evidence led right back to the source. Then he gave a tug on the wire and it broke off
where it had melted, leaving the important bit behind. So then he reeled in what was left
and disposed of it.”
“So he had to be somewhere around that morning.”
“Hiding in another boat, maybe?”
TUESDAY MORNING: A LIKELY SPOT
Devoran held a short meeting in the incident room and informed the team of the new
development. Further interviews would have to be held, and all boat owners traced and
their movements on the fatal morning accounted for. Having disposed of the Slade matter
for the time being, Devoran switched his attention to the more recent killing and returned
to Red Duffy’s office. The marina owner looked up from his desk with a resigned
expression.
“Maybe you can help me,” Devoran said. “It’s about the Ferris business. The
hippies say the body drifted into their boat at around two o’clock at night. You know
the inlet and the tides. Where do you think he went in the water?”
“Dead or alive?”
“Let’s assume he was dead.”
“Murder, eh?
“Or accident. Whatever, he was unconscious so he wouldn’t have been able to
swim.”
“OK.” Duffy thought about it, scratching his belly. “It could be anywhere, so
long as it was after low water. No, I tell a lie. It couldn’t have been much further out
than your mother-in-law’s place, otherwise the Utley current would have carried him
out to sea.” Duffy took up a tide table from his desk. “Noss Cove. Here we are. Low
tide on the Sunday would have been around eleven at night.”
“The body was discovered at two in the morning, give or take.”
“Rising tide. There was a north wind that night. He wouldn’t drift fast. And he
wouldn’t have been dumped into the water near the houses. Too risky, even at that
hour. There’s always people along there going home from the Globe. James doesn’t
worry overmuch about when he closes. And Ferris wouldn’t have gone in on the west
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 17
bank because the back-eddy from the Utley would have held him. So my guess is, he
went in on the east side of the inlet somewhere off Waterside Road, close to your
mother-in-law’s place.” He chuckled. “Puts ideas in a guy’s head, don’t it?”
“She’s capable of it, believe me.”
“You take a look along the end of Waterside Road, Eric. You won’t go far
wrong.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
As he was leaving, Red Duffy said, “I wouldn’t be telling you all this if I had
something to hide, mind!”
Devoran set out along Waterside Road at a gentle stroll, relishing the sunshine
and the view of the inlet and the small, neat homes along the way. This really was a
most delightful area. His own house near the head of the inlet was OK, but he didn’t
get this gorgeous view of the boats at anchor. And when Bill moved out…. It might be
an excuse to get something smaller along Waterside Road. The only drawback was, it
would take him closer to Mother-in-law….
He passed the last house. The coniferous trees of Kingcombe Wood closed
over the road. He’d get his men questioning the residents again, and they’d have to revisit
the list of people on the dock. Actually, he needed more staff than Dobbin and the
four uniforms who had been grudgingly allotted to him. He had two inquiries in progress
now, with different circumstances and possibly different killers, and a whole new series
of house-to-house interviews to be done. He’d pointed this out to Lockhart with predictable
results.
Lockhart was still obsessed with the memory of young Goodenough and the
Fenning case. ‘Noss Cove is a small place, Devoran, and it’s isolated. I want you to
keep your inquiries that way. If I give you more men you’ll be interviewing people from
Victoria to Campbell River.’
In a way, he was right. Devoran knew full well that by the time his officers had
finished interviewing the fifty or so people living on Waterside Road, they’d have heard
of fifty or so vague sightings of suspicious characters lurking in the area on the night in
question, not to mention another fifty or so bloodcurdling screams around eleven
o’clock. He might be tempted to widen the net.
All this would prompt an article in the parish newsletter, urging people to barricade
themselves in at night, and bewailing the wave of violence swamping the community.
It would reach the ears of the media. TV cameras would arrive, with reporters
primed to seek the worst. They’d find it at the library. “How do you feel about this
spiraling crime wave, Mrs. Vinge?” “Well, quite frankly I’m terrified to set foot
outside my door. The police should spend more time catching real criminals and
less time persecuting innocent motorists....”
“Argh!” He groaned aloud in frustration, then changed it to a cough and
glanced around guiltily to see if anyone was within earshot. He wouldn’t want people to
think their local Mountie was going funny in the head.
Here was a likely spot, just short of Mother-in-law’s home. A gap in the
wooden fence, a small grassy area immediately above a drop to the water, and a bench
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 17
for people to rest on, all beside a turning circle at the end of the road. The trees had
been cleared, opening up a view across the inlet to the steep hillside opposite. A car
could stop here and a body could be dragged across the grass and tipped over the
edge, all in a matter of less than a minute.
He sat down to think about it. The seat was chunkily built of varnished fir, set in
a concrete pad, dedicated to the memory of one JENNIFER ATKINS for whom, according
to the bronze plate, this was HER FAVORITE SPOT FOR MEDITATION.
What had Jennifer Atkins ever done to deserve being immortalized in this manner? he
wondered sourly. For Chrissake, he was meditating here himself, but nobody would
think he merited a bronze plate. Who was Jennifer Atkins anyway? Probably a minor
local bureaucrat like May Vinge.
The grassy area was about fifty feet square. He began to examine the ground.
It was too much to expect parallel furrows through the grass made by the heels of a
dragged body. But it was not too much to expect a plethora of red herrings in the form
of discarded cigarette packets, cigarette butts, candy wrappers, beer cans and the like.
Young Goodenough would have built a whole new case out of those. He’d go far,
once Lockhart retired and the race memory of the Fenning case faded. Whereas he,
Eric Devoran, would doubtless remain a Staff Sergeant for the rest of his life. And to
be truthful, that would suit him fine.
He stood at the edge of the drop and considered the water below. The bank
was about twenty-five feet high. More of a mini-cliff, really. It fell about fifteen feet
sheer to a rocky outcrop jutting some six feet out, then a further drop to the water.
Down to the right, the rotting remains of an ancient landing stage sagged into the inlet.
To the left the trees obscured the view. There were signs of damage to some branches;
pale spots showed where twigs had been snapped off high above the water level. Evidence
of a boat’s mast coming too close to shore, bearing out the hippies’ story of
helpless drifting.
He leaned out to see if he could see a trail of broken twigs further down the inlet and
made a grab for an overhead branch to steady himself. Hand-eye coordination had
never been his strong point.
For an agonizing moment he windmilled his arms and cursed the genes that had
bequeathed him this clumsiness, then he fell.
TUESDAY MORNING: THE VICTORIA LADIES
After she’d explained her presence to the local Station, Constable Dobbin’s next call in
Victoria was at a news stand, where she picked up a street guide and a Times Colonist.
The street guide was a reimbursable expense but the Times Colonist was not, and she
worried briefly about them both being on the same receipt. Then common-sense took
over and she spent the next ten minutes working out the most economical route to cover
the thirteen addresses on her list. Satisfied that she would not be wasting public money,
she set off in search of the first name, Miss Beryl Tonks. The names were all female
except one, which might be significant. Or it might not.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 17
Were these faceless names villains or victims? Should she treat them rough or
allow them to weep on her shoulder? She hoped it was the latter. Her unforgivable
attack on Ferris had soured her on the idea of aggressive action. As she drove into a
suburb she found herself feeling just a little relieved that Ferris was dead. And this
made her ashamed.
“Yes?” The woman opened her door a crack, leaving the chain on. Her eyes
were wide with apprehension.
“Miss Mildred Tonks?”
“That’s right.”
Dobbin quickly pulled out identification. “I’m Constable Dobbin, RCMP. I
wonder… might I have a word?
The woman hesitated. Dobbin smiled reassuringly. The chain tinkled and the
door opened wider. “Come in. What’s it all about?”
“For one thing, you could do with a stronger chain. Can we sit down somewhere?”
She didn’t want to tower over the woman who was only about five feet tall,
frail and elderly, with thin gray hair and a pale complexion.
The living room was small and bare and the furniture old. Miss Tonks perched
birdlike on the edge of her chair as though ready for instant flight. Scanty eyebrows
rose questioningly.
Dobbin lolled back on the threadbare chesterfield, trying to look docile and at
ease. They exchanged a few pleasantries before she homed in. “Does the name Lionel
Slade mean anything to you?”
Miss Tonks uttered a squeak of terror. “Slade? N o! Never heard of the man.
Good heavens, no!”
“Are you sure?” Clearly the old lady knew the name Slade all too well.
“Am I sure?” A weak stubbornness. “I should know, shouldn’t I? What do
you mean, am I sure?”
“I mean you look kind of scared. And yet I can’t understand what there is to
be scared of. Lionel Slade is dead, you know.”
“Dead?” The word emerged as a whimper. The poor woman looked terrified.
“I didn’t know he was dead.”
“But you didn’t know him anyway.”
“How.... How did he die?”
“His boat blew up. We’re treating it as suspicious.” Dobbin forced the old
lady to meet her gaze. “Now listen to me, Miss Tonks. It really will be better for everyone
if you tell me all you know. Nobody’s blaming you for anything.”
Dobbin was distressed to see tears gathering at the corners of Miss Tonks’
eyes. The old lady looked toward the window as though seeking an escape route. Finally
she muttered, “He was a scoundrel.” She blinked, and the tears fell. “I don’t want
to talk about him. I just want to forget the whole horrible business. There’s nothing
anyone can do about it.”
“Your name was on his computer. He made some investments for you.” The
big question was already answered. Miss Tonks, and probably the others on the list,
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 17
were victims. “And I suppose he swindled you. The point is this, Miss Tonks. If you
tell me what you know about him it might help other people he robbed, and in the end it
might lead to you getting most of your money back. Some money has been recovered,
you know.”
This provoked a long, thoughtful and tearful pause. Finally the woman took a
deep breath and squared her thin shoulders. The decision was made.
“I met him at bingo. He was sitting next to me and we got talking. He said he
was an investment counsellor. I wasn’t getting much interest on my nest-egg and he
showed me some figures that looked good. He said he could get me nine percent. And
he did, for a while, a nice monthly check.” The words were coming fast, now; and so
were the tears. “Then last December there was nothing. I phoned him and got no reply.
I went to his office but it was all shut up. And that was the last I heard of him. He took
it all.” She waved a hand around the small room. “This? My son pays for this. Why
should he have to? I was going to leave him everything, but now he has to keep me.
It’s all turned around. I don’t understand it. I don’t want to. It’s horrible.”
“Why didn’t you notify the police?”
Miss Tonks uttered a tiny gasp at the question and squeezed her eyes shut,
wincing almost as though she’d been struck.
Dobbin regarded her with interest. There was something else to be learned
here. The poor old dear wasn’t telling her everything. “Miss Tonks, you have to tell me.
Why didn’t you tell the police about Mr. Slade?”
After a long and thoughtful pause a reply came. “What was the point? He was
gone, probably to the mainland. I’d made a fool of myself and that was all there was to
it. I didn’t want to start shouting it from the rooftops.”
“Did you try to find Slade?”
She hesitated again. For some reason she seemed to be choosing her words
very carefully. “How?” she said at last. “What could I do?”
“You could have hired a private detective, for instance.”
Miss Tonks started so violently she almost slipped off her chair. “A private detective?
I don’t know anything about private detectives. I wouldn’t know where to find
one. Are there really such people?”
“There’s one called Ferris in town.”
“I wouldn’t know. He’d probably charge the earth. Anyway, it’s too late, you
said Mr. Slade is dead. Good riddance to him!” For one moment a vicious animation
showed in her face, and Dobbin wished she hadn’t seen it. “I hope he rots in hell. He
drove one of his clients to suicide, you know. She took a whole bottleful of pills. I’ve
thought of doing it myself, but I don’t have the courage. This thing, you know, having
money and then losing it, it’s awful. Sometimes I wish I’d always been poor. It’s the
sudden change, you see. And the shame, for being such a fool.”
Dobbin became aware of another line of inquiry opening. “I understand just
what you mean, Miss Tonks. But you said one of Mr. Slade’s clients committed suicide.”
“Did I say that?” Her frown of bewilderment was unconvincing.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 17
“How did you hear about it? Are you in touch with any of his other clients?”
“Oh, no.” Another hesitation. “Not really. It was just that I got talking to this
woman outside, when I was weeding my little front garden. She seemed nice and I invited
her in. Then somehow we were discussing how difficult it is making ends meet,
and I suppose I mentioned my problems. Next thing, it turned out she knew Mr. Slade.
And she mentioned this woman who’d committed suicide because he took all her
money. She said something should be done about it.”
“What kind of something?”
“Well, I thought she meant going to the police.” She stared at Dobbin as though
willing her to believe it. “That’s what I thought, truly. And I said so. I wasn’t too keen
on getting in the police because like I said, what was the point? Even if they could find
him, Mr. Slade would deny everything and we’d look bigger fools than ever. But then
she said there were other possibilities. And she said: You’re right, let’s not go to the
police, not just yet.” Miss Tonks settled back into her chair with a resigned expression.
She had passed the point of no return. The tears had ceased and clearly she
wanted to get the whole thing off her chest. Whatever it was, it must have been preying
on her mind for quite a while.
“What other possibilities did she mean?” Dobbin asked.
“She said we should get our money back by fair means or foul, or at least get
our revenge. That frightened me a bit. I told her I wanted no part of it. Truly, Constable.
And now you tell me Mr. Slade is dead. Well, I had nothing to do with that.” She
folded her thin arms in a gesture of defiance.
“How did she take it? When you told her you didn’t want to be involved, I
mean.”
“She seemed disappointed in me but she came to terms with it. She said that all
she wanted to do was teach him a lesson he’d never forget, but with Mr. Slade dead
I’m starting to wonder, wouldn’t you? But it’s nothing to do with me. Nothing at all.”
“Was that the end of it?”
Miss Tonks admitted reluctantly, “She really pushed the business of not going to
the police. She said she was advising all of Mr. Slade’s victims the same way. She said
if any of us went to the police our names would be on record. Then when she, uh, revenged
us, it would be traced back to me and the others, because it would be obvious
we had a motive. It made sense, but it frightened me, I can tell you. Then she left and I
haven’t seen her since. I don’t want to. Whatever happened to Mr. Slade, it’s nothing
to do with me.”
“Do you know her name?”
“She called herself Sally. She was quite a bit younger than me, and younger
people often don’t bother with formalities and surnames and such. I don’t mind.”
“Did you get any impression that she might have deliberately set out to meet
you?”
“I don’t think so.” The cheeks were still wet but the tears had ceased. The talk
had cleansed Miss Tonks’s conscience. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, would I?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 17
“Just suppose for a moment she had, can you think of any way she could have
found out you were a client of Mr. Slade’s?”
Miss Tonks hesitated. “Well…. She probably visited his office at some point
and poked around while he was out of the room. I can’t think of any other way.”
Dobbin drove away with the feeling that she had made a big step toward solving
the case. Eric would be pleased.
Ten minutes later she was ringing the bell of her next call. This door was
opened more confidently; no chain, no timid peeping through the crack. Instead the
occupant hauled it open wide and favored her with a challenging glare. “Yes?”
Dobbin stared in astonishment. The face was familiar. Plump and attractive in a
somewhat obvious way. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? At Noss Cove community
hall?”
“At that lecture by your Sergeant, I believe it was,” said Brenda Moore.
TUESDAY MORNING: MAKING ASSUMPTIONS
“Among the names on the list were three that give us grounds for suspicion, Wilberforce:
Brenda Moore, Anthea Lee, Janine Richards, correct? All dupes of the swindler
Slade. All members of the Spooner society. A coincidence? Never!”
“But why didn’t you tell Dad the Spooner people were on the disks, Gran?”
Bill asked unhappily. “You should have, really. He doesn’t know their names except
maybe Brenda Moore’s, and we only mentioned her once in passing. They’re Victoria
people and he’s had no real contact with them except as an audience to be lectured to.”
“In view of your father’s abominable rudeness and his dismissal of anything I
might care to contribute toward his case, I decided to let him stew in his own juice. He
had the evidence staring him in the face and he chose to ignore it. He is a policeman
born and bred, and that’s about the worst anyone could say. He can go to the devil, so
far as I’m concerned!”
Family rifts were a staple diet of Bill’s upbringing, and as usual he tried to patch
things up. “That’s hardly fair, Gran. All right, so Dad came on a bit strong, but he is in
charge of the case and you do tend to push yourself a bit. The whole point is, he
doesn’t have the advantage of our inside knowledge of the James Spooner weirdoes.”
“And he had no desire to benefit from that knowledge! I might point out,
Wilberforce, that you didn’t tell him yourself.”
“I was going to, but everything suddenly went pear-shaped and the opportunity
was gone.”
“Exactly. Your father is the victim of his own arrogance. And as for the
Spooner clan, you mark my words, Wilberforce, there’s deviltry afoot!”
“Well, yes, there probably is, but—”
“Another confrontation is called for!”
“I wouldn’t go so far as—’’
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 17
“It’s obvious to the meanest intelligence that Vinge has gathered these women
under her roof to provide an alibi for the brutal murder of Slade. You can hardly deny
that!”
“Actually, Gran, I think that was my theory in the first place.”
“Be that as it may, it lacked refinement. And entering into this sorry picture
comes that little runt Ferris, alias the Fox, whom we now know to be a species of private
investigator. And he, too, gets himself killed. Another coincidence? Never! We
need coffee, Wilberforce. This is a three-cup problem.”
While she bustled about the kitchen Bill sat and worried. It was inexcusable for
Gran to withhold vital information from poor old Dad. And now guilt was gnawing at
his, Bill’s, very intestines. Admittedly, the old fellow had come the heavy. And even
this morning at the breakfast table, when Bill had suffered a crippling bout of remorse
and tried to broach the subject over the Honey-coated Sugar Puffs, Dad had shut him
up pretty quick. All the same he’d have a word in his ear the moment the old guy had
simmered down. And then again, Dad would find out soon enough when Constable
Dobbin returned with the report on her Victoria trip. As long as he didn’t blame him,
Bill, for withholding the information. Meanwhile….
“Coffee, Wilberforce. Now, this is a time for constructive thought.” She
placed the tray on the table and sat opposite, fixing him with a penetrating stare. “What
is your opinion of private detectives?”
“I’m sure some of them are honest, hardworking—”
“They’re crooks to a man, and none more so than the odious Ferris, alias the
Fox, as a discerning eye could tell at a glance. Let us ask ourselves what his connection
was with the Spooner people.”
“Was there any connection?”
“We’ve seen him coming around that corner at the head of the inlet more than
once. And who lives around that corner? The woman Vinge. Now, what business
could Vinge have with the Fox? Ask yourself, Wilberforce! He’s a private detective,
for heaven’s sake!”
“You’re suggesting she hired him?”
“Precisely. We will build on that, just as we build on our assumptions when
playing Mastermind. Now, why would a woman in Vinge’s position hire a private detective?”
“I really don’t know, Gran…. Wait a minute. To surveil Slade!”
“Exactly. He’s the only person worth watching except those two drug addicts
on their boat, and I hardly think anyone would wish to watch them for long. It’s my
belief she hired the Fox some months ago when Slade first moved onto his boat to escape
his angry clients. She hired the Fox to watch him, and to follow him if necessary.
The Fox followed Slade to Noss Cove. And the James Spooner Society followed the
Fox. You will find that Vinge rented her apartment shortly after the Fox was first sighted
here, and that the meetings of the Society commenced shortly after that. They watched
and they waited, and in due course they seized their chance!”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 17
It was all very plausible. Bill felt a growing excitement. The old girl had proved
it time and again: she had no equal when it came to making assumptions. It was just like
the time they’d been waiting in the car for Noss Cove Motors to come. An exhilarating
exercise of the imagination.
“They topped Slade, secure in their joint alibi!”
“Precisely. But that was not the end of the story, not by a long chalk. Oh,
good heavens, no. Because the Fox was still slinking around like a hyena at a carcass.
Ask yourself why, young Wilberforce. Normally one pays off a private detective when
the job is done, and he goes home well satisfied. Why did the Hyena hang around?”
“The Fox.”
“Why did the Fox hang around, answer me that!”
“The Spooner people tried to welsh on the payment?”
“Perhaps. But there is a more likely reason. Bear in mind the nature of the
Fox. The victim’s personality always plays a big part in any case of murder. And the
Fox’s personality was slippery and grasping. And he knew a murder had been committed,
and he had a good idea by whom. What would you have done in his place?”
“I’d have blackmailed the Spooner people. Too good a chance to miss.”
“Of course you would, and so would I. Which makes it a cast-iron certainty
that the Fox did likewise. And what did the Spooner people do? What would you do,
Wilberforce, given the choice between paying up meekly, or silencing the blackmailer?
Given that you’ve killed already and got the taste for it.”
That was easy. “I’d silence the blackmailer. A guy never pays blackmailers. If
once you have paid him the Dane-gelt, you’ll never get rid of the Dane.”
“It’s good to know you’re familiar with the work of England’s finest poet,
Wilberforce. Those words are very true, and the Spooners knew it. So some time on
Sunday evening they lured the Fox to a quiet spot with the promise of gold....” She
paused thoughtfully. “Yes,” she went on quietly, “that would be it. And then....”
“They silenced him brutally with a heavy wrench. I happened to see just such
an item in the trunk of Mrs. Moore’s car.”
“No, Wilberforce. Nothing so obvious. It would have to look like an accident,
I think. Come!” She rose to her feet and made briskly for the door, followed by the
dog Colonel. “I know an appropriate spot for such an accident not a hundred yards
away! It so happens there was a peculiar event that aroused me from my sleep last
Sunday night, and I’m beginning to see a connection. We shall visit the scene of the
crime!”
TUESDAY MORNING: STRANDED!
Devoran opened his eyes with extreme caution. He was lying on his right side. God,
his head ached, bringing to mind Lockhart’s predecessor’s retirement party and a surfeit
of cheap red wine. He’d always suspected that wine had been homemade by one of
the organizers.... Where was he? How long had he been lying here? Minutes? Hours?
He focussed his eyes on a gray wall of rock immediately before him.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 17
He’d fallen down the cliff. The memory returned and he hung onto it, trying to
develop useful thoughts from it. Little tufts of grass and stuff grew out of the cracks in
the rock, so he must be above the high water mark. How seriously was he injured? He
shifted his legs and felt no additional pain. So far, so good. He rolled carefully onto his
back and, finding himself poised on the brink of a further drop of unknown distance,
rolled carefully back again. He wriggled toward the rock face and struggled to his feet,
head spinning.
He was standing on a rocky ledge about eight feet wide, some fifteen feet down
from the overhanging cliff top and perhaps twenty feet above the waters of the inlet. He
hadn’t suffered any serious injury, although bruised around the right hip and, no doubt,
his head. The generalized pain had now centered above the right ear. Plucking up
courage, he ran his fingers over the painful area. There was a bump there and his fingers
came away tipped with blood. Jesus, he was wounded! Suddenly sickened, he
noticed dark stain at the edge of his ledge. It covered an area at least a foot across
running into the rocky fissures and probably dripping from there into the water below.
It looked like a helluva lot of blood. How much blood had he lost, for God’s sake? He
knelt and applied a forefinger to the stain. It was blood, sure enough, but it was congealed,
slightly tacky, almost dry to the touch.
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