By Stealth

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A November sea mist trailed damp fingers across her face. She stood at the edge of the Lymington marina on the south coast of Britain, facing the invisible Isle of Wight. She was quite alone at eight in the dark of the evening. The atmosphere was creepy as the mist became fog. The only sounds were the slithering lap of waves against the stone wall below her, the muffled chug-chug of the small powerboat carrying her close friend, Harvey Boyd, further away, out into the Solent, the sea.

She calculated he was not yet a hundred yards from the marina, full of private yachts swathed in blue plastic for winter. The powerboat was moving into the main channel, no longer even a blur.

They'd had an argument over their last drink at the Ship Inn. Paula had first wanted to stop him embarking on a dangerous voyage. She had then tried to persuade him to take her with him.

`Not on your life,' Harvey had snapped.

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