Cherringham - The Drowned Man

by Matthew Costello

  “That mean you might know who did it?”

  “No. Just means there’s no shortage of suspects.”

  “That right?”

  Terry took a slug of whisky.

  “Charlie had a habit of buggering things up. Making enemies. Not surprising really, the amount he put away. Poor drunken sod.”

  “What kind of enemies?”

  “How long you got?”

  Jack shrugged and took out his notebook. It had the desired effect immediately — Terry frowned and seemed to nudge his thinking up a notch.

  “Never stuck at any job for long. Not sure I remember what he was up to lately.”

  “Sure you can manage it, Terry. If you put your mind to it.”

  Terry seemed to be thinking, weighing Jack’s words.

  “Hmm, yeah. All right. Um … couple of months back he got hired by some weekenders over at Winchcombe. Told ’em he was a dry-stone waller. Even got ’em to pay up front. Took a grand off them before they realised he was too stoned to actually build a wall.”

  “Weekenders don’t usually resort to murder to settle a building dispute.”

  “Just saying what happened,” said Terry with a shrug. “What else? Hmm, yeah. He was doing a bit of labouring over in Chippy — put a nail through the floor, burst a water pipe, flooded a kitchen. Cost the builder a fortune. Charlie — course — did a runner.”

  Jack sat back, tapping his notebook with his pencil. “Lately? How about you quit playing around. Who was Charlie dealing with?”

  Jack watched as Terry took a sip of whisky, then shrugged.

  “Tell you what — that new bloke down at the wharf — talk to him, you should.”

  “Hamish Trent?”

  “That’s the one. He and Charlie was always arguing. Wouldn’t surprise me if he had Charlie bumped off. Yeah. All suit and tie he is on the surface that bloke, but he’s a real hard bastard underneath.”

  “That have anything to do with the fact he tried to kick you and your trailer off the wharf?”

  “Hmm,” said Terry, taking another drink and sitting back with his arms folded. “Maybe. How’d you know about that?”

  “Not much stays secret in Cherringham; you should know that.”

  Jack folded his notebook shut and put it away in his pocket.

  “You know, whatever you tell me, I’ll do my best to keep your name out of it. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “And listen, if somebody did kill Charlie and it’s somebody you know — somebody perhaps you were doing business with — then you’re involved. Like it or not.”

  Jack watched Terry mull this over.

  “If you know something … now might be the time.”

  Another anxious flick of the eyes around the deserted pub, just in case. Then, his voice low:

  “All right. But I didn’t tell you this, okay?”

  “Like I said …”

  “So, about three months ago, I got done for possession. Took me out of circulation for a bit. I had a nice little earner, doing deliveries round the villages. You know what I mean?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Working for some guy in Gloucester. He needed a local, see? Someone he could trust.”

  “What kind of stuff? Weed? Pills?”

  “Pretty much. Nothing too heavy, course. Just stuff the kids like to have at the weekend, cheer ’em up a bit, you know?”

  “I can imagine.”

  Jack knew that his own definition of “heavy” was probably very different from Terry’s. But whatever …

  “Anyway, when I got busted, Charlie said he could take over the round, keep it warm for me.”

  “And you let him?”

  “I was desperate, wasn’t I? And I thought, even Charlie won’t get that wrong. Was only for a few weeks, then I’d be back on the gig.”

  “Let me guess: big mistake?”

  “The biggest.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well. First week, he was spot on. Not a foot wrong. Didn’t even scratch my van.”

  “So, the guy gave him more merchandise.”

  “You got it. He went to Gloucester as usual, came back with around ten grand’s worth. And then … well … stupid idiot went partying, didn’t he.”

  “And lost the lot?”

  Terry nodded.

  “The pills and the money.”

  “So what did the bad guy do?”

  “Came down here sharpish. Put the frighteners on him. He couldn’t pay. So, he gave him a month to find the cash.”

  “When was the month up?”

  “Guess.”

  “The day he died?” said Jack.

  “Got it in one, said Terry.

  Jack sat back.

  “I heard someone put the squeeze on Charlie in here that night. You think it could have been this guy?”

  “Not sayin’. How should I know?”

  “You weren’t here?”

  “Cotswold Belles?” said Terry, gesturing to his Metallica t-shirt. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  Jack nodded. In this at least, he knew Terry was telling the truth.

  “We done?” said Terry, draining his glass.

  “Almost,” said Jack. “Just need that address from you, Terry. And a name.”

  “You’re joking,” said Terry, looking alarmed.

  “Never been more serious,” said Jack.

  “Bloody hell,” said Terry, shrinking in his seat.

  Jack wanted that name. And he wasn’t going to let Terry go without getting it.

  “Just don’t tell the bastid you got it from me …”

  8. Meet the Family

  Sarah sat at the big old farmhouse table, sipping tea from a mug and watching while Maggie Owen — Pete’s wife — carved a thick slab of fruit loaf and brought it over to her.

  “Can’t beat it, straight from the oven,” said Maggie, standing with her back to the stove. Then, with a wink, “Apparently it’s fewer calories if it’s still warm.”

  “Is that a fact?” said Sarah, spreading her piece with thick, yellow butter.

  “Scientifically proven,” said Pete, pouring himself another tea from the big brown pot.

  Sarah waited while Maggie got a plate and joined them at the table.

  “I appreciate you giving me the time,” Sarah said. “I know how busy life is on a farm.”

  “No problem,” said Pete. “Always stop for tea round this time.”

  “You’re looking into what happened to Charlie Clutterbuck — that right?” said Maggie.

  Sarah nodded, took a sip of tea.

  “A friend of his wasn’t at all happy with the way the police dealt with things. Asked us to look into it. Bit of a wild goose chase probably.”

  “You do that private detective stuff, over in the village? That right?” said Pete.

  “Not official,” said Sarah. “Sideline, I suppose you’d call it.”

  “No guns and shoot-outs then? High speed chases?” Pete laughed and turned to Maggie. “Imagine that on these roads, love!”

  “Wouldn’t get above ten miles an hour!”

  Sarah joined in the laughter.

  “You’re right,” she said. “It’s not really like that. Pretty staid. Cherringham — you know?”

  “I can imagine,” said Maggie, stirring her tea. “Poor old Charlie — you think what happened to him might not have been an accident?”

  “Right now, we don’t know.”

  “That’s awful,” said Maggie, getting up from the table for some more fruit loaf. “Drowning — bad enough — but to think …”

  “We can’t be sure,” said Sarah. “Which is why I’m talking to people he worked for in the last few weeks before he died. See if there’s anything they might have noticed.”

  “Tell you one thing we did blooming notice,” said Pete.

  Sarah leaned forward.

  “Poor bloke wasn’t cut out for a day’s work, that’s for sure!”

  She saw Pete look a
t Maggie and both rolled their eyes.

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” said Sarah. “What exactly was he doing for you here on the farm?”

  “Putting up fences. Not on his own, mind, but we needed an extra hand doing the digging.”

  “Quite a big job I imagine,” said Sarah

  “Big enough,” said Pete. “Got a hundred acres in all.”

  “Lot of fencing?”

  “That’s right. Lot of digging!”

  “You keep Guernsey’s,” said Sarah. “I saw the sign by the gates.”

  “Lovely animals they are,” said Maggie. “Pete, when you’ve had your tea, you should show Sarah round.”

  “I’d like that,” said Sarah, taking another mouthful of fruit loaf. Then: “You were telling me about Charlie.”

  “Right, Charlie,” said Pete. “So, he worked up here for a couple of weeks in all. Could have worked longer. But, in the end, he was more trouble than he was worth so we had to let him go.”

  “What was the problem?”

  Sarah saw Pete look across at Maggie. A little uncertainty — just a moment — before he answered …

  “What wasn’t the problem! You name it,” he said. “Drinking on the job. Not turning up. Disappearing. Lousy work. Bad language—”

  “Something terrible, that was,” said Maggie. “And I thought I’d heard everything!”

  Maybe that’s what the look was about, thought Sarah.

  “When we finished the fences, my son Chris gave him a couple of days cleaning trucks.”

  “Chris — so he’s Owen Haulage, yes?”

  “That’s right,” said Maggie. “Chris and his wife Emma have a cottage just down on South Field.”

  “Maybe I can talk to him too?” said Sarah. “He around today?”

  “Never takes a day off,” said Pete, draining his mug of tea. “Fact, if you’re all done here — why don’t we head out now, do that little tour. Bound to bump into him.”

  “Thanks,” said Sarah. “And Maggie — thanks for the low-cal fruit loaf. I must get the recipe from you before I go!”

  “You’re welcome, my love,” said Maggie. “I’ll see if I can dig out my recipe for low-cal apple pie too!”

  “Looking forward to it,” said Sarah.

  *

  She watched as Pete backed a quad bike out of one of the barns and drove over to her.

  “Best pop your coat on,” he said. “Tad chilly up on those fields.”

  She buttoned her Barbour, climbed onto the seat next to him, and seconds later they were zipping away across the courtyard and round the back of the farmhouse.

  “Milking sheds,” said Pete, over the noise of the engine, pointing as they passed a line of long buildings, surrounded by a maze of gates and pens. Sarah saw other buildings behind, with a couple of tall tanks and silos.

  Animal feed, she guessed.

  A whiff of diesel mixed with silage and cattle smells made the air seem thick. Pete turned out of the main farmyard area and they powered through an open gate, up a sloping meadow.

  At the top of the meadow, Sarah could now see the farmland stretching away into distant valleys — and in the next field a handful of cattle clustered round a water tank, grazing under the weak spring sun.

  Pete turned the quad bike in a tight curve and stopped the engine. Then he leaned on the steering wheel and peered at the herd.

  “Fine beasts, aren’t they,” he said.

  To Sarah’s eye they were just cows, like any other cows, but she could see Pete was proud of them.

  “Magnificent,” she said.

  Think that’s the appropriate word, she thought, dubiously.

  “Must be hard these days making a living from dairy,” she said.

  “Too right,” said Pete. “Herd’s too small to really pay its way. Luckily, we got the haulage business too. That’s our sideline, see.”

  Then he lowered his voice — though there was no chance of anyone up here hearing.

  “Truth is — we got a tidy inheritance from Maggie’s mum few years back. Couldn’t have got through the recession without it. Set the farm up proper. Took all the pressure off, it did.”

  Sarah nodded.

  So that explained the perfectly maintained drive and the smart cars in the courtyard. And the newly-installed fencing that bordered the fields.

  “This the work Charlie was doing?” she said, nodding at the nearest stretch of fence — new fence poles, taut wires.

  “That’s right,” said Pete. “These two fields, then the long line you can see runs along the ridge and down the back of the farm.”

  “Tall fences. Taller than usual, aren’t they?”

  “They are. Trouble is, isolated farms like this, getting more and more break-ins these days. Rustling even, if you can believe it. Can’t be too careful.”

  “Ah. So these are to keep people out more than keep the herd in?”

  “You got it,” said Pete. Then he started up the engine again. “Let’s go find Chris, shall we?”

  And off down the hill they went. Sarah held on tight, enjoying this speedy tour around the Cotswold hills on a breezy spring day.

  *

  They followed the fence line all the way back down into the valley and turned onto a road that Sarah could see led back to the courtyard.

  To one side, she saw milking sheds, with holding pens. Next to them, more buildings with steel shutters over the windows. At one end, they had heavy metal doors, padlocked shut.

  A truck was backed up to the doors.

  Next to one of the buildings, she saw a tall fenced enclosure containing a pair of large Doberman Pinschers. As Pete and Sarah drove past, the two tall, lean dogs hurled themselves against the wire, barking angrily.

  “Whoa … serious security,” said Sarah.

  “Like I said. Lot of thieving goes on out here.”

  Sarah caught another whiff of fuel oil.

  “You had some kind of spill?” she said.

  Pete nodded to a tank just ahead in another yard, next to a line of excavators, rollers and mini-diggers — all with Owen Haulage marked on them.

  “Diesel for the vehicles,” said Pete. “Yup. Always stinks like this.”

  Then he laughed: “So much for pure country air, eh?”

  Next to the diggers, Sarah saw a man in overalls standing by one of the machines, wiping his hands on a cloth, and talking to a woman who sat at the wheel of a Land Rover.

  “Uh oh,” said Pete to Sarah, as they approached and she could hear the sound of raised voices. “Looks like Chris and his missus are having a difference of opinion.”

  As they pulled up, Sarah saw the woman look over at her and shake her head at her husband. Then she put the car into gear with an impatient crunch, and drove off.

  “What is it, Dad?” said Chris Owen, turning to them and walking over to the quad bike. “I don’t have time for a chat.”

  “All right, son, all right — just wanted you to meet Sarah Edwards here,” said Pete, turning off the engine. “She’s asking about Charlie Clutterbuck.”

  “Asking what?”

  “Nice to meet you, Chris,” said Sarah.

  “What you asking about Charlie?” said the younger man.

  Sarah could see the likeness with his father, but, so far, in temperament, the two men clearly couldn’t be more different.

  “Just trying to get a picture of his whereabouts in the weeks before he died.”

  “Why? Who cares?”

  Sarah shrugged. “There’s some concern that maybe his death wasn’t an accident. That maybe … someone wanted to do him harm.”

  “Whoever told you that was right. I certainly wanted to.”

  “C’mon, Chris, he wasn’t that bad,” said Pete.

  “Idiot played you and me both for fools, Dad,” said Chris. “Wasted my time.” Then, turning to Sarah: “Just like you’re wasting mine.”

  “I’m certainly not here to do that, Chris,” said Sarah, holding eye contact in spite of
the hostility. “Perhaps there’s a better time I could ask you a couple of questions?”

  “No need for that,” said Chris. “We hired him. He was useless. We fired him. End of story. Anything else?”

  “I guess not,” said Sarah.

  Though now she knew she did want to ask him more questions.

  “You’ll be on your way then, hmm?” said Chris, still staring.

  Sarah looked at Pete, who shrugged and started the engine.

  Conversation over.

  Chris Owen turned and headed back to the excavators.

  “Sorry about that,” said Pete as they drove away. “Lad’s under a lot of pressure. You know? Business. Making ends meet.”

  “No worries,” said Sarah. “Quite understand.”

  Though now she didn’t: Pete had worked hard to give the impression the farm was doing just fine.

  “Poor old Charlie,” said Pete, shaking his head. “Not like he could help it — he just seemed like he was born to mess up.”

  They sat in silence together until Pete pulled up next to Sarah’s Rav-4. She got off and opened the door of her car.

  “Sure you won’t come in for another cuppa?” said Pete.

  “Thanks, Pete,” said Sarah, climbing into her car. “But I do need to get back to Cherringham.”

  He seemed uncomfortable after what had just happened.

  “Drop by again, if you need to know more,” said Pete. “Maybe give us a bit more notice? I’ll make sure Chris behaves better next time.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Sarah. “Say goodbye to your wife for me, won’t you.”

  She watched him turn and head back into the farmhouse, then started the engine and pulled away.

  She climbed the hill away from the farm, then pulled over to one side of the lane and looked back down into the valley.

  Standing alone in front of the line of yellow excavators she could see Chris Owen, staring back up the hill at her.

  Watching her. Making sure she really was leaving perhaps?

  And for all the cups of tea and the cake recipes and the sunny afternoon tour, some instinct told her …

  … all was not what it seemed down on the farm.

  9. Connections

  Jack sat in the cramped back office of the Ploughman’s and waited while Billy Leeper cued up the CCTV recorder.

  “How far back can you go?” said Jack.