Cherringham--Blade in the Water

1. Cover
   
2. Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series
   
3. The Authors
   
4. Main Characters
   
5. Blade in the Water
   
6. Copyright
   
7. 1. Midsummer’s Eve
   
8. 2. A Real Mystery
   
9. 3. The Scene of the Crime
   
10. 4. Of Blood and Boats
    
11. 5. Missing, Presumed …
    
12. 6. The World of Martin Kent
    
13. 7. A Policeman’s Lot
    
14. 8. Village Life
    
15. 9. The House on the River
    
16. 10. The Puzzle and its Pieces
    
17. 11. The Boat in the Night
    
18. 12. The Iron Works
    
19. 13. Regatta
    
20. 14. The Last Race
    
21. 15. One Last Surprise
    
22. Next episode
    

“Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. A new episode is released each month. The series is published in English as well as in German, and is only available in e-book form.

Matthew Costello
(US-based) is the author of a number of successful novels, including
Vacation
(2011),
Home
(2014) and
Beneath Still Waters
(1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed
The 7th Guest
,
Doom 3
,
Rage
and
Pirates of the Caribbean
.

Neil Richards
has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He’s also written script and story for over 20 video games including
The Da Vinci Code
and
Starship Titanic
, co-written with Douglas Adams, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.
His writing partnership with NYC-based Matt Costello goes back to the late 90’s and the two have written many hours of TV together.
Cherringham
is their first crime fiction as co-writers.

Jack Brennan
is a former NYPD homicide detective who lost his wife a year ago. Being retired, all he wants is peace and quiet. Which is what he hopes to find in the quiet town of Cherringham, UK. Living on a canal boat, he enjoys his solitude. But soon enough he discovers that something is missing — the challenge of solving crimes. Surprisingly, Cherringham can help him with that.

Sarah Edwards
is a web designer who was living in London with her husband and two kids. Two years ago, he ran off with his sexy American boss, and Sarah’s world fell apart. With her children she moved back to her home town, laid-back Cherringham. But the small town atmosphere is killing her all over again — nothing ever happens. At least, that’s what she thinks until Jack enters her life and changes it for good or worse …

Matthew Costello
Neil Richards

CHERRINGHAM

A COSY CRIME SERIES

Blade in the Water

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Digital original edition

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright © 2014 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards

Edited by Victoria Pepe

Project management: Lori Herber

Cover illustration: © shutterstock: Buslik/ Lsaloni/ BGSmith; Thinkstockphoto: Fuse

Cover design: Jeannine Schmelzer

E-book production: Urban
SatzKonzept
, Düsseldorf

ISBN 978-3-8387-4843-6

www.bastei-entertainment.com

Ray Stroud walked carefully down the white line in the centre of the road that led to Cherringham Bridge. The night was so damned dark — no moon, and he could barely see the grassy verge on either side, let alone the fields he knew lay somewhere beyond the hedges.

He’d made a little bet with himself when he left the second party (
or was it the third?)
that he could get to the bridge without being knocked over by a car or an unseen lamp post, and so far things were looking pretty good.

It helped that at three in the morning there was very little traffic on this road.

But then, on the other hand, if a car
did
come hurtling down the hill at this time of night, it was quite likely the driver would be another old, drunken or stoned aging hippy like him.

In which case I shall lose the bet,
he thought.

And then he thought —
what
was
the bet?

And then he remembered. Reach the bridge alive — and have yourself another roll-up.

Hooray! Not bad …

He peered ahead and carried on planting his feet ever so carefully on the white line in the centre of the road.

No doubt about it — he felt quite wobbly.

Not surprising Ray, old chap. If you drink beer for eight hours solid.

But then again — eight hours wasn’t
that
long.

Must be slacking in me old age.

Then he remembered —
right! H
e’d also had a sneaky spliff in Jez’s back garden.

Very mellow. But packed a delayed punch.

No wonder this white line seemed to be moving around beneath his old trainers.

He squinted at the sky.

Should be getting light soon. Definitely time I was in bed.

This whole Cherringham Regatta gig was playing havoc with his sleep routines — and it hadn’t hardly started yet.

He was no fan of work, but the dosh was good. But even prepping for the event meant long days, aching limbs, and blistered hands.

All week he’d been sticking up posters around the village, doing ground work, clearing hedgerows, trimming fields, putting up no-parking signs, and lugging crates of beer off trucks.

Now, that could make a man thirsty …

And naturally since it was all cash-in-hand, it involved long nights drinking the money away, too. Not that he minded. He still had a few quid left over every day, which he stuck in his secret tea caddy in the cupboard of the Magnolia, his old barge moored down on the river.

Old — but she still floats!

Course, some people hated the Regatta. Didn’t like the village filling up with outsiders. Up at the Ploughman’s, most of his mates had the same view: ‘All them posh bastards with their flash cars and their big white boats and their marquees and their Pimms tents should get the hell back to London!’

Then there was Cherringham’s own posh lot, kinda home-grown posh. They were disgusted by the empty fields filling up with tents and trucks and fairground people in jeans and stalls and burgers and tea vans and the odd bit of thieving.

Nightmare all around, the damn Regatta!

Truth is though — Ray didn’t mind one bit. Rich or poor — all the same to him. After all, only a couple of days every June and he always made a few bob out of it.

He looked around — and realised he’d reached the bridge.

Interesting … All that thinking doesn’t half make the time pass quick …

In the fields to his right, downriver, he could just see the outlines of the marquees he’d been helping to put up all week. And in the dim light he got glimpses along the sides of the old stone bridge of coloured flags and bunting to celebrate the Regatta, looking dark and grey in the night.

Below the bridge, he heard the river flowing over the weir, tumbling across the rocks. Ahead, he saw the shape of the Cherringham toll-booth in the centre of the road.

Well, well, well — still alive.

Won that one!

He’d successfully accomplished his heroic challenge. Time for a roll-up.

He hopped off the white line, walked over to the thin pavement at the side of the bridge, leaned against the stone parapet and rolled his cigarette.

Then he lit the end and inhaled deeply.

Ah. Nothing better than the first cigarette of the day.

Or was it the last one of the night? Hmm, now that was an intellectual quandary
…

He looked down at the Thames twenty feet below, flowing fast under the bridge.

Then he turned, looking upstream, at the dark river. There was just enough light in the pre-dawn sky to make out the long line of barges and houseboats on the right bank that stretched half a mile upstream towards Ingleston Church.

He spotted his own boat — the Magnolia — a dark shape towards the end of the line.

No lights on in any of the boats. Everyone fast asleep.

Lucky buggers.

But not everyone. He caught a flicker of movement on the black water up near the Magnolia.

He screwed up his eyes to see more clearly. What was it — bit of flotsam? An old tree trunk floating downstream?

Or a boat — with someone in it up to no good?

There’d been a few break-ins this last week. The odd bit of vandalism. Always happens around Regatta time, or when the carnies rolled into the village.

To be expected really, all these young hoods from the big towns turning up doing cash jobs, having a look-see what they could grab on the side.

Couldn’t blame ’em, Ray knew from his own, um, freelancing experiences. If someone leaves a door open, or a window, it’s just an invitation to help yourself really, right
…
?

But try it on his Magnolia? Oh — he’d soon sort them out!

Nobody messes with Ray Stroud,
he thought, spitting out a loose fleck of tobacco.

Hmmm.

The shape in the water getting closer.

Yes it was a boat — a little rowing boat.

And from the speed it was going, whoever was rowing knew what they were doing.

Strong, even pulls, the blades of the oars slicing into the water without splashing, the boat gliding effortlessly at speed towards him.

Funny. What kind of idiot would be rowing on the river now, this time of night, in pitch-black? Practising for the Regatta? And heading away from the village, too.

No, didn’t make sense — that boat … just a tiny little fibre-glass thing.

As the boat got closer, Ray peered hard at it, trying to see if he could recognise the rower but it was difficult because whoever it was faced away from him.

Definitely a bloke — that was for sure; you could tell from his build. Broad shoulders, tall. Dressed in black, like a Special Forces soldier from the movies. Black woolly hat pulled down snug so you couldn’t see his head properly.

The little rowing boat whizzed towards him then slipped under the bridge and out of sight.

Gone
.

Ah well, not my business.

Ray knew that if he crossed the bridge to the other side and looked down he’d get a good look at the fella’s face.

But — hell — he needed to get home to the Magnolia, have a nice cup of tea, grab some much needed shut-eye.