The Trowie Mound Murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

onto the pontoon. ‘Thirty-six foot. I’ll put her in nose-on to the other one.’
    I slipped below to put out the lantern, then joined Magnie on the pontoon. ‘I’ll help take her lines.’
    We watched as the light approached, until it was close enough to see the slender mast above a dark green hull, sloped gracefully in at each end. ‘Why,’ I said, eyeing her up greedily, ‘she’s a Rustler. They’re amazing boats, real ocean crossers. If ever I’m rich –’
    â€˜A well-kept engine,’ Anders said, as she curved into the marina.
    â€˜Look at her lines,’ I breathed. ‘That lovely stern.’
    â€˜A long-keeler, though,’ Anders said. ‘I bet you’d need a bow-thruster to reverse.’
    â€˜Is she staying long, Magnie?’
    â€˜Twar-tree days. Are you pair helping with these lines or just pier-head skippering?’
    We grabbed a warp each, ready to throw. There was a couple aboard, moving with the ease of long practice, the man in the bows and the woman steering. She cut the engine and reversed to stop the boat an exact metre from the Bénéteau’s stern; the man stepped unhurriedly on to the pontoon as she came in, rope in one hand, and steadied her before taking a turn around the pontoon loop. Then he turned to us and smiled. ‘Thanks.’ He tossed the two aft warps to his companion and went forrard himself to secure the Rustler’s bow. ‘Well, that was a good sail round. Hope you haven’t been kept waiting for us –’ He considered Anders, moved his gaze to Magnie. ‘Mr Williamson, is it?’
    â€˜Magnie.’ They shook hands.
    â€˜Come aboard – can I tempt you to a nightcap?’
    â€˜I’m no’ wanting to keep you up,’ Magnie said.
    â€˜Night’s young yet,’ the man said cheerily. ‘A dram’s always fine after a long sail. Come in.’
    â€˜Yes, do,’ the woman echoed from the cockpit. ‘We want to pick your brains about the neighbourhood, so you’ll be doing us a favour.’
    We tramped aboard.
    I hadn’t been inside a Rustler before, and I wasn’t disappointed. There was a fibreglass canopy over the companionway, protecting the nav. instruments and the helmsman; you could go through a gale in this boat without getting your hair wet. I ducked below it and came down into the cabin. The layout was the same as on Khalida , with forepeak berth, saloon, chart table, and two quarter-berths running under the cockpit (very old-fashioned these days, where you’d expect at least one aft cabin on a thirty-six footer), but the depth of her keel meant there were four steps down, so it was like coming into the cabin of a tall ship. She was lined with pale wood whose varnish gleamed in the light of the oil lamps, and where Anders’ curtain was on Khalida there was a substantial bulkhead door, open to show a jazzy blue and green downie spread on the triangular bed. The saloon had the table offset to give a clear gangway, and the green-cushioned couches each side were backed by closed lockers and a well-fiddled bookshelf. Just by the steps, the chart table had a row of screens and a laptop, and there was a neat galley opposite, with a cooker, sink, and workspace. She was immaculately clean, and tidied for sea, with all loose items stowed or secured.
    â€˜Peter and Sandra Wearmouth,’ the man said. ‘Have a seat. Whisky?’
    â€˜We’ve earned a dram,’ Sandra said. ‘We’ve just come round Muckle Flugga.’ It was Britain’s most northerly point, a lighthouse perched on jagged, slanted rock and surrounded by large breakers and cross-currents.
    â€˜No’ for me,’ Magnie said. Anders and I stared. Magnie reddened. ‘I’m drivin’,’ he added. Given that I’d seen him drive when he was barely able to stand, I didn’t buy that one.
    â€˜A cup of tea