a
shame.
Susi’s face appeared, peering in through the jagged rent. “The box is up forward,
Eric.”
The box. He’d forgotten the box. His imagination had been trying to cope with
distressing images of what might have been missed by a diver with limited range of vision.
And when the Sergeant pried open the forward cabin door, a dreadful sight
met his eyes. The decomposing—
“You’re gonna have to get your feet wet, Sarge,” came the cheery voice of
Charlie Hood from the foot of the ladder.
Resignedly, he stepped down into the mess and paddled forward. The water
was horribly cold, reaching icy fingers to his knees. Nameless things bumped against his
shins. At least the body of Slade had been intact. But there was another unpleasant
possibility.
He called to Susi, “You didn’t have any pets, did you?”
“No, thank God. You’ll find a locker under the forward berth. That’s where
the box is.”
He sidled through a narrow opening in a bulkhead. “I’m in some kind of a bedroom,”
he called.
“The forward cabin. Now look under the vee berth — uh, the triangular bed
right up in the pointy end.”
“It’s all still underwater there.”
“Feel with your hands. Got that catch? Twist it aside and feel in there.”
Nervously, he did as he was told. He couldn’t feel anything. Gasping with the
cold, he knelt. The water rose to his chest. He extended an arm into the locker and
fingered a few tins and a large heavy angular thing that must have been a spare anchor,
and a large coil of rope. “There’s no box here!” he shouted.
“Hold on, I’m coming!”
Hood was already in the cabin; Devoran could hear him sloshing about. What
the heck, one more wouldn’t make any difference. Anyway, how could you find clues
in this mess? He wouldn’t know a clue if it swam up his pants leg.
He heard Susi and Hood talking, then Susi appeared in the dim light of the forward
cabin. “Out of the way, Eric! It’s got to be in here. It’s probably floated up
against the underside of the berth. It’s watertight, remember?”
He squeezed past her, too cold and depressed to enjoy the closeness, and
joined Hood in the daylight of the main cabin.
“Take a look at this,” Hood said. He held a loop of black rubber pipe, about
three quarters of an inch diameter. The surface was mottled and pitted from the explosion.
One end and terminated in a brass nut screwed into the remains of the galley
stove. The other end disappeared through a hole in the cockpit bulkhead.
“What is it?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 80
“It’s the gas line from the propane tank. It’s still connected up to what’s left of
the stove. It looks in perfect shape to me.”
Now that could be very significant. Devoran asked, “So you’re saying there
was no leak?”
“No leak from a damaged pipe. But look, the burner knobs are turned on.
That’s where the gas came from.”
Devoran examined the blackened stove. The small knobs for the two burners
were in the ON position. “Looks straightforward enough. Where’s the main tank?”
“Outside in the cockpit. It has to be, see? So if there’s a leak at the tank, the
propane dissipates.”
“But if it’s escaping inside the boat?”
Hood grimaced. “It sinks down and gathers in the bottom of the cabin, waiting
for you to strike a match. I’d say someone left the burners on when they left the boat,
and the wind or whatever blew them out.”
“Both burners?” It seemed unlikely.
Susi came wading back. “The box isn’t there. It’s gone. Some bastard’s taken
it. What the hell am I going to do now?”
Devoran sighed. Questions were accumulating more rapidly than answers, but
they usually did at this stage in an investigation. “When did you last see it?”
“Oh, maybe a couple days ago. It’s a bit difficult to get at, where it was, so we
kept some loose cash in a locker over Li’s berth for day-to-day stuff.”
Hood was climbing the companionway up to the cockpit. He called down,
“The propane tank valve is turned on. You should always turn off the valve when
you’re not using the stove. Still, it’s too late to tell you that now.”
“I guess Lionel forgot,” said Susi. “That’s not like him at all.”
And from outside the boat came the bellow, “I told you so! Murder most foul!”
MONDAY MORNING: A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
“Like I said,” Hood said, setting his coffee mug on his desk, “The propane flames blew
out in a gust of wind. I’ve known it happen.”
Red Duffy said, “Garbage, Charlie! You don’t get gusts of wind in a boat shut
up tight.”
“Anyway, nobody was on the boat for several hours,” Devoran objected. “Why
would they have left the propane lit?”
“To keep the cabin warm for when they get back?”
“Crap,” Duffy said. “They spent the night at the Globe. You don’t leave heat
on that long.”
“And the main valve wasn’t shut off,” Devoran said. “Why not?”
“Slade forgot, like Susi said,” Hood said. “Obviously.”
Devoran couldn’t buy that one either. Lionel Slade had been an experienced
sailor, by all accounts. Yet this was the third occasion when he had supposedly committed
an unseamanlike error. One: he’d failed to secure the boat correctly on the
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 81
ways. Two: he’d left a sea-cock open and flooded the boat. Three: he’d filled the
cabin with propane. No, it was not believable. Too many errors for a sailor to make.
Oh, God, it looked as though Mother-in-law’s assessment of the situation was right. It
was more than possible that someone had been laying booby-traps for Slade. Or Susi.
Or both....
They sat in the marina office; Red Duffy, Charlie Hood, Constable Dobbin, Susi
and Devoran. Mrs. Rooke-Challenger, to the relief of all, had stamped off on some
private errand, accompanied by the truant Bill. Devoran had changed into a pair of
spare jeans belonging to Hood. They felt rough and scratchy against his skin. He’d
never liked jeans. Hood looked the kind of man who could wear tweed, chain mail,
anything, and be at ease in a storm force ten.
The Ident squad had arrived and were poking around the Ocean Dream, sieving
through debris, snapping photographs. They were welcome to the job.
It was near lunch time and he was hungry, but he didn’t want to leave Hood and
Duffy alone to cook up any stories. They’d both seemed acceptably surprised by the
position of the knobs on the propane stove, the implications of which had by now been
discussed ad nauseum.
He sighed. “Too many accidents,” he said. “The crash, the flooding, the explosion.
Too many for my taste.”
“Carelessness,” Red Duffy said, alert to a possible slur on his marina.
“I have to investigate the possibility that there’s a connection between these occasions.
And if there is, it’s difficult for me to view them as accidents.”
Duffy’s alarm intensified. “You mean you’ll treat them as deliberate? Well, for a
start, the boat falling over has nothing to do with yesterday’s goddamned fiasco. Slade
took away the wedge without checking the ropes. Simple as that.”
“Does everybody bother to paint that little bit behind the wedge?” Devoran
asked. “Some,” Duffy said. “Usually the same kind of persnickety bastard that quibbles
over every penny on his bill. Slade was one of those, sure.”
“He was a persnickety bastard, and yet he made a total of three big unseamanlike
mistakes, and the last one killed him. It doesn’t fit, Red.”
“Hell, I can’t read his mind.”
“And you and Slade had a big fight about money.”
“He threatened to sue, the bastard,” Duffy said. “He wouldn’t have had a leg to
stand on.”
Susi broke in. “Yes, he would. The security at this marina isn’t worth a damn!
Any kid could have got in at night and fooled around with the ropes.”
Duffy said, “You saw what happened yesterday. People hold the gate open for
people. People wedge the gate open. We do our best, but we can’t be responsible for
the security of boats on the ways. It says so in our standard contract. And Slade had
the nerve to tell me he’d hired a lawyer and the whole case was going ahead. You
know why he said that? To try to get me to settle out of court. A hundred thousand
dollars he was asking for.”
“Our repair bill worked out at under sixty thou,” Hood put in.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 82
“The balance was all for shock and grief and suffering and trauma and fuck
knows what else,” Duffy said. He swung round on Susi aggressively. “The two of you
cooked it up between you.”
“I knew nothing about it. Honest.”
“Well, it shows the sort of guy you were shacked up with.”
Devoran said to Duffy, “So it’s convenient for you that Slade’s out of the way.”
Duffy’s already pink color deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
“Not worth killing for.”
“That depends on a guy’s financial situation. Exactly what is your financial
situation, Red?”
“None of your goddamned business!”
“We could be talking about murder. I have to eliminate possibilities, however
remote. Some people might think a hundred thousand is enough of a motive. So let’s
eliminate you. I’ll ask you again. What is your financial situation?”
Duffy swallowed his anger. “Goddamned precarious, if you must know. The
same as any marina, all along the coast. High overheads, revenue down all over the
place.”
“A hundred thousand would make a big dent?”
“We’ve got insurance.”
But there’s no guarantee they’d pay up, Devoran thought. He considered the
situation while Hood passed coffee around in chipped and stained mugs. Through the
window he could see water gushing out of the Ocean Dream; they’d put a pump in her.
When she was dry he would join the Ident team and take another look around. Perhaps
he’d buy Dobbin lunch at the Globe first. His thoughts began to wander as they
often did. Odd woman, Dobbin. Difficult to visualize her between the sheets. Thrashing
like a thrown mare…. Good grief, everyone was looking at him!
“I said, is that it, then?” said Duffy.
Devoran collected himself. “Uh, how long would it take for propane to build up
enough to cause this kind of explosion?”
“Not long. An hour or two, maybe.”
“And the explosion was at around eleven a.m. That means the propane could
have been turned on around nine.”
“Or at any time during the night,” said Susi. “We slept at the Globe last night,
for a change. We almost always sleep on the boat, but the cabin stank of varnish on
Saturday night....” Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God — the box must have been stolen
while we were at the Globe! I told Li we should never have kept it on board but he
would insist there was nowhere else to keep it, and we always locked the boat up, and
anyway it was too big and heavy for anyone to carry through the marina without being
noticed. And it’s always been pushed right to the far end of the chain locker, behind all
that chain.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 83
It was getting tedious, Susi rabbiting on about the box. “Anyway, the chances
are, whoever stole the box turned on the propane.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Maybe to see by. Does the boat have propane lamps?”
“No, twelve volt.”
Devoran shrugged. Another mystery. He tried to visualize the scene. The marina
in darkness — well, no, not quite. There were lamps on the wharves. The burglar
would have established the boat was unoccupied for once. So he or she must have a
way of establishing that. Either by observing the Globe that evening, or by watching the
boat. But that would mean a hell of a lot of watching. He made a mental note to check
on last night’s customers at the pub. Then the burglar would step down into the cockpit
and—
“Susi, were there any signs the boat had been broken into?”
She gave him an irritated look. “The boat was all blown to pieces when I saw it,
remember?”
He felt himself flush. What a dumb question! The others were grinning. These
interviews would be much better conducted in the privacy of the Station with nobody
else there except Dobbin, who was used to his lapses of intelligence. In fact he’d never
intended to get so deeply into the matter right now; he’d meant this to be just a general
chat about marina procedures and suchlike. Somehow it had got out of hand. He took
refuge in a less specific line of inquiry. “OK. Have there been any strangers hanging
around the place lately? Over the past three months, say.”
“I told you yesterday, there’s always strangers.”
“Things have changed since yesterday,” Dobbin said. “It’s important you remember,
now. So, there was the fellow we saw yesterday in the blue bomber jacket.
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger called him a Czech. Who else? We’re talking about people
without boats, just looking around.”
“Hundreds, for Chrissake!”
“Not at this time of year, I shouldn’t think.”
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