It was touch and go, but I made it.
Three times I tried, and three times I didn't pull myself up onto the old wooden pier. Four feet, no more. Just four feet. A mountain. A ten-year-old could have done it. But not me. I was an old man.
I staggered up the street.
The milkman completed his deliveries.
The smell of baked bread emanated from the village bakery.
I was walking up the high street soaking wet in a hospital gown.
I made it to the Crown and Castle. Used the master key to gain access and went upstairs to my room. I stripped off my clothes and towelled myself dry. The very action of towelling appeared to drain away what little strength I possessed.
I looked in the mirror as I dressed. It might have been my grandfather staring back at me. My grandfather was on his deathbed. My face had that drawn and waxy look that one associates with approaching dissolution.
Not a waxiness, though.
No blood on my face.
The pine needles left their mark.
Similar to someone with impetigo or bubonic plague.
I went downstairs to the bar and helped myself to a stiff three fingers of whisky. The landlord and I should meet in the morning.
The whisky tasted wonderful. One moment there, the next vanished into the depths. The weary, old, red corpuscles hoisted themselves to their feet and started trudging around again.
I placed the bottle back where I found it and trudged back upstairs to my room. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I flopped onto the bed and went to sleep.
I need my sleep, just as anyone else. Ten hours, sometimes eight. Maybe not exuding brightness, optimism, and cheerfulness. The circumstances weren't right for that. At least a going concern. Alert. Perceptive. My mind operating on what my superiors regarded as its customary abysmal level. Still the best it could achieve.
They did not give me that ten hours. Nor even eight. Three hours after dropping off, I was awake again.
"Sergeant Fitzgerald is downstairs waiting to speak to you."
I cursed, being disturbed from the depths of my sleep-ridden being.
Swung a pair of unsteady legs to the floor and levered myself out of bed.
I came near to falling. As it appeared, only one leg left, and my neck ached.
A glance at the mirror gave quick external confirmation of my internal decrepitude. A haggard, unshaven face, pale, and bloodshot eyes, with dark circles under them. I looked away.
I opened the door and made my way downstairs.
Outside was a damp, wet, and windy world. A grey, dreary, unpleasant scene. Why the hell couldn't Fitzgerald have let me sleep? The rain was coming in slanting sheets, bouncing inches high on the road outdoors. Doubling the milkiness of the nearby spume flecked-sea.
The wind mourned. The registers of sound and the steep-sided waves in the harbour were maybe three feet high. High enough for the fishermen to stay indoors.
"Ah! There you are," Fitzgerald said. "Took your time, didn't you? There is something you should see.
We drove through the village in silence. The roads deserted, and there weren't half a dozen pedestrians to be seen. Fitzgerald caught the red both times at the only two sets of traffic lights in Cape Ore. Both times, the sergeant made his feelings known under his breath.
We were on the outskirts. The rain sheeting in a torrential cascade. Drumming with thunderous repetitiveness on the roof of the car. Driving under a waterfall. The windscreen wipers could not cope with driving under waterfalls.
Fitzgerald slowed to twenty.
Even then, we were both blinded whenever the headlights of an approaching car spread their diffused white glare over the streaming glass of the windscreen. A blindness complete, with a spraying wall of water.
This thudded against the screen. Offside of the body, as the approaching cars swept ahead. Making a sibilant whisper of wet rubber on wet roads.
Fitzgerald peered into the alternating glare and gloom. He knew the road well, but he didn't know it well this morning. An east-bound lorry growled by at the wrong moment, and he missed the turning.
The car skidded for a moment. We ended up on the hard shoulder, before bringing it under control. He caught a glimpse through the rain of a dim phosphorescent glow on the left, and we were fifty yards beyond before we stopped.
The road was too narrow for a U-turn. Fitzgerald carried out a three-point turn.
We crawled up to the illuminated opening. Glad he did not turn in at speed. From my earlier visit, I remembered the six-barred, white-painted metal gate built to stop a bulldozer.
"What are we doing here, Fitzgerald?"
"You said, Sheena Ryder had an excellent alibi on the night of the murders?"
"Yes."
"That's right. The picture of the transit of Jupiter. Established her presence at home."
I paused for a moment.
"I don't believe Miss Ryder was there."
"Why?"
"No great shakes to take pictures at pre-selected intervals."
"Or someone may have done it for her?"
"Who?"
"So, we are here to confront her with the truth?"
"Yes and let me do the talking. Remember, you are not the police."
"How can I ever forget?"