This time Jack took the outboard, while Sarah cast off.
She didn’t say anything at first, while he headed upriver, then swung the boat around to drift slowly with the current past the dense wood next to the meadow.
Jack liked to think things through.
His process, she well knew.
“I have to say, it’s awful to think of that poor young man being buried there all these years,” said Sarah. “Boatloads of day trippers going past, nobody knowing. I mean, somewhere he’s got a mother, a father, a girlfriend maybe. A wife? Maybe even kids. All wondering what happened to him. Waiting all these years for answers.”
“This kind of thing …” said Jack, “always sad. Grisly, to be sure. And talk about a cold case.”
He looked out at the riverbank rolling by.
“But I know from my days in New York — even if the police never uncover what happened — just finding the body can bring closure to people.” He took a breath. “Some kind of peace.”
“So, Detective?” he said, finally. “Thoughts on the crime scene? I’m sure you have plenty.”
Sarah smiled.
“Do I ever? Okay, whoever buried the body had to be local. And I think they brought the body by boat. At night.”
“Care to explain?”
“First — the location. The only vehicle access to that field is up off the Barton road — and, from memory, it goes through at least two farms. Who wants to carry a body three hundred yards across a meadow, and then into woods? No way. Which means boat. But during the day, even up here — I mean, you’ve seen them? There’s always day-trippers, rowers, cruisers. So it has to be by night. And only a local would know that field is so isolated.”
“Yep, I agree,” said Jack. “Also — they knew what they were doing. See how they dug deep? Hard work with all those tree roots. But when you bury a body you want it to stay buried. Last thing you want is animals pulling the damn thing up out the ground.”
“Or farmers. Hence the woods — not the middle of a field where anyone can see it.”
“Right. So you dig right there in the trees — and you know the hole’s going to get covered over quick.”
“Makes sense.” She looked up at Jack, their minds in sync. “This is of course just for the sake of argument, hmm?”
“Of course. Totally theoretical.”
“Okay, so I’m tempted to check online to see who owns that land. Also — find out whether it really is an SSI. There’s never going to be any housing, or development on an SSI,” said Sarah. “And of course, if you knew that — and you wanted to hide a body — you’re safe for decades. Maybe forever …”
“Exactly,” said Jack. “And I’m thinking we’re talking about persons. Not a job for one person alone.”
“True — there has to be more than one suspect. It’s not easy loading a body into a boat.”
“Yup. And carrying it?” said Jack. “So we’re looking for people or persons who know a bit about the countryside, have access to a boat and tools, know the river, know the area …”
“Smart too. Capable of planning and thinking ahead — under pressure,” said Sarah. “All we need now, Sherlock, is their shoe size and, by God, we have them!”
Jack laughed.
“Yeah, right,” he said. “I’m guessing the Oxford police are way ahead of us on that front. Fact — I think Monday morning I’ll drop in on Alan, get the latest. They may have it all wrapped up by then. It’d be nice to reassure Will.”
“Poor chap. You know, now I think about it, he’s been talking about this Roman crossing for years. He and Dad used to get the maps out after Sunday lunch, draw lines linking all the Roman trading centres.”
She took a breath, remembering.
“The two of them, excited as kids.”
“Right, and doubt he’ll get a second chance if this dig folds,” said Jack.
She watched the meadows roll by as the little boat puttered downstream.
“You know — I’ve got some time tomorrow — maybe I can jump online. No harm in doing a trawl of missing persons. Without the forensics, we don’t have much else to go on though, do we?”
“Not a lot,” said Jack. “Not that we’re on this very cold case, of course.”
“Course not.”
He grinned at that. “Just helping out our good friend Will by keeping on top of the evidence.”
“Exactly,” said Sarah.
“You know, there is one thing we got that the police don’t …”
“Ray Stroud?” said Sarah, smiling.
“Exactly,” said Jack. “Next stop, the Magnolia.”
And as Jack twisted the throttle and the little boat surged forward, Sarah sat back in the prow, excited to have a case to be thinking about.
But also wanting very much to find the truth about the poor young man buried under that meadow, unknown, un-mourned.
And she saw from the determination on Jack’s face that he shared that feeling.
***
But when they got back to the Magnolia and knocked on Ray’s wheelhouse door, there was no answer.
Jack walked around the peeling deck of the old barge. He tried to look in through the grimy windows but they all had curtains drawn tight across.
All apart from one — where Jack managed to peer in through a tiny crack.
Inside, the lights all off — and no sign of Ray.
“Nobody home,” said Jack. “Funny — he wasn’t around last night either. Must be one hell of a hangover for Ray not to make it home.”
“Guess we’ll have to wait,” said Sarah, leaning on her bicycle. “And best I head home, get the kids some lunch.”
“See you Monday?” said Jack. “Hopefully, with my plans for an Americanised regatta all ready to roll.”
He watched Sarah head off down the towpath, then turned again to look at Ray’s barge.
In all the years he’d been in Cherringham he’d never once known Ray Stroud not to make it home.
Something odd about it.
And Jack’s instinct about odd was that such things often led to even odder things.