Cherringham--Death on a Moonlit Night Page 3

  Well, he thought, wanted a walk. Maybe take a quick stroll down there and see what has brought the big-league police to Cherringham.

  *

  But it wasn’t just police.

  As Jack got closer, he saw a woman and a man in dark suits, both wearing yellow vests.

  Detectives, Jack guessed.

  Alan stood by them — and all eyes were trained on the water below.

  And getting closer, Jack saw on one end of the bridge, by the tollbooth — Joan and Jen Buckland.

  Or was it the other way round? He never could be quite sure — the two elderly women seeming to share the same tweedy wardrobe.

  The two of them stood as if on duty, proprietarily watching over the bridge while all this official activity occurred all around.

  After all — some long-forgotten king gave their ancient relatives sole rights to running the toll bridge in perpetuity.

  And sometimes it seemed as if the Bucklands planned on sticking around for however long “perpetuity” might be.

  One thing was for sure. Jen Buckland would know what this was all about. There was little that the twin mystery fans didn’t know about anyone and anything in the village.

  Better than any newspaper.

  Jack walked up to Jen, still noting that everyone had their eyes locked on the water.

  *

  “Morning, Jen.”

  She turned to him, her face set. Not exactly a look of displeasure, more like her normal semi-suspicious grimace, a look only broken when she or her sister discussed their favourite authors.

  “Morning, Jack. You see there …?”

  She extended her arm, pointing to the water. Jack could see bubbles exploding on the surface of the water.

  “Diver down there.”

  “So that’s what everyone’s looking at?”

  She turned to him. “Thanks to me. What I saw.”

  Sometimes Jen could be a little tricky in the information-delivering department.

  “Which was?”

  She narrowed her eyes as if Jack should perhaps simply know this by osmosis.

  “Came out Friday night, going to check the till. You know, we run the bridge on an honour system after 8 o’clock.”

  Jack did know that. One of the sisters was usually in the small booth collecting the toll which — as a sign advised — could be pricey if you wanted to bring a herd of goats over.

  That sign — probably as old as the bridge itself.

  “Yes?”

  “Saw a car stopped at one end of the bridge. Right there. Pretty late, you know. Bridge in darkness.”

  She pointed to where her sister Joan stood on matching guard duty.

  “And a man came running onto the bridge and I saw him throw something into the river.”

  “Something?”

  “It’s what the diver is looking for.”

  “You recognise the man?”

  “No. Too dark, even in the full moon. And it happened fast. The toss, then back in the car.” She took a breath. “But they’ll find out who did it. No worries there, Jack.”

  “How’s that?”

  But as soon as he asked the question he remembered something.

  A small discovery he and Sarah made in one of their earliest cases.

  “Got him on the bridge’s CCTV! Not his face, but got the licence number. Clear as day. Called Alan post-haste.”

  Jack nodded, thinking. Last night, the disturbing dinner with an ever more drunk Nick. Talk of the grisly murder.

  Now this, the night before.

  All connected?

  But Jack wasn’t going to mention any of that to Jen. The two sisters had enough suspicion without anyone stoking it.

  But Jen said, “You know about the murder, Jack? That poor chap, shot?”

  “I have heard.”

  Jen didn’t add anything to her half-formed suspicion. Just nodded her head, and turned back to the dive scene.

  Those two pieces — the murder, the man on the bridge — already linked in her mind.

  Jack saw Alan look over, his face grim, set.

  Not often a village police officer has to deal with such a violent crime. Though Jack had watched Alan grow into the role, becoming a good, and lately, sometimes even insightful cop.

  Best of all — Alan learned to value what Jack and Sarah did.

  Alan looked over. A nod.

  And Jack wondered if the cop might want to talk to him later.

  “Oops. There you go, Jack! Diver coming up.”

  The froth of bubbles on the surface bloomed as the diver returned from his scouring of the riverbed.

  Visibility had to be absolutely horrible, Jack guessed.

  Any exploring, probably a matter of combing the river floor, feeling around for something that didn’t belong there.

  Not unlike the challenge the NYPD divers faced when Jack ordered them into the murky East River.

  And what they brought up could often test onlookers’ ability to keep their lunch down.

  But that was New York City.

  This was Cherringham.

  Jack — like everyone — waited.

  4. Pulled from the River

  Breaking the water’s surface — the head of the diver. Jack saw that he wore a fully enclosed facemask with a microphone.

  The woman detective had an earpiece in, listening to the steady breathing, the diver’s reports of looking this way, that, finding nothing, then …

  The diver raised his right arm, as he used his left arm to swim to the bank of the river.

  And raised high by that arm …

  A shotgun, treacly mud dripping off it as the diver made his way the short few yards to the bank, where he could finally stand, looking more like a sea monster than a police officer.

  Now Alan and the other officers came off the bridge itself, hurrying to the bank.

  Jack only yards away.

  The diver pushed up his facemask. The tight suction of the mask leaving the imprint of a big red oval from his chin to forehead.

  “Found it,” he said, gasping now, his tanks so heavy without the buoyancy of the water.

  “… right where the woman said.”

  Jen Buckland nodded at this, then a bit of a frown.

  Maybe not liking being called “the woman”?

  Jack could see the gun.

  Double-barrelled shotgun. Not uncommon, out here in the country. Kind of thing a farmer would use. Or a game-shooter.

  Back in the States though, well, there were a lot of different uses for such a weapon.

  The woman, in her black pantsuit, her yellow vest looking near comical, came over with a large, clear evidence bag in her hand.

  Jack took a step closer to hear better.

  This was interesting.

  “Should I dip it back in the water, ma’am? Get the muck off?”

  The crime scene officer quickly shook her head.

  “No. Who knows what else it might wash off. Just pop it in.”

  Into the bag, barrel down — after all, the thing could still be loaded and lethal despite a good soaking.

  “Anything else down there, Morrison?” This from the other officer.

  “No, sir. Just rocks, chunks of algae. Couldn’t see much of course.”

  Then Jen turned to Jack.

  “See, Jack. That’s what I saw being tossed over the side. And now you tell me, hmm?”

  “Tell you what?”

  He knew that both Jen and Joan liked pitting their own deductive powers against the NYPD detective. And he had to admit, those powers were usually not too shabby.

  “That murder, night before last. Gun chucked into the river.” She pointed to the evidence bag being carried to the black police car, the automatic trunk popping open.

  “I’ll wager that that there is the murder weapon. And with the car on CCTV, I’d say that this little case of murder is just about solved.”

  The woman smiled, pleased at her role in resolving a serious crime so easil
y.

  Jack looked over to the officers, Alan talking to them.

  The show over.

  At least, the show here over.

  Alan nodded, while talking.

  Soon everyone would get back into their respective vehicles. The diver was already peeling off his wet suit, fins tossed in the back of the truck where Jack could read: “Underwater Search and Recovery Diving Unit”.

  Show over.

  But he saw Alan look over at him.

  Another nod. A look that — unless Jack was reading too much into it — signalled that at some point Alan might like a word.

  Jack nodded back.

  Jen took a deep breath as Alan went and started to remove the yellow tape that encircled both ends of the toll bridge.

  “Well, back to work for us, Jack. Pretty exciting, hmm?” she said, that smile still on her face.

  And standing there for a minute, Jack had to wonder about the normally thoughtful and observant Jen’s words.

  The murder … solved.

  Really? That easy?

  Because if Jack knew one thing … Murder — was never easy. And, while all the pieces seemed to be in place to quickly ID the killer, Jack was not so sure.

  “Yup, I still got a lot more to do on the Goose,” he said.

  “That old thing? Needs more than a dab of paint,” Jen said laughing. “You should come ashore. Get a nice cottage somewhere. I have a cousin in Tredwell who is an estate agent if you—”

  And now it was Jack’s turn to laugh.

  So many connections between all the people in the village, and beyond. A small world, compared to the vast anonymous sprawl of New York City.

  Damn refreshing.

  Jack started to turn away.

  “I will keep that in mind, Jen. For sure.”

  And he started back to his boat.

  *

  Sarah sat in the vet’s office. Digby to one side, waiting patiently for his turn with the vet. Daniel to the other, doing who-knew-what on his phone.

  Digby was a good, smart dog, though not above trying to sneak some human food off the picnic table when no one was watching. Had a taste for steak!

  Such action Daniel found hilarious. Sarah — not so much.

  This visit — a routine annual check-up, and some vaccination boosters — was a bit of an expense Sarah hadn’t planned on. But Daniel loved the dog. So did Chloe.

  And as for her? Well, it was nice to have someone always eager to go for a walk with you.

  He was Jack’s gift to them all, and it was good to have him.

  Good to have both of them!

  This visit should be quick, and they were next up. This Sunday morning slot was never too busy.

  Her phone hummed in the front pocket of her jeans.

  She sat up to get to her phone, seeing the name on the screen.

  “Grace”.

  She answered quickly. All morning she had been thinking about the girl, and how she must feel after last night.

  “Grace — one second, okay?”

  Then she turned to her son.

  “Daniel, you okay? Stay with Digby? Gotta take this,” she said holding up the phone.

  “Sure, Mum.”

  She darted outside.

  “Grace, I’ve been thinking about you. Are you—?”

  She heard sobs.

  “Grace? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Sarah heard a big intake of breath as Grace tried to calm herself.

  “It’s Nick. I rang him first thing this morning. But he didn’t answer. So I, so I—”

  Sarah guessed that after the over-lubricated dinner — with Nick barely able to sit up and stay awake — Grace must have taken him to his house. Put him to bed.

  Then gone on to her own place.

  Not a happy picture only days before a party to officially announce their engagement.

  “What’s happened, Grace?”

  The woman on the other end — struggling.

  “I wanted to make sure he was okay — after last night, you know? The state he was in. I thought, maybe his phone was off or something. So, I went over to his flat. But he wasn’t there. Car gone. So, then I thought he must have gone to work early. But when I rang them they said he hadn’t been in at all. In fact, he was in big trouble — head office chasing him. Nick’s gone, Sarah. Not a word to me, and, and …”

  Sarah quickly tried to think of the right reassuring words to say.

  Though this did not sound good.

  “Grace, maybe after last night he felt embarrassed. Needed some time to gather his thoughts? I’m sure he’ll contact you soon.”

  Though Sarah was not sure at all.

  “No, Sarah,” Grace said strongly. “Not Nick. He knows me. Knows I worry. About even the smallest thing.”

  Sarah knew that to be true.

  This was hard for her.

  “Look, Grace, I’m at the vet’s right now. Let me deal with some things. Maybe talk to Jack. He always has good ideas. Where Nick might be. Head home for now — have a cup of tea, okay? And I’ll call you later. Just have to get Digby sorted.”

  For a moment, silence on the line.

  Then another deep breath. “Okay. I’ll do that. And you’ll call, yes?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Then: “Thanks, Sarah.”

  “No worries. Speak soon.”

  Then Sarah ended the call. And she stood in the brilliant morning sun, thinking.

  Hope this is nothing.

  Nick. Got a bit drunk. Goes missing for a few hours.

  Something any guy might do.

  But even as she thought about it, Sarah heard another voice in her head saying: Could be … something more going on here.

  And — as she promised — as soon as Digby’s check-up was over, she’d go talk to Jack.

  They both liked Grace so much — best they tackle this together.

  5. Where’s Nick?

  Jack had returned to his work on the Goose.

  And, with no disturbances all morning, he’d nearly finished a first coat on the whole deck.

  He sat back on his heels, inspecting his work. Yep, looked good.

  Time for some lunch.

  Hmm … egg salad on sourdough toast. Tomatoes, lettuce on the side. Hold that chilled beer maybe until late afternoon, with the job finished.

  Riley had taken up his supervisory position close by as if taking care not to get any of the paint on his paws.

  “Like watching me work, Riley?”

  His dog cocked its head, sensing a question even if not sure what the answer was.

  “Let’s grab some lunch, then we’ll do a big walk, hmm? Too nice a summer’s day to—”

  “Hello?”

  Jack heard the voice. Someone on the shore.

  Then: “Jack, you there?”

  Now Jack stood up, and he recognised the voice.

  Officer Alan Rivers.

  And this surprise visit? Maybe not such a surprise, Jack thought.

  He walked over to where a long plank led to the deck of The Grey Goose.

  “Alan, come on up. Get you something. Tea? Cold beer?”

  Alan walked up the rickety plank. Their relationship had grown and changed over the years. Alan, originally protective of his policing duties, had come to — in Jack’s opinion — respect and value the help Jack and Sarah could bring.

  Totally unofficial, of course.

  Which, Jack realised, was sometimes the best arrangement.

  “On duty, Jack. Though on a hot day like today, beer would go down well.”

  “Tea then? Could even make you iced tea.”

  At that Alan laughed. The concept seemed a stretch for most Brits.

  “Just a regular cuppa. That would be great.”

  “You got it.”

  Jack led the way down to the boat’s saloon, to where a proper kettle sat waiting to carry out its patriotic duties on his small stove.

  On the way in, Jack said casually: “Assuming this
isn’t a social call?”

  “Afraid you got that right, Jack.”

  And Jack waited as he lit the front burner and turned to face the officer.

  *

  Alan took a sip of his tea, and Jack waited.

  The two of them faced each other on the old leather sofas in the saloon of The Grey Goose, Jack feeling the room chilly even on this perfect June day.

  “Quite the scene at the bridge this morning, Alan. Finding that gun. And, suppose whoever threw it, caught on CCTV?”

  Jack’s instincts told him where this might be going. The next seconds about to reveal whether he was right or not.

  “Yeah. Um, needed to talk to you, about that. About the gun. The video. Turns out they got a quick trace on the gun. Matches the shell casing we found at the murder scene.”

  “You’re talking about the murder at the house on Winsham Hill on Friday night?”

  Alan nodded. “And on the CCTV, we could see the car.”

  Jack could guess what would come next.

  “The car — and the gun — are both registered to a man called Nick Marston.”

  Sometimes, Jack thought, your worst fears come true.

  “I believe you know Nick Marston?” said Alan.

  “Kind of,” said Jack.

  Alan looked away. “I’m also led to believe you and Sarah had dinner with him last night.”

  “That we did. With his fiancée. Up at the Pig. But you know that too, I guess.”

  Alan nodded.

  “Officers went to his house this morning, soon as we got the information. But he was gone, car gone. Tried calling him as well. Nothing.”

  Now Jack paused, taking a sip of his tea.

  “You’re thinking — he’s done a runner?”

  Alan nodded.

  “We’re thinking perhaps he heard about this morning’s dive at the bridge.”

  Jack waited. This meeting suddenly going a different way than he’d expected. He didn’t take the bait.

  “Lot of people down there at the bridge, Alan,” he said.

  He stared back at Alan until the cop looked down at his tea.

  “True.”

  “Seems you might be the last people to see him,” said Alan. “So, I’m going to need a statement from you. And also from Sarah.”

  “Sure.”

  The officer took a breath. “And from Grace.”

  “Makes sense,” said Jack.

  “Also, Jack — maybe, a quiet word with you.”