Jen and Joan were crime addicts.
Armchair experts.
And to Jack, funny as hell …
“Jack!”
Jack watched as the cyclist slid to a halt by the gangplank to the Grey Goose, wheels locked, dust rising in the still air.
“Morning,” said Jack. “And what a fine morning it is. Care for a coffee?”
He watched as his visitor frowned.
“No time for coffee, Jack. There’s work to be done!”
Definitely the mean one, he thought, taking a bagel and spreading it with jam.
“Work?” he said. “Come on Jen, you know me — I’m on permanent vacation.”
“It’s Joan,” said the woman curtly. “And as they say in Houston — we’ve got a problem.”
Jack pondered the notion that they had said that in Houston: “Sorry — Joan. But see here — it’s a beautiful day, I’m having breakfast, and then Riley and me are heading out for our little morning stroll. This had better be important.”
“Oh, it is, Jack. It’s very important.”
Jack chewed on the bagel, trying to make it last and knowing that he wasn’t going to win against the Buckland sisters.
“Well, go on then, you’re dying to tell me.”
“Dying? How very appropriate! Dying! You see, Jack, there’s been a murder.”
“Oh really?”
“Indeed. A murder on this very river. On our own doorstep no less!”
Jack stared at Joan Buckland. She seemed deadly serious.
He popped the last of the bagel into his mouth and wiped his hands on a piece of kitchen towel. Then he got up.
“Mind if I bring Riley?”
“Not at all, we shall probably need him.”
Jack decided not to tell Joan that Riley’s one and only skill was hunting rabbits.
“Give me five minutes to lock up. I’ll be right with you.”
“Quick as you can now, Jack, you know how a crime scene deteriorates so.”
“Oh, I surely do,” he said, grinning while loading the tray and heading down below.
Faster than my lazy breakfast in the sunshine, he thought.
*
When Jack reached Cherringham Bridge he tied Riley up to the fence.
“The crime scene,” said Joan, pointing to a large white cruiser which was wedged incongruously in the shallows against one of the low arches of the bridge.
“I guess …” said Jack. “You going to tell me what happened?”
He watched Joan take out a small notebook from her handbag and leaf through the pages.
“At approximately oh seven hundred hours, my sister and I arrived at the Buckland toll-booth, situated on the Eastern approach to Cherringham Bridge—”
“Whoa, whoa,” said Jack. “No need for the detailed notes Joan, just tell it in your own words.”
“Ah, right. Well, we turned up at work this morning and there was already quite a crowd waiting on the bridge. So we had a look. The boat must have come free from its moorings in the night, drifted down river, and then swung across into the shallows — right there — and got stuck.”
“So what’s the big deal? Boat gets loose. This must happen often enough.”
“Of course. Normally there wouldn’t be a problem. Chaps from the Environment Agency turned up with the police and everyone agreed the boat needed sorting out and towing away.”
“And …?”
“Well, that seemed to be that. Police thought it was vandals — you know how kids cut the mooring ropes, especially around this time of year …”
“Sure — Riley and me have been putting on extra patrols before we go to bed.”
“Anyway—”
“Joan? What’s going on?” came a loud female voice from up on the bridge.
Jack looked up. Jen Buckland was leaning over the parapet, looking down.
“Stop wasting time the pair of you,” shouted Jen. “You won’t solve anything standing there on the bank.”
“You stop losing us money and get back in the booth,” shouted Joan right back at her sister. “We agreed: I’m working with Jack — and you’re running the toll.”
“So, get to work then and stop standing around chatting,” shouted Jen.
Jack could hear cars whizzing by on the bridge, clearly taking advantage of the empty toll-booth which normally charged 20p each way. He watched Jen as the thought of losing money finally overcame her envy of her sister and she disappeared from view.
“My sister — she never stops interfering, never once in her whole life,” said Joan.
“You were saying about the police?”
“Ah yes — well, we all know about them, don’t we?” she said. “They took one look, gave it a crime number and scarpered. Back to get their breakfast I expect.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Anyway, that was when I noticed the blood.”
Jack watched her carefully. “Go on.”
“From up on the bridge you can just see the starboard side of the boat where it’s wedged. And I’d swear, right on the railing, there’s a blood smear a yard long!”
“Really?” said Jack. “Did you tell the police?”
“They were long gone.”
“So what happened then?”
“Well, Jen and I had a little conflab — and decided to go aboard. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” said Jack. “And what else did you find?”
“Aha,” said Joan. “Now Jack, that’s when it gets really interesting. Come on.”
And with that she stepped down off the bank into the shallows. Jack saw she was wearing wellingtons. He looked down at his own deck shoes, newly purchased for the Regatta weekend.
“Oh, don’t be precious, Jack, come on.”
He watched Joan wade confidently through the water towards the stricken boat, and thought of how many times he’d sacrificed a good pair of shoes to a crime scene.
When I retired, this was supposed to stop, he thought.
Some hope.
And he stepped out into the cold water of the Thames and followed the Buckland twin to the beached cruiser.
3. The Scene of the Crime
Jack climbed up the little ladder at the stern of the Mary Lou and stepped down into the open rear cockpit. He looked around.
This boat and the Grey Goose couldn’t have been more different.
Like they were from different planets.
Every surface gleamed: shiny white plastic, leather, chrome, steel, and even spots with polished maple. The dashboard behind the steering wheel was a series of computer screens.
You could probably type Antigua into the Sat-Nav and the damned boat would take you there all on its own while you sat in the back drinking cocktails …
“Come on Jack, nothing to see out there,” came Joan’s voice from inside the cabin. “Not yet, at least …”
Jack stepped down two steps into the interior of the boat. He could see Joan facing him, her arms folded.
“Well, come on then — you’re the professional. Work the room!” she said. “First impressions?”
What is this — Police Academy? thought Jack.
But — this was Joan’s show and he wasn’t going to get back to his interrupted breakfast unless he played ball.
So, as she instructed — he worked the room, moving slowly around, checking surfaces, opening cupboard doors …
“Okay … This is the galley. One plate, one cup in the sink. Remnants of … some kind of pasta meal. Glass — smells of scotch. Empty. Small trash can — looks like a day’s worth of trash. Newspaper — dated yesterday. Hmm — interesting. Fridge — fresh milk, bread, eggs, microwave meals for two, maybe three days. Salad — looks pretty fresh …”
“So — to cut to the chase, Jack — one person on board for the ride, and they expected to be here for two or three days. Yes?”
“Yeah, I guess so. That’s a reasonable assumption.”
“And the newspaper and food bracket o
ur Mr. X as being on board in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Mr. X — or a guest of Mr. X.”
“Hmm, good point. Now, follow me.”
Mystery lady #1 taking charge …
Jack watched as Joan headed from the galley into the saloon. He followed and wasn’t surprised to see the white leather look continued — the main living area was a shrine to maritime kitsch opulence.
Long way from my old battered sofas and club armchair …
“Now, this is where it gets interesting,” said Joan, picking up a pair of remote controls.
Jack watched as she expertly powered up the widescreen TV in the centre of the salon and brought up a satellite menu.
“Pretty nifty with the controls there, Joan,” he said. “I must get you over to fix my set.”
“The digital world is there for all of us to grasp, Jack; it favours neither young nor old,” said Joan, with what seemed to Jack to be more than a hint of admonition.
“So what’s the deal?” he said, gesturing to the menu she’d brought up on screen.
“Even our PVR leaves behind a trace of our actions and movements,” she said. “Look. Two shows, set to record later this week. And here — last night’s movie. Started at midnight. Was recorded. Then watched until one hundred minutes in. Then turned off.”
“So whoever was on board was still on this boat — at the very latest — at 1:40 a.m.”
“Precisely,” said Joan, turning off the TV and scurrying off deeper into the boat. “Now come with me to the cabins, Jack.”
“You’re the boss,” said Jack, following after her.
Thinking: she might be better at this than I am!
He watched as she stood in the tiny corridor and gestured like a flight attendant to either side, where doors stood open.
“Main cabin — double bed. Guest cabins A and B — one double, one single.”
Jack stuck his head round the two guest doors and took in the two bare rooms. “Beds not made up — I guess the cupboards are empty?”
“Correct. Now step in here …”
He followed her into the main cabin.
“Observe,” she said. “Bed made up, but not slept in. No glass of water, no book, no small change, no other pocket detritus …”
“Pocket what?”
“The flotsam and jetsam of a gentleman’s life Jack, which accumulates in his pockets and must be jettisoned at night onto a bedside surface,” said Joan, her eyes blinking at him behind her over-large glasses. “So I am told.”
“Gotcha.”
Jack was beginning to realise that Joan and Jen’s understanding of life was drawn almost entirely from analysis of crime novels …
“And what haven’t you seen, Jack?”
Jack ran through his memory of each room, then realised. “Hmm. There’s nothing personal — no phone, laptop, receipts, paperwork, photos …”
“Precisely. As if the boat had been — what do they call it — swept?”
She turned to the door and headed back to the saloon.
“Come on.”
Jack followed her as she continued through the saloon and the galley and up into the cockpit, where she stood waiting impatiently for him in the sunshine. He climbed up the steps and joined her, glad to be out of the plastic and chrome interior.
“Conclusions?” she said.
Jack leaned against the side of the cockpit and considered what he’d seen.
“Somebody — probably one person — has been staying on this boat. They were still on board — probably — in the early hours of this morning. They had dinner — but they didn’t go to bed.”
“And?”
“And I don’t see anything to suggest they were murdered.”
“So where is our Mr. X?”
“Went out to see friends, went for a walk, didn’t like being on a boat, booked into a hotel …”
“Took all his paperwork with him? Left all his clothes behind?”
“He only planned on being away one night.”
“And he didn’t lock the boat?”
“He’s in the country. Trusts the locals.”
“And how about the bloody smear on the side of the boat?”
“Scraped himself climbing ashore. Cut himself fishing during the day.”
“I see,” said Joan. “Well — I wonder if this might change your mind?”
Jack watched as she turned and headed back into the galley.
Here comes the Hercule Poirot moment, he thought, smiling to himself.
But what Joan Buckland brought out of the galley wiped the smile from his face.
He saw her emerge into the bright sunlight with an object wrapped in a handkerchief, and as she approached him she proffered the object in her hands as if it were some kind of sacrificial gift.
“I found it out here under one of the seats,” she said, peeling back the layers of handkerchief. Joan was holding a long jagged hunting knife, its blade smeared with black, clotted blood.
“So Mr. X just tootled off to stay the night in a hotel, Jack? Or did something a little more sinister happen?”
Joan made the bloody knife wave in the air.
And Jack had to admit that the Buckland sisters might well be right to cry ‘murder’ …
4. Of Blood and Boats
Jack waited by his Sprite, top down, ready to go, mobile phone in hand. After the tour of the beached boat, he was — thanks to Joan — properly intrigued.
“Sarah, hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Jack, nice to hear from you. All good?”
“Sure. Look, you busy now?”
“Why? What is it?”
“You know that boat that hit the bridge in the night?”
“Yes …”
“Seems like there may be more here than a free-floating yacht. So—”
“Jack — I’m at my mum and dad’s. Just popped in. I’ve been so busy, with end of school stuff with the kids, the days slip by. So, I promised I’d visit — but I can leave and—”
“No. How about I drop by? Be interesting to get Michael’s take on this as well.”
“Well, you know those two. You’re just about their favourite person in Cherringham.”
Jack laughed at that. He did like Sarah’s parents a great deal.
“I think … maybe number two, after you?”
“Either way, they’d love to see you. And anyway — I’m intrigued.”
Then Jack sensed a hesitation on Sarah’s part.
Something not being said?
“I should warn you though — Dad is a big part of the planning for the Regatta. This boat thing’s got him pretty upset.”
“I’ll tread gently.”
“Great. See you soon.”
“Bye.”
Jack ended the call, and then turned to look downriver at the boat, still wedged against the bridge.
Thinking: How could someone own something like that — and just leave it … to bob down the river?
And then there was the knife …
Of course, people on boats did have accidents.
A nick here, spot of blood maybe baiting a hook. Back in Sheepshead Bay, it was common to see the walking wounded come ashore when the day charters came back with the often well-lubricated fishermen, buckets of porgies in hand.
Nicks from fishing knives. A hook stuck in a hand (or worse …).
Still, blood is blood.
And while Jack was looking forward to the Regatta, the fun, the excitement, it wouldn’t hurt to … delve a little into this.
If only for a bit …
He got into his car and headed towards the Edwards’ home.
*
“Jack! Wonderful to see you! Look — Helen’s fixing some tea — and I have something to show you!”
Sarah’s dad Michael grabbed Jack by the arm and steered him — literally — right by Sarah, into the sitting room where the large coffee table was covered with a map.
“There you are — all the
venues, the best viewing spots — the Regatta planned like a military mission!”
Jack knew that Michael was also a bit of a history buff. So it wasn’t surprising to see this large map of the village, dotted with mini cardboard yachts, stands and rows of ‘sculls’, ready to compete.
“Impressive,” Jack said. “Lot of work, this event?”
“Tons! But I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Michael raised a finger, bringing home a point. “Great as source of money for the village of course. Restaurants, shops, hotels — a real boon.”
“Ah, I knew he’d show you that straight away,” Helen said, entering with a teapot and four cups. A plate of sugar cookies … biscuits … sat to the side.
“Of course, now there’s absolutely no place to put any of this.”
Jack grinned at Sarah. He for one was enjoying the interaction of this long-time married couple.
Perhaps … even a bit of envy.
Sarah rolled her eyes. She probably was eager to hear what Jack thought about the wandering boat.
“Oh — for now Helen, just put it on the … um, piano stool. Jack needs to see this!”
Helen immediately showed where Sarah inherited her eye-rolls, and placed the silver tray on the stool.
“How elegant,” she said, “not.”
At that, everyone laughed, even as she began pouring the tea.
Michael pointed to a piece of cardboard showing a series of viewing stands at one end of the stretch of the river.
“These stands, in this field — all new this year. Had to wrangle some rights from the owner, but struck a deal. It’ll be smashing to see the sculls take that turn … right there and straight on, full speed.”
Jack put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Going to be a great day, Michael.”
Finally Sarah intervened, patience gone, or maybe just wanting to rescue him from the tourist board pitch about Cherringham’s Regatta day.
“Dad, Jack actually popped over to discuss that boat.”
“Oh, right. Less said about that, the better. Owner will get a good solid fine for that!”
Jack looked again at Sarah. “I was actually hoping we could all talk about that a bit.”
Helen handed him a cup of tea and one of the biscuits.
“I hardly think I’ll be much help,” Helen said. “Sarah didn’t get her ‘detective abilities’ from me.”
Cherringham--Blade in the Water Page 2
