Cherringham--A Fatal Fall

by Matthew Costello

  Alan looked as though he had just been ambushed.

  “Can we ask you what you know about Dylan McCabe?”

  Alan nodded. “Okay — but I’ll have to dig through this pile to find my notes, what we have on him.”

  He’s okay with this, Sarah thought. Good.

  “We can wait.”

  “I was getting bored with all this anyway,” Alan said, grinning, and he slid the pile of reports to one side.

  “Here we go. So — ask away. Not much on the system to be honest, but what little I do know, I’m happy to tell you …”

  4. Dylan McCabe and Gary Sparks

  Sarah looked down at her pad to the few questions she and Jack had quickly come up with.

  More should pop up — as they always did — once they started with Alan.

  “So what have you got on his work record? What did his boss tell you?”

  Alan grinned. “Hang on. Now I’m feeling interrogated. But okay …”

  He slid a sheet of paper off the top of nearby pile.

  “Frankly, as I said, not much.”

  “But didn’t the builder’s office give you his information?” Sarah said. “I thought there were rules about such things …”

  “There are. People who work on building sites these days need a thing called a CSCS card. Kind of ID. Trouble is, the CSCS they had on file for McCabe was fake, bogus.”

  “That really his name?” Jack said.

  “As far as we can tell, yes. But a real CSCS would show his work record, tax payments, any criminal history …”

  He paused there.

  “The number the company had for him brings up no history in the system.”

  “So you really don’t know who Dylan McCabe is?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say that. According to some of the lads I talked to, he’d worked on other sites. He was Irish — he made no bones about that.”

  Sarah wondered if Alan knew that — two generations back — Jack’s family was about as Irish as they come.

  “But he didn’t seem to have any special construction training. Just signed up as a basic labourer. And — apparently — he was a bit of loose cannon.”

  “What do you mean?” Sarah said.

  “His boss said that McCabe liked to get the men stirred up. Talk about workers’ rights, that sort of thing. But — and this is the problem with your friend Ray’s theory — apparently he was well liked.”

  Sarah looked at Jack who had turned away, looking at the window of Alan’s office.

  The street outside was busy, the last frantic days of holiday shopping descending, Cherringham’s High Street buzzing.

  But she was sure that wasn’t what he was looking at.

  Putting the pieces together.

  And Sarah had to admit — there were things here that didn’t add up. The accident itself, Ray’s eyewitness account, the phony ID.

  And the big question: was there someone who wanted McCabe dead — and why?

  Jack returned to the conversation.

  “This boss—?”

  “Gary Sparks. Site supervisor.”

  “Did he say why McCabe was working late, in bad weather?”

  “Just said that McCabe was responsible for setting up for the tilers. Ran late that night while everyone else had already decamped to the Ploughman’s.”

  Again, Jack turned quiet.

  And Sarah had to admit that whatever questions and suspicions she had when she walked into this office had only grown.

  She was sure Alan could see that as well.

  “Think there’s something hidden there, Alan? Something Gary Sparks didn’t say?” Jack said.

  “I don’t know, Jack. I suppose there could be …”

  “Any reason someone might want him dead?”

  Sarah watched Alan take a breath. If anything, he was never one to jump to a conclusion.

  Cautious and steady.

  Sometimes … maybe too cautious and steady.

  “I don’t know, Jack. Apart from Ray and his mysterious ‘phantom’, there’s no evidence that this is anything other than an unfortunate building site accident.”

  Yet Sarah had the feeling that Alan didn’t have total confidence in those words.

  Jack nodded, looked to Sarah, signalling that the meeting was over.

  “Well, thanks for this. As you say, might all be nothing … you have to talk to good old Ray. Meanwhile we can do some digging. About this Dylan McCabe. Who he was …”

  “As I said — I’ve got no problems with that.”

  Jack stood up.

  “And we best let you get back to your pile.”

  Alan laughed, “I feel like Bob Cratchit trying to get my work done before midnight on the twenty-fourth!”

  Sarah turned, and they started for the door.

  “You two going to the big Ploughman’s party? What are they calling it this year — the Christmas Extravaganza …”

  Jack turned. “For sure. Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Sarah nodded. “It’s always fun. If I can get the kids’ presents all wrapped. I got Daniel something that’s nearly as big as Jack’s car!”

  They all laughed at that.

  And now with a bit of holiday cheer mixing with the slowly mounting suspicions of murder, they left the police station.

  *

  Sarah had agreed when Jack asked if she could talk to Gary Sparks.

  She did have a cover of sorts as editor of the Cherringham Newsletter. And this event, even if it was an accident, would need to be at least mentioned.

  Sparks said he couldn’t see her till knocking off time, which was perfect. The office had become surprisingly busy during these waning days of the year, and she wanted the decks cleared, all the orders out, before the holidays hit.

  She needed to give hard-working Grace a solid week off.

  And me too, she thought.

  So with the sun setting in a copper-and-grey sky, these final days of solstice making daylight time last a mere half-dozen hours, she drove to the back of the building site, to the double cabin that was the site supervisor’s office.

  Already workers were streaming away, heading to the pub; as much a ritual at the end of a workday as that first jolt of caffeine in the morning.

  Tough life, she thought, working long hours in this weather.

  She pulled up close to the wooden steps leading to the office entrance, on the edge of the site, and got out.

  What had once been mushy mud on the ground had frozen into rock-hard waves, tire marks, and footsteps like fossils … they wouldn’t disappear until there was a thaw.

  Up the steps, and a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” a voice yelled.

  He had to know it was me, she thought. I doubt any of the workers knock.

  That voice — hardly welcoming.

  Sarah opened the door which — funny enough for a building site — seemed stuck, the swollen frame holding it fast without a strong tug.

  When it popped open, she walked in and saw Gary Sparks.

  Whose first response to her entry was to look up and squint.

  “Okay, Ms. Edwards, I don’t have a lot of time here. Damned government likes its flow of paperwork, accident or no accident.”

  Sarah looked around for a chair to sit in.

  There wasn’t one.

  Removed for my benefit or did Gary like to keep those he addressed standing?

  “Terrible accident,” she said. “I’d like to put something about it in the newsletter. People will have heard about it. I can give them some details perhaps …”

  Another squint as if Gary Sparks might have the secret power with his eyes to make her disappear.

  “Details, hmm?”

  A nod from Sarah.

  She supposed that the site supervisor could have easily told her that he had nothing to say.

  But then …

  That could look suspicious.

  And if it was just an accident, why do anything suspicious? />
  But Sarah wondered. Yes, she had told him about the Cherringham Newsletter, a weekly bulletin of news, events, obituaries, and minutes from Parish Council meetings that she put together for the village. But he surely knew about Sarah’s other activities.

  With Jack.

  He’d be aware and — she guessed — he’d tread carefully.

  She smiled, hoping to disarm him as much as she could.

  Spark’s face remained unchanged.

  “I was curious …” she said. “It was a dreadful night, everyone else had already gone home … why was Dylan McCabe working so late?”

  Sparks took a slow, deep breath, as if buying time.

  “That one of them ‘details’ that your readers need to know?”

  A small nod.

  Sarah wondering how short this dance with the supervisor might be.

  Sparks looked away, then back to her.

  “The guy was always on at me for extra work, few minutes here, half an hour there. Always needing the overtime; he badgered me about it non-stop.”

  “And you gave it to him?”

  “If it shut the bloody Irishman up, sure, I—”

  Sparks stopped short, as if he had realised that his tone didn’t quite match a boss grieving the unfortunate death of one of his workers.

  It struck Sarah that Alan had mentioned nothing about overtime after his interview with Sparks.

  Was the story changing?

  That could be good. Though standing in front of Sparks’ messy desk, Sarah found his bear-like physique and mug of a face undeniably intimidating.

  Maybe I should have left this one to Jack.

  “So no one else was working then, just McCabe?”

  “Had some tiles that needed setting up for the workers first thing in the morning. Few minutes’ quick work. As I said, he grabbed anything that was going.”

  “Nasty night, though,” Sarah repeated.

  And Sparks answered with a smug smile. “Why, yes it was. Which is why McCabe had the accident.”

  “Did you know that his CSCS was bogus, a fake?”

  “Not till the local cop told me. Doesn’t surprise me though. When he signed up I couldn’t get his card to swipe. He said it was damaged, new one in the post. Anyway — there was all sorts of things off about that one.”

  “Off? What do you mean?”

  “Like needing that overtime. Always owed the boys here money. But not just them. Apparently some big-league sharks, the ones who like to get paid on time. And McCabe liked his whiskey, his gambling, and his—”

  Again a pause.

  “Any other vices?”

  Too quickly, Sarah thought, Sparks shook his head. “Who knows …”

  “When did you find out about the accident?”

  “Next morning. Same as everyone. To be honest, Ms. Edwards, when I left I thought he’d finished the job, and was already half pissed like the rest of the lads down the Ploughman’s.”

  It was clear that Sparks hadn’t liked Dylan McCabe. But with him doing such a poor job of hiding that fact, could he have really done something … to make this accident happen?

  “You think I could see where … he died?”

  Sparks looked away, looking seriously displeased at the prospect.

  “Look, Ms. Edwards, I think you’ve got enough details for your ‘newsletter’ — don’t you? Me, I’ve got bloody inspectors breathing down my back. Lots to do …”

  He slapped a meaty hand down on his table. “This is not a good time for tours.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “I could just walk over there myself, take a look. It would help me describe how precarious the work was. Readers could understand how a fall like that might happen. With the icy, freezing rain.”

  “Hell. Okay. Just go left out of the office. It’s the middle house, still got all the scaffolding up. We’ve stopped work for a few days on it. The northwest corner is where they found the body.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sparks.”

  The supervisor said nothing as Sarah turned to the resistant door.

  It was a nasty night when Dylan McCabe fell.

  But his boss seemed equally nasty.

  Sarah twisted the knob on the door which, after a few strong tugs, again finally relented to let her out of the stuffy office, to the frozen muddy tracks that riddled the outside like a bizarre pattern on a dingy quilt.

  She got into her Rav-4 and drove it over the pitted ground to the place where Dylan McCabe fell to his death. It wasn’t far — but in this weather …

  5. The Site of the Accident

  Sarah’s body shook as her left front tyre rolled into a crater that challenged the front-wheel drive and normally great traction of her 4x4.

  This whole site — with its burly workers leaving, an icy wind whipping through half-finished buildings — resembled a dark lunar landscape of holes, ruts, and frozen slices of mud.

  It was creepy to be here.

  But she knew Jack would ask her … did you look at where it happened? Notice anything?

  She had to stop the car well away from the far corner of the building.

  There was only a narrow path here, thin ruts on the ground showing where building material had to be wheeled over to that side of the construction site.

  She turned around.

  She saw Sparks’ trailer.

  He could have looked out of his window and seen someone here, she thought.

  That is if he got out of his chair, and took a look.

  Must have missed it, she guessed.

  She also saw groups of workers nearby. Two of them on top of one nearly finished building looking down at her.

  She turned away and took a few more steps to the corner of the building.

  Then — she looked up.

  There was scaffolding all around the building. And in among all the scaffold poles, planks stretched to form a walkway around the perimeter.

  She took a few more steps, and saw a ladder on the northern side of the site leading up to the top of the scaffolding.

  This is where McCabe would have gone up.

  Which meant …

  She looked down.

  He fell somewhere here.

  According to Alan, right onto some kind of metal mesh. Sliced right through him, and McCabe’s life was over within seconds.

  The mesh had probably been removed when they took McCabe’s body away.

  Maybe removing evidence, she thought.

  Then she looked back up.

  Those planks, the walkways … all looking pretty straight forward to navigate.

  McCabe had a phony ID card, but he had worked the site for months. He’d know how to move on that walkway, even in ice and rain.

  What happened to send him flying downwards?

  And was it just an accident that the mesh he fell onto happened to be there? Without it, it would have been a simple fall.

  He’d be knocked about a bit, but it was survivable.

  But not with a set of metal rods right through him.

  She felt a stiff breeze. Despite her warmest parka, she shivered. This had to be the coldest place in Cherringham and she wanted to get away, get home.

  At least she could tell Jack that she’d looked at it and what she had seen.

  And also her feeling: something’s wrong here.

  She turned back to her car, away from the corner where McCabe had died, onto the rutted path back to the bumpy track that led out of the site …

  Only to see a sleek black car parked in front of Sparks’ trailer, lights on, engine running, plumes of smoky exhaust pouring from the back of the massive luxury vehicle, a shiny Mercedes star on the bonnet.

  She kept her eyes on the car even as she had to pay attention to her steps — so easy to twist an ankle walking here, getting caught by a rut, or the sharp edges of the frozen mud that felt more like jagged pieces of rock.

  Steady, she told herself.

  Almost at the car.

  As Sparks came out o
f the office, and behind him, another man.

  Dressed in a jet-black overcoat and on his head — mismatched to the luxurious car and rich coat — a ski hat.

  *

  Just before she reached her car, the man in the ski hat pointed at her. Sparks nodded.

  There was no doubt where the men were looking.

  Right at me, she thought.

  Had Sparks called the man?

  Saying … you’d better come and see this. This woman, asking questions, walking around.

  (And now she wished Jack was right here, standing beside her …).

  Then her foot did catch a small indentation; a sudden sharp twist hitting her ankle.

  A stumble, that had her lurching against the side of her car.

  When she’d recovered her balance, she again looked to the trailer, to the black car, engine running with a deep throaty rumble she could hear all the way over here.

  The chill of the day, dark already, now matched by an icy feeling as she saw the guy in the coat walking towards her.

  She stood up straight and waited as the man approached.

  “You all right, love?” he said, pushing his ski hat higher on his forehead.

  There were times when Sarah picked up on the word ‘love’ used like that.

  But she thought she saw genuine concern in the man’s face and this time let the word ride …

  He might have the car and coat of a mafia boss, but close to, he looked more like jovial barman.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “You don’t want to be out here on your own,” said the man. “I was just giving my supervisor a bollocking for not coming with you.”

  “That’s okay, he—”

  “No, it’s not okay. He’s a rude bugger and I won’t have visitors treated like that on my site.”

  “Mr. Winters?”

  “Charlie, please,” said Winters, taking off a glove and holding out his hand to her.

  She shook it.

  “He tell you why I’m here?”

  “Said you’re a bit of a, hmm, investigator, asking questions, trying to find out what happened to poor Dylan. Terrible accident …”

  “That’s right,” Sarah said.

  “Well good on you! I’d like to know how that could happen, what with all the precautions we take … If Sparks screwed up, I’d want to be the first to know.”