The Angler's Tale

by Jack Benton

  A knee-high barrier marked the edge of the safe area, but Slim stepped over it and went a few steps beyond until the hill’s sudden drop-off revealed a view of the pier below where their boat was moored. Two other boats were moored alongside: a rowing boat, and a small motorboat with a cuddy over the wheel. As Slim watched, a stooped figure carrying a large hold-all appeared, walked up the pier and climbed into the motorboat. With the hum of an engine, it started out across the river.

  Slim frowned, wondering what might have been inside the hold-all, then had a sudden moment of clarity.

  ‘Alan McDonald,’ he whispered. He had more of a desire than ever to speak with the local painter, if only to find out more about local customs and folklore. It might be meaningless, the stuff of storybooks, but it might—

  Something shifted in the trees back where the path entered the clearing. Slim, his old military reflexes throwing him to the ground where he rolled behind a bench for cover, lost precious seconds as whoever had been spying on him got away. By the time he was up and running, crossing the clearing and ducking into the trees, the person was nothing more than a rustle of undergrowth farther down the slope.

  Slim made his way down as quickly as he could, but whoever had been in the trees was either more trusting of the route down or more surefooted than he. By the time he reached the artificial lake, whoever it had been was long gone.

  Aware his disappearance might soon be noted, he headed back to his place, arriving just as Terrance appeared through the undergrowth.

  ‘Any luck?’ he asked, giving Slim a smile, his reddened cheeks and the slight rasp to his breathing suggesting he was a little out of breath.

  12

  ‘Thanks, Don,’ Slim said. ‘I owe you one.’

  ‘Any time,’ Don said. ‘Always happy to help.’

  Slim frowned as he hung up, thinking about what Don had told him.

  Carson, it transpired, was a man for whom both suicide and a hit would be equally likely. According to Don, who had several sources working inside tabloid newspapers, Carson’s estranged wife had sold a story not only of multiple affairs, but one which involved both physical and mental abuse, and even elements of sadism. While Carson had taken his version of events to the grave, his wife’s had been set to destroy whatever was left of his career before his unexpected death overshadowed everything.

  And that was only the personal. Carson had debts, both gambling and drug related. He had joined the tour in Dartmouth as a way of putting some distance between himself and his creditors. Both they and the law were closing in, and like a circled outlaw, Carson had decided to go down in the only way he knew, with two potential trysts, and a bagful of booze and drugs.

  The two unidentified women, not seen since the night of Carson’s disappearance, could have easily been sent to perform a hit on him, aware that the idea of one last sexual adventure was not one a man of Carson’s leanings could resist.

  Slim shrugged and shook his head. It seemed too likely. The police could have gathered the same circumstantial evidence that he had, plus they had whatever had been found at the crime scene. If there had been foul play, they would have surely known.

  Carson’s feet were tied together, but it looked like he had done it himself.

  Might it have been with a knife at his throat?

  There were other options, of course. The first police on the scene, perhaps with vested interests—a family member with a business particularly reliant on tourism, perhaps—might have felt it necessary to conceal or spoil evidence to point the suspicion away from murder towards suicide. So much came back to the bonds on Carson’s legs, but could they have been planted? If murder was considered, would some indication that Carson was a target be preferable to the idea of a random killer on the loose?

  Slim’s mind reeled with madcap ideas. He took a notepad from his bag and scribbled them down. Many of them were ludicrous, but the type that had helped him solve some mysteries previously deemed unsolvable. It was possible of course that he was fantasising over a simple suicide case, but the more he thought about it, the more his sense of paranoia grew. In his one short interaction with Carson, the DJ has come across as a person too arrogant to kill himself.

  The very thought of suicide would have angered him. They would have had to cut him down where he stood.

  And perhaps they had.

  13

  Slim skipped out on dinner. The thought of another evening of Eloise’s threat-laden glares had stolen his appetite, so he stayed in his room until everyone would be seated, then headed down into Dartmouth. For once, as bright pub lights appeared through doorways on either side of the street, the thought of drinking was far from his mind. He carried on to the harbour, where he bought himself a bag of fish ’n’ chips and sat on a promenade bench to eat. The sun had gone behind the hills and the long drawn out daylight of early summer was starting to fade. A couple of small fishing boats still moved up and down the river, but everything had an air of shutting down. The few sailors and fishermen he saw walked past him with slumped shoulders as though at the end of a long, tiring day.

  After finishing his dinner and throwing the wrapper into a nearby bin, Slim reached into his pocket and took out a plastic card. Aware he was unlikely to get more information from the police, he needed to begin his own enquiry. A piece of red shoelace looped through a hole made with an office hole-punch. On one side was a slightly shadowy, less clean-shaven picture of Slim from the shoulders up. Against all identification photograph conventions, in the picture he wore a red baseball cap. The information alongside identified him as Mike Lewis, BBC Researcher. Below and on the back was some confidentiality and privacy policy jargon he had copied from the company’s website.

  Slim smiled. The card looked fake, but when you asked questions people wanted to answer, they tended to ignore it. Almost everyone, he had found, had an opinion on something, and gossip was a valuable currency, one which had bought him more leads than he cared to remember.

  With the identity card strung around his shoulders, he assessed his options. He walked along the promenade a little way, looking at the line of shops, pubs and restaurants. He was wary of approaching locals because word might get around and information might dry up. Tourists, on the other hand, would probably know little, and would be more likely to go to the police if his questions upset anyone. The last thing he wanted was the police on alert that there was a man going about asking uncomfortable questions.

  In the end, he headed for the most likely place he felt he could find information without word getting out: the fishing dock.

  Dartmouth’s jetties were predominantly for pleasure boats, but at one end, nestled below the headland on which the castle stood, was a wooden pier lined with small commercial fishing boats. Slim walked down to the end, but it seemed deserted, the moored boats bobbing gently in the water lapping against the pier’s side.

  He was just thinking of heading back to the hotel to get some sleep when he smelled something out of place.

  Squatting down, he leaned closer to the pier’s edge.

  Over the top of the scent of salt water, fish, and even oil, was something pungent, flowery.

  Lavender?

  He leaned forward, peering over the edge. Something was down there, bobbing in the shadows at the very base of the pier wall, a small boat surrounded by flickering lights, something dark curled inside. The lights looked like candles … and the lavender scent certainly came from there.

  And the dark, curled shape looked like a—

  Slim frowned. It couldn’t be. He shifted forward another inch—

  The lightest of touches on his back could have been hands, or merely a breeze gusting off the river. A clucking sound, which could have been maniacal laughter or a metal hook banging against a mast.

  —then he was pitching forward, losing his balance, tumbling forward off the edge of the pier and down into the harbour below.

  14

  The doctor smiled. ‘You’re made of old lea
ther, I’d suggest,’ he said, patting the back of his clipboard. ‘When I think about how far you fell … you’re very, very lucky, Mr. Hardy. The tide was out, exposing the rocks along the harbourside. That’s a drop that might have killed you had there been nothing to break your fall.’

  ‘What’s the damage?’ Slim said, attempting to push himself up in the bed, but finding one arm unresponsive. He groaned and gave up, slumping back into the pillow.

  ‘Mostly cuts and bruises,’ the doctor said. From his expression he was clearly trying to soften the blow by telling Slim the good news first. ‘However, you’ve dislocated your left shoulder, the one you landed on. You cracked a couple of ribs on the edge of the boat, and you’ve sprained your right ankle. We’re going to keep you in for a couple of days for observation, but by the weekend you’ll be able to walk about. Your ankle will heal with a brace and your arm needs to stay in a sling, but in a couple of weeks you’ll be back to your best. Just take it easy for a while.’

  Slim nodded. ‘Thank you. I appreciate you patching me up.’

  ‘That’s what we’re here for.’ The doctor’s smile abruptly dropped. ‘Now, if you’re feeling up to it, the police are waiting to talk to you. They’ve been waiting outside all morning.’

  Slim sighed and nodded. From what he remembered of last night’s ordeal, it wasn’t something he could avoid. ‘You can send them in,’ he said.

  He recognised the two officers immediately. ‘Hello again, Slim,’ said WPC Oaks, taking a plastic chair, swinging it around and sitting down with it facing backwards. Slim had once thought such actions a staple of Hollywood movies only, until an old military friend had pointed out that the hard back of a chair made a decent shield against a desperate, lunging man.

  The other police officer, PC Rogers, lingered by the door, one leg tucked behind the other, muscular arms folded.

  ‘How much do you remember from last night?’ WPC Oaks asked.

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘Talk me through it again in your own words.’

  Slim took a deep breath, carefully reminding himself of which sections of the story he had altered, and which not.

  ‘I didn’t feel like eating with the other guests, so I went for a walk down through the town to the riverside, just to clear my head.’

  ‘And you just happened to find yourself down by the old pier?’

  ‘I didn’t go straight there. I wandered around for a while, had something to eat. I was taking a stroll, that was all.’

  ‘Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’ PC Rogers said from the door, catching a scowl from WPC Oaks for his trouble.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘I smelled something strange, so I looked over the edge of the pier,’ Slim said. ‘I saw the candles down in the water … and that’s when it happened.’

  ‘You were pushed,’ WPC Oaks said.

  ‘I’m fairly sure of it.’

  ‘But not certain?’

  Slim grimaced. ‘I could have been mistaken, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’re an alcoholic, is that right?’ PC Rogers said.

  Slim gave a reluctant nod. ‘But I haven’t taken a drink in a couple of weeks. I was stone sober yesterday.’

  ‘And then you fell?’ WPC Oaks said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you landed on a rowing boat floating in the water?’

  Slim gave a slow shake of his head. ‘No. I landed on the body lying in it.’

  ‘Irene Long.’

  Slim sighed. ‘Irene,’ he said. ‘I was speaking to her just hours earlier. I trust this is now a murder investigation?’

  WPC Oaks didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned forward and asked, ‘Tell me what you remember next?’

  ‘It hurt.’

  ‘The boat was sitting in shallow water and you fell headfirst. It’s likely you would have died had the boat not broken your fall.’

  Slim closed his eyes, briefly imagining what it might have felt like to bash his head open on the rocks lying just below the surface. The give of the water and the soft, warm shape he had fallen on had kept him from serious harm.

  ‘It was still warm,’ he said. Then, regretful at referring to Irene as an object, he added, ‘She … she was still warm.’

  ‘This is essential to our investigation,’ PC Rogers said. ‘The initial coroner’s report has suggested that Irene Long died only a few minutes before you landed on top of her.’

  ‘I imagine I contaminated the crime scene somewhat.’

  WPC Oaks allowed a brief frown to give an indication of her true feelings.

  ‘Somewhat is an understatement, I’m afraid. Forensics have to first remove whatever contamination you might have caused before looking for what might be beneath.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘If indeed it is contamination.’

  Slim nodded. ‘So, I am a suspect. As I thought.’

  ‘I can’t give you a straight answer on that, but we’re ruling nothing out at this point. The main point against you is why you happened to be in close proximity to Irene Long’s body so soon after her death.’

  ‘It was just bad luck. Or good, depending on your point of view.’

  ‘Come on, Mr. Hardy,’ PC Rogers said. ‘Two people from the same party are now dead. You were one of the last people to speak to the first, and you inadvertently discovered the body of the second.’

  ‘And it’s possible I was pushed,’ Slim said. ‘Shouldn’t you be relieved it’s two murders and not three?’

  ‘We’re aware of the situation,’ WPC Oaks said, as PC Rogers rolled his eyes by the door. ‘We’re canvassing the town and investigating every possible lead, but there’s not a lot to go on.’

  ‘Why not?’

  WPC Oaks watched him, eyes studying his face. Slim sensed the same intensity he had used on suspects in the past: that desperate need to remember every detail lest they be required later. She didn’t have to say anything because he saw it in her gaze: he was a suspect. He had been in close contact with both victims shortly before their deaths, had no alibi for his whereabouts during the hours prior to either, and the way he had ducked out of an arranged dinner would have aroused their suspicions regarding his motives.

  Very slowly, he said, ‘Please be honest with me. I’m being treated as a suspect, aren’t I?’

  WPC Oaks ignored the question. ‘Tell us what you remember of Irene Long,’ she said.

  ‘She seemed like a nice enough person—’

  ‘I mean when you landed on her body.’

  Slim swallowed. While he had seen plenty of corpses over the years, each experience was as traumatic as the last. Irene’s had been no different.

  ‘She was lying on her back,’ he said. ‘Her hands across her chest. Almost … sacrificial.’ As the two police officers exchanged a glance, Slim raised a weak hand. ‘Can I ask a question?’

  WPC Oaks shrugged. ‘I’ll hear it before I decide whether to answer it.’

  ‘What was Irene’s cause of death?’

  ‘An overdose,’ WPC Oaks said. ‘Prescription medicine. We discovered her prescribed dosage was already dangerously high, so it can’t have taken a lot to push it over the edge. We’re currently having a blood analysis performed to establish exactly how much she had taken.’

  Slim frowned, letting the information sink in. ‘So, it could have been an elaborate suicide?’

  WPC Oaks looked frustrated, as though nothing would suit her better than the hunt for a serial killer. ‘That’s how it appears. The boat would have been stolen had Mrs. Long actually gone anywhere. We believe she planned to drift out into the English Channel but died before she could set herself adrift.’

  15

  The next few days passed in a state of numbness. Even though the doctors told him he was free to move around provided he stayed in designated areas, he felt little motivation to get out of his hospital bed.

  On Sunday morning, however, he had no choice when the doctor came to inform him he was due to be discharge
d.

  ‘The arm has to stay in a sling for at least another week,’ the doctor told him. ‘And you need to visit your GP in a week or so to ensure there are no complications or resulting issues from the treatment. However, I think you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  Slim spent an hour gathering his things, then headed downstairs with his appointment card tucked under his arm. In the lobby, he found Kim waiting in a plastic seat, halfway through a tatty Stephen King paperback.

  ‘I really appreciate you picking me up,’ he said. ‘It’s not really in your job description, is it?’

  Kim smiled as she closed her book and put it away into a floral-patterned handbag. ‘I don’t actually have one,’ she said. ‘You never got around to writing it.’

  ‘Probably a good thing.’

  ‘Well, let’s get going,’ Kim said, standing up with a snap. ‘I’m in short-stay and I don’t think petty cash would handle a fine.’

  ‘I thought you used that to keep me in coffee?’

  Kim rolled her eyes. ‘The other petty cash. Sometimes I wonder how you were ever successful enough to afford to hire me.’

  ‘Blind luck,’ Slim said. ‘It kept me alive this week, too.’

  ‘So I gathered. Shall we move along?’

  Slim let Kim shoo him out into the car park, although he could only move as quickly as the crutch supporting his sprained ankle would allow. Kim’s Nissan stood out because it was the only car which looked as though it had been washed that very morning. Kim helped him into the front passenger seat, then put the crutch into the back.

  ‘Feel free to take a nap while I drive,’ Kim said with a matronly lack of emotion, as she climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. ‘I don’t speed for any reason.’

  He tried, but his mind was too clouded to relax. After an hour of staring out of the window, Kim pulled into the parking space outside Slim’s flat.

  ‘I cleaned up a bit,’ Kim said. ‘It was a terrible mess. Honestly, I don’t know how you live like that.’