the
Dark Echo
. He did not ask for what purpose, so I was not obliged to lie.’
‘He was happy to speak to you?’
Suzanne shook her head. ‘Happy would be entirely the wrong word. But he said he was relieved to be able to speak about it at last. It was he who told me about Howes, an unpleasant, sweaty man who stank of whisky and dime-store cigars, he said.’
‘What did he tell you about his father?’
‘He said his father became possessed by the Devil. From being a gentle, humorous man, he turned into a volatile monster they all feared and none of the household recognised. The transformation occurred over a few weeks. He was convinced his father murdered his own brother aboard the boat before destroying himself. But he was adamant the Devil was to blame.’
‘He didn’t blame the boat herself?’
‘No. He was a seven-year-old boy from a Boston Catholic family when these events occurred. He thought his father became possessed. Still does.’
‘What did he do with the boat?’
‘Nothing. Mollie Waltrow inherited the
Dark Echo
. She sat gathering rust, a hulk in dry dock. Mollie sold the boat for salvage the day she reached the age of maturity without ever having put a foot aboard her.’
I sat back in my seat and took this in. I swallowed the dregs of tepid beer from my glass. There was music playing in the bar, but it was indistinct in the fuzziness afflicting my mind after what Suzanne had told me.
‘How did you source the story about Patrick Boyte?’
I knew Spalding had stayed at the Palace Hotel in Birkdale after being forced into Liverpool to repair storm damage. I just did a Google search for Spalding, Liverpool and boatyard. That piece came up.’
‘You were non-committal when I asked you if you knew anything about
Dark Echo
. You were downright evasive.’
‘Don’t be angry, Martin. I didn’t want to rain on your dad’s parade. That’s all.’
‘Then why come clean now?’
‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I care about you. After what you told me this evening, I didn’t feel I had any choice but to tell you what I have.’
‘My father must know all this stuff.’
‘I suspect so. He’ll know some of it, anyway. You said he’d read the log.’
‘Two owners, Suzanne. You said there were two owners.’
‘And I’ll tell you about the second of them. But I badly need a cigarette. Can I tell you at home?’
She recounted the second story in her study after I had poured her a glass of wine. There was a small extractor fan in the window in her study and she switched it on before she sat at her desk and turned to face me. It was the one room in the flat where I suppose she felt she could smoke relatively guilt-free. She had turned on the radio, too, when I returned to the study with the wine. Bebop from a jazz station drowned out the hum of the fan’s whirring electric motor.
Gubby Tench was a third-rate playboy who bought the
Dark Echo
in the summer of 1937 when he was thirty-nine years old and fresh, if that’s the term, from his second divorce. The fact that he was able to afford the boat proved that he had extricated himself from marriage without going broke. But the vessel was floating by this time in much reduced circumstances. A diesel engine had been fitted to cut down on the cost of crewmen experienced at manipulating sails. Tench was adept enough as a sailor. But when financial circumstances demanded it, the engine meant that he could haul in the sails and manage the craft single-handedly in most sorts of weather.
The boat had lost a lot of its lustre. She had also lost her original name. When Tench became the vessel’s master, she had been rechristened
Ace of Clubs
. It was an appropriate choice. Tench was an inveterate, even compulsive gambler. His first voyage took him from Miami, where he bought the boat, to Havana, where he berthed her in the bay to go ashore eager for action in the Cuban capital’s many celebrated casinos.
The crossing from Miami took him three
Dark Echo
. He did not ask for what purpose, so I was not obliged to lie.’
‘He was happy to speak to you?’
Suzanne shook her head. ‘Happy would be entirely the wrong word. But he said he was relieved to be able to speak about it at last. It was he who told me about Howes, an unpleasant, sweaty man who stank of whisky and dime-store cigars, he said.’
‘What did he tell you about his father?’
‘He said his father became possessed by the Devil. From being a gentle, humorous man, he turned into a volatile monster they all feared and none of the household recognised. The transformation occurred over a few weeks. He was convinced his father murdered his own brother aboard the boat before destroying himself. But he was adamant the Devil was to blame.’
‘He didn’t blame the boat herself?’
‘No. He was a seven-year-old boy from a Boston Catholic family when these events occurred. He thought his father became possessed. Still does.’
‘What did he do with the boat?’
‘Nothing. Mollie Waltrow inherited the
Dark Echo
. She sat gathering rust, a hulk in dry dock. Mollie sold the boat for salvage the day she reached the age of maturity without ever having put a foot aboard her.’
I sat back in my seat and took this in. I swallowed the dregs of tepid beer from my glass. There was music playing in the bar, but it was indistinct in the fuzziness afflicting my mind after what Suzanne had told me.
‘How did you source the story about Patrick Boyte?’
I knew Spalding had stayed at the Palace Hotel in Birkdale after being forced into Liverpool to repair storm damage. I just did a Google search for Spalding, Liverpool and boatyard. That piece came up.’
‘You were non-committal when I asked you if you knew anything about
Dark Echo
. You were downright evasive.’
‘Don’t be angry, Martin. I didn’t want to rain on your dad’s parade. That’s all.’
‘Then why come clean now?’
‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I care about you. After what you told me this evening, I didn’t feel I had any choice but to tell you what I have.’
‘My father must know all this stuff.’
‘I suspect so. He’ll know some of it, anyway. You said he’d read the log.’
‘Two owners, Suzanne. You said there were two owners.’
‘And I’ll tell you about the second of them. But I badly need a cigarette. Can I tell you at home?’
She recounted the second story in her study after I had poured her a glass of wine. There was a small extractor fan in the window in her study and she switched it on before she sat at her desk and turned to face me. It was the one room in the flat where I suppose she felt she could smoke relatively guilt-free. She had turned on the radio, too, when I returned to the study with the wine. Bebop from a jazz station drowned out the hum of the fan’s whirring electric motor.
Gubby Tench was a third-rate playboy who bought the
Dark Echo
in the summer of 1937 when he was thirty-nine years old and fresh, if that’s the term, from his second divorce. The fact that he was able to afford the boat proved that he had extricated himself from marriage without going broke. But the vessel was floating by this time in much reduced circumstances. A diesel engine had been fitted to cut down on the cost of crewmen experienced at manipulating sails. Tench was adept enough as a sailor. But when financial circumstances demanded it, the engine meant that he could haul in the sails and manage the craft single-handedly in most sorts of weather.
The boat had lost a lot of its lustre. She had also lost her original name. When Tench became the vessel’s master, she had been rechristened
Ace of Clubs
. It was an appropriate choice. Tench was an inveterate, even compulsive gambler. His first voyage took him from Miami, where he bought the boat, to Havana, where he berthed her in the bay to go ashore eager for action in the Cuban capital’s many celebrated casinos.
The crossing from Miami took him three
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