Cherringham--Blade in the Water (9 page)

The idea seemed to dumbfound Ray.

“You mean he’s still there?”

“Might be, Ray. Might be.”

“Well that’s another funny thing,” said Ray. “They had a break-in at the chandlers too. But none of the expensive stuff got nicked.”

This did make Jack pause. “Let me guess — somebody hit the food store.”

“Yeah! That’s right! How did you know?”

“Just putting things together, Ray.”

Jack kept moving down the river, coming up to another barge, this one, light on, people inside just sitting down to have dinner.

Cosy. And Jack wouldn’t mind doing the same.

For all of Ray’s inattention, the barges could be crawling with robbers.

“Y-you going to take a look, Jack?”

It was a lead, Jack had to admit it.

Worth a look?
For sure
.

But for now, they had their patrol to do.

In silence they walked along the river path under Cherringham Bridge, every sound echoing against the medieval stone.

Emerging on the other side, Jack saw the ghostly shapes of the empty marquees and stands further down the far riverbank.

Tomorrow morning every seat would be taken and the Pimm’s and beers would be flowing.

Another couple of hundred yards and they’d reach Pat’s boat, bang opposite the race finishing line: Jack knew that Pat would be ready and waiting to take over.

“May just do that, Ray. But best finish up here, huh? Don’t want any break-ins on our watch …”

“Right. Eyes wide open, Jack.”

Now Ray dutifully looked around as they walked the last leg, as if finally remembering what they were actually doing here.

And Jack looked forward to when the Regatta and the visitors were gone, and the quiet, sleepy life along the river could resume.

*

Daniel handed Sarah the last plate from dinner, which she managed to just squeeze into the dishwasher.

“Thanks, Daniel. Have you got much more to do on your science project?”

“Not much, Mum. All my moulds are looking
perfect
. So many colours!”

Quite why her son had picked a study of mould growth on different foods as a science project was something Sarah didn’t have a clue about.

Nonetheless, she did her best to act as enthusiastic about the experiment as Daniel was.

Suppose there could have been worse topics …

Chloe, on the other hand, did nothing to hide her thoughts, holding her nose as she walked past her brother’s room. But she made even Daniel laugh when she said …
“Mum — you know when he’s finished, we’re going to need a bio-hazard team here!”

“You can get back to it, Daniel,” Sarah said. I’ll finish up.”

As Daniel left, she shut the door of the packed dishwasher, and started it.

When she heard something outside …

A car noise. but deep, throaty. A diesel engine.

And it was right outside.

Strange. Quiet street, this time of night; you got used to that silence here, noting any sounds that didn’t belong.

Like this one.

She wiped her hands on a tea-towel and walked to the front door.

Looked through one of the door’s three windows, each no larger than a small plate.

To see: outside, a black car, big, limo-sized; windows tinted nearly as dark as the car itself. And like a targeting device, the bold ornament of Mercedes on the bonnet. The engine making such a deep sound.

The car stopped just outside her house.

And then that first terrible thought.

Here. In the house. With her kids.

Could this have something to do with Kent, with what she and Jack were doing?

The massive car’s deep rumble made her stomach tighten.

And despite the fact that the windows were deeply tinted, she could see two shadowy figures in the front, looking straight ahead.

Then the thought:
my house, my patch
.

And her days of being intimidated, of being afraid, of hiding — those were, she told herself, long gone.

She opened the door, and started walking to the car.

Her eyes locked on the figures who — though they must have seen the house door open, must have seen Sarah start walking right towards them — kept looking staring ahead … as if they were more mannequin than men.

And then, only feet away from the passenger door, where she was going to tap on the window and ask …

…
politely
…

What the
hell
are you doing outside my house?

The rumble grew even deeper, and the car pulled away, slowly, steadily — not as if they were escaping or rushing away.

And she had only one thought.

The car. The figures.

God, it felt like a warning.

And once she was back inside and her breathing had returned to normal, she called Jack.

Jack shipped his oars and let the little rowing boat drift in to the jetty at Iron Wharf, using the flow of the river to take him silently to his destination.

As the prow nudged the wood pillars, he reached up and looped the painter round it and made the boat fast.

Then he sat in the boat for a good five minutes, making sure nobody had heard him arrive.

Silence. Just the water lapping against the sides of the boat.

Iron Wharf was a mile downstream from Cherringham Bridge, and while he’d rowed, he’d got a good view of all the marquees and stalls waiting silently for the next day’s festivities.

Lamps and campfires glowed in the fields, and laughter and voices drifted across the water.

The sights and sounds would have been magical — had he not been intent on finding a possible killer.

No, tonight his senses were tuned for different noises — twigs cracking, footsteps, danger …

When Sarah had phoned earlier and told him about the goons in the Mercedes he’d been shaken to think she could have been at risk.

And though he’d only just settled down for the night after his patrol with Ray, he’d decided immediately he had to get out of bed — and sort this affair.

Bring it to a conclusion
.

But there were too many unknowns.

Was Kent dead? If so, had he been murdered? Was Magnusson responsible — and were the guys in the Merc working for him? Who was the mystery rower Ray had seen that night? Was he the killer? And had he escaped in the Mary Lou’s tender?

Only one way to find out — and, with a threat to Sarah, that need was now urgent.

So Jack had grabbed a flashlight, changed into his ‘night gear’ — black jeans, sweats, hat, gloves — shoved his old nightstick into his belt, and rowed downstream to get some answers.

He climbed out of the boat onto the jetty, then raised his head to ground level so he could peer across at the wharf.

Apart from a couple of old caravans, lived in by some of Cherringham’s more savoury inhabitants, Iron Wharf at night was usually deserted. The boat yards and chandlers closed at six on the dot — as he’d found to his cost in the past.

In one of the caravans he saw the blue flickering light of a TV through thick curtains, but otherwise he felt pretty sure he was alone.

He stepped up onto the hard stone and looked across towards the chandlers.

In the moonlight he could just see to one side the old ruined building, the Iron Foundry.

A hundred and fifty years ago, even at this time of night, the Foundry would still have been alive, the furnace red hot, never allowed to go cold.

But for the last fifty years the place had been dead. Abandoned. Much of the roof had fallen in. And Jack saw in the dim light that trees and shrubs were now growing through some of the smashed windows.

Could someone be hiding out down here?

It didn’t make much sense.

But he had to check anyway.

Keeping to the shadows, Jack slipped across the wharf and into the main Foundry building.

*

This is crazy,
thought Jack.
I’m going to get myself killed.

The inside of the Foundry was like an obstacle course of broken brick, timbers, castings, smashed iron and glass.

He’d tried to avoid using his flashlight at first but it was impossible. So with one hand over the lens to mask the beam, letting only a sliver of light escape, he now worked his way through the ground floor, past the tall furnace itself, through to the Foundry offices.

Nobody seemed to be hiding out here in the church-like central building. But the offices might be more habitable.

Once or twice he’d heard a creak or a snap from deeper inside the building — but he guessed the place would be full of rats, foxes, who knows what …

He stepped over a broken door and entered a long corridor, moonlight from holes in the roof making shafts of light in front of him.

One by one, as he passed an office, he scanned it with the covered flashlight: nothing.

Ahead, just at the end of the corridor, he saw a stone staircase leading to the upper floors.

Slowly he approached, careful with his steps, avoiding the smashed furniture, piles of debris, abandoned machinery.

From up above he heard a sound — as if someone had bumped into a desk or a chest.

He stopped dead, heart thumping.

Then he pocketed his flashlight and took out his nightstick. He pressed the button and the stick popped out to full length.

Taking a deep breath he started upstairs, one step at a time.

At the top he stood still, breathing quietly, listening.

Nothing.

So far …

In the dim light, he saw that the stairs turned back on themselves to climb another flight.

He rounded the corner, tucking in tight to the brick wall — when someone flung himself at him, hard, the wind knocked out of him by the tackle.

He glimpsed a hoodie, and hands reaching out for his throat, then instinct kicked in.

With one hand, he grabbed his assailant as he fell back, using the man’s impetus and weight to pivot him towards the stairwell.

With his other hand he drove his nightstick into the back of the man’s knee and at the same time shoved his right leg out. His attacker slumped, fell backwards across Jack’s outstretched leg, then swung round, and suddenly was gone …

…falling, tumbling head over heels down the first flight of stone stairs to the bottom.

Jack watched the guy land in a heap and lie motionless.

Jeez,
thought Jack.
How about that?

The relief at having survived the unexpected attack gave way to concern. That stone was hard — had the man cracked his skull?

You get no answers from a dead man.

Cautiously, Jack took out his flashlight, flicked it on and walked down the stairs, not letting the beam of light leave the prone body.

As he got close the man groaned and tried to sit up.

Jack could see he wasn’t in danger now, but he kept his nightstick at the ready anyway, and pointed his light at the man’s face, making him squint.

Jack thought the guy was probably in his late thirties or early forties, and apart from a few days’ stubble, a cut lip and a bruise on one cheek, he didn’t look like somebody who made a habit of sleeping rough.

“Finish it,” the man said. “Just … be quick.”

“Hey, I don’t want to kill you, pal,” said Jack. “What’s your name?”

“Kent,” the man said wiping his bloodied lips with his hand. “Martin Kent.”

That answers one question.

“Oh really? Well welcome back to the land of the living Mr. Kent. You and I have a
lot
to talk about.

*

“So the drifting boat was just a plan to make Magnusson
think
you were already dead,” said Jack, handing Kent a bottle of water. “Pretty lousy plan.”

“I — I didn’t have time to think it through,” said Kent sipping at the bottle. “I’d been hitting the scotch hard, too. Wasn’t thinking straight.”

Jack sat against the Foundry wall and looked out across the river. Most of the lights in the campsite were now out — it would be dawn in a couple of hours.

And the Regatta would be in full flow a few hours after that.

He’d dragged a stumbling Kent out of the building and the two of them had rested here while Jack pieced together the whole nasty story of Kent and Magnusson’s business empire.

And while he figured out what he could do to finish it off.

Tired, hungry, and scared, Kent had spilled everything.

How he and Magnusson had set up ViaVita and made millions.

But Magnusson was never satisfied — he always wanted more. He drove the company hard, didn’t let anybody stand in his way, didn’t care if the ‘associates’ went bust, just as long as the profits kept going up.

And he always got what he wanted. Including Kent’s wife, Viola.

“Maybe I should have left then, I knew it was all wrong, what he’d been doing,” said Kent. “But I guess I was just … caught up in the whole thing …”

And Donna was right about the drugs. It had all started a couple of years back when Magnusson began using the ViaVita network to import steroids and other illegal pharmaceuticals.

It had been a simple step from there to start distributing more recreational drugs too — Oxy a big hit — although Kent swore he’d only just found out about it.

Kent said he’d argued with Magnusson just a few weeks ago in London, threatened to leave the company and go to the police. Magnusson had come over all chummy, understanding. Invited him up to Cherringham, talked about cleaning up the business, getting back to basics, giving Kent an exit route.

But when Kent arrived, expecting a truce — he found himself facing not just Magnusson but the dealers from London. And they weren’t interested in exit routes.

They gave him an ultimatum.

Stay in — or die.

Kent told them he wanted twenty-four hours to think it through. He took the boat upriver, got drunk, cut the mooring ropes (and himself on the knife) and rowed down to the Foundry to hide.

He thought — if the police declared him dead then he could slip away. He had plenty of money, he could get a new life.