“What shall we do?” he whispered.
“We watch. We wait. And then, in the fullness of time, we pounce!”
“Listen, Gran, I’m not too keen on the idea of pouncing right here outside the
Bay.”
“When the time is ripe. For now we observe. Then we follow.”
The argument, if such it was, ended suddenly. With a gesture of disgust, the
man in the blue bomber jacket turned and strode off. Susi stood irresolute for a moment,
then walked slowly in the opposite direction.
“After them, young Wilberforce!”
“Which one?”
“The Jackal, of course!”
“Which one is the Jackal?”
“The male suspect in the blue bomber jacket.” She was already dodging among
the traffic.
“Why the Jackal?” He caught up with her. A car honked its horn and the
driver gestured angrily. They reached the safety of the opposite sidewalk.
“Use the sense God gave you, Wilberforce. I have better things to do with my
time than to continually refer to him as the male suspect in the blue bomber jacket.
Wait! Look!”
The Jackal paused outside a doorway, appeared to give the matter mature
thought, then entered. The old lady cast a suspicious glance at the sign which read
MARY’S COFFEE HOUSE. “These places are not always what they seem, Wilberforce.”
By now Bill was experiencing a sense of unreality. Gran needed reining in.
Perhaps Dad was right. Perhaps she should go into a home. But just when a fellow
thought she had reached the zenith of craziness, she had a knack of revealing a hard
kernel of common-sense. Try to get her certified, and she’d have the shrink recommending
her for Mensa. Perhaps now the Jackal had gone to ground and the thrill of
the chase had subsided, she was due for a bout of normality.
She turned abruptly to a pair of neatly-dressed young men offering passersby
copies of a magazine called ARISE.
“You’re getting nowhere like that!” she barked. “Have you no sense of salesmanship?”
So saying, she seized a stack of ARISE’s from one of the men, scanned the top
copy briefly, and pushed open the door of the coffee shop. “Come!” she called to Bill.
He trailed along behind, full of foreboding. The place was busy. An ocean of
faces regarded them. What excesses was the old girl about to commit? She began to
pass among the tables, placing a copy of ARISE on each and favoring the occupants
with a twisted smile and a murmur of “Bless you.”
Eventually she reached the Jackal’s table, sat down uninvited and motioned Bill
to do the same. She laid the stack of ARISE’s on the table and addressed the Jackal.
“Have you considered the advantages of joining the Sons of St. Michael, my
good man?”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10
The Jackal regarded her in surprise. “Huh?”
“It’s a religious cult of which I’m proud to be a member. As is my young companion
here.”
“The Force be with you,” Bill said, adjusting to the situation.
The Jackal glanced around as though seeking an avenue of escape, but the
waitress arrived at that moment with his coffee. Finding himself trapped, he decided to
make the best of it. “Sons of St. Michael, eh? What do you people believe in, exactly?”
“It’s not what we believe in that needs concern you. It’s what we do not believe
in. We do not believe in popular music or dancing of any kind. Neither do we
believe in consuming flesh, such as beef or even chicken, nor, for that matter, eggs.
And we do not listen to the radio, or watch that mind-numbing obscenity, television.”
“No, wait a moment. St. Michael couldn’t possibly have known about radio
and television.”
Bill felt Gran needed backing. “Speaking of television, you know all those science
shows with people digging up dinosaur fossils and stuff millions of years old?
Well, they’re all fakes, because the world wasn’t created until 5629 BC. That tells you
something about television.”
“How come you’ve seen the dinosaur shows if you don’t watch TV?” asked the
Jackal, clearly no fool.
“Be that as it may,” said Gran, “before 5629 BC, there was a stygian void.
Then the Lord said, ‘Let there be light.’”
Not surprisingly, it became too much for the Jackal to swallow. “Listen,” he
muttered, glancing at the nearby tables in some embarrassment, “I don’t know who the
hell you people are, but you can take it from me I’m not interested in your views. I
have enough problems of my own. Now go away and leave me in peace, for Chrissake.
You’ll get no money out of me. I came in here for a quiet cup of coffee.”
“You will recall it was you who asked us what we believed in.”
“Only trying to be polite. It was an error of judgment. I retract it.”
“I find it appalling that any human being can disassociate himself from the plight
of young girls living in sexual slavery.”
“Your cult embraces them, too?” the Jackal asked, interested despite himself.
“It does indeed. It is a matter of concern to us all. You, me, and every man
jack in this cafe, I would hope.”
“Yes, but wait a minute.” The Jackal was skeptical. “I mean, sexual slavery?
What young girls are we talking about, specifically?”
“At this moment, we are particularly interested in the plight of a young woman
who calls herself Susi Sutcliffe.”
As Bill watched the Jackal’s face, he saw a peculiar flush appear. The old girl
had struck home. “Why the hell are you interested in her?”
“In a word, I am in loco parentis to the girl.”
“You what?” he shouted. Heads turned. “Are you mad? What in God’s name
are you playing at, woman? Who the hell are you?”
“I happen to be the young lady’s Great-aunt Adelaide.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10
Bill couldn’t help but admire Gran’s resourcefulness. What a quick-thinking old
bird she was! In one swift stroke she had accounted for her interest in Susi, and placed
the Jackal on the defensive.
Disappointingly, he trumped her ace. “And I happen to be her father!”
It was enough for Bill. He prepared to beat an undignified retreat. Gran, however,
opted for a rearguard action.
“You admit that, do you?”
The Jackal’s hands shot across the table, seizing their wrists. “You’d better tell
me what this is all about.” His hands were large and powerful. The backs were covered
with dense black hair.
“Unhand me, you swine!” she shouted. “Waitress! Summon the police!”
Bill found himself quickly released. He arose and hurried outside. Loyalty was
fine, but enough was enough. Jeez, what a fiasco! From now on, he’d attend school on
a regular basis. Gran could pursue her inquiries alone. In fact, after this embarrassment
she might be persuaded to let the whole matter drop. He’d half a mind to catch the bus
home. No, maybe that was carrying matters too far. Gran was a good old stick, even
if she was mad as a hatter. Here she came, moving a little slowly. Defeated. He held
the door open for her. Poor old girl.
“Today we have learned a great deal, Wilberforce, I’m pleased to say. He was
lying, of course. If he is her father I’m a Dutchman. It’s genetically impossible.”
“Not if Susi’s mother’s black.”
“Would a bigot like that marry a black woman?” She laughed shortly. “I think
not. But for the sake of argument, let us suppose she is, in fact, his daughter. What
does that tell us?”
“It tells us he had a reason to visit the marina. To see Susi.”
“And why do you suppose he wanted to see her?”
Bill was tired of all this, but he’d learned long ago that it was better to play
along with Gran. “For a family chat, I imagine.”
“Or more likely to wrest her from the vile clutches of Slade! I ask you, would
any father want his daughter to sail off with a man she’d only just met? Of course not.
Picture the scenario, Wilberforce. The grieving father visits the marina, time after time,
trying to reason with the daughter he is losing. He pleads, he threatens. She is adamant,
besotted with the raffish charms of the despicable Slade. He tries one last time.
She refuses. So what does he do?”
“He gives up and goes home?”
“No, Wilberforce. He murders Slade.”
“Well, maybe.” If that was true, they were standing in full view of a ruthless
killer. “Let’s go, Gran.”
“Go? Good heavens, we can’t break off our inquiries when success is within
our grasp.”
“I thought it was failure we were grasping.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10
“Wilberforce, I’m surprised at you. All is going according to plan. We have
observed the quarry at his watering hole. He has slaked his thirst. Now it remains to
track him to his lair.”
This had huge danger potential. The Jackal probably lived in a dimly-lit back
street with alleys leading off, in which bodies were found lying amid garbage cans and
plastic bags of kitchen refuse. “Suppose he sees us!”
She laughed shortly. “I am a master of stealth. My Indian bearers used to call
me ‘She who is not there.’ I will be your mentor. Come.” She drew him away from
the window. “Our quarry is paying his bill.”
Moments later the Jackal emerged from the cafe, turned left, and set off at a
brisk pace.
WEDNESDAY LUNCH TIME: AN UNWELCOME GUEST
Devoran lunched alone. The Globe stood a couple of hundred yards from his home and
represented a comforting barrier between him and his mother-in-law at the outer end of
Noss Cove. He’d originally bought the cottage to please Veronica, who had an unhealthy
hankering to live near her mother; probably his late wife’s only fault. Since her
death he’d often thought of selling up and moving somewhere on the outskirts of Victoria,
but like so many things in his life he’d never got around to it. Besides, he liked Noss
Cove: the rural charm; the brightly-painted houses; the forested hills around the inlet; the
easygoing atmosphere of the waterside.
And he liked the Globe with its rock walls and smoke-blackened ceiling. And
he liked James Herring the owner, who dispensed fine ales and good cheer from behind
his polished mahogany bar. Much of his beer was supplied by the region’s cottage
breweries and it was always good. James’s wife Amanda supervised the food production
and the meals were good too, in a simple pub food way. The daily specials were
displayed on a blackboard just inside the entrance, and today Devoran had ordered
Beef Casserole and Veg. The menu was written in Basic English; no nonsense about
‘tender chunks of lean beef gently simmered,’ etcetera.
As Devoran took his first gulp of Hermann’s the usual feeling of contentment
stole over him. He folded his Times Colonist to display the crossword. This was the
advantage of dining alone; a fellow could work on the crossword in peace. He glanced
around the bar before examining 1 Across, nodding to one or two acquaintances. In a
way it was a pity he was so well known in the place, because once the findings of the
inquest became public he’d be besieged by those same people wanting to know how
the investigation was coming along. Until then, people who knew him would respect his
privacy. And people who didn’t know him wouldn’t recognize him anyway.
Dobbin was on her way to Victoria and Susi was off to Peterville. That was
fine, but why did Susi want to go to Peterville? Well, she had some money now. He’d
lent her $100 on the strict condition that she didn’t tell Bill. Thelma Drost had asked if
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10
she wanted her room held for another night, but Susi had been curiously evasive. What
was she up to? He could hardly insist on her staying in Noss Cove. She was not a suspect.
“Ah, Staff Sergeant Devoran! Wilf Ferris at your service.”
Good grief! The little rat pulled up a chair and sat down at the table without
asking, grinning at Devoran knowingly. Devoran glared back, unhappily aware that his
glare was about as non-threatening as a glare could be. Perhaps a few well-chosen
words would do the trick, such as What the hell do you want, Ferris?
“Can I help you, Mr. Ferris?” he found himself asking politely.
“The Lord helps those as helps themselves, as they say, eh?” responded Ferris
chirpily.
He was still grinning. What had come over to the man? The last time Devoran
had seen him, he’d fled in apparent terror. What had caused this turnabout, this cocksure
joviality? It was almost as though the little runt had gained the upper hand in some
way!
“What happened to your face?”
The cunning smile intensified, causing the flesh around the eyes to screw up until
the eyes themselves were almost hidden. It was a grotesque and somehow atavistic
sight. In a moment the fool would lay a finger alongside his nose like some minor Dickensian
villain.
“Ask no questions and be told no lies.”
Did his conversation consist solely of clichés? Devoran couldn’t take much
more of this. The man was positively hugging himself with glee over some huge private
joke. Devoran’s patience grew thin.
“My lunch will be here in a minute.”
“Lunching alone, Sergeant? Where’s Constable Dobbin today, then?”
“Pursuing inquiries.”
“Zealously, I bet. Zealously, eh?”
“I hope so.”
“Sometimes a bit overzealous, would you say?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so,” mimicked Ferris infuriatingly. “Perhaps you should ask
James. You know, the licensee.”
The verbal fencing continued for a moment, then mercifully the waitress arrived
with the beef casserole and placed it on the table. She glanced at Ferris.
“He’s not joining me,” Devoran said firmly.
“I’ll have the grilled halibut,” Ferris said.
“You’re sitting here?” asked the waitress, quick to sense atmosphere.
“What’s it look like?” Ferris said.
“He’s sitting over there.” Devoran indicated a vacant table.
Now the waitress was bewildered. “Over there?”
“No. Here.” Then leaning forward over the table, Ferris said quietly to
Devoran, “If you know what’s good for you.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10
Devoran’s temper finally got the better of him. He snapped, “Get the hell away
from my table, Ferris!” and sat back, instantly complacent. He’d displayed determination.
What a satisfying moment! No-nonsense Devoran, the man of action. He should
do this more often.
Ferris had turned a nasty color. “So that’s how it is, is it? You’re my witness,
Miss! You heard what he said. Fine servant of the public he is!”
“So report me, Ferris. I’ll welcome it.”
The whining voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “Oh, no, that’s not what I’ll
be reporting you people for. Oh, dear me, no. You’re in more trouble than you ever
dreamed of, Sergeant.”
“Go away. I want to enjoy my food.”
“You’ll hear from me again, believe me.”
“And you’ll hear from me. Don’t leave the area, Ferris. I may have to talk to
you again after the inquest.”
Ferris’s mouth opened, then he thought better of it and swung away with a sly
grin, leaving Devoran feeling shattered. It wasn’t the vague threats that had upset him; it
was the aftermath of losing his temper. The complacency had lasted only seconds. It
had hardly been worth it. He always felt weak and vulnerable after a tantrum, which
fortunately was a rare event. He fiddled with his food, his appetite destroyed, aware of
Ferris gazing at him from a nearby table, a nasty little smile playing on those thin lips.
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON: A MORE PLEASANT INTERLUDE
The afternoon took its time to improve. After a while Devoran left, his meal half eaten,
walked to the marina and down the ramp to the docks. The day had turned unseasonably
warm. He found Royboy and Rasha relaxing on the cabin roof of their misshapen
craft, each with a can of beer. Royboy, sprawled in a position that revealed the
split in the crotch of his jeans, was idly tormenting a shaggy black cat that clearly
wanted to go to sleep. Rasha, in a dirty T-shirt and long floral skirt, was sitting upright
with her arms around her knees, staring into space with a serene expression. She didn’t
appear to notice Devoran when he halted immediately before her. Behind the couple,
the heads of what appeared to be marijuana plants peeped coyly over the cabin roof.
Life was complicated enough already without worrying about minor grow ops.
Devoran addressed himself to Royboy, being the more alert of the dozy couple. “Permission
to come aboard?” he said briskly.
“Huh?” Royboy grinned vacantly.
“I’d like a word.”
“Oh, man,” Royboy said in mild exasperation. “It’s a nice day.” He closed his
eyes.
Devoran switched his attention to Rasha. Her pose and expression reminded
him of someone playing the harp. He’d have liked to snap his fingers in front of her
face, but he didn’t have the knack. Bill was quite good at it, producing a report like a
gunshot. He clapped his hands instead.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 10
Rasha’s eyes swam dreamily into focus. “Whaddya want?”
“To come aboard and talk to you.”
“What’s wrong with like this?”
But he didn’t feel secure standing there like that. Every time somebody walked
by, or a boat passed, the float rocked. A guy couldn’t questio n suspects effectively
when he was staggering about.
He solved the problem by stepping aboard uninvited and seating himself in the
cockpit. He couldn’t see Royboy up on the cabin roof; Rasha was in the way, but at
least he could see Rasha herself. His seat was low and the cabin roof where she sat
was high, so she towered above him. Moreover, with three people sitting on the starboard
side the boat had assumed a heavy list. He felt as though he was lying on his
back. It was not a good situation psychologically, but it was better than staggering
about.
Too late he remembered that it was really Royboy whom he wanted to question.
“I understand you were doing some work on Lionel Slade’s boat the day before
he died,” he called around Rasha.
The distant reply came back, “Yeah.”
“What kind of work?”
“Bit of this and that. Electrical work, suchlike. Bit of varnishing.”
“Did this entail entering the cabin?”
“What?”
“I said did you go into the cabin!”
“Can’t hear you. Come up here, why don’t you?”
“No, you come down here, please. Maybe we should go down below.”
Rasha’s head snapped round, suddenly alert. Devoran pointed toward the unsavory
depths of the cabin. It might be an idea to see what they had down there.
“Not in the cabin,” Rasha said.
“Why not?”
Meanwhile Royboy was scrambling hastily into view. “Not without a search
warrant,” he said. “That cabin’s sacrosanct.”
“All right, then come and sit in the cockpit and let’s talk. I’m not interested in
mind-altering drugs right now. I want to know about Slade.”
They arranged themselves on the cockpit seat opposite him. “What do you
want to know? I did a few jobs for him, that’s all,” Royboy said.
“You went into his cabin?”
“Listen, if this is about the propane stove I had nothing to do with it. There was
no gas leak in the boat when I was there. I’d have smelled it. I’d have got out fast and
told someone. I had no reason to blow his boat up. He was a source of income to me.
He owes me for five hours work, by the way. Who do I claim that off?”
“I was wondering if there was anything unusual about the boat. Anything at all.”
“She was fitted out for offshore, if that’s what you mean. A ton of electronics.”
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11
“Like a beer?” Rasha asked hospitably. “We usually have a beer about this
time.”
“I’ve just had one, thanks. So this electrical work, what was it?”
Royboy groaned with the effort of remaining alert. “There was some corrosion.
I was replacing some wiring. He wanted it all ticketty-boo for the offshore work.”
“I see.” Devoran digested this. So right up to the day before his death, Slade
had apparently been intending to take to the high seas. That finally killed any insurance
hypothesis.
“And I measured up for some cushion covers,” Rasha volunteered unexpectedly.
“I’ve got a loom down there.” She gestured at the cabin.
Yes, he’d have expected her to have a loom. “Did you see any sign of a box?
Like a kind of miniature sea-chest, brassbound.”
They shook their heads slowly, with a minimum of effort. “No box, man,” Royboy
said. “Mind you, I didn’t go up forward.”
“How did you know it was up forward?” Devoran asked.
“If it wasn’t in the main cabin, then it had to be up forward. QED. Whatever, I
didn’t see it.”
So much for the box. Conversation seemed to have died. “Seen anything more
of the guy in the bomber jacket?” he asked hopefully.
“Nah.”
Time drifted by. The sun was warm and it was peaceful and relaxing there in
the cockpit. Royboy and Rasha were undemanding companions. After a few more
desultory inquiries he ran out of steam and accepted a renewed offer of beer, considering
that he was now off-duty. Rasha’s serene look had returned and Royboy’s eyes
were in the process of closing gently. Nothing much was happening around the marina;
just a few gulls swooping around in that speedy but aimless way they do, and the distant
whine of a power tool at the boat yard. The shaggy cat jumped down beside him, nuzzled
him, purred briefly and composed itself for sleep in his lap. So this was what boating
was all about. He could live with it.
He awoke with a start. The sun was lower, reflecting redly off cottage windows
along Waterside Road. Royboy and Rasha had disappeared. The cabin door was
closed. He stood stiffly, clambered onto the dock and made his way home. Bill wasn’t
around. He heated up a tin of baked beans, poured them over two slices of buttered
toast and ate the result slowly, wondering where the young wastrel was. It was terribly
lonely in the house.
WEDNESDAY EVENING: CONSIDERING HYPOTHESES
Nine o’clock in the evening. Devoran glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time.
Where the hell was Bill? Was that a car? He heard a door slam and a distant shout
that sounded very much like his son, then the car accelerated away with the wow-wow
sound of a clutch let in too fast. That was his mother-in-law at the wheel. He’d know
her driving anywhere.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11
“Hi, Dad!” Bill breezed in, chuckling irresponsibly and throwing himself onto
the chesterfield.
“Where have you been?”
“Argh, don’t start all that stuff. I’ve been with Gran, if you must know. I suppose
you thought I was out with a gang of youths vandalizing something. Or perhaps
with a lady of the night, as Gran calls them.”
“I just like to know where you are, that’s all. I worry about you, Bill. Anyway,
I didn’t know there were any ladies of the night in Noss Cove.”
“I was in Peterville. But much of it in broad daylight. It’s only in the evening
that they come slinking out, all lipstick and legs, looking for doorways to lurk seductively
in.”
“So what kept you in Peterville until this hour?”
“Good grief, it’s hardly the sin capital of the west, Dad! Gran and I were following
up a lead. Then on the way home we had a flat. Her spare was flat too, so we
had to send a message to Noss Motors with a passing motorist. Then we had to wait
for them. Etcetera. Time passes. You know how it is.”
But Devoran had stopped listening a few sentences ago. “Following up a lead?
Your Gran is still poking her nose into police business, is she? And you’re encouraging
her?”
“She needs no encouragement. By the way, she gave me this for you. She said
it would serve its purpose.”
Bill handed him a sheet of note paper, folded into four. He opened it slowly,
praying it was not some kind of senile threat. One of these days he’d have to face the
problem of his mother-in-law’s mental instability. She had no other relatives.
But the paper contained nothing more sinister than a list of around a dozen
names. “Who are these people? Gran’s list of suspects, I bet.” He handed it back.
“You can tell her I’m quite happy with my own suspects, thanks.”
“No, Dad. It’s the names of the people who were at the marina when Mr.
Slade’s boat blew up. Witnesses. Or at least witnesses to the recovery of the bloated
remains from the depths.”
“You read too many books, Bill.” But he was running his eye down the list avidly.
Good thing the old girl had kept it. He’d forgotten to ask for it at the time, with
the horror of Susi arriving bereaved at the gate and everything else. Afterwards he’d
been reluctant to ask for it. So he’d relied on the list compiled by the officers who’d
arrived later, and was uncomfortably aware that a couple of people might have been
missed.
“So. You want to hear what happened in Peterville?” Bill was at the kitchen
table by now, building himself a triple-decker peanut butter sandwich. “Or shall we
watch TV?”
God, the kid was annoying. Bill knew very well that he was desperate for information.
His own inquiries were getting nowhere. Or more accurately, they were
branching off in all directions. Any word that might help gather in some of the loose
threads would be welcome.
Foul Play at Duffy’s Marina – Michael Coney 11
“Tell me,” he said shortly.
“We were on the trail of the Jackal.”
“The Jackal being your Gran’s name for some otherwise unremarkable member
of the public?”
“Even so. As Gran pointed out, we couldn’t keep calling him the male suspect
in the blue bomber jacket. It would have made a mockery of the whole inquiry.”
“And calling him the Jackal doesn’t. Never mind. Get on with it.”
Bill got on with it. Devoran listened in growing horror. His son took his time,
relishing the flow of well-chosen words building to the climax when they fled MARY’S
COFFEE HOUSE in disarray, only to recover enthusiasm as theories began to build in
his Gran’s fertile mind like termite mounds. “It was great, Dad,” Bill enthused. “While
we were waiting for Noss Motors to arrive, the car was like a think tank. We’d
bounce ideas off each other like those steel balls they hang from strings to demonstrate
action and reaction, you know the ones I mean? Theories sprang fully-formed from our
minds like Minerva!”
“Minerva?”
“She sprang fully-formed from the head of Jupiter.”
“Did she, by golly!”
“We’d form hypotheses and explode them, only to have more hypotheses form
out of the ashes!”
“Like Phoenices, I suppose.”
“Phoenices? Don’t you mean Phoenicians?”
“No, Phoenices. Plural of Phoenix. As a matter of interest,” he said casually,
“how many hypotheses were left unexploded by the time Noss Motors arrived?”
Bill was not fooled. “You really want to know, don’t you, Dad? You were just
pretending to be all bored, to save face. Well, we arrived at two solid bases of fact
from which to build. One: Susi is the Jackal’s daughter, as he maintains.” He paused
thoughtfully.
“Is that what he maintains? And Two?”
“And Two, the Jackal is lying, and Susi is not his daughter. You have to admit
those are rock solid when considered together. Now, if One applies, Gran thinks it’s
quite simple. The Jackal has been trying to, uh, wrest his daughter from the vile clutches
of Slade. Failing in his efforts, he killed Slade after several botched attempts. His behavior
immediately after the crime, when he accosted Royboy and Rasha, could have
been triggered by anxiety because he was not sure if Susi was also in the boat. Susi’s
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