The Wrong Kind of Blood by Declan Hughes Read Free Book Online Page B

Room,” said Cyril haughtily. “As to the question of Mr. Dawson’s boat, I’m afraid it’s a very busy day today, and I wouldn’t dare take one of our boatmen away from his duties. Perhaps later in the season, and if you were accompanied by Mr. Dawson himself. And if there’s nothing else, Mr. Loy, I have work to do.”
    Cyril had been treading a fine line between amusing irritant and pain in the neck. He had just crossed it. I slapped my hands down on the reception desk, leaned into his face and hit the volume control.
    “No, Cyril, what you have to do is listen to me. Peter Dawson’s wife, Linda, is concerned about her husband’s whereabouts. She has authorized me to act on her behalf by searching his boat. Both she and I wish to conduct this business without worrying her father-in-law, who is as you know a loyal and generous friend to the Royal Seafield. But if you continue to obstruct me, I’ll call John Dawson and let him know all about it. I’m sure the Commodore will be interested to hear from Mr. Dawson on the subject. Now are you going to get a boatman to take me out to Peter’s boat, Cyril, or do I have to strip down and swim out there myself?”
    It’s fair to say that by the end of this little speech, I was shouting. Looking around, I was glad to see that we had attracted something of a crowd. On top of the navy blazers and sweaters, there was a younger contingent, the men in rugby shirts, the women in navy-and-white-striped tops. Maybe there was a club uniform, graded by age. I wasn’t thinking about them, however, or about Cyril Lampkin, who was staring goggle-eyed at me, his jowls working like a bullfrog’s, or even about the tall, wiry, dark-haired guy in shorts and a life jacket who had materialized at my side, and who looked like he could make life difficult for me if he felt like it.
    What I was thinking was, This is what I do, and I haven’t done it for far too long. It had been eighteen months since I had worked a case, eighteen months during which I had lost my daughter, my wife, my apartment and my job. I ended up tending bar in a dive in Venice Beach, sleeping on a friend’s floor, drinking every cent I made, thinking little and feeling less, trying to make connections between events that don’t connect and probably never would. I would never make sense of why my daughter had to die. I probably never would discover what happened to my father. But I had a fair chance of finding Peter Dawson, and if I did, it would close one broken circuit, remake one connection that had been broken. And even if I didn’t, at least it was good to feel the stir of blood in my veins again.
    Cyril Lampkin said, “You leave me no option, Mr. Loy; I’m going to telephone the Commodore.”
    I thought of school, and being threatened with the headmaster, and I began to laugh. A hand nudged my arm.
    “It’s all right, Cyril, I’ll look after this. Come on, Mr. Loy, I’ll take you out to the Dawson boat.”
    It was the tall dark fellow with the life jacket.
    Cyril Lampkin said, “Colm, ah, indeed, well, Colm, I didn’t want to distract you from your duties, but if you think it fit for a nonmember, ah, to be summarily authorized…”
    But Cyril’s voice had already begun to fade. Colm led me through the Club Room, down two sets of stairs, and out onto a dock. We sat into a small wine-colored launch, he started the motor and we set off across the harbor. We crossed a number of swinging moorings at the front of the clubhouse until we came to a medium-sized cruiser. At the fore of the boat, the
L
had dropped off, leaving it named the
ady Linda
.
    “Here we are,” said Colm, grinning at me. “You were having fun, weren’t you?”
    “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble with your boss,” I said.
    Colm laughed scornfully. “Lampky? Lampky’s no one’s boss. Lampky’s just the club wanker. His mummy’s left the club some huge sum of money in her will, but in return they have to employ Lampky, and