Cherringham--The Body in the Lake

by Neil Richards

  “No, I’m done. Plenty to think about here.”

  As they pulled up in the village square, Sarah’s phone rang.

  “Bet that’s Daniel,” she said.

  Jack nodded and turned the engine off.

  Sarah slid her phone out of her jeans, but it wasn’t her son calling. “Tony, hi, we’ve talked to Lady Repton and—”

  “Sarah.”

  She stopped. Tony’s voice was tense, tight. “They’ve just arrested Simon Repton for the murder of Laurent Bourdin.”

  She put the phone on speaker, Jack’s gaze locked on her, things happening so fast now. “They found a bloody hand print on one of the boats, Simon’s apparently. Didn’t even deny it was his. But he claims to be totally innocent!”

  “God,” she said.

  “Lady Repton, well, she is beside herself, as I’m sure you can imagine. She called me; I said I would get in touch with you.”

  “Tony, do you think—”

  “Sarah, I don't know what to think. But I’m afraid this is a murder case now. You think you — and Jack might carry on?”

  She looked at Jack, the sun on his face, the lines there deep as he watched and listened so carefully.

  He nodded to her. “Sure, Tony. Not sure what we can do though, with an arrest, and the police involved.”

  “Thank you, Sarah. It’s Lady Repton I’m thinking about. This could destroy her.”

  Jack leaned close to the phone.

  Did he suspect Simon as well?

  “Tony,” Jack said, “we’ll see what we can do.”

  A noisy group of children came out of the newsagents, laughing and joking as they passed the car.

  “Thank you too, Jack. And if there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

  “Sure, Tony,” Sarah said. “Bye for now.”

  She ended the call.

  Jack looked around at the placid village square. He nodded, as if the call had confirmed all the thoughts he had been having. Then he turned back to Sarah.

  “So, Sarah — appears like we have a case after all.”

  8. A Party of Suspects

  Sarah sat in the lounge of the King’s Head Hotel and thumbed through a copy of Country Life. Apart from an old couple having tea in the far corner, the place was empty.

  Perfect, she thought.

  At the height of summer, this hotel — right in the centre of Cherringham — was usually full. But now, on a drab Tuesday morning, she could hardly think of anywhere better to interview a possible witness to a murder.

  Better certainly than the bare room at Cherringham police station where she’d just spent an hour with Alan Rivers going through her own statement. She doubted whether anything she’d said would be used in an eventual trial: she’d given her presentation, had dinner and was long gone before Laurent Bourdin met his fate.

  But now it was time for her to ask the questions…

  Right on cue, Marie Duval appeared at the doorway of the lounge. Sarah hardly recognised her: dark sunglasses, hair in a tight bun, a Hermes scarf round her neck and an elegant black suit. It was quite a transformation.

  Mourning chic… thought Sarah and then instantly regretted being so uncharitable.

  She stood up and Marie nodded and came over to join her at the little table by the French windows.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Sarah as Marie kissed her on each cheek. “How are you, Marie?”

  “To be honest, I don’t really know,” said Marie, sitting on the sofa opposite. “It’s all been like a bad dream. Or worse — a cauchemar!”

  “A nightmare. Yes, I can understand that. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “You’re so kind,” said Marie, placing her hands on her lap, folding the ends of her scarf together. “But the hotel here has been wonderful. They’re looking after me.”

  “You didn’t want to stay at the Hall? I’m sure Lady Repton—”

  “No, I really had to get out of that place.”

  Sarah waited for Marie to take her sunglasses off, but she clearly wasn’t going to.

  “I’ve ordered tea — I hope that’s all right?”

  “Of course. Tea. The English answer to everything, yes?”

  Sarah smiled briefly — and then, as the waitress appeared with the tray, she sat back while the tea was poured.

  She watched Marie, who sat impassive.

  It was hard to believe this was the same person who’d conga’ed through Repton Hall just three nights ago, hair flowing, head back laughing and flirting with the Cherringham councillors.

  Simon had hinted that Marie and Laurent had more than a working relationship.

  So this must be hitting her hard, thought Sarah.

  “I really do appreciate you agreeing to talk to me, Marie,” she said. “At such a difficult time.”

  “It’s what Laurent would have wanted,” said Marie.

  “I assume the police have already interviewed you?”

  Marie nodded, but didn’t look up at Sarah. Instead she stared at the tea in the pretty little cup in front of her. Sarah watched as she folded the corners of her silk scarf over and over again, her whole body still but her hands moving constantly.

  “Have you heard from Monsieur Bourdin’s wife and family?” said Sarah.

  “His wife is in the Far East, a business trip,” said Marie. “I gather she will be here at the end of the week. He has no children.”

  “When will you go back to France?”

  “The police have asked me not to leave,” said Marie with a sigh. “Pourquoi? But I planned to stay anyway. Until the signing.”

  Sarah wondered how to move the subject on, but Marie did the job for her.

  “Laurent’s wife and I… how can I say? She tolerated me. In the way French wives do.”

  “I had heard, that you and Laurent were… close…”

  “Bien sur! We were lovers — you can say the word, Sarah. In France it is not such a big issue.”

  “So his death must have been such a shock.”

  “Laurent? He was my guiding star. He was everything to me. But when she arrives, I shall step aside. That is what lovers do.”

  Sarah watched as Marie seemed to crumple a little. She decided she was just going to have to be bold, keep the conversation going.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking you this — but have you any idea why Laurent went down to the lake that night?”

  “He smoked cigars, the occasional cigarette. So he often went outside in the evening. Maybe he went for a walk, a smoke.”

  “The police think he took a boat — and went out to the island.”

  “Hmm? No, that’s not possible. Laurent grew up by the sea. He understood water — and its dangers. He wouldn’t go rowing across a lake in the middle of the night.” She took a breath. “Not after so much wine. Why would he do that?”

  “You know that Simon Repton has been arrested,” said Sarah.

  “They told me.”

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “Nothing surprises me about that night.”

  “When I left, the mood seemed to be high-spirited. Did things change?”

  Sarah watched Marie carefully. The other woman seemed to be choosing her words.

  “Yes. A small group of us — we stayed up late, having fun…”

  “In the hot tub, I hear.”

  “It sounds worse than it was. Just silly games. A little harmless flirting, I suppose. Everybody was doing it. So much wine…”

  “Not just wine — at least that’s what I hear.”

  “It’s possible. Not me. But maybe… the men. A little.”

  “Who was there?”

  “Laurent. Mr. Howden. Simon. Mr. Jones. June. But Laurent got annoyed for some reason. Simon made a joke of it, but that made Laurent even more angry and he went off on his own.”

  “You don’t know why?”

  “Laurent, well he often got in a mood about things. He could be quite jealous. I’ve learned to ignore it.”
>
  “So what happened then?”

  “Simon went off to look for him. And I went to bed.”

  “Did Laurent join you, later?”

  “No.”

  Marie looked away.

  Was that guilt over not looking for Laurent? Or was just the memory too painful? The next morning, the body…

  Had to be grisly.

  “But you weren’t worried?”

  “I was tired. I put my earplugs in and went straight to sleep. When I woke in the morning there was no sign of him or his clothes.”

  “So what did you think had happened to him?”

  “I assumed I’d find him downstairs on a sofa. Asleep. Instead, it seems Simon was the last person to see him…” She shook her head. “I don’t understand it at all.”

  And then Marie suddenly started to cry. Sarah quickly got up and sat next to her on the sofa, putting a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Marie opened her handbag, took out a silk handkerchief and wiped her eyes under her sunglasses and dabbed her nose.

  “I’m sorry,” said Marie.

  “You mustn’t be.”

  Sarah watched as Marie began folding and re-folding the ends of her silk scarf again, her hands now the only indication that emotions had been stirred underneath that cool exterior.

  Sarah waited. Letting the tears ebb. She wondered if she should end this.

  What would Jack do?

  He’d ask her more questions — even at this vulnerable moment.

  “Was Laurent completely committed to the twinning?” said Sarah.

  Maria seemed surprised.

  “Of course! He and I worked nearly two years for this deal. Why would you ask such a question?”

  “Because apparently on Saturday night Laurent threatened to pull out.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Marie. “Absurd! Whoever told you that is lying. The twinning was good for everyone. For St. Martin, for Cherringham…”

  “For business…”

  “Yes of course, for business,” said Marie and Sarah now saw a flicker of the tough politician she’d been told existed under the charming surface. “Win-win as you English say. We are not charities Sarah — and twinning is not just an exercise in European solidarity. There are tangible benefits which can be measured and which accrue from such arrangements.”

  “Of course — I didn’t mean to suggest there was anything underhand going on—”

  “Good,” said Marie, now looking directly at Sarah. “Laurent and I put everything into building this relationship, as did your own council. I would hate to think that our selfless commitment, and all our time and effort to the project, could be damaged by his death.”

  Sarah was taken by surprise by this sudden drift into formal statements: it was as if Marie was rehearsing her lines for a press release.

  As if she’d been rehearsing before this very meeting… “Marie, you must forgive me. Lady Repton… she is a friend. She asked for my help, and my friend, Jack.”

  Marie’s eyes narrowed at that.

  Alarm? Interesting.

  “All we want to do is find out what happened to Laurent. I certainly don’t have any view on the rights or wrongs of the twinning.”

  Sarah watched as Marie opened her handbag, took out her handkerchief again, dabbed her nose, then put the handkerchief away again.

  “Lady Repton has asked you to help?”

  “Yes,” said Sarah. “Especially now with her grandson arrested.”

  “So — you’re working for her?”

  “Advising her. Helping her.”

  “D’accord. So — you are trying to get Simon, how do you say — off the hook, yes?”

  “Trying to find the truth, Marie.”

  “But do you think he had something to do with Laurent’s death?”

  “Right now,” said Sarah, “I don’t know.”

  “Simon wanted the twinning even more than we did! But if Laurent really had changed his mind…”

  Sarah wondered whether Marie was beginning to think of Simon as the killer.

  The classic question.

  If someone murdered Laurent, why?

  “What happens now, Marie? Do you think the twinning deal is off?”

  “Non! Why? The ceremony was planned for Friday. In Laurent’s absence I am completely authorised to sign. Unless I hear otherwise — the twinning goes ahead.”

  With that, Marie gathered her handbag and stood up.

  “But I am tired now. All these questions.”

  She reached across to shake Sarah’s hand.

  And as she did, her scarf fell open and Sarah could see, clearly, a rough bruise on her neck. Marie quickly pulled the scarf tight again and Sarah looked away.

  She didn’t have that mark on her neck on Saturday night, thought Sarah.

  “I am sorry I’ve had to ask you difficult questions, Marie,” said Sarah, smiling as sympathetically as she could.

  “You must do what you must do. For your friend. But I hope — at least for the rest of this week — you will be able to leave me in peace, non?”

  “Of course,” said Sarah. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  Sarah watched Marie leave the lounge and thought hard about the mark she’d seen on her neck.

  She’s been helpful all right. But has she been completely honest?

  Sarah couldn't wait to talk this over with Jack.

  9. Talking Turkey

  Jack drove down the long straight road toward the turkey farm. With the top down — and the wind clearly blowing in this direction — he could already smell the place, and it sure wasn’t pleasant.

  Thank God this is the other side of Cherringham from the Grey Goose, he thought, the rich, fetid smell already making him feel queasy.

  He pulled up at the main entrance. On either side of the road, a long line of tall fencing disappeared into the distance, like the wire round a prison camp.

  As Jack waited for one of the uniformed guards to come over and let him in, he could hear a distant low, gurgling hum coming from the large sheds, scattered across the fields on the other side of this gate.

  It was, he guessed, the noise of a hundred thousand turkeys having their dinner. For some, their last meal.

  It’s good not to be a turkey.

  Searching online, Jack had learned that just twenty years ago this road had been a runway — one of the longest in Europe — and it would have been USAAF bombers rather than turkeys making the noise.

  Jack’s great uncle had been a flyer in WW2. Gunner in B52s. Who knew — maybe the guy had even flown into this base.

  Wouldn’t that be something? What a time that must have been, for the young pilots, for the whole world.

  Jack looked up to the grey clouds, low over the far hill and thought of all those Americans who’d stood where he stood and watched planes coming in to land.

  Through the war, and on into the Cold War.

  Thirty years ago his own American accent wouldn’t have turned a head.

  Long connection we have with this place, he thought.

  In some ways, maybe I’m not such an outsider.

  Jack knew from his morning’s research that as the Cold War dwindled, the bombers had gone home, or been redeployed. Finally, even the RAF had decided there was no need for it — especially as there was another base just a few miles away.

  According to Wikipedia, the place had closed, and the land had been sold — to an ambitious young farmer by the name of Harry Howden.

  It seemed that Harry had seen the chance to expand his free-range turkey business. And Harry’s timing turned out to be impeccable. Jack was no fan of massive industrial farms like this — but he had to admire Harry’s self-belief.

  The guy had been right — and Harry Howden was now one of the richest food producers in the country. Thanks to those countless turkeys who even now were readying themselves to lay down their lives for the Howden brand.

  “Jack Brennan. I’m here to see Mr. Howden,” said Jack, as the ga
te security guard leaned down to the little Sprite.

  Jack watched as the guard tapped instructions into a pad.

  “Right. Mr. Howden says he’ll see you up at the house, sir,” said the guard impassively.

  “And where might that be?”

  Jack followed the guard’s outstretched hand, as he pointed towards a big modern building set up on a hill overlooking the airfield.

  “Just drive round the airfield sir, then follow the lane up into the woods. You can’t miss it.”

  Harry Howden was waiting for Jack when he pulled up on the tarmac frontage of the immaculate Howden residence.

  As Jack got out of the car, Howden came over to shake his hand and introduce himself.

  “Nice place,” said Jack, looking at the big house when the introductions were over. “Very different for the area.”

  “You bet it’s different. Built to my own specification,” said Harry. “And the wife’s of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “To be honest, my only real stipulation was that I wanted to be able to see the farm from all the main rooms. You need to watch your investment, you know.”

  All those turkeys under Harry’s watchful gaze.

  Jack turned and looked down into the valley. Harry had got his wish: from up here the triangle of runways over clearly visible, as were the dozen or so enormous turkey barns that spread across them.

  “And how did your wife feel about that?”

  “She’s never forgiven me,” said Harry with a smile. “Likes the money, but not so keen on seeing all those barns from every window!”

  Jack could see the steel underneath that smile.

  “Why not put the barns all together?” asked Jack, changing the subject. “Sell the rest of the land — you surely don’t need it all.”

  “Contagion,” said Harry. “Got to keep a minimum distance between the barns — Bird Flu, health, safety. Lots of turkey factories don’t give a damn about that. Thousands of young birds die in the first week.”

  He looked right at Jack. “I wanted something better. Besides — I’ve got plans for the gaps in between.”

  “More livestock?”

  “God no. I’m nearly up to a hundred-and-fifty-thousand birds as it is. No, I’m putting in for wind turbines.”