Blood on the Harbour by Duncan Wallace

Author:Duncan Wallace [Wallace, Duncan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-11-11T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

I dumped the box of files onto my desk and sorted through them, scanning for Mr. Thomson’s name through the cluster of others. The business itself seemed to be thriving, and I had worried that I had missed some files that would’ve held crucial information in them.

I sorted through them, tossing the ones that were of no value to the floor while searching for a name that looked familiar and then I found it. S, Thomson, written in small letters towards the right side of the granite coloured folder.

“Nice,” I said to myself as I pushed it over to the opposite end of the desk and piled all the others back into the box.

The smell of decaying paper rifled in the air as the dust that had settled between the pages now flew across the room. For a moment it smelt like an old library, but it was a smell that I enjoyed so I wallowed in the nostalgia that came along with the scent.

I pushed the box that had now been filled back up with the folders to the other side of the room to get them out of my vision. My sole focus was this S. Thomson file that I had set my gaze on.

I opened it up and dumped all of the pages out of it and held them in my hands, dashing each sheet through my fingers as I tried to find something, anything, that could give me something to work from.

And there it was. On top of the information sheet was the name of the Boat, The Sail Away, but underneath it was indented lines that had been tip-exed over. I brushed my fingertips over the covered up indentation and tried to make out the word, but it was no use, I had to ring up the husband and ask him more about that boat of his.

“Hello,” he answered shakily.

I realised that he probably thought I was the kidnapper considering I rang his house phone on my privatised number.

“It’s the Detective,” I informed him and listened to him release a puff of air he’d been holding in.

“Hi, Detective,” he said after he gathered his breath.

“The name of your boat,” I stated and soon realised that I hadn’t asked a question but had instead just given a random statement. “What is it?”

“The Sail Away,” he confidently said.

“The Sail Away,” I confirmed.

“You know after Orinoco Flow by Enya,” he replied.

“Yes, I’m aware of the song,” I replied through gritted teeth.

“Before, I mean,” I asked.

“Before what?” He answered.

The conversation was brutal, and I felt myself wanting to rip my hair out.

“What was the name of the boat before you renamed it,” I asked.

“Oh, god,” he said as I tried to think. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“Do you not have records?” I asked.

“No,” he finalised.

“Why?” The questions were becoming more child-like, and I found myself becoming more blunt with every return.

“Well, to be honest,” he started. “I just gave my design specs to a broker I hired, and they sorted it.

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