torch,’ said Carole, trying to keep the smugness out of her voice. ‘I always carry one in my raincoat pocket. There’s no streetlighting on the High
Street.’
‘Isn’t there? I hadn’t noticed.’
Carole reached into her Burberry pocket and the beam of light was quickly focused on the trailing rope. It ended in a sharp right angle.
‘Been cut through,’ said Jude.
The severed cord had been rethreaded through the eyelets of the cover in an attempt to hide the break-in. Jude started quickly to unpick it.
‘Should we be doing this?’ asked Carole plaintively.
‘Course we should. We are doing it anyway. And nobody can see us.’
It was true. The wet darkness around them suddenly seemed total. The floodlights focused on the sea-wall repairs were only fifty yards away but looked pale, distant and insubstantial. Someone
would have to be very close to detect their tiny torch-beam.
Freeing a corner of the cover, Jude flipped it back like a bedspread from the stern of the boat. ‘Shine the torch here,’ she said. ‘No, here!’
The thin stream of light picked out a name in gold lettering: Brigadoon II .
‘I wonder,’ said Jude. ‘Do you think there’s a kind of person who would give their boat the same name as their house?’ She didn’t wait for an answer.
‘Come on, let’s get the rest of this cover off and have a look inside.’
‘What are you expecting to find in there? The body?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
Carole shivered. The possibility was macabre. But she couldn’t deny that it was also exciting.
When they had peeled the cover right back, however, they found no body. Just the moulded fibreglass interior of a dinghy’s hull. In the central channel a rectangle of trapped water gleamed
against the torchlight. Its surface was frozen hard.
But the ice didn’t stop an acrid smell from rising to their nostrils. ‘Standing water,’ Carole observed. ‘It’s been leaking in for some time.’
She ran the beam of the torch carefully over the inside of the boat. It revealed nothing they wouldn’t have expected to find there.
‘Just check if there’s anything under the water.’
Putting a foot on one of the trailer wheels, Jude hoisted herself with surprising ease over the side and into the dinghy. With a gloved fist, she hammered through the sheet of ice. Then,
removing her right-hand glove and supporting herself on the other arm, she felt down into the bottom of the boat. She winced at the cold of the water.
‘Something here.’ She produced a nut and bolt, rusted immovably together, and handed them to Carole. ‘Don’t think that helps us much.’
She reached down again through the cracked ice into the fetid water and felt her way systematically along the trough. ‘I think that’s probably it. Be too easy if we – Just a
minute . . .’
Carole craned over the side of the boat, trying desperately to see what her neighbour had uncovered. Jude’s dripping hand raised her trophy into the torch-beam. ‘Look at that,’
she said with triumph.
It was a large, robust Stanley knife, clicked in the open position. The light gleamed on the shiny triangle of its blade.
‘Wonder how long that’s been there . . .?’
‘Not very long,’ said Carole. ‘Blade like that would rust very quickly. And . . .’
‘What?’
‘The woman who drew a gun on me wanted to know if I’d found a knife.’
‘Yes. So she did.’
Jude slowly turned the knife over in her hand. On the other side of the handle words had been printed in uneven white paint-strokes. They read: ‘ J. T.
CARPETS ’.
Chapter Thirteen
‘So what have we got?’ asked Jude.
They were back in Carole’s house, sitting in front of her log-effect gas fire. She had chosen the system because she knew it would be a lot more sensible than an open fire. None of that
endless business of filling coal scuttles, loading log baskets and sweeping out grates. But for the first time, with her new neighbour
Street.’
‘Isn’t there? I hadn’t noticed.’
Carole reached into her Burberry pocket and the beam of light was quickly focused on the trailing rope. It ended in a sharp right angle.
‘Been cut through,’ said Jude.
The severed cord had been rethreaded through the eyelets of the cover in an attempt to hide the break-in. Jude started quickly to unpick it.
‘Should we be doing this?’ asked Carole plaintively.
‘Course we should. We are doing it anyway. And nobody can see us.’
It was true. The wet darkness around them suddenly seemed total. The floodlights focused on the sea-wall repairs were only fifty yards away but looked pale, distant and insubstantial. Someone
would have to be very close to detect their tiny torch-beam.
Freeing a corner of the cover, Jude flipped it back like a bedspread from the stern of the boat. ‘Shine the torch here,’ she said. ‘No, here!’
The thin stream of light picked out a name in gold lettering: Brigadoon II .
‘I wonder,’ said Jude. ‘Do you think there’s a kind of person who would give their boat the same name as their house?’ She didn’t wait for an answer.
‘Come on, let’s get the rest of this cover off and have a look inside.’
‘What are you expecting to find in there? The body?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
Carole shivered. The possibility was macabre. But she couldn’t deny that it was also exciting.
When they had peeled the cover right back, however, they found no body. Just the moulded fibreglass interior of a dinghy’s hull. In the central channel a rectangle of trapped water gleamed
against the torchlight. Its surface was frozen hard.
But the ice didn’t stop an acrid smell from rising to their nostrils. ‘Standing water,’ Carole observed. ‘It’s been leaking in for some time.’
She ran the beam of the torch carefully over the inside of the boat. It revealed nothing they wouldn’t have expected to find there.
‘Just check if there’s anything under the water.’
Putting a foot on one of the trailer wheels, Jude hoisted herself with surprising ease over the side and into the dinghy. With a gloved fist, she hammered through the sheet of ice. Then,
removing her right-hand glove and supporting herself on the other arm, she felt down into the bottom of the boat. She winced at the cold of the water.
‘Something here.’ She produced a nut and bolt, rusted immovably together, and handed them to Carole. ‘Don’t think that helps us much.’
She reached down again through the cracked ice into the fetid water and felt her way systematically along the trough. ‘I think that’s probably it. Be too easy if we – Just a
minute . . .’
Carole craned over the side of the boat, trying desperately to see what her neighbour had uncovered. Jude’s dripping hand raised her trophy into the torch-beam. ‘Look at that,’
she said with triumph.
It was a large, robust Stanley knife, clicked in the open position. The light gleamed on the shiny triangle of its blade.
‘Wonder how long that’s been there . . .?’
‘Not very long,’ said Carole. ‘Blade like that would rust very quickly. And . . .’
‘What?’
‘The woman who drew a gun on me wanted to know if I’d found a knife.’
‘Yes. So she did.’
Jude slowly turned the knife over in her hand. On the other side of the handle words had been printed in uneven white paint-strokes. They read: ‘ J. T.
CARPETS ’.
Chapter Thirteen
‘So what have we got?’ asked Jude.
They were back in Carole’s house, sitting in front of her log-effect gas fire. She had chosen the system because she knew it would be a lot more sensible than an open fire. None of that
endless business of filling coal scuttles, loading log baskets and sweeping out grates. But for the first time, with her new neighbour
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