Cherringham - Murder on Thames

by Costello, Matthew; Richards, Neil

  ***

  Jack flicked the line free, fired up the outboard, and then spun the boat round and headed away from the quay.

  Sarah sat with Riley in the bow facing Jack as he steered the boat up river. She didn’t take her eyes off him.

  He smiled to himself.

  “Relax. Please?”

  “So how did you get my number? In fact, how did you know my name?”

  “Like I said — I used to be a cop.”

  “Right. I will check on that.”

  She went silent. Jack steered the boat past lines of moored houseboats, slowing as they neared the Grey Goose.

  “So come on,” she said. “How did you find out my name, number? I’m just curious …”

  He grinned at this. “Tell me, if you wanted to find out anything in this village — where would you go?”

  “Huffington’s.”

  “Correct”, he said. “It’s how the world survived before Google. Coffee shops and bars. Now — you see the log down there by your feet? Pick it up, would you.”

  Jack watched as she tugged a heavy, wet piece of old timber out from under the bench seat. She was strong, he thought to himself. A woman used to doing things for herself. That and the lack of a ring suggested there was no Mr Edwards on the scene. ’“Now what?” she said.

  He turned the boat round, edged it into the side by the moored boats and killed the throttle. The boat bobbed slowly downstream.

  “Drop the log overboard, would you?”

  She heaved it over. It splashed into the river and began to drift away ahead of them.

  “So,” he said. “Imagine that’s your friend Sammi. She’s fallen in the river. It’s the middle of the night. Nobody can hear her struggling.”

  “Thanks for making it so real.”

  Jack tweaked the throttle so they stayed alongside the log.

  “See how she’s drifting fast?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Once you start to hit these bends, the river picks up speed,” he said.

  Jack could see that Sarah was watching the log intently now.

  “See the weir coming up?”

  Sarah nodded.

  Jack opened the throttle, staying just alongside the log as it picked up speed.

  The river was beginning to broaden. A couple of hundred yards ahead, on one side, the weir could be seen, bubbling and white, the water shallow and rocky. Beyond it and round the curve stood the outline of the old Cherringham Toll Bridge.

  “Now — here you go -- watch what happens,” said Jack.

  The log looked as though it was going to drift straight into the weir.

  But with just twenty yards to go, it suddenly veered right, picked up speed and swept past the weir into deep water.

  Jack turned the boat round fast so as not to follow the log, pushed the throttle and headed for the bank and the jetty. The log now disappeared from sight, moving downriver.

  “See?” he said.

  Sarah turned and stared at him.

  “Years ago when they made the weir, they dug a deep channel next to it. Any rubbish that comes downriver goes straight down the channel. That’s why the weir’s always clean. No brush, no branches … and no bodies.”

  “So Sammi didn’t fall in upriver?” said Sarah.

  “Nope. My guess is she drowned in the shallow water where she was found, right there.”

  “But why would anybody go walking in there?”

  “Why indeed. And that’s not the only thing. You see the river bank there, by the edge of the weir?”

  He pointed to the muddy edge below the car park and jetty.

  “There are tyre marks there. Looking fresh, not more than a day old.”

  “Someone brought a car down there?”

  “Yup. Someone backed a vehicle down onto the weir. And then had a lot of trouble getting it out again. All that wet mud, tyres grinding in deeper.” He took a breath. “Had to be a nerve-racking moment. Strange — the police must have noticed that.”

  “Hang on! What are you saying? Are you telling me Sammi was murdered? Someone in that car?”

  Jack spoke carefully.

  “I can tell you that it wasn’t an accident. I’ve pulled enough bodies from Manhattan’s waterways to know that. And if it was murder, we’re going to need a whole lot of things …”

  “We’re? And things like what?”

  “Suspects. Motives. Evidence.”

  He looked right at her. “Your friendly local constabulary may have moved on. But now that you have, let’s say, piqued my interest, you, me … we don’t have a lot to move on.”

  And then it hit her.

  Sarah realized he was talking about the two of them — together — solving what Jack said had been the murder of Sammi.

  They’d do it together. And she didn’t feel afraid of that idea. No, her friend deserved it, and she also had the thought—

  This could be exciting.

  6. Questions for the Police

  And just like that, they fell into making a plan. Sarah found herself caught up in what Jack explained and the way he cut through the clearly incorrect conclusions of the local police.

  Now that she knew Sammi had not jumped into the river — drunk, drugged up — Sarah felt she owed one thing to her long lost soul of a friend.

  To find out who did it.

  And Jack had made it clear that despite his expertise, as an outsider he’d need help — a lot of it — navigating the inner workings of an English village and the authorities who wanted things kept nice and peaceful, and who wanted any unpleasantness dealt with quickly, maybe even swept under the carpet.

  They had a plausible explanation of Sammi’s death so unless the post-mortem showed otherwise, this was case closed.

  Except now Sarah knew it wasn’t closed, and wouldn’t be until she found out the truth.

  But where to start?

  Jack suggested that the local police would be a good place. They agreed to meet outside the police station just after lunch. That would mean — most likely — seeing Alan. Could be a bit awkward, having both been friends with Sammi.

  But somehow she’d get through that.

  For the moment, she decided not to tell Grace what she was up to. Got a meeting, she called out as she left the office.

  Hurrying out into the village square, she saw that the sunny morning had given way to some early afternoon clouds.

  How appropriate, she thought.

  ***

  Jack stood outside the police station, dressed in khakis and a tan shirt, hoping he blended in.

  As he watched the locals walk down the street, he decided that maybe his look was a bit too rustic. It might fly in some Midwestern farm town but here people looked as if even a trip to the butcher’s required a bit of dressing up.

  It had turned chilly too. This English weather took some getting used to. One minute sunny and warm, the next, cloudy and cool. Like being on an ocean liner ploughing through the North Atlantic, which, he guessed, was sort of what this island country was actually like: sitting out in the ocean as the clouds and sun played tag with it.

  He looked at his watch, waiting for Sarah, thinking … do I really want to do this? Get involved with this mess?

  Murder or not, was it any of his business? What happened to his plans to make his flies, pull in the occasional fish? Enjoy those sunsets when granted by the gods of what they called an “English summer”’.

  But years of dealing with dead people, from the innocent to those who deserved it, left Jack with the clear conviction that whoever did it had to be found.

  Most of the time he had succeeded. A few times he hadn’t, and those never left his mind.

  The unsolved murders haunted him. And if he did nothing here, the same thing would happen … And now that he knew it wasn’t a drowning, he couldn’t let it go. This Sammi, just a young girl found dead in a river, had become important to him.

  “Hello. Sorry, had a few things to clear up.”

>   Jack turned as Sarah walked up behind him.

  A smile. “No problem. Been taking in the village scene.”

  “Pretty exciting,” she said.

  “To me, yes. It’s not Times Square.”

  “New York City. I used to love it. Back in the day …”

  “Yeah. It is something. So — ready to go in? Make introductions?”

  She nodded, and he sensed that she didn’t seem all that sure about this. “Might be a bit awkward. Asking questions and all.”

  “I can handle ‘awkward’.”

  Anther nod, and she led the way into the station.

  ***

  And as if he’d been expecting them, Alan stood by the front desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  Jack stayed a few steps behind her.

  “Alan.”

  He turned. “Sarah?” He took in Jack standing near her, looking around the station.

  “Alan, this is Jack Brennan, he’s—”

  The policeman took a step closer, lowering the papers. “I know. You’re the Yank living on that old fishing tub.”

  Jack nodded. A few seconds of quiet. Then:

  “Alan, is there someplace we could talk? Jack here, well … he has some ideas. About Sammi. About what happened.”

  “You mean about the drowning?”

  Sarah didn’t answer. Instead: “Your office. For a bit? We had some questions.”

  She sensed Alan stiffen. This was not going well at all. “Questions. Well, you know, usually we ask the questions.” He took a breath and seemed to relent. “All right then. But let’s make it fast. Got a ton of paperwork to finish.”

  Another pause.

  “Because of the drowning.” At that he led the way past the front desk, and down a narrow hallway.

  ***

  “So, what is it you Americans say? ‘Shoot’?”

  Jack heard the policeman attempt to affect an American accent, something probably culled from too many CSI episodes.

  “Sarah says you have questions?”

  Jack quickly picked up on the idea that these two had some history. Something in the past that wasn’t there now.

  He began to explain how Sarah got him involved, then about the experiment on the river, the tyre marks and how it called into question the ‘official’ story the police had settled at.

  “Really? So let me get this straight, Mr Brennan. You think that Sammi was, what, murdered?”

  “That I do.”

  “And you have this expertise because you—?”

  “He was a New York homicide detective, Alan. At least hear him out.”

  Alan looked from Sarah, then back to Jack. “This isn’t New York. Or maybe you haven’t noticed that?”

  “Oh, I have. As a detective, you’re kinda trained to notice a lot of things. Just telling you what I saw.”

  “Alan — do you know why Sammi came back?” Sarah said.

  There you go, Jack thought. Great question, and maybe catching good old officer Alan off guard.

  “No. I mean we couldn’t rightly ask her, now could we?”

  “And her mum, dad? Did you—?”

  Sarah had leaned close, pressing with her questions. Jack was reminded that this was personal for Sarah; Sammi had been her friend.

  “Course we did. They hadn’t heard a word. Seems Sammi arrived and went to the Ploughman. Had a few before her accident. That was the last anyone saw her.”

  Jack cleared his voice. “So she just appeared back in the village, for no reason? Then had her accident?”

  Alan looked right at Jack now. Not a happy camper, he thought. “Y’know, this is none of your affair. So you …” then to Sarah: “And you, best not go around stirring things up. This is police business.”

  Jack stood up.

  The office felt tiny, claustrophobic. The scale of everything in the village seemed small, from the tables at Huffington’s that were so close together that getting out to pay the bill was a strategic exercise, to the narrow alleyways between buildings off the main street.

  “Right. Police business.” Jack smiled, as Sarah got up as well. “We just thought you should know, that maybe you’d want to tell someone that Sammi didn’t just drown.”

  “Speculation. Total speculation.”

  Jack gave him another nod, but didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to make of Alan the Policeman, who didn’t seem at all curious about a local death. But clearly there was nothing to be gained from talking to him anymore.

  “Thanks,” Jack said, “for the time.”

  And he walked out with Sarah, thinking … this is getting even more interesting. And suspicious.

  7. Tea with Mum and Dad

  Sarah looked at Jack, sitting on the shabby couch in the cramped flat.

  Jack gave her a smile that seemed to say … can we move this along?

  Then she turned back to Sammi’s mum who sat across from them, a tattered napkin clutched tight in the woman’s one hand and a tea cup in the other that she sipped between bursts of tears.

  They had decided that visiting the parents was the best place to start in order to find out what Sammi was doing back in Cherringham, despite Alan’s assurances that her parents knew nothing.

  “Y-you sure I can’t fix you a cup. I can—”

  “No, thank you, Mrs Charlton. We’re fine.”

  “I’m good,” Jack added.

  From the slight slur in Mrs Charlton’s words and the glassiness of the woman’s eyes, Sarah was pretty sure that her cup contained more than tea.

  Sammi always said she used to come back from school to find her mum half-sloshed, with her father racing to catch up as soon as he got home from work.

  “Mr Charlton be here soon?” Sarah asked.

  The woman nodded. “Yes, they got him doing extra hours at the poultry factory.” A small smile from the woman. “He was never one to turn down a bit extra, you know. Even after th-this …”

  And what is this to them? thought Sarah.

  Did they see Sammi at all? Sammi had always said that she never wanted to see them again once she left for the bright lights of London … yet she had been back to the village on her last night.

  Sarah wasn’t at all sure how to get information from this wreck of a woman. After a few moments of total awkwardness, Jack jumped in.

  “Mrs Charlton,” he said slowly, as if it might take the woman a few seconds to shift her orientation from Sarah to the tall American sitting in her minuscule sitting room. “I’m helping Sarah here look into a few things. I live on the river, on a boat, near where they found Sammi.”

  The woman again nodded.

  Another quick smile, a disarming expression from Jack. Watching him, Sarah thought that he must have interrogated a lot of hard cases back in New York. This must be terribly odd for him, like being dropped into something more like BBC Mystery series.

  “Your Sammi came back here on Monday night, to the village and had her … accident.”

  The woman’s head bobbed, waiting for the question.

  “Did she come by and see you or your husband?”

  The police had asked that question, Alan had told them. Sarah guessed that Jack must have a reason for asking it again.

  Quickly the woman shook her head. The napkin did a few more serpentine runs through her fingers, soon to break off into ratty pieces. This was hard to watch.

  “No. We didn’t know she was coming at all, and she didn’t come to see us.”

  On cue, the front door swung open.

  And Mr Charlton stormed in, his face twisted into a dark scowl.

  ***

  Jack turned to the man who had entered the small sitting room as if it was a cage. Charlton’s eyes darted from his wife, to Sarah, and finally to Jack.

  “What’s this? What the ‘ell is going on here, anyways? You the damn police or what?”

  “No. Mr Charlton. I’m just helping Sarah here …”

  The man looked away, rolling his eyes as if he couldn’t believ
e his ears.

  “A Yank.” Then back to Jack. “A goddamn Yank. What are we doing, running a bed and breakfast here?”

  “Malcolm, they just wanted to ask about Sammi, if we saw her and—”

  Jack watched Charlton take a step towards him. He guessed from the slight wobble in that step that he had stopped off at a pub for a pint or three on the way home from the poultry factory.

  Jack debated standing up but had a hunch he might get more — or at least something — from the man if he remained sitting instead of challenging him for what little open floor space there was.

  “Sarah’s concerned about her friend,” Jack said. “And I was, well, just helping. You wife was saying that Sammi didn’t come here.”

  “Good thing, too,” the man said, a near bellow. “The amount of money that conniving bitch got from us? And a lot of it,” — he fired a glare at his wife — “behind my back when old softie here posted her some. Put a stop to that, I did!”

  “Borrowed a lot?”

  “Stole too, things missing all the time.” Another look towards the wife whose crying had been replaced with a totally cowed expression. “Like your mum’s ring, right Ruth? Real diamond in it, and all. Gone.”

  The man sniffed the air. No mourning going on here, Jack thought.

  “So you didn’t know she had come back to the village the other night, and you didn’t see her, is that right?”

  Malcolm fixed Jack with a bullish glare. “You got ears, ain’t ya? We didn’t see her, I told you. And if she had—”

  Jack raised his eyebrows.

  “If she had—”

  But Malcolm caught himself as though realizing that his alcohol-lubricated words were going to trip him up.

  The man stopped. “Time for my tea. And time for you lot to leave us be. To—” the sarcasm was obvious — “mourn our lovely daughter’s passing. In other words: get out.”

  And at that, Jack stood up, his height leaving mere inches between him and the ceiling.

  “Well, thank you for your help … Mrs Charlton, Mr Charlton.”

  Sarcasm can work both ways.

  Sarah stood up, looking a bit rattled with the exchange. But Jack saw that she had plastered a small smile on her face as she followed him outside. Where they both took deep breaths of the air, free of the stench of cigarettes, cheap whiskey and bile.