PEARCE WAITED until he was satisfied the girl had gone into the club for lunch. He had followed her to the Mayflower Post Hotel, waited for her outside for an hour, then followed the Mercedes to the supermarket and back to the Royal Western Yacht Club. He got out of the car and walked back to the railing where he had stood earlier. The yacht still bobbed at her mooring, in plain view of those inside the club. Below him was a stone enclosure holding a number of dinghies. He walked down the steps toward them; perhaps if he could get one out into the harbor he could circle and come up on the yacht from the other side. He was about to untie one when a man in uniform came out of the club.
“Can I help you, sir?” Pearce knew that tone. The man didn’t want to be helpful at all.
“Uh, no, I was just looking at the boats.”
“Are you a member, sir?” Same tone. Pearce didn’t reply.
“I’m afraid this is club property, and only members are allowed. You can reach the street up the stairs, there.”
He retreated up the steps and stood at the railing again. He thought about waiting until dark, but he had to start back to London well before that time. He did not understand Thrasher’s relationship with these people, but he knew that the younger of the two men had ruined the effort in Cowes, and that they were at least Thrasher’s friends. That was enough for Pearce, but now he was out of time. He had to be at the office.
He got back into the old Wolsley and drove back to the Mayflower Post. The Mercedes was gone. He turned back toward the A30 East, toward London. This was not working out, this following Thrasher; he was not getting the right chances, although he had come close in Cowes. Thrasher was too unpredictable, and Pearce had still not been able to find out where he lived, not even from his coworkers at the office. He would have to find another way.
There was time. And money. With the insurance and the bit his mother had left there was nearly £6,000. He would be patient; he would find another way. He would find it for his mother.