Cherringham--Blade in the Water

by Neil Richards

  “Been thinking about that, Ray,” said Jack. “You said that boat was going fast …”

  “Like the clappers.”

  “But not heading for the little slipway below the bridge?”

  “Nah, mate. Going down river for sure. Straight line. Top speed.”

  Jack paused. He felt there was something important in that image — though he didn’t quite know what.

  Yet …

  His phone rang. As he took it out, Ray gave him a wave and headed off down the river bank towards the bridge.

  “Sarah.”

  “How’s my regular Charles Bronson?”

  “You’re too young to know that movie,” said Jack.

  “Don’t you believe it — British TV still runs that stuff.”

  “And that’s why I don’t have a TV on the boat.”

  “Couldn’t live without mine.”

  “So what you got, Sarah? It’s single malt time here on the Goose …”

  “Okay, I’ll be quick.”

  And she filled him in on ViaVita and the mysterious night-time visit of Donna Woods to Magnusson.

  “I’ve come across scams like that before, back in the US,” said Jack. “And it’s always the most vulnerable get hit by them. So what’s the plan?”

  “Thought I’d head out to Buckton first thing in the morning — talk to Donna.”

  “You want me to visit our Mr. Magnusson — see if he’s been missing a CEO lately?”

  “Makes sense,” said Sarah. “From the photos I’ve seen online, Kent, his wife, and Magnusson lived in each other’s pockets.”

  “Kinda strange Magnusson hasn’t been in touch with the police though, don’t you think?”

  “Even more strange — why hasn’t the wife? If Kent’s alive — then where is he?”

  “Course — playing devil’s advocate here — maybe when they heard about the little accident to his boat, he and Mrs. Kent just popped over to the Maldives to recover from the shock?”

  “You never did make a convincing devil’s advocate, Jack.”

  Jack laughed and stepped aboard the Goose. He watched Riley trot across to the foredeck and lay down patiently for the phone call to end.

  “Got me there, Sarah I’m pretty convinced we’ve got a missing person at the very least …”

  “And a murder at worst?”

  “Hmm. Nobody around here likes that word right now — but I’m prepared to use it.”

  “Then — we’d better be careful, no?”

  “As ever, Sarah. Have a good night, now.”

  “And you too, Jack.”

  And with that, he turned off his phone and headed below deck to pour himself a well-earned drink.

  Damn, he thought.

  Never asked how Sarah’s big pitch went.

  But he knew it could wait till morning.

  8. Village Life

  Sarah drove slowly through the centre of Buckton, following the instructions of the Sat-Nav.

  It had only taken her a minute to find Donna Woods’s address online. Nothing much had come up when she’d done a broader search of her name — it seemed that Donna’s brush with the law was her only one.

  She looked at the line of pretty cottages on either side of the road: stone roof tiles, carefully tended front gardens, low stone walls. A little post office cum shop, the obligatory country pub with wisteria growing up the side.

  Just a twenty-minute drive from Cherringham, Buckton seemed to be another classic little ‘Cotswold gem’ of a village.

  But Sarah suspected Donna’s house wasn’t going to be quite the chocolate box cover …

  She turned off the main street and immediately found herself in a maze of council houses.

  The contrast was abrupt. On either side of the road she saw drab terraces of seventies-built houses with unkempt lawns and dilapidated fences. No Audis or Volvos parked outside these little homes …

  This was the Cotswolds that the tourists didn’t see. All it took was for the local industry to close or move — and the real working people of the village could sometimes be left stranded.

  Things could go downhill fast.

  She pulled up outside a small supermarket and a tatty Chinese takeaway, and checked the house numbers.

  And there it was, just across the road.

  She locked the car, crossed the road, and pushed open the gate to the house: it swung on one hinge. In the front garden she could see children’s toys scattered across the patchy lawn. She glimpsed a rusty bike behind a wilted bush.

  The bell didn’t work so she knocked on the door.

  After a good minute it opened wide. A woman in T-shirt and jeans with a baby tucked under one arm stared at Sarah impassively.

  “Yes?”

  “Donna Woods?”

  “You from the paper? I thought they weren’t interested. No one is—”

  “No, I’m sorry, I—”

  “If you want paying, there’s nothing left. They took the telly and the car.”

  “I’m not here for money, I’m—”

  Donna’s baby gave a sudden loud shriek.

  “What is it now!?” said Donna, clearly on a short fuse.

  Sarah watched the baby grab at a gold necklace round Donna’s neck.

  “Stop it now, that’s Mummy’s.”

  “I want to talk to you about ViaVita,” said Sarah taking advantage of the distraction.

  “You police? You don’t look like police.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” said Sarah laughing.

  The laughter seemed to break the spell. Sarah could see Donna trying to figure out whether this visitor was a good or a bad thing …

  “ViaVita? Hmm. I’ll talk to anyone about those bastards. You’d better come in.”

  And with that she stood by to let Sarah in and then shut the door.

  *

  Sarah sat on the sofa in the little lounge at the back of the house and drank her tea while Donna changed her baby’s nappy on the floor.

  In one corner of the room a toddler sat in a playpen: Sarah watched it chew on some old plastic toys while it stared at her.

  Sarah felt angry that a company like ViaVita was still allowed to stay in business given what it had clearly done to Donna’s life.

  Destroyed might not be too strong a word. The damage was visible throughout the house: bare walls, sticks of furniture, no TV or gadgets of any kind. Not even a radio.

  “Bailiffs came in and took everything,” Donna had said. “Lucky I hadn’t washed the bedding or they’d have taken that too.”

  Once Donna knew that Sarah was investigating ViaVita, she was happy to explain how the whole scam operated.

  A year ago, she’d borrowed cash to buy in to the scheme and get the licence for the local area. Boxes of product had turned up in a couple of days. And at first the stuff had sold well, albeit mostly to her friends …

  Donna had started to think this could be the way out and up. New life, maybe a car, even buy a house one day.

  Just like the ViaVita videos promised.

  But before she’d broken even, her friends — one by one — had said they couldn’t afford to keep buying the stuff. Sales completely dried up. Donna had trekked around all the villages on the local bus lugging a suitcase door to door.

  “People round here are skint though,” she’d said. “They need those last few quid for booze and a packet of fags — not bloomin’ vitamins! Pricey vitamins, at that!”

  She’d tried to sell the stuff back to ViaVita, which — they informed her — was simply never done. Instead they offered her different products, stuff they said would ‘sell like hot cakes’.

  Desperate, she took it.

  “I was such a fool,” she said.

  But the new items, miracle powders for mixed drinks also didn’t sell.

  Meanwhile the loan company wanted their money back and took out a court order.

  Donna pleaded with them that she couldn’t pay, but they wouldn’t listen. Eventually, a
few weeks ago, they sent round the bailiffs who took everything of value that she had.

  ViaVita got heavy too — and started threatening her.

  Donna’s boyfriend couldn’t take the hassle so he moved out, leaving her on her own with the two kids.

  And here she was now — at a dead end.

  Sarah watched as she tucked the baby into its buggy, then sat on the kitchen chair facing her.

  “Donna — you thought … hoped I was from the papers?”

  “Yeah. I got some reporter in Oxford interested a few weeks ago. He said he’d make a big fuss, tell the world about ViaVita, force ’em to give me my money back.”

  “But the paper didn’t run the story?”

  “Nah. Chickened out. Reporter still wanted to — but the paper thought they’d get sued. Those ViaVita sharks … they got money, high-priced lawyers. But he did tell me where one of the executives — named Magnusson — lived — bastard.”

  “And you found his house.”

  “Yeah. Bloomin’ mansion in Cherringham. All big walls and gates and cameras.”

  “Did you speak to Magnusson himself?”

  “You kidding? Never even saw him. Some bloke on a TV screen. Servant, bodyguard whatever. Shades, looked like a bouncer.”

  “And then the police came along.”

  “Not on our side, are they, the police? Work for them, for the rich bastards, every damn time.”

  “You know, I spoke to the policeman who was there — he said he got Social Services to visit you?”

  “Duh. Them too? Welcome to the real world. They’re bloody useless.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Donna shrugged. Her eyes took on a vacant stare.

  Sarah could see the woman had no answers.

  And she also knew she wasn’t going to find out any more about Martin Kent or his partner here.

  She got up and picked up her handbag.

  “For what it’s worth Donna, I do know a lawyer in Cherringham who does work for free sometimes. To help people out. His name’s Tony Standish.”

  “Reckon he can get me out of this mess then?”

  Sarah shrugged: “I can’t promise anything. He’s a good man, and a good lawyer. He might help.”

  “All I want is to get rid of this debt,” said Donna, standing up and following Sarah to the front door. “It just lives with you day and night, never goes away.”

  “I’ll get him to come over.”

  “Who?” came a male voice from the top of the stairs.

  Sarah span round in surprise — she’d assumed the house was empty.

  Dangerous assumption, she thought.

  She looked at Donna, who rolled her eyes.

  “Never you mind,” she shouted up the stairs.

  Sarah watched as a man appeared on the landing then came down and stopped at the foot of the stairs. Well over six foot, broad and fit, in a green army T-shirt, boxers and with short clippered hair, he stared suspiciously at her.

  “Who’s this?” he said to Donna.

  “Friend of mine,” said Donna. “She’s going to help.”

  “Don’t need help,” the man said to Sarah, brushing past her and going into the kitchen at the back.

  Donna made a face at his back then turned to Sarah.

  “That’s Carl,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  Sarah heard the water run in the sink, then watched him come back into the hall with a pint glass of water.

  “That you parked across the way?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Sarah.

  “Well don’t hang about,” he said. “Not if you want to keep a full set of tyres.”

  Sarah wasn’t sure if that was advice — or a warning.

  “I’m just going,” she said.

  He nodded and stepped closer to her. She moved back, not taking her eyes off him. He went upstairs again.

  “New boyfriend,” said Donna. “Bark’s worse than his bite.”

  She opened the front door.

  “I’d give you a phone number — but I don’t have a phone, do I?” said Donna.

  Sarah stepped outside into the bright sunshine.

  “Thanks for your help, Donna,” she said. “If we get anywhere with ViaVita, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Good luck,” said Donna. “And mind how you go. They’re into more than just vitamins, you know.”

  Sarah’s heart jumped — and she turned back to Donna instantly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They do some really bad stuff,” said Donna. “Didn’t you come across that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Illegal drugs. Kind you get online. Performance enhancers, pain killers, steroids, fitness stuff. All done on the quiet, of course.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I was offered it, by their associates,” said Donna. “More like hints …”

  “Go on.”

  “They said they had other — ‘products’ — they called them, things that could bring in enough cash to turn things round for me.”

  “But you said no?”

  “Too right. God, I’m in enough trouble as it is. Don’t you think?”

  Sarah nodded and smiled.

  “Okay. I’m definitely going to get Tony to come round — sound all right?”

  “Maybe when Carl’s not here, eh?”

  “Good idea,” said Sarah. “You’ve been brilliant Donna. Keep going. We’ll get them.”

  “Yeah.”

  She watched Donna give her a blank look — a look without hope — then headed back to her car.

  She doesn’t believe me, thought Sarah. But I will get these guys.

  She got in the car, turned it round and headed back to Cherringham.

  The sudden appearance of Carl had unnerved her. And it had also been a warning. A reminder. Investigating a murder could be dangerous. And if you let your guard drop, if you stopped concentrating, if you made assumptions …

  The results could be fatal.

  9. The House on the River

  Jack walked down the terraced lawns of Magnusson’s house towards the river and took in the gorgeous view.

  The sun shining brilliantly, the Thames below sparkling as it flowed.

  In the fields along its banks bright flags fluttered from white marquees. On either side of the Magnusson estate he could see ancient woodland stretching down to the water.

  The whole scene would have been perfect …

  Had it not been for the two tall men in sunglasses and dark suits who accompanied him as he walked.

  They’d been waiting for him in the lobby of the house when he arrived. Not threatening, just the right side of intimidating.

  But sending a signal nevertheless.

  He’d phoned ahead to make an appointment — when he’d described his business as ‘urgent and confidential’ the male voice at the other end of the phone had agreed to the meeting with his boss.

  Although there had been the warning: “Mr. Magnusson is a very busy man and you will have twenty minutes of his time only, Mr. Brennan.”

  So here Jack was, still in his jeans, but with his best Banana Republic tan jacket just to show a little respect for the occasion …

  “Don’t see you fellas in Cherringham much,” said Jack cheerily to his two bodyguards.

  There was no response — not a flicker.

  “You know, you should check out Huffington’s at least — they make these amazing little cookies—”

  The bodyguards stopped in their tracks so Jack stopped too.

  “If you could wait on the jetty, sir; Mr. Magnusson will be with you shortly,” said the bodyguard on the left, gesturing down to the river. Jack could see a short jetty that jutted out into the Thames next to a smart white clapboard boathouse.

  The bodyguards didn’t intend to come with him, so Jack smiled nicely and walked the last few yards alone. There was a small bench so he sat down. He looked back up the lawn at the house.
The place was immense — must be ten or twenty bedrooms, he thought. God knows how many bathrooms.

  The interior had been all wood floors and big modern art. Nice in a gallery — not Jack’s taste in a home, that was for sure.

  Apart from the two guards, who now stood motionless twenty yards apart on the lawn, there was no sign of life in the house that he could see.

  He guessed Mr. Magnusson would join him eventually. That ticker might be running already on his twenty minutes, so he hoped it would be soon.

  He turned his attention back to the river. There were boats everywhere scurrying back and forth, somehow avoiding each other. Rowing boats, cruisers, yachts, barges.

  One boat caught his eye.

  A single scull, bright yellow, a couple of hundred yards away, but coming in his direction fast. The guy rowing was tall, blond — and Jack suddenly realised — was almost certainly Mr. Magnusson …

  A fine rower too. Back in the States Jack had rowed a little in college but he quickly knew his limitations and switched to track. He’d seen guys who were destined to be international oarsmen though, and admired their technique.

  And Magnusson had the technique down. Rhythm, power, control, precision — the scull flying towards the jetty like an arrow.

  At what seemed to Jack like the last minute, Magnusson stopped rowing and deftly used the blades to slow the boat, then perfectly spin it sideways on to the jetty.

  Instinctively Jack got up from the bench and went across to secure the scull.

  From the boathouse a young man in polo shirt and shorts joined them to steady the other end of the boat. As Magnusson stepped out onto the jetty, the young man handed him a folded white towel.

  Jack watched as Magnusson wiped his face, head and shoulders, then turned to Jack and nodded a greeting.

  If there was such a magazine as Scandinavian Sportsman — then Magnusson would be on the cover every week: blond hair, big grin, broad shoulders. Six foot six for sure …

  “Mr. Brennan. Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.”

  “No problem,” said Jack. “Nice to meet you.”

  “We’ll go up to the house,” said Magnusson setting off immediately.

  Jack noticed that he didn’t even check the boat was secure: he clearly expected the young guy to be doing his job. No questions asked.