This boat — this foul-smelling labyrinth — belonged to the bold animal. It eyed Jack as if waiting for him to get out.
Which is what he did.
*
Sarah waited outside the saloon and galley area.
The fresh air felt good, away from the stench inside.
Two different worlds. The sun and crisp, cool breeze out here. A decaying carcass inside.
In moments, Jack came out. She turned to him.
“Anything?”
Jack shrugged. “Well, the boat’s not operational. Oh, and it’s sinking. No working pump I could see. My guess is, every now and then Charlie probably borrowed someone’s portable bilge pump. Got the water out, and started the whole sinking process again.”
Sarah shook her head. “What a way to live, Jack. So lonely.”
“Makes Ray look like he’s living like the lord of the manor, or the seas. I’m amazed that Charlie paid any rent at all.”
“He may have qualified for some sort of government support. Enough that he could pay his mooring fees now and then.”
Jack nodded. “But nothing below that looks suspicious? You see any …”
She shook her head. “A mini notebook. Most of its pages ripped out. Down to the last few blank pages.”
“All that and an empty can of Heinz’s beans!”
But then she saw him look up and down the sloped deck.
“How about a look around outside? Least I can tell Ray we were thorough.”
“Sure.”
Together they stepped up onto the deck, glad of the fresh air and sunshine.
Sarah looked across at the wharf.
“Don’t see any sign of CCTV, do you?”
“Nope,” said Jack, shaking his head. “Didn’t notice any screens in the trailer either.”
“Guess we’ll just have to rely on old-fashioned detective work.”
They carefully worked their way around the deck, a fun-house walk that required them to use both the railing and nearby wall of the boat’s interior to keep themselves steady.
*
Until they reached the back — aft — of the boat.
And she saw something.
Jack went to it first.
A long pole. Wooden handle that halfway turned into a thin metal shaft, ending in a plate-sized hook.
Sarah didn’t have a clue what it was.
But she didn’t touch it.
“Jack — what is it?”
He had crouched and now looked back at her. “A gaff hook. You use it to bring in a big fish. You can work the hook into the fish, or, with something big, a sturgeon, or big blue fish, catch the fish’s body in the neck of the hook.”
“You’re not picking it up?”
He shook his head.
“First thing we’ve seen that could mean something. Just lying here. And — though I doubt it — maybe prints.”
“And with Alan happy with ‘accidental drowning’, I doubt he even noticed it,” she said.
Jack stood up. “Exactly.”
And though Jack had moved away from the hook, he kept looking at it.
“Something about it … bothering you?”
He nodded. “Grew up on boats … and,” he turned to her, “even a guy like Charlie … well … there are places where these things belong. Strapped to the side. Not just left on the deck. Dangerous.”
The implication of what Jack was saying hit her.
“You mean … someone could have taken it, used it … for something … and left it there?”
Jack nodded slowly. “Maybe figuring … a dump of a boat like this … just drop it … and go.”
Jack’s implication … growing.
She saw him look up at the crisp blue sky, maybe wishing they could get off the boat, get to the promised lunch. Catch up about things that didn’t have anything to do with drowned Charlie.
But instead …
“Mind if we spend a few … walk the deck. Look for anything else that seems off?”
She nodded. “It’s what we’re here for. I trust your instincts. And you’re sensing something.”
And he laughed.
“Instincts, hmm? Maybe. Let’s have a look.”
Eyes down, Jack walked around the deck, slowly, carefully. Sarah followed suit on the other side.
6. Even Dead Men Tell Tales
Sarah walked slowly, scrutinising the sloped and splintery deck for whatever secrets it might be hiding.
Wondering if the misplaced gaff hook might be the only odd element on this battered boat.
But then …
A few steps down towards the gangplank, amidst places where she saw gouges in the wood planks, and greasy stains …
Something else.
A different kind of stain.
That moment of discovery, immediately exciting.
She crouched down — the brilliant sun hitting the wood — and for a minute just looked at it.
Until she had no doubt.
After all, she had seen such things before. Knew the colour, the burnished look. Once seen, not forgotten.
She yelled: “Jack! Think I found something!”
*
Jack took a good long look at the stain.
“Blood, right?” said Sarah.
He nodded, then looked up to the railing where the gangplank was tied. Once it had been painted a dark brown, a shiny finish applied.
But now the railing — though still dark — looked as weathered and beaten as the rest of the wood on the boat.
“And look there. Kinda easy to miss. But on the railing. A little crust. Another blood smear.”
He stood up.
“You think it’s Charlie’s blood?” she said.
He didn’t answer right away.
Taken alone, one might think, well, careless Charlie cut himself somehow. Tripped on his way up the gangplank. Bashed his head. Probably not an uncommon event.
But with that hook just left on the deck nearby …
If there was blood on that too …?
And then he turned to her and smiled. ”Well, partner — I don’t know what to think. But starting to wonder if old loopy Ray might not be that loopy after all.”
He looked around at the deserted quay. Wind gusting one moment, then still the next. The nearby grass and bushes shuddering with each blast.
Beautiful day — but summer not quite here.
“You know, Jack, as far as most people round here are concerned, Charlie Clutterbuck was just another loser. And, even if he was murdered, there’s nobody else going to put much time or effort into finding the killer.”
“Apart from you and me,” said Jack.
“Exactly.”
“So, you want to do this? Might take a lot of time.”
Jack knew what Sarah’s answer was going to be.
“Oh, we have to.”
Jack nodded: “I agree.”
“So — what next?”
Jack pulled out his notepad.
“Thanks to Ray, we have some other — um — leads to follow. You terribly busy?”
“These days, always busy. But you know me by now.”
He laughed at that. “That I do. Let’s get out of here. Why don’t we pick up Riley, and have a walk and a talk?”
“Sounds good to me.”
And he turned to the gangplank — giving one more look to the dark, red splotch.
Thinking …
What really happened to Charlie Clutterbuck?
*
Sarah took the slobbery ball held in Riley’s mouth — but not held too tightly since what the dog really wanted was for Sarah to throw it.
Which is exactly what she did.
“Nice,” Jack said. “Think I want to get you a baseball mitt.”
“Really?”
“Day like this, spring in the air, made for a bit of catch.”
“Hmm, a mitt. Bet Daniel would like it as well.”
“Oh absolutely. Too bad you don’t have Little L
eague here.”
“We have cricket, remember?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Nice game. But it’s not baseball.”
And, as they walked in the general direction of the old abandoned church at the far side of the meadow, upriver from Jack’s boat — Riley already bounding back with the recovered ball — Sarah had an idea.
“Back there. Our new friend Ham. Seemed off to you, right?”
Jack nodded. “Tad nervous. And a little too eager to have us out of his office.”
“Suspicious, hmm?”
“Could say. But then — he didn’t mind us looking at the boat. You come across him before?”
“Nope,” said Sarah. “I’d heard rumours the wharf had new owners last year, but I never had much reason to visit the place.”
“When I first moved here, used to be a good chandlers there,” said Jack. “But think it couldn’t compete with the big guys downriver.”
Sarah looked at her watch.
“How about we skip lunch, and I dive online? See what I can learn about Iron Wharf, and Hamish Trent himself.”
“Good idea,” said Jack.
“You think we should try and have Alan get forensics down to the boat?”
“Hmm — to be honest, right now I think he’d say we’re wasting his time. No, we’re going to have to work this more.”
He stopped just as Riley now raced to him, and offered the precious treasure of the slime-covered ball.
He took it, and Sarah saw what a real pitch — Is that what the yanks call it? A pitch? — looked like.
The ball went flying.
“Wow,” she said.
“All in the wrist,” he said. Then, laughing: “Though it helps if you start when you’re straight out of diapers.”
Then he turned to her. “I think there’s something else we can do first. Ray told me a couple of places Charlie had done some work. Whatever passes for ‘freelancing’ in Charlie’s universe.”
“Yeah?”
“Ray mentioned he had something going with Terry Hamblyn. Remember him?”
“Terry Hamblyn? How could I forget.”
In one of their first cases years ago, a suspicious fire that took an elderly man’s life, she and Jack met the Hamblyn family — all of them dodgy — but with Terry securely occupying the bottom rung of that family tree.
“Didn’t he used to have a caravan down at the wharf?” said Sarah
“We walked past it this morning,” said Jack. “Had the pleasure of interviewing him more than once in that delightful abode.”
“Living down there — I guess that’s how Charlie knew him. What were they getting up to together?”
“Ray didn’t know exactly. Or maybe, didn’t want to say.”
“You going to talk to him?”
“Thought I’d pay him a call, hmm? Ray said he spends his afternoons in the Ploughman’s, fortifying himself. Might pop up there — grab a word with Billy too.”
“And me? If I’m not racing back to my computer?”
“Oh, think it will be good to do that. Crucial, even. But maybe later? There was this other place Ray mentioned that had Charlie working for a few weeks.”
Sarah waited.
Riley came back and raised up his neck, offering her the next turn for a throw.
She popped it out, and threw the ball.
A lot shorter than Jack.
“And that was …?”
“The other place?” A grin, then: “What do you know about dairy farms?”
“They have cows.”
And they both laughed.
“Well, Charlie did some fencing work for them. Worth a visit. You up for that?”
“Do you have to ask? I think Grace can hold the fort back in the office. Catch up later?”
“Sure,” said Jack. “Maybe a bite to eat this evening?”
“Would love to, but it’s the gym and flop on the sofa for me tonight. But hey — I’m making this terribly complicated risotto tomorrow. Daniel saw it on TV and fired off the request. The kids haven’t seen you in a while. Come over for dinner, drinks?”
“An offer never to be refused.”
As Riley raced back to them, Jack delivered the bad news to his dog. “Fun time over, Riley. But maybe,” a look to Sarah, “for us, fun about to begin, hmm?”
And they walked back along the riverbank, breeze whipping the tall grass.
Sarah thinking: In this case — that might not be a case at all — suddenly they had things to investigate.
And that always felt good.
7. Down on the Farm
Sarah drove slowly down Winsham Lane, looking for the turning to Longmead Dairy Farm, as the narrow road twisted and turned.
Although Cherringham was only a couple of miles the other side of Winsham Hill from here, she didn’t know this area so well.
Farmland mostly — rolling fields divided by hedgerows and stone walls. Here and there she could see cattle and sheep grazing.
Funny to think I was looking down on this just a few hours ago, she thought.
According to her satnav, the farm should be on her left, but the land dropped gently away from the lane, and though she could see a meadow dotted with big brown cows, there was no sign of any farmhouse.
Then — suddenly — a big driveway and a smart sign on one side of a pair of metal double gates: “Longmead — Home of the Longmead Guernseys”. Beneath it she saw another sign: “Owen Haulage — trade enquiries only”.
She turned into the drive and followed it down a gentle hill towards a wooded valley.
On either side of the well-kept drive, stone walls were topped with tall fences.
Those fences — more like a safari park than a farm, she thought. What are they expecting? Lions?
Through trees, round a curve, then — she braked hard as she saw an enormous truck coming up the road at speed towards her.
The truck stopped with a hiss of brakes — and she saw the driver stare at her. No way could she get past — and clearly no way was he going to reverse.
She backed up, until she found a place to pull in, and watched as the truck went by. She gave the driver a friendly wave.
He ignored her.
Suit yourself, she thought.
Wouldn’t want to get stuck behind that on these lanes, she thought, pulling out again and heading down into the valley.
Another few hundred yards, and then she saw the farm itself nestled in a ring of tall trees: classic warm yellow Cotswold stone, facing a large paved courtyard with barns and outbuildings.
The whole place tidy and business-like.
Half a dozen cars parked out front — smart Range Rover, couple of Defenders, new Mini …
Somebody’s making a good living, thought Sarah.
She parked next to the line of cars and had hardly climbed out before the front door of the farm opened and a man walked towards her.
She watched him approach: stocky, in blue overalls, tousled white hair, ruddy face, a big grin.
“Ha! Bet the truck gave you a surprise, eh?” he said.
“Not what I was expecting,” said Sarah.
“Act like they own the road, don’t they?” he said, smiling. She held out her hand and he took it, his hand rough.
“Pete Owen,” said the man.
“Sarah Edwards — I think I spoke to your wife earlier.”
“I reckoned it was you. Not quite dressed like someone on farm business.”
“Yes. And I’m not looking to hire a digger either,” said Sarah, and the man laughed.
“Well, any time you do, my son’s the bloke to see. I’ll make sure I get you a good deal.”
“Appreciate it,” said Sarah. “You never know …”
“Fancy a cuppa?” said Pete. “Kettle’s on. Nice and warm inside.”
“I’d love one,” said Sarah and she followed him as he turned and headed back towards the farmhouse.
“Bit of fruit loaf too if you’re lucky,” he said over his shoulder.
“Sounds perfect,” said Sarah.
This beats spending the afternoon in the company of Terry Hamblyn, she thought.
*
“Hi Terry,” said Jack pulling back the spare seat at the corner table by the fruit machine and sitting down.
He watched Terry look up from his phone and take in the uninvited guest who now sat opposite him.
“Bloody hell. You.”
“Long time, no see,” said Jack.
“Yeah. Well,” said Terry, pulling his Metallica t-shirt down over his belly and then pushing a handful of lank hair behind one ear. “Suits me.”
“What you drinking?”
“I’m just leaving.”
“Don’t think you are, Terry,” said Jack. “Least not until we’ve had a little chat.”
He saw Terry look around the pub, presumably checking to see who was observing this little meeting.
But mid-afternoon at the Ploughman’s was never busy. Apart from a few late lunchers sitting at the bar, the place was empty.
Terry seemed to make up his mind. He shrugged and ran his hands through his hair again: “I’ll have a Scotch. Large one.”
Jack nodded and got up to buy the drink.
“And a packet of peanuts,” said Terry after a couple of seconds. “Sweet chilli. Fact — make that two packs.”
Jack paused, but didn’t turn as he headed to the bar.
To see the quality of information peanuts bought these days …
*
“Charlie Clutterbuck?” said Terry, tossing a handful of peanuts into his mouth and chewing loudly. “How the hell should I know what happened to him?”
“I heard you and he did a little business together every now and then.”
“Maybe. Doesn’t mean I’m his mate, does it?”
“So where were you the night he died?”
“What is this? You accusing me of murder now?”
“Just trying to get the events of that night in order.”
“Why?”
Jack didn’t see any reason not to be honest.
“Because … maybe Charlie didn’t fall into the river by accident. Maybe he was pushed.”
Jack watched Terry’s reaction carefully. The guy didn’t seem too surprised by the notion.
“So maybe he was,” said Terry with a shrug. “Things happen.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“I’m not.”
Cherringham - The Drowned Man Page 4
