Cherringham--A Fatal Fall (2 page)

“Come on. It’s bloody Friday.”

“Big deal.”

“What if I say no?”

“Oh. No worries. You can simply pick up your cards and off you go.”

Dylan knew he had no choice. He needed the money — on all fronts. He’d hit a bad run on the poker nights and he was in deeper than he’d like to some nasty fellas from London. And he even owed a couple of the lads here big time.

And having a proper girlfriend was pricey. That, and maybe a little too much of the local home-grown.

He knew that if he told Sparks to shove it he’d never get another job now, not just a couple of weeks from Christmas.

Sparks had him over a barrel and he knew it.

He looked at the site supervisor. The man looked back at him, a smug smile on his face.

Know what I’d like to do to that mug …

Dylan knew he was enjoying this.

Bastard.

He put his hard hat back on and headed out into the cold.

*

Dylan stood up straight, his back aching. He looked up at the scaffold. He’d been up that ladder twenty times already, stacking tiles all the way round the half-finished house.

Just one more load, then he’d be done.

It’ll have to be a swift one down the pub, no time for more,
he thought.

He heard a sound from the other side of the house. Like someone had tripped and kicked a can or something.

Funny. There was nobody else working out here now at nearly six.

Maybe it was Sparks, coming to see what he was up to?

He peered into the darkness by the side of the house. All kinds of shapes, but nothing moving.

At least the sleet had stopped.

He looked across at the office on the far side of the site. Through the window he could just see the neon lights still on. Sparks must still be in there. Screwing the workers out of their proper overtime payments no doubt.

He stood still for a moment, silent, listening. Nothing.

Fox maybe?
he thought.
No big deal.

He reached down and lifted the pile of tiles onto his shoulders, then headed for the ladder again.

As the sun had set the temperature had plummeted and Dylan saw how the ladder glistened white with slippery frost in the light.

He was going to have to be careful.

Scaffolding was a death trap in this kind of weather.

No way he should be out here on his own at this time of night — even in daylight this was a job for two people. That’s what the rules were there for. Should have someone at his side looking out, checking, watching. Helping.

Bloody Sparks, cheapskate, always looking to save money, cutting corners; risking people’s lives.

Still, an hour’s overtime was worth at least a tenner. Nearly enough to cover the weed he’d picked up from Terry last night …

Wouldn’t mind a smoke of that now, he thought, as he climbed the ladder to the top of the scaffold. And then he imagined lighting one up later in the back of the Love Machine, him and the girl all wrapped up together under the duvet.

Yeah. Bring it on,
he thought.

He stepped out onto the scaffold, hoisted the tiles carefully on his shoulder and started to walk around the house.

His breath billowed white in the bright arc light’s glow. He could feel the old timbers slippery under his boots.

Careful now Dylan,
he thought,
there’s a pretty girl waiting for what you’ve got to offer tonight, now don’t go spoiling things …

He rounded the corner of the building. This side was darker, the arc light not reaching here.

But he knew what he was doing. He’d been walking back and forth along this section for the last hour.

Still — needed to stay focused. Rush, and that was a quick way to an accident.

Round the corner again now, the back of the house in almost total darkness.

Just a few more steps on the wet black timber, then he could see where the pile needed to go.

Here we are …

He took his hand off the scaffold rail and grabbed hold of the tiles on his shoulder to swing them round and place them on the ground, and stepped forward …

… into nothing.

Into space. Emptiness.

He felt — his leg disappearing down, and his body falling forward, following it.

A jolt of panic rushed upwards in his gut.

He flailed his hands wildly, trying to catch hold of something — rails, timber, wall, anything — but there was nothing there.

He somersaulted and, for a moment, had a clear and vivid memory of falling out of that apple tree on nana’s farm out beyond Waterford.

Shit, I’d better pray—

But Dylan had no time left to pray.

Jack crossed the meadow in the bright morning sunshine, with Riley — for once — at his heels.

The Springer was tired out after a long walk.

Looking forward to breakfast, like I am,
thought Jack, planting his boots carefully on the ice-hardened path.

He’d woken at dawn, and the minute he’d seen the blue sky and the hard frost after all the sleet and freezing rain of the previous week, he knew it was time for him and Riley to get out for some air.

They’d been going stir-crazy on the Grey Goose, emerging only every couple of days to drive into Cherringham and pick up groceries.

A New York winter could be tough, the piles of snow, the icy winds cutting through the canyons of streets and avenues.

But lately, this nasty Cherringham weather could give even the Big Apple a run for its money.

It had been so bad that he’d begun to wonder whether spending these English winters on the boat were worthwhile.

Maybe a few months someplace warm … the Canary Islands perhaps? The Maldives?

Places most Americans can only dream of visiting.

But right now, things had eased. Not a breath of wind, the sky a pale blue wash, the sound of church bells drifting across the meadows from the village up on the hill
…

And Jack knew he didn’t want to live anywhere else.

He watched Riley pick up a scent in the bushes and whistled. This wasn’t the time to go chasing squirrels — Jack had an urgent appointment with some bacon and eggs …

“Come on boy, nearly home!”

The dog bounded back towards him and Jack gave him a pat and kept walking.

He could see the line of boats just a few hundred yards ahead now. A thread of smoke was rising from the Goose. A good sign — that meant the wood-burner was still on and the boat’s saloon would be nice and cosy.

But as he approached, he saw a figure standing by the wheelhouse.

He squinted in the bright sunshine. Bit early on a Sunday for a visitor …

Then he recognised who it was.

His neighbour from two boats along: Ray Stroud.

At this distance, Ray’s characteristic stoop, a posture built around a lifetime of hiding his cigarette with one arm curled behind his back, was unmistakeable.

He watched Riley race on ahead to greet Ray. Since Jack had moved here a couple of years back, Riley and Ray had become pals and there was nothing Jack could do about it.

Jack suspected that Ray fed Riley all the treats that Jack denied him on grounds of health.

But he wasn’t going to take Ray to task.

Ray had a good heart, and Jack was glad to have him as a neighbour. A permanent fixture on the river who knew this stretch of the Thames like the back of his nicotine-stained hand. And he also knew the villains, the locals to watch, the village secrets no one talked about
…

Jack guessed that Ray had a few secrets of his own, that he had been into all sorts of dodgy things in his long and mysterious life.

These days though, he professed to be just another poor old pensioner, an ex-hippy smoking and drinking his way through his 'golden years.'

Jack stepped through the little gate that separated the meadows from the towpath, then shut it carefully behind him.

“Morning Ray.”

“Jack.”

“Up early.”

“Maybe.” Ray grinned.

Jack smiled, then walked up the gangplank and onto his boat. He picked up Riley’s water bowl, filled it from the hose and put it down on the deck. Riley ran over and began gulping down water.

Jack turned and looked at Ray.

“Course
…
maybe I ain’t been to bed yet, detective,” said Ray, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Good point,” said Jack, laughing.

He unlocked the wheelhouse and waited for Ray to explain himself.

“Anything I can do for you, Ray, or is this just a social call?”

“Come on, Jack. Fella can’t just drop by, say a friendly hello to a neighbour?”

“Ray Stroud, in all the time I’ve lived here, I’ve seen neither sight nor sound of you before midday on a Sunday,” said Jack.

He watched Ray nodding to this eternal truth.

“So what’s up?” said Jack.

“You know that thing lawyers have? Priests too?”

“Not sure I do, Ray …”

“Yes you do. That — what do they call it in the films — client privilege, yeah, that’s the name of it …”

Jack was beginning to see where this was going.

“I’m not a lawyer Ray. Or a priest. But I do understand confidentiality.”

He watched Ray mull this over.

“Thing is, Jack, I don’t want to get into trouble. But I seen something, something I shouldn’t.”

“And you feel like you want to tell someone about it?”

“Got to, Jack, got to. It’s not sitting right on me.”

“Well, you can tell me. I’ll listen.”

“And you won’t tell the cops? Tell them anything and they think
I
did somethin’!”

“I can’t promise you that.”

“But you might not, right?”

“Sure. I might not.”

Jack watched Ray as he weighed the pros and cons.

“I think I seen a
murder
, Jack,” said Ray, flicking his cigarette across into the dark, flowing river. “And I ain’t happy about it.”

Jack stared at Ray. The ageing stoner was a rascal. But he was an honest one — and he’d knocked around the world a bit.

If he thinks he’s seen a murder,
thought Jack,
maybe he has.

“I’m about to make some coffee,” said Jack. “You want to join me?”

“Might just do that, Jack,” said Ray. “Um, you had your breakfast?”

“Was going to fix some bacon and eggs.”

“Fried?”

“Scrambled.”

“Now doesn’t that sound great? Don’t mind if I do,” said Ray. “Very kind of you.”

And Jack watched him head through the wheelhouse and down the steps into the boat. Riley scampered straight after him and the two of them disappeared inside.

Pair of them’ll be on my bloody sofa already, I bet,
thought Jack.

Then he too went down into the Grey Goose to cook breakfast and talk murder.

*

Jack watched Ray wipe his empty plate with a piece of bread, then eat it.

“My compliments to the chef,” said Ray, licking his fingers.

“You’re welcome,” said Jack, still only halfway through his own breakfast.

“Course that’s not really scrambled eggs.”

“No?”

“No. That’ll be your American version, very nice mind, very nice. But not proper scrambled.”

Jack smiled and carried on eating.

“So,” he said. “Go on then. You were saying — about the building site?”

He watched Ray take a slurp of coffee and reach for his roll-ups — then decide against them.

“That’s right. About three weeks I been working up there. Labouring, you know. Money’s not bad — not good either — but the foreman pays me cash in hand. Handy with Christmas coming, you know how it is.”

Jack nodded patiently.

“Anyhows, they don’t have the best security and sometimes I spot something going to waste I really could do with back on the boat here. Bit of timber. Nice shovel. Box of nails. You know how it is.”

“I can imagine, Ray.”

“So what I do is, I hang around come knocking off time, site empties pretty sharpish, wait till the boss is doing the paperwork, then I just … what’s the word …
liberate
… the aforementioned unwanted item and pop it in a mate’s van and home I goes.”

“You steal it, Ray.”

“No one the wiser. Victimless crime, Jack.”

“No such thing, in my experience …”

“Fella building them homes — Charlie Winters? — he’s got millions. Heard he doesn’t mind screwing his workers over for a few quid. Doubt he’ll lose any sleep over a box of nails.”

“So it’s a blow for the workers?”

Ray smiled. “For this worker it is.”

Jack pushed his plate to one side and poured himself another coffee.

“Okay — so what’s this about a murder?”

He watched Ray lean forward, as if even here on the Grey Goose there might be listeners …

“Here’s the thing, Jack. Friday night, come half four, everyone clocks off, and I’m sitting in one of them empty houses in the dark, freezing my balls off, just waiting to pick up a few bits of timber for my deck. And just as I’m about to help myself, blow me — the site office opens up and young Dylan heads out with his gear still on and goes over to one of the houses and starts hefting tiles.”

“Dylan?”

“Dylan McCabe. Irish guy. Nice kid. Sociable. Been around. Good laugh.”

“So what was he up to? Stealing?”

“No, not stealing. He was legit — working. Overtime on a nasty Friday night. Looked like he was setting things up for the tilers. Taking tiles up and stacking them round the roof on the scaffold.”

“Just one guy, working late?”

“Happens. Though it’s dodgy in the dark. ’Specially when it’s icy. And on your own. But it’s no big deal.”

“And what happens then?”

“Well, I’m waiting and waiting for him to finish. Half hour goes by. Then an hour. Then I see someone else. Keeping low, like. Out of sight. Creeping around. First thing I think, obviously, is — that bugger better not be after
my
timber or I’ll have him.”

“But he wasn’t?”

“No. He crouches down and he goes across to the house where Dylan’s working, and I sees him going up one of the ladders at the back into the scaffolding.”