chances of being detected grew. He needed to get rid of the car, quit this cold, damp place. He left the motorway, turned towards the sea and worked his way along the coast road, scanning the warehouses and shops that cluttered both sides of the road, grey brick walls, fenced yards choked with machinery, chandleries, glimpses of the broad estuary opening up on his left as the sky lightened. After a few miles, the first boatyard, full of gleaming white fibreglass craft bobbing in ordered ranks within a dockwork lattice, the freshly paved parking area dotted with expensive German cars, and then, a few minutes later, another marina, well-tended and prosperous.
Clay drove on.
After a while, the buildings began to age noticeably, brickwork faded and crumbled, the first bruised Fords and rusty Hillmans appeared. Twenty minutes later he slowed and followed a narrow laneway down towards the water. At the end of the cul-de-sac was a stretch of clapboard fence about fifty metres long. The boards sagged between listing posts. Grass and weeds choked the verge. A few corroded aluminium masts poked above the fence. To the right, beyond a tangle of bare trees draped with bramble and ivy, a chainlinked equipment yard, rusty machinery, stacks of wooden shipping pallets. To the left, an old brick warehouse building, windowless, empty-looking. Clay slowed the car and approached what looked to be the entranceway to the place. The sign, hanging from a bar over the gate, looked decades old, grey, peeling lettering on a once-blue background. It read simply: Pearson & Son. Vessels bought and sold. It was worth a try.
Clay turned the car around and tucked it tight beside the brambles at the far end of the fence. The dashboard clock showed five fifty-eight. He turned off the engine, opened the door, stood and stretched. The air was heavy with that dead smell of the sea, of things recently expired, washed ashore. He closed the door and walked along the verge to the gate, scanning the laneway back to the coast road. There was no one about. The gate was wire link with tarpaulin stretched behind, ragged and torn. A rusty, padlocked chain held the gate closed. Clay peered through the gap between the gate and the fence post. A gravelled lot, brambles thick on all sides, an asbestos-roofed shack, a few dilapidated sail boats up on blocks, the grey fibreglass hulls of land-ridden power boats, stacks of weathered lumber, a few drums, the flat, grey estuary in the background. The whole place had that marginal, break-even look. Clay looked back down the still-deserted laneway, wedged the toe of his boot into the fence, grabbed the wire, pulled himself up and over, and landed with a smooth flex of both knees.
He looked at his watch. 06:07. The boat ramp was quiet, the haul half out of the water as if someone had forgotten to pull it out after a launch. There was no wind. Half a dozen craft dozed on buoys under a close, grey sky. Gulls cried low across the glassy estuary, wingtip perfect. Clay stood for a moment and looked out across the muddy water towards the sea.
‘Buying or selling?’
Clay turned towards the voice, startled.
A man stood on the boat ramp. He was short, not much over five feet, clad in a grey wool jumper, faded, loose-fitting jeans and black lace-up boots. He was clean-shaven, the skin lined, weathered. His hair was spiked, straight-up punk, platinum. He looked Clay up and down, fixed for a fraction of a second on his stump.
‘Both,’ said Clay.
Punk shuffled down to where Clay was standing and stood, hands on hips, looking up into his eyes. ‘Bit early for boat buying, innit?’
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
Punk glanced at Clay’s shoulder, narrowed his eyes. ‘I can see that.’
Clay raised his hand to his arm. The sleeve was wet with blood. ‘Clumsy.’
Punk’s mouth curled into a thin approximation of a smile. ‘I’m not buying.’
‘What about a trade?’
‘You thinking perhaps that nice new BMW out front?’
Clay smiled. ‘Could be. Depends.’
‘Shame about the window.’
Clay said nothing, insides tumbling.
‘What’re you after?’
‘Something sea-going. Sturdy.’
Punk sniffed the air, looked out across the estuary. ‘If you’re in a hurry to go out there,’ he jutted his chin towards the sea, ‘you should think again. Storm coming. You an experienced yachtsman?’
Clay pointed to a powerboat moored about fifty metres out. It looked sleek and powerful, with twin inboard-outboard engines. ‘What about that one?’ He had about thirty thousand pounds cash left. That was it.
‘Not for sale.’
There were