Page 81 of Slack Tide Kill

"I think Pike got away lucky just losing a display case," Sally muttered, then stripped her hat and jacket and followed.

He had a long stride and a rapid pace, so Sally and Liam had to half-run to keep up with him as he stamped along, wellies clapping on the blacktop.

"We'll need time to set up an armed response unit," Liam said. "We can't go after them like this."

"So make your calls," Bledd said. "55 minutes and counting. I've got a Rotary club talk in Snave to get to."

Sally looked at Liam. He shrugged and brought up his phone, then dropped back to make the call. Sally kept pace, and within minutes Bledd stepped off the roadside and went down the steep bank through thigh-high brambles and nettles to the Rother.

His houseboat looked more like a floating garbage pile, moored to the bank with two long metal stakes. The main body had a peeling red and green hull spackled with random cogs, conch shells, rams' horns and driftwood sticks. A flat metal platform with a tall storage cupboard sagged off the stern, buoyed by car tires and cluttered with ropes, buckets and rusted old bikes. A narrow punt was tied hard against the far flank, half-hidden beneath a tarpaulin, while two black plastic tanks floated off the nearside on short metal arms. The whole thing sat crookedly in the water, each separate piece shifting with its own tiny rhythm as the river lapped and tugged around it.

"This is called a poacher's dock," Bledd said, using one of the tanks as a stepping stone to the main deck. He pulled a stretch of faded gray tarpaulin back from the roof to reveal three steps leading down and in. "Not exactly legal. Can you keep a secret?"

"We're not parking attendants, Mr. Bledd." She reached the bow and put one foot on the nearest tank, which set the whole mess tilting.

"Don't pussyfoot my vats," Bledd chastised, opening the door. "That's a highly calibrated experiment on de-pollution. On or off."

"De-pollution?"

"They're experimental filtration tanks. My own proprietary blend of biochar, activated charcoal, Greater Reedmace, gravel, oyster shells and a bacterial mat." Sally just stared vacantly. "Basically, I moor in polluted areas, capillary action sucks it up, then comes out slightly less disgraceful. Not clean, mind. Cleaner. There is a difference."

She looked down at the tank. It did seem to be filled with a kind of gray, brown fibrous mash, bobbing in the water. "Your own proprietary blend?"

"Like a sourdough starter. I've been developing this one for seven years. Now on or off."

He ducked inside.

Sally looked back at Liam, standing high on the bank. "What did McMaster say?"

"He likes the plan. Says Mayhew's chasing the French connection hard, so he's going to smooth things with her. We've got AROs in Dover, they can be in place within two hours."

"Good job."

"What's Bledd saying?"

Sally shrugged. "I do not know. Something about capillary action?"

Liam frowned. "Well, I am not coming down there."

"Yeah." Sally eyed the boat again. There was banging coming from inside. She braced herself, then took a swift step over the bobbing 'filtration' tank and onto the houseboat. It barely rocked this time.

"Good girl," came the muted call from Bledd inside, followed by various bangs, thuds and a muttered curse. Sally descended the first two steps and peered into the ramshackle interior, overstuffed with taxidermied animals, large plastic vats connected by coils of tubing and filled with what looked like mud, stacks of old books and fax-style printout paper.

Then Bledd was in her face. "What are you up to now? Back up, back up."

"Is that more sourdough?" she asked, backpedaling so fast she stumbled on the pile of old bikes and would have fallen if Bledd hadn't caught her.

"Different generations, yes. And don't worry, you'll get your sea legs." He raised a large black plastic briefcase and slapped the side resoundingly. "Here she is, my Mavic 3E quad, just Mavis to her friends. To the side now, darling, please."

Sally had no clue where 'to the side' meant so stepped onto the rear platform, which bobbed and rolled ominously.

"Lovely," Bledd said, booted a stack of bikes aside to reveal a low capstan, then rested the case on it. From the capstan's sides he pulled bespoke clasps that hooked neatly onto the case and held it firm as he opened the lid.

Within lay a sleek, polished black quadcopter drone, its clean lines a stark contrast to the hodge-podge nature of the boat.

"Farmer's drone, this," Bledd said, plucking the device out and unfolding its rotor arms. "20 MP four thirds CMOS sensors. Mechanical shutter, which you need for fast overpasses. Plus RTK positioning." He looked up at Sally. None of that meant anything to her. "That's Real Time Kinematic, better than GPS. They market it for crop observation, but that's a crock; it's the ne plus ultra for mapping ditches, drains, culverts, you name it."

He switched the drone on and a blue light activated at the base.