Page 78 of Slack Tide Kill

She stopped the car and they got out.

A line of iron rings were set into concrete anchors, with stern ropes tied off to the three long, shabby houseboats. Smoke curled gently from a tarnished brass chimney. All the boats had been roughly repaired in places with tarps and duct tape; temporary fixes over gold filigreed woodwork that might once have been glossy.

They checked the names, each stenciled on the bow in elegant but peeling cursive.

Eurydice. Time's Arrow. Ephesian Tears.

No Ingoldsby.

"Bledd's not here," Sally said.

"Check this," Liam said, pointing to the final, empty docking point. An upturned tin bucket sat on the bank beside the mooring, with a handwritten note in a plastic sleeve on top, held down by a smooth stone.

Sally picked it up.

The handwriting was spidery but legible, written in pencil on the back of what appeared to be an Environment Agency flood advisory leaflet.

Jack – rhubarb left round the side under the tarp. I'm out for the day, back by nightfall probably. A.B.

Liam looked over her shoulder. "That's a man without a phone. And people say social media has made us inane."

Sally looked around. There was no obvious 'side' to the river, except maybe past the mooring point. She headed into the foliage off the towpath, where she found a low mound covered in a green tarp and held down by stones. She peeled back a corner.

Within lay a stack of bright pink rhubarb stalks.

"Huh," she said.

"Goes great in a crumble," called a voice from behind.

Sally dropped the tarp and turned. Jack Mercer stood on the towpath behind them, dressed in jeans and a polo sweater, again with a steaming mug in his hand and a faintly amused expression on his face. He looked as if he'd just stepped out of his living room.

"DI Mercer," Sally said, swallowing her surprise. She scanned the houseboats, remembering what Mayhew had told her. "You moor here?"

"I do. Sally. Liam." He nodded. "And call me Jack, please, everybody else does. Even Arthur." He pointed toward the note.

Sally glanced back the bucket. "You know Arthur Bledd? We're looking for him."

"Well, he's not in that pile of rhubarb." Mercer grinned. "Last he told me, he's off on a consult today."

"On a consult where?"

Mercer thought for a moment, then pointed southwest along the river. "It'll be down at Scots Float, barely five minutes. It's a pumping station on the marsh."

"What's he consulting on?"

"Ah, yes. He's a drainage expert, Arthur. Knows more than the uni. grads they've got on staff, and tells them so often." He smiled and sipped his tea. "Tells me all about it too. I know more about swales and riprap than any honest man should."

Sally smiled. "And you're friends?"

"Sure. Back in my day, we were drinking buddies. Now I'm back from London, we typically moor together. Shoot the breeze over whisky most evenings." He leaned against his boat, Ephesian Tears. "Can I ask why you're looking for him?"

Sally almost answered, then looked at Liam. He noticed and nodded, as if appreciating her pause.

"Routine questions," he said. "We're doing the rounds."

"Rounds of the marsh," Mercer mused. He clearly didn't believe that, but didn't press further. "Well, I hope he can help. And as ever, any time you need me, come on out. We're 10 minutes from Rye, here, and I'm always happy to lend a hand."

"Of course," Liam said. "Thanks, Jack."