Cherringham--Death on a Moonlit Night

by Neil Richards

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m worried that Grace might take it upon herself to give Nick a place to hide.” A breath. “That would be bad.”

  “Wouldn’t know about that, Alan.”

  “Just want you to be clear. If you talk to her.”

  Jack didn’t answer. Alan’s words … sounding like a warning.

  “No matter — detectives from Oxford are paying her a visit as we speak.”

  And Jack thought of bubbly Grace, always with a smile.

  Grim figures asking her questions. Perhaps suspicion.

  Perhaps saying: Mind if we have a look around.

  “Okay,” Alan said. “So, let me get down whatever you saw last night. What Marston said. How he seemed.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Alan pulled out a notebook, and flipped it open. A click to ready his pen.

  But then the cop stopped and looked up.

  “This Nick Marston. How well do you know him?”

  Jack got up and walked to the kettle, and freshened his tea with a splash of the still-scalding water.

  Probably anathema to do here.

  He turned back to Alan.

  “Can’t say I do know him, Alan. But before I give you my official statement … I know Grace. Her judgement? I think that’s something I would trust.”

  Alan held Jack’s gaze. “The gun and the CCTV are solid, Jack. One hundred per cent. And they’re not the only evidence we have that points to Nick Marston. And you know as well as I do that people can be wrong about people.” Jack took his seat again.

  How many times had he sat, pen in hand, trying to learn everything he could from the person sitting across from him?

  Alan looked down to his pad. “So, last night?”

  “Was supposed to be a fun night. Meet the fiancé, you know. Didn’t quite turn out that way …”

  *

  As soon as Sarah got to the track that led close to Jack’s boat, she saw something that made her catch her breath.

  Alan Rivers. His police car, pulling away.

  She slowed down, though she was sure Alan must have seen her.

  And why did that give her a chill? There was something about all this — her concern for Grace, Nick’s disappearance — now somehow scaring her.

  And as soon as Alan slowly pulled away, Sarah drove up.

  Jack, out standing in the sun on his deck, spotted her, Riley at his side.

  Almost as if he expected her.

  She slowed. The dirt here, muddy, clawing at her tyres a bit.

  Jack waited, cup of something in his hand, squinting into the sun. His face — serious.

  Waiting.

  And she got out and started walking to The Grey Goose, knowing that in minutes she’d know why Alan came by.

  And guessing …

  Maybe knowing …

  It had something to do with last night. Something to do with Nick.

  Then a little voice in her head: Maybe — something to do with the murder …

  6. Ignoring Evidence

  “Jack — you make a mean picnic,” said Sarah, adding a second helping of salad to her plate. “And this dressing — fantastic.”

  “Secret recipe,” said Jack.

  She watched him take a beer from the cold box, flip the lid, then take a swig.

  “One of these days you’re going to tell me some of these secret recipes or this special relationship between our two countries is over.”

  He grinned: “Afraid some secrets gotta stay secret. Have a beer instead.”

  “Love to,” she said, “but I’m driving. And hey — what happened to your ban on daytime drinking?”

  “After that interview with Alan? You gotta be joking. Pretty much ruined my day. Poor Grace.”

  Sarah nodded. “This isn’t the Sunday I had planned either. Though I have to admit — thanks to you, I’m feeling a bit less stressed now.”

  When she’d arrived at the Goose, and seen the state of the deck, Jack had suggested they just throw some food together and take the rowing boat across to the meadows.

  Never one to do anything by halves, Jack’s idea of “throwing something together” was the full works: picnic basket, cold box, cushions, gingham cloth.

  While they’d sat on the riverbank and eaten, Jack had brought her up to speed on the police enquiry — and she’d reported back on Grace’s interview with the detectives from Oxford.

  Now, in the warmth of the afternoon sun, with kids swimming in the river by the bridge and boats flitting to and fro, larks overhead — it was hard to believe she and Jack were discussing whether Grace’s fiancé was a murderer.

  She put down her plate and looked downriver towards the bridge.

  “You think the evidence they have is as solid as Alan says?”

  “’Fraid so. The cartridge forensics don’t lie,” said Jack. “By the way — did Grace know that Nick kept a gun in his house?”

  “She did. Said Nick used to go on shoots with his dad. Didn’t think much of it — locked in a cabinet. All official.”

  “The only weak link is between Nick’s car on the bridge and the gun in the water. Good lawyer could try to say that was just coincidence. But — oh, I didn’t tell you — the evidence from the house is even more damning.”

  “Really?”

  “Tyre tracks on Lee Taylor’s lawn apparently match Nick’s car. And his fingerprints are in the house.”

  “Maybe Nick went there earlier in the evening?”

  “While he was home sick?”

  “Could have been an urgent work meeting?”

  “Prints on the safe too.”

  “Ah,” said Sarah, thinking, the “chain of evidence” is going from bad to worse.

  Then: “Do the police have any idea how much was taken from the safe?”

  “Around fifty grand,” said Jack, “though they’re still checking.”

  “They think that’s the motive?”

  “Fifty grand? Pretty tempting.”

  She reached over to Jack’s flask and poured herself a coffee.

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think — all that evidence? Damning. And it would be a hell of a lot easier to help Nick if he hadn’t run away.”

  “The running seals the case for the prosecution, hmm?”

  “Ties it up into a nice, neat package. Which is a shame because … Oh, I don’t know …”

  She watched as Jack got up and stood, beer in hand, looking down river.

  “Go on.”

  “Okay,” he said, turning back to her. “Just thinking aloud here. All this evidence, stacked up against the kid — I don’t buy it.”

  “Explain.”

  “Don’t you think it’s just … too good? I mean, look down there at the bridge. Everyone in Cherringham knows there’s cameras on it. I see ’em, every day, slowing down way below the speed limit when they get near. Last place you’d choose to park up and dispose of a murder weapon. Also — Nick lives in the village, no?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “But Winsham is way over the other side of the hill there. Kinda funny route home after a killing, hmm? Big loop. And finally, what idiot kills a man — even for fifty grand — when you’ve just been promoted and you’re getting engaged to the girl of your dreams?”

  “Okay, that all makes sense. Things not adding up, despite the evidence. But it still doesn’t answer the question ‘why run away?’”

  “What if …”

  Sarah waited while Jack turned away again, thinking aloud.

  Then back to her.

  “What if … you’re more scared of staying than you are of taking a murder rap?”

  “Scared of what? I mean — what could be worse?”

  “Ah well, that’s the million-dollar question, no?” said Jack, sitting back down on the cushions and reaching for the coffee.

  He laughed. “And that’s why I got a partner like you — to do all the tough thinking.”

  “Why thanks,” said
Sarah.

  “Seriously though,” said Jack, pouring a mug. “You really think Nick could have done it?”

  “I don’t really know him well. So — I don’t know. But there’s this. I know Grace. I trust Grace.”

  She took a breath.

  “So, based on that, no I don’t,” said Sarah. “But — God — I can’t see a defence. I mean — no alibi, prints everywhere, his gun used …”

  She watched as a little cruiser chugged past, mum and dad at the wheel, kids waving. She waved back as it made its way upriver.

  “Let’s say you’re right. What if he was … I don’t know … being blackmailed, used, forced to take part in the crime?”

  “Go on, keep talking …”

  “Some secret in his past — something bad, really bad — that’s going to come out, ruin it with Grace, ruin the job. So he’s forced to let the blackmailer take his gun, his car — or maybe they even make Nick pull the trigger? Then they frame him and he knows he’s got no choice but to run?”

  “It’s a theory.” He smiled. “Tad complicated, hmm? But it’s a start.”

  “A start? So — you’re thinking we should investigate?”

  “For Grace? Absolutely.” Another grin. “And isn’t that what we’re doing already?”

  Sarah nodded, recognising that moment where suddenly they were — for lack of better words — on a case.

  “Far as they’re concerned, the cops think they’ve got their man,” said Jack. “They just gotta track him down. Bring him to justice. And I don’t imagine anybody else being lined up as a suspect in this investigation. Do you?”

  “You know, Jack, Alan might not take well to us digging around. This thing being so ‘open and shut’.”

  “Agreed. So we keep quiet about it. That is, until — or if — we get something.”

  Sarah nodded. Suddenly the dark cloud that had fallen over this weekend was showing signs of light.

  “Okay. Know what? I can start now. When I get home, I’ll phone Grace, get some history on Nick. Go online — dig into his past a bit.”

  “Yeah. And maybe find out who his pals were at work — and his enemies.”

  “We need to know more about this Lee Taylor too,” said Sarah. “If you’re right, Jack, then maybe the money in the safe wasn’t the real reason for Taylor’s death.”

  “That’s right. Remember, the other night. Nick, talking about tough times at the store? Wouldn’t surprise me if Taylor had plenty of enemies. We find someone else with a motive — and maybe we get closer to finding the killer.”

  Jack looked away. “And you know, we could be all wrong here. Could very well be Nick.”

  “Which is why we’ll be investigating. As you say … for Grace.”

  Then Sarah looked at her watch and stood up. “Two-thirty. I’d better get on with this. What about you?”

  Jack looked over to the Goose.

  “Gonna clear the rest of the paint stuff away — then head out buy some grit for the anti-slip coat on the decks.” A smile. “Think I know just the place to go.”

  “Two birds, hmm?”

  And she joined him in packing away the picnic into the little boat.

  “Oh Jack, don’t forget — in merry old England, stores close at 4 on a Sunday.”

  “Suits me fine.”

  “I detect a plan.”

  “You do indeed,” said Jack, giving her a hand into the boat. She cast off, then sat back and watched him gently row over to the bank where the Goose was moored.

  Both of them lost in thought, planning.

  When they reached the Goose, he tied up and she helped him put the cushions and picnic stuff on the part of the deck that was still unpainted.

  “Thanks for lunch, Jack.”

  “A pleasure, as always,” he said, walking up onto the boat. “Call me soon as you have some names from Grace, hmm?”

  “Will do,” said Sarah.

  And she walked over to her car, determined to find the truth about Nick Marston — good or bad.

  7. Closing Time

  Jack pulled up in the car park outside Hardwick’s megastore, and took in the place.

  The massive car park was half empty — but maybe, with just an hour till the store closed, that was to be expected.

  And the store — splashed with banners and special offers — was big, looking like an American big-box store, gleaming in this summer sun.

  No sign of any police cars.

  Which was good.

  He guessed that with a solid suspect identified, the local force wouldn’t be keen on paying overtime for cops to go interviewing people on a Sunday afternoon.

  His phone rang.

  “Sarah.”

  “Jack.”

  “What you got?”

  “Not much I’m afraid. Grace isn’t in any state to talk. She got the third-degree from the cops this afternoon.”

  “When’s your turn?”

  “Not sure. Think they’ve packed in for the day. Time for their Sunday roast maybe? Back tomorrow I guess. Anyway — I did get one possible lead. She mentioned Nick’s best pal — guy called Charley — runs bathroom sales. Grace thinks he’ll be working today.”

  “Great. I’ll see what I can find out. Check in later, hmm?”

  “Sure. Meanwhile, I’ll keep digging online. Let you know if I find anything.”

  He put his phone away, then walked over to the line of oversized carts, big enough to hold two-by-fours or a giant Weber gas barbecue.

  He picked one, and then strolled into the store like just another customer.

  Which — to be honest — I really am, he thought, looking for the paint aisle.

  *

  Jack pushed his cart up and down the aisles, getting a feel for the layout of the mammoth place.

  At one end, the shelves were just ten or so feet high — paint, lighting, tools.

  Down at the other end, where the serious building gear was sold, the stacks soared fifty feet high.

  He watched a forklift truck rolling lazily back and forth in a section chained off from the public, lifting pallets of wood high into the shelf system.

  Glancing down other aisles as he walked by, he saw pink-shirted employees checking stock or talking to customers.

  And a few, just hanging out. Waiting for the clock to free them.

  At the far end of the store he saw giant sliding doors that — he guessed — opened into a deeper warehouse area, not accessible to the public.

  Off to the corner, a massive display held stacks of chainsaws on special offer.

  In the background, tinny pop music played on loudspeakers.

  Time to get talking to the staff, he thought.

  Starting at one end of the store, he picked a random item off the shelf, dropped it in his trolley, then looked for a pink shirt to ask some questions.

  First goal — a bit of DIY advice — and, he had to admit, these guys were good.

  Then a few social questions. Quite a few of the employees were older and he quickly figured an angle.

  “Kinda looking for a part-time job — what’s it like working here?”

  Perfect.

  Surprising how people opened up for that one.

  It didn’t take him long to get an answer: Keep your head down and do any hours you’re asked to and you’ll get by just fine. Spend too long talking to your pals, or try and change your hours, and you’ll be shown the door!

  One or two of the old-timers had been here before Lee Taylor arrived. And they had an even more interesting story.

  In the old days, this was a nice place to work. Lot of give and take between boss and worker. But then — it became all “take”. And there’d been some pretty brutal firing going on.

  Especially recently.

  Jack was careful not to talk about the murder of Lee Taylor. But, even so, he was surprised that nobody brought the subject up.

  Something up with that?

  Time to find Nick’s pal Charley.

  He hea
ded for the bathroom section. A bunch of different bathrooms were laid out, gleaming tubs, showers, basins — and he could see in the middle a desk with a couple of computer screens.

  Typing away at a keyboard, with his back to Jack, was another pink shirt. Jack approached: “Hi. Looking for Charley.”

  The man turned round and Jack could see his name tag: Robin.

  Face looked like it had some road miles on it. Rough, craggy. Smoker? Surely a hard drinker.

  And overweight, with a gut that hung over his belt. Stringy hair longer than the other employees Jack had seen.

  Rough sort of guy.

  “Wha-hmm? Oh, yeah,” he said. “Charley’s not around — can I help?”

  “I guess. Charley was recommended.”

  “Hmm, to be honest, mate, I’m not sure when Charley’s going to be back on bathrooms. He’s up in the office today. Bit, um, short staffed, y’know? But maybe I can help? Not much I don’t know about bathrooms!”

  “That right?” said Jack, wondering how to get away. He needed the inside track, needed to get to Charley before the store closed.

  But Robin was already standing and raring to go.

  “Ten years I’ve been here at Hardwick’s,” he said. “Find you a self-tapping screw for a lawnmower with my eyes shut!”

  Jack laughed. Not even sure what that was!

  “You got it. Day I need a lawnmower I’ll come find you.”

  The guy paused, not certain what Jack meant.

  “Live on a boat,” said Jack.

  “Ah! Yes, I see, very funny,” said Robin laughing. “So, um, right then. You’re after a bathroom? For the boat? Or just a new toilet or something?”

  Jack shrugged.

  As it happened he did need to refurbish the bathroom on the Goose. The plumbing — ancient.

  This guy did say he was an expert.

  But more importantly, bored maybe? It seemed he liked to chat.

  So Jack said: “Well, here’s what I'm looking for …”

  *

  Sarah adjusted the big sun-shade over her garden table and tilted her laptop so she could see the screen more clearly.

  She looked down the garden towards the river.

  Daniel was running around with Digby, throwing his tennis ball into the water and sending the dog crazy with the endless game of fetch.