Cherringham--Blade in the Water (3 page)

“So — to cut to the chase, Jack — one person on board for the ride, and they expected to be here for two or three days. Yes?”

“Yeah, I guess so. That’s a reasonable assumption.”

“And the newspaper and food bracket our Mr. X as being on board in the last twenty-four hours?”

“Mr. X — or a guest of Mr. X.”

“Hmm, good point. Now, follow me.”

Mystery lady #1 taking charge …

Jack watched as Joan headed from the galley into the saloon. He followed and wasn’t surprised to see the white leather look continued — the main living area was a shrine to maritime kitsch opulence.

Long way from my old battered sofas and club armchair
…

“Now, this is where it gets interesting,” said Joan, picking up a pair of remote controls.

Jack watched as she expertly powered up the widescreen TV in the centre of the salon and brought up a satellite menu.

“Pretty nifty with the controls there, Joan,” he said. “I must get you over to fix my set.”

“The digital world is there for all of us to grasp, Jack; it favours neither young nor old,” said Joan, with what seemed to Jack to be more than a hint of admonition.

“So what’s the deal?” he said, gesturing to the menu she’d brought up on screen.

“Even our PVR leaves behind a trace of our actions and movements,” she said. “Look. Two shows, set to record later this week. And here — last night’s movie. Started at midnight. Was recorded. Then watched until one hundred minutes in. Then turned off.”

“So whoever was on board was still on this boat — at the very latest — at 1:40 a.m.”

“Precisely,” said Joan, turning off the TV and scurrying off deeper into the boat. “Now come with me to the cabins, Jack.”

“You’re the boss,” said Jack, following after her.

Thinking:
she might be better at this than I am!

He watched as she stood in the tiny corridor and gestured like a flight attendant to either side, where doors stood open.

“Main cabin — double bed. Guest cabins A and B — one double, one single.”

Jack stuck his head round the two guest doors and took in the two bare rooms. “Beds not made up — I guess the cupboards are empty?”

“Correct. Now step in here …”

He followed her into the main cabin.

“Observe,” she said. “Bed made up, but not slept in. No glass of water, no book, no small change, no other pocket detritus …”

“Pocket what?”

“The flotsam and jetsam of a gentleman’s life Jack, which accumulates in his pockets and must be jettisoned at night onto a bedside surface,” said Joan, her eyes blinking at him behind her over-large glasses. “So I am told.”

“Gotcha.”

Jack was beginning to realise that Joan and Jen’s understanding of life was drawn almost entirely from analysis of crime novels …

“And what haven’t you seen, Jack?”

Jack ran through his memory of each room, then realised. “Hmm. There’s nothing personal — no phone, laptop, receipts, paperwork, photos …”

“Precisely. As if the boat had been — what do they call it — swept?”

She turned to the door and headed back to the saloon.

“Come on.”

Jack followed her as she continued through the saloon and the galley and up into the cockpit, where she stood waiting impatiently for him in the sunshine. He climbed up the steps and joined her, glad to be out of the plastic and chrome interior.

“Conclusions?” she said.

Jack leaned against the side of the cockpit and considered what he’d seen.

“Somebody — probably one person — has been staying on this boat. They were still on board — probably — in the early hours of this morning. They had dinner — but they didn’t go to bed.”

“And?”

“And I don’t see anything to suggest they were murdered.”

“So where is our Mr. X?”

“Went out to see friends, went for a walk, didn’t like being on a boat, booked into a hotel …”

“Took all his paperwork with him? Left all his clothes behind?”

“He only planned on being away one night.”

“And he didn’t lock the boat?”

“He’s in the country. Trusts the locals.”

“And how about the bloody smear on the side of the boat?”

“Scraped himself climbing ashore. Cut himself fishing during the day.”

“I see,” said Joan. “Well — I wonder if
this
might change your mind?”

Jack watched as she turned and headed back into the galley.

Here comes the Hercule Poirot moment, he thought, smiling to himself.

But what Joan Buckland brought out of the galley wiped the smile from his face.

He saw her emerge into the bright sunlight with an object wrapped in a handkerchief, and as she approached him she proffered the object in her hands as if it were some kind of sacrificial gift.

“I found it out here under one of the seats,” she said, peeling back the layers of handkerchief. Joan was holding a long jagged hunting knife, its blade smeared with black, clotted blood.

“So Mr. X just tootled off to stay the night in a hotel, Jack? Or did something a little more sinister happen?”

Joan made the bloody knife wave in the air.

And Jack had to admit that the Buckland sisters might well be right to cry ‘murder’ …

Jack waited by his Sprite, top down, ready to go, mobile phone in hand. After the tour of the beached boat, he was — thanks to Joan — properly intrigued.

“Sarah, hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Jack, nice to hear from you. All good?”

“Sure. Look, you busy now?”

“Why? What is it?”

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

“Yes …”

“Seems like there may be more here than a free-floating yacht. So—”

“Jack — I’m at my mum and dad’s. Just popped in. I’ve been so busy, with end of school stuff with the kids, the days slip by. So, I promised I’d visit — but I can leave and—”

“No. How about I drop by? Be interesting to get Michael’s take on this as well.”

“Well, you know those two. You’re just about their favourite person in Cherringham.”

Jack laughed at that. He did like Sarah’s parents a great deal.

“I think … maybe number two, after you?”

“Either way, they’d love to see you. And anyway — I’m intrigued.”

Then Jack sensed a hesitation on Sarah’s part.

Something not being said?

“I should warn you though — Dad is a big part of the planning for the Regatta. This boat thing’s got him pretty upset.”

“I’ll tread gently.”

“Great. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

Jack ended the call, and then turned to look downriver at the boat, still wedged against the bridge.

Thinking:
How could someone own something like that — and just leave it … to bob down the river?

And then there was the knife …

Of course, people on boats did have accidents.

A nick here, spot of blood maybe baiting a hook. Back in Sheepshead Bay, it was common to see the walking wounded come ashore when the day charters came back with the often well-lubricated fishermen, buckets of porgies in hand.

Nicks from fishing knives. A hook stuck in a hand (or worse …).

Still, blood is blood.

And while Jack was looking forward to the Regatta, the fun, the excitement, it wouldn’t hurt to … delve a little into this.

If only for a bit …

He got into his car and headed towards the Edwards’ home.

*

“Jack!
Wonderful
to see you! Look — Helen’s fixing some tea — and I have something to show you!”

Sarah’s dad Michael grabbed Jack by the arm and steered him — literally — right by Sarah, into the sitting room where the large coffee table was covered with a map.

“There you are — all the venues, the best viewing spots — the Regatta planned like a military mission!”

Jack knew that Michael was also a bit of a history buff. So it wasn’t surprising to see this large map of the village, dotted with mini cardboard yachts, stands and rows of ‘sculls’, ready to compete.

“Impressive,” Jack said. “Lot of work, this event?”

“Tons! But I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Michael raised a finger, bringing home a point. “Great as source of money for the village of course. Restaurants, shops, hotels — a real boon.”

“Ah, I knew he’d show you that straight away,” Helen said, entering with a teapot and four cups. A plate of sugar cookies …
biscuits
… sat to the side.

“Of course, now there’s absolutely no place to put any of this.”

Jack grinned at Sarah. He for one was enjoying the interaction of this long-time married couple.

Perhaps … even a bit of envy.

Sarah rolled her eyes. She probably was eager to hear what Jack thought about the wandering boat.

“Oh — for now Helen, just put it on the … um, piano stool. Jack needs to see this!”

Helen immediately showed where Sarah inherited her eye-rolls, and placed the silver tray on the stool.

“How elegant,” she said, “not.”

At that, everyone laughed, even as she began pouring the tea.

Michael pointed to a piece of cardboard showing a series of viewing stands at one end of the stretch of the river.

“These stands, in this field — all new this year. Had to wrangle some rights from the owner, but struck a deal. It’ll be smashing to see the sculls take that turn … right there and straight on, full speed.”

Jack put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Going to be a great day, Michael.”

Finally Sarah intervened, patience gone, or maybe just wanting to rescue him from the tourist board pitch about Cherringham’s Regatta day.

“Dad, Jack actually popped over to discuss that boat.”

“Oh, right. Less said about that, the better. Owner will get a good solid fine for that!”

Jack looked again at Sarah. “I was actually hoping we could all talk about that a bit.”

Helen handed him a cup of tea and one of the biscuits.

“I hardly think I’ll be much help,” Helen said. “Sarah didn’t get her ‘detective abilities’ from me.”

Michael leaned into Jack. “My side of the branch, I imagine.”

“Still …” Jack said. “You might have some, um, insight.”

Though the coffee table was out of commission, the sitting room’s classic chairs were free.

Helen and Michael sat on the floral printed sofa, while he and Sarah each took one of the armchairs facing it.

“You think,” Jack looked around to signal that the question was for everyone, “anyone has anything against the Regatta? Any reason to set a boat loose?”

On cue, Helen and Michael looked at each other.

“No,” Michael said, “everyone—”

“Dad,” Sarah said, cutting him off.

That stopped him. “Well, okay. Some short-sighted villagers don’t like the rich Londoners coming down.”

“You could put me in
that
category,” Helen said.

Jack smiled. Though he guessed Michael and Helen were clearly financially comfortable, they had no airs. Ostentation, especially like that Jack saw inside the deserted boat, wouldn’t be their cup of tea.

“Right,” Michael said reluctantly. “And, yes, we also get riff-raff coming in, looking to carouse. I mean, it is a spectacle. But they all spend money.”

“Yes, but some of the village folk … wish it would go away?”

A pause. Then: “Some. They don’t know a good thing for the village when they see it,”

Jack nodded.

“But you don’t think the boat might have been untied by locals?”

Michael shook his head. “It might have been untied — but only by the damned idiots aboard.”

“Sounds like you know the owner …” said Jack, leading Michael carefully.

“Hmmph. Don’t know him — but I know who he is.”

“There’s not much happens on the river up here without Dad or one of his pals getting the low-down,” said Sarah. “Isn’t that right, Dad?”

“Make me sound like I’m always sticking my nose in,” said Michael.

“Surely not,” said Helen, smiling.

Jack loved the little jibes that flew harmlessly around Sarah’s family …

“I might have made the odd phone call this morning, but only to see if my help might be needed moving the damned thing,” said Michael.

“And was it?” said Jack.

Michael reached for another biscuit. “No, they’re going to tow it away tomorrow. Then hand the bill to the owner.”

Finally,
thought Jack.

“And who
is
the owner?” he asked.

“Fellow called Martin Kent. Londoner — now isn’t that a surprise? Usually moors the damned thing near Tower Bridge. Close to his millionaire yuppy flat I expect.”

“Oh Michael — you are terrible. He might be a very decent chap,” said Helen.

“I doubt it. That thing’s a monstrosity. Insult to real boats everywhere.”

Jack pressed again. “So this Kent — someone’s been in contact with him?”

Michael shrugged: “Here’s what I know. The police phoned his mobile — got no answer. They asked City of London police to make contact — but nothing so far.”

“So officially the guy’s missing?” said Jack.

“Um, no. Officially he just hasn’t answered his phone or his door,” said Michael. “Not quite the same thing.”

“But he’s not a regular in Cherringham?”

“Never heard of him before,” said Michael. “But a pal down at the chandlers says he’s seen the boat moored over at the Magnusson’s berth a couple of times in recent months.”

“Magnusson’s?”

“Big house half a mile downriver from us,” said Michael. “Rather large for a weekend getaway. Business type — spends most of his time away. Never shared a word with the man. Helen?”

“That boat tells me all I need to know about him and his friends. ‘Vulgar’ is the word, I believe.”

“So — you’d have no idea of anyone who’d want to damage the boat?”

“No, hang on, Jack. Let’s not be hasty here. Boats come loose. People drink, get sloppy — especially weekenders.”

Jack looked at Sarah, hesitant to put a pin to that balloon of Michael’s.

“Michael — there was a bloody smear on a railing … and Joan Buckland—”

“That mystery-obsessed busy body?!”