Thirty-Two
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Self-belief is one thing. But the support of the following friends has been enormous: Matt Hilton and Sheila Quigley, who know just what it’s like; Mike Stotter and Ali Karim of Shots Magazine, who were so quick to welcome me into the crime/mystery community; Adrian Muller for spreading the buzz; Lizzie Hayes and Sue Lord for their absolute belief; James Nightingale, eagle-eyed editor; and last but certainly not least, super-agent David Headley, for his energy, friendship and absolute commitment to Red Station and beyond.
Thank you, all.
ONE
Autumn 2008
Death came in at three minutes to four on a sluggish morning tide, and changed Harry Tate’s life forever.
It edged up a shrouded Essex inlet, a scrubby white fifty-foot motor launch with a fly bridge, its engine puttering softly against the slow current. The exhaust sounds were muffled by a heavy, early mist rolling along the banks, blanketing the dark marshland like cold candyfloss.
Three figures stood outlined by a flush of refracted light from the open cockpit. One was on the forward deck, a swirl of dreadlocks framing his head like a war helmet. He was holding a thick pole balanced on one shoulder. Number two, the helmsman, was a bulky shape up on the fly bridge, head turning constantly between the instrument panel and the banks on either side.
The third man stood on a swimming platform at the stern, inches above the murky
