The Angler's Tale

by Jack Benton

  It was too much to hope to find a body lying broken and bloodied on the rusted bridge remains. Slim climbed down to the marshy ground below and stepped out across the fallen girders, searching for any clues that someone might have been hurt and attempting to flee. He found nothing, no scraps of clothing, no spots of blood, no ragged gashes in the undergrowth where hands or feet had torn their way through.

  Standing precariously on partially submerged girders, he shook his head and then started back. He was missing something obvious. Clambering back up onto the walkway, he realised what it was as he twisted to see the wide, languid river flowing past, a little choppier than usual because of the rain. It sucked and pulled at the bank beneath his feet, where concrete buffers had been placed to protect the railway line. They dropped sharply into the water, protruding just a few feet out from the bank. He squatted down to peer at a patch of dried mud on the corner angle of one concrete triangle, too far from the bank to have been caused by splashing water and too high to be the result of tides. And while it had begun to run a little, had it been there during the afternoon yesterday, by now the rain would have washed it away.

  He had misjudged his angles. Instead of diving over the edge onto the girders hidden in weeds, his mysterious visitor had stepped nimbly out onto to the concrete buttress protecting the railway cutting, paused long enough to set herself and for a lump of mud caught between her toes to slide down onto the rock, and then pushed off, diving into the deep waters below.

  He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small ziplock bag. Using a flat piece of gravel, he scraped the mud off the rock and put it into the bag, sealing it shut. If the girl had been naked, it might contain some skin cells. If Eloise had a criminal record as she claimed, her DNA would be in a police database.

  He sat back on the gravel, gazing out at the water. It had surely been her. Who else could it have been? But why? And how had she known he was here?

  It made sense, though. If she wasn’t at her home in Paignton, she could have been here at Greenway.

  He climbed to his feet, an idea coming to mind.

  As he began a trudge up to the house which was becoming more arduous as the days passed and his cold grew worse, he wondered where she might have gone after jumping in the water, and why it appeared, from the lack of any items left behind, that when he had disturbed her, she had already been naked.

  35

  ‘Slim? Is that you? Even by your standards, you sound terrible.’

  Slim rolled his eyes at Kay Skelton’s words, then tried not to stare hungrily at the shop window of an expensive Kingswear bakery across the street. Had anyone else but his old friend said it, Slim would have shrugged it off, but Kay was more astute than most.

  ‘Thanks. Trying to shake a cold.’

  ‘Well, get well soon. What can I help you with?’

  ‘I need a soil sample analysed for human DNA.’

  ‘Slim, I’m a forensic linguist. I don’t deal with DNA.’

  ‘Do you know someone who might? This could be important for a case I’m working on. Kay, are you still there?’

  The line went quiet for a few seconds, then Slim heard a rustling like a shuffle of papers. ‘I might be able to pull in an old favour,’ Kay said at last. ‘What is it you have?’

  ‘A soil sample that might have been on someone’s foot. I need to know who that foot belonged to.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see what I can arrange.’

  Kay gave Slim details of where to send the sample, then ended the call. Slim next tried to call Ben Holland, but again got no answer.

  Aware that his increasingly ragged appearance was making him stand out among the patrons of Kingswear’s well-to-do streets, he caught a bus to Totnes in order to follow up an older, neglected lead.

  Terrance Winters’ bait and tackle shop stood at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac otherwise made up of craft and art supplies shops. Slim wasn’t sure what he planned to say as he pushed through the door, but the presence of an unlikely painting on the wall gave him an ideal opening.

  Terrance was seated behind the counter, winding a spool of line while glancing at a newspaper propped open on a stool beside him. Slim nodded hello and then browsed the aisles, feeling a tingle of nerves. The fly fisherman who had taken Slim’s party on a trip had never faded from suspicion after Slim had caught someone following him to the lookout point, but as Slim plucked up the nerve to approach the counter, he saw Winters lift an asthma inhaler and take a long draw. Slim gave an inward sigh. Another dead end.

  ‘Anything I can help you with?’ Terrance asked as he put the wound spool aside.

  ‘Actually, I was after information,’ Slim said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his fake ID, trusting his luck that Terrance wouldn’t remember him from the fishing trip.

  ‘BBC?’ Terrance said, raising an eyebrow as he inspected the card.

  ‘Not as glamorous as people always think,’ Slim said, offering a conspiratorial smile. ‘Not when you’re employed to do the grunt work. I spend most of my days walking the streets, knocking on doors. There’s only so much coffee they’ll let us put on expenses.’

  They shared a chuckle before Terrance said, ‘So what’s brought you to my place?’

  ‘I’m researching for a possible documentary on a unique local artist,’ Slim said. ‘Alan McDonald. I’m just asking around the area to gauge local opinion, but I see you have a picture of his up there on the wall.’

  Terrance glanced up at the painting, a look of surprise on his face. ‘That old thing … it’s been there for years. Are you really planning to make a documentary about him?’

  ‘We’re just in the research stage at the moment. Following up ideas.’

  ‘BBC One?’

  Slim had expected this. ‘Three,’ he said. ‘The channel no one watches. But don’t tell anyone I said that. And we’re not even in the production stage. Only one in ten of these ideas ever make it to the screen. First we need an angle. Then we need enough information to make it worth developing.’

  ‘What do you want to know? Alan stops by for tackle sometimes.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to a few people farther up the street and they pointed me in your direction.’ Slim hoped Terrance wouldn’t call him on the bluff. He’d passed a couple of shops and made a note of their staff’s general appearance, but if Terrance asked for details his ruse would be exposed.

  ‘Well, I suppose with someone as aloof as Alan I know him as well as anyone.’

  ‘Do you have contact details?’

  As he asked the question, Slim pretended to fix his gaze on a particularly fine reel hung up behind the counter. The slight movement of Terrance’s hands as he answered told Slim far more than his words.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s … well, just a customer. He pays in cash. If you like, I can take a card or something, pass it to him next time he comes in.’

  Slim nodded. ‘That would be great. Say, is that a Shimano Calcutta reel you’ve got up there?’ Slim said, quoting the first name he remembered from a fishing magazine he had read back at the Castle View Hotel. ‘That’s a fine reel. I’ve had my eye on one for a while but I’m not sure it’s worth the upgrade. What do you think?’

  ‘You’re an angler, are you?’

  ‘Only an amateur. But for more time….’

  Terrance’s eyes had lit up at the idea of shop talk, and for the next couple of minutes he waxed lyrical about the reel’s qualities and shortcomings. He passed Slim the reel, then offered to show him one which had just come in.

  ‘Sure, if you don’t mind,’ Slim said.

  The moment Terrance turned away and headed into a stockroom behind the counter, Slim shifted the reel to his left hand, reached down with his right and twisted around the ledger book lying on the counter. He flicked it open to the most recently used page, his eyes scanning quickly down the list of names. It appeared to be orders for fishing gear, with names and addresses in one column, specifics, prices, and dates in anothe
r.

  There, dated three days ago, was one for “Alan, 14 Watt. Rd.” Ignoring the rest of the information, Slim flopped the book shut and twisted it back around.

  Terrance reappeared, carrying a box. Slim feigned interest for a few minutes, then made his excuses and left. Neither man mentioned the card Slim had offered to leave behind.

  36

  It didn’t take long to figure out that the address in Terrance’s sales ledger referred to Wattledown Road on the other side of Totnes. Slim walked across town, stopping a couple of times to rest, endure a bout of coughing, and try to shake off the vicious spectre of a common cold made worse by poor sleeping and malnutrition.

  The house, one of a terrace on a quiet street, looked normal enough from the outside. Tired of spying, Slim went directly to the front door and knocked. He received no answer. A name over the letter box in the door said Corrine McDonald. Slim bent and pushed the slit open, but an inside box for catching post blocked any view of the house.

  He walked to the end of the street, looking for a way around to the house’s rear. An alley was blocked with a tall, padlocked fence, complete with a large PRIVATE ACCESS—RESIDENTS ONLY sign and a twirl of barbed wire along the top just for good measure. Each resident would have a key to the padlock. While climbing over wouldn’t be difficult, a couple of CCTV cameras high on the walls to either side of the entrance made it clear the residents weren’t messing around. Private meant private.

  He did another sweep of the street. A similar line of terraced houses faced Corrine McDonald’s terrace, leaving no easy place from which to view it, so Slim went back to the front door, pretended to ring the bell, then stood for a moment, observing it.

  It looked just like an ordinary door. However, while the space around his feet was scuffed and clear, the front step farther in was marked with dried moss, lichen, and accumulated dust.

  Postmen might come to the step, but no one used this door.

  Slim made another show of knocking, then returned to the street, quickly walking out of observation distance. The state of the door had made him nervous in a way he hadn’t felt in a while. It might make sense that Alan, a solitary, secretive man, might prefer the use of a back entrance, but his mother would be elderly. Would she want to deal with a padlocked gate each day? Perhaps she was bedridden. In which case, wouldn’t any home help use the front door?

  The longer Slim lingered, the more he risked being noticed by someone who knew the family. He retreated down the street, pausing again in a small, gated park. There was nowhere from where he could observe either entrance to the house without being exposed, but perhaps he could try a different tack. Alan and his mother had to eat. Alan was well established as a boat person, so Slim assumed he would do his grocery shopping on foot. He did a sweep of the local streets, finding a small private mini-mart with enough produce to be convenient yet small enough to appeal to shoppers wary of crowds.

  Slim slipped the fake BBC ID around his neck as he headed inside. The day had faded, and it was getting to the point in late afternoon when an old man come in off the river after a long day of painting and angling might be thinking about dinner. Slim made his way to the tills, where just one girl in her late teens, overweight and underdressed, stood looking bored as he approached.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ Slim said.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘I’m from the BBC. I’m looking for a painter—’

  A sudden fit of coughing overcame him, bending him double. He hacked into his hands, trying to stop but unable as his body spasmed. As he finally got his coughing under control, he stood up, only to find a burly guy in a security guard’s uniform bearing down on him. One big hand took Slim’s shoulder, another placed itself in the small of his back, and with arms that felt as strong as metal pipes Slim found himself propelled out of the front entrance.

  ‘No offence, mate, but we’re a respectable establishment and you’re making us look untidy. We’d all appreciate it if you took your trade elsewhere. Tesco Metro on the high street.’

  ‘I’m from the BBC!’ Slim shouted, aware as he said it how ridiculous it must sound.

  ‘Aren’t we all, mate?’ the security guard said, going back inside. ‘Run along now, sir, if you don’t mind. And if you have a place to stay tonight I’d suggest a bath.’

  Slim tried to say something in return, but another fit of coughing overcame him, and by the time he had got it under control the security guard had gone back inside, and he was staring at a poster offering two packets of crisps for the price of one taped to the glass of a closed door.

  37

  He gave up. Things beyond his control were happening, but for once it had nothing to do with the drink. He caught a Kingswear-bound bus, getting off at an innocuous stop and walking the rest of the way back to Greenway. The property was closed to customers when he arrived, but through the gates staff were visible moving around inside, cleaning up, resetting the house before tomorrow’s opening.

  Slim melted into the trees but stayed close, using his military knowledge of terrain and camouflage to establish a position from where he could observe. He didn’t have to wait long until he saw her, Eloise disguised as Lauren, moving briskly across the gardens, emptying rubbish bins into plastic bags.

  Again he was struck by how normal she looked, a wolf in sheep’s clothing now shorn and tidied for a job interview. She could almost be a different person to the one who had claimed blood on her hands.

  Not far from where Slim crouched, a bin stood alongside the path. When she approached to empty it, he could grab her and pull her into the bushes in a couple of swift, decisive seconds. He actually took a step forward as she approached before abruptly catching himself. What the hell was he thinking? Had he fallen so low he was willing to abduct a young girl in his search for answers?

  He dropped out of sight, watching through the foliage as Eloise leaned over the bin, pulled out a full sack and replaced it with a fresh one. Within seconds his moment was gone as she walked back across the lawn, holding the sack in one hand.

  Slim headed down the slope to the old railway cutting and had barely made it before a fit of coughing overcame him. He lowered his head, muffling the sound as best he could. He was still close enough to Greenway that he might be overheard, so he forced himself to keep moving downhill. When he next looked up, however, he realised he had gone the wrong way. A building appeared through the trees. Slim stepped out onto a path and found himself facing the Raleigh Boathouse, which overhung the river. He stumbled inside, his coughing fit thankfully passed, and found a bench with a view of the water.

  He wanted just a few minutes to catch his breath, but when he looked up, he found fate staring him in the face.

  Alan McDonald’s little motorboat sat moored fifty feet out from the bank. The painter sat in the bilges, facing away from Slim, working on an easel that Slim was close enough to see was a partially finished view of downriver.

  Close to the bank, where it began to curve, the river flowed quickly. The water level was down too, suggesting the tide was also drawing on it.

  The idea was stupid. Yet here was a man Slim had tried repeatedly to track down and failed. He only wanted to talk.

  He climbed over a wall and scrambled down to the riverbank before he could talk himself out of it.

  By the water, he stripped off his jacket and sweater, leaving only his jeans and a black t-shirt. Despite what many people believed, the army had taught him that it was easier to stay buoyant in water while partially clothed, with clothing also retaining body heat better in cold water. In addition, his dark garments were less visible from the opposite bank or the deck of other river craft than his pale, sun-starved skin.

  A fallen tree branch lay half buried in mud, so Slim pulled it free before lowering himself into the water and pulling the branch in front of him. The cold was stunning, but Slim gritted his teeth, concentrating on the boat a little way downriver, and keeping hold of the branch. The mucky foliage made exce
llent camouflage as he pushed out into the current.

  The water took him immediately, spinning him around. He pushed the branch beneath him to create more drag, but the current was strong and too much struggling threatened to take him wide of Alan’s boat. He steadied himself just in time as he came alongside the boat, pushing the branch aside at the last moment to use it as a springboard up.

  The small motorboat listed high out of the water, leaving Slim no way to get onboard without giving himself away. He grabbed the side rail and hauled himself, sopping wet, out of the water, a clump of muddy foliage still hooked around his leg.

  Alan McDonald let out a terrified wail as his boat first tipped one way, then back the other, sending his easel and paint board crashing to the floor. Slim gasped for breath as he struggled to stand up.

  ‘What do you want?’ Alan shouted, backing away.

  ‘I just want to talk,’ Slim gasped. ‘I just want to ask you some questions. Who … who is—?

  Before he could finish, another fit of coughing overcame him. He doubled over, one hand on the side rail, another on his knee. He was aware of the boat spinning, something in his vision right in front of his eyes making no sense at all, then a heavy and hard object slammed down on the back of his shoulders.

  ‘Get off my boat!’ Alan shouted, the easel striking Slim again and breaking this time, showering Slim with splinters of plywood. As a weapon it should have been laughable, but the boat was still rocking and its momentum took Slim over the side. He hit the water face first and went under. He had been partway through a cough and now he choked, drawing in freezing liquid, spluttering as he twisted around, legs flailing for purchase where there was none. He felt unconsciousness closing in and he gave one last desperate kick.