Cherringham - The Drowned Man
Page 7
Through gritted teeth, his voice low, Jason finally spoke.
“Yeah, he did some work for me. The screw-up. Then he used what he was supposed to sell, lost the money. But I didn’t do a thing to him. Cause you see, Captain America,” a slight smile returned to Jason’s face, “Charlie came into some cash. Quite a lot. And with a little ‘push’, he started to make good on what was owed. Yeah. So suddenly, I had no problem with Charlie.”
“I don’t believe you,” Jack said.
Though Jack wondered: Could what the hood be saying be true? And if so …
This whole drug connection a dead end?
“Why would I touch a hair on his head? Get cops looking into my business? Don’t need that.” He leaned closer to Jack, and Jack picked up the stale whisky scent on his breath.
How many guys like this had Jack crossed paths with in NYC?
Different accent, different country, but cut from the same piece of worthless cloth.
“It’s all about business, you see? You — what — an ex-copper or something? You know that. Murder. Bad for business.”
And that — Jack had to admit was true.
Jack debated leaning harder on Jason.
But his phone vibrated.
Sarah had said as soon as she had something important, she’d call, text.
“A moment, Jason. Enjoy the rest of your drink.”
And, keeping his eyes locked on the man across from him, Jack slid the phone out.
The new text right there, on the unlock screen.
Clear as a bell.
“Vehicle registered to Waterside Enterprises. Corporate car.”
Jack took a moment, but he knew what that meant.
The guy at the Ploughman’s — who may have actually threatened Charlie — had no connection with this drug-dealing lowlife here.
Hamish.
Jack slid the phone back.
Jason’s face showed he could tell … something had changed.
“That it, big guy? We all done here?”
Jack prepared to walk the gauntlet of the other mobsters, their eyes locked on him.
He took a few steps.
“You see? I had nothing to do with stupid Charlie dying!”
Then Jack turned.
For a bit of a public service message.
“You know, Jason, might be a healthy idea for you to think about moving your operation. Better yet, take these creeps — when they recover — and move into a different line of work. Maybe the sewers? Capiche?”
And then, like scrambling away from a nest of slimy vipers, Jack left the Bulldog.
And even the foul air outside — rats scurrying, the stench of garbage everywhere — felt better to breathe.
He’d call Sarah on the way back.
Tomorrow’s plan changed.
To Hamish first thing in the morning. Now that they knew who sent the guy who went after Charlie.
But it was late now.
And Jack thought, for the first time with a bit of hope, tomorrow … maybe whatever happened on The Lucky Rainbow might at last become clear.
11. Hamish Reveals
Sarah stopped her Rav-4 in the patch of dirt and ruts that passed for the Iron Wharf’s car park.
Ahead — under a miserable early morning sky — the trailer/office of Hamish Trent.
She turned off the engine and looked across at Jack in the passenger seat.
“You know, Jack,” she said. “If we’re right about this, the next stop after our chat with Hamish is going to be the police.”
And at that, she popped open her door. Jack got out as well.
“That is, if the site manager happens to be on site.”
And, with a look at the darkening sky, she hurried to the trailer office and knocked on the door.
No answer. The windows were too high to peer in. She knocked again — then turned to Jack.
“Okay — I guess he’s otherwise engaged.”
But Jack was looking around. He nodded towards a Jaguar saloon just visible round the back of the office.
“Think that is his car?”
“Could be the one you saw on the CCTV?” she said.
“Be good, wouldn’t it?” said Jack. “But think not.”
Sarah turned now, scanning the wharf buildings, and what she could see of the scattering of old caravans and trailers clustered on the far side of the main factory building.
Then down to the river and wharf area itself.
And she saw someone.
“Jack — down there by the moorings.”
The man stood out. Suit, shirt, tie, something in his hand.
“Hamish? Let’s go see, hmm?”
*
Whoever it was, he didn’t take note of Sarah and Jack walking towards him.
No, he was looking at one of the tied-up barges, taking notes on the clipboard, then walking from the aft end to the front of the squat boat.
When Sarah finally spoke, Hamish turned.
Startled.
Then Sarah thought: No — he looks more than just startled.
“Hamish, we need to have a few more words with you.”
He squinted at them, then shook his head.
“Um, sorry, I’ve got to … got to finish this. Checking all the moorings, seeing who’s where, see if the damn moorings even match our bloody records … I r-really—”
During all this, Hamish’s eyes darted back and forth. Whatever greasy aplomb he’d had on their first visit, now vanished.
And maybe, Sarah thought, that was good sign.
She looked at Jack to see — unspoken — if he wanted to apply some more direct pressure to the nervous site manager.
But with a barely perceptible tilt of the head, Jack signalled …
Carry on …
So she did.
“I’m afraid we can’t wait, Hamish. You see, we’ve learned something in connection with the possible murder of Charlie Clutterbuck that, well, doesn’t look good for you.”
“Oh, God. Jeez …”
And though it seemed impossible, Hamish’s eyes now darted even more, a trapped mouse looking for an escape.
“About a car, registered to Waterside Enterprises; and someone who threatened Charlie Clutterbuck the night—”
Then Hamish turned to her, his eyes finally landing on both of them, the mouse caught, licking his lips.
He put both his hands up and said words that Sarah didn’t expect.
Not “get off this property”.
Not “I won’t say a word without my lawyer”.
All quite reasonable things to say.
Instead: “Okay, w-we’d better go back to my office. Not out here. Where people can see.”
Sarah nodded, not knowing at all where this was leading.
“And then … then, I’ll tell you everything.” And as if sealing the deal … and maybe this whole case. “The whole truth.”
And with clipboard firmly in hand, Hamish hurried past them, making a beeline for his trailer.
Jack gave her a look as they followed, his expression as curious as hers.
Wondering: Well, just what is this about?
*
Hamish didn’t sit at his desk.
He stood, and behind him were pinned the plans for the new wharf complex, plans that had obviously been put away during visit number one.
For a second, Hamish stood frozen, as if not knowing where to begin.
Then Sarah prodded him. “Those the plans? For what this place will become?”
Hamish nodded quickly.
“Yes. I mean, the shops, the restaurants, the river-front apartments … It’s going to be beautiful.”
“But you need people like Charlie to disappear first?”
Hamish looked at her — and nodded.
And for a moment Sarah thought: Is this it? Have we actually figured out what happened to Charlie?
And who killed him.
“You said,” Jack nudged, “the whole truth?”
>
A sheepish nod, and then Hamish sat down.
“Yeah. And you’re right. People like Charlie; others. We have to get them out of here. Can’t move all this,” he gestured at the plans, “forward until that happens.”
Sarah half expected him to say: So Charlie had to be killed.
Instead he said: “I’ve already called the local police.”
“Alan Rivers?”
“Yes — told him.”
She saw that Jack had quietly flipped open his notebook.
“What did you tell him?”
“Well, about the chap I sent. Someone from the company’s main offices. Tough guy. Does … that sort of thing.”
“Sort of thing?”
“You know. Puts pressure on people.” A pause, a gulp. “Scares them.”
Jack turned to her. Here she’d been expecting an amazing reveal — the licence number, the car, the connection with the guy in the loo.
And instead all this had just come flowing out of Hamish’s mouth.
“We only meant to rattle Charlie’s cage. Just a threat, a scare. But also maybe let him know his back rent would disappear. A sort of … bonus. If he just left. But that drunken idiot, he didn’t listen, waving around a wad of money …”
“You have no idea where he got that?”
“None. My guy talked to him in the pub that night — then left. Reported back. Did the best he could, within the law.”
“Within the law,” Jack said. “Think Alan might have a few thoughts on that.”
“I know. Probably be my neck on the line. I mean, the bosses wanted it, but you know who ends up paying the price. But they said to me, if someone really did kill Charlie, if the stupid drunk was murdered, I had to come clean.”
For a moment, silence.
“Too much at stake here. Get everything out in the open,” they said.
Sarah sat there listening, thinking she and Jack could now take Hamish — and his handlers — off any suspect list.
“So I did. Told the cop everything.”
“We will check that,” Jack said.
Hamish nodded.
And Sarah tried to think of another question to ask.
But with the licence connection, and the rent-a-goon revealed — all things that could be checked for any hidden clues, any evidence …
Most likely to lead nowhere …
She turned to Jack.
Because that meant …
They were running out of suspects.
Especially now the drug connection had led nowhere too.
She stood up.
Jack followed suit. She imagined he was thinking exactly the same thing.
Last call for secrets.
Would the question of Charlie’s death be left unanswered? Was it really just a stupid, drunken accident?
“Best be heading back to Cherringham,” said Jack, then he turned to Hamish. “We’ll be in touch.”
Sarah saw the site manager nod nervously. Then she followed Jack out into the car park.
At the car, Jack turned to her.
“You buy that?”
“Sounds plausible,” said Sarah.
“Agree. Which kinda leaves us at a dead end.”
“Just what I was thinking.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Sarah looked at him, trying to read his expression, waiting for more.
She knew not to press Jack at times like this, when it seemed like his thoughts were hanging in the air.
“Drop me back at The Goose?” he said.
“Sure.”
*
Jack looked out of the car window, the fields just visible over the side of the low stone walls as they sped back to Cherringham.
The lane so narrow, but Sarah — like all the locals — driving like she was on a highway with no speed limit.
He checked his seat belt.
“So, the dairy farm. I know you’ve been following the money — which is useful. But think back to your trip there yesterday. Remind me just why you felt there was something suspicious.”
“Suspicious? Oh, I don’t know. Seems to me these days I’m always suspicious.”
But Jack had grown to trust Sarah’s instincts. In fact, he relied on them.
“Really. From the beginning.”
“Okay.”
He listened carefully as Sarah described the farm again: the giant fences that Charlie had helped put in, the paltry number of cows — and the angry, hostile son.
“And yet,” Jack said, “the farmer — this Pete Owen — a real nice guy. Wife all smiles and offering cake.”
“Fruit loaf,” Sarah said. “Not exactly my fave.”
“When in Rome. Anything else?”
“Yea. One thing. That smell of diesel. Saw one truck leaving the place, and another on site. Guess that would explain the smell, big trucks like that. Still — it was a pretty strong smell.”
“They have some kind of truck hire operation too, hmm? ‘Haulage’, that what you call it?”
“Yep, haulage.”
“So, guessing, they must have tanks there to fuel the trucks.”
“True.”
Something niggling her, thought Jack. Something we need dig a little deeper into.
He waited while she turned onto the main road and headed down towards Cherringham Bridge.
“Nothing else you remember? Anything else that just seemed odd?”
She hesitated.
“Okay. There was one more thing.”
“Go on.”
“The buildings. Yes. That’s it. There just seemed more buildings than you’d expect for the size of the farm.”
“What kind of buildings?”
“Barns. Boarded up. Steel shutters. Heavy doors. Distinct feeling of … no entry. And a truck backed up to the doors that just didn’t look like … I dunno … like a farm truck. More like a big freight truck.”
“An eighteen-wheeler?”
“Precisely.”
“Be good to take another look.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
“But here’s the thing. First time, seemed friendly enough — save for the disgruntled son. But a re-visit? And with those fences you saw, and that security? Doubt we could just sneak down there.”
“Having seen the place, I agree,” Sarah said. “And if I did call and ask to look around a bit more …?”
“I know — think this time that door’ll be slammed in your face.”
Jack looked along the river as they turned off the main road. A low mist on the far meadow. A pair of swans drifting by the river bank.
“What are you thinking, Jack?”
“Oh, I dunno. A theory.”
“Go on.”
“Well, we know Charlie got himself involved selling drugs. So, what if the farm has something to with drugs too? Those barns … Maybe some kind of production going on? It’s a stretch but …”
“Hmm. And Charlie got in over his head?”
“Something like that, yeah. Higher stakes. Not just weed. And then he made another mistake …”
“A fatal one.”
“Which was?”
She grinned. “Guess there’s the question, hmm?”
He turned to look at her.
“So why don’t I head over there for a bracing country walk this afternoon?”
“Do some snooping?”
“Exactly. They haven’t met me. Play the innocent American abroad, confused on the footpaths.”
“A role you play so well.”
“Ha — remember my Texan I cooked up that time on the boat?”
“Very convincing,” said Sarah, laughing.
“We got the bad guys as a result, I seem to remember.”
“We did indeed.”
“I can make it work a second time,” said Jack. “Around these parts, sometimes a person can’t move for tourists from the States.”
“Must drive you crazy,” said Sarah, as she drew up next to The Grey Goose.
“That’ll be the day.”
She watched him shut the door and lean in through the passenger window, his tall frame bent.
“Thanks for the lift. By the way, you heading straight up to the office?”
“Time I put a full day in,” said Sarah. “Let me know how you get on out at the farm.”
“Think I’ll head out after lunch,” he said, stepping back. “Got some work to do on the boat first — and Riley will be begging for a walk.”
“And dinner tonight — don’t forget.”
“Got it.”
She smiled, then turned the car around and headed back towards the bridge.
In the rear-view mirror she saw him turn to board The Goose.
Thinking:
A rendezvous with a drug dealer in Gloucester was one thing.
But what worse danger might be lurking out on Longmead Farm?
Because they didn’t know what could be waiting there at all.
12. A Walk in the Country
Jack slowed down as he approached Longmead Dairy Farm, took in the closed gates and the long drive that disappeared into the valley — then dropped a gear in the little Austin-Healey Sprite and sped away.
Five minutes later, he slowly rounded a corner on the far ridge, pulled off the tiny lane and parked under a tall oak at the edge of a field.
He picked up the map that lay open on the passenger seat, folded it into his daypack along with his waterproof and binoculars, stepped out of the car and locked it.
Then he crossed the deserted lane, found a good flat section of dry wall to lean on, took out the binoculars and scanned the valley.
Longmead Farm lay half a mile below — and from this vantage point he could see, not only the fields that rose above it on both sides, but also the whole curve of the valley.
At one end of that valley — a wide, flat field of grass.
At the other, woodland which came within a hundred yards or so of the outer limit of the farm.
Slowly, he scanned the farm buildings.
And they were just as Sarah had described.
Three cars parked out front. Smoke coming from the farm chimney, curling up into the still air.
A woman in the small garden out back, hanging up laundry on a line.
Old-school, he thought.
One man hosing down a muddy area next to what Jack assumed were the milking sheds.