Cherringham--Blade in the Water

by Neil Richards

  Michael leaned into Jack. “My side of the branch, I imagine.”

  “Still …” Jack said. “You might have some, um, insight.”

  Though the coffee table was out of commission, the sitting room’s classic chairs were free.

  Helen and Michael sat on the floral printed sofa, while he and Sarah each took one of the armchairs facing it.

  “You think,” Jack looked around to signal that the question was for everyone, “anyone has anything against the Regatta? Any reason to set a boat loose?”

  On cue, Helen and Michael looked at each other.

  “No,” Michael said, “everyone—”

  “Dad,” Sarah said, cutting him off.

  That stopped him. “Well, okay. Some short-sighted villagers don’t like the rich Londoners coming down.”

  “You could put me in that category,” Helen said.

  Jack smiled. Though he guessed Michael and Helen were clearly financially comfortable, they had no airs. Ostentation, especially like that Jack saw inside the deserted boat, wouldn’t be their cup of tea.

  “Right,” Michael said reluctantly. “And, yes, we also get riff-raff coming in, looking to carouse. I mean, it is a spectacle. But they all spend money.”

  “Yes, but some of the village folk … wish it would go away?”

  A pause. Then: “Some. They don’t know a good thing for the village when they see it,”

  Jack nodded.

  “But you don’t think the boat might have been untied by locals?”

  Michael shook his head. “It might have been untied — but only by the damned idiots aboard.”

  “Sounds like you know the owner …” said Jack, leading Michael carefully.

  “Hmmph. Don’t know him — but I know who he is.”

  “There’s not much happens on the river up here without Dad or one of his pals getting the low-down,” said Sarah. “Isn’t that right, Dad?”

  “Make me sound like I’m always sticking my nose in,” said Michael.

  “Surely not,” said Helen, smiling.

  Jack loved the little jibes that flew harmlessly around Sarah’s family …

  “I might have made the odd phone call this morning, but only to see if my help might be needed moving the damned thing,” said Michael.

  “And was it?” said Jack.

  Michael reached for another biscuit. “No, they’re going to tow it away tomorrow. Then hand the bill to the owner.”

  Finally, thought Jack.

  “And who is the owner?” he asked.

  “Fellow called Martin Kent. Londoner — now isn’t that a surprise? Usually moors the damned thing near Tower Bridge. Close to his millionaire yuppy flat I expect.”

  “Oh Michael — you are terrible. He might be a very decent chap,” said Helen.

  “I doubt it. That thing’s a monstrosity. Insult to real boats everywhere.”

  Jack pressed again. “So this Kent — someone’s been in contact with him?”

  Michael shrugged: “Here’s what I know. The police phoned his mobile — got no answer. They asked City of London police to make contact — but nothing so far.”

  “So officially the guy’s missing?” said Jack.

  “Um, no. Officially he just hasn’t answered his phone or his door,” said Michael. “Not quite the same thing.”

  “But he’s not a regular in Cherringham?”

  “Never heard of him before,” said Michael. “But a pal down at the chandlers says he’s seen the boat moored over at the Magnusson’s berth a couple of times in recent months.”

  “Magnusson’s?”

  “Big house half a mile downriver from us,” said Michael. “Rather large for a weekend getaway. Business type — spends most of his time away. Never shared a word with the man. Helen?”

  “That boat tells me all I need to know about him and his friends. ‘Vulgar’ is the word, I believe.”

  “So — you’d have no idea of anyone who’d want to damage the boat?”

  “No, hang on, Jack. Let’s not be hasty here. Boats come loose. People drink, get sloppy — especially weekenders.”

  Jack looked at Sarah, hesitant to put a pin to that balloon of Michael’s.

  “Michael — there was a bloody smear on a railing … and Joan Buckland—”

  “That mystery-obsessed busy body?!”

  “Um — she found a knife. Nasty one. And—” another pause from Jack, “and that too had blood on it.”

  Michael looked around, as if seeking a place to put his teacup.

  Finally he placed it on the floor.

  “If we had use of our coffee table,” Helen said.

  Michael stood up. “Jack, you must know …” Michael’s voice was low, the tone gone from excitement to concern.

  Jack felt bad about that. But better Michael know what was up.

  “Jack, that kind of talk, that kind of story … well, it really could be quite bad for the Regatta, the whole event …”

  Jack nodded. “I understand, Michael. As of now it’s just the Bucklands, me …” he looked to Sarah, “who would be suspicious. And you know me. If there’s a way, I will keep whatever we do, whatever we find … as discreet as possible.”

  Michael nodded at that. “I know you will, Jack. That’s certainly one thing I’ve come to understand about you. You are, as we used to say, a brick.”

  “So, maybe Sarah and I can chat a bit outside. But I have one other question for you. Being a boat person yourself … if there was something suspicious, who do you think I should talk to?”

  Michael shrugged. His face scrunched up thinking over the question.

  Then: “Look, the local boat people are a clannish lot. But they share stories among themselves. I’d talk to them. Maybe someone saw something. Kent arriving from London, for example. Start there …”

  Jack stood up. “Good idea.” He put his cup on the tray atop the piano stool, removing the cookie. He took a bite.

  “You know Helen, I get these from Huffington’s as well. Positively addictive …”

  Sarah’s mum smiled at that. An amateur chef who liked exploring the outer limits of what passed for cuisine, she loved any compliment, even if it was for someone else’s biscuit.

  Then, back to Michael. “The local boat people. I know a few of them. I’ll do just that. And now if I could borrow Sarah for a moment …”

  Michael nodded.

  Helen touched his arm as he got up. “Come round for dinner soon, Jack. Been exploring Indonesian recipes lately.”

  “Sign me up,” he said.

  Then he walked out of the sitting room, leaving the miniature Cherringham Regatta behind, with Sarah walking beside him.

  *

  “Those two …” Sarah said.

  It was always fun to see Jack with her parents.

  When Worlds Collide.

  But actually they got on so well.

  He just may be edging ahead of me in popularity, she thought.

  “I love ’em,” Jack said. “Sorry I had to rain on Michael’s parade, or his Regatta.”

  “It is important to the community. And these days every pound counts.”

  “I know that.” He took a breath, and smiled at Sarah. “So, I’m interested in what you think about all this?”

  About a missing person. Or a murder?

  Either way, a mystery.

  Sarah looked away for a moment, then turned back, her thoughts now coming so fast …

  5. Missing, Presumed …

  “What do I think?”

  Jack had stopped by his car, dug out his sunglasses, looking every bit the American detective.

  “Yup. You’re getting — got — instincts. Love to hear them.”

  Sarah turned, looking across her parents’ immaculate lawn down to the river in the distance. She knew how important this Regatta was to her father; any talk of a scandal, of murder even … it would not sit well.

  Still, Sarah had learned that hidden things, buried secrets, didn’t usual
ly stay buried or hidden for long.

  “Since you asked, it does all sound a bit weird. Boat coming loose. That alone is odd, though I suppose it could happen.”

  “People usually take better care of their expensive toys.”

  “Precisely. But the blood on the railing, the knife — in Alan’s hands by now I imagine?”

  Sarah knew that her one-time schoolmate Alan Rivers, Cherringham’s local cop, would never forgive Jack for holding back evidence.

  “Joan took it right over. No fan of Alan’s but she knows the law.”

  Sarah smiled at that. “Bet she does. So we could wait until we get a report on the blood.”

  “Wait?”

  Jack was not one to wait.

  Not exactly an impatient person, but he had delivered more than one lecture on how trails go cold.

  “Or, I suppose we could look into it. You wanted my gut instinct? I think something bad — one way or the other — has happened to Martin Kent.”

  “Me too. Glad we are on the same page.”

  “So — what do we do?”

  “Your dad had a good idea. Talk to the boat people down on the river.”

  “And how about I see what I can dig up on Kent? Whether he did something that might have made him enemies?”

  “Perfect. Late bite after?”

  “If I can get Daniel and Chloe sorted. Last few weeks of school they pile on the projects and exams. But the kids are getting pretty independent.”

  That was true, Sarah thought.

  Both of her kids seemed to be changing daily. Chloe already a full-on teenage girl with all the wonder and baggage that brings. Daniel racing behind her.

  They’ll be fine, she thought.

  “Great,” Jack said. He opened the door to his Sprite. “And one other thing. Tell your Dad that we’ll do everything we can to make sure none of this, none of what we do, will hurt the Regatta. Okay?”

  She nodded. But as Jack started the engine, she knew that if something really had happened, something more than just a case of a missing owner, then it would be impossible to keep a lid on it.

  The throaty engine of the Sprite started up, and, with a wave, Jack pulled away as Sarah waved back.

  She looked up at the nearly flawless blue sky.

  Great week for the Cherringham Regatta.

  And thoughts of murder — for now — seemed to be far away.

  *

  Jack felt the wheels of his car slip a bit as he drove close to a row of barges and boats, the mud here thick.

  Could easily get stuck.

  This line of moorings, just downriver from Cherringham Bridge was supposed to be a tad more upmarket than the string of barges where Jack lived. When he’d first come over from the States looking for a houseboat, the agents had shown him round a couple of barges down here.

  The boats were bigger, newer — but Jack was put off by the low-lying track which led from the main road. Seemed to him it might be prone to flooding.

  And he was right. The owners were always complaining that the mud never dried year round.

  When had he gained a few more feet — and couldn’t feel the wheels sinking in again — he stopped the car. He’d trudge through the mud on foot the rest of the way.

  Hoping that at least some of the boat owners were about. It seemed likely: this side of the river was a prime site to watch the races. From here, Jack could see the big marquees and viewing platforms being erected in the fields on the far bank.

  He had one barge in mind to visit first. The Brunhilde — owned by a couple — Pat and Fran Jeffries.

  Friendly enough, save for Pat’s jokes about ‘you yanks’.

  Jack let most of that slide. Pat was a retired commercial pilot while Fran, his second wife, was a few years younger.

  Despite his rough edges, Jack guessed that Pat might easily be aware of any rumours of things happening on the river here.

  He walked up the Brunhilde’s plank and heard loud voices.

  Pat and Fran weren’t alone.

  “Hello?” Jack said as he reached the end of the walkway. But the loud talking, the agitated voices, meant that he wasn’t heard.

  So Jack came off the walkway, and walked through the wheelhouse and down into this barge’s large living room area.

  To see: Pat, standing by a wall, his wife sitting next to him. Three other people nearby.

  One of whom Jack well knew.

  Ray, his often toked-up but genial neighbour.

  Holding a rifle.

  “Hope that’s not for me,” Jack said.

  Pat’s eyes went wide as Jack entered. “Jack! Good you’re here! Ray, thought you couldn’t find—?”

  Ray, still clutching the rifle turned to Jack. “He was gone. We … wanted you to join us, Jack.”

  “So here I am. I have to say — with the gun in your hand there, makes me think I’m back home. Thought that—” he gestured at the gun, “was illegal here?”

  “This?” said Ray, as if he’d forgotten what he was holding. “Oh, no. It’s just an air rifle, Jack. Don’t need a licence. Pea-shooter really.”

  Jack nodded. “Sure.”

  But the gun looked lethal enough — a gas-powered .22 from the look of it.

  At close range, the right shot could even kill somebody, thought Jack.

  “Perfect for shooting rats,” another man said.

  Jack didn’t know the other two men. One looked grim, like a weathered fisherman, with his boots and a cap; the other dressed more like Pat, collared shirt with a polo player on the pocket, crisp, pressed khakis.

  “This is Bill Thompson and Sam Fuller. Boat owners like us.”

  “And I know Ray.”

  That bit of acknowledgement made the aging hippy smile.

  “So — what’s with the gun, really?”

  Pat sniffed, the spokesperson of the group. He lowered his voice.

  Already Jack was figuring out what this was about.

  “You heard about that boat — someone cut the moorings?”

  Jack nodded.

  “That’s not all that happened, Jack. A few of us have had our boats vandalised,” Pat said.

  “Not me!” said Ray proudly.

  Not much to vandalise there, Jack thought.

  “Someone coming on boats, breaking in. Doors smashed.”

  “Told the police, I presume?”

  The fisherman cleared his throat. “Bloody good that will do. Bunch a do-nothing, know nothing—”

  “Sam — easy. Well, Jack — we all know Alan.”

  “He does his best,” Fran offered. “Budget cuts and all.”

  “So you guys and your gun …?”

  “We’re forming a militia Jack! Going to patrol the river at night. Keep our boats all safe.”

  That slurred plan, emanating from Ray’s mouth, did not incur any confidence in Jack.

  Pat rushed in to explain. “That’s about it. Take turns at night. A citizen’s patrol.”

  “With a gun?”

  Silence for a bit.

  “We were hoping,” Pat said, “that you might join us. I mean, with your experience.”

  Jack nodded, and walked to the front of the room.

  “You know, I’ve seen this before. Back in New York. We have something called ‘Neighborhood Watch.’ Does some good. Got dealers on a block? The Watch encourages neighbors to keep eyes open, ears cocked, but this—”

  He reached down and picked up the rifle from Ray’s lap.

  “Good citizens with guns — even pretend ones? Recipe for problems. If the gun’s involved, you can count me out.”

  Pat looked at his wife, then to the other men of the proposed militia.

  “But if you decide to have people take a walk at night, eyes open … some kind of rotation. That gun all locked up. Why then—”

  Jack smiled, hoping he had convinced most of them to abandon their militia fantasy.

  “—I’d be glad to join in.”

  Pat quickly nodded. Jack gue
ssed the ex-pilot, having seen the air-rifle that showed up inside his well-maintained barge, was glad to jump on the suggestion.

  “Great. Then, on your advice, that’s exactly what we’ll do. You know what, Jack? You must come down to here, to the old Brunhilde on race day, have a snifter up on deck with us both!”

  “Kind of you, Pat.”

  Jack handed back Ray his rifle, making sure the safety was on. He — for one — looked disappointed.

  “Interesting to hear that there have been other incidents though. Sarah Edwards and I are starting to look into things …”

  Ray slapped his free hand on his knee. “Knew you’d get involved, Jack. And you have come to the right place.”

  The room went silent.

  “Right place? What do you mean Ray?”

  “Cause …” Ray’s grin couldn’t get any bigger.

  Not often, Jack guessed, that the old hippy got to be the star of the show.

  All eyes were on the normally invisible pot head.

  “I’ve seen ’im!”

  “Seen who, Ray?”

  Ray looked around, a human bobble head, milking his moment.

  “Told the police, bloody Alan. What did he care? But I saw him, Jack!”

  Jack had to press on with the obvious question.

  “Who?”

  “The vandal … that is what we’d call him, right?”

  And with the militia de-militarised, Jack wondered if — with the unlikely Ray — he had just stumbled upon the first clue that missing Martin Kent had, in fact, been killed.

  “It was late,” Ray began. “Real late …”

  6. The World of Martin Kent

  “Sarah,” Grace said, “How are your mum and dad?”

  “Good as ever. They insist you pop around soon.”

  Grace laughed at that. “Love to, as long as your mum doesn’t try any of her matchmaking.”

  “I think having given up on me … they now hope to find the right bloke for you.”

  Grace looked away, a sly grin on her face. “Not that — now with Jeremy and me split — I wouldn’t mind some rich, good-looking fella walking into my life …”

  “Carry you away to Fiji!”

  More laughs. It was great that business was good enough that Sarah could afford Grace as her assistant.

  Assistant?

  She practically ran the place.