Dillon returned to the point where he thought Winston was most likely to have come ashore. Looking over the river’s edge, he shone his torch down into the murky water and walked along the quay until he reached a wooden ladder that led down to the waterline. The battery was on its last legs, and the weak beam of light flickered constantly.
“Don’t you dare pack up on me now,” Dillon warned it.
He shone the light over the concrete beneath his feet, hoping to find a big pool of water from where the soaking wet fugitive had recently ascended from the river below.
The ground was bone dry.
Dillon grunted his disappointment.
The moorings in this section of the river here had steel-piled walls with timber fendering, and access ladders were located at every fifteen metres. Dillon jogged to the next one along, and this time his efforts were rewarded by a large puddle on the concrete next to the ladder.
“Bingo,” he said, triumphantly. As he scythed his torch backwards and forwards over the cracked concrete path, he spotted a trail of wet splodges moving away from the waterline. With a little twinge of excitement, Dillon followed its erratic path like a bloodhound that had just caught a scent.
The trail quickly went cold, but it had been heading straight for a group of expensive looking cruisers that were moored about 150 yards further along the quay.
Dillon rushed over to the first boat, climbing aboard via a narrow wooden jetty. He tried the door and windows, but they were securely locked and there was no sign of any attempt to force entry.
He repeated the process with the second and third vessels, but they were equally secure.
The fourth boat was a fifty-plus foot cutter. Dillon climbed onto the deck and tried the door to the wheelhouse, but like the others, it was locked. He couldn’t see inside because the curtains were drawn. There was a very impressive skylight beyond the wheelhouse, and he made his way over to this, cupped his hands against the glass and peered inside. He could just about make out a plush living area and a long galley down below, but he couldn’t see any obvious signs of habitation.
Seconds later, he was back on the quay, cold and disappointed.
“Excuse me,” a timid voice behind him whispered, and it sounded so eerie that he almost jumped out of his skin.
Dillon instinctively spun around, his fists raised in readiness, only to find a slim, elderly man clad in a dressing gown and furry slippers. White hair blowing in the wind, the pensioner was gripping a polished wooden cane in his arthritic hands, ready to let swing if Dillon tried any funny business with him.
Dillon lowered his shovel sized hands and forced a smile onto his face. “Can I help you?” he asked, trying his hardest to be polite.
The distinguished-looking old codger hesitated, and then took a tentative step forward. He shrugged the bony shoulders of his age withered frame. “I – I might ask you the same thing,” he stammered. “What do you think you’re doing, skulking around in the middle of the night, trying to break into people’s boats? Just so you know, I’ve called the police, so whatever mischief you and your friend are up to, you won’t get away with it.” As he spoke, he nervously flexed his fingers around the cane’s grip, and Dillon saw the veins under his parched skin wriggle like sluggish worms.
Dillon let out a low growl of frustration. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his warrant card and flashed it at the cane-wielding man. “I am the police,” he said, tersely. “and I’m looking for a dangerous suspect, so I suggest you retire to your boat and let me get on with it.”
He started to turn away but then paused. “Hang on a minute granddad,” he said, glaring at the windswept pensioner, “what exactly do you mean: ‘me and my friend?’”
The man huffed indignantly. “The big black man who tried to get into my boat a few minutes before you did. Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about.”
Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t suppose you saw where he went after he left your boat, did you?” he asked impatiently.
The man nodded. “He went aboard The Golden Sunrise,” he said, nodding towards the boat that Dillon had just vacated.
“Are you sure?” Dillon asked, glancing back at the vessel over his shoulder.
The white-haired man stiffened. “I’m old, not senile,” he said, huffily.
“And is he still in there?” Dillon asked.
The old man shrugged. “I don’t know that he even went inside,” he said, becoming crotchety as his confidence grew, “just that he tried the door. The lights came on a few seconds afterwards, so there must be someone aboard, which probably scared him away.”
Dillon grunted. “There aren’t any lights on now,” he said.
The old man tutted at the stupidity of the statement. “Well, of course not,” he said, labouring the last word. “No doubt, they went straight back to bed after seeing the fiend off.”
Dillon jerked his thumb at the cutter. “Do you know the people who own that boat?”
“It won’t be them,” the man said with complete certainty. “They’re off skiing in Canada for two weeks. They must have rented it out or asked someone to boat sit for them.”
Dillon decided to go back and find out.
“Thank you for
