“P’raps she couldn’t find the recipient,” P. C. Moir ventured, using police-court language out of habit.

“P’raps she couldn’t find the flippin’ ship nor yet the ruddy ocean! P’raps she’s drahned,” said the taxi driver in a passion.

“Hope it’s not all that serious, I’m sure.”

“Where’s my fare comin’ from? Twelve and a tanner gone up and when do I get it? Swelp me Bob if I don’t cut me losses and sling me ’ook.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” P. C. Moir said. “Stick it a bit longer, I would. She’ll be back. Tell you what, Aubyn Dale’s on board that ship.”

“Bloke that does the Jolyon Swimsuits session on commercial?”

“That’s right. Daresay she’s spotted him and can’t tear herself away. They go nuts over Aubyn Dale.”

“Silly cows,” the taxi driver muttered. “Telly!”

“Why don’t you stroll along to the ship and get a message up to her?”

“Why the hell should I!”

“Come on. I’ll go with you. I’m heading that way.” The driver muttered indistinguishably but he clambered out of his taxi and together they walked down the passageway. It was a longish passage and very dark, but the lighted wharf showed up mistily at the far end. When they came out they were almost alongside the ship. Her stern loomed up through the fog with her name across it:

CAPE FAREWELL

GLASGOW

Her after and amidships hatches had been shut down and, forward, her last load was being taken. Above her lighted gangway stood a sailor, leaning over the rails. P. C. Moir looked up at him.

“Seen anything of a young lady who brought some flowers on board, mate?” he asked.

“Would that be about two hours back?”

“More like half an hour.”

“There’s been nobody like that since I first come on and that’s eight bells.”

“ ’Ere!” said the driver. “There must of.”