A Prospect of Vengeance

(The coroner had reprimanded him at that point!) ('Yes, sir — that may be. But a single-hander's motto is

'Don't go over in the first place', sir.') So there it was: at that point Elwyn Rhys-Lewis and the coroner had both agreed on the 'freak wave' theory. Which Rhys-Lewis had more vividly described as 'the Sod's Law of the Sea' — 'when wind-and-water hit you in that single unguarded moment, groping around to catch a flogging sail

— and then you're over the side and alone, with your boat sailing on without you, to the Port of Heaven — '

'We may be somewhat surprised that the body of the deceased was not recovered in the search next day, or that it dummy2

never came ashore as others have done. But we have also heard an expert witness from the RNLI testify that the ebbing tide would have carried it several miles into the bay.

And if it finished up in the Needles Channel, in the shipping lane, then it may have been hit by a large vessel well before daylight.

'So, before I record my verdict, it is more than ever necessary for me to emphasize that, however experienced one may be, the necessary and prudent precautions must be paramount.

One witness has spoken of what he called 'the Sod's Law of the sea'. But — '

That had given the Telegraph sub-editor his arresting headline ' 'Sod's Law' killed yachtsman' .

But that had been a 'Sod's Law of the sea'. And it had been a quite different Sod's Law — a 'Sod's Law of the land' which had finally brought Philip Masson into the light, all these years afterwards; which, in his neat little report, Reg Buller had pounced on smartly:

'Why did they plant him there? It's a good question, because bodies have a way of turning up. HM prisons are full of people who believed otherwise. But these chummies weren't so stupid as that, they just had very bad luck. Because that old ruin, where they planted him — and the nice old farmhouse on the hillside above, where the kids came from

— was all due to go under the line of the motorway. So the machines would have cut through the hillside above there, dummy2

and piled the soil on top of the ruin and buried him deep.

And what must have given the chummies the idea was that it was about that time that the 'Motorway Murders' came to light: this bulldozer driver was murdering women in his spare time, and then covering them deep next morning at work. That was a year or two before, but it was a big talking-point. Only then the Government fell, so there was a new Minister. And they found a lot of rare flowers on the moor there, which didn't grow anywhere else. So they finally re-routed the motorway by a couple of miles in 1980, and left that bit out. This is what's called 'Green Politics'

today, I believe. But I'd call it 'bad luck' . . . for chummie.'

More like very bad luck, Ian had mentally added there.

Because the alleged drowning of Philip Masson had otherwise been perfect. There had been no dangerous carrying of bodies (always a risky business; and, presumably, Masson had been intercepted and murdered close to where he'd been buried, in the middle of rural nowhere). And then a false Masson had taken his car on, and slipped aboard the Jenny III in the gathering dusk, either taking another inflatable on board to get ashore, or (in view of the weather) rendezvousing with one of his confederates just north of the Shingles.

But, otherwise ... it had been damn-near perfect, with no tell-tale body (bodies also were a risk, however neatly killed; and with Philip Masson the autopsy would have been very thorough, for sure); but, for the rest, it had been utterly dummy2

professional — plausible and detailed, but not too detailed . . . just basically ordinary.

Those three hours hadn't been wasted; the deceptive half of Philip Masson's death would eventually make a good detailed chapter in the story — and if Elwyn Rhys-Lewis turned out to be as good-and-true a friend as he sounded; which, on mature reflection, he probably was; but even then he would supply more good copy, as he gnashed his teeth about the way he had innocently helped his friend's murderers. So it was already shaping up nicely — it would make a fascinating contrast even ... the false inquest, before the real one —

And then the door had banged, and Reg Buller had made his entrance.

'I've lost my bloody pipe.' He patted all his bulging pockets, ignoring the 'No Smoking' notice, and the worried hovering of Ian's favourite assistant librarian until she got round in front of him. 'It'sh all right, love — I wasn't going to smoke it.

I was only going to suck it. An' . . . I know how to work the machine — an' how to wind the film back afterwards. Don't worry, love.'

'It's all right, Miss Russell.' Ian didn't think it was 'all right'.

But Reg Buller had also been at work on 1978 elsewhere this afternoon, and he desperately wanted to know what had come out of that latest foray. And, in any event, since Reg was in no case to look after him, he must look after Reg. 'I know this gentleman. And I'll vouch for him, Miss Russell.'

dummy2

Miss Russell gave him a disappointed-fearful look. 'Just so he doesn't make any noise, Mr Robinson. You can talk here — '

She could smell Reg now, and didn't find him reassuring. ' —

but no noise, if you please.'

'No noise!' Buller put his finger to his lips. 'If you hear a noise