stammer. ‘Er, I was saying, Trewick has the opportunity . . .’
‘Yeah, he gets trips out to sea. But the drifter is watched. It’s been searched more than once. There’s no way they could risk it.’
‘It might be worth keeping an eye on the boat for a while, though.’
‘I agree. Let’s take a walk down to the harbour later, have a nose around. You never know.’
His eyes swung towards the double-doors as they opened: two ruddy-faced men walked in and were greeted by others in the bar. Kelso had almost expected Trewick to arrive. Or maybe the other one,
Leather Jacket. It would be interesting to see him again.
But neither man came into the pub that evening and by half-past ten, Kelso felt sure they wouldn’t.
‘We may as well leave,’ he said to Ellie, who was engrossed in a series of framed photographs on the wall behind them. They were pictures of the town under at least four feet of
water, several showing small boats being rowed along the high street, others of people being led to safety from their homes across wooden planks; surprisingly some of those being evacuated were
smiling as though the whole business was something to enjoy. One or two prints were of great white waves lashing the sea walls, breaking through.
‘That must have been something,’ Ellie said. ‘When did it happen?’
‘1953,’ Kelso answered. The Coastguard Sector Officer here told me the whole of the east coast was hit by a North Sea storm surge. They reckoned the damage to homes, agricultural
land and industrial sites came close to £50 million; that was a hell of a lot of money in those days.’
‘Maybe I’ll forget about retiring to a little bungalow by the sea.’
Kelso grinned. ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t happen that often.’
‘Once in a lifetime would be enough.’ She drained her glass. ‘You want to go?’
He took her glass and placed it with his own on a table nearby. ‘Let’s go down to the harbour and have another look at that drifter.’
She hung on to his arm as they made their way through the crowd towards the exit, clinging close, more for her own protection than to give the impression that they were lovers. It had grown even
colder outside, but Ellie was relieved to breathe in deep lungfuls of fresh air after the smoky atmosphere that they had just left. The quietness, too, was refreshing.
There were no lights in the harbour, but clinking sounds drifting across the water gave evidence of the boats moored in its darkness; the bulky black shapes of the two fishing vessels at the
quayside were visible in the light from the quarter-moon.
‘Should we risk searching Trewick’s boat?’ Ellie asked.
Kelso shook his head. ‘No point. We’d need flashlights for a start, and they’d hardly leave anything incriminating lying around.’ He scratched his rough chin and gave an
exasperated sigh. ‘The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced we’re barking up the wrong tree. The skipper of this boat, Adcock, is a real old sea-dog, not exactly the type
to be mixed up in drugs smuggling. Booze, the odd immigrant every now and again, but not something as heavy as drugs. It doesn’t fit.’
‘Perhaps times are hard for him.’
‘Funnily enough, he said as much today. It still doesn’t gel, though. He’s too . . .’ Kelso searched for the right word ‘. . . too bloody traditional !’
‘Times are changing, Jim, or hadn’t you noticed? Nobody’s what they seem nowadays.’
He looked sharply at her, but the moonlight was not enough to reveal her expression.
‘Let’s get back,’ he said and walked away from the quayside. Ellie took one last look across the waters of the harbour, then turned and followed him.
The case was even more frustrating to Kelso now; he felt sure things were beginning to move, but there was no other action he personally could take. He had to wait for them – whoever they were – to make another move. The question was, would they? His caravan had been
‘Yeah, he gets trips out to sea. But the drifter is watched. It’s been searched more than once. There’s no way they could risk it.’
‘It might be worth keeping an eye on the boat for a while, though.’
‘I agree. Let’s take a walk down to the harbour later, have a nose around. You never know.’
His eyes swung towards the double-doors as they opened: two ruddy-faced men walked in and were greeted by others in the bar. Kelso had almost expected Trewick to arrive. Or maybe the other one,
Leather Jacket. It would be interesting to see him again.
But neither man came into the pub that evening and by half-past ten, Kelso felt sure they wouldn’t.
‘We may as well leave,’ he said to Ellie, who was engrossed in a series of framed photographs on the wall behind them. They were pictures of the town under at least four feet of
water, several showing small boats being rowed along the high street, others of people being led to safety from their homes across wooden planks; surprisingly some of those being evacuated were
smiling as though the whole business was something to enjoy. One or two prints were of great white waves lashing the sea walls, breaking through.
‘That must have been something,’ Ellie said. ‘When did it happen?’
‘1953,’ Kelso answered. The Coastguard Sector Officer here told me the whole of the east coast was hit by a North Sea storm surge. They reckoned the damage to homes, agricultural
land and industrial sites came close to £50 million; that was a hell of a lot of money in those days.’
‘Maybe I’ll forget about retiring to a little bungalow by the sea.’
Kelso grinned. ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t happen that often.’
‘Once in a lifetime would be enough.’ She drained her glass. ‘You want to go?’
He took her glass and placed it with his own on a table nearby. ‘Let’s go down to the harbour and have another look at that drifter.’
She hung on to his arm as they made their way through the crowd towards the exit, clinging close, more for her own protection than to give the impression that they were lovers. It had grown even
colder outside, but Ellie was relieved to breathe in deep lungfuls of fresh air after the smoky atmosphere that they had just left. The quietness, too, was refreshing.
There were no lights in the harbour, but clinking sounds drifting across the water gave evidence of the boats moored in its darkness; the bulky black shapes of the two fishing vessels at the
quayside were visible in the light from the quarter-moon.
‘Should we risk searching Trewick’s boat?’ Ellie asked.
Kelso shook his head. ‘No point. We’d need flashlights for a start, and they’d hardly leave anything incriminating lying around.’ He scratched his rough chin and gave an
exasperated sigh. ‘The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced we’re barking up the wrong tree. The skipper of this boat, Adcock, is a real old sea-dog, not exactly the type
to be mixed up in drugs smuggling. Booze, the odd immigrant every now and again, but not something as heavy as drugs. It doesn’t fit.’
‘Perhaps times are hard for him.’
‘Funnily enough, he said as much today. It still doesn’t gel, though. He’s too . . .’ Kelso searched for the right word ‘. . . too bloody traditional !’
‘Times are changing, Jim, or hadn’t you noticed? Nobody’s what they seem nowadays.’
He looked sharply at her, but the moonlight was not enough to reveal her expression.
‘Let’s get back,’ he said and walked away from the quayside. Ellie took one last look across the waters of the harbour, then turned and followed him.
The case was even more frustrating to Kelso now; he felt sure things were beginning to move, but there was no other action he personally could take. He had to wait for them – whoever they were – to make another move. The question was, would they? His caravan had been
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