U for Undermine – Azure Spark. Part 21

April 24, 2019 by Roland Clarke

[Music treat at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]

UNDERMINE – Tuesday Midday

Unarmed, unaware and useless. My decisions. Why come here? Unsound understanding of my tattoos.

Kama’s tongue traces the heart where only she goes. Licks her way inside. Inviting me inside her.

I’ve betrayed her. Making love is impossible now. Even if my brain wasn’t scrambled.

“You’re distracted, cariad. Why? Your grandparents’ disapproval? They don’t know. Adjoining rooms don’t mean we’re lovers – even if we are.”

Peaceful sounds. Sheep. A tractor.

But nothing is normal now.

“My grandparents suspect – but don’t want to know. But I’m doubting myself. Stupidly blaming my tattoos–”

” -which have always led to the right conclusion.”

Shake my head. Crush her pillows.

“Only when I unscramble their weirdness.”

Each tattoo is a watershed moment in my life – becoming a goth, my first girlfriend, that first heartbreak. Culminating in our secret hearts. But upheavals – always.

Passion postponed, I dress in black – jeans, T-shirt and Doc Martens. Focus on positives. Ignore the pounding in my head.

Undetected. We can still thwart the Swedes and their NWP informer.

Outside, an ultramarine Land Rover Discovery draws up. We go downstairs and greet Uthyr Varley.

“Glad you got the coded message, sir.”

“Uthyr, please. Especially as this is unofficial – and you two are presumed dead. ‘Unacceptable fatalities’, the Chief Constable stated to the media.”

“Best if Sparkle and I remain dead until we’ve outwitted the suspects. Undercover and unseen beyond here. How much has the Marine unit uncovered so far?”

Without the involvement of the North West Police Underwater Search and Marine Unit, I know that NWP is in an unwinnable situation.

We sit on the wooden bench outside, overlooking a view I will always love. Mountains speckled with sheep.

“Forensics identified the explosive used from the wreckage recovered by Messrs. Thomas and Pugh as untagged Semtex – used primarily in blasting.”

“Traceable?” I suspect not, even if the Chief Constable is alerted.

“No resources, I’m afraid. We’re tracking the cargo you raised and tagged. The four containers are still on the yacht Njörðr Hämnaren in a marina between Llandudno and Conwy. No attempt has been made to unload them. What do you suspect is in them?”

Our dilemma. My unease. “Unsure at present.”

A white Peugeot 308 pulls into the farmyard and parks by the new farmhouse built for my grandparents and mother.

Uthyr looks at his watch. “Ffion Baines on time as usual.”

Our DI points down to the llyn – the lake that gives the farm its name: Tyn-y-llyn. The lake where I learnt to swim – and we still do.

“Coffee, tea and gossip can wait. Today it’s urgent that we unmask whoever betrayed my officers. Ugly prejudice taken to unacceptable lengths. But why?”

“Money,” says Uthyr. “usually the ulterior motive.”

M for Money. P for Prejudice. Unlikely. We are missing the reason.

“Anyone behaving unexpectedly?” asks Kama. “The team must be devastated – or should be.”

“When officers die, everyone pulls together. United – as we are in Porthmadog. Wiley Yates and Vivian Utkin volunteered to investigate your murders. I gave them access to some – but not all – of your files.”

Who do we trust? Wiley knows our secret and understands. Vivian is an unknown.

U for Understands and Unknown.

Her surname Utkin is familiar. From where? Another case? A chill. My stomach seethes. Like my mind. Shredded, ever since the explosion.

“Pia Pilkvist said something in Swedish before attempting to kill us. Kama?”

“It sounded like ‘larger victory’ as if they had accomplices elsewhere acting underhand–”

“–like in other police forces,” says Uthyr.

Silence. Even the sheep are unvoiced.

“Or it was another attempt to undermine us – sow doubt.” I shake my head. “But it makes no sense killing us then.”

K for Kill. V for Victory and Volunteers. A for Accomplices and Anxious. T for Traitor and Threats.

KVAT means nothing. My tattoos are failing us.

“We have grounds to arrest the Pilkvists,” says Ffion, tensing her shoulders. “I’m desperate as they intended to kill you both. But I can’t until we’ve uncovered their informer and other accomplices.”

Our safety requires uncertainty. Remaining hidden. Blood from chewing my lips. Gritted teeth instead. Not inactive if we want to lure them out. Think. Untangle my mess.

“Thwarted.” Uthyr clasps his hands behind his head. “I’ve asked HMRC if they have grounds to seize the canisters, but they were inside UK waters when raised. Nothing to point conclusively to their overseas origin. Too circumstantial. But we’re primed to respond.”

“And if they contain drugs or worse?” My skull vibrates. Just tight. Weak. “Time was imperative, they said. Why?”

T for Time. V for Victims.

VAKT.

Head spinning. Brain swamped. As my knees fail, I remember. “Väktare. Pia said Lagens väktare.”

Falling. Where’s Kama?

For further details on this theme visit my Blogging from A to Z Theme Reveal, and on the evolution of Sparkle Anwyl visit Snowdon Shadows.

Other A to Z Bloggers can be found via the Blogging from A to Z website’s Master List –
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/2019/03/link-to-view-master-list-and.html

~~^*^~~

And now for something completely different.

“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” William Congreve – The Mourning Bride

T for Treachery – Azure Spark. Part 20

April 23, 2019 by Roland Clarke

[Music treat at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]

TREACHERY – Tuesday 1 AM

Tossed. Tumbling through turbulent water toward treacherous rocks. Thunder in my head. Eyes seared by the explosion. Nothing, not even stars.

Dead. That was their intent. Arms around me, tugging me. Kama towing me.

“Don’t thrash.” A shout penetrates the storm that tramples my mind. “I can see. I’ll get us ashore.”

“Where? A cove? I remember only rocks and cliffs.”

“There has to be one nearby. I glimpsed Bardsey Island from the yacht.”

Doubt. Before we sailed to the dive site. Then cliffs. Cold and tired.

“Relax, cariad. We’re a team – survivors.”

“If you can see, I’ll swim behind. I can hear – sense you ahead. Swimming will keep me warm – alert. Please, thozhi.“

Kama fastens a tether strap around my wrist. “I’ll attach the other end to my ankle. Safety 101.”

Tremble and smile. Warmth. Her ankle with a rose tattoo that matches mine. Our eternal love.

We swim together. Trust.

A sound. Waves slapping on a clinker-hull. A voice – robust. Welsh.

“There. Alive and swimming.” Guto Thomas, and he shouts at us. “Genethod, we heard the explosion – muffled but definite. What happened?”

“Rescue us and we’ll tell,” Kama says. “But officially we are dead. In reality, wounded. Sparkle was blinded – still is.”

Arms pull us aboard. A second voice says, “Back to Port Meudwy then.”

“Padrig. We must vanish,” I say. Smiling in the total darkness.

“Your new secret is safe with me,” he says. “Just as your earlier ones were – cousin. Us Pughs are a smart family.”

Even if I feared his kinship, he’s true. Not every Pugh is as prejudiced as my thaid, my grandfather Hywel Pugh.

Plan. Move ahead of the Swedish smugglers – and the traitor in NWP. Lure them out.

In front of the fire in Guto and Padrig’s cottage, we eat bowls of Cawl – lamb and vegetable stew. Warmth, and with my eyesight returning, we devise tactics.

“First, messages to our DI, Ffion Baines and to Inspector Uthyr Varley to activate tracking of our concealed transponders.” Kama writes the coded message. “Officially, we have to be missing or dead.”

“We can retrieve some of the wrecked boat,” says Guto. “Evidence – your people will know what sort of bomb.”

“Forensics will come.” Kama anticipates what I suspect. “Then some detectives – perhaps even the one that betrayed us.”

“Kama and I can’t stay here. We have to get to Tyn-y-llyn.”

“Ivor Pugh’s farm,” Padrig says. “I’ve been there a few years ago. I’ll take you. Covert?”

We all laugh.

“My family are used to my weird ways. So, if we turn up at the Pugh farm hidden in some trailer – no surprise.”

N for Nightmare and Nemesis. K for Killed and Kinship. P for Pugh and Protection. U for Unseen and Uncle. I for Ivor and Intent. C for Covert and Code.

UNPICK. Unscramble the tangled threads hiding our traitor.

When we make sense of Pia’s parting words.

For further details on this theme visit my Blogging from A to Z Theme Reveal, and on the evolution of Sparkle Anwyl visit Snowdon Shadows.

Other A to Z Bloggers can be found via the Blogging from A to Z website’s Master List –
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/2019/03/link-to-view-master-list-and.html

~~^*^~~

And now for something completely different.

“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” William Congreve – The Mourning Bride

S for Sabotage – Azure Spark. Part 19

April 22, 2019 by Roland Clarke

[Music treat at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]

SABOTAGE – Monday Midnight

Stars shining on the sea should settle our nerves. Impossible now we are sure the scheming stinks.

“How will we find these containers you say was swept overboard during the storm?”

Peder hands Rashmi an electronic tracker.

“Switch this on and our cargo will be transmitting a signal. Simply follow that. When you find the cargo attach the items to the rapid deployment lift bags. Once inflated they will bring the cargo to the surface for retrieval. Straightforward.”

Mind racing. Hesitate from asking what the salvage is. My senses say don’t.

“How many containers? You’ve given us eight small bags.”

“Four to search for. Two lift bags per canister.”

Pia strides over, tapping her watch. “You better leave now.”

At the stern, we climb back down to our boat, already loaded with the scuba tanks and lifting devices.

We cast off and raise the sails. Our craft slices apart the sheen on the water from the moon and stars. Perfect weather.

Sudden dread as spasms seize me.

P for Panic but also Precautions. Slow breathes.

The mini-sonar directs us over the area where the cargo should be. We lower the sea anchor and release the rapid deployment lift bags – weighted to sink steadily on a long hawser.

A last scrupulous check of each other’s equipment, then we drop backwards over opposite sides into the serene darkness. The beams of our head-lamps stab into the depths.

The strengthening beeps guide our cautious descent.

When we reach the bags, we lower them. Deeper, past jagged rocks. Seaweed. Curious fish.

Containers – canisters designed for underwater recovery. Not just for the deck of a Swedish ship in the storm. Not swept overboard but jettisoned.

I sign Rashmi to strap two balloons to the first container as I adjust their regulator pressure gauges for the correct depth. Then we scrutinize the containers. No signifying marks. Nothing to divulge the contents. But designed for lifting straps.

However, there is a suitable slit where I insert our own tracker – a signal we can follow. Security 101.

We open the valves on the two scuba cylinders that inflate the bags. Swim clear as the bags lift and carry the container towards the surface.

Same procedure with the second canister – and second transponder. Two more balloons. Then the final two canisters.

A for Ascent.

Almost over. Tension not disappearing. Breathe slowly. Don’t waste precious air.

Our ascent takes longer as we need a stage decompression. Longer climb than our descent and time working on the seabed. Time enough for the waves to have picked up above.

The beginning of a squall.

No sign of the rapid deployment lift bags.

P for Panic as my stomach churns.

But the Njörðr Hämnaren has sailed closer. They’ve already winched the cargo aboard.

Relief and Apprehension.

We take off our tanks to simplify our return journey.

Tattoos hammer T for Timing.

“Too easy,” I say to Rashmi. “Be prepared for anything.”

Like the semi-automatic shots that spray the sea. R for Revenge.

Pia hails us. “Time to stay where you are, detectives. Yes, we know who you are and thank the North Wales Police for their assistance. Lagens väktare. May you swim in peace.”

I dive at Kama as I spy the carelessly stowed spare sail and scream.

TRAP. The boat is ripped apart.

https://www.oceandefenders.org/news-and-media/ghost-gear-galore.html

For further details on this theme visit my Blogging from A to Z Theme Reveal, and on the evolution of Sparkle Anwyl visit Snowdon Shadows.

Other A to Z Bloggers can be found via the Blogging from A to Z website’s Master List –
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/2019/03/link-to-view-master-list-and.html

~~^*^~~

And now for something completely different.

“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” William Congreve – The Mourning Bride

R for Rogue – Azure Spark. Part 18

April 20, 2019 by Roland Clarke

[Music treat at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]

ROGUE – Monday Afternoon

Regatta races are never routine. Padrig’s factors are in play as he leads us rank and file racers. We were warned. That includes the risk awaiting us on the Swedish yacht. Ffion tried to alert us, but thrills win every time.

Evading rivals, we jibe too violently. Lose ground – and the wind.

Patience. Rationalize. But we like to win – whatever the odds.

As I steer us back into the breeze, my mind dual-tracks. Sailing and strategy. Both risky but only one roils my stomach.

Rashmi shifts her weight as my next jibe is precise.

We’re no longer last.

Will Peder and Pia Pilkvist expect better? Reject us for shit boat-handling? Fail us – with the case wide open?

Unlikely. They implied time was tight. But They know something.

A boat closes on us. The next turn needs to be tight. No room for error.

Setup perfect. Jibe gentle. Danger passed.

Smiles. For now.

Mistakes have been made. We know we have a renegade copper. A police officer with a price. Our heads?

No suspects before we left Porthmadog. None now we are on our own.

We cut inside another boat on the next turn. Gain another place.

Sailing might become a serious pastime. Rashmi’s beaming’s face underlines that – if we can abandon swimming.

Never.

I glance at my watch. Not long left

Raucous cries ring from the shore. Local fans and tourists. Drowning out the roars from crews exhorting their partners for a final push.

Our interaction is mental. Written on our faces and in our pounding blood. We are a team. Unstoppable.

Except in a regatta. Trailing in mid-pack – also-rans. Padrig and his racing partner win again.

“Do we congratulate them?” I ask. But Peder and Pia Pilkvist are waving us over to the night-black luxury sailing yacht that looms offshore.

We lower our sails as we draw alongside. Peder motions to the stern which rears over us. He throws us a line, and we secure our Aberdaron boat.

A metal ladder hangs off the yacht. We climb up, past the blood red name

“Welcome aboard the Njörðr Hämnaren,” says Pia, simpering like a snake. “She can out-sail most yachts in her class – when we choose to compete. Not today though.”

The couple lead us to the cockpit which I recognise as highly automated. A necessity with a minimal crew.

“Did you sail her here alone?” I ask, wondering if we are expected to help with the yacht.

“All the way,” says Pia. “With all the technology installed, especially the computer-controlled electric winches controlling the sails, it was leisurely.”

State-of-the-art navigation equipment from what I can tell. Someone has money from somewhere. Illegal goods?

“All we lack,” says Peder, “is a submersible.” He laughs. “Human divers are preferable – especially at night and close to the rocks.”

So, a night dive. No witnesses. What does that mean? Has the rogue cop set us up? Rocks are treacherous too.

Cold fingers crawl up my spine. T for Treachery.

“Our money. The risk – deep diving at night close to the shore.” My lowered voice is not fake concern. Every tattoo screams. “Five thousand pounds at least.”

Am I provoking a fight? Or testing their commitment? Our worth?

“Acceptable.” Without hesitation. “But first, we move the Njörðr Hämnaren around the coast.” Pia’s mask slips. Warning light. “While you two check the equipment we acquired for you. Best scuba gear available.”

An attachment on the sonar depth indicator catches my eye. Like a vehicle tracker. My glance shifts to an out-of-place garden gnome. On a yacht? An electronic component smuggled into Wales?

But the gnome is staged. For us.

Peter taps his watch.

“Time to run those safety checks in the aft cabin. Go below and it’s the one nearest the stern. We will tell you when we’ve reached the dive site.”

As we head into the plush space below, Rashmi says, “Every sense says get off this ride. Our cover is blown. But we are reduced to one choice. Dive.”

I squeeze her hand as we reach the smallest cabin and inside find the scuba gear.

Brand-new with labels still attached. Staging? Sizes are right. Air tanks are full. We run through all the checks Varley taught us.

“These gloves, boots and hood fit snugly. But we use our own special wetsuits – for luck,” says Rashmi. “And certainty.”

S for Safety and Security. T for Treacherous and Tanks. E for Electronics. P for Price.

STEP. Forward or into the unknown?

Photos by Peter Ainsworth – Aberdaron Sailing Club
http://www.hwylio-llyn.co.uk/home.htm

For further details on this theme visit my Blogging from A to Z Theme Reveal, and on the evolution of Sparkle Anwyl visit Snowdon Shadows.

Other A to Z Bloggers can be found via the Blogging from A to Z website’s Master List –
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/2019/03/link-to-view-master-list-and.html

~~^*^~~

And now for something completely different.

“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” William Congreve – The Mourning Bride

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yZCpyOQLE0

Q for Quake – Azure Spark. Part 17

April 19, 2019 by Roland Clarke

[Music treat at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]

QUAKE – Sunday Evening

Quiet meals in quaint country restaurants can sap resolve. Not tonight when we all have questions. Like what are the sea jewels? Not drugs.

Peder and Pia Pilkvist collected us as arranged, taking us to a French bistro well above our normal budget. Somewhere we aren’t known.

We are encouraged to choose anything – and the wine flows freely.

“Did you eat Latin food in Patagonia? Or Welsh?”

“Welsh with an Argentinian twist.” I smile and add, “seafood became our favourite as it was fresh from the sea at Puerto Madryn.”

“Perfect, I recommend Quenelles de Homard.” Pia explains. “The lobster is local, maybe from off the Aberdaron coast.”

“I prefer Caille en Escabeche,” says Peder. “With the quail, I’m partial to the blend of Latin and French – fusion is an art form. Spare no expense when you order. We can afford this luxury.”

And the yacht. GEE is not an overtly rich company. No high value electrical or engineering items. Certainly not garden gnomes.

“I’ll have the Escabeche,” says Rashmi.

I choose the quenelles, but my mind is tapping my bracer. Q for Q-ships. Not what they seem. A disguise to hide weaponry. Like Quenelles de brochet and pike bones.

“Great choices require the right wines, “says Peder who then talks with the sommelier in passable French.

We aren’t meant to understand. But policing tourist areas has advantages. But nothing triggers alarms – yet.

If G is for Garden Gnomes, is W for Weapons? H for Herrings and more bones?

“Before the wine leaves us unfit to race tomorrow, what do you need me and Sioned for? As divers or sailors?”

Pia dips her head to her husband. We’re not meant to see as he is asking the sommelier for a bottle of vintage rosé Champagne.

“Divers primarily,” says Pia. “Your competitive reputation is impressive. But you will need your boat.”

Our doctored qualifications were straightforward for NWP to upload on the Internet. Our Q-ship.

“After we race tomorrow? No sooner I hope.” Although our participation is not vital. But I falter as if dismayed.

“Race, but then we need you. We will bring our yacht,” says Peder. “Then we’ll take you to the dive site.”

Late afternoon or later? Warning qualms kick in.

“Before the regatta ends?” Rashmi plunges deeper. “Or later when people disperse? A night dive will cost you more.”

Pia smiles and I shiver.

“After your race, join us on our yacht. No need to spoil this quiet meal with details.”

N for Night – W for no Witnesses. And for Warnings.

They suspect us. No more quizzing them tonight. Maybe not even on their yacht – their Q-ship. Or is that the freighter? The ship that is meant to be in Sweden.

Or is it? Another loose end. But we’re alone as money rules.

I attempt to quell my fears with food. By quenching a thirst for information that alcohol only stimulates.

Keeps them chatting. They’re digging too. Why? Do they know we’re police? Queer and a threat? Quislings.

We are being interrogated with a smile. About Patagonia. About diving competitions.

“How long have you two been together – diving? Amazing, your families are both from the Llŷn.”

Pia pushes – gently. A for Attitude and Alarm.

“Fate – except our families left together, so it was inevitable we were friends at school. And on the swimming team together.”

Rashmi is inventive, but Pia’s face indicates the story is disbelieved. Why? Who are they? More than smugglers.

S for Sail, Swim and Smugglers.

I shiver. Quake as my fears build. No coincidence.

I for Inside Information and Interrogation. R for Renegade – the cop that ratted on us.

Who?

RAIS – raison d’être. Why betray us? Prejudice or high-value goods? Or both?

Or RANG – ranged weapons?

In too deep without backup. The jeopardy thrills again. Quivering and riled. Rats.

Lobster Quenelles – https://dianescookbooks.wordpress.com/2018/12/13/lobster-quenelles/

For further details on this theme visit my Blogging from A to Z Theme Reveal, and on the evolution of Sparkle Anwyl visit Snowdon Shadows.

Other A to Z Bloggers can be found via the Blogging from A to Z website’s Master List –
http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/2019/03/link-to-view-master-list-and.html

~~^*^~~

And now for something completely different.

“Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” William Congreve – The Mourning Bride

P for Prejudice – Azure Spark. Part 16

April 18, 2019 by Roland Clarke

[Music treat at the end. This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]

PREJUDICE – Sunday Early Morning

Police protection is deemed too pricey for our pay grade. Detective Inspectors might justify paying. Someone’s counting the police pennies again. And we’re not police for this practice day. We’re on our own as Sioned Wilkins and Rashmi Sharma – divers.

No bikes. A nondescript rental Vauxhall Astra parked outside a cheap B&B in Penrhos.

When I reported to Ffion that my investigation into the arson-robbery would have to wait, she agreed, “The assaults are our priority. Progress that case first and prove our strategy best.”

“Finding the right clothes is a challenge. Black or black.” We laugh. “I’m not dressing in pink.”

“Pink is pretty. But maybe not you. Just add a few spots of acceptable colour. A perfect performance requires sacrifices – all round. From disgruntled gift shop owner to officers undercover.”

Words we are acting on.

The padlocked path to Port Meudwy is open. We drive down to where fishermen are unloading their catches of lobsters and crabs. They pack the crustaceans into containers on pallets to be delivered by vans around the region.

Guto approaches us and points to a freshly painted clinker-built boat on a trailer.

“Your practice starts with pushing that trailer into the sea – if you know how.”

“By tractor.” Kama gestures at an ancient salt encrusted machine. “I’ll drive and Sioned will hitch us up.”

Guto nods then turns to the watching fishermen.

“Told you guys these genethod were smart. Now to see if they can handle an Aberdaron boat.”

The genethod – lasses – is said with praise. Relax.

“My uncle Pugh could never abide women in boats,” says one man who resembles my uncle, Ivor Pugh. “But he’s dead now.”

My uncle, Ivor Pugh, is alive and runs the family farm. Is this a distant Pugh relation? Is my cover blown? Or have we disguised ourselves enough? At least, Pugh politics have kept us apart from most of my family.

My attention shifts to my allotted task.

With the boat afloat, I secure her with the painter as ‘Rashmi’ parks the tractor and trailer under Guto’s direction.

My Pugh relation and Guto board another boat. He shouts across as Rashmi and I push off.

“Padrig is the man to prove yourself to. I build while he perfects the handling. Partners like you two.”

Like us. Unlikely. Guto only knows parts of our secret – the professional aspect.

Guto and Padrig row out some yards then hoist their sails. We do likewise and head south following the coastline of the Llŷn Peninsula.

Choppy waves and an erratic breeze test us. Gusts and becalming lulls to prove our worth. I probe Rashmi’s face as our teamwork makes up for lack of sailing time. This is a new phase – a giant leap from playing in dinghies for fun.

“You need to learn how to right one of our Aberdaron boats,” says Padrig. “Not hard but different. Do I need to show you how to capsize?”

We demonstrate that skill. Sit on the same side and let the boom out too far.

The water is our second home. Even when we are told to swim under the capsized craft before following the correct procedure to recover our previous position.

“Glad we wore our wetsuits underneath now.” I grin at Rashmi.

“Your colourful top and slacks will never dry in this weather.”

Weak sun and cold air. Discomfort is acceptable. Would Sioned worry about appearance as a pro-athlete?

“We need to polish up if photographers appear.”

She smiles in agreement as Guto points north and mouths, “Aberdaron“.

The wind picks up – but a headwind. We tack and tack until the manoeuvre becomes routine. Precision.

“Impressive, but racing is never so precise,” says Padrig. “Beware other boats performing moves to fool you. Weather and sea factors Will keep you alert.”

“Like diving,” says Rashmi. “We’ve learned to prepare. Performance ploys.”

Even more so as police. Alert keeps us ahead of the offenders – if we can only identify them.

We approach Aberdaron beach. Guto indicates where the water is shallowest and sandier.

“Pull her ashore over there. Then we can wander up to the pub. Final pointers over a pint – if you genethod drink.”

“We do. Always.”

Even on-duty – where necessary. But this time I’ll resist ordering my unusual favourite.

We pull the two boats ashore and wander at a purposeful pace up to the same pub where I began my investigation.

My stomach sinks when I see the same barman. Will he recognize me despite the garish outfit and streak-dyed hair?

Guto steps forward. “These are our new arrivals – Sioned Wilkins and Rashmi Sharma. They’re competing in the regatta, tomorrow. A round of your best Llŷn pale ale – four pints of Houdini.”

The barman studies me.

My heart flips. Recognition.

A wink and a nod.

“On the house, Guto.” He smiles. “Sioned, Rashmi, how far have you come? Not many visitors race here. Except the rare brave ones. Most tourists just watch.”

Glance around. Check the watching faces – holidaymakers. Locals. Listening. Gossip spreads fast.

“South America,” I reply, praying my Welsh lilt is buried under my pseudo-Spanish accent. “Patagonia. But we were born on the Llŷn near Pwllheli.”

“That makes you locals almost,” says Padrig. “Learn any Welsh before you left?” “

Breathe. Was our preparation too hasty? Does he suspect?

“If they went to Chubut Province in Argentina, they must know some,” says another voice. “Patagonia has a large Welsh community and the main colony is there.”

Recognising the voice, I say, “That’s why our families went there. Swimming took us to Puerto Madryn on the Golfo Nuevo, which is formed by the Península Valdés and the Punta Ninfas.” I pause my tourist talk to add for the Welsh speakers, “Mae’n wych bod yn gartref.”

The locals all raise their pints.

Our tame journalist, Kristina picks up on the tourist confusion. “These ladies say it’s wonderful to be home. But Puerto Madryn has strong ties to here. It is twinned with Nefyn, just 13 miles away on the north coast of the Llŷn Peninsula. Excuse me as I need to interview these professional athletes. Make sure that you are here tomorrow, when they are competing on the first day of the Aberdaron Regatta.”

As people drift away, Kristina shakes hands with us.

“I’m Kristina Yoxall. We spoke on the phone. Please can we talk more – I’ll write a great story.” She holds up a camera. “And get a photo. Love those patterned tops. They must be traditional.”

She chats and helps us develop our personas further as our party finds a table outside overlooking the beach and sea.

Holidaymakers are gathering in the village. Not crowds like Llandudno or Porthmadog but those drawn by the simpler pastimes like sand castles, playing in the sea, and the regatta.

The interview probes and provides colour to our profiles – culminating in key questions.

“Can our wanderers challenge tomorrow?” asks Kristina. “Are they contenders?”

Guto and Padrig shrug.

But my relative says, “Perhaps. As I’ve said there are factors – including local advantage. They have skills and guts. Maybe one day.”

“And you are a favourite, Padrig. As in past years,” says Guto.

We all laugh, and I slap Padrig on the back.

Recognition. My heart beats faster.

The Swedish woman is watching us. Pretending to peer out to sea.

Precisely as planned. Bait taken.

Kristina follows my gaze. Takes out her mobile. Glances at the screen.

“Pric pwdin. Idiot colleague. I need to hurry. Can we do the photo by the boats, then I must leave you.”

We stride down to the beach and pose with our boats. Group photo, then us the two pretenders.

We part, Kristina to her pretend assignment, Guto and Padrig to Porth Meudwy.

“ Genethod, Padrig and I will go ahead. We have work to do – boats to paint. Follow when you’re ready. Practice as much as you need to along the coast. And master that boat – with skills not force. She’s another geneth.“

Our builder is as quick as our journalist. Our secret is safe.

We prepare to launch, but I play for time.

“Do we need provisions, Rashmi? Or will our B&B in Penrhos provide everything?”

“Only basics. Anyway, I need a better face cleanser for this climate. And we need diving supplies – but they can wait. We’ve no competitions for a fortnight.”

“Maybe we can help each other.”

We turn. The Swedish couple smile at us.

“That would be kind,” I say. “You’re local?”

The woman laughs. Potent, poisonous, and the trigger for my tattoos.

L for Lies and L for Lure.

“Not exactly. But we know the Llŷn Peninsula. We’ve been here awhile. And our yacht is moored at Llandudno.”

The man steps forward. 6’3″. Blond sun-scored hair. Tanned. Athletic and muscular. Like a panther.

“We have a small job for divers that pays well – especially the way you to handle that boat.”

Curb enthusiasm. But reel them in.

I let Rashmi continue as planned. “Interesting. We’re open to persuasion. But we have questions –”

“– As do we.” He hands us both GEE business cards – Peder & Pia Pilkvist. “Can we meet for a quiet meal? Pick you up at 6 p.m at your place. Our treat.”

Presumptive means desperate. Time must be tightening. What is the cargo?

My tattoos twist in pain. But only D for Drugs and that feels wrong.

“If there’s money on offer,” says Rashmi. “Sioned and I have expenses. So, yes – if you’re buying.”

“Always,” replies Pia. “One initial question. Wales or Argentina? Where are your loyalties?”

Where is this going? My heart, pounds nerves jangle. A test of what? Not rugby.

“We dive for ourselves – for the country that rewards us best. Patagonia yesterday. Maybe Wales tomorrow. I have only one loyalty – my dive partner. Rashmi.”

The Swedes study us, then whisper to each other in Swedish – something about ‘älskande‘. Lovers. Us or them? What do they know about us? Has the office prejudice seeped out from a jealous colleague?

U for Unwary and Unexpected. Q for Queer and Questions. E for Evasion and Evaluation.

QUELL. The fire for my lover? Or the fear building?