EQMM, June 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Not far away, the pleasant whizz of cars was a reminder that mechanised life carried on. Across the river, long grass bent in the breeze. Nothing else happened. There were no other boats on the water, and nobody walking the fields either side. Cows didn't count. Marlowe, Joe guessed, would have savoured the moment. Marlowe would have lain back in his bone-dry punt, pulled a hat over his eyes, and smoked himself to sleep. Joe didn't smoke, didn't wear a hat, and having a nap wouldn't help. He checked once more that there was no one around and raised an imaginary rifle to his eyes. Sighted down its imaginary scope. Over there—on the long-gone balcony—Harry Cudlipp stood smoking like Marlowe gazing across at a landscape which must have been much the same as it was now. He'd been remembering something he'd seen which he wasn't supposed to have seen, and a certain smile had played across his lips, because Harry Cudlipp had been sure that his knowledge was going to make him rich. Instead, it made him dead. He had stubbed the cigarette out in the hanging basket to his left, yawned, and stretched. Joe squeezed an imaginary trigger. Bang. A shot had rung out. And Harry Cudlipp died.

  Sixteen years ago, this had been. He'd been dead all that time. Why would he stand up now?

  Joe toyed again with his imaginary rifle. Maybe it was as simple as this: that hitting a stationary target from a floating boat was a lot trickier than pretending made it seem. With the thought, he shifted position, and the punt shied like a pony. That would be enough to take the edge off a sharpshooter's talent, wouldn't it? He counted out loud and made it a full sixteen seconds before the punt settled down. And then he raised the imaginary rifle again. Bang. That would rock the boat even more. And would the rocking start a nanosecond before the bullet left the barrel—enough to throw it off—or would the bullet be long gone before its departure made waves? “Bang,” he whispered. What sort of distance was involved? Where precisely had the boathouse stood? How high was its balcony?

  And then he put down his imaginary rifle and shook his very real head. Joe, Joe Joe, he told himself. This is not the answer. The answer is not, Harry Cudlipp didn't really die. We know Harry Cudlipp died. The question is, what went wrong?

  He turned and surveyed the nearer side of the river, the side where his punt was moored. The bank rose steeply for a yard or so, and he had to stand to see the view. When he did, it hadn't changed: same fields, same long grass. Same buzz of cars in the distance. Light flashed from windscreens where the road dipped. He sat down, gazed back at where the boathouse once stood. There is more than one kind of ghost, he decided. Not that ghosts exist, he noted, in case Zoe ever acquired a transcript of his thoughts, but still: There's more than just one kind of thing we might describe as a ghost. Places, too, can have spirits. Maybe this place still missed its boathouse. A shiver ran down his spine then; a shiver the punt felt too. It wobbled once more on the water.

  Joe stood, unfixed the pole from the riverbed, and pushed off from the bank.

  Heading back was easier than heading out. Partly, this was because he was now going with the flow, but mostly it was down to increased competence. Any form of transport in which the human was in control—that is, any which didn't involve animals—and a learning curve was there for the taking, any competent person—hard to avoid the word “male” here, but Joe managed it—could pick up the basics of something like punting within a very short space of time. One little trip upriver was all it took. Heading to the boathouse that was no longer there, he'd been an amateur. Poling back to the one he'd hired the punt from: You couldn't say expert. But experienced, yes. An experienced puntsman. This time, he knew what he was doing.

  * * * *

  Zoe said, “So you fell in."

  "There was some kind of surge."

  "A tsunami."

  "You can mock, but there's a special wave, there's a word for it—what do they call it? The Cherwell Bore? I think that's what I encountered."

  "They'll probably cover it on Newsnight. What were you doing on a punt anyway?"

  "Nothing,” said Joe bravely.

  The fifteen-minute walk back from the boathouse had taken thirty. He'd not have thought the human form, with just the usual number of clothes on its back, could absorb so much water—water he'd shed like a colander all the way. Hey, mister? You're melting. Joe, not normally one to shun an opening gambit, had tried to pretend he hadn't heard. But it was difficult maintaining a lofty dignity with your underwear growing tighter at every step.

  At least Zoe wasn't around, he remembered thinking as he'd reached the office at last. At least he had that to be thankful for, he congratulated himself as he dripped up the stairs. But of course there she'd been, at her computer, watching as he opened the door.

  "Nothing?” she repeated.

  "Just punting."

  "Punting's almost a sport."

  "So?"

  "An athletic activity."

  "So?"

  "So when they wanted you for the Rose and Crown darts team, Joe, you turned up with a doctor's note. You don't do sports. What the hell were you doing on a punt?"

  "Oh,” Joe said, as if remembering. “I was on a case."

  "Why does that not surprise me?"

  "You're an astute and—"

  "Don't."

  "Just telling it like it is.” The best they'd managed for a towel on the premises was hand-sized and not especially clean, but Zoe had found an old Sticky Fingers T-shirt in a drawer, which Joe now wore. His trousers were draped over the windowsill in the faint hope this might dry them out a little. Bare-legged, he was perched on a wooden stool. He'd felt more ridiculous, but not since turning ten. “But it's an interesting business, Zoe. When I tell you about it, you'll be . . . interested."

  "The only interesting thing so far is the way you're avoiding telling me anything."

  "Our new client. He has a situation."

  "Leaving ‘our’ aside for the moment, and without bothering just yet to tell me about the client, what's ‘situation’ mean?"

  "He's, ah . . . haunted."

  "Haunted?"

  "But not literally."

  "Well, I'm glad not literally, Joe. Literally would mean he's mad and you're bonkers. Who's he not being haunted by, then? Literally?"

  "One of his murder victims."

  Zoe opened her mouth, then closed it again. Looked as if she regretted being there. Then said, “Joe? We really need to talk."

  * * * *

  "'A shot rang out?'” Zoe asked.

  "He's a writer."

  "You think? ‘A certain smile played across his lips'?"

  "He's not on the syllabus,” Joe conceded.

  "I doubt he could spell ‘syllabus.’ And as for the sex scene . . . “

  Joe's noncommittal look was the big giveaway.

  "You haven't actually read this, have you?"

  "He provided the essential details."

  N. R. Holkham's Death at the Boathouse sat on Zoe's knees, a shadowy figure in a punt gracing its front cover. It had taken her roughly half an hour to get through the 250-page paperback—Joe suspected she hadn't read every word—and as soon as she'd reached the end, she'd flipped back to the crucial passage where Harry Cudlipp had his drop-dead moment. “Hell, Joe. He finds out you haven't bothered to read it, he'll probably come round and commit murder in real life."

  Joe said, “I've been busy. Is it any good?"

  "Those were the best bits. A shot rang out. A certain smile played across his lips.” Zoe slapped the book on the desk. “And this is it? He wants you to investigate a murder that happened in one of his own books? It didn't occur to you to suggest that he might be better off having his head examined?"

  "Well, I—"

  "But oh no, that's not your way, is it? The brilliant detective, Joe Silvermann. No problem too small, no client too flaky. He is paying for this, isn't he?"

  "Of course,” said Joe, with some dignity.

  "Well, that's a start. So what's your plan?"

  "My plan,” Joe said carefully. Then he nodded. “It's, ah—no
t fully formulated yet."

  "But it involves ridding Mr. Reeve-Holkham of his troublesome ghost."

  "That would be the ideal outcome."

  She shook her head. “Are you aware how crazy this is? Your client writes a book sixteen years ago. Some character—and I'm being generous here, because Holkham's a better typist than he is a writer—some ‘character’ gets shot dead three chapters in. A murder that's solved by chapter twelve. And now Holkham's waking up nights thinking he's made some dreadful mistake? Damn it all, Joe, if he's sorry he killed the guy, why not just bring him back to life? Write another book. Put Harry in it."

  "That would be cheating."

  "He could set it earlier in time."

  "Unworthy gimmick,” Joe sniffed. “Besides, you're missing the point. Mr. Reeve-Holkham doesn't care about Harry Cudlipp. He's just worried that when he described Harry's murder, he made a mistake of some sort. That what he wrote couldn't actually happen. And that bothers him because he takes great pride in his research. Apart from anything else, when you make mistakes, readers send letters pointing it out. Or pencil snide comments in library copies."

  "Readers actually do that?"

  "Apparently."

  "What a bunch of losers. And has he had many letters?"

  "He didn't mention receiving any, no."

  "I guess that makes him a bigger loser. What's that buzzing noise? Is that you?"

  "Not me, Zoe. I don't buzz."

  She picked up last week's Oxford Times, which was topmost of the pile of newspapers waiting to go for recycling, and rolled it into a tube. Then she swatted the bluebottle and flicked its mangled corpse into the wastepaper basket.

  "One problem solved,” she said. “When did this trauma start?"

  "A week or so ago,” Joe said.

  "And this non-ghost, this not-quite-literal haunting, it mostly happens when Holkham's looking into mirrors."

  "Reflections set it off, is what he tells me."

  Zoe shook her head. “People lose cats every day of the week. But do they come to you for help? No, you have to end up with the lunatic fringe. No client too flaky.” She was repeating herself. Never a good sign. “Did your trip upriver help?"

  "It's always useful to view a crime scene,” Joe said.

  "I'll take it that's a no."

  "It was a thought, that's all."

  "I'd not dignify it quite that much. When are you seeing your client again?"

  Your, Joe noted. Not our. Your. “Tomorrow morning."

  "Well,” Zoe said. “Good luck with that."

  She stood, still holding the rolled-up newspaper.

  "You might want to mop the stairs dry before then."

  And off she went.

  * * * *

  The tic at Nigel Reeve-Holkham's eyebrow had got no better. Joe found it difficult not to address his opening remarks to it. “Please,” he said. “Please—take the weight off. Have a seat."

  "Thank you, Jack."

  "It's Joe."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "An easy mistake to make."

  Both men sat, and it was a toss-up which looked worse for wear. Joe himself had been awake much of the night. Partly this was due to worrying that he might have contracted something unpleasant in the Cherwell. Rats swam in it, and even the less obviously disgusting river-dwellers such as ducks did not lead hygienic lives. There was a medical dictionary somewhere, and Joe would have had an anxious browse through it over breakfast if he'd felt like breakfast, and if Zoe hadn't hidden the book because reading it affected his blood pressure. But the other worry, of course, was the client.

  "If I believed in ghosts,” Nigel Reeve-Holkham had said, “I'd not have gone in for this particular line. I'd have written horror stories."

  And that was the problem in a nutshell. How did you get rid of a ghost when the haunted didn't believe in them? The attitude rendered traditional cures useless. Exorcism demanded the cooperation of all involved. Even the ghost.

  "I take it the problem's no better,” he said.

  Though the tic had already answered that one.

  The client said, “I cut myself shaving again.” He tilted his chin so Joe could see a nasty-looking nick from an old-fashioned cut-throat razor. Something larger than a duck walked across Joe's grave. “It's not that he looms up behind me or anything. He's not a physical presence. Nor even a spiritual one. He's just . . . there. The memory of him is there. And I don't understand why."

  "I went to the boathouse yesterday. To where it used to be, I mean,” Joe said.

  "And what did you think?"

  "Well, it occurred to me that it wasn't such an easy thing to do, to shoot a man from a punt. Maybe this is the mistake, in a nutshell. That you chose a murder method that was not so simply done. That wasn't entirely . . . “

  He trailed away, the effort of avoiding the word “credible” getting too much for him.

  "The killer,” Reeve-Holkham said, “had SAS training."

  "Of course,” said Joe. “I hadn't forgotten that."

  This was true. He hadn't forgotten because he'd never known it.

  "One of the world's finest marksmen."

  "So a shot from a punt . . . “

  "Would have been child's play,” Reeve-Holkham confirmed. “And besides. If that were the trouble, why would it wait sixteen years to disturb my sleep? I publish a book a year. I've lost count of the number of murder victims, and not one has come back to haunt me except Harry. Not one. No, the solution lies in the more recent past."

  The pair fell silent. The problem with this problem, Joe thought, was that it fell outside the realm of clues and answers. Nigel Reeve-Holkham was a writer. His troubles would be best addressed by medication.

  Downstairs, the door opened. He recognised Zoe's footsteps.

  "I perhaps should warn you,” he said, “that my partner—"

  But it was too late. Zoe had arrived.

  "You'd be the writer,” she said.

  "Well,” Reeve-Holkham demurred modestly. “I'm a writer, certainly. Only my agent thinks I'm the—"

  "That's what I meant."

  Zoe was wearing jeans, a red top, her black leather jacket. She was reaching into her jacket pocket now, pulling out a folded-up page from a newspaper. “Do you read the local press, Mr. Reeve-Holkham?"

  "Nigel. Please."

  "Do you read the local press, Nigel?"

  "Not usually."

  "How about last week? Did you see the Oxford Times?"

  "Well, yes. Yes I did, as a matter of fact."

  "New book out?"

  "I thought it might be carrying a review,” he admitted.

  "But it didn't."

  "It's hard to get your books noticed these days, if you're not a celebrity,” he said. “But I'd have thought the local press would at least—"

  "That must be a drag. So you didn't actually read the paper? After finding out there wasn't a review of your latest in it?"

  "Well, I probably leafed through it. But I didn't read every word, no."

  Joe, listening to this exchange, began to nod. He had no idea what Zoe was about, but didn't want to feel left out.

  Zoe unfolded the page, which came, Joe saw, from last week's Oxford Times. The Times had a supplement: arts and culture; local events; and if N. R. Holkham's latest had been awarded a review, this was where it would have appeared. He'd have thumbed through it to the books section, then put it aside, disgruntled. Zoe spread the page on the desk. It hadn't been torn cleanly, and a triangular inch was missing from one edge, but there was no mistaking what the article was about. The upper half of the page was a photo of a boathouse.

  "There are plans to build another one on the same site,” Zoe said. “Hence the article."

  Nigel Reeve-Holkham picked the page up and studied it carefully. He wasn't reading the article, just looking at the picture.

  Joe was nodding more vigorously now. This, he knew, was a clue. He had been mildly off-target a short while ago when he'd to
yed with the idea that this was not a case in which there could be clues; on the other hand, he'd been bang-on yesterday, visiting the scene of the crime. That was exactly the approach to be taken: the business-as-normal approach. Nigel Reeve-Holkham's problem, he now realised, fell precisely within the domain of the detective. Its exact location, Zoe was about to reveal.

  But the client didn't need further explication. Already he was shaking his head. “I'm an idiot,” he said. “Something as simple as that? I'm an idiot. I'm surprised I didn't get letters."

  He sat back in his chair, allowing Joe a clearer look at the photograph.

  Which revealed little. There wasn't a lot of variation when it came to boathouses. They all tend to have big doors at ground level, behind which lurks a garagey space full of long canoes and racks of oars, and a balcony upstairs. The glass doors on this particular balcony, Joe supposed, would lead to a bar, but the photo didn't penetrate that far.

  What could be seen quite clearly was the hanging basket to the left of the door. The basket Harry Cudlipp had stubbed his cigarette in as he stepped outside.

  Nothing that amounted to a clue, as far as Joe was concerned.

  Something in his face must have betrayed this, because Nigel Reeve-Holkham said, “You don't see?"

  Joe said, “So, this SAS-trained marksman—"

  "He's pulling your leg, Nigel,” Zoe said. “Joe read your book as carefully as I did. We all know this photo makes it look like you got things wrong."

  Nigel Reeve-Holkham said miserably, “Harry steps through the balcony doors, and stubs his cigarette out in the hanging basket. On his left."