Cherringham - Deadline E-Book

Matthew Costello

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Cherringham: Mystery Shorts
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 199

Beschreibung

When the lifeless body of crime journalist, Tom Pinder, is fished out of the river near Jack’s barge, it seems that the hardened old drinker may just have had one too many...and accidentally slipped to a watery death. But Pinder’s young colleague doesn’t buy that explanation, and asks Jack and Sarah to investigate. As they dig deep into the stories that Pinder was working on, Jack and Sarah soon discover that he had made some very dangerous enemies prepared to stop at nothing to keep a dangerous truth buried.

Set in the sleepy English village of Cherringham, the detective series brings together an unlikely sleuthing duo: English web designer Sarah and American ex-cop Jack. Thrilling and deadly - but with a spot of tea - it's like Rosamunde Pilcher meets Inspector Barnaby. Each of the self-contained episodes is a quick read for the morning commute, while waiting for the doctor, or when curling up with a hot cuppa.

Co-authors Neil Richards (based in the UK) and Matthew Costello (based in the US), have been writing together since the mid-90s, creating innovative content and working on major projects for the BBC, Disney Channel, Sony, ABC, Eidos, and Nintendo to name but a few. Their transatlantic collaboration has underpinned scores of TV drama scripts, computer games, radio shows, and the best-selling mystery series Cherringham. Their latest series project is called Mydworth Mysteries.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

About the Book

Main Characters

The Authors

Title

1. One Last Pint

2. A Body in the Water

3. Suspicions

4. The Rose in Flower

5. More Questions Than Answers

6. The Man in the Hat

7. Things Get Serious

8. Surprise Visitor

9. The Reclusive Mr D

10. Finally …

11. The Truth about Tom Pinder …

12. Cherchez la Femme

13. Standoff

Next Episode

Copyright

Reading Sample TEA? COFFEE? MURDER!

Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

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

About the Book

When the lifeless body of crime journalist, Tom Pinder, is fished out of the river near Jack’s barge, it seems that the hardened old drinker may just have had one too many …and accidentally slipped to a watery death. But Pinder’s young colleague doesn’t buy that explanation, and asks Jack and Sarah to investigate. As they dig deep into the stories that Pinder was working on, Jack and Sarah soon discover that he had made some very dangerous enemies prepared to stop at nothing to keep a dangerous truth buried.

Main Characters

Jack Brennan is a former NYPD homicide detective who lost his wife a few years 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. Before the series starts, 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 …

The Authors

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.

Title

Matthew CostelloNeil Richards

CHERRINGHAM

A COSY CRIME SERIES

Deadline

1. One Last Pint

Tom Pinder paid the barman, picked up the two foaming pints of IPA (straight from the cask, the good old way), grabbed the bag of dry-roasted nuts, and threaded his way through the crowded pub and out into the garden of the Rose in Flower.

Why don’t I come here more often? he thought, standing in the late-evening sunshine and taking a sip from one of the beers. Not many places left these days that know how to serve a pint properly.

But he knew the answer to that. It might only be a few miles upriver from Cherringham, but it would still involve driving. That would be out of the question — unless he stayed totally sober.

And when had he ever gone to a pub and stayed sober?

He spotted a table in the far corner, right under a willow whose branches hung so low they dipped into the river, and headed over to take ownership.

He put the pints down and sat facing the pub so he could see the comings and the goings. He checked his watch.

Eight o’clock. Nearly time.

He took another long draught of the beer, then opened his leather shoulder bag and carefully took out the tools of his trade.

Phone — to record the interview. Back-up digital audio recorder. Spare batteries — just in case. Notebook — already lined down the middle for shorthand.

Pen. And pencil too. Again — just in case.

Twenty years of local papers, ten more on Fleet Street, before ending up back here as a freelance for The Cherringham Times (more like an advertising free sheet than a real paper, but hey, beggars and choosers). All this experience had taught him to back up everything.

Belt and braces, as they say. Better safe than sorry.

Just in case.

Couldn’t have anything go wrong this evening — oh no — no way. Not with this interview. This was — oh yes — the big one.

This was the one that would finally get him out of this Cherringham backwater and back onto the front page of a real newspaper!

Who knows? Maybe even into the TV studios again.

“Tonight, on Newsnight, we’re joined by seasoned crime reporter Tom Pinder who first broke the story and who’s been following today’s shocking events in court …”

Tom smiled, enjoying that fantasy, and took another long pull on his beer. He stared through the trees at a pair of swans, gliding out from under the stone arches of the medieval bridge, and past the pub garden.

Just about perfect.

The place had filled up, but here, in this quiet, secluded spot, he felt safely tucked away. Nobody could eavesdrop, he was sure. Anyway, the pub seemed to be filled with the usual boisterous crowd, here for a Saturday night out — nobody suspicious.

No one who looked like they could be sniffing around his story.

As he glanced at the pub’s entrance, he saw a face at one of the upper windows of the pub peering down at him — but it pulled back behind a curtain.

Odd.

For a second he was concerned. But the face didn’t reappear.

Probably just a guest in one of the bedrooms, watching the sunset.

And what a sunset. A real colour show going on in the sky tonight.

He reached into his pocket and took out his cigarettes, opened the pack, tapped one out. Lit it, popping a little smoke ring out of habit, as he watched it curl in the air in the last of the rosy sunlight.

So much for giving up. Second pack today.

Shame he didn’t have a photographer to catch this bucolic moment. Sure was a picturesque setting. He’d have to come back here when he got a book deal — stage the whole thing again for the camera.

The author at the Rose in Flower, seated (left) with John Sheeran at their first dramatic tell-all interview.

First interview — yep, that had a nice ring to it. Course, that was thinking ahead.

Need to get all the facts first, sort the deal with Sheeran, write the story up, sell the whole juicy tale to one of the big papers in London, maybe even TheSunday Times or TheTelegraph? Posh readers loved a good crime exclusive too.

He drained his pint, put the empty glass down. Checked his watch. Hmm, if Sheeran didn’t turn up in the next couple of minutes, he might as well drink the other pint.

Sure. Then get two fresh ones.

But then a movement caught his eye at the back of the garden where the hedge ran down to the water’s edge — and he saw a figure emerge — as if they’d come from the field behind the pub.

As if sneaking in.

A man in a leather jacket, collar up, a wool beanie on his head.

Funny, he thought. Don’t recall ever seeing a gate into the pub there?

But that didn’t matter. The man walked quickly across the grass towards him, staying in the shadows — and then, closer, and Pinder recognised the face from so many old photos.

John Sheeran. In the flesh.

Tom Pinder felt his heart pounding — that rush of adrenaline he so loved back in the day, that feeling you only got when a story really took off and got real.

He reached into his pocket and clicked the audio recorder on. Then he checked his phone, hit record, placed it on the table, folded back the top page of the notepad, took out his pen, and readied himself for this interview that he was sure would change his life.

*

“You finished with these glasses, mate?”

Tom finished scribbling and looked up from his notebook. One of the young lads from behind the bar stood over the table — tray loaded with glasses and bottles.

“What?” said Tom, pulling his empty glass towards him. “No. I’m having another.”

“Not here, you’re not,” said the young barman. “Called last orders twenty minutes ago. We’re locking up — so if you don’t mind—”

Tom looked around the dark garden and realised the place was almost empty.

In all the excitement of the interview, he’d totally lost track of the time, sorting his notes, writing it all up fast while it was still fresh, the pints flying by.

Sheeran long gone, the garden lights off, the pub quiet.

Time that he hit the road too.

“Can you get me a taxi?” he said, shoving his notes and recorder into his shoulder bag.

“On a Saturday night?” said the barman. “You gotta be kidding.”

Tom swore to himself.

Should have booked a cab hours ago, he thought.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and stood — then quickly grabbed the corner of the table as he swayed and nearly fell.

Whoa.

“You all right, pal?” said the lad, putting down the tray and reaching out to steady him.

Tom shrugged the hand away.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

“Walk it off, eh?” said the barman, taking the tray again and heading back towards the pub door. “Back down the river path — nice night for it.”

Tom watched him go, and, under his breath, swore again. But then he carefully threaded his way through the empty tables, using them as navigational props when he felt his balance going, as the last strings of garden lights went out, one by one.

By the time he reached the little gate onto the road, the pub was in silence, dark. Didn’t seem like a soul was about. He held onto the gatepost, still swaying, getting his bearings.

Somewhere to his right, down the lane, he saw a shadow moving. Then it stopped.

Cat? Dog? Cow? Out here — in the middle of absolutely nowhere — could be anything.

He held his shoulder bag tight against his side, stepped onto the road, took a few wobbly paces onto the old bridge and put a steadying hand on the parapet. The stone felt cold.

He peered over the edge. In the light from the half moon, he could just see the river — black and silver as it flowed beneath.

Damn. A whisky for the road would have been nice, he thought. Then he remembered: there was another pub on the far bank! Maybe staying open late?

After all, it is Saturday night!

He hurried across the bridge as best he could — but stopped halfway. As he peered into the darkness, he could see … the other pub was shut too.

Then he heard the sound of a car in the distance, and he turned. Behind him he saw lights approaching. It was coming fast. The bridge was narrow, and Tom pressed himself against the parapet.

As the car raced past and a horn blared, Tom put out his thumb, almost as a lark, hoping for a lift.

But the car didn’t stop — the passengers jeering, laughing and shouting at him as it passed. Tom stuck a defiant middle finger in the air as it disappeared into the distance.

Looked like he didn’t have a choice. The walk back to Cherringham along the riverbank would easily take the best part of an hour.

But — hey — it wouldn’t be time wasted. Already he was rolling the story in his head, shifting paragraphs, rewriting the intro, adding colour, punching up the moments, the big reveal.

Oh — and what a reveal.

Sheeran had told him everything. Named names. Given him numbers. Nailed the inconsistencies in the original story all those years ago, revealed all the lies.

The interview was everything Tom had dreamed it would be — and more. It would be the making of him.

No — the remaking.

He grinned and started to walk across the bridge — and then from nowhere felt a hand grab, digging deep into his shoulder, then spinning him round so fast he nearly fell backwards.

And suddenly he was struggling with someone. No — not struggling. Fighting!

He glimpsed leather gloves, a black balaclava. This person was strong — or maybe, after all his pints, he was just so weak, still drunk, his legs almost collapsing beneath him as the man (or woman — who knew?) grabbed at his jacket, his flailing arms.

And then, as his bag strap was wrenched from his shoulder, he realised what they were after.

His bag! With his phone, his recorder, his notes …

His story!

He tugged back on the bag with all his drunken strength, shouting and cursing, but with this other person pulling even harder.

For a second, he saw this scene as it would appear in the documentary he planned to make. This attack, almost comical — two children fighting over a school satchel — but then the clasp on the shoulder bag broke, snapping away, and he felt himself flying backwards, the bag still clutched tight in his arms.

He hit the low stone parapet of the bridge with the small of his back and just …

Tumbled over it, now seeing the moon so clearly in the black sky. One last glimpse of his assailant above him peering down over the parapet, then just helplessly falling, falling, falling.

Until the cold, black, shocking water hit him hard. It wrapped itself around him and held him tight and dragged him below and he felt everything — his story, his future, his resurrection — disappear into the darkness.

2. A Body in the Water

Jack woke suddenly, eyes instantly wide open, and saw Riley his spaniel sitting at the side of the bed, staring right at him, the early morning sunshine bright through the curtains.

“Hey — what is it, boy?” Jack said, knowing that Riley’s morning routine was usually to scratch at the wheelhouse door if he wanted to go out.

For a moment, Jack listened to the morning sounds of the old barge and the river: the gentle creaks and slap of the water, a couple of ducks quacking, the distant chug of an outboard — nothing unusual.

Then … something. Voices in the distance. Hurried, concerned — some shouts.

He slipped on shorts and a T-shirt, then a fleece as it was still early. Sneakers shoved on, he headed through the boat’s saloon and galley, up onto the deck of The Grey Goose, picking up his sunglasses on the way, Riley following eagerly.

Outside, Jack looked down the riverbank along the line of boats and barges. Then he spotted a cluster of people on the back of one of the barges, and he recognised his neighbour Ray manoeuvring a rowing boat up to the barge as people shouted instructions.

“Well, what we got here, Riley?” said Jack, and together they walked down the towpath to see what was up.

Nobody minded nosy neighbours in the little barge community. It was just a fact of life — if you moored up here then you couldn’t expect to keep many secrets.

But you could also be sure if those secrets came out, they wouldn’t be shared beyond the riverbank.

“Jack!” said Ray from the boat, as he approached. “Great! Just the fella we need.”

“Don’t know about that,” said Jack. “Not had my morning joe yet. What’s up, Ray?”

He nodded to the little group on the back of the barge: the old hippy couple, Ian and Maggie; and Jimmy Hooper, the jovial, retired car mechanic who he’d been sharing single malts and stories with till late last night.

Jimmy had been opening up to Jack about his adventures running a bar in Spain, until the new residency rules had forced him back to England last year.

“Hey Jack,” said Jimmy. “How’s your old head this morning?”

“Not bad,” said Jack, smiling. “Better the whisky, better the hangover.”

“So, they say,” said Jimmy, grinning.

“You’d better come aboard, Jack,” said Ian, his face serious, and Jack walked over the gangplank onto The Astral Traveller (aptly named, as Ian and Maggie had a secret crop of cannabis growing behind a hedge on the towpath). “’Fraid, we need your help.”

Jack, with Riley still at his heels, joined the group and peered over the side where Ray, in the little boat, had a barge pole prodded into the water, holding something steady against the side of the barge.

That something was, Jack quickly realised …

A body.

“Ah, I see,” he said, then he looked at the group. “Hmm. Anyone checked if they’re alive?”

Ian, Maggie, Jimmy and Ray gazed at him like they were all suddenly guilty.

“Dammit, no,” said Ian, “we just thought, you know, it’s not moving, kinda unlikely, better wait for the police, don’t want to interfere—”

“Anyone phoned them?” said Jack. “Ambulance too?”

He saw the group look at each other, and realised they were all in a state of shock. Immobilised by the unlikely event of a body floating up against one of their boats, face down.

Guess it’s not every day something like this happens, thought Jack. Gotta cut them a bit of slack.

“Okay,” he said. “Ian, why don’t you make those calls quick? Yeah? And meantime, well, the rest of us can get the body out, whoever they are—”

Jack could see on their faces a reluctance at that proposition.

He had fished many a corpse out of the Hudson and East Rivers.

But for the average person? Tough stuff.

“Poor soul,” said Maggie.

Jack crouched down, and Jimmy joined him.

From below in his dinghy, Ray positioned himself to help.

“Everyone grab tight,” Jack said, and he closed his hands on the man’s jacket, right at the shoulders. Everyone had a hold.

“Okay,” Jack said, “on the count of three. One, two, three …”

And with everyone tugging and pulling, they managed to heave the sodden body — the wet clothes adding to the weight — up onto the deck … but with Jimmy nearly falling backwards with the effort.

Jack was quick to roll the body over and check for vital signs — though he quickly knew from long experience that this poor guy was well beyond saving.

For “guy” it was.

Jack made a quick assessment: hundred fifty pounds or so; maybe in his late fifties, early sixties; jacket, tie, suit pants, one shoe missing; probably not been in the water more than a day.

“Oh gosh,” came Jimmy’s voice from beside him, and Jack turned to see his neighbour backing away, hand to his mouth.

The old fellow, clearly rattled.

“Don’t worry, Jimmy,” said Jack, realising the poor man was in shock. “Normal to react like that.”

“Sorry Jack,” said Jimmy. “Just can’t, it’s too …”

“Hey, no problem,” said Jack. “Why don’t you just head back to your boat, no need to hang around here.”

Ian spoke up: “I called the police. Here any minute.”

“Right, this is their problem now.”

He saw Maggie, with a nod to Jack and her husband, put a protective arm around the shaken Jimmy and lead him off the boat back to his own barge.

“Ah! That’s the police, already,” said Ian, cocking his head at the sound of a siren. Jack looked up to see him pointing to the local police car coming down the track from Cherringham Bridge towards them. “I’m guessing though … no rush for the ambulance?”

“No,” said Jack. “’Fraid not.” He watched Ray tie up the rowing boat, then hop up onto the bank and come over to join him and Ian standing over the body on the deck of The Astral Traveller.

“Wonder if he’s local?” said Jack, looking at his neighbours. “Anyone recognise him?”

“Hard to tell,” said Ray. “Face looking all weird. Hey. Hang on. Wait a minute. I think — yeah — seen him at the Ploughman’s over the years.”

“Any idea of a name?” said Jack.

“Dunno. Think maybe he’s some kind of reporter?”

Jack looked back at the body a tad more carefully now, checking for any sign of injury not consistent with a straight drowning. But he couldn’t see anything.

Anyway, that would be for the autopsy to explore.

He stood up, wiping his wet hands on his fleece, and watched as Alan Rivers, Cherringham’s lone police officer, pulled up, climbed out of the car, and hurried over.

“Jack,” he said, climbing aboard the barge and looking at the small group. “Who made the call?”

“I did,” said Ian. “My boat.”

“Our boat,” said Maggie, reappearing on the riverbank and now putting her arm in her husband’s.

Alan nodded, and Jack watched as he crouched down to look at the body. Jack felt he saw an expression of recognition from the policeman. After a few moments of thought, Alan stood up and looked around, as if to take in the situation.

“Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you people stay out here so I can get names and statements while we wait for the ambulance and some back-up.”

Jack wondered whether he should fetch Jimmy, but then thought — hey, not my job. Let the old guy be, rattled as he is.

Even as they all obeyed Alan’s instructions, Jack saw the ambulance crossing Cherringham Bridge then turning down onto the track. Another car followed it, and soon both vehicles were parked up, the paramedics quickly coming over to talk to Alan as he set up a small cordon with police tape.

Jack’s eye was now drawn to the occupant of the other car that had arrived.

A woman, maybe in her twenties, stepped out, phone in hand, and walked over: she stood to one side of the tape and Jack saw her look at the body, then at the group of bystanders.

He noticed Alan look up briefly and give her just the briefest of nods — they clearly knew each other.

Then the woman took a deep breath, walked away from the group and stood on the riverbank, staring at the body that was still as yet uncovered on the deck of The Astral Traveller.

Curious. Jack walked over, stood at her side.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Thank you,” said the woman, still gazing at the river. Then she turned, her eyes narrow, suspicious. “Wait — how do you know I know him?”

“Sorry,” said Jack. “Used to be a cop. I’m used to guessing at such things.”

That answer seemed to reassure the woman. He waited for her to tell him more, to explain, reveal the relationship — in his experience it was what people did when confronted by death. But instead — she pulled out a notebook.

“Did you find him?” she said.

“Um, you a reporter?” said Jack.

“Yes.”