‘Nothing till three. I’ll drive you over to the clinic and drop you back at the club on the way back. It’s no trouble. I’ve got to check some locations in Regent’s Park. Tie up a few loose ends before I meet this chap. A photographer.’
‘Another book?’
‘Secret Interiors of Georgian London.’
Grimacing in mock dismay, the old man placed his glass on the burnished milk churn which served as a side table and lit his pipe.
‘Who buys these picture books, Simon?’
‘Illiterates.’
‘Sell well?’
‘Ever-expanding market of non-readers. Tourists, nosey-parkers, hairdressers. You’d be surprised.’
‘Not cheap, I’ll be bound.’
‘A bloody expensive business to set up,’ Simon countered defensively. ‘But the sort of thing that goes well in America, not just here.’
The old man drew on his pipe, ribbons of blue smoke disguising the faintly fetid smell of a turning tide. The sky had swiftly darkened, the merest wisps of coral flung against the silhouetted towers and roof lines. A bus, lit overall like a ferry boat, passed over the bridge now monumental with black shadows.
‘Want to go inside, Frederick? It’s getting chilly.’
His nephew’s concern was almost feminine in its solicitude. Decent of him, though, to put him up. Trips to London cost a packet without having to pay for a hotel bed as well.
‘Just finish my pipe, old boy. I know you don’t want my fug in your smart sitting-room. I had no idea how splended these houseboats were.’ Frederick Flowers turned to indicate the softly illuminated saloon. A walnut bookcase glowed beyond a small circular table still littered with the remains of their supper, lamplight blushing the pale mezzotints hung against the panelling.
‘Amazing what you’ve done with this old tub.’
Simon winced.
‘Quiet, too,’ the old man continued. ‘Is there no one aboard—’ he waved his pipe vaguely from side to side—‘these other boats?’
‘Excelsis belongs to some sort of pop star.’ Simon nodded towards the dark shape in the next berth. ‘Hardly ever there, uses it more as a party venue. But when he’s in town …’ He clapped his hands to his ears. ‘The racket’s unbelievable.’
‘The other side looks leaky as a colander.’
‘Just changed hands. Due for a complete refit.’
‘Sounds expensive.’
‘Mm.’ Simon began to shake out the cushions on the empty lounger. ‘Still works out cheaper than anything on shore. Especially round here. The mooring fee covers cleaning of the pontoons and the maintenance of the ropes and gangways. And the bottom of the vessel has to be scraped and tarred every five years or so, but all in all the running costs work out about the same as painting and decorating an ordinary house.’ He lifted his head, staring at the slabs and pinnacles of redevelopment sites on the opposite bank now shyly sprinkled with the first stars. ‘What I save living here enables me to run the farmhouse in Provence I was telling you about. Absolute heaven. You must come and stay in the spring, Frederick.’
Frederick had a soft spot for the boy. Funny bugger, he mused. Kind. Like Pris. But a sore disappointment to poor old Ned. He smiled. Serves him right. Mentally touching his bachelor state like a lucky charm, Frederick blessed his single life. He puffed away at his pipe, turning back to the plush darkness of the evening, mesmerized by the expanse of swirling water.
Simon rose, gathering the coffee cups to take inside.
‘I’ll just clear the table, Frederick, if there’s nothing else I can get for you. There’s a concert on three I’d like to catch. The Printemps String Quartet live from Shannon House.’ He flicked the stereo and the discordant expectancy of tuning-up broke in.
Frederick Flowers sank back into reverie, mulling over the check-up which had precipitated his trip. The prognosis was not good … No matter. A good run of it. Thank God I’ve still got all my faculties: good sight, a bit deaf but … His watery eyes skimmed the lights stringing the opposite bank, translating the unchanging simplicity of the Whistler riverscape laid out before him. An illuminated pleasure boat sharply outlined with fairy lights burst from the cavernous ramparts of the bridge. Heavy rock music pulsed across the river in a persistent jungle beat, the upper deck clearly visible, garishly clarified in the flash of disco lights.
Simon paused in the doorway and the two men watched the progress of the little boat, flat as a water beetle on the rising tide.
‘Not much of a party.’ Simon’s wry disapproval, primly in contrast to the old man’s eager scrutiny, struck a discordant note. ‘Nobody’s dancing,’ he explained.
Frederick craned forward to make out the partygoers in the brightly lit saloon below deck. A private do, he guessed, thinly attended but everyone clearly having fun. Some sort of game in progress. The pleasure boat chugged on passing upstream. Simon, smiling indulgently, produced a pair of binoculars for the old man, who swiftly applied himself to the disco boat.
‘Strip poker!’ he crowed.
Simon shrugged and moved to go back inside, hovering politely over the table as he cleared the plates, half attending to the old man’s enthusiastic commentary, straining to catch the opening chords of the Bach.
‘One’s had enough. Gone up on deck,’ Frederick said.
An amorphous shape in pale draperies leaned moth-like over the rail, spotlit by the alternate magenta and orange pulse of the strobe lighting.
‘Throwing up!’ he gasped, offering the binoculars to Simon. Shaking his head, the younger man moved as if to go back to the saloon, then found himself reluctantly hypnotized by the water pageant unfolding on the dance deck as it floated past. Below deck, the party was in full swing, two enthusiastically gyrating on what must be a coffee table, enticing glimpses of breast and gleaming shoulder visible above the heads of the others. Catcalls and rhythmic handclapping were clearly audible across the dark river, drowning the soaring opening bars of Simon’s radio concert.
Two men had followed the girl to the upper deck, one gripping her arms as her head rolled, doll-like, above the rail. An argument was obviously in progress. Despite himself, Simon found his attention riveted to the silent struggle of the girl who seemed to have passed out, supported by the second man, who, with appalling swiftness, slapped her face. Twice the ringing crack of his hand on her cheek sounded like rifle shots across the water. With a gasp Frederick witnessed the hoisting of the bundle of chiffon to the rail and the sudden disappearance of their victim over the side. No alarm was raised. The two men rejoined the party below deck. The boat chugged on, its music already absorbed by the continuous background noises of the river.
Frederick lurched to his feet, grasping Simon’s wrist, sagging with incredulity. The disco boat was vanishing into the darkness. A mirage? A trick of the flashing lights? Too much brandy?
The two stood rigid, disbelieving their own eyes. Simon snatched the binoculars and peered into the dark. The river flowed by, flecked with the wash from the pleasure boat. No sound rippled the surface. Their thoughts fused on the bizarre incident and the apparent unconcern of the men who perpetrated it.
‘I’ll phone the police,’ Frederick croaked, stumbling sideways in his effort to raise the alarm.
‘Bloody hell!’ Simon burst out. ‘She’s waving!’
The old man grabbed the binoculars and, wiping his eye, fumbled to refocus on the tide bobbing with the assorted debris of plastic cups and driftwood. Far out, carried along with the flotsam, a flurry of foam circled a