The Boathouse Killer

by Keith Finney

  "Twenty-two years April gone. That's longer that I would have got for murder."

  "Sorry, I’m a bit behind today," said Fitch as Lyn walked onto the garage forecourt to collect her Mini Clubman.

  "Not to worry, it happens to the best of us," she replied while glancing at a car bumper lying in two pieces on the yard floor.

  "That looks expensive. I’m glad it wasn’t my car."

  Fitch smiled as he swept the plastic debris to one side with the instep of his foot.

  "And Irene Chapman wasn’t best pleased either. It turns out some maniac clipped her car early Saturday morning on that nasty bend near the boathouse. They didn’t even stop, so that’s her insurance no-claims discount up the swanny."

  Lyn glanced across to a sorry-looking Nissan Micra, minus a front bumper and with a nasty dent in a wing panel.

  "Ouch. I hate people who don't stop after an accident. I bet they didn’t have car insurance."

  "Happened to me once," replied Fitch. "Cost me a packet to fix—and that was just the parts."

  Lyn nodded in sympathy.

  "Anyway, I’ve got to get a move on. I spent too long in Hammond’s bakery gossiping about missing bodies. If I don’t get back to school pronto, Tina won’t get her iced buns, and believe me, that’s not a pretty sight."

  "It’s a rum do though, Lyn. How does a body just disappear into thin air: creepy or what?"

  Lyn shrugged her shoulders.

  "The thing is, I spent some time with Hannah yesterday. She was adamant in not wanting Geoff’s body touched."

  Fitch frowned.

  "Well, you can’t blame her for that, can you, Lyn?"

  The conversation was interrupted by the wailing of yet another police car speeding through the village.

  "They’ve been at that all morning," added Fitch.

  "Same at school. A real nuisance. But this Hannah thing. You don’t think she could have arranged for someone to nab the body, do you? You know, to stop the autopsy taking place?"

  Fitch shook his head.

  "Can’t see it myself. But then I’ve never been in that position. What I do know is that grief can make some people do crazy stuff."

  Lyn nodded then glimpsed the lit screen on her mobile.

  "Got to go, or I really will be in Tina’s bad books."

  In seconds, Lyn was out the gates and striding along the cobbled path back towards Stanton Parva Primary.

  "The Mini. It will be ready by five."

  Lyn acknowledged Fitch's shout by lifting an arm and waving her hand without looking back. She was too busy concentrating on another matter.

  He looks a bit odd.

  She had noticed a man in dishevelled clothing and shoes with holes in their toes, shuffling towards her. As he neared, Lyn attempted to catch sight of his face. With his coat collar up and head lowered, Lyn could only see what looked like a faded scar on his right cheek.

  The man brushed passed her without missing a step, knocking Lyn off balance.

  Wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night.

  7

  Odd Man Out

  The outer office of Lyn’s room looked like a battlefield clearing station as Ant pushed aside the half-glazed door and stepped inside.

  It was several seconds before Tina noticed his presence as she dealt with 3 seven-year-olds in various states of distress.

  "Oh, it’s you. Don’t mind the noise, they’ll settle down when I’ve dished out the stickers for being brave little soldiers."

  "What on earth's been going on here?"

  Tina gazed up at Ant from the crouched position in front of one of the sobbing boys.

  "This one is Timmy Weston. None the worse for wear from an overzealous football tackle. That lad is Billy Lightfoot, a name not associated with his tendency to trip over the smallest of obstacles. And finally, we have young Master Hayman. He's Timmy's avowed enemy in all things football."

  Ant noticed that the latter seemed the braver of the three, almost as if he were gloating at Timmy's tears and that his own injured shin had not reduced him to a babbling wreck.

  "There you are." The voice belonged to Lyn as she breezed into Tina’s casualty clearing station.

  "Come in, come in. I thought I’d lost you," she said as she gave each of the boys a sympathetic look before quickly moving on to her own office and leaving Tina to tend the injured.

  Ant gave the secretary a weary look in acknowledgement of Lyn’s "can do" mood and nodded when Tina rolled her eyes.

  "She had two cups of coffee an hour ago and hasn't come down yet," replied Tina. "You go in. I think we’ll go for green tea when I’ve discharged the troops, or there will be no handling madam this afternoon."

  Ant required no encouragement to escape the organised chaos around him.

  "Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you since yesterday," asked Lyn as she simultaneously read a missive from the Department for Education.

  When you're ready, girl.

  Ant waited as it took Lyn a good forty-five seconds to realise he hadn’t answered. He watched as she looked up from the briefing paper.

  "Ah, got your attention, then, have I? It's no use you blinking at me like one of your pupils who doesn't want to hear he's in trouble."

  "I was listening."

  A gesture of the head and eye contact on the document did the trick. Lyn took the hint and put the briefing note down, making sure one long side rested parallel to the desk edge.

  "Listening to what? I didn’t say anything."

  That tore it.

  "Listen, smarty pants, I’ve got Mr and Mrs Sandown in half an hour to bend my ear about their son—again, so I’m not in the mood for your nonsense. Now, where were you yesterday?"

  Ant felt as if he were back in Riley’s office, except Lyn was scarier.

  "Fair play, old girl. To tell you the truth… Ouch!"

  Ant’s explanation was interrupted by a pencil catching him square on the forehead, point first.

  "How many times have I told you not to call me that?"

  This is fun.

  "Okay, sorry." Ant checked to see if the graphite was still attached to the end of the pencil or embedded in his flesh.

  "I was only joking, Lynda."

  Light the blue touch paper and stand back.

  Ant watched as Lyn began to flush knowing his apology was half hearted, and the use of her full first name was a calculated jibe to wind her up even more.

  Tin hats on.

  "Listen, Lord Stanton, or whatever you are calling yourself today, either behave or I’ll set those three little terrors in Tina’s office on you. Now are you going to answer my question?"

  The threat was enough for Ant to capitulate. He held his hands above his head as Lyn continued her interrogation without giving him the opportunity to respond.

  "When I rang your dad to see if he knew where you were, he said you’d taken Mr Churchill’s dog for a walk. What in heaven's name did he mean?"

  Lyn’s glare meant Ant had no option but to come clean. After a few seconds spent gathering his thoughts, he slouched back into his chair and looked at the deep-brown material of the carpet.

  "Winston Churchill battled depression all his life." He watched Lyn’s expression change. The penny had dropped. "It’s Dad’s way of explaining how I deal with my PTSD. As I've told you before, anything can set the damn thing off. As it happens, yesterday I caught a news item about the Middle East. Another time it wouldn’t have affected me. Yesterday it did. I don’t know why, but something went ‘ding’ in my head, and I broke out in a cold sweat."

  Ant's eyes followed Lyn as she got up, walked around the desk and perched herself on a corner beside his chair and placed an arm around his shoulders.

  "You took off, then?"

  "Yes, I did. Not proud of myself but…"

  His voice tailed off as Lyn stroked his hair. He could feel himself relaxing in the company and touch of someone he trusted without question.

  "Anyw
ay, the dog is back in its kennel so that’s that." He gently moved Lyn’s hand from his scalp and straightened his back into the chair.

  "For now, anyway, Ant. For now. Anyway, how did you get on with Riley yesterday?"

  He didn’t get a chance to explain before a movement of the door handle and the sight of Tina’s head popping through the opening told Ant the Sandowns had arrived. He sensed the change of mood and made to leave.

  "I think I’ll have a walk around the village. Not done that for ages. Catch up at yours tonight?"

  Lyn nodded as she fumbled on her desk for the demanding parents' latest letter of complaint.

  "Er, yes," replied Lyn as she looked in panic at Tina. "Around seven thirty, and the Chinese takeaway is on you. I’ll have the usual."

  "It’s here," said Tina in a quiet, reassuring voice.

  "Haven’t seen you in here for ages," said David Ingram as Ant stepped over the threshold of the family-run newsagent.

  "You do too good a job of delivering the papers. She never misses a day, does she? But that means there's no need to call in except when I fancy some of your scrumptious sweets, so here I am." Ant’s saliva glands worked overtime as he surveyed a wall of temptation in what seemed like a hundred old-fashioned glass candy jars.

  The newsagent smiled.

  "Good to hear. I’ll tell young Sophie what you said. Now what can I tempt you with?"

  David stood aside allowing Ant an uninterrupted view of the confectionary on offer. Suddenly his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

  "I haven’t seen those since I was at school. We used to call in here every day, you know."

  David pointed to a glass jar of aniseed balls.

  "Yep, that’s them." Ant's eyes followed David’s movement as he stretched to retrieve the jar from a high shelf, place it on the counter, unscrew the large plastic lid, and begin to weigh its contents on a set of scales.

  "We used to ask for two ounces when I was a lad. Not sure what that is in grams or whatever they are now." Ant watched each red spherical treat fall from the stainless-steel scoop and into the stainless-steel weighing bowl.

  The newsagent laughed.

  "I know what you mean, Ant. Ounces sound so much better, don't they? Keep to tradition, I say."

  Once David finished dispensing the confectionary into its paper bag, Ant grabbed it and plunged one of the sweets into his mouth.

  "Anybody would think I’ve just given you a pot of gold."

  Ant sucked on the hard-boiled sweet and savoured the aniseed's strong flavour.

  "You’ve no idea, Dave."

  The smile on his face said it all.

  As Ant thanked the shopkeeper and turned to leave, he spotted the latest edition of Boating World.

  "Can I take one instead of you delivering it?"

  David grabbed the paper delivery book from under the counter.

  "No problem. Just let me mark it in here, so you don’t get another copy. That reminds me. An odd-looking chap asked if I knew where the rich Englishman with the boat lived. I didn’t let on because he looked a bit shifty. Mind you, I suppose that was good enough reason to have told him where you lived."

  The shopkeeper laughed.

  "What, because he was odd, or I’m supposed to be the rich kid?" replied Ant joining in the light-hearted banter. "If you see him again, tell him I’m broke and have left the country for a Buddhist retreat."

  Ant left David still laughing as he headed up High Street.

  After twenty minutes of navigating the narrow back streets of the village centre, Ant took a breather by resting against one of the village’s prized Victorian, red-pillar boxes. It was just tall enough for him to rest an arm on top to support himself while he read an article from his magazine about a new form of battery technology for boats predicted to take the market by storm within the year.

  Soaking in the warm afternoon sun, he noticed a familiar figure coming out of a long-closed Methodist chapel across the road. It was Annabelle.

  "It’s a small world; what are you up to?" said Ant as she crossed the narrow lane.

  "I love your quaint villages and their beautiful buildings."

  Ant followed Annabelle's outstretched arm as she waved it around to reinforce her point. "I am interested in buying this old church. I want to convert it into a nice home. The agent was kind enough to let me in. You English are always so polite."

  In your dreams, lady.

  "I hope you don’t mind me asking, but for someone on the hunt for a property, you look a bit glum."

  Ant could see he had confused her.

  "What is ‘glum’?"

  He smiled.

  "Sorry, with your English being so good, I forgot. It means looking sad."

  Oops, she looks even worse now.

  "Yes, I see. To be honest, I am worried about Hannah."

  Ant’s smile vanished as it dawned it was, perhaps, still too early for levity.

  "Worried? What’s the problem?"

  Annabelle slouched against the pillar box, her eyes glazed with emerging tears.

  "I have seen a man from Hannah’s past. He is trouble. How do you say—he has a terrible temper—very jealous."

  The tears began to flow. Ant knew he wasn’t the most tactful of individuals at the best of times. Now he hadn’t a clue what to do other than to keep asking questions.

  "Well, I’m sure Hannah will be okay. After all, Poland is a long way away."

  He watched as Annabelle froze.

  "No, you do not understand. I have seen him here, in this village. His name is Jakub Baros, and he was Hannah’s first boyfriend. Then Geoff came and took her from him. Jakub was very angry."

  Perhaps the bloke David mentioned wasn't asking for me?

  Ant patted Annabelle on the shoulder as if he were soothing a pet dog.

  "Listen, I’ll get Lyn to have a word with Hannah to keep an eye out and let us know if she sees anyone suspicious. It’ll be fine, I'm sure."

  Annabelle stiffened. Her face froze.

  "Please, no. Do not tell Hannah he might be here. She will be very frightened. Jakub threatened Geoff when Hannah left Poland."

  Before Ant could answer, his mobile rang.

  "Ant, it’s me. I’ll have to put our meal tonight back by a couple of hours. Got to sort out my warring parents again. Meet you in the Wherry Arms just before nine instead of seven, okay?"

  8

  True Friends

  "Where does everyone come from?" asked Ant as he fought his way through to a reserved table at the back of the snug.

  Looking over his shoulder, he realised he’d been inadvertently talking to an elderly woman he didn’t know who smiled sympathetically. Taking his seat, Ant didn't have long to wait before Sarah, one of the casual staff brought in on busy nights, approached.

  "You’ve only just made it. The kitchen closes in ten minutes. Do you know what you want?"

  Keen not to miss dinner, he looked at the specials board on the far wall and chose a main course for both himself and Lyn.

  Hope she likes toad-in-the-hole.

  A few minutes passed as Ant surveyed the organised chaos with staff and customers charging across the entrance to the tiny snug, most gawping at him as they passed.

  Now I know what a goldfish feels like.

  "Good heavens, here at last."

  Ant's mood lifted as Lyn breezed into the small space, followed by a barman carrying a pint of Fen Bodger pale ale and a white wine lemonade spritzer.

  "I thought we’d be posh tonight," said Ant as Lyn settled herself into an old wooden chair opposite her friend. Sarah said they were closing the kitchen, so I ordered for you."

  He waited for Lyn's inevitable response. It wasn't long coming.

  "Remember last time you used your initiative to order me food? Well, if it's tripe and pickled onion again, it's going back this time—understand?"

  Ant's eyes lit up.

  "Aha, you underestimate me. I have a surprise."

  I can see
she doesn't believe me.

  At that second, Sarah arrived with two steaming dishes in hand. Placing the meals on the table, she then stood back to admire the chef's work.

  This isn’t going well.

  "Ant, since when has toad-in-the-hole and a white wine with lemonade been posh?"

  He watched in silence as she eyed her plate with disdain. Ant lifted his pint and offered a toast.

  "To fine food and good company."

  Ant hated it when Lyn gave him a look she might offer to a six-year-old having had "a little accident."

  At least I try.

  Toast completed, the pair tucked into two overcooked meals. Ant made a point of commenting how good the food was. It was as if the more he said it, the more he believed his own assessment. He had the feeling the same couldn’t be said for Lyn.

  "Did you sort your parents out?" asked Ant, keen to move the subject away from stodgy Yorkshire pudding and sausages, which defied all but the most substantial of molars.

  He allowed her the time to reply since he could see Lyn was having difficulty chewing her food sufficiently before it could be safely swallowed.

  "Put it this way," said Lyn, picking a piece of gristle from her teeth. "If they were two of my young pupils, I’d sit them in a room until they saw sense."

  Ant offered his sympathy. Lyn batted it away.

  "They’ll never change. I swear when the Grim Reaper comes, they'll accuse him of favouritism in choosing one to go before the other."

  Lyn sighed before resuming battle with her meal.

  Ant contented himself by emptying the last of his pint and attracting the barman’s attention for a refill.

  "Anyway, from the sublime to the ridiculous. Tell me about the meeting with your detective friend."

  Ant playfully shook his head to acknowledge the absurdity of Lyn's comment while taking a first gulp from his new pint, then held the glass up to the light so he could admire the liquid gold.

  "I refuse to ruin my pale ale by thinking of Plod in those terms," replied Ant in a lofty tone before laughing at his own pomposity.