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Chapter Four
Saturday Night - the Ocean Queen



MILES MANNING gazed with a sense of personal triumph across the crowded deck
of his private yacht, the Ocean Queen. Couples swayed in time to the music
from the crackling tannoy system, their movements accentuated at times by the
slight swell that rocked the large craft. Below deck others were drinking
cocktails, laughing gaily. A gala night, a flamboyant show of extravaganza
that would give the Blue Ocean Holiday Camp that extra bit of publicity, put
its rivals in the shade. He laughed softly to himself. Things were working out
very, very well.

Miles Manning was tall and well-built, his dress suit seeming awkward and
ill-fitting on his huge frame, his tanned complexion causing strangers to
ponder over his nationality. Sleek black hair falling to the collar of his
jacket and a pencil-line moustache added that touch of aristocracy which he
sought to create, an aloofness which commanded the respect of those about him.
He was only aboard personally tonight because it was the 'premiere' of what
was to be a regular fortnightly party at sea, a kind of 'royal performance',
he told himself. It wouldn't do for him to mix regularly with these
holidaymakers; it would erode the image he was trying to build. But tonight
was something special. He had to launch this money-spinning novelty.

He stood on the bridge, waved demurely towards the dancers and felt a surge of
importance. He flicked an inch of cigar ash into the sea breeze, watched the
grey dust scatter like a flurry of snowflakes. His eyes narrowed as an
expression of disdain flooded his handsome features. Rabble! That's what these
people were. Typical rabble who were more suited to fish and chips and beer
than the sophisticated etiquette of a cocktail party out at sea. There wasn't
an evening dress to be seen amongst them; jeans, open-necked and T-shirts,
plimsolls on their feet. They didn't know any better so nobody was likely to
complain. But it spoiled the atmosphere Miles Manning was trying to create;
casting pearls before swine.

A very small proportion of the camp guests were on board, the lucky ones whose
numbers had been drawn out of a hat at the Greencoat Show last Friday evening.
It was the only way to do it, but effectively you ended up with a bunch of
teenagers plus a sprinkling of the older generation. Still, what the hell did
it matter!

'Everything OK, Mr Manning, sir?'

Manning turned, saw the dapper silhouette of his chief camp manager, Ricky
Winterbottom; the only other evening dress besides his own on board tonight. A
creep, a yes-man, but that was why he had got the job. Superbly efficient, all
he lacked was the driving force, the personality which had put Manning at the