They went up a ladder to the wheelhouse, stopped on the landing below. Their escort opened a door and stood to one side.

“Here we are, then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dolan.”

The man who sat behind the chart table wore a seagoing officer’s coat, had hair down to his shoulders, and a face that was so ravaged by drink and bad living that it was impossible to determine his age.

“Mr. Ryan, here we are again.” He stood up and extended his hand. “And who might this gorgeous young lady be?”

“My niece, Captain Tully. You might well remember that. This is my associate, Martin Keogh.”

“Mr. Keogh.” Tully shook his hand enthusiastically. “A real pleasure.”

“I’m sure it is,” Keogh told him.

“To business, then,” Tully said.

Ryan opened the briefcase he was holding and took out a folded chart. “There is your destination. Marsh End, south of Ravenglass on the Cumbrian coast. You have two days. Can you manage that?”

Tully unfolded the chart and examined it. “No problem. What then?”

“I’ll arrive by truck, which we’ll take across to Kilalla on the coast of County Down.” He took out another chart. “There’s a disused quarry pier there. We put the truck on shore and you sail away.”

“We do indeed, Mr. Ryan. There is, of course, the small matter of recompense.”

Ryan took a large envelope from the briefcase and passed it across. “Fifty thousand pounds there. Another fifty on the termination of the contract at Kilalla. Satisfactory?”

“Oh, very, Mr. Ryan. I can assure you of that.”

“Excellent. Then we’ll see you on Friday morning at Marsh End.”

“No problem,” Tully said. “We won’t let you down.”

“Good. We’ll be off, then.”

AS THEY WALKED along the waterfront, Kathleen Ryan said, “I didn’t like anything about that bowser.”

“You aren’t expected to.” Ryan turned to Keogh. “What about you?”