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    Dark Harbour
    Dark Harbour
    Dark Harbour
    Ebook78 pages1 hour

    Dark Harbour

    By Dick Morris

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    About this ebook

    Can you trust your wife?


    Philip Marshall believes he can. He, and MIchelle, have, after all, a life of pleasure, a life of luxury, a life of partying on board splendid yachts. His beautiful wife seems loyal too. But then, on board one luxurious vessel, a murder is committed, and Marshall becomes the prime suspect, an event that foirces him to accept that he has been set up.  

    About 19000 words.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDick Morris
    Release dateAug 29, 2012
    ISBN9781507001448
    Dark Harbour
    Author

    Dick Morris

    Dick Morris served as Bill Clinton's political consultant for twenty years. A regular political commentator on Fox News, he is the author of ten New York Times bestsellers (all with Eileen McGann) and one Washington Post bestseller.

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      Book preview

      Dark Harbour - Dick Morris

      Table of Contents

      Dark Harbour

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      Dark Harbour

      A novel by Dick Morris

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      ––––––––

      Copyright 2012 Dick Morris

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact:

      http://richygm.wix.com/dick-morris-books

      Published by: dick morris – carla bowman - books

      Other books by Dick Morris:

      Pelican - Escape or Die*

      The Investigators*

      The Black Hats*

      The Killers*

      The last Supper*

      The Curse*

      The Castle*

      The Ruin*

      The Weather Station*

      Blood Island*

      Cursed Slaughtered Hunted*

      *Also available as paperbacks

      ––––––––

      This is a work of fiction, and all characters are imaginary. Any resemblance they might have to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

      ––––––––

      It was good to be alive, again.

      Spotting a gap between the cars parked on his side of the road, Marshall glanced in his rear view mirror, signalled right, braked, swung the Mercedes CL convertible to within a half-inch of the kerb, and brought it smoothly to a halt. Picking up his phone from the passenger seat, he got out, walked across the sidewalk to the tubular steel railing, leaned on this, and stared out to sea.

      The Golfe de la Napoule. Late June. A Saturday afternoon. And the bay was busy with pleasure craft, and speckled with white horses. Just a quarter of a mile from where Marshall stood, a blue and white motor cruiser headed towards the shore at high speed, porpoising over the waves, revealing its yellow-painted bottom and its strakes. Further out, a cutter was close-hauled, carrying full sail despite the freshening breeze, and heeling in a way that Marshall knew so well. In the distance, three large motor yachts were anchored in the lee of the Isles de Lerins, a favourite destination of such craft, while to the right, and in the far distance, with the grey-blue structure of the Massif d’Lesterel behind them, four sloops were sailing close together, heeling at the same angle, and obviously racing. 

      Yes, it was good to be back.

      He pulled a number from his phone's memory and called it. With the phone to his ear, he stared out to sea. The number was engaged, but he held on, feeling that he had to give Michelle some warning of his resurrection. He watched the activity in the bay as he listened. He thought he could handle some of those boats better than they were being handled right now, and, in a few cases, he thought he could not do as well. He hoped to be out there himself next day, but who the devil was Michelle talking to?

      He hung on, staring out to sea, watching the activity and enjoying it, for nearly ten minutes. Then he gave up, slipped his phone into his jacket pocket, got back into the car, and drove on into the town. Passing the little park by the rue Laugier, he did experience a few moments of depression.  Several old men played Petanque and, for some reason, the sight of old men playing Petanque made him think of the passing of the years. It hadn’t done so until recently; not until his own hair had begun to turn grey, the bald patch on the top of his scalp to grow bigger, and his belly to bulge out over his belt. But it did now. Like white hair in others, and the sight of frail bodies, it served to remind him that worse lay not too far ahead.

      He shook such thoughts from his mind as he drove onto the Quai St Pierre. Here, he parked the car between a Rolls and a Renault van, got out, and walked onto the quay. In the inner berths, between the jousting boats and several small motor launches and the first of the larger vessels, were four 8-metre-class cruiser-racers. The third of these forty-foot craft was called Khamsin, and she belonged to Marshall. McGruer’s of Scotland had built her in 1961 and Marshall had purchased her seven years before. Since then he’d sailed many miles in her, cruising to Corsica and Malta and the Greek Islands and racing her many times in the bay. Now the thing that marked her out from her sisters was the plywood sign in her cockpit. This read: A Vendre, and gave the telephone number of the broker. Marshall stared at it for some moments, then stepped aboard the boat, climbed down into the cockpit, untied the sign, which was attached to the wheel with cord, cast an eye over the vessel to satisfy himself that she was in the immaculate condition he’d left her in, and then took the sign back the car and placed it in the boot. He’d give the broker a call first thing Monday morning, he thought.

      He drove on into town, along the Croisette, then headed up into Super-Cannes, his spirits rising as he got higher. For this was the life he’d always wanted, the life he had lived up until a month ago. It was a life of leisure, a life of comfort. A life without stress, a life in which everything he did, he enjoyed. There was the sailing, of course, and there were parties at villas and on board yachts. There was the nude bathing at La Batterie and the gardening and the sitting on the terrace on a balmy evening looking out at the sun

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