Cherringham - The Drowned Man

by Matthew Costello

  “Our recce by air?”

  A nod.

  “Can’t believe I agreed to it.”

  “Might be good. Looked to me like they keep those barns open when people aren’t around. Fingers crossed.”

  “Little planes are always buzzing over Cherringham. I doubt they’ll notice us, and—” Before she could say any more, Chloe popped her head into the kitchen.

  “Grandpa says ‘all booked’, eight o’clock sharp. He sounded excited too!”

  “Turning into a whole family operation,” Sarah said.

  Chloe grinned at that, then dashed upstairs.

  Jack picked up his coat from the back of the chair.

  “Great dinner.”

  “Lot of effort — but worth it when the kids are both around.”

  She smiled.

  “And you too of course, Jack!”

  “Why thank y’all, Ma’am,” he said, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat, “been a mighty fine evening.”

  “You’re really going to have to work on that accent,” said Sarah. “Think even I can do better.”

  He laughed and walked down the hall to the front door. “See you tomorrow. Let’s hope it’s good flying weather!”

  14. A Bird’s-eye View

  Sarah watched her father looking left and right, perhaps not pleased with the weather as this small Cessna he had commandeered sailed over the rolling hills of Cherringham in the early morning.

  “Damn foggy,” he said, “but I think it’s starting to lift. Yes. Imagine it will clear in a heartbeat. There one minute, and gone the next.”

  Michael turned to the back of the plane where Jack sat in the third seat. Bit more leg room there to be sure, but …

  “Jack,” Michael said, “how are you getting on back there?”

  Sarah also turned.

  Jack — ever the good sport — produced a big smile.

  “Just fine, Michael.”

  Though Sarah could see that Jack’s head nearly touched the top of the small plane.

  Sarah gave him a smile back. She hadn’t — at first — been thrilled with Chloe’s plan to fly over the farm.

  But she thought: Could be, Jack isn’t either.

  Some people — just aren’t too sure about flying.

  And in a small plane like this who could blame them?

  “Ah,” Michael said. “There we are. Bit of sun — just what we needed. Now, to find this mysterious farm of yours.”

  And with that, Michael banked the plane, and though Sarah was sure the turn had been deftly done, it still had the feeling of a theme park ride — a tilt-a-whirl experience as the Cessna swooped left, her dad perhaps reliving his glory days of aerial manoeuvres with the RAF.

  “Hold tight,” he said. “Have you two over that farm in a jiffy!”

  And hold tight, Sarah did.

  *

  Now — the fog magically dissipated — they soared towards Longmead Farm, dead ahead.

  Sarah turned back to Jack, his face glued to the rear passenger window, looking down.

  “Okay. There it is,” said Jack.

  “Pretty out of the way, hmm?” Michael said. “Never really paid much attention to it down here in the valley. Going to ease back on the throttle a bit — get a nice cruising speed.”

  And as Sarah watched, her dad reached forward and adjusted the throttle, the roar of the engine dropping.

  The plane slowed. For a moment, it seemed almost like a glider, as if not even going fast enough to remain aloft.

  Then — they came closer to the farm, over a few rolling hills, paralleling the winding driveway that led from the road to the gated property itself.

  Charlie Clutterbuck’s handiwork clearly visible, criss-crossing the fields.

  “Those the fences you talked about?” Michael said, turning to Sarah. “Definitely big!”

  “Yes …”

  “Yeah, right? Pretty, um, substantial,” Jack said. “That look unusual to you, Michael?”

  “I’d say so. Let me …”

  Then, much to Sarah’s chagrin, Michael banked the plane so his side window gave him a bird’s-eye view right over the line of fences as they crossed them from above.

  “I walk the footpaths all over this area. Tromped through many a farm, past livestock, horses. Never saw one with fences that tall.”

  Then — thankfully — he righted the plane.

  “Must say — this little Cessna performs wonderfully. Not quite like the Jaguar I trained on. Now that was a machine.”

  Sarah saw the buildings ahead, the cluster of big farm buildings and silos, well away from the house, deep into the property.

  “And over there … Those the cows?”

  Sarah saw where her father was looking. A cluster of Guernsey cows enjoying the growing morning sun, standing together, chewing their cud.

  A glance back to Jack. “That’s the herd …?”

  “Apparently. That’s all we saw,” he said.

  Michael cleared his throat.

  “’Fraid that’s no ‘herd’. Big operation down there … but that’s all the dairy cows they have?”

  “Maybe more cows in the barns, Michael?” Jack said

  Sarah saw her father shake his head.

  “I don’t think so. Again, I’m not an authority, but I did have an old friend who raised cows. Milked at dawn, right at sun up, then you get them all out on the pasture. So if that bunch up there on the hill—” he turned to Sarah, then back to Jack “—is all they have? Very odd.”

  “That’s what we thought,” Sarah said. “As if they’re just for show.”

  Without being asked, Michael brought the plane down lower, the speed still slow, smooth.

  And she could tell that her father was already finding Longmead Farm odder still.

  *

  “There! Jack, look. See the truck … by the barn.”

  Below, a big truck with tall panelled sides backed slowly towards the open doors of the shuttered barn.

  “That a milk truck?” Jack said.

  “Milk always gets picked up in tankers,” said Michael. “Could be some kind of side products? Butter, yoghurt perhaps?”

  “Maybe,” said Jack, “or maybe some kind of drugs distribution …”

  “Aha,” said Michael. “I see where you’re going. Perfect cover, that’s for sure.”

  We need to see inside, thought Sarah, as the truck stopped. The driver climbed out and joined two other men opening the rear doors.

  “Michael,” Jack said, “can you get us lower? I mean, low enough so we can get a look inside the building?”

  Sarah saw Jack slip binoculars out of small rucksack he’d brought.

  Meanwhile, she dug out her camera, flicked the lens cap off, ready to take pictures.

  But though this was all intriguing — and certainly suspicious enough — Sarah didn’t have a clue what it might have to do with Charlie Clutterbuck, and how he drowned.

  Did any of it connect?

  “Could do. Need to go round again,” Michael, said. “Quick loop.”

  And Michael sailed over the barn, the silos, the other buildings — the plane banking over an empty field — while Sarah wished he could hurry up.

  This might be their only opportunity.

  She looked at Jack, certain he was thinking the same thing.

  But then — during the smooth arc looping back for another run at the farm — Michael said: “Hang on. Do you two see that?”

  But all Sarah could see was an open field: large, stretching in all directions.

  “What is it?”

  She saw her father — mid-manoeuvre — looking off to the left.

  “Right down there. See that ‘line’?”

  And as soon as her father spoke, Sarah could see what he had noticed. There, amidst the smooth rolling field, so perfectly green, was a line in the grass that looked different.

  The area picked out by the early morning sun. The grass itself shades darker …

  Jack had his
binoculars trained on the line which stretched as far as the eye could see.

  The small Cessna kept to its curving arc but they had plenty of time to look at the field.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “Underground fuel line, I reckon. Looks like it goes right across the entire property.”

  “Didn’t show up on the satellite view,” said Jack.

  “Could be just the morning light,” said Michael, “or maybe — who knows — somebody has them airbrushed out of the online maps.”

  “Do you think it’s live?” said Sarah.

  “Oh for sure,” said Michael. “Pipes like this run millions of gallons of oil across the country. Aviation fuel, diesel — you name it.”

  And as her father finally got the plane back for another run, Sarah sat back.

  She had smelled oil.

  From the trucks, she’d thought.

  But now as the plane started to fly lower, the barns and silos so close, could it be something else?

  Some kind of leak?

  “Sarah — all set? Ready to grab some pics?”

  “Yup.”

  And now, just hundreds of feet in the air, the Cessna headed straight at the barn, the truck now backing inside, massive metal barn doors wide open.

  And Michael said, “Here we go.”

  Sarah held her camera up. The truck had disappeared into the barn.

  A glance at Jack, binoculars also up. Her father now had the plane banking sharply left. At that angle, they might be able to look right inside the massive barn.

  “I see … something,” Jack said as the plane swooped close. “And it doesn’t look like milking stations.”

  *

  Closer still, the angle still good, a precious few seconds for their best look inside.

  If anyone happened to be outside, they’d wonder what was going on.

  But even now, without binoculars, she could see the men inside, not noticing the plane buzzing outside.

  And big metal canisters, massive drums on pallets with a large rumbling forklift ferrying them two at a time up to the loading dock, and into the waiting truck.

  And as she started taking picture after picture, Sarah too was sure … it didn’t look like butter or yoghurt.

  Something else was happening down there.

  “Getting snaps?” Jack said.

  “Lots. What can you make out?”

  “Dunno. But pretty sure that’s not how you transport dairy products. Could be drugs. But now I’m thinking … fuel? Is it possible to tap those fuel lines Michael?”

  “Good Lord yes,” said Michael. “There have been stories, places where people have dug down to the pipelines, stolen the fuel — for years in some cases. Made an absolute fortune — and no one the wiser …”

  Sarah turned to Jack.

  A nod. Forget the Guernseys. Forget the haulage business.

  They were looking at the operation that really provided the money on this farm.

  Stolen fuel.

  Oil, Sarah thought. The whole operation concealed inside these sheds. Completely out of sight.

  But the smell. No way they could hide that …

  And in minutes, the plane soared past the scene.

  “Want me to go round again? Though — I imagine that might look a tad suspicious. Still — don’t mind.”

  But Sarah turned back to her partner, only feet away, and jammed into a seat much too small.

  “Jack. The truck’s in there now. We leave, go to the airfield, come back—”

  “I know.”

  Both leaving unsaid: what was going on below could be all over, the barn locked.

  An opportunity blown.

  And then she turned to her father, almost not believing the words she was about to say …

  “Dad — can you land the plane? Down there?”

  She pointed to the long, flat stretch of pasture that ran along the valley.

  At first her father shot her a look as if he didn’t quite recognise the daughter sitting next to him. Then he peered out through the side window at the field and the hillsides.

  Checking all the angles, the possible hazards, guessed Sarah.

  The seconds ticking by.

  Then he turned back to her with a grin.

  “Can I? Field landing? In this little beauty? Just you watch …”

  And now Michael reached for the throttle, the purr of the engine rising as he brought the plane round in a wide sweeping curve so that it aimed once more at the farm in the distance.

  Ahead, the line of the valley, the fields sloping in on each side, the stretch of flat grassland a ribbon between all the fences.

  Another tweak on the throttle and the engine note lowered. On either side, Sarah could now see fields and trees flashing by.

  “Flaps down, nice and easy. Might be a little bumpy, chaps.”

  In mere seconds she heard the first sound of the Cessna’s wheels hitting the dirt, bouncing over the grassy field, the plane jumping up when hitting an indentation, then down to the ground again.

  Her father somehow slowing the plane as he killed the engines.

  She wasted no time popping open the side door, while Jack had to basically crawl his way forward.

  “Michael — a call to Alan, if you don’t mind,” Jack said.

  “And, Dad … meanwhile, stay here?”

  It took a second for her father to nod. “Okay. I’ll keep her ready for you.”

  And before Sarah turned to join Jack, to race to the barn, she felt his hand gently on her arm.

  “Sarah — be careful?”

  Her turn to nod, before she bolted after Jack, the still-dewy grass kicking up water as she ran.

  15. The Price of Silence

  A dozen yards away from the barn, Jack stopped Sarah.

  Her idea, to land here, confront the Owens: mad. And now they didn’t know what they were walking into.

  “Sarah, we need to tread carefully. This might be … just a fuel scam going on here.”

  “You mean, nothing to do with Charlie?”

  “Could be.”

  “But Charlie must have seen this, Jack. He must have known about it.”

  Jack nodded. “And his being dead, pretty darn convenient?”

  She nodded.

  Then Jack gave her a smile. “If ever we needed to be reading each other’s minds, well, let’s hope in the next few minutes our ESP is working.”

  Then, with that smallest of plans in place, Jack walked beside her, closing the distance to the barn, where, hopefully, the truck was still being loaded.

  With one last thought before they reached the entrance.

  How many minutes for Alan to get the call, to come up here?

  Five? Ten?

  More?

  When each minute could be crucial.

  *

  Jack walked in first, realising that he and Sarah were — at the opening to the barn — backlit, shadowy.

  For a few moments, unrecognisable.

  He spotted Chris Owen, at the back, overseeing two other men, one operating the forklift, the other on the loading deck.

  And for lack of anything better to say: “Lot of milk you got there.”

  Except as soon as he and Sarah walked in, the oil smell became even more overpowering.

  If there was any doubt what was going on, there was none now.

  Ahead: machinery, tanks.

  Oil secretly siphoned, pumped right out of the cross-country pipe. Put into metal barrels.

  Truck after truck probably.

  A black market — with Charlie’s fencing doing its job of keeping prying eyes away.

  Chris turned to them … took steps.

  The forklift operator stopped, the man on the loading deck turning also.

  “You … two! Nosy bastards, hmm? You know what the hell happens to bloody, nosy bastards?”

  And Jack heard Sarah answer, her voice steady, unshakeable.

  Amazingly brave in the shadowy darkness of this barn t
hat was no barn at all.

  “Probably what happened to old Charlie, that right, Chris?”

  Then — more amazing — she took a step towards Chris, his hands balled up as if ready to pummel the two of them.

  “Charlie saw too much, didn’t he?” she said. “And you needed to keep your little operation quiet. Couldn’t have the old drunk running around the village, blabbing about what he’d seen …”

  The man on the loading dock shook his head.

  “Look, Chris, I didn’t sign up for no trouble. I want nothing—”

  But Chris raised his hands.

  “And you,” he pointed at Jack, “damn American.”

  Seem to be getting my share of finger pointing lately, Jack thought.

  “A cowboy, a bloody lost hiker.”

  “Um, no cowboy, I’m afraid. Just an ex-cop. And, as such, looking at all this — and a drowned man, murdered — I think this operation is just about over.”

  By now the forklift operator had hopped off the seat of the machine, standing with the other man.

  Each probably having no ethical problem siphoning off fuel for cash.

  But murder?

  But then Chris shook his head.

  “What? I didn’t kill anyone. I was bloody paying him off to keep him quiet. Why would I give him money and then kill him? Makes no sense, no—”

  But then, from behind, some footsteps.

  A new person entered the scene.

  And it wasn’t Alan Rivers.

  *

  “Money — as if that could keep the old fool quiet.”

  Sarah turned to see …

  Pete Owen. She had been thinking this deal … all the son’s. Maybe the nice farmer and his wife … no part of it at all?

  But since Pete had a shotgun in his hand, that now seemed much less likely.

  Pete reached out and pulled the sliding door shut a bit, cutting off any escape.

  “Those two men over there? Complicit, whether they like it or not, so I know they’ll shut up. And my son …?”

  Pete Owen shook his head in disgust.

  “Willing to pay stupid Charlie money. What? For the rest of the drunk’s life?”

  Jack took a step closer.

  “You did it, then? Pushed Charlie under the water? To make sure …”

  And though catching only scant light, Sarah could see Pete smile.

  “Who knows? Probably,” his grin widened, “just an accident.”