Recipe for disaster, Jack thought.
Where shots led, mayhem followed!
Jack could see Billy Leeper, the barman, patiently balancing the shot glasses on the rims where the glasses touched, and as the crowd did a countdown from five…
Nick tipped the first shot glass – and one by one the others splashed into the beers to a raucous cheer from the group. Hands reached in and the drinks were passed round, to all but Len.
“Pacing yourself?” said Jack.
“Not a drinker, myself,” said Len, with a quick smile, “but it doesn’t stop me having a good time.”
“Wise man,” said Jack, raising his loaded beer to Len.
Jack knew he’d have to drink this out of politeness. During his time in the Cotswolds he’d sampled various English beers, and his favourite beverage – short of an icy martini – was a good old pint of Hooky.
Certainly not this weird and lethal concoction.
He watched as some of the guys drained their glasses in one go.
Oh boy.
“So, what’s the routine?” said Jack, putting his beer down on the counter. “I do believe this is my first Brit stag event.”
“Far as I can tell,” said Len, “you and me are only required to be on duty tonight.”
“Hang on. You mean it goes on tomorrow too?”
“Whole weekend,” said Len.
“God help them,” said Jack, shaking his head. “That would never fly in the States.”
“Oh – see the T-shirts, Jack?” said Nick, joining them. “‘Lost Weekend’.”
“Saw the movie,” said Jack. “I’m hoping there’s no connection.”
“Movie? Lost me there,” said Nick.
The smart phone generation.
Nick went on, “But here’s the idea. This bunch of reprobates have rented a farmhouse out of town.”
“Stag-base One!” came a voice from the crowd.
“Exactly! Stag-base One,” echoed Nick. “Which is where the hardcore partying is going to take place for the next two days.”
“Um, so this, tonight, isn’t the real party then?” said Jack, now curious.
“Hell no. This is just the pre-drinking drinking, you see? Couple of pints in each Cherringham bar, then back to Stag-base One for the fun and games.”
“You got anything else lined up but drinking?” said Jack.
Jack knew that – back in Brooklyn at least – even the basic one-night bachelor parties could take some embarrassing turns.
“Tomorrow and Sunday – zip-lining, water-skiing up on the reservoir, Zorb-ball, paint-ball…”
“Survival of the fittest,” said Len, shaking his head and smiling at Jack.
“Zorb-ball? New to me! Sounds all like… a whole lot of fun,” said Jack. “And sounds even better that I’m only part of tonight’s little bar crawl.”
“Ha, Jack, I bet you could drink us boys under the table,” said Nick.
“Oh, those days are long gone,” said Jack. “Though, yes, maybe there was a time. Young cops, off-duty? Lots to talk about over bats and balls.”
He noted their confused looks at the expression.
“Ah. Bats and balls? Beer and a chaser.”
For a few seconds, Jack was back in Brooklyn in his early twenties, beer in hand, barbecue smoking, hanging out with the other guys from his precinct, after a tough week of shifts.
A cheer from the group made him look over. The guys were draining their glasses, then lining them up empty on the bar.
“On to the Angel!” said one, then the others joined in until the chant echoed round the pub.
“To the Angel! To the Angel!”
Jack turned to Len.
“Think it’s going to be up to you and me to keep this lot the right side of the law,” he said.
“Special guests?” said Len, grinning. “Special constables, more like.”
The #LostWeekend crew lined up then left the bar arm in arm, with Jack and Len following.
This is gonna be one long night, thought Jack. One very long night.
2. A Knock on the Door
Jack stepped out of the Railway Arms, stood under the street lamp, and pulled his coat tight.
Although it was April, the nights were still chilly and there was a heavy mist in the air, making the street shimmer wet.
Behind him in the pub, he could hear the stag team – now at the group singing stage – their evening still a long way from being over.
“Fancy a coffee or a tea, Jack?”
Jack turned to see Len, coat on, pub door swinging behind him. “My place is just down on the bridge road. Wood-burner’ll be lit, so it’ll be nice and cosy.”
Jack paused. It was late, and he was really just looking forward to getting back to his barge, The Grey Goose, down on the river.
And Riley, his Springer, would probably be hoping for a quick few minutes ashore before turning in too.
But he’d enjoyed Len’s company as the night had gotten wilder, and a cup of tea and a chat by an open fire sounded like a good way to end the evening.
Especially as it was on his way home anyway.
“Got something stronger if you still feel like drinking,” said Len. “Single malt perhaps?”
Surprising that, for someone who didn’t drink.
“Ha, man after my own heart,” said Jack. “What are we waiting for?”
And together they walked in easy silence down Cherringham High Street, past the Ploughman’s, turning off down Mogdon Lane, until they reached a row of old cottages fronted by shrubs and picket fence.
Len led the way to the front door of the first cottage, then turned and whispered, “Lizzie’ll be in bed by now, so we’ll have to be a bit quiet. Just slip through to the studio at the back.”
He went inside and Jack followed him in, shutting the door gently behind him. He looked around. The place felt homely and lived in. Old furniture, but modern art on the walls. Lots of photos of family – Jack could see Grace prominent in most of them.
He took off his coat and hung it up, then went through with Len into the kitchen.
“I’ll get the tea going, you help yourself to a scotch from the cupboard there,” said Len, filling the kettle. “Pot luck what’s in there, I never know.”
Jack went over to the cupboard and took out a bottle.
“Twelve-year old Macallan?” he said. “For a man who doesn’t drink you have good taste, Len.”
Len laughed and handed Jack a glass. “Oh, once upon a time I liked a dram or two. I know the good stuff – just don’t fancy it myself anymore.”
Jack poured, sipped, savoured this – one of his favourite whiskies.
“Right then – tea’s made,” said Len. “Let’s go through to the studio.”
And Jack followed him as he opened a door that led off the kitchen.
*
“My man cave, Lizzie calls it,” said Len, throwing another log on the burner then shutting the glass door and adjusting the wheel. “To me it’s my office.”
Jack sat back in the old leather armchair, enjoying the whisky and the late-night feel, with the lights soft and Coltrane playing through Len’s surprisingly serious speakers. Heavy-duty Yamahas, with what had to be 12-inch woofers.
Very classy, thought Jack.
He nodded to the small mixing desk in the corner, monitors and keyboard.
“I guess these days you don’t need a lot of space to record,” he said. “What kind of stuff you compose?”
“Commercials, documentaries, pretty much anything if it pays. Pretty low-key to be honest. Used to do a bit of radio drama, but these days, budgets aren’t up to much.”
“I’m guessing the church and the choir gigs don’t pay?”
Jack had first met Len a couple of years back when he joined the basses in t
he village choir and sang the “Messiah”. Len had recorded the whole show and somehow – to Jack’s ears anyhow – made them sound almost like a professional choir.
“Ha, no, that’s all pro-bono. Lizzie’s always been a regular churchgoer. I got roped in years ago to help out with the audio for services. Gets more hi-tech every year!”
“Guess you’ll be sorting the music for the big day?” said Jack.
“Oh, you bet. Been going through the line-up with Grace for months. It’ll be special.”
“I’m sure it will be,” said Jack. “Grace is a lovely kid – well, hey, not a kid anymore, but you know what I mean?”
“Always a kid to me. Apple of my eye.”
“Big deal, when one of your kids gets married.”
“I’m loving every minute. Apart from the bills, of course.”
“Ha, tell me about it,” said Jack, laughing. “Just a few days away, now, huh?”
“Walking Grace down that aisle – be the proudest day of my life. Really.”
“Know the feeling,” said Jack, remembering.
“You got a daughter too?”
“That’s right. She’s a doctor in LA. Even got a granddaughter too.”
“You see them much?”
“Not nearly enough,” said Jack, his heart dipping as it always did when he had that thought. “Kinda tough for her to get the time off, fly over, you know? I’m due to head over for a visit soon. Maybe, dunno, make it a long stay. Did that once when she needed some help.”
“Bet you miss her. And your grandkid!”
“I certainly do,” said Jack, taking another sip of the Macallan, listening to a few more bars of Coltrane’s sax. “You got any other kids, Len?”
Len took a breath. Painful subject?
“No. We had Grace a year after Lizzie and I met. We decided that was fine, we’d stop there; Lizzie doing long shifts at the hospital, not a ton of cash coming in and all. So – one kid was enough.”
“Well, you’re lucky to have her,” said Jack. “She’s a star.”
“Oh, I know,” said Len. “She is.”
The doorbell rang, followed by a loud double knock.
Jack looked at Len – his face surprised.
“After midnight,” said Jack as both of them got up. “Strange.”
“Maybe Nick? Some kind of trouble.”
“State they were in, wouldn’t surprise me.”
Len got up, and Jack followed him.
Through the glass of the front door, Jack could see tall shapes silhouetted against the blue lights of an emergency vehicle of some kind.
And he could hear the sound of a radio.
Len looked alarmed as he opened the front door to reveal Cherringham’s local cop, Alan Rivers. Behind him, Jack saw two more police constables and a police van.
Alan – clearly surprised to see Jack standing in the doorway next to Len.
“Alan,” said Jack.
But Alan didn’t answer. Instead he turned to Len.
“Leonard Taylor?” he said.
“Yes, Alan. You bloody know who I am. What is it? Something with the lads, the stag do, or—”
Jack could see that Alan looked completely uncomfortable.
“I am arresting you under the authority of an EU warrant,” he cleared his throat, “issued by the Spanish government, for the offence of murder,” another rumble from Officer Rivers’s throat, “committed in San Antonio on the island of Ibiza in 1990.”
Jack stared at Alan, his mind racing – as an ex-cop – trying to rapidly figure out what on earth was happening here.
Could this be a prank? Some bad joke?
“What?” said Jack.
He looked at Len. The man stood frozen, as if in some kind of trance.
Frozen – but not as surprised as Jack might have expected.
“Len – what is it? What’s going on?” came a woman’s voice from up on the stairs behind Jack.
Jack turned to see Len’s wife Lizzie – he recognised her from the choir – in her dressing gown, standing halfway down the stairs. She pulled the dressing gown tight as she looked in disbelief at the group in the hallway.
Jack moved to one side as Alan stepped forward, his manner abrupt, official. He unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt, reached forward and cuffed Len – the man still frozen.
“You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
And with those words, the two constables stepped forward, one hand each on Len’s shoulders, and shuffled him towards the door. For a few seconds Len seemed to slowly become aware what was happening.
“Don’t worry, Lizzie,” he said. “It’s just… just a thing. Not a word to Grace – okay? Not a word. Please. I’ll get it all sorted.” Then, almost a whisper. “All a mistake.”
Then the men bundled him out through the front door into the dark April night, the lights of the van glowing in the misty air.
“Wait! You can’t do that!” shouted Lizzie. “What the hell? Len!”
Lizzie came flying down the stairs. Jack stepped in quickly, held her tight; the woman struggling to get to her husband, who even now was being loaded into the back of the police van, the doors slamming shut.
“Lizzie, hang on. Nothing you can do,” said Jack. “Listen to me—”
Lizzie crumpled to a halt. Jack turned to Alan who still stood in the doorway.
“Alan – where are you taking him?” said Jack.
“Custody cells in Banbury,” said Alan. “Then court.”
“All this… really necessary?” said Jack, gesturing at the van. “Middle of the night?”
“It’s a murder charge, Jack. We moved when we had all the paperwork. He should be thankful we didn’t turn up with an armed unit.”
Alan climbed into the passenger seat of the van and Jack watched it drive off down Well Lane.
Lizzie stood like a statue, her hands entwined as if working a puzzle. Jack saw a line of tears on her face.
“You’d better get that kettle on, Lizzie. Okay? Can you manage that? And then, you, me… let’s figure out where we go from here.”
Then he took out his cell and texted Sarah.
She might be asleep. But for this – he certainly needed her here.
Now.
Whatever mess Len was in, he knew that Sarah – like him – would want to help fix it.
Whatever it took.
End of the reading sample
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