“About a month,” said Billy. “Best thing I ever did, set this up.”
“Customers don’t mind the cameras?”
“Only the wrong kind of customer. Most of my regulars feel safer knowing it’s there.”
Jack watched as Billy pressed buttons on the recorder. Then: “All set to go. You got a date?”
“Twenty-first. Evening.”
“Ah. Night Charlie Clutterbuck died, hmm? This to do with him then? You investigating, Jack?”
Jack nodded. “Maybe. Maybe not. Just taking a look. Seems Charlie had a bit of a run-in with some guy in the john that night.”
“That a fact? Didn’t hear anything myself. And he looked okay to me later.”
“You saw him that night?”
“Bugger bought me a drink. First one in twenty years.”
“So, he was spending?”
“Oh, he had cash all right. Plenty.”
“Did you notice a stranger hanging round? Tall guy — suit?”
“Place was full of strangers, Jack. Country and western night, see. People come from all over. Don’t know half of them.”
Jack saw the screen on the shelf in front of them light up — the split of camera feeds showing views inside and outside the Ploughman’s.
“Right then,” said Billy, handing Jack a remote control. “This button to scroll through the feeds, the rest work just like your average DVD — pause, play, you know the score. Any questions — just give us a shout. I’ll be behind the bar.”
“Thanks, Billy — appreciate it.”
“Any time. Happy hunting.”
Jack watched Billy leave the office and shut the door behind him. Then he picked up the remote and ran the recording back to mid-afternoon on the day Charlie died.
Should have brought a coffee, he thought, making himself comfortable in the office chair.
From long experience back in the NYPD, he knew this might take some time.
*
Two hours later — and Jack’s eyes were beginning to hurt from the strain of peering at the grainy images.
At least there’s no audio, he thought. There’s only so many Tammy Wynette covers a man can endure.
It hadn’t taken long to spot Charlie, as he scurried back and forth to the bar, buying drinks.
Jack kept a tally of the pints and chasers in his notebook: enough to knock out any but the most hardened of drinkers.
It was hard not to feel bad for the guy — knowing that in just a few hours he would be drowned, floating down the Thames in the dark.
The digital display on the recordings hit 10:30pm. And still no sign of the mysterious stranger in the suit.
Then Jack saw … a lone figure in the shadows of the car park, standing on the very edge of frame, smoking a cigarette, looking round …
… flicking the cigarette away and entering the pub by the back door.
Jack hit pause and stared at the screen. He checked the camera plan that he’d drawn in his notebook and pulled up a different angle, to see …
The same guy stepping into the brightly lit rear corridor of the pub, into the crowded overspill from the Cotswold Belles.
Jack saw him stare up into the corners of the corridor, clearly looking for a camera.
Moves like a pro, thought Jack.
He hit pause again. Ray had said the guy had mean eyes — and he was dead right.
Tall, fit-looking, maybe six-five, dark suit, open neck white shirt, close-cropped hair, thin face.
And nasty eyes.
A real tough guy.
Had to be him. In his suit, the guy stood out among the t-shirts and jeans of the country crowd. Maybe he hadn’t been expecting an event on in the pub?
Even pros make mistakes, thought Jack, hitting play again and watching the tall man slip out of sight of the camera — and into a blind spot.
Very clever, he thought. Knows just where the camera won’t see him.
But now Jack knew he was in the building, he could speed up. Only one camera required — the one that faced the door to the toilets.
He hit fast forward, until he spotted Charlie going in.
Then seconds later — the nasty-eyed guy appeared as if from nowhere, looked over his shoulder, and went in after Charlie.
A minute later — and there was Ray entering the fray. And then another minute — the guy emerged.
Jack picked him up on the corridor camera. Then the car park. And then — at last — a lucky break …
A car drew up fast. Some kind of saloon, black, maybe a Ford. Mean-eyed guy got in the passenger seat — and the car sped off.
Jack paused again, and there — nice and clear under the street lamps — the plate.
Gotcha, he thought, jotting the number down in his notebook.
*
“That’s me outta here,” said Grace, closing her laptop and standing up from her desk. “I finished the review of the nursery ads — and worked up a full website quote for that new yoga place in Bourton — so I’m off. See you at spin class?”
Sarah looked up from her computer at her partner: “Don’t worry — I’ll be there. Even if I have to sneak in half way through.”
“I’ll save you a bike at the back,” said Grace, heading for the door. “Don’t work too late!”
Sarah gave her a wave, then turned back to her screen and took a sip of tea.
In truth — she hadn’t quite been “working” all afternoon.
Thank God for Grace, she thought.
In fact, she’d spent the last hour delving into the planning history of Iron Wharf — and the personal life of one Hamish Trent.
It seemed the new owners of the wharf — Waterside Enterprises — had a track record for buying up old riverside industrial units and turning them into smart restaurants and apartments.
Whether the current tenants liked the idea or not.
Online, there were lots of comments about their heavy-handed tactics, as well as reports of angry demonstrations in opposition to their developments.
And plenty of people locally had objected to their latest plan — to turn Iron Wharf into a “leisure destination”.
But over the last year, as they’d resubmitted plans again and again, it appeared the number of objectors had gone down.
Bought off by Hamish?
Or maybe frightened off?
Comments on a few barge forums suggested that Waterside were all too ready to use violent methods if sitting tenants chose not to take the cash and run.
Certainly, over the last year, Iron Wharf had been run into the ground, and the leases on the boats of the once-full moorings had not been renewed when they ended.
Charlie Clutterbuck was one of the last remaining.
Yet, he didn’t want to leave.
Sarah looked away. It didn’t make sense.
Could Waterside have had something to do with his death?
Had Charlie taken their money — and then decided to stay put?
Was that the roll of money Charlie had flashed in the Ploughman’s?
Sarah checked the time. Getting late. But if she left now, she’d just make it to her spin class.
Then her phone rang. She swiped the screen.
“Jack.”
“Sarah — I got something …”
She listened as he told her about the CCTV, jotted down the licence number on her pad.
“Sounds like this could be the lead we’ve been looking for,” she said.
“Yep, think so. You got time to track the plate tonight?”
“Will take a bit. But sure.”
“How about Iron Wharf? You find anything? How desperate are they to get people like Charlie and Terry out of there?”
“Already started that,” she said. “Going to pick it up when I get home, fill you in. Let’s just say — they’re not people you want to get on the wrong side of.”
“Interesting.”
There was a pause — and Sarah was suddenly aware that Jack was hiding something.<
br />
In that way, he was as easy to read as a book — even on the phone.
“Jack — what’s your plan? Where are you heading now?”
Another pause.
But she knew: he would always tell her the truth.
“Sounds like you got a lot more digging to do,” he said. “That licence number, what’s the deal with the wharf, maybe check out the farm a bit … plenty to do …”
“Jack — just tell me where you’re going now.”
She heard him take a breath. Quite clearly, he wanted to do this alone.
And he probably didn’t want to say anything since he knew how she might worry about him.
So, after that breath, he took just a moment …
And told her …
10. Dangerous Moves
Jack opened the door to the bar. A sign outside read “Bulldog Club”, complete with a caricature of a squat grinning dog, teeth dripping, circled by the letters.
This “club” had its windows darkened with thick blackout shades.
The sign outside, off, dark. Jack found the place only by tracking the house numbers as he drove past.
He had been to Gloucester before; seen some of its rough edges, as well as its magnificent cathedral.
But he’d not been here, a run-down area half a mile outside town. Dumpsters piled high with uncollected trash. A lone fried-chicken store pumping out music and the stench of stale cooking oil.
He thought that — to match the unlit sign — the door of the bar would be locked, the place deserted.
But no — it opened and he walked in.
Music played, and — the gangster cliché — Frank Sinatra was booming from a speaker.
“Summer Wind”.
Least it’s not “My Way”, thought Jack.
Boy, did the hoods and mobsters and penny-ante dealers back home in NYC love that one.
Strange to hear it here, of all places.
For a moment, he stood there.
The blackout curtains on the club’s windows did a good job of hiding the lights inside; the bar with mood lighting shooting up, making the liquor bottles glow like giant Christmas tree bulbs.
Lights hanging over a scattering of tables.
And people.
Two guys at the bar. And a bartender.
At a back table, two more men.
And as Jack well knew, having done this kind of thing before at bars from Red Hook to Canarsie, all eyes were on him.
Part of him, relishing the moment.
Always a bit exciting to shake things up.
But also knowing how quickly something like this could turn bad.
Dangerous. Even here in the heart of England.
He walked over to the bartender, who besides manning the glowing bottles, kept his eyes on Jack.
And there’d be no pretend order.
No “gimme a beer and a chaser”.
This dark place didn’t exactly get drop-ins from the street.
“I’m looking for a Jason Real.”
The bartender looked at Jack. As if his spaceship had just plopped down outside.
Then Jack leaned close.
“The guy I’m looking for … his name is Jason Real.”
The bartender shook his head slowly. “Never heard of him.”
But the bartender’s obvious lie was interrupted by a voice booming from the table in the back.
“Hey. You looking for me? Right here, pal.”
The bartender’s eyes shifted in that direction. Jack turned as well, taking a moment to look at the other men standing close.
“Thanks,” he said.
And, trying to be aware of where everyone was, what everyone was doing, Jack walked to the table, for his chat with Jason Real.
Feeling everyone’s eyes on him, each slow step of the way.
*
“Not drinking, yank? What’s-a-matter? Don’t like our beer here? Used to that crappy stuff you have in the States that tastes like—”
Jack put a hand up, then gave a smile. “Got a few questions, Jason. A few answers and I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening here.”
The man’s eyes narrowed — indicating he understood sarcasm.
“You’ll leave … when I say you will.”
The man looked to the goon sitting next to him, then — perhaps a signal — to the other men at the bar.
Jack had to wonder what said bartender could be hiding under the wooden bar.
More than dirty glasses and seltzer, he imagined.
Real kept nodding as if surprised Jack didn’t get the cue.
“Or maybe you should just leave now, eh? Walk your yank ass right outta here. While your legs are still in good working order.”
The man next to him laughed at the crack.
But Jack saw no smile from Jason. He didn’t move.
Jason — apparently, in no mood for an audience — shook his head at the guy, who got up and scurried to the others at the bar.
Jack glanced back at them.
A motley crew, waiting for a signal.
Jack thought: This isn’t good.
But no worse than he had faced before.
And he thought: I am prepared.
“Got some questions about Charlie Clutterbuck.”
Jason shook his head.
“That piece of … You kidding me? I’m dead serious — get your legs moving now. And,” then he raised a meaty finger and aimed it like a pistol right at Jack’s face, “don’t you ever come back to the Bulldog.”
Jack nodded.
He heard movement behind him.
The pack of goons coming closer.
Showtime possibly about to begin
But, among the many things Jack didn’t like about petty mobsters like this, was just that sort of move.
Some low-level crook, finger out — like he was something.
Instead of human garbage.
Didn’t like it at all.
He took a breath. Looked around …
And yes, definitely footsteps behind him.
*
Sarah sat at her computer, her home office lined with whiteboards, the room looking every day more like a serious place for investigation. It was dark, save for the light from her large computer screens.
Her legs ached — she stretched them gingerly under the desk.
Last time I do a spin class without arriving in time for the warm-up, she thought.
Beside her, a yellow pad, already half-filled with notes.
This time — about the Longmead Dairy Farm. The yearly turnover, the government grants and taxes — looking like a lot of taxes for even a successful farm to handle.
And — harder to find — records on dairy production, deliveries.
She’d found them in the end. And the sums seemed nowhere near enough to support an operation that large; all that land, the equipment, the maintenance.
Same for Owen Haulage — “the sideline” as Pete Owen had called it. It seemed to have run at a profit for the last few years — but only just. Not much surplus to support the luxury of a specialist herd.
And she wondered: Just how much money did they inherit from Maggie Owen’s mother?
Was it really enough to fund that line of flash cars?
Or was something else going on at the farm? Something a little riskier than milking cows?
Something that Charlie had got involved in — and got himself killed in the process?
She felt as if she had different pieces of a jigsaw puzzle but wondered: Do they even go with the same puzzle?
Lots of accounts. Lots of spreadsheets.
But did it add up?
Not yet.
She picked up the slip of paper with the licence number.
Jack would be in Gloucester by now. Despite her objections. And if that number plate led there, she needed to know — and soon.
But so far, her IT friend in London — who’d helped her out years back, when she’d tracked her ex in the throes of a nasty divor
ce — hadn’t got back to her.
He’d promised to call the minute he had the owner’s number. Sarah knew from past cases that hacking into the UK motor vehicle registration could take time — and it was no use hurrying him.
And then her phone rang. She looked at the display.
It was him …
*
Jack turned back to Jason.
And though his hands had been folded on the table, Jack quickly sent his right hand flying up to the finger planted in his face — grabbed it …
And as he expected, the goons came at him, in time with the painful howls of Jason Real.
Which is when Jack slid out of his back pocket a little memento from his past: his NYPD expandable baton.
A flick of the wrist and the baton was ready for action.
Goon number one didn’t see it coming, as Jack whacked him in the right kneecap, sending the guy down, screaming in pain.
Amazing how vulnerable the knees were.
While twisting Real’s hand and the still outstretched finger, Jack was able to stand.
Goon number two — who had now noticed that the trio was down a man — paused.
Enough time for Jack to slam him right in the larynx.
No permanent damage with that, but the guy’d be focused on simply breathing for the next ten minutes.
That stopped goon number three completely.
Which is when Jack, Real’s hand still in his grasp, went behind the man, and held the baton tight under his neck like a chin-up bar.
“How about you tell everyone to just … relax?”
Jack eyed the bartender, his hands behind the bar.
“Especially the guy serving drinks, hmm?”
And Real, looking from the lone frozen goon still standing to the bartender, nodded.
“Good …”
As the men on their knees tried to scurry away, Jack took his seat.
And resumed …
*
“Like I said … just a few questions. And think, considering your line of work — the need for discretion — best to answer? Better me than Gloucester’s finest?”
The slightest nod from Jason, who rubbed his hand as if he might massage away the pain.
“Charlie. He dealt for you. And then lost the goods, the money, right?” Again, the guy said nothing. “So you sent someone to shake him down, and when that didn’t work … only one thing to do, yeah?”
The man shook his head.
Cherringham - The Drowned Man Page 6