Contents
Cover
About the Book
The Authors
Title
Copyright
PROLOGUE — 1998
1. A Deadly Decision
PART ONE — The Body
2. A Perfect Morning
3. A Summer Storm
4. The Carnival Committee
5. A Small Surprise
6. A Trip Upriver
7. The Scene of a Crime?
8. A Chat about Murder
9. What the Cadaver Says
10. A Missed Appointment
11. A Sudden Departure
12. A Day Trip
13. Unusual Behaviour
14. Dead Ends
15. Following the Money
16. Steaks — Medium-rare
17. A Case of …?
18. Ray’s Return
19. Body Secrets
PART TWO — Carnival Week
20. Lunch at Todwell
21. Speculation and Suspicions
22. Trouble at the Fête
23. Memory Jogged
24. Breaking and Entering
25. Shots in the Dark
26. Q & A
27. Secrets
28. All in the Detail
29. Fine Leg
30. Sticky Wickets
31. Dustup
32. Beers and a Brawl
33. Dinner on the Goose
34. All the Fun of the Fair
35. A Long Way Down
36. A Missing Piece Found
37. A Spanish Connection
38. The Watch
39. Back to Bourton
40. When Things Come Together
41. The Regatta
42. Confession
43. The Body Gets Buried
44. The Cop’s Tale
45. Karin’s House
46. Larwood Talks
47. To Catch a Killer
48. The Trouble with Harry
49. The Boathouse
50. The Killer Runs
Epilogue
About the Book
It’s Carnival week in Cherringham. Most of the locals are looking forward to the regatta, the parade, and the fireworks. Jack and Sarah are too, until they find themselves faced with a baffling twenty-year-old cold case …
A cold case that soon heats up when a member of the Carnival Committee suddenly goes missing. Jack and Sarah investigate — and quickly come up against a wall of silence.
Are the two cases connected? What dark secret from Cherringham’s past is being kept hidden?
As the Carnival rolls to its spectacular finale, Jack and Sarah race against time to stop the murderer from killing again.
The Authors
Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of a number of successful novels, including Vacation (2011), Home (2014) and Beneath Still Waters (1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed The 7th Guest, Doom 3, Rage and Pirates of the Caribbean.
Neil Richards has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He’s also written script and story for over 20 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Starship Titanic, co-written with Douglas Adams, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.
His writing partnership with NYC-based Matt Costello goes back to the late 90’s and the two have written many hours of TV together. Cherringham is their first crime fiction as co-writers.
Matthew Costello
Neil Richards
The Body in the Woods
A Cherringham Mystery
»be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT
Digital original edition
»be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG
Copyright © 2017 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Köln, Germany
Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards
Edited by Eleanor Abraham
Project management: Kathrin Kummer
Cover illustration © shutterstock: jason2009 | suns07butterfly | Feliks Kogan | Raymond Llewellyn | Jan Martin Will
Cover design: Jeannine Schmelzer
eBook production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf
ISBN 978-3-7325-1855-5
www.be-ebooks.com
PROLOGUE
1998
1. A Deadly Decision
He stood up as the bus pulled into the main square of this small English village.
His heart — racing. So crazy …
To do this thing — to come here — without telling anyone. But he had to! There was no way he could not do it.
The sun was already setting as he got off the bus. An old couple looked at him as if they knew he wasn’t from around here.
Was it that obvious?
So cold now in the open air, out of the heat of the bus. He wore a thin sweater but, with the sun gone, he could have used a real jacket.
The cold only added to the chill he felt in coming here.
So impulsive, his friends would say. He just doesn’t think!
But there was no way he could sit, and wait, and wonder. Was it all really over? So exciting, so amazing, so thrilling … now nothing?
***
He walked. Aimlessly at first. Down this alley, this lane, until he finally stood in the shadows. He felt alone. The weather was turning colder. So stupid to not bring warm clothes.
So many things he should have thought about.
But one thing he did bring, despite the risk. In a little side pocket of his backpack.
The small plastic bag.
A quick look to either end of this curving alleyway.
He undid the zip-lock. Then — another look down the curve of the alley — he slid a finger in.
Just a taste.
He brought the finger to his nose and inhaled, the white powder vanishing from his fingertip.
Then that sweet rush — and he actually felt warmer. And this dark lane, not ominous at all.
He could see things quite clearly.
He refocused on his task.
He turned, and walked away from the shelter of the lane, towards the lights and shops and people of the village.
***
He passed the pub. “The Angel” he read on a sign, with a figure of a beautiful angel hovering above the letters. Already filled with people.
So warm, so inviting. But no.
Then he passed a run-down hotel. He looked at the faded sign by the gate: “The Bell”.
Across the road was a sign — the street map of the village. He hurried across the High Street. He could just make out the words on the washed-out map by the light of a nearby street lamp.
There!
Yes! That was it for sure!
He had to catch his breath. His heart began to race.
Only moments away.
He took a deep breath and started walking again — away from the lights of the village into the inky blackness.
PART ONE
The Body
2. A Perfect Morning
“This is the life, eh?” said Ray Stroud, climbing down from the cab of Tom Vining’s rusted pick-up truck and taking in the view.
Ahead of him, the long grass of the meadow spread all the way down to the river, dotted with poppies and wild flowers that shone red and blue in the morning sun.
And even though it was barely eight o’clock, the air already felt warm.
It was going to be another fantastic June day.
And I’ll be fifty quid richer by the end of it, he thought, already tas
ting that first pint of Hooky ale down at the Ploughman’s.
He reached back into the cab for his takeaway breakfast, still warm from the transport café out on the Cherringham road.
Carefully he unwrapped the mega-deal sausage, bacon and double-egg sandwich, and squirted a sachet of tomato ketchup deep into its greasy folds.
He took a big bite, egg and butter oozing down his chin, looking back at Tom.
“Gonna be a scorcher,” he said.
“Don’t count on it,” said Tom from inside the cab. “My phone says it’s going to rain this afternoon.”
Ray looked up and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. What the hell did phones know about the weather?
Then he watched as a small convoy of vehicles appeared at the far side of the field and headed straight for them, bumping over the rough ground.
“This the gaffer?” he said.
“Might be,” said Tom, climbing out of his cab and standing next to him. “Might not be. Far as I can tell, we got two bosses on this job and neither of them knows his arse from his elbow.”
Ray carried on eating while he watched the vehicles line up in the corner of the field.
Two cars — each with a single occupant. And a minibus packed with people and baggage.
Not hard to work out who were the bosses and who were the workers.
He watched as the drivers, carrying laptops and shoulder bags, got out of the cars and immediately huddled together, pulling out papers and pointing around the field.
Meanwhile, the side doors of the minibus slid open and Ray saw the passengers pile out.
Students, they looked like. A few skinny blokes with wispy beards, shorts and shiny new boots — but mostly bright-eyed girls in T-shirts and jeans. All carrying rucksacks, buckets and yellow hard hats.
Having them flouncing around … nice perk of the job!
Pretty obvious from here that those hands would all be soft and spotless.
Two weeks digging up this field, he thought, they’re gonna have skin bad as mine.
Ray inspected his own hands: calloused, ingrained with dirt, nails torn and discoloured. Then he rolled up his empty breakfast wrapper and chucked it through the window of Tom’s cab.
He watched as the students dragged tents and boxes into the shade of the trees that lined one side of the meadow.
Good place to make camp, he thought. Wanna stay out of that sun today all right.
The two bosses exchanged a few words with the group, then headed over towards the truck and the trailer.
“Here we go,” said Tom out of the side of his mouth.
The men approached and the taller of the two stuck his hand out towards Ray.
“Mr Vining?” he said. “Professor Cresswell, Western University, Department of Archaeology. I believe we spoke on the phone.”
Ray didn’t take the hand — but instead nodded towards Tom who now stood next to him.
“I’m Vining,” said Tom, not moving.
Ray saw the man — his hand now hovering in mid-air, unshaken — look confused.
Then Tom held out his hand and put him out of his misery.
Ray smiled to himself. For as long as he had known Tom Vining, the digger-driver had a gift for putting people off their stride — especially if they were in charge. Not a tactic that worked if you were rubbish at your job — but everybody knew that Tom was the best digger driver for miles.
A specialist. An artist. And always in demand.
“This is Ray,” said Tom, nodding to him. “My banksman.”
The professor looked confused at the word. “He walks along, checking as I dig. Digging with a shovel. Just need good eyes and a strong back.”
“Ah, yes, terrific,” said Cresswell. “Wonderful to have you on board, Ray. Have you ever worked on a dig before?”
“No,” said Ray, “but I’ve dug a lot of holes.”
He watched Cresswell adjust his glasses, clearly trying to work out if Ray was taking the piss.
Then a sheepish smile. “Oh, very funny, very funny,” he said at last and nodded to the man next to him who smiled back.
Ray looked hard at the other man. He recognised him from the village. Right … that was it … leading groups of tourists round on the Cherringham History Tour.
“This is Will Goodchild who’ll be on site running the dig on my behalf. Will’s our local Roman expert — isn’t that right, Will?”
Ray saw Goodchild frown, as if he wasn’t happy with that description, then smile awkwardly at Ray and Tom.
The historian didn’t seem to recognise him.
No surprise there, thought Ray, him not exactly being a regular down at the Ploughman’s.
“Yes, um, the university’s in charge, of course,” continued Cresswell, “but as far as you’re concerned, Will’s your, um, line manager. I shall be running things from the ivory tower! Isn’t that right, Will?”
Will shrugged, clearly finding it hard to smile at Cresswell’s joke.
The professor continued. “Now, um, Tom — you’ve given Ray here an induction I hope? Health and safety regulations? Paramount importance you know, on a dig like this, with students around. No accidents!”
“Don’t worry,” said Tom turning and looking Ray in the eye. “He’s not as thick as he looks.”
“Good to hear it,” said Cresswell, laughing uncertainly. And then: “Oh no. Ray — I mean — good to hear you’ve had your induction, not that you’re er …”
“No worries, Mr Cresswell, I know what you meant,” said Ray.
Guy like this … always has trouble putting two words together talking with someone who does a real day’s work.
And now, with the man fumbling, awkward, Ray knew that he was one point up against the big boss.
“So, to the job. Like I said on the phone, Mr Cresswell, I’ve worked a lot of digs over the years,” said Tom.
“Indeed — you come highly recommended. And we’re grateful you’ve joined us. So here’s the plan for today. I’ve got my first- and second-year students over there, along with a few experienced volunteers. They’re setting up camp right now.”
Then, a broad smile from the man, struggling to be in charge and radiate a sense of bonhomie with the labourers.
“They’re under strict instructions to get some tea going. Can’t dig without tea, hmm? We’ve got portaloos coming and a food trailer some time later this morning. In the meantime, as I say, Will here is in charge. Any questions?”
Ray looked at the ground.
“No?”
Ray watched Cresswell waiting for a response. Even Goodchild didn’t seem too bothered about being chummy.
“One last thing,” said Cresswell. “Timing.”
“Oh yes?” said Tom.
“We’ve got four weeks — and four weeks only — to finish this dig before the farmer wants his field back. Can’t afford any delays of any kind. So all hands to the pump, eh?”
“Pump?” said Ray with a straight face. “We didn’t bring a pump.” He watched Cresswell deciding whether to reply or not. After a pause:
“That’s clear then,” said Cresswell. “Here’s to a successful dig, Mr Goodchild!”
He slapped Will on the back, then turned and headed back up the meadow to his car. The three of them watched him go. Then Goodchild turned:
“No need for you two to wait for the tea. You can crack on, get the digger up and running, start sorting one or two trenches straight way. That sound like a plan?”
“’Spose it’ll have to be,” said Tom.
Ray watched Goodchild’s face carefully. Maybe this bloke wasn’t going to be such a walkover.
Goodchild pointed down towards the river.
“Now the aerial photographs — and the geophysics — all show up some very interesting shapes across this meadow, and into the woods you can see down there by the fence. Oh — before I forget — the rest of those trees will have to come down first — you have brought some chainsaws I assume?”
Ray
nodded and looked down the slope where the adjoining woodland spilled over into the meadow.
Years ago, this had probably all been part of one estate, the woodland blurring into pasture.
Then the land must have got sold, and that fence, driving down to the water’s edge, had gone through the edge of the woods.
Down on the riverbank, Ray could see stacks of timber where some of the bigger trees — oak and chestnut probably — had already been felled.
Even from here, it looked like fine timber.
Could do with some of that myself, he thought.
“Jolly good. So, the idea is that there may or may not be a Roman building of consequence somewhere under the field or in the woods there. We certainly know there was a road. And — here’s the tremendously interesting bit — that road may actually lead to a ford or even an ancient bridge down there across the Thames. If it does then that’s one hell of a find and I’m sure you’ll be as thrilled as I am!”
Actually, Ray couldn’t have cared less, thinking only of his pay. And the food trailer later. But he tried his best to look thrilled. Sometimes jobs like this meant good money and maybe a good tip at the end too.
He could see that Goodchild expected a little more enthusiasm — but a bridge? Was that really what all this fuss was about?
He’d been hoping they were looking for treasure. Big chests of Roman gold. A hoard — that’s what they called it wasn’t it?
A few years back, a couple of Ray’s mates had dug up a Roman plate worth a fortune.
Changed their lives, that had …
But a bridge? No way was he going to get rich finding what’s left of an old bridge.
“Anyway, first things first, we want to get some test holes dug, get the general ‘lay of the land’, eh? How does that sound?”
“Sounds just fine,” said Tom.
“Good. Soon as you’ve taken out the last of the trees, I’ll have some pegs and lines laid down there, mark out the first trench. You can join me with the digger when you’re ready, hmm?”
“Will do,” said Tom, though neither he nor Ray moved.
“Look sharp then,” said Goodchild staring at them both. “Four weeks — remember?”
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