“That’s when it jammed,” said the Sergeant, “SOCOs had to get some divers in to slide the prop off the shaft with it still dug into his head.” The detective swallowed, he took another swig of tea and failed to stifle a belch. Josie was hit full in the face by the smell of second hand bacon and canteen tea, she felt herself heave. “The top floor nearly had a heart attack when they saw the cost of the divers, but what were we supposed to do, reverse it off him?”
Another bite, and more tea to wash it down. “Now the hire company’s playing silly buggers,” continued Ian. “there’s other bookings for the boat and they want it back,” another bite. “I told them they could collect it once the SOCOs had finished. They said they need the propeller too; I told them to Foxtrot Oscar, the prop’s evidence and we have to keep it till after the enquiry. They kicked up hell over that, and wouldn’t let the prat driving have his deposit back. They said he’d done “material damage” to their boat. If they call that’s damage, they should see the poor blokes head.”
Josie Robinson tut tutted because it was expected and shook her head for good measure.
“The post mortem’s this afternoon. You want to come?” Ian asked through the final bite of bread and bacon.
“I’ll pass if it’s all the same with you.”
“Fair enough. I’m taking a couple of new PCs with me anyway. Just for the experience.” He said with an evil smile.
“That’s cruel.” Josie replied, even a straight forward PM is horrible if it’s your first.
“Maybe, but they’re a bit too full of themselves, it’ll do them good.”
Josie asked how he got the identification.
“His waders, they had his name written in them and a post code. It was his father who identified the body.”
“Please God, tell me you didn’t let him see the injuries.” Josie had attended enough identifications and knew how traumatic it was for a parent. No matter how well they are prepared and how much they are told in advance, it’s still like an ice cold dagger plunged through their chest. They want to think there’s been a mistake. The body they’ve come to see won’t be their son or daughter. They’ll wake up and it’s all been a bad dream. Little do they know; their real nightmare is just beginning.
Josie shivered involuntarily. Her children were still young. Rose was ten and right now she would be at school, Archie was three, and he’d be at the playgroup he enjoyed so much. What would it be like identifying her own child in the mortuary? Even the thought of it brought her out in goose bumps. A lump welled up in her throat and she vowed she’d be home today in time for baths, and a bedtime story.
“Are you listening Josie,” asked Hudson.
“Sorry, I was miles away. What were you saying?”
“I said, I’m not a complete bastard. The poor sod was pretty cut up. Fortunately, our boy had a couple of tattoos. Bart Simpson on his left calf and Man U ‘16 on his shoulder, that’s the year they won the FA cup.”
“Was that enough to ID him?” Josie asked
“Yes, that and his face on the CCTv. The doctor covered him from the forehead up and from the chin down but it was enough. He identified his son straight away.”
There were still a few loose ends. The police couldn’t be sure where he’d gone into the water, and his yellow Mini hadn’t been located. Josie said she was going back to Wimplebridge, she’d call her colleague if she saw anything that might help.
Chapter Twenty
Christ, what does she want, thought Claudilia as she scanned the room for anything that might be incriminating; no fishing gear, swimsuit or blood covered cudgels lying around, no concrete on her boots or local paper with highlighted headlines. No, all’s fine she decided as she opened the door and walked into the spring sunshine.
“Good morning Detective Sergeant, and what brings you back to Wimplebridge?”
“Nothing really. We’ve finished at the building site and I just wanted to let them know they can go back to that part of the development. I could’ve phoned but I heard about the angler my colleagues pulled out of the river yesterday. I told the investigating officer I’d have a look for the chap’s car. They don’t know where he went in and it would be useful if we could locate his Mini. It’s yellow I think.”
Standing in the front garden Claudilia thought quickly. There was a yellow Mini parked behind the Bridge Inn, she’d seen it there the previous day. If she pointed the police straight to it they’d have no reason to think she had something to hide. “Yellow? Then it might be the one parked in the pub carpark. It was there yesterday when I walked back from work. But if a customer’s had too much of a good time, they’ll often leave their car around the back and get a lift home. Sometimes it’s days before they collect it.” Claudilia stepped over the pile of rocks and out through the hole in her wall. “Come on, we can have a look if you like.”
The Mini was parked in a corner between some bins and a stack of empty kegs, it was tucked right in and invisible from the road. From its position, the car and anyone in it, had a clear view of the field in front of Pumpkin’s stable and the lane up to the Belcher’s office. DS Robinson checked the registration against her note book, she confirmed it was the vehicle they wanted. She asked Claudilia to wait beside the car without touching it, and not let anyone interfere while she went back to her Mondeo and got her phone, she had to tell her colleagues. When Josie got back to the carpark she had a roll of blue and white “Police – do not cross” tape, which she tied first to one of the bins and then to some repositioned kegs. It made a large square around the Mini. It was for show as much as anything else. The car could have been in it’s present location for more than twenty four hours, any number of sticky fingers might have left prints.
“If you’d were parked here, how would you get to the river,” asked Josie.
“That’s easy,” replied Claudilia, who’d decided to hang around and steer the police in the right direction, rather than go to work and let them investigate without her …Who knows, they might find something I’d rather they didn’t. “There’s a stile beyond the carpark, it’s not an official footpath but a few anglers, those with licences, use it to get along the riverbank.
“And where would you buy a licence if you wanted one?”
Claudilia coughed. “Oh dear, this is embarrassing,” she said. “I look after the fishing on this stretch of river and an annual licence can be bought online, but most people just pop in and see me at the estate office. There are day tickets for sale in the shop, but they only sell a few each year. My family have owned this stretch of water for as long as we’ve owned the fields on either side.”
The two ladies walked in silence for a moment before Claudilia asked. “Does that make me sound a terrible snob,” she said. “It’s just that owning farm land seems okay, we work it or rent it out, but to say you have a river sounds a bit stuck up these days, and honestly I’m not.”
“I’ve never really thought about it,” said Josie. “I guess the rivers must be owned by someone in the same way as the fields or woodland. It’s the temporary nature of water I suppose. It gives an impression of something that’s just passing through, like wind or a smell; but the ground underneath, the rocks and the banks, they must be owned by someone.”
“We have to maintain it. We look after the banks to stop the river from flooding the fields in the winter, and we keep it stocked for the fishermen. We sell about a dozen day tickets and thirty licences each year,” said Claudilia, all business again. “Mostly it’s locals, but there are one or two regulars from Warwick or Stratford. We have a couple from London who come for a week at a time. They’re here a few times each year. They stay at the Belcher’s Arms and fish on the river during the day. Fishing’s very popular.”
The detective and Claudilia walked to the little stile by the bridge. “The river starts to bend almost immediately past this bridge,” said Claudilia, pointing down stream. “If he came this way he’d be around the bend and out of sight in no time. He’s not
going to be seen from the road or the pub carpark because of the trees.” They climbed over the stile and walked along the grassy bank for a few minutes. When they turned to check, they were hidden from both the pub and the road.
“I’m a keen bird watcher,” said Josie as the two women walked beside the slow moving water. “It’s very relaxing after a few days doing this job. I like to go out to a hide and just sit there. With a bit of luck something interesting will put in an appearance, but often I just drink my tea and eat a few sandwiches. Sometimes I even fall asleep.”
“You’d love it here then,” said Claudilia, keen to keep the conversation away from dead fishermen. “We have all sorts of birds on the river. I often see kingfishers, and swallows too, at the right time of year.”
It wasn’t long before the boathouse came into view. It was a low wooden building with a shallow sloping roof which blended in with the trees behind. Grandma Belcher, who’d drawn up the original plans on the back of a fag packet, would still recognise the building, though from time to time odd planks had been replaced and Claudilia doubted that much of it was now original.
“You see that boathouse,” said Claudilia pointing towards the building. “That’s where I keep my rowing boat as well as where I go swimming sometimes. I was there on Sunday afternoon, I sat in a chair on the jetty, reading a book and dozing in the sunshine.”
“So you could have been here when he was fishing,” said the policewoman, a bit more business-like all of a sudden.
“Yes, I suppose I should have mentioned it earlier but I didn’t see anyone. I got here at about four and left just before six. I watched the birds, read a few chapters of a terrible book and fell asleep. I didn’t see anyone but I guess he could’ve been further along the bank, or he came past after I’d gone home.”
The two ladies went to the door at the back of the building, and inside once Claudilia had recovered the key from under a tree root …very security conscious. The inside was illuminated by daylight, one end of the building was wide open and extended over the river. There was sufficient light for most activities, still it was muted and Josie felt as if she’d stepped into a black and white movie. As her eyes became accustomed to the conditions she was able to see the boat was dark blue, with a white line around the hull and brightly varnished wooden seats with cushions.
“Where does this piece of water go,” asked Josie.
“From here it flows that way for about two miles before joining the Avon,” said Claudilia pointing in the direction away from the village. She’d walked onto the pontoon and sat down on the bench. “When it’s joined the Avon it eventually gets to Tewkesbury and into the Seven, from there it’s a short hop to Bristol and the Atlantic ocean.”
“Are there any footpaths from the road to the river further downstream,” asked DS Robinson.
“Not official ones, but I guess you could park on one of the lanes and walk across the fields, if you weren’t concerned about trespassing that is. But as I said, most of the licences go to locals and they come along from the stile. It’s not that unusual for them to use the pub car park and stop for a drink at the end of the day. I’ve not met a fisherman yet who doesn’t enjoy a pint after a day on the river, they always want to tell you about the one that got away.”
“When DS Hudson hears about this, he’ll want to search this stretch of the river,” Josie told the older woman.
“That’s fine. The pub has a big car park and they’ll appreciate the extra trade, or you could go to the Belcher’s Arms, where the food’s much better. Just do one thing for me will you,” She said with an earnest look on her face. “Try to stop them trampling all over the wild flowers along the bank, They’re a lovely sight and they’ll be at their best in a couple of weeks. It would be such a shame if they were crushed under a load of police size 12s. What are you hoping to find anyway?”
“We have his car now which is good. But it’d be useful to know where he went into the water. There might be signs of a struggle with someone on the bank, or did he just slip and fall in? At the moment, we’re not suggesting it was anything other than an accident; and to be honest it sounds like the boat he went under carved some frightful chunks out of him, so if there was a fight it would be hard to tell.” Thank God for that, thought Claudilia. “But we need to know as much as possible for the report we’ll send to the coroner.” DS Robinson stopped and looked at Claudilia. “Come to think of it, this little village has kept him quite busy in the last few days.”
Claudilia tried not to look worried, but inside she was cursing herself for acting so rashly. She should have just knocked the fisherman over, got him wet, then told him to bugger off and not come back. “Before the accident at the building site, I’d be surprised if half the force knew we existed. We don’t exactly have a high crime rate do we?”
Calm down, Claudilia told herself. She needed to be helpful now. “Tell your colleagues that there is no problem searching along the river, I’d say this side is the easiest to access. You can get to the other bank if you cross at the bridge, but you’ll have to hack your way through a load of nettles. As he was carrying a rod and stuff like that, I think he’d probably come along this side, don’t you?”
Claudilia and the detective left the boathouse and walked back towards the bridge. Once they rounded the final bend they could see a number of police cars, a grubby SOCO van and some unmarked vehicles were stopped on the road outside the pub’s carpark. As if by magic Sandy Lewis was already there. He was selling hot drinks and rolls to the officers queuing at his window.
Chapter Twenty-One
After she’d collected Max from Bindweed Cottage Claudilia walked to the stables and said good morning to her horse. Pumpkin was pleased to see her and even more pleased to see the apple she slipped from her pocket. “I’ll be back later,” she told her best friend, “and we can go out for a nice ride, maybe down along the river bank. I’d bet there’s nothing like a horse’s hooves to churn up a search area.”
“What’s going on at the pub,” asked Hubert when his sister came into the office. “There’s police cars everywhere.”
“That fisherman who turned up in the Avon, he left his car in their car park and the police think he went into the water near here. The same detective lady, Josie what’s-her-name, came about Gus’s accident at the building site, she said they were looking for the poor chap’s Mini, I told her there was one in the car park. It’s been there for a couple of days. Anyway, it turned out to be his and now we have cops and their stuff all over the place again.”
“So you’ve been helping the police with their enquiries have you,” laughed Hubert.
“Well yes, I suppose I have.” Claudilia smiled, but only on the outside.
The morning at the office was pretty normal. Claudilia processed invoices for farm supplies and made the necessary payments. They took orders for logs and posts as well as some for sawn timber from landscapers.
It was when Sally came in with coffee that Claudilia noticed her brother had been quiet for a while, and that wasn’t usual for him. She asked what he was working on.
“It’s the new AD plant at Macintosh Energy,” he said. “As I understand it the council have given Angus planning permission but he can’t afford to build it. The banks are all scared of lending to anyone but each other and he needs the money to move forward.”
“So what,” asked Claudilia.
“Angus popped in yesterday afternoon about the feedstock we are supplying. I’ve been looking into the process of taking kitchen waste and getting gas from it.”
“I’m not sure I’m going to like this Hubert,” said Claudilia, “but carry on.”
“Okay but hear me out before you blow a gasket, because this sort of makes sense to me,” Hubert said. “As far as I can see he’s already done the really expensive work, he’s got the link to the gas network, the processing plant and the disposal method to put the digestate onto the fields. What he needs is a small amount of extra equipment and the capit
al to build another tank.” Hubert took a breath and hurried on. He didn’t want Claudilia to interrupt. “He’s got all the land he needs and he’s got two contracts, one with the council for the kitchen waste, and another with the Department for Energy for the gas he’ll put into their pipes.”
“Carry on,” said Claudilia.
“I was wondering if it would be sensible for us to put in some money. His contract to supply the gas still has eighteen years to run and it’s at a very good rate.”
Claudilia sat back and thought for a moment. She really didn’t like Maggie, Angus’s horrible wife, but she did like Angus and he seemed to know what he was talking about with this indigestion stuff, plus a guaranteed income for eighteen years would be very nice.
“How much are we talking about?” she said.
“Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds, give or take a bit.”
Claudilia whistled, “That’s a lot of money Hubert. A very lot of money, even when you say it fast.”
“Yes, I know, but we have it, and he won’t need it all at once. Bank interest is virtually zero, and if the return is as good as he’ suggesting the equivalent would be about eleven percent at the bank, when was the last time we saw that?”
The Village Fate Page 10