The Deadly Dog Watch

By Peter Tranter

It starts with a phone call from Tangiers. Days later the shipping line owner disappears. Local pressure is exerted and Oliver Castle finds himself all at sea charged with finding out what has happened. Despite the appalling weather someone is trying to sabotage the ship; one of the five dancing girls on board disappears, and then the murders begin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Tranter
• Release date: Oct 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780980876680

Peter Tranter

I have had my ups and downs. As far back as I can remember I have always wanted to write. I started a school magazine (as a diversion from Latin lessons), largely written by myself (in schoolboy English), which continued to be produced after I left school. Other successes include a 50 minute radio play broadcast by the BBC, (great), numerous articles (over 50) published in local and specialist magazines, and a story outline for a Garth cartoon, which ran for several weeks in the Daily Mirror, a U.K. national daily paper (great again). Then the Editor axed the series which had been running for 40 years! Another paper I wrote for closed immediately afterwards (Gympie Life!). The actress Pauline Collins wanted to play the lead in a screenplay of mine. For a variety of reasons, the key, most probably, the difficulty of obtaining appropriate finance, the project fell through (very sad).In the U.K. I turned a ₤2 million loss making business into profit in 3 months and so the owners sold it (they couldn’t before!) and I was made redundant (don’t be too successful!) Being jobless and over fifty no one wanted to know me (you too?). Needing to eat I drove a taxi. On one trip I was challenged by three pretty teenage girls to write a whodunit. The Treetop Murders was the result (We were driving up a steep wooded hill at the time.) It is selling (fantastic!) For an excerpt click here. I have been a Marine Radio Officer on the Queen Elizabeth and on other ships, a charity fundraiser for paraplegics, a Business Systems Analyst and programmer, a bread delivery salesman and I’m often involved in building projects, planning, bricklaying, wiring up and plumbing. D.I.Y is challenging, most projects are for the first time so I make many of the novice's first copy cost mistakes but what I get is what I want and not someone else's (maybe received or conditioned) views. Very satisfying; it is cheaper, too! I was born in the U.K., living there until I married a second time. I now live in Queensland, Australia in 6 acres of long grass and tall gum trees amongst which I can often be found searching for golf balls. In between, as always, I continue to write and publish in various formats. I have to. I cannot help it.

Book preview

It starts with a phone call from Tangiers. Days later the shipping line owner disappears. Local pressure is exerted and Oliver Castle finds himself all at sea charged with finding out what has happened. Despite the appalling weather someone is trying to sabotage the ship; one of the five dancing girls on board disappears, and then the murders begin.

The Deadly Dog Watch

by

Peter Tranter

Wyuna Press Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 Peter Tranter

ISBN 978-0-9808766-8-0

The Deadly Dog Watch

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Prologue

Chapter 1 The Business is Murder

Chapter 2 Two Cool Customers

Chapter 3 A Very Short Letter

Chapter 4 The Owner’s Suite

Chapter 5 A Phone Call from Tangiers

Chapter 6 Messages from Home

Chapter 7 Distant Intimacy

Chapter 8 Five Lovely Surprises

Chapter 9 The Captain’s Table

Chapter 10 Eager to Learn

Chapter 11 The Obvious Explanation

Chapter 12. Inphontek, London

Chapter 13 From Station and Hat Rack

Chapter 14 No Tame Dame

Chapter 15 The Input of Friends, Fans and Family

Chapter 16 Roll Playing

Chapter 17 Tanya’s Monster

Chapter 18 Greasy Astronauts

Chapter 19 Mystic Circles

Chapter 20 Pecking Order

Chapter 21 Decode

Chapter 22 Shudders and Threats

Chapter 23 Half the Content

Chapter 24 Sherlock Castle

Chapter 25 What We Know

Chapter 26 The Perspex View

Chapter 27 Soft Touch

Chapter 28 Balance is All

Chapter 29 Reasonable Conclusions

Postscript

About Me.

More Stories by Me

Bonus Free Story

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Author’s Note

My fictional ship, the SS Pacific King is modelled on a real vessel, the SS Palestinian Prince, which, with me on board, broke down several times and in between rolled its way to the Mediterranean many years ago. Since then ship to shore radio communications have changed radically and shore stations around the world like Lands End Radio, GLD, have closed. It is the exercise of poetic licence which allows me to set this modern story in the partial context of days gone by. Anachronistic it may be, self-indulgent it is, and if I have conveyed a little of life on a very small ocean going cargo vessel during the last century something has been achieved in the writing.

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Prologue

Two phone calls to the town of Garten, later linked to the murders, occurred at about the same time. The first was made from Tangiers by George Jackson, ship owner, to his wife Janice, in England.

Hi Janice. Janice, is that you?

Hello George. Yes, it’s me.

I wasn’t sure. There was noise on the line.

I was switching off the hedge cutter.

You’re on the radio phone, are you?

I thought you might call so I took the phone into the garden.

Did you say hedge cutting?

I did.

Be careful.

George, dear, I’m always careful. You should know by now that on the rare, the very rare occasions I’m not, it presages a big disaster.

I’m too far away to know if this is one of them.

Take it from me, it isn’t. Where are you, anyway?

Tangiers. It’s a fantastic spot. You can see for miles, and in all directions.

Wonderful.

It is, really! On my left, the Atlantic Ocean. On my right, the Mediterranean. I’m overlooking the Straits. Gibraltar is only two or three miles away. To think that just here a few thousand years ago the sea broke through. What a waterfall that must have been!

Yes dear. When do you expect to get home?

I’m not sure. If the damn ship keeps going, then only four or five days. So I could pop down and see you and Edward say the middle of next week. But if it doesn’t, God knows.

Have you bought a pup, darling?

Now, Janice, that isn’t necessary.

Sorry.

All right. But it isn’t true. At least, it won’t be if the engineers can keep her going. I’ve got a contract for her.

Really?

Really. It’ll keep the old girl occupied for six months, at least. It’s all small stuff, tramping about, but there should be a profit at the end of it.

So your trip was worthwhile, after all.

I thought it would be, otherwise I would not have come out here.

That is good news.

If only everyone thought so. Unfortunately, they don’t.

Why ever not?

I don’t know. There’s talk of sabotage.

You’ll ferret it out, darling. You always do.

Yes, I will. There’ll be blood on the carpet when I do, I can tell you that.

Make sure it isn’t your own.

You always say that.

Yes, because the possibility lurks in the back of my mind that one day it might be.

Janice, maybe, just this time, you are right.

What!

I said, you could be right.

Get off that ship. Fly home.

I can’t do that. I haven’t finished here. But I will. You can bet your life I will.

Sounds to me you are betting yours.

Look, if the worst happens just remember my diaries, and the other records I keep.

George, this is perfectly ridiculous. If you are not over dramatizing you are being perfectly stupid.

Get yourself competent eyes. That local hero, what’s his name? Oliver Castle. He might do. At the very least it could deflect unwelcome attention on you.

If you say so.

Just remember, okay?

I’ll remember all right. For goodness sake listen to me. Get off that ship.

I’d like a word with Edward. Is he about?

No. It’s Wednesday afternoon. He’ll be home late.

Of course. Cricket. Did you remember to switch on the tape machine?

I did.

Good. You can play it back for him when he gets home.

I will.

Give him my love. If he’s going to listen to this I can tell him myself. Edward, if you scored twenty-five and got out, like you did last week, I shall want to know the reason why. Other than that, look after your Mum. Janice,

Yes?

Don’t worry if I’m delayed. Things are not quite as they should be.

Message received and understood.

All of it, Janice? All of it?

All of it, George. Just you take care.

I’ve dealt with bigger problems than this in the past.

You certainly have, but not on a ship. It’s not your environment, George. You are at a disadvantage.

I’ll see you in a week, okay?

Okay. Just be careful.

Goodbye, now.

’Bye.

*

The second telephone call was to Oliver Castle’s mobile phone, made by Dame Edith Widkins, M.B.E.

Oliver?

Hullo Aunt Edith.

Great Aunt, if you please! What’s that racket?

I’m at the snooker club. Seventeen.

You’re keeping score?

That’s right. A couple of friends of mine are playing.

Are you on next?

Maybe.

That’s not like you.

I can’t hog the table 24 hours a day.

You used to try.

Twenty-four. Quite often all the tables are taken.

Then I’ll buy you one of your own.

Where would I put it? There’s no room at home. Twenty-five.

Some one is starting well.

Yes, Lee. He’ll muck it up though. He gets over ambitious.

Don’t we all, at times. You should warn him.

I have, often. He just can’t help himself. Actually, I’m not doing very well, either.

That’s why I’m phoning.

How could you possibly know?

Twenty years experience. I know you better than you know yourself.

Play safe, Lee. Play safe.

Nightmares?

Yes.

Every night?

Most of this last week. Lee, play safe.

Oliver, let’s not beat about the bush.

Do you ever?

Rarely.

I told you so, Lee. Not only have you missed the blue you’ve left a red on.

Have you been getting crank phone calls?

Yes. Two would be divorcees who wanted me to spy on their straying spouses, and one can you find my grand father. He emigrated ten years ago.

To somewhere exotic? That might have given you a good break.

I’m trying to become a decent snooker player, not a sleazy sleuth. Darren, that’s six. Come back to baulk and let Lee spread them out for you.

Oliver, you have acquired some unwelcome notoriety. Sleazy sleuth you could be but only if you make it so.

Nice shot, Darren.

Use your talents. If you’re off your game, take a different break.

Hah, hah.

I can help, you know.

I know. Okay, Darren, all the reds are spread. Time to clean up. Edith, what’s this about?

You’ve two outstanding talents. If one is on hold, use the other.

Are you trying to set me up?

At least take a holiday.

Can’t afford it. Seven.

I’ll help.

Eight. No, Edith. Thanks anyway.

Don’t wallow.

I’m perfectly unhappy, thank you. Thirteen.

I’m only a phone call away, Oliver.

Do you know something I don’t? Fourteen.

Do I?

You do.

That’s more like it.

The line went dead.

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*

Chapter One. The Business Is Murder.

Garten beach early on a wind swept rainy morning is not everyone’s chosen place to be, especially when the available alternative is a warm bed. Two people preferred the mixture of spray and drizzle being driven in their faces to cuddling a companion under the covers; Darren, because he was too young, and loved to fish, and Oliver, because less than half an hour ago he had woken in a hot, clammy sweat without the benefit of someone near he could embrace. His stomach had been burning, his heart had been thumping, and he found himself shaking as he stared unseeing through the gloom towards the far wall of his bedroom. The horrible images simply would not go away, even though he was now awake. To rid himself of them he felt he had no choice but to get up and go out.

Most dreams fade quickly when you get up. This was not one of them. It was still vivid, it still haunted him, and, worst of all, it was the third night running that he’d woken up, terrified. Last night he’d actually gone to bed expecting to dream, and dreading it.

Claire had been special. They both knew they were a great team. They were going places, together. He could see Claire now, dressed for snooker. She was admonishing the referee right in front of the cameras, telling him he’d got it wrong. The camera crews hiss, and zoom in on the confrontation. The referee shakes his head, polishing the black ball in his gloved hands. He bends to replace the black on its spot. Suddenly his eyes widen, and then glaze over. He falls under the practice table, struck down by a net full of fifteen reds, and these somehow break free to scatter over the green tablecloth, trailing blood. There is Claire again, now making her entrance, parting the curtain as if nothing has happened, confidently surveying the audience as the applause swells. Suddenly, she staggers; she falls forward, a rapier blade in her back, and as she drops she looks at Oliver in anguish that says, How could you betray me? How could you destroy our future? She collapses; the rapier is now a tree stump that has gone right through her. Her blood drips down the bark, dissolving the tree into a cue which Oliver finds he is carrying to the snooker table.

No, that isn’t Claire just ahead, brandishing her cue at him, Oliver tells himself, firmly. It is Darren, casting his line into the edge of the surf. The dreams might seem real, and they are certainly very frightening, but they are completely ridiculous. Claire never played snooker in her short life.

If he saw Oliver as he approached Darren gave no sign, concentrating on the task in hand. Was it possible to catch anything here, Oliver wondered? Apparently so. What other motive could Darren have to be out so early on such a miserable morning? Oliver slowed as he approached the lad, and then stood quietly, watching.

The wind was gusting, with a slight chill in it. Up above, stretching to the horizon, dirty grey clouds scudded across the sky, heading inland. The sand underneath their feet was soft and wet. In fact, Oliver found already he had sunk in an inch or so. Water was oozing up around the sides of his shoes, threatening to soak his feet. Darren had no such problem. His boots reached his calves.

If he noticed any of this, or even Oliver himself, Darren wasn't letting on. He was concentrating solely on his line. Oliver looked a dozen or more yards seawards and could just see the point where the float bobbled on the surface, hidden one moment by an advancing wave, then clear to view in the following trough. There was no movement shore ward so evidently the tide was turning, or going out.

For perhaps ten minutes Oliver watched. Eventually the lad eased his feet out of the sand, sought and found new ground into which he began immediately to settle. He started to reel in his line. The bait was still there so, with a practiced swing back, and then forward, Darren sent the hook and float a little further out.

Without looking at him, Darren said, Hullo, Oliver.

For a full minute Oliver did not reply. Then he asked, mildly curious, Got anything?

Darren inclined his head towards the box at his feet. A couple of small cod. No chance of doubles, of course.

Of course, Oliver agreed, without the slightest idea what Darren meant. Did the fish he was after swim in pairs?

After another three or four minutes Darren spoke again. Could be a mackerel. I had three yesterday.

There was something definitely calming in this desultory conversation. Out here, at the edge of the tide, it was easy to think they were the only people for miles, whereas in reality the whole population of Garten was asleep just around the infill and across the river. Well, most of them, anyway.

You come here every morning?

Darren shook his head. Only when the tide’s right.

Very shortly, Oliver realized, the ooze was going to slide over the uppers of his shoes. He shifted his feet to free them. I suppose it is just about all right on a morning like this, he said. You must get pretty cold and wet some days.

Never notice, Darren replied. ’til I get home, that is. He was well wrapped up.

Do you eat them?

Sometimes.

From where they stood it was possible to see the roped off area of the cliff top, although not the seat upon which Claire and he had sat. He hadn’t been back since that traumatic evening, but instead of dragging his eyes away, Oliver stared intently. He could remember every sickening detail. You must put it away, he told himself. Close the door on it. Young Darren’s concentration was a lesson for him, a lesson he had forgotten. The past was gone. Dead. Yes, dead. It should be buried. What mattered was here, now, and the future. He must concentrate on that. Claire was an interlude, mostly good, that had suddenly gone terribly, horribly wrong. He must get back to a table. The trouble was, he knew he was not ready to do so. Not yet. Claire had been integral to their plans.

Darren glanced at him. Tense, aren’t you.

Oliver grimaced. Is it surprising?

Yes. Once more Darren reeled in his line. I thought you were cool. The bait had gone. He began to reset it. I still think you’re going to be somebody.

Again Oliver shifted his feet. Maybe.

That’s what I mean. Maybe isn’t you. The lad advanced a few yards nearer the water’s edge so he could cast the line further out.

It was a very nasty experience, Oliver began.

So is missing a strike! Darren exclaimed, reeling in rapidly.

Sorry! That sounded more petulant, more self-pitying than he’d intended.

Not your fault. New bait was applied. I just try again. There could be a kipper out there.

You’re joking.

No.

Do you miss many?

I’m getting better, Darren answered. Aha!

It was not a very big fish, Oliver thought, when Darren had landed it, freed it from the hook, and held it up for his inspection. Yet the boy seemed inordinately pleased. That’ll do for today.

It’s very early, Oliver said, surprised.

I’ve got to get ready for school.

Oliver nodded. Irritating.

It would be, Darren replied, collapsing his rod, especially if I don’t get anything. But this morning, well, it sets me up, doesn’t it? They can throw all kinds of irregular French verbs at me. I don’t mind. I’ve already had a good day.

They walked back towards the town. Oliver looked once more at the cliff top. The oak tree wasn’t there. They’d taken that down. What you need is a change of scene, Darren said. Take a holiday.

I might, at that, Oliver agreed, remembering Aunt Edith’s phone call.

They rounded the infill and followed the track alongside the river.

Just think, Darren said, dreamily. As I sit down to Math you could be walking into the travel agent’s. They open at nine.

I thought you said you had French.

I have. Afterwards.

Oliver sympathized. A lousy way to spend a day.

Darren shrugged. It would be, but for this, he lifted the box containing the catch. Where are you going to go?

Oliver stopped in his tracks. I wasn’t intending to go anywhere.

Darren kept on walking. You should, he threw over his shoulder. Same as me, it’ll set you up.

*

When Oliver arrived outside Garten’s only travel agent, a company called Tickets Everywhere, there was the elderly, portly, Mrs. Baggage, examining the premises. To his surprise she seemed to be interested in the gaps in the window display rather than the various brochures put there to catch the eye. Four of five times she made a frame with her thumbs and forefingers, as a cameraman might, sizing up vacant spots from a variety of angles. She stood aside to allow Oliver to enter but although she knew him she did not speak. Was that her version of a speculative look?

There were a number of carousels inside the shop, all of them packed with more glossies. Oliver discovered he could cruise from the East or West coasts of America. He could fly out to the Caribbean and join a ship from there. He could fly to Egypt and explore the pyramids, or land in Greece and drool over ancient temple relics. He checked the price of one of the fly-cruise packages and hastily replaced the brochure.

Can I help you?

Oliver grimaced. He didn’t want pressure. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to go anywhere. He was just exploring an idea, put there by young Darren, and so far, to judge by the prices and hassle involved, it wasn’t a very good one.

I’m not sure, he replied, looking up. Immediately he changed his attitude. The girl behind the counter was fresh faced, offering a friendly smile rather than a sales person’s insincere front teeth exposure. It is just an idea, Oliver said, approaching the counter. I don’t want a package to a beach, or disco. But those cruises are so expensive.

The girl asked, Have you any destination in mind?

Oliver shook his head. That’s just it. I haven’t. I don’t want to go anywhere in particular.

She smiled. You want to travel hopefully rather than arrive.

Oliver shrugged. That’s it. I need a change of scene. I think.

This did not put the girl out. You prefer not to fly.

You arrive too soon, wherever it is, Oliver replied, as Mrs. Baggage came into the shop. I just need a break.

Hmmm. The girl reached under the counter and produced a catalogue. Let’s see now. She began to leaf through the pages.

Sorry to be difficult, Oliver apologized.

Oh, don’t worry about that. You are a challenge. It’s interesting. She examined a page more closely, and then turned over.

What was that one? Oliver asked.

She was an attractive girl. He wouldn’t mind getting to know her. That did not mean he’d let her make his decisions.

Antarctica. But it’s fly out, join a ship, and then view the penguins in the Ross Sea. She looked up at him, the smile now teasing. Do you want to look at penguins?

Oliver shook his head. Not particularly. Do you?

I’d like to go there, one day, she told him, resuming her search.

Mrs. Baggage had looked all round the shop and now stood, patiently, just behind Oliver, not so close as to intrude but near enough to hear every word he and the girl exchanged.

Oliver looked over his shoulder. I’ll try not to be too long.

Oh, don’t worry about me, Mrs. Baggage replied. I’m not travelling. I want people to come to me. So do they, of course, only they don’t know it. They can’t, can they, if they don’t know what they’re missing? If they did they wouldn’t want to, I’m sure. Anyway, holidays are bad for you, I always say.

Oliver blinked. Are they?

Of course they are.

Oliver looked back at the girl behind the counter but she was still busily scanning pages. A change of scene, Oliver began.

If you’ve got problems, young man, Mrs. Baggage told him, firmly, I know who you are because I saw you over that cherry picker business, so you have, haven’t you, though I never thought you did it, oh no. Taxis don’t have arms on top of them so how could you unless you stood on the roof. That wouldn’t have been any good, because there was no way you could have dragged the body up there except through the sun roof, which is far too small, and that’s what I told my Fred when he said you looked the type.

Goodness, he did need to get away. Out of this shop, anyway. The girl behind the counter had her finger pressed firmly at a catalogue entry, her eyes initially on Oliver but now open, yet sightless, as Mrs. Baggage continued to bombard their ears.

I’ve always said that if you’ve got the washing up to do and the shopping and the cleaning and of course, going to work, well it stops you thinking about things you can’t change. In that case going on holiday often makes it worse because then you’ve got more time to worry.

The girl looked down at her rooted finger. Would you mind a tramp ship? It’s very reasonable.

Oliver had heard about them. They were small ships, mainly carrying dry cargo, or containers, but having a number of cabins for passengers. The girl gave him the price. It was certainly more affordable than those glossy cruises. Where’s it going?

The Caribbean! The girl flashed him a smile as brilliant as the brochures.

Come with me, Oliver urged, on impulse.

Surprisingly, she did not refuse outright. I’d like to, she said, non-committal all the same. She looked down at the page again. How odd. It must be a printing error.

What’s that then?

It says you can get on in Felixstowe. Or here.

Here? In Garten?

That’s what it says.

It must be a very small ship, Oliver said. Garten’s facilities used only to cater for small fishing boats. Adequate port facilities for anything bigger than the smallest trawler simply did not exist. Show me.

The girl had closed the brochure. The ship is the SS Pacific King.

I rather think I need more details, Oliver said. You can’t board ocean-going ships in Garten.

She was happy enough to help, but she wouldn’t show him the brochure. As Oliver reached for it, to look for himself, she managed, without being obviously offensive, to drop it down onto the shelf behind the desk.

I’ll find out for you. Certainly. She looked over his shoulder to Mrs. Baggage, who was now frowning heavily. I won’t keep you a moment, madam. She picked up a pen. If you would give me your name and telephone number, she told Oliver, I can call you later this morning.

Oliver supplied those details and left the shop, relieved to have got out of there without a commitment. Really, he was not in good shape. He couldn’t make decisions, didn’t want to make decisions, and as soon as a presentable young lady showed even professional interest, he was putty in her hands. Thank goodness he didn’t like the idea of a package tour. She’d have had him half way to Crete by now. On the phone it would be much easier to say no.

Before the door had closed properly on Oliver Mrs. Baggage was leaning confidentially over the counter. It was very sensible of you not to tell him about that ship.

But I did tell him, the girl objected.

Oh, I know what you said. I wasn’t listening, of course, except what I couldn’t help over hearing, and if you can’t help it you might as well make sure you get it all and that’s how I know about the bit you missed out.

I told him all I could, the girl protested.

Not about the murder, you didn’t.

The girl stared at Mrs. Baggage. Murder?

Yes, murder, Mrs. Baggage replied, firmly. Fred and I just happened to see it in the paper. We don’t buy one every day, you know, or even every week. We want different news because if it’s the same it isn’t news, is it, and you have to wait for that. Weeks, sometimes. Yesterday my Fred showed me a News In Brief item, hidden away on the front page. Very annoying that is. I mean, we wanted the details and they didn’t give any.

Then it wouldn’t have been a brief item, the girl said, caught up in the argument. I expect they didn’t have room.

Poppycock, Mrs. Baggage retorted. All they have to do is get rid of the old news. There’d be plenty of room then.

But, the girl began.

Mrs. Baggage hadn’t finished. They can put in an old news corner, to remind people, I suppose, Mrs. Baggage conceded. Then all they’ll need is something like Same as before, and be done with it. Either that, or someone should invent a new news newspaper that only comes out when there is some new news to report. We’d buy that, we would. Why, I’d put in a standing up order because we could then find out if it was dangerous for Oliver to go on that ship. But not a direct debit. Oh no.

Why ever not? Direct debits stop you worrying, Debbie replied.

Mrs. Baggage looked down her nose. So they say, but that’s no good to me. I do want to worry when money goes out of my account. If I didn’t very soon there wouldn’t be any left. That’s a recipe for a coronet and Fred’s more likely to get one of them than me. He’s too fond of sweet stuff.

Very sensibly, Debbie did not try to decode Mrs. Baggage. She reverted to the original subject. It is perfectly safe, the girl informed her. "All ships have to have a certificate of seaworthiness.