The man who had spoken was fat and bald, dressed in a three-piece suit. If he ate much more, it would soon be a four-piece suit. His pants were already showing the strain. His name, it turned out, was Eric Draper. He was a lawyer.

Tim smiled. “I changed my name,” he announced. “It’s Tim Diamond now.”

They all had a good laugh at that.

“And who is he?” Eric asked. I suddenly realized he was looking at me.

“That’s my kid brother, Nick.”

“So what are you doing now . . . Tim?” one of the women asked in a high-pitched voice. She had glasses and long, curly hair and such large teeth that she seemed to have trouble closing her mouth. Her name was Janet Rhodes.

Tim put on his “don’t mess with me” face. Unfortunately, it just made him look seasick. “Actually,” he drawled, “I’m a private detective.”

“Really?” Eric roared with laughter. His suit shuddered and one of the buttons flew off. “I can’t believe Rory invited you here, too. As I recall, you were the stupidest boy at St. Egbert’s. I still remember your performance as Hamlet in the school play.”

“What was so stupid about that?” I asked.

“Nothing. Except everyone else was doing Macbeth.”

One of the other women stepped forward. She was small and drab-looking, dressed in a mousy coat that had seen better days. She was eating a chocolate bar. “Hello . . . Tim!” she said shyly. “I bet you don’t remember me!”

“Of course I remember you!” Tim exclaimed. “You’re Lisa Beach!”

“No I’m not! I’m Sylvie Binns.” She looked disappointed. “You gave me my first kiss behind the bike shed. Don’t you remember?”

Tim frowned. “I remember the bike shed . . .” he said.

There was a loud blast from the boat and the captain appeared, looking over the side. He had one leg, one eye, and a huge beard. All that was missing was the parrot. “All aboard!” he shouted. “Departing for Crocodile Island!”

We made our way up the gangplank. The boat was old and smelly. So was the captain. The eight of us stood on the deck while he pulled up the anchor, and a few minutes later we were off, the engine rattling as if it was about to fall out of the boat. It occurred to me that the Silver Medal was a strange choice of boat for a multimillionaire. What had happened to the deluxe yacht? But nobody else had noticed, so I said nothing.

Apart from Eric, Janet, and Sylvie, there were three other people on board: two more women and another man, a fit-looking black guy dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.

“That’s Mark Tyler,” Tim told me as we cut through the waves, leaving the mainland behind us. “He came first in sports at St. Egbert’s . . .”

I knew the name. Tyler had been on the British Olympic team in Atlanta.