The force 8 gale was whipping the river up into a frenzy of choppy waves as Will and Ben drove the workboat back down towards its mooring. An emergency call from the Harbour Master asking if they could secure a yacht that had broken its mooring half a mile upstream had sent them upriver an hour ago.
Ben carefully drew up alongside the barge moored to the pontoon and Will checked everything there was secure.
“You definitely not staying on the barge tonight?” Ben asked.
Will shook his head. “No. I’ll kip down on here. Right, everything is secure. Let’s get you ashore.”
Visibility was poor and the wind-lashed heavy rain poured down the glass windscreen of the wheelhouse as Will slowly made for the workboat’s own mooring nearer the quay. Not a night to be out on the river. Which was precisely why he intended to spend the night on the workboat. If, as he suspected, Jack Pettyjohn planned to cause more trouble tonight under cover of the atrocious weather, he wanted to be ready and waiting for him.
Once Ben had gone ashore, Will secured the workboat to its mooring, made himself a flask of coffee, switched the lights off and settled himself in the wheelhouse. It was going to be a long uncomfortable night, that was for sure.
Sitting there in the darkness listening to the howling wind and the rain drumming on the wheelhouse roof as the boat was tossed around by the turbulence of the gale, a picture of Polly laughing at Solo and Rosie’s antics on Dartmoor flashed into his mind.
He doubted that she’d be laughing now if she was on board. She’d be terrified. He’d never had a girlfriend who’d been afraid of boats before — they’d mostly been like Angie and Lisa, keen sailors themselves.
Will sighed as he poured himself a cup of coffee. Boats and the river were his life. He really liked Polly but not only did she have this phobia about boats, she lived miles away. When would they ever get to see each other again? Carmarthen might only be a couple of hundred miles or so up the motorway but timewise it might just as well be a thousand. Still, they could probably work something out — meet halfway or something. No. The really big problem was Polly’s aversion to boats.
He should have told her though about the party on Friday night being on one of the tourist boats. He’d been afraid she’d immediately say no and he did so want her to go to the party with him.
Could he get her on one of his own boats before the end of the week? A sort of practice run? Try and convince her she was safe with him there? Would she even try if he suggested it? He’d never forget the look of sheer terror on her white face the day he’d wanted her to get in the dinghy.
Will drained his coffee. He had to try. Tomorrow he’d come clean about Friday night’s party and suggest that he take her for a ride in the workboat to help her overcome her fear before then. Insist, if he had to, that she boarded the workboat for a ride out to the barge. Put pressure on her by saying she wasn’t doing her job properly for Worldsend if she didn’t inspect the barge.
But even as he settled on this masterful plan he knew that if Polly became distraught at his suggestions he would find it difficult not to put his arms around her, say it didn’t matter and kiss her unhappiness away.
Will glanced at his watch. 12.30. If Jack Pettyjohn was going to do anything tonight it would probably be within the next hour. He stood up and stretched, glancing across towards the boat yard slipway as he did so. Shit. The wind and the rain had masked noises he would normally have registered.
Black Sam was rowing the tender from Pettyjohn’s yacht towards the slipway with Jack Pettyjohn himself sitting on the bulwark. Will’s eyes narrowed as he saw the can between Pettyjohn’s feet. Petrol.