Page 114 of Slack Tide Kill

"It's true. She had a hard time as a kid, I've heard that much, but it doesn't excuse being cruel. Being insular. I stay away from her, honestly. Trauma makes people toxic, you know?"

Sally pulled in a breath, the first good, deep one in minutes. It helped a little. It didn't change anything, but it put the ground back beneath her feet and stopped the sky swirling.

"She lost her father," she said. "Because of this."

"That's not an excuse though, is it?"

"No," she said. She took another breath and straightened up. "You're right."

"Damn right I am. So Bledd went under your radar for two days? The DCI's been here her whole life, ma'am. How many times you think she arrested Arthur Bledd for murder so far?"

Sally grunted. That was almost funny.

"I've read up on him," Gemmell went on. "Arrested plenty of times for flyposting. He's a big one for his newsletters and his freedom of speech. Couple times for fishing without a license. No one ever fingered him for Richter, though. 30 years, and nobody came close, until you."

Sally watched the officers slow on approach to Bledd's boat, down at the tide line. Barely visible now, ankles already sunk in the foam. Was the tide coming in? Something about that felt off.

Gemmell said something more, but Sally didn't hear; running back over every moment with Bledd. He knew the tides, no doubt. He knew the beach. He had eyes over everything, whenever he wanted, and had to have known they were coming. Even the Rooks had known that, and they didn't have a drone in the air.

So why hadn't the boat moved off?

She started walking toward the sea.

"I'm supposed to stop you," Gemmell said, but she ignored him and kept walking.

Simms had said wild mooring was simple. Know your tide tables, and now the tide was coming in. So what the hell was Bledd's boat still doing here? If he really was a genius who'd evaded capture for 30 years, why would he let the police take his home now?

It was almost too easy.

She broke into a run.

"OK then," Gemmell called from behind.

The run became a sprint. Feet thudding, arms pumping, slicing through the sea gale. Ahead Liam and Chakrati were already boarding the boat, batons and PAVA ready. Hawlin, Simms and Flaherty circled in the water, up to their thighs, while Mayhew stood guard at the bow.

Sally's feet hit the incoming tide but didn't slow. Three months of constant exercise paid off as she splashed deeper. Liam was at the houseboat's door now, halfway down the steps, pulling back the enforcer ram.

"Liam, wait!" she shouted.

He didn't hear and swept the ram in. The crash carried on the wind. DCI Mayhew turned and saw Sally plowing through the waves and her face darkened.

"Stop right there, Officer Rogers!" she shouted.

40 yards, and Sally couldn't stop now. Something was wrong here and she had to figure it out. All eyes were on her, except for Liam and Chakrati, already pushing inside the houseboat.

Sally scanned the houseboat as she raced closer, trying to figure out what felt so off, but everything looked the same. The same tired red and green paint job spackled with eclectic found art, the punt bobbing in the water, the huge filtration tanks dragging low on the flank like anchors, the rear metal platform still crammed with detritus.

Thirty yards.

"Officer Rogers, halt now!" Mayhew boomed, her can of PAVA spray held high.

Twenty yards.

She flashed back to those moments on Bledd's boat, hot-docked to the Rother; how it had bobbed when she stepped on the tanks, how he'd felt every shiver and shift in the water.

But then…

Biochar, Arthur Bledd had said. Activated charcoal. Greater Reedmace. Bacterial mat. Sucking marsh water up via capillary action, which meant…