Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 1 2 страница

doesn’t have proper haul-out facilities. Stay away from Victoria; it’s too expensive.

There’s a place up the coast at Noss Cove. Duffy’s Marina. Duffy’s straight; I do sales

work for him. Tell your boyfriend to talk to Red Duffy. He’ll see you right.”

She must mention this to Li. After all, if he was going to retire soon anyway,

why not bring it forward a week or two? She had to get away from this place. The

boats here were all wrecks and the other liveaboard people were weird. It was no

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10

place for her. It was no place for Ocean Dream, either. She’d tackle Li when he got

back.

In fact he arrived at that moment he was, looming up out of the mist like the

hero in some black-and-white movie.

“Hello, Li!” It sounded formal, but she never said Hi! because Hi Li! sounded

dumb.

“Huh.” He barely glanced at her, hurrying past, breathing heavily and almost

tripping over the cockpit coaming as he climbed aboard.

“You’re all wet! Where’s your coat?”

He didn’t reply. Something was wrong. There was a knife-edge aspect about

living with Li that she’d never been able to get to the bottom of, and this was a prime

example. With a knot of apprehension in her stomach she trotted after him. By the time

she reached the cabin he’d thrown the car keys onto his bunk and was already pouring

himself a stiff Laphroaig. His face was blotchy and he looked disheveled; not at all the

dapper businessman she was accustomed to.

“What happened to your Burberry?” she asked, very tentatively. Li had a short

fuse when things weren’t going his way.

“Fuck the Burberry!”

This was ridiculous and she began to feel angry. “That was an expensive coat!

For God’s sake tell me what’s the matter, Li.”

For a tense moment or two the only sound was the creak of the boat against the

dock and faint music from a distant liveaboard. And Li gulping down the scotch. And

then the tinkle of bottle against glass as he poured himself another.

At last he said, “I’ll tell you what’s the matter.” His eyes were red-rimmed.

“I’ve retired today, that’s what. Quit work for good. You’ve got what you wanted,

eh? You’ve been on and on at me and now I’ve finally pulled the plug.”

. “But I thought you wanted it. You said you were ready to retire, anyway”.

He was being totally unfair and he might at least have the decency to explain. “I don’t

understand you, Li. What are you so unhappy about? If you didn’t want to retire yet,

why did you?”

This provoked another gulp of scotch. “Why the hell are you questioning me

like this? For Chrissake, I’ve just quit, that’s all. It’s no big deal.”

“Well, that’s great! Let’s both drink to it.”

He eyed her suspiciously, then seemed to recover his composure. “Yeah.” He

poured her a generous glassful. “So that’s it. No more work. We’ll be leaving here

pretty soon. Sailing away. Sooner than you think.”

“How soon? Like when?”

“Like later tonight.”

That didn’t make sense; there were a zillion things to get sorted out before they

could cast off for good. “We can’t go just like that, can we? What about your clients;

you can’t just abandon them, can you? What about the car?” The old Volvo was sitting

in the marina car park. Li never used it in town, he said it was quicker to walk, with

all the traffic.

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11

“I’ve moved the car to somewhere safe. I’ll come and pick it up later.”

“Don’t you have clearing up to do at your office?”

“All done. The computer’s here, the strong box is here, I’m here, you’re here.

Nothing to stop us.”

“But the boat’s not ready.”

He rolled his eyes up. “I didn’t mean head for the South Pacific right this minute,

stupid. The boat’s nowhere near ready yet. We’ll run across to Fisherman’s Wharf

and tie up for the night, then at first light we’ll head north.”

“Where to?”

“I’ve been talking to a salesman guy, he knows most of the marinas on the island.

He said we should fit the boat out at Noss Cove.”

“That would be Duffy’s?”

“Yeah.” He shot her a suspicious glance. “How the hell did you get to hear of

it?”

It might not be a good idea to mention the handsome Charlie Hood. “Just talk

around the yard. Someone said they have good haul-out facilities there.”

“Yeah. So that’s where we’re going. So let’s square everything away and cast

off, and we’ll get the hell out of this dump.”

“I’ll slip up to the office and pay Mr. Higgins off.”

He scowled. “Oh, no you won’t. That grasping little crook’s had quite enough

out of us, thanks very much. He can whistle for his goddamned moorage. So let’s get

sorted out here and we’ll be on our way.”

She stared at him, alarmed. Was this why he’d moved the car, so that Higgins

couldn’t latch onto it in settlement of the moorage debt? It all seemed terribly dishonest....

ONE FRIDAY IN JANUARY: A TASK ASSIGNED

The offices of the Peterville Detachment of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are

situated in a square two-story building on the western outskirts of the town. Like many

such buildings, the accommodation is cramped, housing some seventy people of whom

forty are regular members of the RCMP.

At the time of the Lionel Slade incident the benevolent dictator of this little empire

was Inspector James Lockhart who, one Friday afternoon, was gazing out of the

window at the January sunshine, remembering his childhood and the days when he

could enjoy unseasonably fine weather without being told it was due to global warming

and Man’s degradation of the environment. And as if the sunshine were not bad

enough, there was this e-mail from HQ. He wished HQ would leave him alone to get on

with proper police business. If HQ were situated on Vancouver Island, they’d be more

in touch with local requirements and less likely to badger him with stupid requests. But

HQ were at Richmond on the mainland. An ivory tower.

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 12

Eventually he returned to his desk, the decision made. A guy couldn’t fight HQ.

In his early days he’d tried, and learned his lesson. Instead, a guy should delegate the

problem and then forget about it. The act of delegation might be difficult, but once it

had been accomplished the whole matter was someone else’s baby. His conscience

would be clear and he could sleep nights.

He buzzed his secretary. “Is Staff Sergeant Devoran in the building?”

There was a worried pause. No doubt Sheila was wondering if the attendance

board was up to date. Then the reply came back, “I believe so, Sir.”

“Find him, huh? Ask him to pop in.”

While he waited, Lockhart considered the matter of Eric Devoran. Devoran

was a dreamer who had never quite fitted into the discipline and hierarchy of the

RCMP. Mind you, he was never insubordinate and he did a damned good job as head

of Operations. Moreover, a couple of years back, he’d been instrumental in cracking

the Spackman case — a major triumph for the Detachment. Against this was the undeniable

fact that Devoran was his own man. Not exactly a loose cannon — Lockhart

could never have stood for that — but he did tend to follow unorthodox routes during

an investigation. And he had an inexhaustible knowledge of useless trivia, like where

was Rwanda and who wrote Silas Marner. He didn’t play golf and had refused to join

the Rotary Club. In fact, Lockhart suspected Devoran of being a closet intellectual.

He’d met Devoran’s son on a couple of occasions, and young Bill was without doubt a

budding intellectual, well on the way to becoming a nerd.

The door opened and the subject of Lockhart’s cogitations entered, tall and

thin, slightly stooping and horse-faced. Not for the first time, Lockhart felt relieved that

Devoran was a plainclothes officer. In working uniform he’d have been a disgrace to

the Mounties; he was built all wrong. Red Serge would suit him fine, though. Anyone

could look impressive in Red Serge, but the occasions for wearing it were rare.

“Afternoon, Jim. What can I do for you?”

“Take a seat. Uh, cigarette?” He offered a pack of Camels.

“No, thanks.” Devoran was looking suspicious. Surely he hadn’t smelled a rat

already?

Lockhart took the plunge. “I’ve had a message from HQ.”

“Ah.”

“It seems they’ve been approached by that coalition of women’s groups again.

Absolute pests, those people.”

A mild alarm was dawning on Devoran’s face. “Doing anything interesting this

weekend, Jim?”

“We’ll deal with one subject at a time, shall we, Eric? I know and you know

that HQ are a royal pain in the butt: weak as kittens with pressure groups but hard as

nails with us. We can’t duck this one. It’s all about home invasions again.”

“When did we last have a home invasion, for God’s sake?”

“That’s beside the point. They’ve had them in the cities and it seems the media

have whipped the population of British Columbia into a frenzy of terror.”

“I’ve noticed no frenzy in Peterville, Jim.”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 13

“Nevertheless. Like I said, we can’t duck this one. So we’re going to put on a

series of talks around our detachment area. You remember, you did one yourself in

Port Jackson a couple of years back. Nothing to it. Piece of cake.”

“Actually, it was a disaster. The audience was mostly unemployed loggers.

They didn’t want to defend against home invasions; they wanted tips on how to carry

them out. At one point they rushed the stage. If it hadn’t been for Marsha Dobbin I

wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.” He shuddered slightly, and Lockhart felt a moment’s

pity. Devoran was not suited to facing a herd of stampeding loggers, for sure.

“HQ insist. This is an order, Eric.”

Devoran squared his thin shoulders. “Then I guess we have no option. I recommend

young Goodenough for the job. Excellent experience for him.”

Lockhart felt his bowels contract at the thought of turning Constable Goodenough

loose on the populace. “No, Eric. You already have the experience. You’ll do

the job.”

“I’d rather not, believe me.”

“I tell you what. We’ll arrange the first talk for Noss Cove, your home ground.

Familiar territory and a retirement area. It’ll be a submissive audience of little old ladies.

You’ll hold them in the palm of your hand.”

“It’s a waste of manpower, Jim.” There was desperation in Devoran’s voice.

“There’s officers here far more qualified than me for this kind of nonsense. Goodenough

does all the talking to the media, he’s used to audiences. He’s less senior too.

I’m needed doing proper work. I’m NCO in charge of Ops, for Pete’s sake.”

“We’re only talking about the odd day now and then. And it’s not just the lecture;

there are important liaison issues out there. You’ll be getting to know people.

You’ll be showing the flag. We can hardly use a constable for a job like this. It’s a

matter of using the correct caliber of officer, if you know what I mean. Quite frankly,

you’re the right man for the job. Look on it as a compliment.”

“I don’t see it that way, Jim.”

“Do I have to spell it out? Basically you’re non-threatening to women, if you

don’t mind my saying so.” Lockhart took a gulp of coffee from his personalized mug,

wiping his plump lips with the back of his hand. “These days, women spend their lives

being told they’re threatened. There’s a culture of fear, of victimhood. Up there onstage

in Red Serge you’ll be a symbol of security, decency and good old-fashioned Canadian

values. You and Constable Dobbin will make a fine wholesome team. A welcome

change from the six o’clock news. I still have a copy of the guidelines I put together

for last time. You don’t even have to learn anything new.” He tossed a stapled

sheaf of papers onto Devoran’s side of the desk.

“But that script reads as a dire warning, Jim. It talks about all kinds of violent

consequences of not locking your doors. And opening them to strangers. Just like the

six o’clock news, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You worry too much, Eric. And it’s not a script. I wish you wouldn’t keep

calling it a script. It’s guidelines. Interpret them how you will. I have every confidence

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 14

you’ll strike a happy medium between danger and security. Anyway, no woman is going

to feel threatened with you up there on-stage, for God’s sake.”

Devoran winced at this but appeared to accept the inevitable. “Must I wear the

Red Serge?”

“People out there like a Mountie to look like a Mountie. I’ll let you arrange the

date; you know the area. And for God’s sake don’t let that mother-in-law of yours get

involved or she’ll be organizing the whole event. You know she’s applied to join our

golf club, do you?” Lockhart had crossed swords with the redoubtable Adelaide

Rooke-Challenger on civic matters more than once.

Devoran looked affronted. “It’s nothing to do with her. I can handle her if I

have to, for Pete’s sake.”

“Sorry, just a thought. Well, thanks for dropping in, Eric. Enjoy your weekend.”

A FEBRUARY SUNDAY MORNING: MEETINGS ON WATERSIDE ROAD

Noss Cove village lies on Noss Inlet, a jagged notch in Vancouver Island. Many of the

houses are close to a century old, lying along the landward side of Waterside Road. An

ancient bylaw dictates that only two buildings lie on the seaward side of this road: the

Globe Inn, owned and operated by James Herring and his wife Amanda, and Duffy’s

Marina. The road divides into two at the head of the inlet.

Here stand the community hall and adjoining library presided over by Mrs. May

Vinge; the church, and a small corner store. Some fifty other properties are clustered

around the head of the inlet, including the home of the Devorans, father and son. One

road then heads inland toward Peterville and civilization, spawning three small and

rather unkempt subdivisions on the way. The other wanders off through rolling farmland

and forest, eventually reaching the coast at Polzuan.

The people living along Waterside Road are mostly retired, but some commute

daily to Peterville and even to Victoria, sixty-odd miles away. Where their windows

front close to the road, they display models of ships and all manner of brass brummagem

to the passerby, who might be excused for being a little cynical about this seafaring

pretense.

But seafaring work does continue in the village. Four small boats set out most

mornings, returning later with a modest catch of crab or whatever else lacks the intelligence

to recognize a trap for what it is. Then of course, there is Duffy’s Marina with its

floats, haul-out and repair facilities, and dry-land storage. Three seiners operate out of

here in season. Four people work at the marina year-round;

more in the summer. The total population of the village, including the three subdivisions,

is around a thousand souls.

A person driving along Waterside Road toward Kingcombe Point would enter

a tunnel of ancient trees after passing the last of the houses. To the left the land rises

steeply to the rugged Provincial park; to the right the ground drops abruptly to the waters

of the inlet. Boats of all kind swing at their moorings, the waters widening where

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 15

the Utley River enters the inlet. There is a treacherous sandy bar at the river’s mouth

that stretches part way across the inlet.

Waterside Road ends at a tiny car park, the start of a hiking trail to the point.

Here also is an overgrown driveway leading to a clapboard cottage. In days gone by

this was the home of a ferryman who worked his outsize rowboat between the small

dock below the cottage, and the far side of the inlet. The cottage is secluded, hidden by

trees from the cars, thoroughly renovated and an ideal residence for an elderly retired

person with a desire for seclusion.

Such a person was Adelaide Rooke-Challenger, 80 years old and frighteningly

active physically and mentally....

She didn’t need reminding that discharging a firearm in a residential area was

illegal, but she considered such laws were purely for the guidance of incompetents. After

eighty years she knew how to handle a gun, for heaven’s sake, and she intended to

protect her property by every means at her disposal. She’d learned her lesson both in

India and Africa many years ago.

In her considered opinion she had every justification in inserting two cartridges

into her shotgun with intent to kill.

The thieving raccoon clung to a branch of the ivy-clad tree that towered over

her cottage, glowering at her, disputing ownership of her property, still chewing on the

meat she’d put outside for her dog Colonel. Soon that tree would have to go too, and

to hell with the local bylaws; it was blocking the light from the south and partly obscuring

her view of Duffy’s Marina. Not that there was anything particularly attractive about

that collection of rotting floats and boats. But it was there, and by God she had a right

to see it.

She braced herself and squinted along the barrels. The raccoon stared back,

beady-eyed and undaunted. At this range she couldn’t miss, and the animal would

shortly be reduced to bite-sized portions, as they say in those wretched television commercials.

His days of messing the roof and eating Colonel’s food would be over. She

took up the slack with her forefinger.

It was like shooting a sitting duck.

It was hardly sporting. And nobody could accuse her, Adelaide Rooke-

Challenger, of poor sportsmanship. She lowered the gun, glancing around. Not a soul

in sight. No possibility of recriminations from bleeding-heart animal-huggers. Really,

there was no reason she shouldn’t have blasted that wretched brute out of his tree right

then — except the strict code of behavior instilled by her father the Major-General,

God rest his soul. “Faugh!” she exclaimed in disgust. “Get off my land, you little

pest!” And breaking the gun, she pocketed the cartridges. Was that an expression of

amused contempt on the raccoon’s face? She snatched up a rock and hurled it accurately

into the tree. The raccoon scrambled higher, alarmed by his narrow escape.

Sixty years ago she’d played cricket for Delhi Young Ladies, and it was good to know

she’d lost little of her skill.

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 16

She glanced at her watch. There was nobody in sight down the road, but

Thelma Drost would be arriving soon for their regular Monday morning coffee date.

What a nuisance Thelma was becoming! Forever complaining about the

government, the economy, the police, the septic tank, and the destructive behavior

of her bed & breakfast guests. Still, she could be counted as a friend, and Mrs.

Rooke-Challenger would be the first to admit she didn’t make friends easily.

She became aware of movement among the trees where the road degenerated

into a trail leading to Kingcombe Point. A tall figure was passing among the foliage with

a confident stride. Quite a contrast to Thelma’s timorous scuttle. You’d think, to watch

Thelma walking, that a mugger lurked behind every tree.

And there was no shortage of trees around Kingcombe Point. Ancient remnants

of some pioneer landholding and now a Provincial park, they overhung the road

all the half mile to Noss Cove. They also lined the banks of Noss Inlet and obscured

Mrs. Rooke-Challenger’s view of the water. There were conifers and there were oaks

and arbutus. In the past she’d hammered copper nails into a few of the most obtrusive

trees, a practice supposedly guaranteed to kill them stone dead, but they’d thrived on

the treatment, flushing anew every spring. And now in mid February she could be living

in the middle of the Amazon jungle for all the view her waterfront position afforded her.

The figure approached. She pushed her way through the straggle of salal,

broom, and other vegetation to her gate. She’d have no strangers leaving the right-ofway

and trespassing on her land.

“Fine day!” he called.

“Good morning,” she replied, weighing him up.

Adelaide Rooke-Challenger was a devoted student of detective fiction and

prided herself on her powers of observation. This man now; he’d be about forty years

old, and judging by his upright bearing he’d spent time in the military. Probably he’d

been made redundant by one of those shortsighted defense cutbacks, poor fellow. It

was a disgrace, the way the armed forces had been emasculated in recent years.

Clearly the fellow had been forced to accept a desk job, to judge by the slight

wear on the sleeves of his sports jacket. The quality of the fabric told her he’d been

successful and his keen, inquiring glance told her he might well have worked his way up

and now headed his own law firm in Victoria. Possibly he’d been working on a case

that had overrun into the weekend, but had now been wrapped up satisfactorily. So he

was taking a belated few days holiday on his boat at Duffy’s Marina. A forty foot

ketch, by the look of him. Probably a Morgan.

The lawyer paused and smiled, and became a human being rather than a subject

for her powers of observation and deduction. She realized she’d seen him once or

twice before, lunching at the Globe Inn along the lane with a girl of racially mixed parentage.

Still, she wouldn’t hold that against him. He stood in a patch of sunlight, lean

and tanned in a way that made his blue eyes quite startling.

“Problems with rats?” he asked, glancing at the shotgun.

“I do not have rats,” she replied. “I have raccoons.”

“They can be a terrible nuisance.”

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 17

“And yet as soon as one tries to get rid of them, the animal rights people are up

in arms.” How nice it was to have a sympathetic ear around the place! And what a

contrast between this fine-looking fellow and her wretched son-in-law, the hollowchested

Eric Devoran! “But I expect you’re all too familiar with the legalities of such

matters.”

“Seagulls, too,” he said, letting the legal aspect pass. “They perch on my mast,

fouling the decks. And otters.”

She dismissed the image of an otter perched at the masthead with some difficulty.

“No doubt you have an extensive deck area. You find Duffy’s marina satisfactory?”

He frowned. “I’ve had my problems there. Security isn’t what it might be. And

Red Duffy himself, well....”

“An uncouth individual.”

“He doesn’t know the meaning of customer service.”

“Who does, these days?” How pleasant, chatting in the unseasonably mild

February air to such an intelligent man! What a pity Thelma was coming. It would have

been nice to invite him in for a cup of tea, but quite frankly he and Thelma Drost would

not mix. “You’re going out for a sail, I imagine?”

He smiled. His teeth were straight and white. “I wish I was! No, I’m working

on the boat. I thought I’d take a stroll to the Point to blow away the cobwebs, and

maybe call in at the library afterwards.”

At the mention of the library Mrs. Rooke-Challenger’s good humor evaporated

somewhat. An unhappy memory had returned like acid indigestion. Last Friday the

librarian May Vinge had fined her a dollar for alleged late return of books, would you

believe it? It wasn’t the money so much; God knows she could afford a dollar easily

enough. It was the principle of the thing. She was a damned good customer of the library

and May Vinge had only lived in Noss Cove a month or two. What right had a

Johnny-come-lately to throw her weight about like that? Good grief; the implied reprimand

was akin to slander! The library had been busy at the time and upwards of a

dozen witnesses must have heard the altercation.

Now a minor misunderstanding occurred that illustrated an aspect of Mrs.

Rooke-Challenger’s rigid mentality, being this: Once she had determined upon a theory,

in her mind it became fact. This characteristic was to govern her subsequent handling

of the Case of Lionel Slade.

She decided to seek the advice of an expert.

“As a lawyer, I should like your opinion on a small matter.”

“You’re a lawyer?” he asked, surprised.

“No, I’m a military widow.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s quite all right. I rarely think of him now. He’s been dead more years than

I care to remember.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry, you’re mistaken. Were you thinking I’m a lawyer? I’m

an investment broker, as a matter of fact.” He glanced at his watch. “I must go; a client

Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 18

may be dropping by. Perhaps I might call later at your convenience and we could continue

our chat. It could be of mutual benefit.” He looked around approvingly. “This is a

fine property. Must be worth a mint. You must enjoy living in a place like this.”

He was indeed perceptive. “It’s my good fortune....” Her attention was

caught by the sight of Thelma Drost approaching along the road. “And now you must

excuse me. My friend is coming.”

Nodding, the fine example of manhood strode off in the direction of Duffy’s marina.

Mrs. Rooke-Challenger turned to welcome her guest. “Thelma. I thought we

said ten o’clock.”

“It is ten o’clock, isn’t it?”

“According to my watch it’s at least five past, but I have no intention of making

an issue of a little matter of five minutes. Pleasant weather today, is it not? Come inside.

I will put the coffee on.”

THE SAME SUNDAY MORNING: DUFFY’S MARINA

Young Bill Devoran enjoyed the boaty atmosphere of the marina. The tapping of nylon

halyards against aluminum masts, the evocative scent of fiberglass resin, the empty paint

cans scattered around the yard. A sailor’s life for him. He’d often thought that dear old

Dad’s eyes took on a faraway look when confronted with objects maritime. It was genetic,

in the family’s blood. Seafaring stock. One day he and his girlfriend Maeve

would buy a boat and sail off to South America and lie on Ipenima beach drinking rum

punches and chatting to the friendly Cariocas in Portuguese.

Always provided that Maeve got it into her thick head that a man had physical

needs. A few days at sea with Maeve and her current sexual philosophy, and one of

them would have to go over the side. How did he ever get himself involved with such

an old-fashioned bitch, for Chrissake? It was time she realized there were other fish in

the sea.

Duffy’s car park was quite large, enough for some forty cars and separated

from the yard and the docks by a chain-link fence. A fellow needed a key to get inside,

but it was easy enough to slip through when a key holder opened the gate. Duffy and

his men always turned a blind eye to Bill’s intrusions on account of his Dad being a policeman.

It was a form of pulling rank.

Musing on this and other matters, he entered the sunlit marina yard and wandered

along the ways. There was a boat undergoing refit that would suit Maeve and

him perfectly. A big oceangoing ketch called Ocean Dream. Beautiful lines. It had

become his Sunday morning ritual to stroll down to the marina and see how she was

coming along. And there was an added attraction. An awesome woman was often

working on her; a coffee-colored goddess who would fit into his dreams of Ipenima far

more appropriately than the rather pallid Maeve. He was looking forward to spring,

when she would divest herself of her winter gear. She’d strip like a porn star. Unfortunately

she looked maybe five years or so older than him. A gulf.

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