Cherringham--Follow the Money

by Neil Richards

  “Good stuff this, Jack. Cut above my usual, I’d say.”

  “Knew you’d like it, Ray.”

  Ray took another swig.

  But Jack guessed that he was also savvy enough to know that this visit had another agenda.

  So after the swig — and the bottle already half killed …

  “So, this a social call, Jack? Or—”

  Jack laughed.

  “’fraid you now me too well, Ray. Had a few things I wanted to pass by you. Thought you might help with …”

  Ray laughed. “Knew it! And as long as these last—” he waved the bottle back and forth, “you can ask all the questions you want.”

  Jack took a swig.

  Ray was a character.

  Now Jack was about to find out — if in this particular strange case of the Goodmans and the robbery — Ray might actually be helpful.

  *

  “Planter’s Croft, eh?” said Ray, picking a bit of tobacco out from his yellow front teeth.

  “You know it?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Jack waited.

  “Used to be all orchards down there back in the day. Used to go scrumping apples.”

  “Scrumping? Picking?”

  “Nicking!”

  “Ha! Not much chance of that now, Ray,” said Jack.

  “Tell me about it. Whole bloody river bank’s going to be covered in houses, all the way to bloody London, if they don’t stop building.”

  “Money talks.”

  “Mine don’t!” said Ray, laughing.

  Jack laughed with him and opened another beer.

  “So this robbery … they nick a lot did they?”

  “Reasonable amount.”

  “And you’re helping the rich bastards who live there?

  Jack nodded.

  “Disappointing that is, Jack.”

  “Why’s that then, Ray?”

  “You’re playing for the wrong team. You’re not one of them. You’re one of us, mate!”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. The downtrodden masses. The workers. The oppressed!”

  “Never took you for a revolutionary, Ray?”

  Jack watched Ray swig from the newly opened bottle.

  “Nah, you’re right,” he said. “I’m not really. But I ain’t a big fan of helping the rich bastids. They got their insurance — stuff ’em.”

  So Jack explained the delicate situation of Claire’s secret money.

  Then watched Ray mulling this over, clearly weighing his moral position on this interesting development.

  “So you’re saying that she’s not a toff then?” he finally said.

  “Wrong side of the tracks, I reckon,” said Jack.

  “My side, eh?”

  “And mine,” said Jack, laughing.

  “And that’s her own money, like?”

  “Yep. And she won’t get it back. Not unless Sarah and me find out who did this.”

  “Hmm.”

  Jack waited while Ray took out his little tin of tobacco and rolled himself another cigarette.

  He watched Ray flick the lid on his old petrol lighter, light the roll-up, draw deeply, then blow out.

  That smell. It took Jack back years to a memory of his Irish grandpa, smoking a pipe in his tiny kitchen back in Brooklyn.

  Okay, tobacco is bad for you … but such a great smell.

  Jack waited. Then Ray spoke.

  “Well — tell ya, Jack — here’s what I heard down the Ploughman’s the other night. Now it might be useful. And it might not. But it’s gospel, Jack.”

  Jack doubted that anything that was said down at the Ploughman’s was gospel, but he listened carefully.

  And what he heard moved the case just little closer to being solved.

  9. A Little Subterfuge

  As Jack went under Cherringham Toll Bridge, he pulled up the collar of his winter jacket and hunched down into the boat to get out of the bitter wind.

  In the grey early morning light, it felt even colder on this stretch of the river.

  Jack wondered if they were going to get snow soon.

  Nothing like the snow he used to get back in NYC, but sometimes worse to deal with here in the Cotswolds because the Brits seemed to totally forget every year how to deal with it.

  He tweaked the choke on the engine and got a reluctant extra bit of speed.

  He rarely used the little dinghy, with its tiny outboard motor, in the winter. But what Ray had said convinced him that this was the only way to find out what he needed.

  The Ploughman’s grapevine could always be relied upon to turn up something, reliable or not, and this had been gold dust …

  It seemed that since the summer there’d been a spate of burglaries up and down the river.

  Nothing major — almost as if the person responsible was deliberately keeping under the radar.

  So no heavy police involvement. No official response.

  And as Ray said, sometimes the items stolen had already been … ‘liberated’ from some of the nicer addresses in Cherringham.

  Whoever was doing it — knew exactly what they were doing.

  And it certainly wasn’t any of the local ‘light-fingered fraternity’, as Ray called them.

  “When all’s said and done, Jack — you don’t rob yer mates, know what I mean?”

  It was what Ray said next that really intrigued Jack.

  “So there’s this bloke who’s moved in to one of them old cottages down towards Elston Creek. Not a local. Keeps himself to himself. But he’s got a boat, goes up and down the river at night. Know what I mean, Jack?”

  Jack nodded.

  “At night. Not like he’s going fishing at that time, is it? So what the hell is he out doing? Robbing? Robbing the good folk on the river?”

  In Jack’s experience, Ray’s definition of the ‘good folk on the river’ didn’t quite match his own.

  But intrigued, he asked what else they knew up at the Ploughman’s.

  “Not much,” Ray said. “’cept the boat’s black. Bit sinister that — don’t you think? I mean — who has a black boat, Jack, unless they’re up to no good?”

  Jack thought it was sinister — not because of the colour.

  But because it sounded just like the boat he’d seen yesterday morning down at the Goodmans’ jetty.

  The one that circled slowly then slipped away.

  So now he was on his way down river to see if he could find said black boat.

  And its mysterious owner.

  *

  It took about twenty minutes to reach Planter’s Croft.

  Jack realised how well he now knew the river — or at least the section nearest Cherringham.

  Past Iron Wharf, then Sarah’s parents’ house, past the meadows where every year the summer fair was held, and the stretch where the regatta took place.

  All now familiar places with so many memories attached.

  But as he passed the Goodmans’, and went on, beyond the long curve of the river, he entered terra incognita.

  The outboard puttered away, every now and then startling waterfowl that he watched scatter and land again in rushes and creeks at the side of the river.

  A couple of motor cruisers chugged past: retired couples in thick coats and hats, having a wintry holiday.

  They waved. He waved back.

  Hope they packed their thermals too, thought Jack, knowing too well how cold it got living on the river.

  Finally he reached what he guessed was Elston Creek, marked — as Ray had mentioned — by the ancient carcass of an old coal barge.

  “’bout a hundred yard further on, there’s a couple of farm cottages. This bloke lives in one of ’em, so they reckon.”

  Jack kept a steady pace and chugged on.

  Sure enough, the two cottages came into view on the right hand side. Pretty little things, he thought, taking in the narrow lawns that rolled to the river’s edge.

  One of the cottages had a small jetty, and
sure enough — Jack could see a little black speedboat moored.

  The same one he’d seen the day before.

  Next to it was a pile of garden rubbish, and a small bonfire burned, the smoke billowing in the wind.

  Jack could hear music too, drifting from within the cottage. Classical, something he knew well, but the title evaded him.

  As he passed, out of the corner of his eye Jack caught a movement by the side of the cottage.

  Through the smoke of the bonfire he could just make out a figure pushing a wheelbarrow down towards the end of the garden.

  He kept his eyes fixed on the river, and carried on until he’d rounded a curve and was out of sight.

  Then he pulled into the bank and wondered what to do.

  He wanted to talk to this man. But how?

  Then he had an idea.

  *

  Coming back up river, and against the wind, the little outboard had struggled for speed.

  But soon enough the cottage came into view, the smoke still drifting low across the water. Jack now saw someone stoking the bonfire with a garden fork, and as he got closer he recognised it as the man he’d seen in the boat yesterday.

  The man watched as he chugged by, but Jack pretended not to notice him.

  Jack waited until he’d passed the cottage, then drew closer in to the bank and deftly squeezed the fuel supply pipe, just where it went into the outboard.

  The motor spluttered noisily, then failed, then fired again …

  Jack gave it another ten seconds tweaking the throttle — then turned the petrol feed to ‘off’.

  Silence.

  “Damn!”

  He cursed loudly for show, then pulled on the starter cord. Once, twice, nice and slow — then a bit more frantically.

  Meanwhile, as expected, he was drifting back down river towards the jetty and the black speedboat.

  Perfect … As long as he didn’t actually hit the boat!

  He stood up, as if suddenly becoming aware of the danger, and reached for the paddle that he kept in the dinghy.

  He could see the man in the garden watching him carefully — and now clearly realising the danger to his own boat moored in the path of the drifting dinghy.

  Jack watched him drop his garden fork and trot down to the jetty.

  Everything going nicely to plan …

  “I say! Are you okay? You need a hand?” the man called.

  “Damned outboard” said Jack, still pulling on the cord. “Don’t want to hit your boat.”

  Jack watched the man take a boat hook from the side of the jetty.

  He kneeled down at the very edge and offered it to Jack as his dinghy drifted on a collision course with the black boat.

  “Grab hold!”

  Jack reached out and grabbed the pole, using it to swivel round the jetty, and fending off from the black boat with his hands.

  Then he threw a rope to the man as he swung past the edge of the jetty.

  He watched the man loop the rope round a cleat then pull Jack and the little boat in.

  In a couple of seconds, Jack’s dinghy was tied up safely and he stepped up onto the jetty.

  The first part of the plan had gone perfectly.

  Now it was time to find out just who this mysterious guy was.

  10. Telling Tales

  “Sorry about that,” said Jack, running his hand through his hair. “Damned outboard.”

  “No problem old chap,” said the man with a grin. “Glad to help.”

  “Appreciate it,” said Jack. “Thought I was going to get wet there!”

  “Pete Lavender,” said the man, holding out a hand then inspecting it. “Oh dear — bit muddy I’m afraid.”

  Jack shook the hand anyway. “Jack Brennan.”

  Jack took in the man. He had an easy charm, an open face with a boyish fringe that flopped over his eyes and which he kept pushing away.

  Tall, tanned — it was only the creases that gave away the fact he must be well into his forties.

  “You’re a long way from home, Jack, from the sound of it.”

  “You can take the boy out of Brooklyn, huh? But home’s here — I live in Cherringham now.”

  “Aha, succumbed to the charm of the place, eh?”

  “Something like that. How about you — you a local?”

  “Good lord no. Just rent the cottage. Got it cheap for the winter.”

  “Idyllic spot.”

  “Isn’t it? I may well take another year. Love the place.”

  Pete Lavender grinned again.

  “So, can I help you? What’s up with the outboard?”

  “Dodgy fuel, I think. My own fault — didn’t drain it out at the end of the summer.”

  “Easy enough to forget,” said Lavender. “I can lend you a spot of fuel if you want. Enough to get back to the village anyway.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Got a can in the car. Come on.”

  So Jack followed him up through the garden.

  “Bit isolated down here, no?” said Jack as they walked.

  “Just how I like it.”

  “You work locally?”

  “Ha! You could say that. I’m a screenwriter — got a script to finish. Need the peace and quiet. Do a bit of teaching now and then.”

  As they reached the side of the little cottage, they went in single file, Lavender in front, through a small wooden gate.

  “Screenwriting?” said Jack. “You written anything I’d know?”

  “Quite a lot probably,” said Lavender. “But you won’t see my name on it. They bring me in when they’ve got problems and I do the rewrites.”

  “Aha,” said Jack. “And the big name writers get the credit?”

  “Spot on.”

  “But you get the money.”

  “Also spot on. Sold my soul to Hollywood.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” said Jack.

  There was a door at the side of the house and a small window. Jack peered in through the window into what looked like a kitchen.

  The place was pretty dark inside. Jack could just see on the kitchen table what looked like the remains of a meal.

  “And living down here — you don’t miss the company? Bright lights?” said Jack.

  “Oh, I get by. I also run a little writers’ workshop here every week.”

  “I didn’t know we had writers in Cherringham?”

  “These days, Jack — everyone’s a writer.”

  They reached the front of the house, where Jack saw an Audi estate.

  Late model, top spec.

  Looks like writing does pay, thought Jack. Maybe I should dig out my NYPD memoirs …

  He watched Lavender open the trunk and take out a green can and give it a shake.

  “Should be enough in here.”

  He handed Jack the can, and they both headed back round the side of the house.

  Jack was beginning to think this was a waste of time. Though on the other hand, Lavender might be an interesting guy to share a few beers with.

  Maybe I should ask him over to the Goose one evening? he thought.

  He stopped by the kitchen door. “Wonder if I could trouble you for a glass of water?”

  Jack saw Lavender pause.

  And for a second he knew there was some calculation going on there.

  Something wrong in the reaction. A beat that wasn’t natural.

  “Of course, old chap,” said Lavender. “You mind waiting out here? Muddy boots and all that?”

  “No problem.”

  Lavender grinned, opened the door into the kitchen — and then shut it behind him, leaving Jack alone outside.

  Jack moved casually to the window and rested against it.

  Lavender had more mud on him than Jack did.

  So there had to be another reason he didn’t want Jack in the house.

  Interesting.

  Through the window Jack could just make out Lavender at the sink. He scanned the kitchen.

  Someone had been
cooking. There were pans, plates stacked.

  And on the table a bottle of wine.

  And two glasses.

  Two.

  Was there someone else in the house? Someone that Lavender didn’t want Jack to meet?

  And if so — why not?

  At the sink, he saw Lavender turn, so Jack quickly moved away from the window and looked blankly at the garden.

  The door opened and Lavender emerged — not with a glass, but with a plastic bottle, which he handed to Jack.

  “Bit easier than a glass. You can take it with you.”

  “Kind of you,” said Jack, taking the bottle and swigging from it.

  Thinking — I know exactly why you gave me a bottle. So we don’t have to open that door again.

  He watched Lavender shut the door. Then, smile firmly in place, he gestured to Jack to lead the way back down into the garden.

  Jack walked ahead, his mind racing.

  “And what do you do for a living, Mr. Brennan?” said Lavender, drawing level as they crossed the lawn.

  “Oh, I’m retired,” said Jack. “Free spirit, that’s me. Watch TV, eat well, have a few beers. Go fishing.”

  Jack waited for Lavender to take the bait. Now he really wanted to find out what the guy did on that little black speedboat.

  But the screenwriter stayed silent.

  They reached the jetty.

  “You want me to get something to drain the old fuel into?” said Lavender.

  “Oh there wasn’t much left in there,” said Jack. “I think it’ll top up okay.”

  He climbed into the boat and unscrewed the filler cap, then started to pour the new fuel in.

  Jack pointed to the speedboat.

  “You fish?”

  “Good lord, no,” said Lavender. “Can’t think of anything worse.”

  “Looks like you use the boat quite a bit.”

  “Oh sure. Came with the property. Grew up with boats, can’t keep me out of them. But fishing? Like watching paint dry — no offence.”

  “None taken. Think I may have seen you,” said Jack. “Upriver?”

  “Very likely,” said Lavender. “Good place to think. Get ideas. Solve story problems.”

  “Kinda chilly this time of year?”

  “Doesn’t bother me. Day or night, just hop in the boat, tootle along, fresh air, fresh thoughts.”

  “Sounds like quite a life,” said Jack.