Cherringham - The Drowned Man

by Matthew Costello

Charlie’s voice echoed across the field then faded away into the night.

  Ray headed down the hill and didn’t look back.

  *

  Charlie reached the edge of Clay Copse Meadows and for a moment didn’t know where the hell he was.

  Then — yeah — he remembered and he tried to haul himself over the wooden stile. Legs not working all that well.

  Until he finally stood on the narrow lane in the darkness and got his bearings.

  Need to think things through, he thought.

  Done this before, can do it again.

  Silence. Two, three in the morning he guessed. Nobody out at this time. Even the bloody cows and horses in the fields fast asleep.

  He looked down the lane, squinting to see in the pitch black of the night. Some damn clouds covering the moon — moonlight would have helped! — but there was enough light to pick out the stone walls that marked the edges of the lane that ran towards Iron Wharf.

  Suddenly confident, thinking: I’m so close.

  I can do this!

  He set off down the lane.

  Not going to miss this walk, he thought. From now on it’s a taxi home for me!

  “Iron Wharf, my man! And don’t spare the horses!” he said.

  And no more crappy little boat either, with its leaks and its broken toilet. No — he’d go down to Oxford, buy one of them big white things with the leather seats and the big TVs.

  And a bar. Yes, a proper bar with the works. Oh, and an ice machine!

  Bring it back to Iron Wharf, moor it right outside his lordship’s bloody office — that’d show the buggers! ’Bout time people treated Charlie Clutterbuck with a little respect!

  He still wobbled as he walked. Damn lane all mushy and slippery with dew.

  But then …

  He heard a car in the distance behind him, and turned to look down the lane. Headlights, coming off Cherringham Bridge Road probably, bound to be heading this way.

  And so late …

  He stepped off the lane onto the grass verge and waited. But the sound of the engine died and the lights disappeared.

  Odd. No houses down there.

  Maybe someone looking for a dark place for a snog?

  Yeah, that’s probably it.

  He waited a minute, then stepped back onto the road and peered down the lane. So dark — hard to see anything.

  Then the clouds parted — just for a few seconds — and the full moon lit the fields and the lane like a searchlight being turned on.

  And on the lane — a hundred yards away for sure — he saw the black shape of a figure slip away out of sight.

  Or was it two people? He couldn’t be sure. He stared and stared, his eyes hurting from the effort, until the clouds drifted back and threw the whole scene into darkness once more.

  Jeezus.

  He just wanted to get home now …

  Silence again. No footsteps. No cars. Okay …. He turned and carried on walking.

  Kids probably. Kissing and cuddling. Or up to other things! Good luck to ’em.

  Charlie just wanted to flop into his bed.

  That was all.

  *

  The heavy, metal gate to Iron Wharf was locked. Some nights Charlie climbed over it. But not tonight.

  Bit of a challenge, all things considered.

  He fumbled with the code on the padlock. Was like the code had been changed. But he took a breath, slowed down, talked to himself.

  “C’mon, Charlie. Take your time.”

  It clicked free, then he swung the big gate open and went through.

  As he clicked the padlock back, he heard a sound on the lane. Like a cough maybe? Or scuffed gravel. Close. He peered into the darkness, listening.

  “Okay. Who’s there?” he shouted.

  Nothing.

  Same kids? No, that was half a mile back. They wouldn’t have followed him down here to the wharf.

  I can handle damn kids, he thought. Pissed or not.

  Never mind. Soon be back on the boat. Tucked up nice and safe.

  He turned and walked across the rough gravelled approach to the wharf. Ahead, as the moon again peeked through the clouds, he could see the shapes of boats in dry dock, all lined up for storage or repairs.

  Stacks of timber. Oil drums. Beaten up old sheds, disused buildings. Piles of rubbish, metal girders, abandoned cars, tractors.

  And a hundred yards ahead, the line of moorings where his boat — his home — lay tied up to the wharf.

  Maybe a new boat wasn’t the answer? Maybe he should buy himself a nice little house? Boats — always cold and miserable in the winter.

  But a house …

  He’d never been able to even dream of buying a house.

  But nothing to stop him now …

  A real house with a fire and a kitchen and bedrooms upstairs and—

  He saw a shadow move near one of the old caravans. He stopped.

  “Terry?” he said. “That you?”

  Terry Hamblyn had lived down here nearly as long as Charlie had, and — like Charlie — he kept what one nosey copper had once called “irregular hours”.

  Cop-speak for not being part of the bloody system, thought Charlie.

  Damn right, I’m not.

  He saw a shadow move behind a stack of timber.

  And for the first time, felt nervous.

  Something not right.

  He headed past the new office (sticking one finger up at the window as he did every time he came by), then walked down the line of moored houseboats, avoiding all the ropes and lines, until he reached his own little ratty cruiser, tilted and bobbing on the water.

  He tried to remember if he’d finished that bottle of Scotch he’d bought to celebrate yesterday.

  Could do with a nightcap, he thought. All these shadows and noises. Must be getting nervy in my old age.

  But, as he stepped closer to the boat, he saw that the gangplank had gone.

  He looked around, the wharf a jumble of shadows in the moonlight. Just a few yards away stood an old mobile generator — and there, leaning against it stood his gangplank.

  Bastard in the office, got no right to do that, thought Charlie. It’s harassment, that’s what it is! Harassment!

  He walked over, grabbed the heavy plank and shuffled back to the boat. Then he carefully laid one end on the deck and the other end on the concrete edge of the wharf.

  But, as he bent to tie the plank to the boat, he heard … what? A rush of footsteps behind him, getting closer, and as he turned to see … What the hell—?

  Something hit him hard on the side of the head and everything flashed white like a million lightbulbs exploding. Then everything went black.

  *

  When Charlie woke, he didn’t know if was seconds, minutes or hours later.

  A whole rush of things came into his still shaky senses, all at once.

  Pain — a horrible, terrible pain in his head — made starbursts if he tried to open his eyes.

  A sound — somebody groaning and moaning. Then he realised it was himself making the noises.

  A taste of blood. He could feel his teeth all mangled and mashed with his tongue.

  Hands fumbling in his shirt and his pockets, roughly pulling at his clothes.

  Then more pain — this time in his back, and the scrape of stones against his head as now he understood …

  … he was being pulled by his feet — pulled along the ground …

  “Hey! Wass happening?” he heard himself say. “What—?”

  He reached out with his hand and caught hold of a rope. A familiar texture — the rope to his own boat. But he was still being pulled, tugged by someone, some … some … thing.

  … and the rope slipped out of his grasp and suddenly he could feel that he was on the edge of the quay.

  And he understood what was happening …

  … he was being thrown into the water!

  He felt his body flipped and then he was spinning in the air, bashing against th
e side of his boat, his head hitting the quay.

  And then he was in the water — so cold.

  For a second, he thought maybe it would be okay, maybe he’d just drift away downstream and swim to the riverbank — and live …

  But no, he wasn’t free, floating away downriver. He was trapped between his boat and the quay.

  Jesus! So cold and dark, and then, lowered, he was underwater and he felt his arm whack against the side of his boat and he couldn’t breathe but he breathed anyway. Had to! And he breathed in water that bit into his throat and lungs and he coughed and reached up for the surface …

  … where he could just see blurry moonlight through the water in the sky.

  But then a figure appeared, another blurry shape, and, as he struggled, fighting to crawl his way up to the surface, he felt something hard and metallic pushing into his face, then into his chest and he felt himself being pushed deeper into the water …

  Over and over, pushed down deep, against the concrete side of the quay, where there was no escape, down, down, deep into the darkness …

  And all his struggles ended.

  3. River Views

  Sarah leaned into the safety belt and gripped the leather seat as the tiny three-seater plane arced into another tight turn.

  She looked out of the left-hand side of the canopy.

  Just a few hundred feet below, the big old oak trees on top of Winsham Hill glided by. Then, farther along the ridge, she could make out the standing stones on Mabb’s Hill.

  As the plane turned, the view gave way to meadows and fields, criss-crossed by stone walls and the occasional narrow lane.

  At this angle, the lines had a crazy geometry that made her head spin.

  Glad I’m not the pilot! she thought.

  She turned and looked through the right — starboard — side of the canopy. Just deep blue, cloudless sky, the sun flashing off the plexiglass cover.

  “Nice, Chloe, very nice,” said Sarah’s father, Michael, in the right-hand seat in front. “You’re a natural!”

  Sarah felt a surge of pride in her daughter: in full control of this little learner aircraft, headphones on, hands calmly gripping the controls.

  Pretty amazing …

  “Now, okay, just ease off on the left-hand rudder, gently on the stick … That’s it … Very good …”

  Sarah felt the plane level out.

  “You okay, Mum?” said Chloe. “Isn’t this awesome?”

  “Loving every minute,” said Sarah.

  Not exactly the truth, but she felt she should really reflect Chloe’s, well, bravery — her coolness.

  “Dad, maybe I should try and take it up again myself,” Sarah said.

  “Any time,” said Michael. “Eighty pounds a lesson to you now though, Sarah. Even with my discount for plane rental. Should have stuck at it when you were a kid.”

  “Other things on my mind,” said Sarah. “Can’t think what.”

  She smiled at the memory of her father trying to get her to fly with him years back when they first moved to Cherringham. But she’d been fourteen — and boys were somehow a lot more interesting than planes.

  “Mum never gives any of that away,” said Chloe. “You and me should talk, Grandpa. It’s time for some of those secrets to be revealed.”

  “Oh, my lips are sealed,” said Michael. “Concentrate now. Remember, keep the horizon just there at the nose, hmm?”

  “Gotcha,” said Chloe. Sarah watched her daughter pull back a tiny bit on the wheel.

  She looked ahead through the windscreen, between the two pilots. Cherringham lay just ahead.

  And, on a day like this, the little village looked absolutely perfect.

  “Now, a little nudge to starboard, Chloe,” said Sarah’s father. “And instrument-check too, please. Don’t forget to keep on top of that.”

  While Chloe and her father talked through the myriad readings on the dashboard, Sarah looked out of the right-hand side of the canopy.

  Down below, the Thames, shimmering in the early spring light, looped and curled its way past Cherringham on its way to Oxford and London.

  And when it seemed that the instrument checks were finished, Sarah said, “Chloe — see our place?”

  Their own cottage was clearly visible, its strip of garden running down to the river.

  “Bet Daniel’s still in bed,” said Chloe. “Shame we can’t buzz him.”

  “Take more than that to wake your brother on a Saturday morning,” said Sarah.

  “Think your lawn needs mowing,” said Michael, laughing. Then, back to instructor mode: “Keep the heading, Chloe, we’ll take a pass over the village.”

  Sarah looked out of the port side. “And there’s the Ploughman’s. The church … Oh, look! See the market setting up?”

  “Looks so tiny from up here,” said Chloe.

  Sarah caught a glimpse of the roof and window of her own office as Cherringham High Street and the market shot past below.

  “See the line of the old Roman road?” said Michael. “There — down by the crossroads.”

  Sarah could see it — a ridge in the fields coming into the village from the northeast and heading towards Gloucester.

  Beyond it, miles out of the village, more landmarks just visible: Repton Hall, Combe Castle and, farther still, other little villages, nestling in folds of the Cotswolds hills.

  “How much longer have I got?” said Chloe.

  “Just ten minutes I’m afraid, love,” said her grandfather.

  “Can we come back down the river?”

  “Don’t see why not. Let’s climb a little bit, then we’ll do another turn and fly south. Then back to the airfield.”

  Sarah watched Chloe pull back on the throttle and the engine noise rose. Then, gently, they went into a turn. Below, out of the starboard side of the canopy, she saw the distinctive white shape of Todwell House, with its great lawns leading down to the river.

  And as they came out of the turn and headed south, the Thames lined up below them, a shimmering band of silver.

  “Keep your eyes peeled — we’ll be going right over The Grey Goose,” said Michael.

  “That’ll surprise Jack,” said Sarah, peering down below.

  The river flashed below them. Walkers in the meadows either side, a herd of cattle, a couple of boats meandering downstream.

  And then, ahead through the windscreen, she saw the long straight stretch of the river that ran all the way to the old medieval stone bridge, and the dotted line of houseboats, barges and cruisers that lay peacefully at their moorings in the early spring sunshine.

  And just visible now — Jack Brennan’s old Dutch barge.

  *

  “I’d swear that bloke up there is dipping his wings at us, Jack,” said Ray, squinting into the sky and pointing up.

  Jack put down his coffee on the deck table and turned to look. One of the little trainers from the airfield, zipping by at a thousand feet or so, its engine sounding like a lawn mower from down here.

  “Maybe,” said Jack. Though he thought it unlikely. He gestured at the coffee pot. “Refill?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Almost as good as the real thing this.”

  Jack smiled. “Well thank you. That’s quite a compliment.”

  He took Ray’s mug and filled it, handed it back, then watched as Ray spooned way too much sugar into it and stirred.

  Jack’s neighbour from the adjacent barge was a rare visitor in daylight. He lived a nocturnal life, punctuated by trips to the pub and the occasional half-day’s work when cash ran low.

  Jack was more used to seeing him in the evenings, and sometimes shared a beer with him on the deck of his battered old boat, The Magnolia.

  For all his “irregularities”, Ray wasn’t a bad sort. Brooklyn — back in the day, especially in Sheepshead Bay — was filled with guys like him.

  But the minute he’d seen Ray hanging around his gangplank this morning, he’d known something was up.

  Three coffees
later — and now that he’d listened to Ray’s story a couple of times — he still didn’t know what to make of it.

  Jack had heard a week or so back about the death of Charlie Clutterbuck. Few in the village that he’d talked to had been at all surprised. Charlie was notorious for drinking and smoking whatever he could get his hands on — and only stopping when he fell over.

  So the fact that he’d fallen in the Thames and drowned hadn’t prompted more than a sad shrug and a “knew it would happen one day” response.

  The body had been found a mile or two downstream from Iron Wharf, with enough booze and weed in the bloodstream to fell an ox.

  Jack knew from Alan Rivers — Cherringham’s lone cop — that the police were happy to put the fatality down as “death by misadventure”.

  And as an ex-NYPD cop himself — with clear memories of pulling bodies out of the East River — Jack knew that drink, drugs and water could be a fatal combination.

  But now, here was Ray insisting that his pal had been murdered and asking that Jack take it on as a “case”.

  Ray had occasionally helped Jack in the past when he’d been asked to investigate — and, right now, Jack felt he couldn’t just give Ray an outright “no”.

  He had to — at the very least — look interested.

  He reached over to the table and picked up his notepad and pencil, reviewed the notes he had taken while they’d talked. He looked up — Ray was nodding, clearly glad that Jack seemed to be taking it all seriously.

  “So, Ray,” said Jack. “Looks to me like there’s three lines of enquiry.”

  “Yeah, probably. Yeah.”

  “There’s the money …”

  “Yeah. Right! Bet that’s what they was after. Must have been. All about the money.”

  “Then there’s the guy you saw threatening him.”

  “Sure! He’s the killer for sure. I disturbed him didn’t I? But he came back for more.”

  “And finally … there’s what actually happened when Charlie left the pub.”

  “He got murdered, didn’t he? That’s what happened! Come on, mate, thought you were a bloody copper? Charlie’s a bloody survivor. He’d know better than to go drown himself, stewed to the gills or not!”

  Jack looked at Ray and nodded.

  “All about the details, Ray. Need to know if you’re the last person who saw him. If there’s any CCTV down at the wharf. Need to know if the police checked out Charlie’s boat. See if maybe I can get a look at the autopsy.”