Salt spray stung my face as the craft slung over to one side. I wiped my eyes, gripping the tiller as I skimmed over the water. The boat juddered as its bow smacked into successive waves, each sending a curtain of spume over me.
The smell of plastic from the boat's hull mixed with diesel fumes and salt-soaked rope.
I jerked in my seat as the dinghy hit a wave head-on, lifting the vessel out of the water.
I'd sailed when I was younger, and the choppy ride didn't bother me. It wasn't helping the washed-out feeling that came from lack of sleep. I tried to put it from my mind.
I stared over the blunt bow as we reached the deeper water.
Headed out toward the sandbanks. They lay dead ahead, a natural barrier stretching from shore to shore.
The rising tide isolated them. Exposed. Smooth brown humps emerging from the sea.
Beyond them, where the estuary met the ocean, were three sea forts, built by the army and navy along the coast during the Second World War to keep German ships out of the estuaries. Strange structures that ascended from the sea. Square boxes perched on pyramidal stilts.
It became quieter as I throttled, slowing to make it approach through the sandbanks. Raised as small islands everywhere; the waves lapping at smooth sides. Not much longer before the rising undercurrent covered them. Make the estuary impassable.
Hard enough negotiating when visible above the surface.
Hidden by the high tide, treacherous.
A reception committee is waiting at the harbour. Three police cars pulled up as close as possible, blue lights flashing.
The entire village has woken. Neighbours standing on the quayside in dressing gowns and overcoats. Intermittent bright white flashes from the press as I slow the boat to a halt.
Once moored, I made a slow ascent up the stone steps to the quayside.
Sergeant Fitzgerald stood at the front of this unwelcoming crowd.
Constable Smee came forward and clicked handcuffs on my wrists.
Fitzgerald stepped forward.
"You are under arrest for the murder of Mr Michael Jones," he said. "You may stay silent. We may use what you say in evidence against you. There is a right to representation. Should you be unable to afford a solicitor, we will appoint one for you on legal aid. Do you understand?"
It was a fine rendition by the Sergeant. Spoke with eloquence. Didn't read from a card and spoke as he knew what he meant and why it was important. To him and to me. I didn't respond.
"Do you understand your rights?" he said again.
Again, I didn't respond. Experience taught me that absolute silence is the golden rule. If I said something, they might mishear or misunderstand. It could get me convicted of a crime I did not commit.
Silence always upsets the constabulary. Wherever you are. They tell you silence is your right. If you exercise that right, they get upset. I was being arrested for murder. But I said nothing.
"Do you understand your rights?" Fitzgerald repeated.
I said nothing. Fitzgerald remained calm.
I walked to the car. Smee opened the rear door. My head pushed lower. Helped into the car by the Constable.
Alone in the car. A wire mesh partition divided the space. The front doors were still open. Fitzgerald and Smee got in and Smee drove. Fitzgerald twisted around, keeping me under observation.
"What's going on, Sergeant?" I said.
"Mrs Jones called us and said an intruder had broken into her house and murdered her husband. She saw the intruder make his escape, and the description she gave was yours."
"This is bullshit," I said into the wire grid. "And you know it!"
They didn't respond. I looked out of the rear-view window. The backup car followed. The cars were new. Quiet riding. Clean and cool interior. No traces of other prisoners having sat where I was now sitting.
The drive to the police station was short. The car hissed over the smooth soaked tarmac.
We pulled up outside, and Fitzgerald got out and opened my door.
"Okay, let's go," he said. A whisper.
I pivoted and twisted out of the car. The handcuffs didn't help. I stepped forward and waited. Constable Smee fell in behind. Ahead the entrance.
Fitzgerald pulled one door open. Smee gave a gentle push.
An auburn-haired woman in uniform sat at a desk. Doing paperwork on a keyboard. Now she looked. I stood there. Fitzgerald and Smee were on opposite sides. The woman in uniform looked.
I then walked to the left. Stopped me in front of a door. Smee swung it open and pushed me into a room. An interview room. No windows. A white table and three chairs. The camera was in the top corner. They set the air in the room at chilly. I was still wet from my journey in the inflatable.
I stood there, and Fitzgerald ferreted into every pocket. My belongings made a small pile on the table. My wallet. Coins. Receipts, tickets, scraps. My lock-picks. Smee glanced at my watch and left it on my wrist. They weren't interested in these things. They swept everything else into a transparent evidence bag. People have more in their pockets. The bag had a white panel printed on it. Smee wrote a number on the panel.
Fitzgerald told me to sit. Then they left the room.
Smee carried the bag with my stuff in it.
They closed the door. A heavy, well-oiled sound. It was the sound of precision. The sound of my freedom ending.