COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (tharntype novel english .txt) 📗

the reefer trucks that collected the fish. The industry had changed beyond Harry’s recognition. He missed being on the water but was glad he wasn’t in the thick of it anymore. The boats were high speed, fitted with all the electronics and radar equipment they felt they needed to find the fish, and to pay for all that and make a slim profit, there was no room for the camaraderie of the old days. When Harry had first started fishing, it was the unspoken etiquette to hand over spare parts if a boat had broken down or needed a tow. Now, a boat drifting, unable to set a net, was a competitive advantage to the next man.

Harry sighed. He still went to all the meetings and felt sorry for the young guys as they argued against dwindling quotas, an increasing stranglehold on the industry by unscrupulous buyers and an uninterested government. Their complaints were met with more regulations and paperwork.

No point in looking back, Harry thought.

Fishing had served him (and his ex-wife) well. The Pipe Dream was paid for, as was a little house on top of the cliff with a spectacular view of the ocean — currently rented out to his sister Hephzibah. His daughter was a teacher, and Harry owed money to no one. He lived unofficially on the Pipe Dream (against the rules, but tolerated because his constant presence deterred thieves), he made a little cash by hiring himself out as a boat mechanic once in a while, or filling in for an absent deckhand, and he sportfished a few prawns and salmon from his little skiff when he felt like some fresh seafood.

Once in a while he frequented the Fat Chicken, the only pub left in town. It used to be called the Timberman’s Pub until it burned down after a fight broke out between fishermen and loggers (all because of a squabble over a bout of arm-wrestling). The only item intact when they sorted through the smoking debris was a porcelain chicken without a chip or a scratch on it.

Harry had been there last night and had left early. Usually he chatted with the owner, Walter, an old school buddy, and spent time making a fuss of Bruno, the pub dog that waited for Harry every night by the stool at the bar where he always sat. Bruno had met Harry as usual with tail-wagging, but Walter was distracted by a raucous group of five or six students (Harry guessed) with weird-coloured hair, ugly tattoos and piercings with attitudes to match.

A grubby-looking kid with dreadlocks banging on some kind of hand drum had interrupted his quiet beer and burger, singing a protest song about the environment. The kid, with his sneering, cocky attitude, reminded Harry of the last clash with the greenies — especially when Walter tried to quieten him down.

“Fuck off,” the kid had said, standing up and coming within two inches of Walter’s face.

Harry had braced, watching from his seat at the bar, ready to step in, and Bruno was on his feet, attentive and growling.

“There’s no law against singing, is there?”

Harry noticed that the kid was wearing army fatigues. A few months in the actual military might do this little pecker-head some good, he thought.

“Nope, no law, just a request for you to respect the other customers in my pub,” Walter replied.

Harry knew that Walter could de-escalate a situation when he needed to, he’d had plenty of practice breaking up fights, and knew it was easier to just not let them start. He sat and watched.

The kid made as if to argue, but changed his mind, shrugged and sat down.

Walter rolled his eyes at Harry. “That’s the third night these little assholes have tried to cause trouble.”

“Who are they?” Harry asked. “Not seen them around before.”

“Activists, apparently,” Walter answered, and before he could elaborate, someone else had ordered a drink, and Harry slipped out, leaving payment on the bar.

As Harry mulled over the dregs of his coffee, he snorted to himself.

Greenies.

That’s one thing that hadn’t changed. Hyped-up city kids with nothing better to do than meddle in what they didn’t understand. He felt his anger rise as he remembered the mid-eighties, when Greenpeace launched their Ocean Crusader, protesting against fishing practices in the British Columbian waters. A part of Harry understood their point — the demand for seafood was so hot, and the rewards so high, that some fishermen were breaking the rules. For a while, it had been everyone for themselves, and fish stocks were suffering. But the real fishermen policed themselves. The true fishermen knew that their industry would only survive if they looked after their own product, with future generations in mind. No, it was the tactics they used.

Harry’s pulse quickened as he thought about that time when the Pipe Dream and the Ocean Crusader had had a near collision. The Crusader, a much faster vessel, was steaming towards the Pipe Dream. Harry had just set his net and did not believe for a second that the Crusader would deliberately ram his boat, so he held his position and kept on fishing. The skipper on the Crusader had other ideas, and it was only a last-minute manoeuvre, when Harry realized that the Crusader wasn’t slowing or turning, that saved the Pipe Dream. Harry lost his net and the fish, but what really incensed him was the skipper laughing as the boats passed each other so closely that paint was nearly scraped off the hulls. Harry remembered the red-hot rage that consumed him. His deckhands talked him down, worried that he would really get into trouble when he grabbed his shotgun and aimed it at the Crusader’s skipper.

That wiped the grin off his face, Harry thought. But in the end, it was the Crusader’s crew and the greenies who had the last laugh. Harry narrowly avoided being charged, and