Jon pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and dialed. Whilst it rang, he turned to the old man, "Your name?"
"Gareth Wren Tavish," came the gruff reply. He gave the dog a rough pat on the head. He didn't touch the shoe, merely looked once again out to sea.
His name surprised Jon. First impressions were funny things. His connection went through.
"Tom Bakewell."
"Sir. Jon Graham."
He glanced up and down the coastline. "I'm less than a mile from Perrin's Point."
"In which direction?"
"Sorry, south." He watched as Mr. Tavish drew pictures in the dirt with his staff. "On the cliff top and I've run into a gentleman and his dog."
"With your car?"
"I'm on foot." He glanced at the dog. "The dog's pulled a girl's shoe from the surf."
"Floating?"
"It was attached to something."
"Have y
