Bank Holiday Monday
In which Plymouth gets in the way...
The galleon cleared the shadow of Drake’s Island and travelled northeast towards Sutton Harbour as the dawn slowly filled the sky above Plymouth.
On deck, Gosie sat wrapped in blankets near the rail with Brains pressed firmly against her legs. She still looked pale but was considerably more furious than frightened, which everybody took as encouraging.
The Box of Distractions sat beside the mast with the lid tied firmly shut using considerably more rope than seemed strictly necessary.
Hedgehog crouched nearby with a stack of damp manifests spread across an overturned crate while Octavia cross-checked details on the police laptop.
“These were in the calamari room,” said Hedgehog, flattening damp pages against the crate. “Nobody was paying much attention to paperwork once the gerbils seized the radios.”
Gosie leaned forward suddenly, one paw still gripping her mug. “That symbol,” she said.
Hedgehog shifted the page towards her. Alongside a block of shipping codes sat a small circle, crossed by three fine lines, stamped repeatedly beside several consignments.
“I kept hearing them talk about timing windows,” said Gosie. “Not dates. Windows. Everything had to move together. They were bringing shipments into Millbay, taking them to Sutton Harbour for relabelling, then returning them to the docks by road before departure. The Bank Holiday’s perfect for it. So many other yachts and cruisers moving. Nobody notices patterns.”
“What kind of shipments?” said @EdithStourton.
Gosie gave a tired shrug. “Seeds. Documents. Paintings once, I think. Maybe musical manuscripts. Half the time I couldn’t tell if the labels were real.”
“You heard all this from a cell?”
“They forgot the ventilation shafts carried sound.” Gosie took another sip of tea. “Also there was a cat.”
Everybody paused.
“A cat?” asked @AngleofRepose.
“Yes. Kitty. Lived down there apparently.” Gosie pointed vaguely back towards the island. “Very helpful.”
“How exactly was the cat helpful?”
“She kept stealing things and then staring at them until I noticed.”
There was a brief silence.
“That is,” said Hedgehog, “extremely cat-like behaviour.”
“That,” said Angle, “is extremely @EmpressaurusKitty's Kitty-like behaviour.”
Gosie reached across the manifests and tapped another consignment mark. “This one matters,” she said quietly. “Kitty brought it to me yesterday.”
Ahead of them, Sutton Harbour looked entirely normal. Which, Gosie now realised, was probably the point.
“There!” Hedgehog suddenly pointed towards the quayside. Three small white delivery vans were pulling away from the warehouses beside Sutton Harbour. They looked identical to dozens of others until they turned out of the marina. On the rear doors, half-obscured by salt and grime, was the same circle crossed by three fine white lines.
“Millbay,” said Gosie immediately.
Octavia shut the police laptop. “If the vans are moving cargo back to the docks, they’ll already be loading.”
@Swashbuckled was already turning the wheel.
The galleon swung ponderously away towards the Hoe as harbour traffic crowded the water.
Everything suddenly seemed to be in the way.
A fuel barge blocked the marina exit. Two rental cruisers drifted uncertainly across the channel while somebody shouted contradictory instructions about ropes. Beyond the breakwater, paddleboarders bobbed gently in the tide with complete disregard for organised smuggling operations.
“Move,” muttered Swashbuckled.
The galleon cleared the Barbican at last and began the long curve around the Hoe into open Sound.
Above them, Plymouth was fully waking now. Fishing boats crossed the harbour mouth trailing gulls behind them. Traffic moved along the waterfront roads. Café shutters rattled upward in the growing light.
By the time Millbay came fully into view, one of the vans was already pulling away from the quay.
“Look!” shouted Edith.
Beyond the warehouses, a dark blue Rustler 36 was motoring slowly out from the docks while figures moved briskly across the deck preparing sail.
“No,” said Gosie softly.
Swashbuckled hauled hard on the wheel. For one brief impossible moment it looked as though the galleon might still cut across the smaller yacht before it reached the outer channel.
Then an inbound trawler crossed directly between them, dragging a wash of white water through the narrowing gap.
By the time the wake cleared, the yacht had slipped west beyond the breakwater.
Rigging snapped sharply in the morning wind as cream sails climbed upward.
Stretched across the canvas, bright in the dawn light, was a circle crossed by three fine white lines.
https://myrtlelion.substack.com/p/bank-holiday-monday