“What type of boat is this?” Alex asked.
It was a small Bermuda-rigged two-masted ketch with a cabin and bunks for four. It was a carvel-built design from Harry Brace’s private yard on the Clyde. The planking was teak, which was extremely rare for a Scottish yard. 1947 or possibly 1948, although the man who’d sold it to Beth claimed it was from the 60s because he thought – wrongly – that its venerable age would decrease its value. It was only thirty-two foot long but the design was such that it looked much roomier when you were down below. It was a beautiful-looking craft with its sleek hull, weathered teak decks and brass fittings. By far the standout craft in any marina filled with 1980s white fibreglass mono-hulled cruisers and ugly speedboats.
“It’s a ketch,” Beth and I said together.
Two and a half hours later we dropped the sails and motored into Portpatrick harbour. I threw a stern line to a helpful kid on the shore and he tied us up onto a cleat while I jumped onto the pontoon and ran a line forward. Portpatrick couldn’t compare with Oban or Port Ellen or Tobermory but it was a lovely little place nonetheless and I could see that the lads were delighted by the whole experience of getting up early and sailing over to Scotland for lunch.
We ate at a fish restaurant and found the house for sale on a cliff just outside of town. It had once been a lovely three-bedroom, but that once was probably about 1910. The roof looked none too stable and it had a garden full of weeds and nettles. However, the view across the water to Ireland was to die for.
“It’ll certainly take some fixing up,” Beth said and I could tell that she loved it. The lads agreed that it was just the place for us.
I put in an offer there and then and the estate agent told us that the current owners would almost certainly take it.
After thoroughly exploring “our” house we took Emma to a park back in town.
“There’s Kilroot Power Station there across the sea. It’s hard to believe that we live so close. I should get a little boat, myself,” Lawson said, like me, now thoroughly convinced by a nautical existence.
“There’s an old joke: the two best days of a boat owner’s life are the day he buys his boat and the day he sells his boat,” Beth told him, but I could see he didn’t believe her. The hooks were in. It had been that big green spinnaker sail.
We stayed for dinner in Portpatrick and it was late when we headed out of the harbour again.
On the journey back Crabbie joined me on the foredeck and we talked tactics.
“They’ll take my recommendation that Lawson pass for sergeant and be promoted to head of Carrick CID,” I said. “I think he’ll be ready to take over in about a year or so.”
“Yes, that sounds about right,” he agreed.
“And we’ll both resign as detectives and move to the part-time reserve,” I said.
“That will suit me down to the ground,” he said. “I can concentrate more on the farm.”
“We’ll teach him everything we know and let the new generation handle things for a while.”
“Aye.”
The sun began sinking behind the Irish coast.
The yellow dark, the red dark, the deep blue dark …
Stars in swirls. A sickle moon. Silence.
Between Ireland and Scotland not a ship or a plane or another vessel.
Just the night itself and the flat black sea that makes a noise like singing.
The cat asleep. Emma asleep. Beth reading Frank Miller and allowing Lawson to hold the tiller.
Yes, the plan would work out fine.
We’d train Lawson and we’d move to Scotland and I’d finish out my time as a reservist. One more year of murder cases that don’t get solved and missing girls who never come back and, as a sideline, handling the flighty, paranoid, highly strung Assistant Chief Constable Strong – an absolute menace of a man whom I would have to keep on a very tight leash.
And after that just a few more years of commuting to Belfast by plane and ferry, doing humdrum police work so I didn’t blow my agent-handling cover: foot patrols, traffic work, paperwork.
It was nothing I couldn’t handle.
I had Beth and Emma.
A boat called Deirdre.
Two excellent friends.
It would be a good life.
Good enough.