The Boat House

by Mark Sennen

  ‘Car, Mummy.’ The wheels rolled up and onto her stomach. ‘Vroom, vroom.’

  ‘Yes.’ She reached out a hand, keeping her eyes closed and groping for the toy. ‘Let me have a go.’

  ‘No, Mummy, car! Car!’ Jamie’s voice went up in pitch. ‘Car coming!’

  She opened her eyes and sat up, hearing the revving of an engine, something like a racing car, a guttural exhaust spitting and crackling, the squeal of tyres on tarmac. Somewhere the tinkling of a bicycle bell and a shout. She turned her head towards the road and heard a scream silenced as metal screeched against metal. She pushed Jamie away and scrambled to her feet, aware of a flash of blue haring away down the lane, her daughter lying like a rag doll in the road next to the mangled frame of the bicycle, one wheel still spinning round. Even as she ran towards the accident she could hear the tick-tick-ticking as the wheel rotated, and as she reached Clarissa it was the only thing moving, the only thing still making a sound in the whole wide world.

  Then she woke up.

  Charlie Kinver cast out once again. He had no real expectation of another fish. Two nice ones in an hour was a good bag. Especially for Fernworthy. The reservoir’s surface dimpled with little wavelets as the earlier breeze died to a zephyr. A duck set out from the far bank and a dozen swallows skimmed the surface, sweeping up the last of the morning hatch. The heat of the late August sun warmed Charlie’s back. The bright light would be driving the trout deeper. Unlikely he’d get another bite now. But still …

  He wound in, thinking he’d have one final cast. Behind him, in his fishing bag, the two brown trout almost shouted out to be taken home and placed in a pan. A knob of butter, a few minutes’ heat and then served atop a slice of toast made from the bread his wife had baked that very morning. They’d had an argument before she’d gone to church and he’d headed off fishing, so the catch would serve as a peace offering.

  He cast out a final time, and almost as soon as the fly touched the water, a fish struck. Kinver raised his rod. The reaction was instinctive, but this time he was too late. The fly flew out of the water and caught in the low branch of a tree to his right. He could see the line had somehow wrapped itself around the branch. He pulled on it, hoping it would slip over the branch. It didn’t. Instead, the hook caught in the bark. Charlie put the rod down on the bank. Pointless getting cross. He had waders on, so he could simply wade along the bank a few metres and free the hook. Since this was his last cast he’d cut the line, pocket the fly and then reel in.

  Charlie stepped into the water and began to make his way down the bank. He reached the tree, put a hand up and held the fly. With the other hand he took his knife, sliced the line and freed the hook. He pulled the line to make sure it would come round the tree and then began to wade back to the gravel beach.

  A flash of white caught his eye. On the bankside, wedged in the crook of an old stump, was a plastic carrier bag. The carrier bulged, something within. He waded closer. The bag seemed to be filled with some kind of material. One of yesterday’s picnickers had forgotten their blanket or water-proofs. Charlie grabbed the bag and carried it to the beach. He’d walk round to the car park and leave the bag on the wall. First though, he’d take a look inside. There might be some personal item to identify who the bag belonged to.

  He delved into the bag, finding a pullover, a flimsy top, a short skirt. Then a black bra, and some black, lacy knickers. He opened his mouth. There was something about finding a pair of knickers in the middle of nowhere. It meant somebody was going around without a pair. He thought of his wife. Perhaps after he’d wooed her with the trout he could persuade her to climb the stairs to their bedroom, to remove her own knickers.

  At the bottom of the bag was a lightweight windcheater and beneath that a slim leather wallet. Charlie flipped the wallet open. Forty quid. A driving licence with a picture of a pretty girl bottom left. Was she the owner of the knickers? He stared down at her. Long hair, high cheekbones, a real babe.

  On the top left of the licence there was a familiar circle of yellow stars on a blue background. An EU flag. In the centre of the stars sat the letter ‘H’. On the top right, in capitals, the word ‘MAGYAR’. Charlie looked at the pile of clothing again. Finding a bunch of women’s clothing had for a moment provided a frisson of excitement. Certainly the girl in the picture was one he’d like to see naked. But, as his eyes returned to scan the surface of the water where dark blues and browns and blacks shimmered in the sun, he thought of what might be hidden in the depths of the reservoir. He reached for his tackle bag and pulled out his phone, knowing it was now unlikely he’d be eating the brace of trout for lunch.

  For DI Charlotte Savage, Sunday morning came around all too soon. A pale glow seeped past the edges of the curtains, the daylight intruding on a dream about her daughter, Clarissa. It was getting on for five years now. Savage stared up at the ceiling, trying to discern an image of Clarissa in the soft shadows. Nothing. She had to turn to the bedside table and the little picture frame on it to see her daughter smiling out from a face fringed with red hair. Savage reached up and touched her own red hair. She twirled a long length with her fingers until one by one the strands slipped from her grasp.

  Ever since Clarissa had died, Savage’s sleep had been plagued with bad dreams. She was used to spending half the night tossing and turning, often waking in a sweat and a tangle of duvet. Recently though, the dreams had become more vivid, with the same scene repeated over and over. Savage knew why. It was because she’d discovered who was responsible for the death of her daughter. The official report had the death down as a road traffic collision, or RTC. In old money, an RTA: road traffic accident. But Savage had never seen what had happened as an accident. The hit-and-run driver had been travelling way too fast for the moorland lane – but it was the ‘run’ bit of ‘hit-and-run’ which had compounded Savage’s anger. The driver hadn’t hung around to see the consequences of his actions, and, having never been caught in the following investigation, he’d escaped punishment.

  ‘He’ being a young lad by the name of Owen Fox.

  Savage sat up, her husband, Pete, stirring for a moment before settling back to sleep. She hadn’t told Pete about Owen Fox. Pete was a Royal Navy officer, had been for all his adult life. He’d been commander of a frigate until recently, when the ship had been scrapped. Now he was shore-based, training naval cadets while waiting for another command. On-board the ship everything was governed by rules and regulations. You did the right thing. You served your country. Even when you gave the order to fire a cruise missile, you knew the destruction you were about to wreak was backed up in law. What Savage wanted to do to Owen Fox was far, far from legal.

  She climbed from the bed and headed to the kitchen. The kids wouldn’t rise for another couple of hours, but Pete would be up soon. With Stefan, their unofficial Swedish au pair, away racing yachts for the summer, Pete had to juggle his new duties with looking after the children. Often he’d wake early and come downstairs to read some document or other. Savage needed to be out of the house by then. She’d leave a hastily scribbled note explaining that a call had come in. Not the first time she’d have lied to her husband, but she told herself the deception was necessary. Pete simply wouldn’t understand or accept the truth – and what she intended to do about it. It didn’t make her feel any less guilty.

  Breakfast was a bowl of cereal, a piece of fruit and a cup of black coffee. She slid the patio doors open and took her food onto the deck. An area of lawn spread from the deck to a hedge, beyond which cliffs fell sheer to the sea. It was still early but a couple of yachts had slipped their moorings and were cruising down the Sound. They’d be catching the tide, intent on getting a free lift westward to Fowey and beyond. If they’d set off a couple of hours later then they’d end their journey pushing against a foul current, getting nowhere fast.

  Savage sat at the garden table, watching the yachts. Timing was the issue. Owen Fox wasn’t just another boy racer. When she’d found out the name she’d
been shocked for the first few seconds, but then everything had become clear. How the lad had managed to remain under the radar and escape detection. Dozens of officers had gone well beyond the call of duty trying to find Clarissa’s killer, and yet they had failed. Not surprising really – for Owen Fox was the son of Simon Fox, the Chief Constable of Devon and Cornwall Police.

  She finished her breakfast as the yachts passed the breakwater and turned west. A puff of pink exploded from the lead yacht as the crew launched a colourful spinnaker, the huge sail filling and billowing as the breeze caught it. For a moment Savage felt an almost overwhelming sadness that she wasn’t aboard the boat. What joy it would be to have Plymouth at the stern, the bow forging through clear blue water, perhaps – if she was lucky – dolphins racing alongside.

  Then she gathered her breakfast things and went back inside the house.

  DC Jane Calter glanced at the clock on the dashboard and then out at the open moorland stretching away in all directions. Nothing moved in the bright summer sun, other than a heat haze rising from the undulating terrain. She thought for a moment of the man she’d left lying in her bed and wondered if he’d woken and seen the note she’d left on top of his clothes. Wondered if he’d be there when she got back.

  Calter slumped sideways in the passenger seat, as next to her DC Patrick Enders swung the car round yet another sharp bend. Her stomach heaved and she hoped she’d be able to hold on to her breakfast – a slice of toast, plus half a Mars Bar, courtesy of Enders. Last night had been epic in more ways than one, but if she’d known she would be subject to an hour’s car journey with Enders at the wheel she’d have taken things a little easier. Enders was as chirpy as ever, prattling away as Calter tried to doze. The DC was the same age as her – mid-twenties – but already married with three kids. He was Irish and usually Calter found his accent soothing. Right now though she was so, so tired she wished he would shut the fuck up.

  The call had come at eight, just a couple of hours after she’d fallen asleep.

  ‘That misper from last week,’ the voice had said. ‘Her clothes have turned up at Fernworthy Reservoir. Looks like she either topped herself or …’

  It was the ‘or’, left hanging by the officer on the end of the line, that had pulled Calter from a state of half-slumber to wide awake. As the officer had given her the details she’d headed for the bathroom. In five minutes she was washed and dressed and in the kitchen, a slice of toast popping up as she gulped down a pint of water and tried to banish her hangover and focus on the task in hand.

  The missing person was a twenty-two-year-old Hungarian by the name of Anasztáz Róka. She’d been in the UK for six months, working as a waitress in a coffee bar. A week ago a housemate had reported her missing. The report had been logged but other than a few preliminary enquiries, no action had yet been taken.

  ‘We’re here, Jane,’ Enders said as the car rumbled across a cattle grid, woodland closing in on both sides. ‘Fernworthy Reservoir. Been up here many a time with the kids. Lovely spot for a … you alright?’

  Calter nodded and glanced at the Forestry Commission sign by the side of the road, interested in another nearby which said it was but three hundred yards to the car park and toilets. If she needed to be sick she’d prefer to do the business away from the gaze of other officers.

  Enders turned off the road and was ushered into the car park by a couple of uniformed officers. Calter caught sight of the reservoir for the first time. The surface of the water was alive, little wavelets reflecting the sky, a tinge of brown in with the blue. Even on a hot day the water would be cool. Only the foolhardy would ignore the ‘no swimming’ signs.

  ‘D Section,’ Enders said. He stopped the car and pointed across the car park, where three men were unloading boxes of equipment from the back of a large van. ‘Hope they’ve packed their beach ball.’

  D Section provided water-borne tactical support and had expertise in underwater search operations. The head of the section, Inspector Nigel Frey, stood next to one of two patrol cars, talking to another uniformed officer. Frey was dressed in black, military-style boots on his feet, only a peaked cap and a Heckler & Koch submachine gun missing from his usual attire. He waved when he saw Calter and Enders get out of their car. Calter sucked in a few mouthfuls of fresh air and tried to banish her hangover.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ Calter said as she crossed the car park to Frey. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Frey said. ‘Thought we were coming out here on an emergency. But it looks like this could be more of a recovery operation. Am I right?’

  ‘The girl’s been missing for a week, so yes, unfortunately you might be.’ Calter turned to look at the lake. ‘What’s it like in there?’

  ‘Don’t know yet, I’ve only had a quick shufty. Cold and deep. The water clarity’s not too bad though. If she’s in there we’ll find her, but it will take a while. Going to work up a search grid now and then I’ll get the lads in the drink.’ Frey nodded over to where two of his men were struggling into drysuits, the third preparing an inflatable dinghy. ‘Got the light with us this time of year, but there’s no way we’ll complete today.’

  Calter left Frey and moved over to the car park entrance where Enders was talking to one of the uniformed officers.

  ‘Found by a fisherman,’ Enders said, pointing down to a plastic carrier bag which sat on the road verge next to a small boulder. ‘Unfortunately the fisherman moved the bag and touched the contents, but they haven’t been touched since except to examine the driving licence to confirm ID.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t wear gloves.’ The officer Enders had been talking to shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I thought I was dealing with something either as simple as lost property or as tragic as a drowning. I never—’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Calter said. ‘Can you show us where the bag was found?’

  The man nodded and then beckoned one of the other officers over to take his place at the car park entrance. Calter and Enders followed the man as he led them through a small gate and across a patch of neat grassland designated as a picnic area. At the water’s edge he headed along the foreshore, crunching over the exposed lake bed where the water level had dropped over the summer, dry for once in Devon. After a few minutes the officer pointed to a section of bank where a tree had fallen into the water.

  ‘There. Just to the right of the stump of the tree. The fisherman says he found the bag by the stump. You’d not see it unless you were wading or you’d pushed through the vegetation to get to the water’s edge.’

  ‘What the hell was she doing out here?’ Enders said. ‘We’re miles from her digs, in the middle of nowhere and she didn’t have any transport. Not even a bike. I suppose she could have hitched a lift, but why?’

  ‘Is all her clothing in the bag?’ Calter said to the officer.

  ‘Yes, everything.’ The officer blushed. ‘Even a pair of knickers and a bra.’

  ‘I don’t like it, Jane,’ Enders said. ‘I don’t like it one little bit.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Calter said. ‘She either came here of her own free will, stripped off and went for a swim – possibly with the intention of killing herself, possibly she succumbed to cramp or the cold – or else …’

  ‘It’s that bit I don’t like. The “or else”.’

  Five minutes later and they were back at the car park. Frey’s men were already in the water, the divers in the shallows, a man in the dinghy dropping weighted buoys to demarcate search areas.

  ‘I’d be surprised if she’s down there,’ Frey said, looking out across the lake. ‘If she’s been in the water any length of time she’d have been a floater. There’s a lot of people around here in the summer so somebody would have seen the body before it sunk again.’

  ‘And the water level’s lower than usual, isn’t it?’ Calter pointed to the strip of exposed lake bed around the edge. ‘So she couldn’t have been swept through the outflow.’

  ‘No. The underwater outlets will have
grilles on too.’

  ‘But if this wasn’t an accident or a suicide then she could be on the bottom.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t get you?’

  ‘If the body had been weighed down with rocks for instance, put in a sack. She could have been taken out in a boat and dumped in the deepest part of the reservoir.’

  ‘Possibly, but when? Middle of the night? We’re at the height of the tourist season, so any other time of day and there’d be witnesses. I suppose bad weather would keep the tourists away, but we haven’t had any recently.’ Frey paused. He glanced at the water and then back at the surrounding woodland. ‘It’s a big job, all this. Is Charlotte coming out?’

  Calter felt put out for a moment. Frey plainly believed the situation merited the attendance of more than a couple of junior detectives.

  ‘No, sir,’ Calter said. ‘She isn’t. I’m sure she’s got better ways of spending her Sundays.’

  About the Author

  Mark Sennen was born in Epsom, Surrey, and later spent his teenage years on a smallholding in Shropshire. He read Cultural Studies at the University of Birmingham. Mark has had a number of occupations, including being a farmer, drummer and programmer. Now his hi-tech web developer’s suite, otherwise known as a shed in the garden, has been converted to a writer’s den and he writes almost full-time.

  @MarkSennen

  www.marksennen.com

  Also by Mark Sennen

  Bad Blood

  Touch

  Cut Dead

  Tell Tale

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