The Art of Standing Still (29 page)

‘He's not ill,' Jemma said. ‘He was whacked on the head. And he's telling you who did it. I can't believe you haven't even talked to Alistair Fry!'

Josh placed his hand on her arm again to calm her. This time she shrugged it off.

‘Look, we will speak to him, in time, and in the light of any corroborating evidence.' He stood up. ‘Thank you for coming in; we'll keep you informed of developments.'

‘Wait,' Jemma said. ‘There was a car, by the river. On the night it happened I was waiting for Josh and I saw a car. I think it was dark blue. It parked in the car park and the driver sat there with the headlamps on. You saw it too, didn't you, Josh? You must have parked near it.'

‘I . . . I don't remember. I was in a hurry to see you.'

‘Was it there when you returned to the car park later, Mr Wood?'

‘No. No, I'm sure the car park was almost empty. I can't really remember.'

‘So whoever it was drove away after Richard was attacked.' Jemma couldn't help thumping the table with her fist.

‘Or happened to leave some time that evening. Really, Miss Durham, there must be hundreds of dark blue cars in Monksford. Now DC Ives has got your contact details, if there is anything else we need to ask, we know where to find you.' He stood and held the door open for them to exit.

As they left the police station, Jemma glanced back at the blue lamp above the door.

‘I can't believe that. They just didn't want to know.'

‘It was difficult. Richard can hardly be called a reliable witness.'

Jemma grabbed Josh's hand and dragged him down the High Street. ‘Come on. I've got an idea.'

They both set off at a jog, Jemma stopping by the pillared portico of Monksford Town Hall. She bent over, her hands on her knees, panting from the unexpected exercise. Josh was hardly out of breath.

‘Jemma, you're not going in there to confront him? Tell me you're not.'

‘I'm not going in there at all.' Jemma ducked through the archway and up a side alley to a small rectangle of asphalt. There was a sign. ‘Parking for Council Members Only'. Half a dozen cars, one a Daimler with a flag on the front, filled up a quarter of the spaces in the car park. There were no dark blue cars.

‘Perhaps he's not here today,' said Jemma.

‘Of course not. He'll be at work.'

‘True. We can't hang around here until the next council sitting. I think he's a solicitor, but I don't know where he works. I can find out at the
Gazette
's office. Come on. I told Mohan I'd be back before twelve.'

‘Just a second. I've got an idea.' Josh pulled out his mobile phone and flicked the cover open. He pressed buttons. ‘Ruth, hi, it's Josh. I know this is a bit of a strange question, but do you happen to know what car Alistair Fry drives?' There was a pause. ‘Okay, thanks.' And he closed the cover.

‘Well?' said Jemma.

‘Alistair Fry drives an estate car, a Mercedes. And it's midnight blue.'

JEMMA LAY IN BED LISTENING TO ALL THE SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT – THE WATER
lapping, the occasional screech of a barn owl, and the rumble of the traffic on the bypass. There was an unpleasant smell. She wanted to close the windows, but the heat on the steel and wooden structure that had built up during the day threatened to turn the
Hog
into a nighttime sauna. She threw back the covers and flipped over, searching for a cool spot. She climbed out of the bunk, put on her slippers, padded into the galley, and opened the fridge. She poured herself a drink of cold water and sat down at the table. She opened her laptop and started typing all her questions and theories about Richard's attack. The police were right, apart from Richard's accusation, there was nothing to indicate that Alistair Fry was involved. Why would a Councillor, a pillar of the community and a member of the Church, hit someone on the head, then dump them in the river and leave them for dead? Was the blue car a coincidence? Why was Richard near the river in the first place?

She typed these unanswered and unanswerable questions as they sprang into her mind. The police seemed reluctant to investigate. As far as they were aware Councillor Fry had nothing to do with it. But she knew things about Fry that the police didn't know. She knew he was not the upright citizen everyone thought him to be. She knew about Alistair and Ruth. He was certainly a philanderer, but did that make him a potential murderer?

She poured herself another drink. Perhaps cooling down and getting this multitude of questions outside her head would help to calm her and permit her to sleep. She unlocked the cabin door and stepped onto the deck. She breathed the night air and looked up at the stars. Light pollution from Monksford and nearby Tunbridge Wells and Maidstone diffused a sickly orange glow and overwhelmed all but the brightest constellations. The crackle of tyres on gravel caught her attention, but she couldn't see any headlamps in the car park. She froze, listening and waiting. The river was in darkness. She reached down slowly and her fingers gripped the textured plastic handle of the torch.

Footsteps. The crunch of gravel on the towpath. Coming closer. She ducked into the doorway. A faint flicker of torchlight. She held her breath. The footsteps passed. They crossed the bridge. She twisted to see. The footsteps continued along the path on the opposite bank of the river, the faint beam just visible under some overhanging willow branches. She grasped the torch and crept down the ramp, jumping over the gravel path and landing softly on the grass. She stole across to the car park and shone her flashlight around, half expecting to see a midnight blue Mercedes.

Before today she would never have suspected Alistair, but now she could imagine him sneaking around the river in the pitch dark and she could imagine him being connected with mysterious things that go splash in the night. Her own car sat there, looking a little sorry for itself, and Ray Jones' 2 CV. There was an unfamiliar car, but it wasn't blue, nor was it a Mercedes. It was a slightly battered and extremely muddy Land Rover. She peered through the mud-spattered window. There was a crumpled newspaper
and some pieces of baler twine and some empty crisp packets. She walked around and peeped in the back. More rubbish. She peered closely at the tyres, muddy and worn. The khaki-green bodywork was scratched and dented.

Fry would never drive anything like this. Perhaps she had made a mistake and it belonged to a visitor to one of the boats. She straightened up and yawned. She would go back to bed now. Everything would become clearer in the morning. She could even ask around the boat owners to see if anyone knew about the Land Rover.

It was then that she heard the splash.

She took off, running not towards the safety of the
Hog
, but towards the bridge and the direction of the footsteps. She brandished her torch and screamed at the figure.

‘What are you doing? I can see you. I'm calling the police!'

The man didn't answer but ran towards the bridge shining his torch into her face, temporarily blinding her. He pushed roughly past and ran back in the direction of the car park. Jemma gave chase, but he was taller and faster. She cursed her fluffy bunny slippers as she tripped over a tussock and sprawled on the grass. She picked herself up and followed the man.

The Land Rover's engine revved and Jemma directed her torch beam through the windscreen. The driver held up his hand to shield his eyes. Jemma caught a glimpse of green waxed jacket – the sort worn by farmers. He let up the clutch and drove towards her. For a moment she froze, then sprinted for the trees. Even with a Land Rover, he couldn't follow. The tyres skidded on the gravel as he braked, then she heard the engine whine as he thrust it into reverse. Then he was gone.

Jemma put her hand to her chest. Her heart felt as if it would burst out of her ribcage. For a moment she couldn't move. Then, trembling, she made her way back to the boat.

She picked up her phone to call the police, but she thought of DS Morrisey, his lackadaisical attitude and his basset-hound eyes. DS Morrisey had wanted evidence, and she had none. She didn't know who the man was, she had no idea what he had dropped in the water, and she hadn't thought to take the registration number of the Land Rover. As far as she knew, no crime had been committed, and no connection to Richard, or Alistair. She paused, her fingers hovering over the keypad. She dialled Josh's number. A voice thick with sleep answered.

‘Did I wake you?'

‘Jemma, it's half past three.'

‘Sorry. Josh, can you come over?'

‘What's happened?'

‘I'll explain when you get here. Oh, and have you got a net, a landing net or something, or a long pole?

‘I won't ask.'

Fifteen minutes later, Josh and Jemma sat in the
Hog
's tiny galley, drinking tea and waiting for the sun to rise.

‘It'll be light enough to see what we're doing but too early for nosy onlookers,' she said.

‘Tell me again, exactly what we are looking for?'

‘Whatever he dropped in the river. He was keen to get rid of something.'

‘Could be anything. What if he's a murderer, and he's disposing of a dismembered body?'

Jemma grimaced in disgust. ‘That would give DS Morrisey something to get his teeth into – metaphorically speaking.'

A raft of ducks swam past, quacking emphatically, and a crow in a field began its raucous cry. Jemma glanced at the clock. A watery sun, pale and insipid, was rising above the line of poplars on the ridge.

‘Come on.' She stood and deposited her mug in the sink. Josh did the same.

Jemma pulled on her coat and trainers and grabbed her boat hook, while Josh rummaged around for an old landing net. Within minutes they had made their way across the bridge to the opposite bank of the river. She wrinkled her nose; there was that smell again.

Jemma knelt down in the place where she had seen the man. First she scrutinised the reeds, searching for a bent leaf or a disturbance in the surface. Everything looked normal. She stood and walked a little farther along, inspecting the river's surface and the towpath. A pair of mallard made a clumsy take-off, sprinting along the surface and flapping their wings until they became airborne.

They had made their way to a bend a little farther downstream when Jemma spotted a neon orange fishing float.

‘I wish those anglers would learn to take their gear home with them. I know we don't have the carnage caused by the lead weights any more, but if they'd seen waterfowl tangled in discarded line . . . We did an article on it once. The line gets wrapped round their bills and stops them feeding. They lose legs, their wings get damaged.'

She reached out to scoop up the float. It seemed to be caught. She tugged harder, but it did not give. There seemed to be something heavy on the end of the line. She looked at Josh.

‘I think we've found something.'

She took the long pole with the brass hook on the end and delved around among the reeds. She hooked something twice, but as she heaved it towards the surface, it slipped off the hook. Finally she snared it and managed to hoist it out of the water. Josh caught it in the net, let some of the water drain away, and deposited it on the bank. It was a package, about the size of a football, wrapped securely in black plastic and tied up with orange twine. Josh took a penknife from his pocket and gave it to Jemma. She started to cut the wet string.

‘Do you want me to do this?'

Jemma felt suddenly squeamish. He had been joking about body parts, hadn't he? It would explain the smell. She shook her head, then carefully unwrapped the layers of black plastic. Inside that were several supermarket carrier bags and inside them a translucent plastic lunchbox. Perhaps someone didn't like their egg sandwiches. Inside the lunchbox she could see a brown envelope. She dried her hands on her jeans and pulled the lid off the lunchbox. She extracted the envelope and tore it open.

‘Money!' A wad of ten- and twenty-pound notes, held together with more orange twine.

‘There must be hundreds of pounds here.' Josh's eyes were wide. ‘What are we going to do?'

‘We should take it to the police. If someone has gone to these lengths to conceal the money, there must be something dodgy going on.'

‘I agree.' Josh stuffed the money back in the envelope.