Cherringham - The Drowned Man

by Matthew Costello

  “Now you’re talking! That’s why you’re the man’s going to solve this one, no question.”

  Jack nodded again, and looked down at his notes.

  “Last — but not least — there’s the question of motive. Who wanted Charlie dead? Why?”

  Ray looked confused. “Thought we agreed it was that bloke in the toilet killed him?”

  Jack smiled. Ray lived in a pretty simple universe.

  “Gotta do this by the book, Ray. For instance, what’s Charlie been up to the last month or two? Who’s he been working for? Has he made any enemies?”

  “Ah. Right. I see where you’re heading. Hmm. Yeah.”

  Jack watched as Ray took a roll-up from the pocket of his shirt, lit it, and blew a big cloud of smoke in the air.

  Good thing the morning breeze was blowing in the other direction.

  “Thing about Charlie, see, he liked to work part-time. Bit here, bit there. Kinda like me.”

  “Cash only, hmm?”

  “Exactly. So who’s he been working for? Tricky that. Though he did tell me some stuff that night. You know — the night he … the night he got murdered.”

  “Good,” said Jack. “So why don’t you tell me. And I’ll write it down here. Then maybe this afternoon, I can start investigating?”

  “You’re the man, Jack. I know it. You’re going to nail the killer.”

  Jack had to laugh again.

  “I’ll do my best,” said Jack. “But I can’t promise anything.”

  He flipped open a new page in his notebook: “So let’s go through what you know …”

  Thinking: For Ray’s sake, I’ll put a couple of hours in. Just so he knows we tried.

  4. Too Late for Rent

  Sarah drove up the twisting road that led to the gate to Iron Wharf.

  Every time she came to this shabby location, she always smiled at how such a place — with its ramshackle moorings and even more distressed barges and boats — fitted perfectly into the Cherringham that she knew.

  For most tourists though, it was a world unknown; light years removed from the grand estates that dotted the perimeter of the village, the green rolling hills, the quaint shops and generally pleasant people.

  This place: so grimy — desolate — but home to what constituted the reality of so many Cotswold villages. Chocolate box cover, but dig a little deeper and you found the real underbelly.

  As she passed through the gate, lock closed but dangling from a latch, she saw Jack standing by his car.

  Now that was a sight she never got used to!

  Jack, tall and broad in a way that she imagined a lot of NY cops were, standing next to his racing-green Sprite; the sports car looking impossibly small.

  But the car was agile and speedy and, more than once, very useful when she and Jack needed to race somewhere — or someone — fast, down fiendish country lanes.

  She pulled up close, killed her Rav-4’s engine, and popped out.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Had a bit of a trip to get here. Only just landed and—”

  Jack turned to her.

  “Um, ‘landed’? What do you mean?”

  She took a breath.

  “Dad surprised me a few days ago with the news that darling Chloe has decided that she wants to learn how to fly. I thought — in my role of ‘supportive mum’ — I should do my best to tag along.”

  “Fly? The three of you? In a plane?”

  “I know! Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Anyway it was a gorgeous day for it!”

  Jack laughed. “Then … that was you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Flying over The Grey Goose. Tipping the wings left and right — an aviator’s ‘wave’.”

  “Dad’s idea. You saw us?”

  A nod. “Was outside, and in the middle of hearing Ray’s suspicions about his departed mate, Charlie.”

  Sarah looked around. The Iron Wharf area also included the abandoned foundry, and other warehouse buildings that — back in the 19th century — must have bustled with manufacturing iron and steel for dozens of purposes.

  Now, all those buildings had no windows; save one or two with a jagged opening here and there, the broken glass looking like teeth.

  Plants overgrowing the area everywhere.

  Along the “waterfront” — if one could call this twisting, gloomy part of the river such a thing — was a line of dismal boats and barges of those who called this home.

  And, in the distance, behind the abandoned foundry, stood a handful of caravans — also renters — those who could pay whatever measly amount that bought them the right to plant their caravans here.

  She turned back to Jack.

  “You don’t really think there’s anything to it, do you?”

  “Right now — I don’t know. But Ray — well — he seemed so concerned. Surprising actually. For Ray, at least. He’s genuinely bothered by it.”

  “But — I mean — the police … There’s no evidence, right? And from what I heard, plenty of signs Charlie was loaded with alcohol and weed. Has to be accidental drowning, surely?”

  Jack looked away. “Well, yeah. Probably.” He turned back to look at Sarah. “But — all right — guess I’m doing a favour for Ray. We’re doing a favour. Ray knew the guy real well. And for him, it doesn’t fit.”

  Sarah nodded.

  He pointed in the direction of a long trailer — steps leading up. “I take it that’s the site manager’s office? One Hamish Trent. Asking a few questions can’t hurt, hmm? Then lunch on me?”

  “Now that’s the kind of motivation I do understand. Let’s go.”

  And she followed Jack, stepping over the muddy craters that made the terrain here seem more like a soggy moonscape.

  *

  Sarah knocked on the aluminium door — thin enough that a good bang would likely dent it.

  “No one home?” Jack said.

  Then — she hit harder.

  “Mr Trent?”

  “Yes, um, one moment please!”

  “Hmm. Someone is at home,” Jack said.

  And they stood on the metal “porch”, just two steps up from the muck of the grounds.

  Until Hamish Trent opened the door.

  Big smile, eyes wide.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry! Had some paperwork I was dealing with.”

  Then his face took on a look of confusion.

  Probably more used to visits from complaining tenants, thought Sarah. And a place like this — low rent or not — there’d be plenty to complain about, for sure.

  “Did we have an appointment? And you are?”

  Jack cleared his throat.

  “Mr Trent—”

  “Hamish, please. Or ‘Ham’ to my mates.”

  Sarah saw Jack nod. “Jack Brennan. My friend here, Sarah Edwards. We’re just looking into Charlie Clutterbuck’s drowning.”

  Hamish’s face fell. “Oh, yes, sad stuff. You … friends of his or …?”

  “Can we chat a bit?” Jack gestured to the interior of the mobile office.

  Hamish looked over his shoulder as if he wasn’t sure what he’d be inviting his unexpected guests into.

  Then: “Sure. Absolutely.”

  And he opened the flimsy door wide, and they walked in.

  *

  Sarah let Jack take the lead since he’d had the chat with Ray.

  Once again, though Jack had been in Cherringham for a quite a few years, she had to marvel at the big yank sitting in such a — well — unusual setting.

  If he was uncomfortable at all, he gave no sign.

  “Hamish, one of Charlie’s friends approached us suggesting that maybe what happened to Charlie … might not be a drowning.”

  Hamish made an oval with his mouth. Then: “Ah. But the police …? They certainly led me to believe there was nothing untoward.”

  Jack looked at Sarah. “We know. An accident. But, well, just trying to put our friend at ease. Help him out. Know what I mean?”

  Hamish nodded.

&nb
sp; Meanwhile — with Hamish Trent focused on the American sitting in his makeshift office — Sarah looked around the room. White boards on wheels — type of thing you’d use to display something. Multi-coloured pins stuck on a line of cork that girded each one …

  Now all blank.

  Nothing whatsoever on them.

  To the side, she saw a crate filled with rolls of …

  Well, what were they?

  Jack kept Trent’s attention.

  “Do you know if Charlie had any enemies?”

  Hamish looked away at that, as if searching for the right answer.

  “Well, a type like that, had as many enemies as friends, I imagine. That sort, you know—”

  Time to dive in a bit, Sarah thought.

  “What sort is that exactly, Mr Trent?”

  Sarah was having no “Ham”, least for the moment.

  “I mean, never having a real job. Low on money. Broke most the time. Inebriated regularly, maybe all the time. So the fact that he slipped and took a final plunge, well I’m not too surprised. Are you?”

  Sarah nodded. Jack waited to see if she had a follow-up.

  They had been doing this together for so long, their instincts — when to pass the baton, when to jump in — unspoken and effortless.

  “And how about you, Mr Trent? You have any issues with Charlie? I mean, he lived here, yes? His boat moored only yards away.”

  And any smiles that Ham had left … vanished.

  “To be honest, I did have ‘issues’ as you call it. Bugger owed three months’ rent. Three months! And how do I collect that money when he has none? All the damn rules on moorings. Defaults and vagrants — not much I can do about it without a lot of court expenses!”

  “Not an ideal renter?” Jack said.

  Hamish nodded. “I don’t own this place you know. I just work for the people who do. And they wanted the rent — or they wanted him gone.”

  Sarah then had a hunch. And only one way to test a hunch …

  “Preferably … the latter?”

  Hamish’s eyes darted from Jack to her, and back again.

  And for the first time after hearing Jack’s report on Ray’s unfounded suspicions, she thought …

  There’s a secret here.

  This man … not saying something.

  Then:

  “Look, I’ve answered your questions, and I, um, really need to do some book-keeping. I was in the middle of it when you came, actually. So perhaps—”

  Jack fired a look at Sarah.

  “We understand,” he said. “But you think, I mean, it’s pretty clear what happened to old Charlie … but … think we could check out his boat?”

  Hamish smiled.

  “That old heap? By all means. Love for you to take the bloody thing away. Still not sure what the hell to do with it. Thing is practically worthless.”

  “And his boat is … where?” Sarah said.

  “Can’t miss it,” Hamish said, standing up.

  Again, another sign that the man wanted this meeting to be over.

  “Straight out the door. Mind the holes. Had some big trucks here a few weeks back. Their tyres made massive pits. Anyway, it’s the fifth, maybe sixth, boat down.”

  Hamish laughed.

  “The one that looks like it’s about to sink!”

  Sarah smiled at that.

  “And it has a name?”

  Hamish’s eyes darted left, searching for what seemed to be another obscure fact. “Oh, right … yeah. Hard to read it, wood so rotten. Called The Lucky Rainbow.”

  No one commented on the irony.

  Jack extended his hand, and she saw Hamish’s hand get snared in Jack’s grip.

  And in that grip, always a smidge of … what? Warning? Threat?

  All in a handshake.

  “We’ll find it fine,” Jack said. “And thanks!”

  Sarah did another scan of the office.

  And thought once again: Something happening here.

  Something …

  But what?

  5. The Lucky Rainbow

  Sarah stopped in front of the boat and simply said, “Wow.”

  Jack had stopped too, right in front of a splintery board that served as the gangplank for this …

  … wreck.

  She turned to Jack. “The boat is actually … tilted, isn’t it?”

  “Yup. Listing. My guess is it’s taking on water. Old Hamish better get it out of here soon or else he will have a sunken wreck to deal with.”

  “Think it’s safe to board her?”

  And Jack grinned. “Name like The Lucky Rainbow? What could possibly go wrong?”

  And he led the way.

  *

  Once on board — taking care to factor in the deck’s tilt — it didn’t take too long for Sarah to notice another feature of the vessel.

  Namely, the stench.

  “Um, wow again. What is that smell?”

  “Shame to ruin such a nice spring day,” Jack said, “but think we’d best check the galley. Have a look below decks.”

  And Sarah nodded. Closest to the door leading in, she gave it — slightly ajar — a small push.

  And while Charlie seemed to have done all he could to block the windows and portholes of the saloon and the boat’s tiny galley, enough light sliced in to reveal the state of things.

  Some pots on a small two-burner stove were probably the source of the smells, judging from the flies that circled overhead as if it was their ship that had come in.

  Jack took one for the team and stepped closer for a better look.

  “Whatever Charlie had for his last meal I imagine.” He turned to Sarah. “Maybe in a rush to get to the pub. Washing-up left for later.”

  “Or never.”

  She saw Jack lean down to a plastic bag serving as the convenient rubbish receptacle. He pulled out a can.

  “Heinz baked beans.” He nodded to the orbiting instincts. “Flies seem to like it.”

  “A British staple, Jack.”

  But then Sarah turned from the mess of a kitchen area, to the saloon itself.

  Walking slowly. Boards — or was that plastic? — creaking.

  Charlie might have died by accident. But still, here they were, in what passed for the dead man’s home.

  A bit of a chill in that thought …

  *

  She went to an easy chair. A tattered blanket covered a seat cushion that — when lifted — revealed holes, all leaking white tufts of stuffing. One of those holes, tinged burnt-brown.

  The result, Sarah guessed, of a cigarette that had slipped away.

  Charlie probably awakened by the smell — or maybe the smoke.

  Could have easily killed him, and taken The Lucky Rainbow with it.

  A small TV sat facing the chair. Next to it, a bottle of Scotch — just an inch of whisky left at the bottom.

  On top of the TV, an old photo in a frame.

  Sarah picked it up, wiped dust from the glass. A family snapshot — faded 70s colours. Mum and Dad and half a dozen kids grinning up at the camera.

  Was one of those kids Charlie? Probably.

  Sad to see this remnant of the man’s past in such a prominent position.

  She thought of Charlie, slumped on the old chair, staring at the photo until he fell asleep.

  She turned and looked around the cabin.

  Beer cans dotted the floor, covered with a rug that looked like it was designed for a children’s playroom.

  Two elephants, trunks held high. Dancing.

  Interesting design choice there, she thought, guessing that Charlie had just figured what the hell, a rug’s a rug.

  A small wood-burning stove. A floor lamp with a shade with dangling tassels.

  The whole scene miserable.

  Charlie’s bed, which looked like it had been the scene of a wrestling match between sheets and cover, was up front.

  Or, in boating terms, forward.

  She walked to the lone end table; opened it.
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  Cigarette papers. Some coins. A small notebook.

  She picked up the notebook hoping that it would have some phone numbers, maybe a name.

  Because, as of now, this looked like a dead-end location for a dead-end life.

  Jack came behind her, hand to shoulder. A momentary startle.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Um, I’m going to look below. Think we’ve seen all there is to see here.”

  “Which isn’t much.”

  “True fact. Just be a second.” And he turned and headed through an opening with narrow stairs leading below decks.

  *

  The stairwell was narrower here than even on his own boat, Jack saw. Tight fit.

  He had to twist his upper torso forward, to somehow get down the stairs without banging his head.

  Farther down, and the stairwell opened up enough that he could look around. Not much light, so he dug out his phone. Switched to flashlight mode, and then began to look around.

  He saw the boat’s engine, some big parts sitting in inches of water. The engine looking as though someone had attempted to repair it, get it running, then just gave up.

  And down here, about a foot of water and — Jack guessed — a fatal leak somewhere, slowly but surely, bringing the boat down.

  Though it was possible that at this part of the river — shallow by the moorings — the wreck might just end up sitting there, half submerged, looking like a kid’s amusement park attraction.

  The Haunted Wreck.

  And, as he stood there, he wondered about what Ray said. All that money that Charlie was flashing about.

  From the look of this dump, money was one thing Charlie never had.

  Suddenly, he was — as they say — flush.

  Now that was odd.

  Still, nothing he had seen spoke of foul play; just the backdrop for a drunken loser whose rainbow was anything but “lucky”.

  He turned to go up. Something moved.

  He spun around, his phone light cutting an arc through the murky gloom down here.

  And, sitting atop a chunk of the engine — the oil pump from the looks of it — a rat.

  Big one too.

  Like the rats he’d see at the docks in Mill Basin or Red Hook — those grey city rats that intimidated even the biggest cats.