The Body in the Woods

by Neil Richards

  “Todwell House coming up,” said Sarah, nodding ahead to a curve in the river ahead and a break in the trees.

  He turned in his seat and got a glimpse of the upper floors of a grand white mansion through a dense wood that rose up a gentle slope from the river.

  So this was where Amanda Tyler lived — and where the Cherringham Fête would be held on the opening day of the carnival.

  As the little boat drew closer, Jack spotted a small jetty and a smart boathouse overshadowed by weeping willows.

  Behind the jetty, an immaculate lawn rose up a gentle slope from the river to the house itself.

  Fantastic setting. Perfect.

  And what a house it was. Three storeys tall behind a massive ornamental fountain and symmetrical balustrades, painted white, with pillars and wisteria growing up the walls.

  All it needed was a coach and horses at the entrance and he’d be transported back to the eighteenth century.

  “I’m guessing — from the looks of things — Amanda Tyler’s not short of a dollar or two,” he said.

  “You met her last night, I imagine?”

  “She ran the meeting. Formidable lady.”

  “Tough woman — that’s the way she’s usually described,” said Sarah. “Remember my old house in the village? She grew up just a few doors away.”

  “Really? She win the lottery?”

  “Next best thing,” said Sarah, smiling. “She married ‘well’, as my mother would say.” A pause. “Unlike me.”

  Jack nodded. Sarah didn’t dive into her past too often.

  But every now and then things popped out.

  He moved on. “So there’s a Mr Tyler lurking in the background, hmm?” said Jack.

  “Foreground more like. Harry Tyler himself — he’s our MP. You not heard of him?”

  “Ah sure — that Harry Tyler, huh? I’ve seen the guy on TV. Seems okay — for a politician of course — if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Sarah slowed the boat a little and edged closer to the riverbank as she rounded the curve and could take a good look at the big house.

  “Actually, he’s pretty harmless,” said Sarah. “Big on community, family values. Good for local jobs. Stays out of trouble.”

  “An MP who stays out of trouble — best kind, hmm?”

  Sarah laughed.

  As they both watched, Jack saw people standing in what must be the great parlour — massive windows floor to ceiling, facing the river.

  Four or five people, it looked like. The MP maybe socialising or fundraising for his next campaign?

  Not a world Jack knew about. Or cared about.

  Back home, politicians had often made his job as a cop harder.

  “We move on?” he said, though he could see that Sarah had slowed, maybe enjoying the view.

  Sarah tweaked the throttle and the boat sped away past the boathouse. Over her shoulder, Jack could see the people in the Tyler’s great room.

  Jack, as ever, curious, wondering … what are they all talking about?

  7. The Scene of a Crime?

  Ten minutes later, they reached the site of the dig — the tents, vehicles, stacks of timber and mounds of soil spread out across a broad meadow.

  Sarah eased off on the throttle and turned the boat towards the riverbank, letting the current drift them in.

  “I say!” came an angry voice from the trees at the edge of the meadow. “You there! What the hell—?”

  She looked up — to see Will Goodchild half running towards them.

  “Uh-oh,” she said to Jack. “Hope you brought your invite.”

  As Jack climbed out of the boat and started to tie up to an old tree stump, Will stumbled to a halt, putting on his glasses at the same time and peering at them.

  “Jack! Sarah! It’s you!”

  Sarah climbed up out of the boat and shook Will’s hand.

  “It is indeed, Will,” she said. “Sounds like you were expecting somebody else.”

  “Thought you were more damn reporters,” said Will. “Been an absolute bloody nightmare this morning! As if it wasn’t bad enough having the police here all day yesterday. Whole dig’s ground to a complete halt.”

  Will gestured to the dig site, and beyond, to the nearby woods.

  “Crack of dawn they turned up, TV crews, all the nationals. Would they come two weeks ago when we had our press day? Oh no — but say the word ‘murder’ and they’re all over you!”

  “Same the world over,” said Jack, and Sarah saw him put a calming hand on the historian’s shoulder. “Just got to be nice to them, tell them what you can and they’ll all disappear, never to return.”

  “Easier said than done, Jack,” said Will, wiping his spectacles on his tie, then putting them back on and peering at his visitors. But he seemed to calm a little.

  “Anyway — good to see some friendly faces for a change. Why don’t you come up to our little HQ and have a cup of tea, then I’ll show you round. Already got some interesting finds — very interesting.”

  As they walked up the meadow, away from the river, Sarah could see a scarred area of ground at the edge of the woods, staked out with POLICE — DO NOT CROSS tape. An empty digger and a massive pile of soil stood next to it.

  It looked like work had been abandoned …

  ***

  “Proper gruesome, it was,” said Tom Vining, leaning against his digger, eating an enormous cheese and tomato sandwich.

  Sarah watched him stare directly at her, as if to make sure she got the message of just how gruesome the body had been. Then he picked a tomato seed from his teeth, inspected it and flicked it away.

  She saw Jack nod, and waited for him to ask another question.

  They’d been here at the dig an hour already, looked at all the trenches, had a cup of tea, and held some broken pieces of pot.

  They’d listened to Will recount his conversation this morning with his boss at the university that was funding the dig — and who was now threatening to pull the plug on the whole operation if they didn’t get moving.

  Finally, Will took them down the field to the closed area of the dig and handed them over to Tom — who, according to the newspaper propped up in his cab, was the “plucky digger driver who unearthed the grisly corpse”.

  Now they stood, as close as they were allowed, by the police tape, inspecting the hole in the ground which looked to be at least twenty feet square.

  “Course it didn’t look like that when we dug it up,” said Tom.

  “No?” said Jack.

  They waited for him to explain — but Tom Vining didn’t seem to follow the usual conversational routines.

  “So Tom — what exactly did it look like?” said Sarah.

  “Like a shallow grave, obviously,” said Tom, taking another bite from his sandwich. “Then yesterday, cops had me dig up the topsoil all around it. That Mr Cresswell lent me to them, didn’t he. Very kind of him. All them blokes in white suits standing around, yabbering at me ’bout what to do. Dig this way. Dig that way. Stop. Start. Bloody waste of time that was.”

  “Guess they didn’t find anything else?” said Jack.

  “I could have told ’em that,” said Tom, chewing loudly.

  “So you knew that whoever put the body in the ground had just dug the one hole,” said Jack. “Therefore there weren’t going to be any other bodies?”

  “’s right.”

  Sarah saw Jack nod.

  “And you also knew it was a recent dig, hmm? By recent — I mean in the last few years.”

  “Spot on.”

  Sarah watched Jack look up, scanning the whole area. Then he turned back to Tom.

  “When you turned up this stretch of ground down here, did it look different in any other way from the rest of the meadow?”

  “It was woods, wasn’t it? So course it looked bloody different.”

  Sarah looked carefully at the location.

  Next to the grave — for want of a bet
ter word — was woodland that extended right into the area in which they were now standing.

  “So — hang on — whoever buried the body — buried it inside the woods?” she said.

  “’s right,” said Tom.

  “Guess they never imagined it would be cleared,” said Jack, turning to Sarah. “And the woods? Kinda private.”

  “Bloody nightmare it was,” continued Tom. “Course, the big trees had already been felled before we got here. But we still had plenty of the smaller ones to take down so the gaffer could lay out his bits of string.”

  Sarah tried to imagine how the field had looked before the dig started.

  Meanwhile, Tom leaned into his cab and brought out a foil package. Carefully he unwrapped it, to reveal half a pastie.

  “How far do those woods go?” she asked.

  “Good mile upriver,” said Tom, attacking the pastie.

  “Any idea who owns it?” said Jack.

  Tom shrugged. Then: “It’s another one of them SSI’s though, I think.”

  “SSI?” said Jack.

  Tom’s mouth was full.

  “Site of Special Scientific Interest,” said Sarah. “Protected habitat.”

  “Took the gaffer a couple of years to get the go-ahead to dig, so I’m told,” said Tom.

  Sarah saw Jack nod and then turn to her.

  “Guess we ought to be heading back.”

  Then he turned to Tom.

  “Thanks for talking, Tom. We won’t hold you up any longer.”

  Sarah saw Tom shrug his thanks and take another mouthful of pastie. He climbed up into the cab and reached for his newspaper.

  “Just one thing,” said Jack.

  Tom grunted.

  “You said ‘we’ found the body. Did you have somebody else working with you?”

  Tom seemed to consider this question, before answering. Then: “Here’s the thing, okay. I had a bloke on the shovel and barrow. But he didn’t want his name in the paper. Shy sort — know what I mean?”

  “Know exactly what you mean,” said Jack.

  So did Sarah: somebody doing a bit of cash-in-hand work, wanting to fly under the radar.

  “Won’t go any further,” said Jack. “But I’d appreciate the name — we’re kinda interested in following this case.”

  Vining hesitated.

  Then: “Don’t blame you,” said Tom. “Bloody cops’ll never solve it on their own, never do. All right. Fella’s name’s Ray. Ray Stroud. Lives on one of them barges down by Cherringham Bridge.”

  Sarah looked at Jack and restrained a smile as he caught her eye.

  Nicely played.

  Through Jack, she knew Ray well by now, and his involvement with this little job — and his reluctance to share the limelight — came as no surprise.

  “Appreciate that, Tom,” said Jack, reaching up to the cab to shake Tom’s hand. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Welcome,” said the digger driver, wiping his hand on his T-shirt before taking Jack’s hand.

  Then Jack turned to Sarah: “Reckon we can head off?”

  And together they headed down the meadow to the boat.

  And she thought: Ray Stroud?

  Small world.

  8. A Chat about Murder

  This time Jack took the outboard, while Sarah cast off.

  She didn’t say anything at first, while he headed upriver, then swung the boat around to drift slowly with the current past the dense wood next to the meadow.

  Jack liked to think things through.

  His process, she well knew.

  “I have to say, it’s awful to think of that poor young man being buried there all these years,” said Sarah. “Boatloads of day trippers going past, nobody knowing. I mean, somewhere he’s got a mother, a father, a girlfriend maybe. A wife? Maybe even kids. All wondering what happened to him. Waiting all these years for answers.”

  “This kind of thing …” said Jack, “always sad. Grisly, to be sure. And talk about a cold case.”

  He looked out at the riverbank rolling by.

  “But I know from my days in New York — even if the police never uncover what happened — just finding the body can bring closure to people.” He took a breath. “Some kind of peace.”

  “So, Detective?” he said, finally. “Thoughts on the crime scene? I’m sure you have plenty.”

  Sarah smiled.

  “Do I ever? Okay, whoever buried the body had to be local. And I think they brought the body by boat. At night.”

  “Care to explain?”

  “First — the location. The only vehicle access to that field is up off the Barton road — and, from memory, it goes through at least two farms. Who wants to carry a body three hundred yards across a meadow, and then into woods? No way. Which means boat. But during the day, even up here — I mean, you’ve seen them? There’s always day-trippers, rowers, cruisers. So it has to be by night. And only a local would know that field is so isolated.”

  “Yep, I agree,” said Jack. “Also — they knew what they were doing. See how they dug deep? Hard work with all those tree roots. But when you bury a body you want it to stay buried. Last thing you want is animals pulling the damn thing up out the ground.”

  “Or farmers. Hence the woods — not the middle of a field where anyone can see it.”

  “Right. So you dig right there in the trees — and you know the hole’s going to get covered over quick.”

  “Makes sense.” She looked up at Jack, their minds in sync. “This is of course just for the sake of argument, hmm?”

  “Of course. Totally theoretical.”

  “Okay, so I’m tempted to check online to see who owns that land. Also — find out whether it really is an SSI. There’s never going to be any housing, or development on an SSI,” said Sarah. “And of course, if you knew that — and you wanted to hide a body — you’re safe for decades. Maybe forever …”

  “Exactly,” said Jack. “And I’m thinking we’re talking about persons. Not a job for one person alone.”

  “True — there has to be more than one suspect. It’s not easy loading a body into a boat.”

  “Yup. And carrying it?” said Jack. “So we’re looking for people or persons who know a bit about the countryside, have access to a boat and tools, know the river, know the area …”

  “Smart too. Capable of planning and thinking ahead — under pressure,” said Sarah. “All we need now, Sherlock, is their shoe size and, by God, we have them!”

  Jack laughed.

  “Yeah, right,” he said. “I’m guessing the Oxford police are way ahead of us on that front. Fact — I think Monday morning I’ll drop in on Alan, get the latest. They may have it all wrapped up by then. It’d be nice to reassure Will.”

  “Poor chap. You know, now I think about it, he’s been talking about this Roman crossing for years. He and Dad used to get the maps out after Sunday lunch, draw lines linking all the Roman trading centres.”

  She took a breath, remembering.

  “The two of them, excited as kids.”

  “Right, and doubt he’ll get a second chance if this dig folds,” said Jack.

  She watched the meadows roll by as the little boat puttered downstream.

  “You know — I’ve got some time tomorrow — maybe I can jump online. No harm in doing a trawl of missing persons. Without the forensics, we don’t have much else to go on though, do we?”

  “Not a lot,” said Jack. “Not that we’re on this very cold case, of course.”

  “Course not.”

  He grinned at that. “Just helping out our good friend Will by keeping on top of the evidence.”

  “Exactly,” said Sarah.

  “You know, there is one thing we got that the police don’t …”

  “Ray Stroud?” said Sarah, smiling.

  “Exactly,” said Jack. “Next stop, the Magnolia.”

  And as Jack twisted the throttle and the little boat surged forward, Sarah sat back in the prow, excited to have a case to
be thinking about.

  But also wanting very much to find the truth about the poor young man buried under that meadow, unknown, un-mourned.

  And she saw from the determination on Jack’s face that he shared that feeling.

  ***

  But when they got back to the Magnolia and knocked on Ray’s wheelhouse door, there was no answer.

  Jack walked around the peeling deck of the old barge. He tried to look in through the grimy windows but they all had curtains drawn tight across.

  All apart from one — where Jack managed to peer in through a tiny crack.

  Inside, the lights all off — and no sign of Ray.

  “Nobody home,” said Jack. “Funny — he wasn’t around last night either. Must be one hell of a hangover for Ray not to make it home.”

  “Guess we’ll have to wait,” said Sarah, leaning on her bicycle. “And best I head home, get the kids some lunch.”

  “See you Monday?” said Jack. “Hopefully, with my plans for an Americanised regatta all ready to roll.”

  He watched Sarah head off down the towpath, then turned again to look at Ray’s barge.

  In all the years he’d been in Cherringham he’d never once known Ray Stroud not to make it home.

  Something odd about it.

  And Jack’s instinct about odd was that such things often led to even odder things.

  9. What the Cadaver Says

  Jack parked his Austin Healey Sprite in the car park behind the village hall, and headed up past the Bell Hotel to the little police station.

  He knew that back in the day, long before he’d landed in Cherringham, the local police station had two or three officers: but now, with fast support available from the bigger towns, they were lucky to have even retained one policeman.

  Alan Rivers, Cherringham born-and-bred.

  Good man.

  If not the most astute person when it came to solving crimes.

  Jack pressed the buzzer by the door and waited for it to open. Then in he went.

  He saw Alan behind the security glass that rose from the counter to the ceiling. Alan gave him a nod then let him in to the office itself.

  “Cup of tea, Jack?” he said, turning off the computer monitor and walking over to the tiny kitchen to turn on the kettle.