The Boat House

by Mark Sennen

  THE BOAT HOUSE

  Mark Sennen

  Copyright

  AVON

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  77–85 Fulham Palace Road

  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

  Copyright © Mark Sennen 2014

  Cover design © Susie Bell

  Mark Sennen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © December 2014 ISBN: 9780008130619

  Version: 2014-12-05

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Tuesday 26th February 2002. 4.05 p.m.

  Exclusive extract of TELL TALE

  About the Author

  Also by Mark Sennen

  About the Publisher

  Tuesday 26th February 2002. 4.05 p.m.

  The call came late afternoon on her day off, just as the twins were finishing their milk and marmite on toast. She left them with her mother, visiting for the week, and moved into the hall.

  ‘It’s tonight’s match, see,’ the voice on the end of the line said. ‘Argyle and Exeter. All available uniforms are at Home Park or mopping up the trouble makers in the centre of town. Down to you I’m afraid. You and a lad from D Section.’

  D Section she thought, so it must be somewhere on the water. The officer gave her the details. Yes, she said, she’d be there. Twenty minutes. Half an hour max. She hung up and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman who stared back was mid to late twenties, red hair, bright eyes full of excitement, casual clothes. Time was if she’d received a call to go into work she’d have had to get changed. Put on a uniform. Not anymore. Not as of five days ago.

  Detective Constable Charlotte Savage.

  As a rank it was technically no better than that of PC, still …

  Becoming a detective was something she’d dreamed of since joining the force. After three years on the beat she’d taken maternity leave and on her return she’d made her mind up. She’d studied, passed the exams and now, as of Monday, she was a detective on the Major Crimes team.

  She blinked and pulled herself together. No time to be smug. Back in the living room she checked her mum was OK to look after the girls for a couple of hours and then grabbed her waterproof and left the house.

  *

  Twenty minutes later she was clumping along a pontoon down at Mountbatten, waterproof zipped up against a steady rain. At the end a large RIB pushed itself gently into the pontoon. Constable Nigel Frey sat at the rear of the boat, the wheel hard over, the motor idling.

  ‘Hurry up, Charlotte,’ Frey said, passing her a life jacket as she stepped into the RIB. ‘The tide will turn soon and we’ll not have long there. Plus I don’t want to be navigating back in the dark.’

  ‘Keep your knickers on, Nigel,’ Savage said, smiling. She’d been on the beat with Frey as a young probationer and they’d teased each other mercilessly. She accepted the life jacket and put it on. ‘I can always walk back.’

  ‘I doubt it. The place is only accessible by boat.’

  Savage sat down as Frey moved the boat away from the pontoon. He turned and then headed out into the Sound. A light wind had fluffed up little wavelets, but was doing little to disperse a low mist that hung over the bay.

  ‘Fifteen minutes I reckon,’ Frey said as he pushed the throttle forward. The RIB rose up onto the plane and began to bounce over the waves. ‘We’ll take the inside route past the Mewstone and then wend our way up the estuary to Cofflete Creek.’

  ‘And it’s a body, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Usually a couple of uniforms would go over the fields to check, but—’

  ‘The match, I know.’

  ‘Cheer up. This is what it’s all about, isn’t it?’

  Savage glanced back as a splash of water came over the bow. The spray caught Frey in the face and he grinned.

  Within a few minutes they were at the entrance to the narrow inlet that led to the twin villages of Newton Ferrers and Noss Mayo. Come summer, the place would be packed with visiting yachts, but at the moment many of the moorings were empty. A little way beyond the entrance the estuary divided, the right arm heading between the two villages – one on each bank – while the left arm plunged into a thickly wooded valley, the trees running all the way down to the creekside, where mud and rock lay exposed by the now falling tide. Frey turned the boat left and navigated up through a double row of moorings, the boats straining on their chains as the water ebbed.

  ‘We’ll not have long there,’ Frey said. ‘Not if we don’t want to be stranded.’

  Beyond the moorings a small tributary ran away from the main estuary and Frey turned the boat left up it. Now the little creek wound into the hillside, trees clinging to the steep landscape. They’d passed a house at the entrance to the creek, but now there were no signs of civilisation at all. Frey appeared to read her mind because he nodded at the banks closing in on both sides.

  ‘1971. Somewhere on the Mekong River Delta. Yes?’

  ‘Might as well be. You sure we can get there by boat?’

  Frey cocked his head and looked at Savage and then swung the RIB to starboard to avoid a clump of flotsam. ‘Be tight, but we’ll get there.’

  They followed the creek as its course curled left and then right, more mud exposed as they approached the higher reaches. At one point Savage spotted a trio of little egrets fishing in the shallows. The white birds pecked intermittently at the water where shoals of fry darted back and forth. A little farther on a curlew trilled out an alarm call as it flew low over the water and disappeared into the mist.

  The creek narrowed and Frey now had to navigate the RIB along a channel that cut deeply through the mud. Trees loomed high to either side, cutting off the view and hemming them in. The gathering gloom and the mist added to the sense of confinement. It was almost as if they were forging through a narrow gorge. If Savage had heard the sound of approaching rapids she wouldn’t have been surprised. Then she did hear something like water falling and as they rounded another corner she saw a small stream flowing over a weir and into the estuary.

  ‘There.’ Frey pointed to one side of the weir. ‘Home sweet home.’

  Savage turned her head to where an old boathouse stood on the shore. Stone walls climbed down the rocky bank to meet the water and a channel led up to ramshackle wooden doors, their bottom edges suspended in mid air now the tide was falling away. Ivy crawled over one side of the structure, running up past a window and onto the slate roof. At one end of the roof a brick chimney poked up from the stone construction. Smoke curled from the pot and drifted in amongst the trees and the thickening drizzle.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Savage said. ‘Somebody lives here?’

  ‘I thought you knew? A Mr Whiddon found the body. He reported it.’

&n
bsp; ‘By phone?’ Savage stared at the surroundings. There were no telephone cables leading to the property and she doubted there’d be any mobile coverage.

  ‘No. He rowed down to Newton Ferrers and told the Harbour Master. He called us.’

  ‘This place isn’t fit for human habitation.’ Savage turned to Frey. ‘There can’t be more than one room in there.’

  ‘No, there isn’t. Still, Whiddon’s lived here for as long as anyone can remember. Rumour has it he moved here after his wife ran off and left him. He was heartbroken apparently. Craved the isolation. The property is owned by the local estate, but there’s not much point in kicking him out. Nobody will buy the place. There’s no access apart from a couple of hours either side of high water and you’d never get planning permission to extend it.’

  ‘Right. And this Mr Whiddon, has he been in trouble with us before?’

  ‘No, not as far as I know. He’s odd, but then that goes with the territory, doesn’t it? Living on your own up a deserted creek. I grew up round here, sailed on the estuary with my friends, went for picnics up the higher reaches. “Look out for Whiddy Whiddon the Weirdo,” my dad used to joke. “He’ll ram your boat and take you home and cook you up in his big iron pot.” But that’s all it ever was, a joke.’

  ‘No truth at all? Even today, with all we know about historical abuse?’

  ‘The man’s a loner,’ Frey said, his tone harsh, censorious. ‘But I never saw anything to make me think there was more to it than that.’

  ‘So this body …?’

  ‘Don’t know much more than you, Charlotte. I suspect it’s something brought in on the tide. Now, check the depth at the bow would you?’ Frey turned the RIB and began to nose in up towards the boathouse to where a stone quay jutted out from the structure. ‘Don’t want to risk getting stuck on a rock.’

  Savage moved to the bow and leant over. The water was cloudy with silt and she couldn’t see more than a few inches beneath the surface. She waved Frey on tentatively.

  When they were within a boat’s length of the quay Frey put the engine into astern. Water boiled around the propeller and the boat stopped just short of the quay.

  ‘Off you go then,’ Frey said. ‘I’ll go back into the deep water and wait for you. Don’t want to get trapped here.’

  Savage looked back at Frey for a moment. Then she pushed herself over the high bow of the RIB and dropped onto the quay. She moved away from the edge, aware that Frey was already backing the boat up, disappearing into the mist. In a few seconds he was gone, the low chugging from the outboard the only sign he was still out there somewhere.

  Savage took her life jacket off and hung it on a wooden post. Then she walked along the short quay and up the steps at the end. She turned to look at the water but the estuary had disappeared. Instead, a river of fog filled the space, tendrils creeping into the trees, the moisture caressing her face. She shivered, the air cold and dank, somehow depressing. Her earlier excitement at her first real assignment had vanished. She cocked her head on one side, listening for Frey. Nothing. He’d probably dropped his anchor and killed the engine. She wondered about calling out for him, but that wouldn’t exactly make a good impression, would it? She took a deep breath and dropped off the landward edge of the quay onto a small path that ran along the edge of the mud to the boathouse. She pulled herself together and tried to put all thoughts of mad serial killers from her mind.

  The path ended at a pile of lobster pots and a cluster of marker buoys, which rested up against the wall of the boathouse. A little to the right a door lay recessed deep in the stonework. Savage approached the door, looked for the door bell and then shook her head for being so stupid. She reached out and rapped on the wooden surface.

  Nothing.

  She rapped again, this time a creak coming from inside. Somebody padding across the floor. A rattle as the latch was lifted. Another creak as the door swung open.

  Mr Whiddon stood in the threshold. He was mid sixties but already wizened and stooped over. White hair flowed down to his shoulders but far from being unkempt it looked clean and recently washed. The white hair contrasted with the dark suit he wore: black velvet with silk detailing at the cuffs, lapels and pockets. In one lapel a yellow crocus wilted. Beneath the suit was a stiff white shirt with a black tie. The suit was layered with a patina of dust, in places thread-worn and moth-eaten. Whiddon blinked at Savage and then grimaced, showing gums and a smattering of blackened teeth. Savage gasped as she caught a whiff of halitosis.

  ‘Mr Whiddon?’ she said, forcing herself not to step back.

  ‘That I am, that I am,’ Whiddon said. He looked Savage up and down and then stared over her shoulder into the mist and sniffed the air. ‘What you be wanting all the way out ‘ere then, lass?’

  ‘Police, Mr Whiddon.’ Savage reached into her jacket and pulled out her warrant card. Whiddon squinted at it. ‘Sorry if you’ve got visitors or were about to go out, but you reported a body?’

  ‘Yes I did.’ Whiddon smiled again as if there was nothing much wrong. He gestured into the interior of the building. ‘Better come in then. I was just getting started.’

  Savage paused. Frey was out there somewhere, but the mist had thickened even more and with the fading light she could see no farther than a few feet beyond the end of the quay. If she’d been in uniform she’d have had a radio clipped to her jacket. As a detective all she had was her mobile, and out here that was useless. Still, what was she to do? She’d look an idiot if she cried off on her first time out alone. She nodded at Whiddon and went inside.

  Whiddon shut the door behind them and Savage looked around. The room was just a few paces square and appeared to serve as a living room, dining room, kitchen and bedroom. A Tilley lamp hanging from a central beam lit the scene and gave out a stark white light along with a low hiss. To one side a stack of firewood leant against the wall next to an ancient range. Atop the stove liquid bubbled in a cast iron pan. On the other side of the stove stood a lobster pot, which Whiddon had been repairing. Across the room a stack of several pallets raised an old mattress from the ground. Layers of blankets, thread-worn like Whiddon’s clothes, lay on the mattress. In the centre of the room a table had been set for two, a wheel-back chair at either end. Silver cutlery, best china bowls and crystal cut wine glasses sat on a crisp white table cloth. A bottle of wine had been opened and a basket of bread freshly sliced. A single spring daffodil stood in a vase. There was no sign of Whiddon’s guest.

  Savage pointed at the lobster pot. ‘You’re a fisherman, right?’

  ‘Gamekeeper, fisherman, oyster farmer, woodcutter. I’ll do a bit of fencing for locals or help out on a pheasant shoot for a few quid. When I drop my pots round at the entrance to the Yealm I might do a bit of beachcombing. Scavenging. Never had much and don’t need much. Not out here. Mind you, gets a bit lonely sometimes. Nothing but the water lapping at the bank and the wind in the trees.’ Whiddon grinned again and then poked his tongue out and licked his bottom lip. ‘You’ll stay for a bite to eat? There’s plenty to go round.’

  ‘No thank you.’ Savage looked at the place settings and wondered who Whiddon’s friend was and where they’d got to. She reached into her jacket and pulled out her notebook. ‘Perhaps you’d better give me the details of what you discovered and then show me where you found it.’

  ‘Right love.’ Whiddon moved across to the stove and took a large wooden spoon and began to stir the thick broth in the pot. ‘Mullet soup for starters. Hope you like soup. Them mullet are as tough as old boots but boiled up they make a lovely dish. And there’s a duck in the oven for mains.’

  Savage wondered about sitting at the table but thought better of it. The bed was the only other possibility, so she remained standing. Whiddon was busy adding some salt to the pot. He lifted the spoon and took a taste, shook his head and then turned to Savage.

  ‘Be another few minutes, OK?’ Whiddon gave Savage a wink. ‘And I forgot to mention it’s stewed apple and custard for pudding.�
�

  ‘The body, Mr Whiddon,’ Savage said, ignoring whatever game it was Whiddon was playing. ‘Tell me about the body.’

  ‘Right, the body.’ Whiddon gave the soup another stir and then placed the wooden spoon down to one side. He reached across to the lobster pot and picked up a large needle with rough twine threaded through its huge eye. ‘I enjoy using this. Mending things.’

  ‘Mr Whiddon, if we—’

  ‘Quiet, girl.’ Whiddon pointed the needle towards Savage. The steel shank was thick, but the point was finely honed. ‘Telling you as best I can, right?’

  ‘OK.’ Savage wondered about slipping towards the door, but Whiddon had spent an age fiddling with the catch when he closed it. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Done it all my life. Fixing fishing nets, clothes, other things. Many, many years back I used to work for them at the big house as a gamekeeper-cum-boatman. One day the master shot this wily female fox which had been taking pheasants. He asked me to preserve the animal so I stuffed her with wool and put a couple of marbles in as eyes. Chuffed he was. Said she looked just like she had the moment before he pulled the trigger on his gun. I guess that’s when I got the idea.’

  Whiddon pushed the needle point down into the top of the table. The needle stuck there and quivered as he let it go. Savage took the action as an invitation to speak again.

  ‘What idea was that then, Mr Whiddon?’

  ‘Like I said, mending things. Good as new.’ Whiddon stood and moved to the stove once more. He picked up the wooden spoon again and stirred the contents of the pot before turning back to Savage, pointing the spoon at her in the same way as he had the needle. ‘See, the master up at the big house told me that the fox was as beautiful stuffed as it was before. Only, as he explained, a whole lot less bother. No more birds for that particular fox. Stayed in my mind those words did.’

  ‘You told the Harbour Master you found a body, Mr Whiddon.’ Savage shook her head. ‘Are you trying to tell me it was the body of an animal?’

  ‘No.’ Whiddon put the spoon back in the cooking pot, stirred a couple of times and then bent to sample the food once more. ‘Good. Very good.’