Cherringham--A Bad Lie

by Matthew Costello

  “Love to, James. But got a hundred things to do on my boat. But this …” Jack gestured at the expanse of the club, “was great. Beautiful place you have here.” A pause. “Classic.”

  James beamed.

  The perfect choice of word to appeal to the club’s captain.

  “Precisely. Endangered species, places like this, Jack. Clubs with history and our location in the heart of the Cotswolds. You really must consider joining …”

  Babs kept her perpetual smile on. James — Sarah guessed — generally did the talking for the two of them.

  “You too, Sarah. My Babsie here is always saying we need more members from the distaff side … Though ’twas the day when this was a male-only preserve …”

  James obviously pining for those days.

  “I will, James. Need to do the back nine sometime.”

  “Anytime,” James said.

  Jack’s new best friend.

  “Now — best dash. Thanks again.”

  With their clubs unstrapped from the back of the cart, Sarah walked beside Jack, clubs rattling in their bags, up the stone steps, around to the side of the club and to the car park.

  *

  “You certainly won him over,” Sarah said.

  Huffington’s was nearly empty in that quiet time after lunch and before the tea time regulars.

  Jack held his cup of Earl Grey between his hands, close to his face as if he was using the slowly rising vapour to clear his thoughts.

  “Flies and honey,” he said.

  “And your thoughts?”

  Jack nodded, pondering the question.

  Sarah grabbed a sugary biscuit and broke off a corner. Since working with Jack she probably had started consuming more of Huffington’s best than she would have normally done.

  Their biscuits and cakes — irresistible.

  “Well, let’s say we don’t know much about what Babs thinks about the wedding to come and her future son-in-law …”

  Sarah nodded. “Though I imagine she thinks exactly what James tells her to think.”

  Jack smiled. “You got that impression as well, hmm? But James … he did little to hide his, um, disappointment in his daughter’s choice of husband.”

  “To put it mildly. What about his friends yesterday? Anything there?”

  “The groomsmen — or what is it you call them over here …?”

  “The ushers.”

  “Well, the best man — guy called Marcus — didn’t seem too bothered. But all the … ushers … sounded concerned. One of them, Ryan, said that Josh seemed a little off the night of their carousing.”

  “Like he was having second thoughts?”

  “Could be.”

  “So the groom did a runner, then? No foul play? We saw the footprints. No mystery, then?”

  For a moment Jack just held his tea.

  “You’re having other thoughts …”

  “That obvious? Well, yes. Great you spotted those footprints.”

  “And?

  Jack put down his cup and smiled.

  “Josh goes down there, and walks away. Under his own power. Like you said, could just have decided he wasn’t ready …”

  “Happens all the time.”

  “Or something else happened.”

  “What could that be?”

  “Beats me. But I think we need you to do some digging. What is the big black hole in all this?”

  Sarah thought for a minute. And knowing how Jack’s mind worked, she had an idea.

  “Who is Josh Andrews? Where did he come from? What’s his past?”

  “Bingo. Um, you do play that game over here, yes?”

  “I believe the occasional game is still played in old people’s homes.”

  “Good, okay. Right. His friends knew nothing about him before he went to art school. Nor do we.”

  “Lauren didn’t have much to say on that score either.”

  “Right. There are clouds, Sarah. Think you can cut through them?”

  “I can try. And I’m guessing you have plans as well?”

  Jack nodded. “Did Josh maybe go back to his barge? Are there any clues there about what he had been thinking? I mean, could be very simple. Pre-wedding jitters. But something about this …”

  “Your instincts?”

  Another grin.

  “Let me guess …” she lowered her voice. “A break in? Think you can get in?”

  “Haven’t yet met the lock that can keep me out.”

  “You know, I think that’s your favourite part of all this stuff we do.”

  Jack nodded and picked up a biscuit, taking a healthy bite. “That and these. So good.”

  And Sarah laughed at that.

  Could she find out about Josh’s past? She had work to get back to. The flyers for the Cherringham Summer Festival had to be done ASAP.

  But later, this evening …

  She could try to uncover someone who seemed to have no past.

  Probably nothing there, she thought, finishing her tea.

  But, she also realised, you just never knew.

  9. A Little Breaking and Entering

  Jack shipped his oars and let the little rowing boat drift the last few yards downstream to Iron Wharf.

  As soon as he was close enough, he grabbed hold of one of the old truck tyres that hung down against the timber edge of the dock then pulled himself along to the rusty ladder which clung to the side of the wharf.

  A quick loop of the rope through one of the old iron rings, then he climbed up the slippery rungs onto dry land.

  Jack took in the old boat yard, the dilapidated caravans, piles of timber, and boat parts.

  The place looked empty. Six o’clock on a fine summer’s evening, most of the guys who worked down here repairing boats would be up at one of the village pubs by now.

  He looked down the line of moored barges, their black hulls hugging tight to the edge of the wharf.

  Which one belonged to Josh?

  Keeping any eye out for anyone moving about on the wharf, he strolled as casually as he could along the wharf.

  Technically, he wasn’t trespassing. Not yet, anyway.

  This wasn’t a residential mooring and Jack knew most of the barges would be empty. Waiting for repair, up for sale — or even for breaking if they were real old wrecks.

  According to Ray, one of Jack’s neighbours, Josh had been here for six months, paying weekly, on the basis that he was waiting for a proper mooring to come up further up river, near where Jack’s own Grey Goose lay.

  He carried on walking toward the end of the wharf.

  There was no mistaking Josh’s boat when he reached it.

  Tied to the stern, like a tender, was a mini-barge, shuttered up with an aluminium chimney sticking out of the roof.

  A sign hanging on it read ‘Josh Andrews, ironwork, repairs’.

  The little boat must contain some kind of forge. Jack had heard of these boats — owned by blacksmiths, they had travelled the canals and rivers of nineteenth century England, when water, not rail, was the main transport system.

  Josh clearly used it to make his sculptures — but also to eke out a living doing repairs or making garden furniture.

  Next to the barge stood a tall pile of tangled metal — girders, poles, old prams, fence wire, car and boat parts.

  Jack couldn’t see any of the sculptures that Josh made from this raw material. He guessed they were worth too much to be left out as Iron Wharf had a reputation as a favourite haunt for Cherringham’s lighter-fingered inhabitants.

  Jack stood by the barge and took a long careful look around the yard and across the river.

  No sign of movement.

  The barge itself was surely empty. All the windows had their shutters drawn tight. No clutter on deck, a chain ran across the gangplank.

  From the wharf, he could see the main door that would lead down into the barge, and the heavy padlock and black-leaded hasp that protected it.

  He reached into his pocket
for the little bag of lock-picking tools that he had been given years ago back in NYC.

  Then, with one last check he wasn’t being observed, he pulled aside the chain, stepped onto the deck of Josh’s barge and approached the lock.

  *

  Two minutes later he stood inside the barge, closing the outer doors tight behind him.

  He flicked on his cell phone light, then found a light switch and flicked it.

  Good.

  The electricity was still on. And with these shutters, there was no chance anyone outside would see the lights.

  He looked around. He was in the barge’s galley. A basic kitchen with a stove, cupboards, and worktops.

  All neat and tidy. The surfaces clean. No smell of rotting food.

  He checked the kitchen trashcan — empty.

  Interesting.

  So Josh — if he made it back here from the golf club — didn’t leave in a hurry.

  In fact, he left his barge perfectly organised …

  Maybe because he planned on coming back?

  Jack walked through into the saloon and looked around; wood-burning stove, table, sofas.

  No TV. Bookshelves, bare wood floor.

  Nothing fussy or showy. Basics, done well.

  He carried on through the boat. Next up — some kind of studio.

  A big work surface, old casts, figures carved into found wood, lots of photos on the walls of sculptures in galleries, outside big London blocks, in public spaces.

  Jack looked carefully at the pictures.

  Josh’s works were meticulous, blending stone and steel, sometimes comic, sometimes graceful but always interesting.

  Gary was right — Josh had something special.

  So why run away? If that’s what he’s done …

  Jack carried on into the boat. There were three cabins — two with single beds and finally a large double in the bow of the boat.

  The bed was made, clothes in drawers and cupboards. Nothing lying around on the bed or the floor — no sign of a rush or disturbance.

  In fact, nothing here that could give Jack any clue as to what had happened.

  One by one he opened the drawers but he knew he wasn’t going to find anything.

  He retraced his steps, headed back to the saloon, looked around again. Something strange …

  Then he realised it.

  No photos anywhere. Family, friends — nothing.

  He sat at a desk in the corner. Opened some drawers, pulled out papers, sifted through them.

  Just bills, old statements, the usual paperwork. No sign of a laptop — but maybe Josh was old school. He certainly didn’t have gadgets around the place.

  Jack paused. No laptop — that meant no online, no emails.

  Which should mean — more letters, more paper communications.

  More clues than he had found so far.

  Another rubbish bin sat in the corner of the saloon.

  He went over to it — empty.

  He looked around the room again.

  The wood-burner.

  He walked over, knelt down and opened the glass door.

  The stove was cold. Inside — just an old layer of ash.

  And some screwed up paper.

  He reached inside. Took out the paper and unfolded it.

  Written in capital letters in black felt tip the words:

  HEY LUCKY. HERE YOUR GETTING MARIED. SO THATS TWO BODIES TO BURN! BETTER GET RUNNING.

  Jack stood up.

  God. No wonder Josh had disappeared.

  Jack had seen messages like this before — and this one seemed genuine enough.

  So Josh had run. But the question was whether he had run away from the threat or had he run to it?

  10. Who Is Josh Andrews?

  Sarah put down the phone after giving Lauren Proctor a quick update. It didn’t take long to say they hadn’t really found anything.

  Though that wasn’t exactly true.

  She had asked the teacher about Josh. Where he came from. His family.

  And was rather amazed to discover that Lauren knew quite little.

  “He, well, Josh didn’t like talking about his past. Or his family. I just thought … moody artist, and all that.”

  But Lauren had told her that Josh had said he came from Manchester.

  As they talked, Sarah felt that Lauren was holding something back.

  Did she know something important about Josh’s past?

  She decided to trust her own instincts.

  Not too bad in that department lately myself, she thought.

  She decided to take a chance and tell Lauren about the footsteps. That Josh walked away under his own power.

  Just … walked away.

  For a moment — Lauren said nothing. And Sarah waited.

  Then: “Lauren, is there anything else you can tell us? About Josh, you? Because as of now, we just have nothing to go on.”

  There was another pause.

  Way beyond pregnant.

  In fact, Sarah thought that the line had gone dead.

  “I-if I tell you something … can you, I mean, tell no one else?”

  “I need to tell my partner.”

  “Sure. I mean, fine. But my parents can’t know.”

  “Okay.”

  Though Sarah knew that — sight unseen — she might very well have to break that promise.

  There are promises and then there’s the law.

  “When I got up that morning, the morning after my Josh vanished … I was heading out to school …”

  “Yes?”

  “And I found a note outside the door.”

  Well, there are secrets. And then there are secrets.

  Sarah wished that the bride-to-be had shared that from the beginning.

  “If my parents knew this, they’d cancel the wedding. And they can’t do that. Mustn’t. Because, you see—”

  The woman sounded like an emotional wreck, and Sarah wished the conversation was face-to-face. It would be good to try to calm her.

  No easy task over the telephone.

  She waited a moment. “The note. From Josh. What did it say?”

  Sarah heard the crinkly sound of paper being unfolded.

  “I-I have it right here. Funny, seeing his words, on paper. Not in a text. You know? I’ll read it.”

  Sarah waited.

  Then Lauren started reading, forcing the words out, and Sarah feeling that at any moment the teacher would break down in tears.

  “My dearest Lauren … Something has happened that I must deal with. Before we get married. Know how much I love you. You know that, yes? And once I have dealt with the thing, I will be back. If-’”

  Then tears.

  Sarah had no words to say. She just listened as the woman sobbed. Then deep breaths as she struggled to carry on.

  “‘If I can, I will be back in time for our wedding. It’s what I want more than anything. And I need you — beg you — to trust me that once things are sorted, I will be back to you. Forever.’”

  More tears as Sarah listened.

  Add she thought about the words.

  Something … I must deal with.

  Once matters are settled.

  What could Josh be talking about?

  One thing Sarah felt — this was not a note from a man running away from his bride and wedding.

  But beyond that — what could it be?

  “Lauren, I’m so sorry. You must be so scared. And with keeping it secret … but do you have any idea what Josh was talking about?”

  “No! That’s just it. He did his art. He worked hard. We have so many plans. And then this … I don’t understand it.”

  “Right. I don’t either. But Lauren, listen. This tells us that there was no foul play. That Josh is probably all right. And most importantly, he wants to come back to you.”

  “Yes,” the teacher said, quickly agreeing. “It does mean that. Means he loves me, that he’s okay. B-but …”

  “Go on.”

 
“What is he doing?”

  Now it was Sarah’s turn to be quiet.

  What is he doing?

  For the first time, Sarah felt that with this she and Jack might have stumbled into a mystery that could stump them.

  But at least Sarah knew — and she’d soon tell Jack — that it was a mystery.

  Something made Josh Andrews leave Cherringham — and they needed to find out what.

  “Lauren, thank you for telling me this. And apart from Jack, your secret is safe.”

  For now, she thought.

  “So you will find him?” she said. “Help him? You’ll do that, right?”

  Lauren was talking through her tears.

  “I promise you — Jack and I will do everything we can.”

  Then, as if those words were so reassuring, the young teacher took a deep breath.

  She had hope.

  And Sarah didn’t tell her that — for now — that was all they had.

  *

  Sarah got off the phone from updating Jack, who also told her about the threatening note.

  Suddenly — gears had begun to click into place.

  Someone threatened Josh Andrews.

  And he went away … to do what?

  Sarah said she’d get into digging online. No one is invisible there, she told Jack.

  So after pouring a glass of Pinot Gris, she started to dig.

  *

  The basic searches — essentially scouring the net — for any information about Josh Andrews had produced close to nothing.

  There were some reviews of shows at St. Martins, then gallery exhibitions after graduation.

  The announcement of his engagement in The Times.

  Of course, what other paper could possibly be good enough for news of a Proctor wedding?

  But nothing else.

  Which, Sarah thought, was impossible.

  So now she decided to go deeper.

  Starting with the art school.

  She knew Josh’s age and took a guess at what year he started. Somewhere in the college archive there had to be a record of the new students — and information about what school they came from.

  And sure enough, there was a list, year by year of incoming students.

  She searched for Josh Andrews, across a five year spread. No luck.

  A few Andrews, but no Josh.

  “It’s got to be here,” she said to herself.

  Which is when Chloe walked in and popped open the fridge.