Jack climbed the steps from the saloon onto the deck of The Grey Goose and placed the tray of breakfast things onto the little teak table.
And just as he did, his phone vibrated.
He slid his phone out of his shirt pocket to see a text from Sarah.
Can’t wait for that coffee! With you in five!
Breakfast with Sarah. What a treat. And what a surprise too.
Over the last few months things had gone quiet in their little detective sideline. But they had made a point of meeting regularly, for a lunch or dinner now and then.
Staying in touch.
And he had to admit, whenever they weren’t investigating he missed his time with her.
It amazed him that not too long ago he had contemplated — well, no, actually planned on — leaving it all. The village. This boat. Sarah. All his good friends in this place that had become a second home.
Though — try as he might — he never felt quite like a native.
Not that anyone seemed to mind!
He might be a stranger in — to him — a strange land, but everyone seemed perfectly okay with that.
Coffee on and croissants already warming, he texted back.
Then he stood up and looked down the riverbank, past Ray’s barge towards the bridge.
Even though it was still early, he could see people out and about on the river. An old motor cruiser chugged up from the bridge, sailing upriver.
A skiff skimmed across the flat river like a water insect.
And over on the far bank, the morning dog-walkers dotted the meadows.
Then he saw Sarah appear on her bicycle by the bridge, bright pink top, heading down the tow path towards the Goose.
“Perfect timing, Riley,” he said, as his spaniel appeared in the wheelhouse, wagging his tail in anticipation of Sarah’s arrival.
Then he went down into the galley to get the croissants out of the oven.
***
“Bliss,” said Sarah taking a sip of coffee. “How come I can’t make it like this back home?”
“Ah well,” said Jack, “I’ve got the time to choose the blend, grind the beans, find the perfect coffee pot …”
Sarah put down her cup and leaned back in the canvas chair.
“True. I was up at six this morning to take Chloe to the station — last shopping trip in Oxford before her big trip. A clothes emergency apparently. Then I had to sort Daniel with lunch for a kayak trip he’s doing with his pals. Dropped off some posters for Grace to proofread for Monday. And I thought Saturdays were my day off!”
She watched as Jack slid the tray of warm croissants across the table.
“Perfect,” she said.
“So what’s the reason for the surprise visit? Not that I’m complaining, mind. Always a treat to see you.”
She chose a croissant and spread a dollop of Jack’s homemade marmalade onto it — then took a big bite.
“Murder,” she said dramatically. “Murder most foul.”
“Ha! Is there any other variety?”
“Take a look at this — today’s local. Page four.”
She dug in her bag and pulled out a newspaper, handed it to Jack who started to read.
“Will Goodchild rang me last night; very upset. You remember, a week or so back they uncovered bones at his dig upriver?”
“Yup,” said Jack, leafing through the paper, “been meaning to go up there take a look. Will sent me an open invite.”
“Well, it was more than just ‘bones’,” said Sarah. “See what I mean?”
Jack opened the paper, and read the headline aloud: “‘Police treating dig discovery as crime scene’.”
Then the words below: Murder suspected.
“There’s not really much of a story there,” said Sarah, “I think they’re spinning a lot from a very small police statement. There’s an interview with a chap called Cresswell who’s Will’s boss, apparently. And some of the students. But read the rest …”
She waited while Jack read the article and also sneaked a bit of croissant to Riley who sat under the table. She watched a swan make a graceful landing on the river.
“Doesn’t sound like they have much to go on,” he said, putting the paper down. “What did Will have to say?”
“He’s not that interested in the body,” said Sarah. “But he is very worried it’s going to ruin his dig.”
“Ah.”
“Apparently he only has a four-week window before the farmer gets the field back. And Will says the police don’t understand. Says they’re obstructing vital historical research.”
Jack smiled: “Knowing Will, I’m sure he’s made himself very popular with the investigating team.”
“I’m sure. But he seemed to think you and I could ‘use our influence’ to speed the whole thing up,” said Sarah.
Jack laughed: “Really? Influence? I suspect most of the police in this county see us as a total pain in the ass, don’t you?”
“Exactly,” said Sarah. “Though not quite the phrase I’d use.”
“Maybe worth a chat with Alan up at the station?”
Alan Rivers was Cherringham’s local — and only — police officer. Back in the day, he’d gone to school with Sarah and he usually let Jack and Sarah do their investigating unhindered — especially if he was the cop who got the collar in the end.
A good man and a good cop.
Sarah often wondered how his arrest figures compared with other Cotswold villages. Over the last few years (on the back of their investigations) he must come across as a veritable Sherlock Holmes.
“I rang him this morning,” said Sarah, “to see if he could give me any idea how the investigation was going. He didn’t have much to tell me. In fact, he ended up asking me questions.”
“Let me guess,” said Jack. “Wondered if we have worked on any cases recently with a missing body?”
Sarah laughed. “Yeah, he was fishing all right. But also pretty miffed that the whole thing’s been handed over to Oxford police.”
“I can imagine,” said Jack, leaning back in his chair and looking out over the river. “So what is the case anyway?”
Sarah poured herself another coffee. “Not much to go on as far as I can see. The victim’s male — teens or twenties. No ID.”
Sarah could see that Jack was already getting interested — even though they had no proper involvement.
And she felt her own interest catching too.
“Any idea how long he’s been in the ground?” he said.
“Forensics are still working on it apparently. But Alan said first indications are … maybe twenty years.”
“Whoa. That’s one cold case all right. They got a cause of death?”
“Trauma to the throat apparently,” said Sarah.
“What was left of it, I guess,” said Jack. “I’d love to see the forensics. Just out of professional curiosity, of course.”
“Of course.”
Sarah knew that back in his days in the NYPD, Jack had worked many murder cases — and seen a lot of bodies, in all states.
“Here’s the thing,” said Sarah, “that age — and buried twenty years — it could be one of my contemporaries. Might even be somebody I knew.”
Jack nodded. “Doesn’t have to be a local.”
“Maybe not,” said Sarah, “but buried just up the river from the village?”
“You’d remember if someone local went missing,” said Jack. “I mean — Cherringham — it’s a tight little community.”
“True,” said Sarah, “but what if it was someone who went away to university, or to work, into a new life? Someone who never came back, apart from that one time, that one day? Who’d know? Who’d connect their disappearance to Cherringham?”
Sarah was aware how far-fetched that sounded. She shrugged and raised her eyebrows at Jack — almost a challenge.
She saw him smile.
“It’s a theory,” he said, “and you know me, I like theories.”
Sarah laughed and sat back in her chair. “You know, Jack, I miss what we do.”
“And I miss it too,” said Jack, grinning. “Guess there’s no harm in sniffing around this a little?”
“Will did say that anything we can do to speed things up maybe buys him a little more time for the dig.”
“Two birds with one stone? Oh — by the way — I got drafted into helping with the regatta last night.”
“I suspected as much when I heard they’d invited you along.”
“Yeah, well, get this. Tony wants me to revamp the kids’ races. The whole shebang, in less than two weeks. No way I can organise it in time on my own. I’m gonna grab Ray for some heavy lifting. But I need someone who’s a real maestro at organising.”
“Me? You’re kidding! Sitting here with you is as close to boating as I get these days.”
“Seriously, you’d ace it. You run a family and a business — kids’ races gotta be a piece of cake. And your dad has run the regatta for years, you must know all his tricks.”
“Jack, I made it my business to stay well away from Dad in regatta week.”
Sarah thought it over. Would she have time? “Tell you what. Daniel’s got some spare time on his hands, and he’s been in those races since he was ten. Why don’t I ask him?”
“Hey, great idea. And that frees you up to come along with me to the crime scene this morning.”
“As you would say, it’s a no-brainer,” said Sarah.
“Day like today — perfect for a nice little trip upriver.”
“Deal,” said Sarah. “You get the boat sorted, and I’ll clear this lot away.”
She slid the cups and plates onto the tray and headed down into the galley, while Jack headed aft to prep the little boat and its outboard.
As she rinsed the plates in the tiny galley, she thought of how her summer had been panning out — with Chloe and Daniel away on their separate travels she hadn’t been looking forward to being more or less alone in an empty house. No kids — just her and the dog rattling around the cottage.
But now Sarah felt that maybe summer might be fun after all.
***
Jack sat in the bow of the little dinghy and watched Sarah tweak the mix on the outboard, then settle back and twist the throttle.
The boat sprang forward, the engine now sounding as sweet as it ever had.
“Kinda nice to be a passenger for once,” he said. “That damn outboard is the bane of my life.”
“Sounds like dirty plugs to me, Jack,” said Sarah making a very serious face. “You really should get it serviced.”
“That an offer?”
“Ha! Only if you pay me.”
“Every cent I have goes into keeping the Goose afloat,” said Jack. “And fighting crime doesn’t pay the bills.”
He sat back in the boat and watched the riverbank flow by. He rarely had good reason to go upriver, so he wasn’t so familiar with this landscape.
They passed meadows; trees looping over the dark, fast-flowing river; big houses dotted along the riverbanks, with perfectly mown lawns and smart boats tied to their jetties; fields that looked unchanged in hundreds of years, with wheat waving in the hot sun, under a perfect blue sky.
“What a morning,” he said. “Kinda interesting to think — if the Romans did have a crossing up here, then I’m guessing the legions marched over those very hilltops. All the way past Cherringham — whatever it was then, maybe just a fort — down towards the Bristol Channel.”
He saw Sarah nod without much enthusiasm.
Jack knew that this ancient past was just something Sarah had grown up with and no longer even noticed.
But to him, even though he’d lived in England for a few years, it was still a source of excitement and discovery.
***
“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?