Cherringham--Blade in the Water

by Neil Richards

  “Anything urgent I need to dive into?”

  Grace shook her head. “No. You have that pitch meeting over in Whitbury at four with Tivoli Travel. Big account.”

  “Big indeed. Yup, I’m all set for that.”

  “Well, let me know if you need anything. I’m going to update our Facebook page this morning, needs a bit of work …”

  “Thanks. And I’m going to do a little research here. Give me a shout if you need any help,” she said to Grace.

  And with that, she entered the world of Martin Kent.

  *

  And what a world it was …

  Martin Kent, American, was CEO of a company called ViaVita.

  ViaVita …

  Sarah had remembered hearing of the product, a range of vitamin supplements sold door to door.

  And her research quickly showed that ViaVita was mired in controversy, even as it racked up billions in global sales.

  Unlike nearly every product in the world — where you could buy an item in a store or order it online — there was only one way you could get a ViaVita supplement, designed, as one of its logos proclaimed, ‘to let you live the healthy life you deserve!’

  The ViaVita line was sold door to door, by ‘associates’ who bought into the franchise.

  And despite its success, it didn’t take long before Sarah stumbled into other articles about lawsuits, filled with claims that the whole thing was nothing more than a clever and elaborate pyramid scheme.

  An associate would have to lay out thousands to get a local franchise. For that money, they’d get a sales kit with both samples and stock to sell.

  But ViaVita got its money up front.

  And now the ‘associate,’ dreaming of their own successful franchise business, needed to go door to door, extolling the virtues of ViaVita’s supplements.

  Then, there was the other way an associate could make money.

  They could recruit other people to work under them. These new people — of course — would have to buy their own kit with samples and stock. And a bit of that income was shared by the person who roped them in.

  And on … and on …

  Classic, Sarah thought.

  And yet, despite the articles exposing ViaVita’s methods and the stories of legal cases, the company apparently had avoided being shut down.

  Maybe all those billions bought them the best lawyers?

  And the appeal — so universal, to get out from a gruelling day job.

  Be one’s own boss.

  The whole thing as rigged as a shell game.

  “Finding out things?” Grace asked.

  “You bet.” Sarah had decided to keep Grace free of the more dubious aspects of her work with Jack whenever possible. Some of the things they did crossed the line; it was best that Grace carry on with the regular office work.

  Still — it was good of her to ask.

  “Do we have all the materials for the Tivoli pitch printed?” Sarah said.

  “All packed up and ready to go. By the way, there are roadworks up on the top road so you might want to allow a bit of extra time.”

  “Thanks.” Sarah said. “You’re a star.”

  Then she went back to what seemed an endless list of stories on ViaVita.

  *

  Besides obviously employing an army of lawyers, Kent made sure the company was prominent at charity events.

  And not just the big London galas, but a lot of smaller ones in villages throughout the country.

  That made sense.

  That’s where ViaVita would find their army of hopeful salespeople, scraping by, looking — somehow, some way — for their ship to come in.

  She looked at pictures of Kent that popped up. Dark hair, eyes looking confidently straight at the camera.

  And next to him his wife Viola.

  And what a wife …

  She looked — in her stilettos — a good foot taller than Kent, blonde hair and wearing clingy, low-cut dresses that showed off her various assets.

  And to the side, Kent’s second-in-command, Anders Magnusson. A Swede, apparently, who — with his toothy good looks and height — looked like a better match for Mrs. Kent.

  Sarah vaguely recalled seeing Magnusson around the village once or twice. But she didn’t think she’d seen Viola before.

  Be good to speak to those two, Sarah thought.

  Other pictures showed the threesome in locations around the world, sometimes on the deck of a yacht — maybe the very boat washed up against Cherringham Bridge?

  Occasionally other women were in the pictures, making up a foursome. But mostly it was Kent, Viola and Magnusson.

  It was clear the company would have enemies … lots of them. But could there be one who’d want to harm the CEO?

  If I lost everything on a suitcase full of vitamins and powders, I might be pretty angry, Sarah thought.

  But angry enough to commit murder?

  She looked at the clock. Still time for some more digging before she’d have to bolt.

  On a whim, she went to the Oxford Echo website. Not the public face — but the site that journalists used.

  Once upon a time — for a favour returned — she’d ‘borrowed’ a log-in from a friendly reporter. And just occasionally — when she and Jack were on a case — she accessed the site, which picked up police incident reports from around the county.

  She quickly scrolled through the list of RTAs, domestic disturbances, runaway dogs, runaway husbands, the hidden dreariness of what normally passed for ‘crime’ in Cherringham and villages across the Cotswolds.

  A search for Martin Kent brought up the details of the accident to the Mary Lou and his address in London.

  But nothing else.

  She searched for Magnusson …

  Then — there it was.

  Just a small item.

  But pay dirt.

  ‘Police called at 8:27 on Tuesday evening to investigate report of criminal trespass at home of Mr. Anders Magnusson. Attending officer noted distraught woman ringing bell and unwilling to leave. Officer issued warning to leave, or face charges of trespass and disturbing the peace. Woman left and no charges were filed. Relevant services notified.’

  “Wow,” Sarah said.

  “Got something?”

  “Could be, Grace, could be.”

  Sarah stood up.

  “I’m going to head off,” She hurried to the counter where all the pitch materials were packed up.

  “Bit early, isn’t it?”

  Sarah smiled at her assistant. “Better that than late …”

  Not telling Grace why she was leaving now.

  Magnusson’s house. Officer on the scene …?

  Had to be Alan.

  And though the report didn’t mention who the woman was, Alan would know.

  The question: would he, perhaps recognising all that she and Jack had been doing, be willing to tell her?

  Alan could be very much a by-the book cop.

  Maybe, she thought, I can get him to forget the book just for today …

  “Wish me luck,” Sarah said, racing to the door, not sure if she was more excited about what could be a lucrative pitch, or this news of someone who had a problem with the partner of the definitely missing Martin Kent.

  7. A Policeman’s Lot

  Sarah parked her Rav-4 in the packed car park of the Perch Inn and set off to the riverbank with a paper bag in one hand.

  She was going to bribe a policeman.

  And said bag was the agreed price.

  It contained one large macchiato and a cheese-and-ham baguette from Huffington’s.

  She’d called Alan on his mobile when she left the office just in case he wasn’t up at the police station. It was a wise move.

  He told her he’d been out since six in the morning and it didn’t look like he’d get home before dark.

  Quick thinking — and the fact that she’d known Alan since he was a lunch-queue-jumping teenager at school — led to the offer of lunch i
n exchange for information.

  You bring the lunch, he’d said, and we’ll talk about a deal then.

  So here she was right in the heart of Regatta-land — where Alan had been hard at work all day.

  She went through the wicket gate from the pub car park onto the river side. Looking to her left, up river, she saw the marquees and stands in a line all the way to Cherringham Bridge, flags and bunting flying.

  Exactly as her dad had laid them out on his paper plan.

  The whole area had become a frenzy of activity: trucks and vans dotted around the fields, riggers erecting stalls, tea and beer tents being loaded with supplies.

  Turning to the river, she watched as a four-man scull raced by, followed by a little speedboat, the coach shouting to the crew through a megaphone.

  Sarah didn’t row herself, but she could tell that these guys were good. The oars pivoted as one on every stroke, the blades smoothly slicing into the river without a splash.

  Each rower, in matching singlet, seemed to focus on a distant point on the horizon, their bodies sliding and arching in perfect harmony.

  When she was a child, the Cherringham Regatta was just a local fun day: now it had grown into more of a pro-event, with ranked teams like this coming in to compete.

  She looked further downstream: tiny dinghies with bright sails were flicking back and forth in the light wind — kids practising for their own races at the weekend.

  Yes. That was more how she remembered it.

  Looking across at the far bank she could see boats moored, two, sometimes three deep. And behind them, through the trees, she saw the rides being unloaded from giant lorries for the travelling fair.

  “Cheese and ham, I hope?” came a voice from behind her.

  She turned to see Alan in uniform shirtsleeves, wiping his face with a handkerchief, sweat pouring off him.

  “Made specially,” she said, handing him the bag. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

  “This week, all hands on deck,” said Alan, biting into the baguette. “Dunno why they don’t send me some help.”

  “Cost of the overtime I bet,” said Sarah.

  “You think?” he said grinning. “Course, I couldn’t possibly comment.”

  He sat on the grass and she sat next to him, looking out at the boats flitting back and forth on the river in the sunshine.

  His radio, tucked into his belt, gave out a constant background babble of messages.

  “Everything going to be ready in time?” she said.

  “It always is — somehow. Reckon we’ll have two thousand visitors over the weekend if this weather doesn’t break.”

  “Surely you can’t police that on your own Alan?”

  “They’ll bus support in from Oxford — but not until Friday.”

  “And until then you’re in charge?”

  “Too bloody right. I’m losing count of the number of incidents I’ve dealt with. Lost dogs, stolen laptops, drunks, noisy campers — God, you name it.”

  “Lot of paperwork.”

  “Tell me about it. But that’s next week’s problem.”

  “How about trespassers?”

  “Ah.” He took another bite of the baguette. “That what you came to see me about?” He took a sip of the macchiato.

  Sarah smiled. “Guilty. So, last week — down at one of the big houses on the river. Magnusson’s place?”

  “Go on.”

  “Was that you who responded?”

  Alan looked right at her. Then: “Might have been. Going to tell me how you know about it?”

  “Oh, I’ve got my sources …” said Sarah.

  He laughed at that. “Sources, bloomin’ hacking that’s how — I know what you get up to on that computer Sarah Edwards, too clever by half.”

  Sarah laughed as well. Alan had had the hots for her at school and she knew she got away with some dodgy online practices because he still held out the forlorn hope …

  She liked him — but she would never feel that way for him.

  Truth was — since her cheating husband walked out on her, Sarah had all but shut down relationships as an option.

  Maybe one day, she thought, when the business is up and running properly, when the kids are more independent, when I’ve got a bit more spare cash and time and energy …“Funny you should be asking about that though,” said Alan. “I meant to do a follow-up, to be honest, but you know, this week of all weeks …”

  “What kind of follow-up?”

  “The woman — wow … she was pretty upset. Wouldn’t talk to me at all.”

  “Magnusson wanted her off his property?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What was she doing?”

  “Shouting at the house. Smashing the doorbell. Accusing Magnusson of destroying her life.”

  “But not committing a crime?”

  “Exactly. So no arrest.”

  “Then why the follow-up?”

  “I’ve seen people on the very edge before, Sarah.”

  “You think she was possibly … dangerous?”

  “To be honest, it’s been niggling me all week.”

  “Sounds like you did all you could though.”

  “To the letter. Wrote up the incident, gave her a warning. Handed it over to Social Services — but you know, I like to make sure. Just haven’t had a moment to check they really got the message, followed up with her.”

  “Alan,” she hesitated. A big ‘ask’ about to come. “Can you tell me her name — I could go see her. Make sure she’s being looked after.”

  “Right. Have me breaking every rule in the book, huh?”

  “Nobody needs to know. It’s the right thing to do — isn’t it?”

  She watched him drain his coffee. He was thinking it over … needed a nudge.

  What could she give him?

  “You know the boat that hit the bridge the other night?”

  “Yeah, that was just my luck, minute my shift started … why?”

  “Belonged to Magnusson’s business partner. Pretty dodgy business too, from the stories in the papers. Lawsuits all over the place.”

  She could see Alan taking an interest now.

  “What was the boat owner’s name — Kent, wasn’t it?”

  Sarah nodded. “Martin Kent.”

  “You investigating that too? With Jack?”

  She nodded again: “We think Kent was on board the boat that night. And now he’s missing.”

  “Allegedly. Probably back in London after a sloppy tie-up. You think we should be dragging the river?”

  “Just seems odd. Nobody’s reported him missing. But his business partner has a run-in just a couple of days beforehand with someone making accusations. I mean, it could be something, right?”

  Now she could see Alan look away, thinking about things … probably gauging how much he should really share with her.

  “Joan Buckland handed me a knife — so I sent it onto forensics just to keep her quiet. The ‘murder weapon,’ she called it. More likely a bloody fishing knife.”

  “But what if she’s right?”

  She watched Alan get up and dust the dry grass from his trousers.

  “If she is — it’s one murder that’s going to have to wait until after the Regatta or your dad’s committee will lynch me.”

  “I’ll quote you in court on that, Alan.”

  He grinned: “You do and I’ll chuck the Data Protection Act at you.”

  Sarah laughed. “Mutually Assured Destruction, huh?”

  “Something like that. What do I owe you for the lunch?”

  “Just a name.”

  The radio on his belt squawked loudly and he stepped to one side, his back to her. She waited while he talked into the microphone.

  Then he turned back to her and shrugged.

  “Break-in down at Iron Wharf — gotta go. Catch you over the weekend, Sarah.”

  She watched as he turned and walked fast across the mown field towards the car park.

  “Nam
e?” she called after him.

  He stopped, turned. And paused …

  “Donna Woods. Buckton village,” he called back, without turning.

  She watched him lope away across the field.

  Alan Rivers, you can be a right pain sometimes, but your heart’s in the right place, she thought.

  *

  “Come on Riley!”

  Jack put his two fingers between his lips and whistled.

  After a few seconds, he saw his Springer appear in the meadow next to the riverbank. Riley paused when he saw Jack, then raced towards him.

  “I used to be able to whistle like that,” said Ray, as Riley joined them both. With Riley at his heel and Ray beside him, Jack carried on walking along the riverbank past the barges and back towards the Grey Goose.

  Getting dark …

  Jack had agreed to take the early ‘vigilante’ shift with Ray, show a presence up river where one of two of the boat owners had been having trouble with some kids who’d decided to camp wild in the woods.

  Nothing Jack hadn’t been able to handle with a few words and a friendly smile: Ray’s air-rifle would have been a serious mistake.

  And now they were nearly done and Pat would do the night shifts with his bullish friends.

  Jack wanted nothing to do with that.

  “So, what happened to the whistle?” he said.

  Ray turned to him and bared his teeth. Or what was left of them — Jack could see just a few stumps scattered around his gums.

  “See for yourself.”

  “You Brits — sure have one helluva dental-care system,” said Jack.

  “Nah, don’t you go blaming the NHS,” said Ray. “I lost most of ’em in punch-ups.”

  “Tough.”

  “I dunno. Don’t miss ’em too much. Can’t whistle — but then I can’t eat salads neither which is a relief.”

  Jack had to laugh. “Always a silver lining, huh?”

  They stopped by the gangplank to the Grey Goose.

  “That’s me done for the night, Ray,” said Jack. “Just time for a wee nightcap, I think.”

  “Thanks for the offer—”

  That wasn’t an offer, thought Jack.

  “But I reckon I’ll head over to the Ploughman’s,” said Ray. “Ear to the ground. Raw intel. Know what I mean?”

  “I surely do.”

  “See if anyone’s tracked down my mystery rower.”