Medusa

‘The gaffer, I reck’n.’ He passed me the glasses. ‘You have a look. I only seen the fellow once.’

It was Evans all right, I recognised the strong, column-like neck, the way it held his head. ‘I’ll be in the port hull, right for’ard in the loo.’ And I added. ‘If he wants to know where I am, as far as you know I’m at home.’

Carp nodded. ‘I’ll see he doesn’t bother you.’ He gave me that gap-toothed smile. ‘Reminds me of the days when we used to slip over to Holland and come back into the Deben, crossing the bar at night and dumping a couple of bags full of de Kuyper’s Geneva bottles with a float attached like we were laying lobster pots.’

I nodded and ducked below, sending Luis up on deck while I went to the double bunk I’d been using on the port side to make certain there was nothing lying around to indicate I was on board. Soon I caught the sound of the outboard approaching, then a voice hailing us. The engine died with a splutter and after a moment I heard the sound of Evans’s voice — ‘Wrapped around the prop, eh? Which one?’ Then feet on the steps down into the saloon and a voice much nearer: ‘Well, it’s fortunate I found you. When we swapped boats I discovered I was missing a packet containing a spare aerial and masthead bracket picked up with other radio gear duty-free in Gib on the way out. Stuffed it all in the bilges and conveniently forgot about it. You know how it is.’

I heard a non-committal grunt from Carp and Evans’s voice went on, Tell me, did customs, police, anybody search the ship before you left yesterday?’

‘No, not yesterday,’ Carp replied. ‘Day before we had an Inspector Mallyno on board with ‘is sidekick. The Heffy too.’

‘The Heffy?’

‘Ah. The Chief Inspector of police. Inspector Heffy.’ Carp invariably got awkward names or words slightly wrong. He’d call a transistor a transactor or a tachometer a taxmaster, and always that slight sibilance as the breath whistled through those two broken teeth of his. ‘They was on board quite a while talking with the boss.’

‘Mike Steele?’

‘Ah, the boss.’

‘What were they talking about?’

‘Oh, this and that, I reck’n.’

A pause then. Finally Evans came right out with it. ‘Well, did they search the ship or not?’

‘How would I know?’

‘You said you were there.’

‘I was up the mast, wasn’t I?’

‘How the hell would I know you were up the mast? I wasn’t there.’ Evans’s tone was one of exasperation at Carp’s odd turn of phrase. I couldn’t hear anything after that. He must have turned away. Then a moment later, his voice sounding much louder, as though he had moved to the entrance to the starb’d hull, ‘And what about the starb’d engine compartment? Did they look in there, too?’

‘They may have done. That where you hid it?’ I heard the steps being folded back. ‘Well, there you are, mate. You can see for yourself. There’s nothing there.’

‘Right at the back.’

There was the sound of movement, then Carp’s voice again, much sharper. ‘No you don’t. You’re not pushing in among those pipes an’ leads.’

Evans started to argue, then the stepped lid slammed down and Carp said, ‘You lost anything, you talk to the boss. I don’t want that engine conking out again. Not halfway to Malta I don’t. And anyways, if we find it, we’ll know whose it is and see you get it back.’

A pause, then Evans said, ‘Okay, so long as you don’t show it to anybody. I don’t want it to get around that I slipped anything in under the noses of the customs people, not when we’re trying to set ourselves up in the fishing here. All right?’ And then, his voice fading as he turned away, ‘Where’s your boss now? Do you know?’

I didn’t hear the answer, the murmur of their voices lost as they went back into the saloon. I came out of the loo then and moved aft as far as the turn of the steps over the engine. I could hear Evans’s voice then, sharp and hard as he said, ‘Felixstowe Ferry! What the hell are you talking about?’ And Carp answering, ‘Well, ever since you came down to the Navy quay to take over the Santa Maria I bin wondering. Thort I recognised you, see. But red hair — that’s wot fixed me.’

‘Red hair? What do you mean?’

‘Moira. That’s wot I mean. Red Moira.’ And Carp went on, his accent broader and talking fast: ‘Just before you get to the Ferryboat there’s a dyke runs off to the left alongside a little tidal creek full of old clung-bungs used as houseboats. There was one, I remember, belonged to some bit actor feller — was on TV once in a while, then he’d be full of drink an’ happy as a lark for a week. After that, broke again and morose as if he’d had sight of Black Shuck himself. Used to wander alone along towards the King’s Fleet. Same name as yours.’

‘So what?’ Evans’s voice was harsh. ‘It’s a common enough name.’

‘Well, he’s dead now. Shacked up with this Irish broad. Red Moira she was known as all along the beach. Lived in an old boat called the Betty-Ann that lay there in the mud, with a rickety old bit of flotsam planking the only way of getting on board. They had a son. Used to call ‘im Pat.’