LITMIR.BIZ

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and accompanying loudly squawking seagulls, the local fishing boats were unloading their day’s catch of crabs and mackerel.

      Watching the plastic crates being swung onto the quayside before being loaded into the pick-up truck ready for delivery to various local restaurants, Harriet looked curiously at the fishermen on board one of the boats. One was about her own age, the other younger. Was the older man a part of her past? An old school friend, maybe? A long-forgotten memory of a secret crush trickled into her mind. Gus was the son of a fisherman. But Gus, as a teenager, had vowed no way was he following in the fishy footsteps of his father and grandfather. There had to be more to life, he maintained, and he intended to explore its full potential.

      The younger of the fishermen smiled at Harriet as he caught her watching them. Harriet smiled back before moving away and wandering in the direction of the inner harbour. Passing the brightly painted closed ticket kiosk, Harriet smiled, remembering the summer she and her best friend Beeny had hung around there for hours longing to be noticed by the Rod Stewart lookalike employed to sell trips up the river to the tourists.

      Another teenage memory from a long-ago summer flitted into her mind as she saw a tourist boat slowly making its way back down river. An illicit June evening trip up river, creeping on board with Beeny without buying a ticket, hoping bad-tempered Mitch Hutchinson wouldn’t notice them and have them thrown off. Beeny French-kissed Owen, his son, for his silence when he found them and realised they hadn’t paid. Funny how it was only Beeny he’d wanted to kiss. She hadn’t cared, though. The only person she was interested in kissing in those days was Gus. Not that she had, of course. She’d been invisible to him.

      Harriet glanced at a blackboard nailed to the side of the kiosk with neat chalk-writing advertising the times of the next trips up the river, gold lettering at the top proclaimed: ‘Hutchinson River Trips. Established 1931.’ Was Owen running the family business now? Did Beeny still live in town? Funny how the old kiosk was kick-starting so many memories. Turning, she crossed the road and walked towards the Royal Avenue Gardens.

      Standing by the inner harbour, its muddy waters crammed with boats small enough to pass under the embankment bridge to reach the river, her stomach rumbled and she realised she was ravenous, Angie’s delicious scones not enough to make up for her missed lunch. She glanced behind her at The Royal Hotel. Time for more nostalgia. Turning, she crossed the road and made her way into the hotel foyer, automatically turning right for the bar and restaurant.

      After ordering a steak salad, Harriet took her glass of wine over to a window table and settled down to wait for her meal. Looking around, she could see the place had been extensively modernised since the last time she’d been there, but had somehow managed to retain most of its atmosphere from the eighteenth-century days when it had been a busy coaching inn.

      ‘Enjoy your meal,’ the waitress said, smiling at her. As she heard the Birmingham accent, Harriet smiled back. An incomer. Not a possible old friend from a past life. Good. She wasn’t ready to meet any of those yet.

      Glancing around at the other people in the restaurant, an elderly couple, a family of six with an adorable toddler, a group of locals having a drink at the end of the working day, Harriet pushed her self-conscious feelings of being conspicuously alone away. She’d always hated dining alone. At least it wasn’t a permanent state of affairs. Frank would be joining her in two days. Tomorrow she would buy a book to read as she ate. Tonight she’d people watch and make plans for tomorrow and the meeting with Trevor Bagshawe, solicitor, to which she and Frank had planned to go together but now she was having to face alone.

       CHAPTER THREE

      JOHNNIE

      Johnnie whistled tunelessly as he steered Annie on a falling tide across the Dart towards the grid. He loved the river at this time of day. Early evening and the light of the day was disappearing, although there was still activity on the water.

      The Higher Ferry, its three lanes crammed with cars full of returning commuters from work in Torquay or even Exeter, was making its way across to the Dartmouth slipway. The naval college lorded it over Sandquay and the marina in the deepening gloom. Motoring past one of the huge black buoys in the middle of the river, he watched a shag preening itself, perched on the iron ring while seagulls wheeled and screeched overhead. When one wheeled directly over his head, aiming for Annie’s mast, Johnnie shouted ‘Bugger off’, knowing it was a useless shout. He’d waged a constant vendetta against them for years to Sabine’s amusement.

      ‘They’re part of the river’s landscape,’ she always said.

      ‘Bloody vermin,’ he’d mutter back.

      Further upriver, on the banks that were appearing as the tide went out, oyster catchers were busy prodding around in the mud. He’d timed his arrival at the maintenance grid perfectly and, once Annie was alongside the embankment wall, he cut the engine.

      ‘Throw me the rope and I’ll tie you up aft,’ a female voice said.

      ‘Thanks.’ And he threw the stern line up towards the woman who expertly caught it and began to tie it to one of the rings. Johnnie went forward to the bow and threw the mooring rope curled up on the deck onto the quay before stepping off the boat onto the landing ladder and climbing up to the embankment.

      ‘Nice boat,’ the woman said.

      ‘Thanks,’ Johnnie answered, concentrating on pulling the bow into the position he needed for Annie to settle properly on the grid overnight. Once he was satisfied, he turned his attention to the stern rope, but the woman had done a good job there, releasing and tightening the rope as necessary whilst he did the bow.

      ‘Done a bit of sailing, then?’ he said. She might be wearing an expensive yachting waterproof jacket, but that was no guarantee she’d ever stepped on board a boat. Some women wore nautical clothes to be fashionable when around boats and water. Although Johnny had to admit she’d done a pretty proficient job with the rope.

      ‘Just a bit.’ The woman smiled at him. ‘Have a good evening.’

      ‘You too.’

      Johnnie watched as she walked away. Nice smile. He couldn’t remember seeing her around the river before, and he knew he’d remember that smile, so he’d guess she was a holidaymaker.

      He stayed on board Annie for half an hour, adjusting the ropes as she settled down on the grid, the wooden piles against the embankment wall keeping her off the stones. Once he was happy with the way she was settling, he grabbed his laptop from the chart table, secured the cockpit hatch and set off for Sabine’s and supper. Ten minutes later, he was sitting in her cosy kitchen.

      ‘You all right?’ he asked as she placed the chicken casserole on the table. ‘You’re a bit quiet tonight.’

      Sabine shrugged. ‘Things on my mind.’

      Johnnie knew better than to probe. Sabine would tell him in her own time.

      ‘Took a booking this afternoon for a delivery over to St. Malo next week,’ he said. ‘Forty-foot motor yacht so should be a quick trip. Only be away for three or four days at the most. Be back for Easter.’

      ‘Good. Do you get Annie across ready for tomorrow?’

      Johnnie nodded. ‘Yep.’

      ‘You want to sleep here tonight?’ Sabine asked, knowing the yacht would be at an uncomfortable angle once the tide was fully out.

      ‘Thanks, but I’ll go to the cottage.’ He shrugged as Sabine glanced at him. ‘Needs an airing.’

      ‘Got a few signatures on the kiosk petition this afternoon by the way,’ Sabine said before adding, ‘Owen is planning on leaving Peter his boat business.’

      ‘Strewth. Bloody generous of him,’ Johnnie said. ‘Any strings?’ Given how fond he knew Owen was of his sister, maybe it was a ruse to gain her love? No. Not Owen’s style at all.

      Sabine shook her

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