climbed out, wishing the car cut more of a dash.
He slammed the door and began to worry about the kind of bloody horror he
might be faced with down on the docks. He’d heard stories of marine accidents; he’d
seen a few himself. Someone had fallen from a masthead while replacing the bulb in an
anchor light. Someone had slipped between the dock and a large vessel, and been
crushed flat. Someone had been drawn into a propeller and reduced to hamburger.
This was an explosion. There could be body parts scattered over the surface.
Just so long as it wasn’t a child. He was not emotionally equipped to deal with
damaged youngsters. Ever since Veronica died in her road accident he’d been terrified
that Bill would suffer a similar fate. And now Bill was fifteen, talking about motorcycles.
He made for the gate. His access was barred by a youth dressed in coveralls
and a yellow baseball cap labeled DUFFY’S MARINA.
“I’m sorry, sir. Mrs. Rooke-Challenger says nobody can go down there yet.
There’s been an accident. We’re waiting for the police.”
“I am the police. You know me, for God’s sake. You’re Linda Fletcher’s boy
from the subdivision.”
“Yeah, sorry, Mr. Devoran. I guess you look different in that fancy uniform.
When they said the police were coming I expected someone, like, different. Less
dressy, maybe. You know how it is.” The youth was trying to suppress a grin. “Pass,
friend.” He waved Devoran through with a mock bow.
Yes, Devoran knew how it was. He looked ridiculous in Red Serge, what ever
Lockhart might think. After all these years, he still wondered if he was really cut out for
the RCMP. Perhaps one of these days he’d buy a boat himself, maybe sail off to an
undiscovered South Sea island. There he’d meet a dark-skinned girl and move into her
grass hut. His wide knowledge and air of authority would impress the natives who
would make him their chief and drape fragrant leis around his neck; and in the evenings
while he sat outside the hut and his many children disported themselves in the surf, the
islanders would bring their problems to him and he’d issue wise judgments. Chief
Devoran, the Solomon of the Southern Ocean.
“Why are you in dress uniform?” A familiar voice shattered his daydream into
palm-strewn fragments. “Good grief, man, you look like Nelson Eddy!”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 47
A gallery of faces stared at him, prominent among them being the toadlike features
of his mother-in-law. It was a bad beginning. He caught sight Bill and his girl
friend Maeve, both grinning, storing this moment for future use.
“Good morning, everybody,” he said formally, pulling out his identification.
His mother-in-law wheeled round to face the others. “Allow me to introduce
Staff Sergeant Devoran of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.” She injected a heavy
irony into every word. “Take charge, Staff Sergeant.”
He asked a safe question. “What’s going on here?”
A chorus of voices replied, the only certainty being that someone was dead. A
pity Dobbin wasn’t here, he thought. She might have canceled out Mother-in-law, leaving
him to get on with the job.
“Silence!” the old dragon roared. “Pay no attention to these dolts, Sergeant. I
will now acquaint you with the facts. This yacht known as the Ocean Dream, a fortyfoot
Taiwan ketch, exploded at the dock. There is at least one fatality. I have a list of
those present. And that is all you need know from us. You may now proceed with
your investigation.”
First rule, use your eyes. The background: two masts sticking out of the water.
The surface littered with debris; wood panels, plastic bottles, cushions, all kinds of stuff.
And something larger, floating close to the finger. In the foreground: Mother-in-law, Bill
and Maeve plus plenty more crowding the long dock. “All of you here,” he said, “Move
back, please.” As they shuffled back, he asked his mother-in-law quietly, “Who discovered
the body?”
“Every man jack of us, Sergeant.” Then she relented. “One might say Mr.
Duffy was the initial contact.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the office, recovering from hypothermia, I trust.”
He would have to talk to Duffy later. Meanwhile he edged forward onto the
finger, which tilted alarmingly with his weight. The body bumped gently against the finger,
terribly inert but at least adult. Judging by the height, it was male. It lay face down,
kept afloat by a huge bubble in the back of the jacket, giving it the false appearance of a
hunchback. False, that is, unless the man was indeed a hunchback. A couple of feet
under the water Devoran could see a pale deck, winches, a stainless steel wheel, all
things live people used. He found he was shivering, and hoped Mother-in-law hadn’t
noticed.
He addressed the onlookers, whose numbers seemed to be diminishing. “You!
And you there! Bring ropes. We’ll get the victim onto the dock.”
They passed ropes under the body, hauled it onto the dock and rolled it onto its
back. Water streamed away through the gaps between the planks. The clothes were
charred but still virtually intact. Blue eyes stared from a blackened face. Gulping,
Devoran closed the lids. He found his mother-in-law kneeling beside him.
She prodded the pallid flesh. “Death occurred at ten fifty-seven precisely.”
“Please get back onto the main dock, Mother-in-law.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 48
“I should mention,” she continued, “that this man was an investment broker of
some means, well educated and with an upright posture, and enjoyed walking.”
“And how do you deduce that?” he asked, interested despite himself.
“I have my methods.”
Devoran felt his face flushing with irritation. “All right, what’s his name?”
“I believe his name is Lionel Slade. As a matter of fact,” she admitted, “I met
him personally last month. He was walking along the coastal path and we spoke briefly
of raccoons. Such an inconsequential chat, bearing in mind the terrible fate awaiting him
here.” Suddenly her face changed; the network of lines forming an unfamiliar geometry.
“He has a lady friend of mixed parentage.” Her expression, Devoran realized, was pity.
“Oh, my God.” Devoran glanced toward the car park, half-expecting to see the
bereaved strolling down the ramp all unknowing, bearing a pathetic bag of provisions.
But only Red Duffy could be seen, now in dry clothes and making his way toward them.
And was that a police car pulling up outside the gates? A couple of officers would be a
welcome reinforcement, right now. “Does anyone else know this man?” he asked the
onlookers.
“Li Slade,” somebody volunteered. At this time of year the marina was pretty
much deserted, but a couple of boat owners had been seeing him around for a while
now. He kept himself to himself, they said. The girlfriend? She was a good looker.
Didn’t say much, either.
Devoran pushed through the crowd to greet the marina owner. “Hello, Red.
Nasty business.”
“Poor bastard. Gasoline fumes in the bilge, of course. You strike a match, then
poof!” His hands described an upwards and outwards motion. “Curtains. Game over.”
“The big boatyard in the sky,” one of the onlookers said. “Listen, is it all right if
we go now? You don’t need us any more?”
“Did any of you see Mr. Slade come aboard?”
There was a general shaking of heads. Red Duffy said, “I reckon he spent last
night at the Globe. Him and the girl. I saw them in the bar, late, then they headed upstairs.
You could check with the Herrings.”
“Thanks, Red. So did anyone see him arrive this morning?”
Another shaking of heads and some impatient shuffling and stamping of chilly
feet.
“OK, then. Make sure you leave your names, addresses and telephone numbers
with one of the officers, please.” He indicated the two uniformed men hurrying
down the ramp.
“I have all the relevant particulars,” snapped his mother-in-law.
“Nevertheless,” said Devoran firmly, biting back an incautious response. “Secure
the area,” he told one of the men. “The docks, the yard, the whole kit and caboodle.
We’ll treat it as homicide until proved otherwise.” He thumbed his radio, called
the Operations Control Center at Peterville and asked them to send a Major Crime
team. OCC didn’t sound particularly happy about it.
“Heck, it’s Sunday, Eric.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 49
“We’ll need the Coroner as well.”
He glanced back at the sunken deck, and his stomach suddenly lurched. “Red,
are you quite sure there was nobody else in the boat?”
“No, I’m not fucking sure. When you find yourself holding hands with a corpse
underwater, you don’t look any further, I can tell you.”
“I… wondered if the girlfriend had already got back, before….”
“Well, I’m not going down there again. I’ve done enough diving for one day,
thanks very much.” Duffy shivered suddenly. “If the girlfriend’s down there,
I’d rather not meet her. One of your men can have that pleasure, Eric. I’ve already sent
someone up for a wet suit.” He glanced toward the yard. “What the hell’s going on up
there? Why are they stringing yellow tape everywhere? Jesus, it’s in full view of the
road! Can’t you be a little more discreet about this?”
“We have to secure the area. There are more important issues than the reputation
of your marina.”
“Not to me there isn’t,” Duffy grumbled. “And what about the boat owners?
Do you mean they can’t get to their boats? It’s Sunday, for Chrissake. This’ll be a
busy afternoon.”
“I can’t help that. The tape will go as soon as the Ident team and the Coroner
have finished here. It’ll take the rest of the day, at least. And then the boat’s got to be
hauled up onto the ways so that Ident can go over it. We’re going to be here for a few
days and you’ll have to get used to the idea, Red.”
“Shit,” Duffy muttered despairingly.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON: “I’LL BE THE JUDGE OF THAT!”
“What have you got here, Eric?” the Coroner asked rhetorically.
“Lionel Slade, by all accounts,” he said briefly. “We’ll get an official identification
later. Found in the cabin of this boat. Explosion.” It was best not to say too much
to Dr. Alan Bottomley, who had a very short fuse. Stocky and rotund, he had a knack
of taking helpful comments the wrong way. Added to which, he’d been called away
from his Sunday afternoon golf foursome. It would be interesting to lure him into conversation
with Mother-in-law, whom he’d probably never met, since the old girl had no
time for doctors.
Devoran got his wish sooner than he expected.
“Time of death ten fifty-seven this morning!” a harsh voice rasped.
Bottomley, kneeling beside the body, looked up in astonishment. Devoran’s
mother-in-law had slipped through the cordon and was usurping his authority.
“I’ll be the judge of that!” he snapped. To Devoran he said, “He’s been dead
less than a couple of hours, I’d say, although it’s difficult to tell, given the cold water he
was immersed in. Lots of debris embedded in the skin. Contusion on the left temple.
That could be the cause of death. Or he could have been knocked out in the explosion
and drowned. The autopsy will tell us. No other obvious wounds.” He looked up to
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 50
see Mrs. Rooke-Challenger being hustled away by an apologetic officer. His curiosity
got the better of him. “Why was she so sure of the time?” he asked.
“She looked at her watch when she heard the explosion. It’s the kind of thing
she does.”
“Smart old girl. Of course, he could have been lying dead in the boat overnight,
for all she knows. The explosion could have been a cover-up.”
Suddenly the water erupted in huge bubbles and a monstrous head broke the
surface immediately above the shattered cabin.
“Jesus!” Devoran sprang away in fright, falling backwards against a boat
moored on the opposite side of the finger.
The diver peeled off his rubber helmet. “OK. Nobody else in there.”
“One body’s enough for me,” Devoran said shakily.
Bottomley stood, peeling off his latex gloves, stuffing them into a plastic bag and
wiping his hands on a small wet cloth, then dusting off the knees of his beige pants. “It’s
Sunday,” he said querulously. “I’ve got better things to do.”
Meanwhile the police photographer snapped away, climbing aboard the adjacent
boat for a better view, and the Ident team, clad head to toe in white coveralls, examined
the docks and walkways for signs of anything out of the ordinary.
“I wouldn’t rule out murder,” Bottomley said casually.
I’ll be the judge of that, Devoran thought. But he didn’t say it. “Nothing much
they can do until we’ve got the boat up,” he nodded toward the men in monkey suits.
They stood for a moment gazing down at the pale shape of the ketch below the
surface. Devoran shivered suddenly, recalling a childhood incident. There had been an
explosion aboard a big seiner. She’d caught fire and they’d towed her away from the
fish dock to prevent the fire spreading to other boats. She’d sunk in deep water, just
the tip of the mast showing. Two bodies had been recovered by divers. It had been
the big excitement of the year for the local kids. Devoran had borrowed a boat next
day and rowed an inexpert course to the mast, and tied up to it. Then he’d leaned out
and looked down into the water. And there was no way he could explain the horror of
the sight. The mast led down to the deck, tapering with distance. The order of things
was dizzily reversed. The deck was dark and ghostlike and the hatches had been
blown off by the explosion. Men had walked and worked on that deck, and a few days
ago the ship had been alive with their laughter and shouting. Now it was all quiet and
trembling slightly with the movement of water, like a dying animal. Devoran’s fumbling
hands couldn’t untie the rowboat’s painter quickly enough. One more second, he felt,
and the painter would have been drawn inexorably down the mast, taking the rowboat
and him down to that dead deck below. He dreamed about that seiner nightly for
weeks afterwards, and in his dreams the two dead men came alive and worked at the
winch, anchoring the boat to her grave.
“Kind of creepy, isn’t it,” Bottomley said, staring down, and for the first time
Devoran felt some sort of kinship with him.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 51
“It’s a different world down there.” Devoran shook his head to dispel this unwarranted
attack of imagination. “I think we’ve got about all we can out of the body.
You can take him to Peterville if you’re through, Al.”
SUNDAY AFTERNOON: QUESTIONS FOR THE MARINA STAFF
The marina office occupied the second floor of a boat chandler’s, close to the top of the
walkway. It doubled as a sales office. A large white board occupied one wall, listing in
blue chalk the names, type and price of boats for sale. Beneath the board stood a table
littered with brochures and specification sheets. Near the table was a large desk, and
behind the desk sat a fair-haired, well-built man in a T-shirt bearing the inscription I’D
RATHER BE SAILING.
“Charlie Hood.” Red Duffy introduced the man briefly as he sat at his own desk
and motioned his visitors to an assortment of chairs, old and new. “He’s our salesman.
Charlie, this here is Staff Sergeant Devoran, you’ve probably seen him around dressed
a tad less flashily. And uh…?”
“Constable Dobbin,” said Devoran’s assistant, whom he’d spent the last five
minutes briefing.
“And maybe you know Mrs. Rooke-Challenger,” Duffy continued. “She lives at
Kingcombe Point.”
“Hello, there,” Hood said breezily, not intimidated. “What’s your part in all this,
old girl?”
“She’s resting,” Devoran said hastily. “It’s been a shock.” The truth was, the
dreadful old woman had forced her way in with the others and seated herself immediately.
Short of physically carrying her out, there was little he could do. “Good view you
have,” he observed, quickly diverting attention. Three of the four walls consisted entirely
of windows: looking south over the boathouses; east across the docks and the
winding inlet beyond; and north over the car park and the road inland. “You must see
pretty well everything that goes on here.”
“Usually,” Duffy agreed. “So happens I was in the john when the Ocean
Dream blew.”
“Did you see the explosion, Mr. Hood?”
“More or less.” Hood grimaced briefly, exhibiting white teeth. “I jumped up
and looked out soon as I heard the big bang. The cabin roof had just started to come
down from the sky.”
“Was anyone near the boat at the time?”
“Nope. Not many around this time of year, anyway.”
“Did you—”
He was interrupted by the rasping voice of Mrs. Rooke-Challenger. “Be that as
it may, it’s odd that you didn’t make haste to investigate, Mr. Hood. Surely that is the
correct procedure when you see a boat explode?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 52
“I don’t often see boats explode,” said Hood, sudden creases of anger appearing
on his tanned face. “I guess I wasn’t aware of the correct procedure. I shouted to
Red, but he’d have heard the bang anyway.”
“Right,” Duffy agreed. “It got me out of the john in a hurry, I can tell you.”
“I called 911 next,” Hood continued. “It seemed a more useful procedure than
running down the dock. There were people doing that already. Half the goddamned
village was on its way.”
“I issued instructions for the police to be called,” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger said,
putting her finger unerringly on a duplication of effort. “They took their time getting here,
too.”
“Too busy lurking behind cameras spying on honest drivers,” Duffy put in.
“Maybe honest drivers should allow themselves more time to get to places,”
Devoran retorted, nettled. “Then they wouldn’t need to exceed the speed limit.” He
really got tired of the public complaining about the police. A well-designed speed trap
could be a masterpiece of guile, a work of art. “Anyway, they had to come from Peterville.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Duffy said.
“You introduced the speeding topic, Red, not me. Anyway, tell us about Lionel
Slade.”
Duffy leaned back in his chair with the air of one with a lengthy yarn to spin. “Li
Slade, yes. Christ, that gave me a shock, touching his hand like that. I doubt if I’ll
sleep for a week. Maybe I need counseling. Anyway, Li arrived a couple months ago;
I’ve got the date in the register. He’d brought Ocean Dream up from Victoria. Nice
boat. Taiwan ketch. He’d been living aboard for a while. He talked about sailing
away into the wide blue yonder, but first he had to get the boat in shape. Had a girl
with him; West Indian, I’d say. Susi Something; her name’s in the book. She was a bit
of a spaced-out type, know what I mean? Nice enough kid. Quite a looker.”
“Do you know who his next of kin are?”
“None of my business. He was just a guy on a boat, paying his moorage regular
in cash. Usually if a guy’s taking off into the sunset like soon, he keeps everything
aboard. Cash, papers and so on. The girl Susi’ll be able to tell you more than me.”
“How did he spend his time, do you know?”
“He was fixing up the boat. And he had a computer. I know he worked on
that, but I don’t know what at. I never went aboard, so I’ve never seen anything might
give a clue. Susi Thing never gave anything away.”
Mrs. Rooke-Challenger was unable to let this pass. “How do you know he had
a computer if you never went aboard, answer me that!”
“I know about the computer because he asked me if the voltage fluctuated
much here, so we started talking about it. Listen, Missus, have you joined the Mounties
or what?”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, my good man!”
Fortunately there was an interruption. An Ident member appeared at the door.
“All through with the docks for the time being, Eric,” he reported. “Tim gave the boat
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 53
another search, right through forward to the chain locker. Definitely no more stiffs, not
even a cat.”
“Thank God for that. Have they taken the body away?”
“On its way to Peterville right now.”
“And how about taking that goddamned yellow tape down?” Duffy asked.
“Sorry, sir. The tape has to stay at the end of the dock and around the finger
until the boat’s been moved into the yard. Your customers can come and go along the
main part of the dock, though.” He addressed Devoran. “We’ll organize watches until
we’ve hauled the boat out and examined her.”
“Call OCC and fix something up, eh? And make sure you’ve got all the names
and addresses. And tell the hospital I’ll be in touch with Bottomley later.”
“Excuse me. As I told you, I already have—”
“Mrs. Rooke-Challenger,” Devoran said as firmly as he was able, “I must remind
you that you have no real business here. You are simply a person suffering from
shock, resting for a moment. You are also a witness, and I shall shortly be asking you a
few questions.” He awaited the outburst.
“Certainly, Sergeant,” she replied surprisingly. “You are quite right, of course.
From now on I will put my questions through you.”
Red Duffy chuckled. The old trout wandered over to the far wall where a plan
of the marina hung. Her gnarled finger traced the positions of the boats, paused at the
slip marked SLADE, and moved on.
“Did Mr. Slade have many visitors, Red?” Devoran asked.
“Hardly any. Just the people you’d expect when a guy’s fitting out his boat.
Carpenters, mechanics doing odd jobs. He dealt with Bob’s Boats right next door
here. You should speak to Bob.”
“Nobody who might be connected with his line of business? No friends?”
“I don’t know nothing about his line of business. For all I know he’d made his
pile and retired, and that’s why he was going to sail away. Maybe he was using the
computer to write his memoirs, maybe he played games on it. He had no Internet connection.
As for friends, he was too busy for that, working on the boat all the time.
There was just that Susi.”
“Any strangers hanging about the docks, showing an unusual interest in the
boat?”
“You always get guys checking out boats,” Duffy said.
“Who is that man, for instance?” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger said suddenly.
They looked out of the windows. Now that the excitement was over, the security
gate was firmly shut. A thickset man in a dark blue bomber jacket walked up, tried
the gate unsuccessfully, and stood peering through the chain link. After a moment a
boater emerged from behind a boat in the yard with a wheelbarrow full of orange lifejackets.
As he opened the main gate, the thickset man slipped through and made his
way among the boats stored on dry land.
“There you are, you see,” Duffy said. “It happens all the time, and not a thing
you can do about it.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 54
The man wandered casually down the ramp and along the dock, looking at the
boats, pausing to exchange a few words with a dark-haired woman on an ungainlylooking
black hulk toward the end of the dock, glancing curiously at the yellow tape
strung nearby.
And suddenly his manner changed.
He leaned toward the woman as she stood in her cockpit, his fingers hooked.
For a moment it looked as though he might jump aboard and seize her by the throat.
The woman’s head was nodding emphatically as she spoke. Bit by bit he relaxed. His
hands dropped to his sides. He turned and glanced up at the marina office. They saw
his face clearly; broad-featured, eyes wide-set, dark haired, dark mustache. He hurried
back along the dock, up the ramp, through the gate, almost running. Moments later a
blue VW Beetle was chugging up the road inland.
“Eastern European,” Mrs. Rooke-Challenger opined, “probably Czech. You
can spot them a mile away. The broad faces, the deep-set eyes.”
“Do you know him, Duffy?” Devoran asked.
“Seen him around. He’s never said anything much.”
“The woman he was speaking to, is she Eastern European as well?” Devoran
asked on a wicked impulse. “I mean, she seemed to understand him.”
Duffy appeared to give the matter serious consideration. “Rasha? Maybe; it’s a
funny enough name. She’s another liveaboard. Her and her boyfriend Royboy. That’s
the way they sign the moorage lease, those two. Rasha and Royboy. They don’t believe
in surnames. They once told me surnames are just labels to classify people, and
they don’t want to be classified. It hasn’t worked, because I’ve classified them myself.
They’re hippie liveaboards; I know the type. So what, they pay their way.”
“I’ll have a word with Rasha in a moment,” Devoran said. “Now, Red, what are
we going to do about Slade’s boat?”
“Do about it? I guess that’s up to Susi Thing. We’ll do whatever she cares to
pay for.”
“Well, no, not really. There’s going to be a lot of evidence on that boat we’ll
want to look at. You’ll have to get her up on dry land right away.”
“And who the hell pays for that?” Duffy stared at him aggressively, beefy arms
folded.
“You can send your bill in to the Peterville Detachment.” Devoran was getting a
little tired of Red Duffy. “Quite likely it’ll get paid, in time. But meanwhile my men will
stick around to keep an eye on the boat until you do whatever you have to do. You
understand we need to know what caused the explosion and we need to know
quickly.” It was an unusual situation, all the evidence being underwater.
Duffy shrugged. “Well, we can’t do anything today, that’s for sure. It’s Sunday,
eh? I don’t have the men here. Tomorrow maybe.”
“Tomorrow morning first thing, Red.”
Hood said suddenly, “Here comes Susi Thing.”
Devoran took one look and ran from the office. He reached the gate as a
young woman was placing her plastic bags of shopping on the ground beside an ancient
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 55
gray Volvo and fumbling for her gate key. He stepped in front of her, barring her way.
He couldn’t let her see the masts sticking out of the water, not yet. There had to be a
better way of finding out your boyfriend is dead.
Maybe in a minute he’d think of one.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON: A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS
A minute or two later Devoran was still thinking.
He heard her say in tones of annoyance, “Will you let me past, please?”
His speechlessness was not solely due to a search for the right words with
which to break the terrible news. The woman who faced him — with an expression of
patience wearing thin — was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen; even counting
Veronica. She appeared to be in her early twenties, around five-six with glowing caféau-
lait skin, full lips and dark hair swinging around her shoulders like an Oriental’s.
She was wearing a stylish gray coat and a scarf; she was not unduly slim, neither
was she stout. Well-rounded was the expression that occurred to him later, when he’d
been able to collect his thoughts. All this would have added up to a pretty but otherwise
unremarkable woman, were it not for her eyes. They were not the soft brown
eyes typical of Afro-Europeans. They were the biggest, roundest, bluest eyes he’d ever
come across. They transformed a pretty face into a thing of almost unearthly beauty.
Devoran was not merely speechless. He was struck dumb with admiration.
But then, as his son Bill often said, he was a sucker for a pretty face.
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