Dead Like You

73

Wednesday 14 January

Yac was tired. At 3 a.m. the city had been quiet. The second Tuesday in January and people were staying home. He’d cruised around because the man who owned the taxi got angry if he stopped too early, but he’d only had two fares since midnight – barely enough to cover the cost of the fuel. He’d been about to head home when a call had come in to take two people up to Luton Airport. He’d only got back to the boat just before 7 a.m. Exhausted, he’d fed the cat and crashed out in his berth.

Footsteps woke him. A steady clump, clump, clump on the deck above his head. He sat up and looked at the clock. It showed 2 p.m.

Tea! was his first thought. His second was, Who the hell is up there?

He never had visitors. Ever. Apart from the postman and delivery men. But he was not expecting any deliveries.

It sounded like a whole group of people up there. Was it kids? Kids had been on the boat a few times, jeering and shouting at him, before he’d chased them off.

‘Go away!’ he shouted at the ceiling. ‘Piss off! Sod off! Screw off! Fuck off! Take a hike! Get lost, kids!’ He liked using words he heard in the taxi.

Then he heard knocking. A sharp, insistent rap, rap, rap.

Angrily, he swung his legs out of his bunk and staggered into the saloon, padding across the wooden floor, partially covered with rugs, in his underpants and T-shirt.

Rap, rap, rap.

‘Go to hell!’ he shouted. ‘Who are you? Didn’t you hear me? What do you want? Are you deaf? Go away! I’m asleep!’

Rap, rap, rap!

He climbed up the wooden steps, into the sun lounge at the top. It had glass patio doors and a big brown sofa, and windows all around with views out on the grey afternoon across the mudflats. It was low tide.

A man in his fifties, balding, with a comb-over, wearing a shabby tweed jacket, grey flannel trousers and scuffed brown brogues, was standing outside. He held up a small black leather wallet and mouthed something at him that Yac did not understand. Behind him stood a whole group of people wearing blue jackets with POLICE written on them, and helmets with visors. One of them was lugging a big yellow cylinder that looked like a fire extinguisher.

‘Go away!’ Yac shouted. ‘I’m sleeping!’

Then he turned and started walking back down the stairs. As he did so he heard the rap, rap, rap again. It was starting to annoy him. They should not be on his boat. This was private property!

The sound of splintering glass stopped him in his tracks just as he stepped on to the saloon floor. Anger surged inside him. That idiot. That stupid idiot had knocked too hard! Well, he would go and teach him a lesson!

But as he turned, he heard a cacophony of leather and rubber-soled footsteps.

A voice shouted out, ‘POLICE! DON’T MOVE! POLICE!’

The man with the comb-over was clattering down the steps, followed by several police officers in their yellow vests. The man was still holding up the wallet. Inside it was a badge of some kind and writing.

‘John Kerridge?’ the man asked him.

‘I’m Yac,’ he replied. ‘My name is Yac. I’m a taxi driver.’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Potting, Sussex CID.’ The man was now holding up a sheet of paper. ‘I have a warrant to search these premises.’

You’ll have to speak to the owners. I’m just looking after it for them. I have to feed the cat. I’m late doing that, because I slept in today.’

‘I’d like to have a few words with you, Yac. Perhaps we can sit down somewhere?’

‘Actually I have to go back to bed now, because I need my sleep. It’s quite important for my night shift, you see.’ Yac looked around at the police officers standing in the saloon beside him and behind him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to speak to the owners before I allow you on this boat. You will have to wait outside. It might be difficult getting hold of them because they are in Goa.’

‘Yac,’ Norman Potting said, ‘there’s an easy way to do this and a hard way. Either you cooperate and help us, or I arrest you. Simple as that.’

Yac cocked his head. ‘Simple as what?’

Potting looked at him dubiously, wondering if all the man’s lights were fully switched on. ‘The choice is yours. Do you want to spend tonight sleeping in your bed, or in a cell at our custody unit?’

‘I have to work tonight,’ he said. ‘The man who owns the taxi will be very angry if I don’t.’

‘OK, sunshine, then you’d better cooperate.’

Yac looked at him. ‘I don’t think the sun is always shining.’

Potting frowned, ignoring the comment. ‘Bit of a fisherman, are you?’

‘I’m a taxi driver.’

Potting jerked a thumb up at the deck. ‘You’ve got fishing lines out.’

Yac nodded.

‘What do you catch here? Mostly crabs?’

‘Plaice,’ Yac replied. ‘Flounder. Sometimes Dover soles.’

‘Good fishing, is it? I’m a bit of a fisherman myself. Never fished up this far.’

‘You broke my patio doors. You’d better fix those. They will be very angry with you. I’m not allowed to break anything.’

‘To tell you the truth, Yashmak, I don’t give a toss about your patio doors. I don’t actually give much of a toss about you either, and I don’t like your taste in underpants, but don’t let’s get personal. Either you’re going to cooperate or I’m going to arrest you, then take this floating skip apart, plank by plank.’

‘If you do that it will sink,’ Yac said. ‘You need some of the planks. Unless you’re a good swimmer.’

‘A comedian, are you?’ Potting said.

‘No, I’m a taxi driver. I do night shifts.’

Potting held his temper with some difficulty. ‘I’m looking for something on this boat, Yashmak. Anything you’ve got here you’d like to tell me about – and show me?’

‘I have my high-flush toilet chains, but they’re private. You can’t see those – except the ones I have in my berth. I can show you those.’ Yac perked up suddenly. ‘There’s a really good high-flush toilet near Worthing Pier – I could take you over there and show you them if you like?’

‘I’ll flush you down your own sodding toilet if you don’t shut it,’ Potting said.

Yac stared back at him, then grinned. ‘I wouldn’t fit,’ he said. ‘The diaphragm’s too small!’

‘Not by the time I finished with you, it wouldn’t be.’

‘I – I’ll bet you!’

‘And I’ll bet you, sunshine. I’ll bet you we find something here, all right? So why don’t you save us all lot of time and show us where the ladies’ shoes are?’

He saw the flicker in the strange man’s face and instantly he knew he had hit the mark.

‘I don’t have any shoes. Not ladies’ shoes.’

‘Are you sure?’

Yac eyeballed him for a moment, then looked down. ‘I don’t have any ladies’ shoes.’

‘That’s good to hear, Yashmak. I’ll get my team to verify that and then we’ll be off.’

‘Yes,’ Yac said. ‘But they can’t touch my toilet chains.’

‘I’ll let them know that.’

Yac nodded, perspiration running down him. ‘I’ve been collecting them a long time, you see.’

‘Toilet chains?’ Norman Potting said.

Yac nodded.

The Detective Sergeant stared at him for some moments. ‘Tell you what, Yashmak, how about I flush you down the sodding toilet now?’