by Jack Benton
‘If you showed me a picture I’m sure I could. They were sitting right behind us on the patio. I didn’t see them there today, although perhaps they were part of a different group.’
The two police officers exchanged a glance. ‘We’ll see what we can arrange,’ WPC Oaks said. ‘What’s your line of work, Mr. Hardy?’
‘I’m a private detective.’
WPC Oaks patted PC Rogers’ arm. ‘I thought so. Slim Hardy, aren’t you? You busted—’
Slim lifted a hand. ‘I’m no celebrity,’ he said. ‘I came here to try my hand at fishing for a week.’
‘On a rehab trip for recovering addicts?’
‘I have a problem with the bottle,’ Slim said. ‘Most of the time I’m functioning, but not often enough. In my line of work I need a crutch to fall back on once in a while. I’m sure you understand.’
The police officers exchanged another glance. Slim leaned forward. ‘I’m not at liberty to ask, but I’m more used to asking questions than answering them. Carson topped himself, didn’t he? You’re just trying to make sure it wasn’t staged.’
PC Rogers uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. ‘Our investigation is ongoing, Mr. Hardy,’ he said. ‘I can’t officially comment on the case until it’s either concluded or a public statement is made by police. Unofficially, however, that’s exactly what happened. Last night he went out to Greenway House, famous as I’m sure you know, as the summer residence of one late Agatha Christie. What’s less well known is that in the lower grounds of the gardens is a disused railway cutting which ends in the collapsed remains of an unfinished steel bridge. Sometime around five or six a.m., according to the coroner’s report, Carson threw himself off. It didn’t take much to uncover that Carson was a man with debts, a drug problem, and a contract unlikely to be renewed once his wife made public details of numerous affairs in a tabloid story due to run this coming Sunday. Carson, by every intent and purpose, had plenty of reasons to be up on that bridge.’
Another glance passed between the two police officers, as though silently considering whether to let Slim in on their secret.
‘However,’ PC Rogers began, ‘the question we have is why he was tied up.’
‘His hands were tied?’
WPC Oaks shook her head. ‘Not his hands, Mr. Hardy. His feet.’
7
Slim was relieved of the urge to call Lia by voluntarily relinquishing his phone for twenty-four hours until initial interviews with all the guests had been concluded. He headed back to his room, where he sat at a desk and tried to read a complimentary newspaper. His thoughts, however, strayed continuously to the case of the dead radio DJ and the few details the police had been willing to share.
Carson had fallen to his death, but not before appearing to tie his own feet together. The initial coroner’s report suggested that particles found on Carson’s hands as well as the angle of rope burns on his ankles confirmed he had tied his feet himself before falling—backwards, claimed the report—off the end of the path to the tangle of metal half buried in the reeds below.
There was more, Slim was certain, but he didn’t blame the police for not sharing. Were he in their position, he would no more trust a private investigator than he would a prime suspect. However, the openness of their questioning suggested it was a clear case of suicide, with a couple of irregularities complicating matters. Carson, in retrospect, had come across as a deeply unhappy but proud man. Aware his pedestal was about to topple, he might have tried to go out with a bang.
There was no curfew keeping him in his room, so after a few minutes of quiet contemplation, Slim headed back downstairs. A table had been set up for drinks and snacks, while Alex and Jane were loitering in the lobby, ready to answer any questions. Slim spotted Irene, deep in conversation with Jane, her chubby face wet with tears. Slim caught a furtive ‘this trip was my last chance’ as he moved past to get a coffee.
He was standing on his own, looking out of a window at the lights glittering along the River Dart estuary when Alex sheepishly tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Mr. Hardy,’ he said. ‘I’ve not yet had an opportunity to apologise for the unfortunate events of this morning and the disruption it’s caused to your trip. We’ve since spoken to head office and a full refund will be issued.’
‘Not to worry,’ Slim said. ‘It was going on work expenses anyway. I planned to use it as a tax break.’ At Alex’s confused look, he added, ‘That was a joke.’
‘Well, in any case, I’d like to apologise again.’
‘Does this kind of thing happen often?’ Slim asked. ‘I mean, you’re dealing with a high risk group of individuals.’
Alex looked uncertain about how much information he ought to divulge. ‘We’ve had breakdowns, of course,’ he said. ‘Lots of people quit and leave early. This isn’t rehab, more recovery. We have no strict protocols. However, this is our first suicide.’
‘If indeed it was one,’ Slim said.
‘What makes you think it wasn’t?’
Slim shrugged. Unsure whether it was wise to stir the pot, he said, ‘Carson seemed in good spirits when I spoke to him.’
‘Were you acquainted?’
‘Not at all. We just exchanged pleasantries.’ Unable to resist, he added, ‘I knew him by reputation, of course. The tabloid one.’
‘We’ve hosted a few people in similar situations,’ Alex said. ‘You’ve had a few column inches of your own.’
‘None were deserved,’ Slim said. ‘In any case, thanks for keeping me up to date. I would like to continue the tour if that’s an option.’
Alex looked surprised. ‘Well, of course it is. We might have a few holdups for the next couple of days but I’m assured that within forty-eight hours we’ll be free to continue. I’m just surprised you’d want to stay after what’s happened.’
The words had come out of Slim’s mouth without thought, a knee-jerk reaction rather than something he had really considered. However, the uncertainties around Carson’s suicide had piqued his interest. Like a man unable to drive past a car crash without pulling over to watch the bodies being cut from the wreckage, Slim found himself aching to know what had sent Carson plummeting to his death with his feet tied.
8
Slim had always found books hard to get into, but with little else to do he procured a couple of battered reference books on the art of fishing and found them remarkably easy to enjoy. He hadn’t realised there was so much more to the sport than spearing a worm onto a hook and tossing the line out into the water. While most of the technical jargon was beyond his comprehension, he enjoyed the descriptions of the varieties of fish, and tips on snaring the particular one you were after, as well as the guides to many of the UK’s best rivers and lakes.
Early that morning, Alex had knocked on Slim’s door. The police wanted to speak to him again. Slim’s nerves had jangled, but they had only wanted to inform him that his assistance in the inquiry was no longer required. They returned his phone and said he was free to leave should he wish. He found Alex in the hotel lobby, where he was told an impromptu tour of Dartmouth had been hastily arranged for those guests willing to stay on. With nothing better to do, Slim joined a group outside which included both Irene and Eloise, the younger girl hanging off the older woman’s arm as though adopting a surrogate mother. Not wishing to engage in rumour, Slim nevertheless found himself overhearing several conversations about whether the absent guests had simply left or been detained by the police. As they trailed Alex past ornate churches and affluent piers, up and down narrow streets and alleys sometimes so steep they were literally staircases, no one mentioned the details of Carson’s death, leaving Slim to presume the shared knowledge had been for him alone.
The tour took them south along the aptly named Above Town Road before jagging downhill to Bayard Cove and back along the waterfront, with Alex providing a running commentary about the famous people who lived in the area, local customs, and historical facts. All of it had a clipped blandness to it as
though Alex had memorised the summary page of a local tourism website. By the time the group stopped for lunch in a harbourside fish restaurant, several people were muttering about breaking off from the group and exploring the quaint streets around the harbour by themselves. Slim found himself sitting on the edge of a group discussing the hiring of a water taxi for a trip downriver to Dartmouth Castle.
Alex must have smelled a whiff of mutiny, for as soon as the fidgeting began to intensify, he stood up and announced that the tour was officially over. People quickly dispersed, Eloise blowing a kiss over her shoulder to a grimacing Alex as she hurried to catch up with Irene.
Finding himself alone but with a coffee to finish, Slim took out his ancient Nokia and checked his messages. Kim had called, leaving a voicemail checking on his availability for a fraud case next week. Slim sent a quick response to say he’d return her call in a couple of days, putting off making a decision. He checked his messages again, as though to make sure none had slipped past the primitive notification sequence, but there was nothing from Lia.
She wouldn’t beg. She had calmly said her piece and left it there. It was Slim who had fallen off the rails, lost his way home, got beaten up by thugs in alleyways, who ranted at the only person in the last twenty years who had wanted to spend time with him for no reason other than just because. Even now, weeks after they had parted, some of the things he had said still haunted him. He had pressed the self-destruct button on their relationship and then dared to blame her for giving him a chance.
He stood up. The pub was too close. If he stayed here much longer his brooding would drag him inside. Instead, he headed up the harbourside, trying to find interest in the workings of the river alongside him.
Still early in the summer season, away from the tourist ferry piers outside the Royal Avenue Gardens there were few people. A scattering of deckhands stood winding coils of rope or polishing the railings around small motorboats. At the end of the main pier, past a large park where parents led young children in games of football and cricket, Slim found a boatyard where one small vessel had been lifted into the air by a pulley, and a man in overalls was scrapping barnacles off the hull with a chisel.
Slim returned the few greetings he received, but several people let their eyes linger a little too long before they looked away without comment. His old black jeans, sweater with a hole on one elbow, and the wisp of beard he had forgotten to shave for the last couple of days, marked him as out of place among the wealth on display. Afraid of looking like a prowling thief, he walked quickly past until he came to a narrow concrete breakwater lined by small fishing boats. As rust and Wellington boots replaced shiny chrome and expensive London brands, Slim relaxed. A couple of older men with broad shoulders and tatty hats greeted him warmly as they hauled lobster pots out of a boat and dumped them onto the harbourside. Slim watched for a while, then offered a polite, ‘Decent catch today?’
The nearest of the men stood up straight and rubbed his back. ‘Could always be better,’ he said with a genial smile. ‘Ain’t that the truth of everything?’
Slim nodded. ‘No truer words than those.’
‘You in the trade, lad?’ the other asked. He had a grey-flecked beard and wore a heavy knit sweater. As he propped a waterproofed boot up onto an upturned bucket, Slim smiled and said, ‘No, but sometimes I wish I was.’
‘There’s something to be said for the ocean-going life,’ the first man chuckled. ‘A shame we rarely go farther than the English Channel.’
‘Boat wouldn’t hold up,’ the second man added. ‘Although waters out there can rage like Old Bea when they want. People look at that little strip of sea and think nothing of it, but we’ve seen many a rough night out there.’
Slim smiled. ‘I can imagine.’
The two men gazed out towards the mouth of the Dart Estuary and the English Channel beyond. Out on the horizon, a couple of tankers passed each other, while closer, a small sailboat bounced in the choppy water.
‘You’re one of those recovery lot, aren’t you?’ the second man said abruptly, turning and fixing Slim with a stare. ‘I should have realised. Used to be these towns were for work, then it was tourism, now it’s therapy. I hope whatever you’re buggered with is giving you a bit of respite down here.’
‘The bottle,’ Slim said, figuring if anyone might understand, it would be two battle-hardened fishermen. ‘And yeah, I’m feeling better than I have in a while.’
The second man grinned. ‘I’m sure we could find you a spot onboard if you were looking,’ he said. ‘Drink as much as you like then throw it up in the chop on the way out each morning. Got some shoulders about you. Work in haulage?’
‘I used to be a soldier. First Gulf War.’
The first man gave a respectful nod. Slim’s sole active tour of duty was the one thing about him able to draw such a response. ‘Probably averse to a bit of sand in that case,’ the sailor said. ‘Don’t worry, lad, we work off piers. Here some days, Torquay on others, sometimes down as far as Fowey. The Gulf War, eh? I imagine that explains the bottle.’
Slim nodded. ‘Some.’
‘Must have been a shock what happened with that old guy,’ the second said.
‘Heard he had a name,’ the first said. ‘Radio or something.’
‘Max Carson,’ Slim said. ‘The police said it was suicide.’
The two fishermen exchanged a glance. ‘They would,’ the first said, as the second nodded. ‘Better if it was.’
Slim wanted to ask what they meant, but both men turned their backs to him, resuming their work. He stood still a few seconds longer, feeling the breeze on his face. The men took up their conversation where it had been before his interruption, and from the way their bodies closed against him, it became clear that further questions were no longer welcome.
9
Back near the tourist ferry pier, Slim bought a paper cup of weak, sour coffee from a Spar, then found a bench in the Royal Avenue Gardens with a view across the river to Kingswear. As he watched a couple of yachts passing, he pulled out his Nokia and called Donald Lane, an old platoon mate who had set up an intelligence agency in London after leaving the army.
‘Don? It’s Slim. How are you doing?’
‘Slim! Good to hear from you. It’s been a couple of months since we last spoke, and I was starting to wonder what happened to you. How are things?’
‘Up and down,’ Slim said. ‘I’m on a holiday of sorts. I had to take time out of the game before the game took time out of me. It was going all right until someone decided to ruin it by jumping off a railway cutting and killing himself, at least according to the official story. A man named Max Carson, a well-known radio DJ. I wondered if you could have a little dig into his background, just to see what might have pushed him over the edge. Or who.’
‘Easy. Consider it done.’
Slim thanked Don and hung up. The sky was clouding over, the crystal blue replaced by an unfolding blanket of moody grey. Slim headed back towards the hotel, hoping to get a little quiet time on the patio before the groups rolled in for dinner. Bored with the main thoroughfare, though, he cut up through some back streets, and soon found himself sidetracked by a succession of quaint trinket shops.
Not long ago, his only possessions had been the clothes on his back, and while Slim prayed those days were behind him, he still found it hard to throw money at useless ornaments and souvenirs. Instead, as he wandered in and out of narrow doorways propped open by whitewashed chairs and pseudo pirate chests, he thought about what Lia might like for her pretty flat in the Derbyshire Peak District. Even when spending money had been something done without forethought, Slim had always preferred locally made goods, and was soon browsing a gallery devoted to local artists, admiring framed prints of different views of the Dart Estuary. He found one he thought would look nice in Lia’s kitchen—or at worst, in a corner of his dingy office—and joined a queue behind an old couple, before thinking better of it and putting the painting back. Feeling a sudden despo
ndence which in worse times would have reeled him in to the nearest bottle, he turned for the door.
As he did so, he caught sight of a painting propped up behind the clerk’s counter, a plastic bag stretched over its top edge as though it were bound for the rubbish bin. To Slim’s untrained eye, it appeared to be oil on canvas, and showed a watery inlet flanked by forested hills on either side. Bridging the inlet from one hill to the other was a small railway bridge. A train was emerging from one side, a plume of steam rising into a clear blue sky.
Slim waited until the other customers had paid and left, then approached the clerk.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘May I take a look at that painting?’
The clerk frowned. ‘Well, I took it down for a little reordering … but, I suppose if you’d like.’
He lifted the painting onto the counter and removed the plastic bag. Up close it was an array of frantic dabs of thick paint, lacking the clarity it abruptly gained from a few steps away, clearly the work of a skilled hand.
‘Who painted it?’ Slim asked.
The clerk pointed to the signature in the bottom right corner. ‘Alan McDonald. He’s a well-known local artist and also a keen angler. This is a rare original; mostly we only stock prints. He paints from his boat while fishing out in the estuary. He’s the only painter who regularly does because of the chop of the water, so you might see him out there sometime in his little motorboat. It gives his paintings a unique perspective.’ Then, pointing to a small water stain in one corner, he added, ‘As well as a few touches of authenticity.’
Slim nodded. The painting was eighteen inches high and a couple of feet long, certainly a fine centrepiece for a kitchen or dining room. The light blue of the sky contrasted with the darker blue of the water. Flickers of colour beneath the trees suggested spring flowers, while the dark green gave the impression of recent rain. Only a streak of red along the locomotive’s body interrupted the earthy colour scheme, but amidst the greys and blacks of the train it seemed to add balance.