‘The wind’s whipping our voices away,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s try below.’

‘Must we?’ pleaded Roy. ‘I’m feeling seasick already.’

‘Then stay where you are. I’ll go down.’

But Agatha found the door to the cabin firmly locked.

She retreated back up on deck. ‘No one there. I just said we’d meet around lunchtime. It’s only noon. Let’s go back to the car and wait. He’ll have to pass us to get to his boat.’

They waited and waited while the rising wind rocked the car and the sky grew dark overhead. Suddenly the rain poured down in floods. Agatha switched on the windscreen wipers and continued to watch. At last, the shower passed and the sun shone out again.

‘You wait here,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll try the harbour office.’

But that office was closed. Agatha wandered up and down the row of moored boats until she saw a man working on his deck.

She called out, ‘Have you seen Bert Trymp?’

‘That’s his boat along there, the Southern Flyer,’ he called back.

‘He’s not on it.’

‘Then try his father’s garage in Downboys. Do you need directions?’

‘I know the way,’ said Agatha.

‘I’m hungry,’ complained Roy when Agatha got back into the car.

‘So am I,’ said Agatha. ‘Look, there’s a café over there. We can get some sandwiches and coffee and then get off to Downboys.’

‘What happened to nice vulgar white-bread sandwiches?’ mourned Roy after lunch as Agatha drove them to Downboys. ‘It’s always that nasty brown bread which tastes of bitter malt. And mayonnaise on everything. And all wrapped in plastic. No one makes a real sandwich any more. And that ham! It was so slippery and shiny, I could see my face in it.’

‘I’ll get you a good dinner this evening. Here is Downboys and here is the garage and … would you believe it? It’s closed for Saturday. Isn’t that so bloody British? No wonder half our businesses are being outsourced abroad.’

‘Calm down, sweetie,’ said Roy. ‘There’s a house next to it. Bet that’s where they live.’

Agatha marched up to the bungalow next to the garage and rang the bell.

‘I say, Aggie,’ said Roy, grabbing her arm. ‘I’ve just seen a faun.’

‘There might be deer round here.’

‘No, a man who looks like –’

He broke off as the door opened. A short thickset man stood there. He had a pugnacious face, small grey eyes and a thatch of unkempt grey hair.

‘Mr Trymp?’ ventured Agatha.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘My name is Agatha Raisin and this is Roy Silver. Your son wanted to see us on his boat at lunchtime today but we can’t find him.’

‘I don’t know where he is. He lives on that stupid wreck down in the harbour. Try there.’

‘We have but he’s not on board.’

‘Can’t help.’