The Angler's Tale E-Book

Jack Benton

• Herausgeber: AMMFA Publishing
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Attempting to forget his problems with the bottle, former soldier turned private detective John “Slim” Hardy joins what ought to be a peaceful fishing package holiday in Dartmouth, South Devon. But when a violent tragedy affects one of the other tour guests, Slim finds himself on the trail of a potential killer.

Set in the beautiful surrounds of the River Dart estuary and Agatha Christie’s Greenway, The Angler’s Tale will take Slim Hardy into places darker than any he has faced before.

Leseprobe

The Angler’s Tale

Jack Benton

The Slim Hardy Mystery Series

The Man by the Sea

The Clockmaker’s Secret

The Games Keeper

Slow Train

The Angler’s Tale

“The Angler’s Tale”

Copyright © Jack Benton / Chris Ward 2020

The right of Jack Benton / Chris Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.

This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

Contents

The Angler’s Tale

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

About the Author

Contact

Become a Patron

Acknowledgments

For the real Alan McDonald,

the finest of men

The Angler’s Tale

1

John Hardy pulled the REDUCED sticker off the little cardboard box and peered through the plastic lid at the iced sponge cake inside. He smiled. Small enough not to threaten his nickname of “Slim”, but large enough for a celebration.

He dropped it into his basket, as an afterthought adding a pack of candles.

A gong sounded from somewhere overhead. Slim glanced at his watch: 3 a.m. Only the dead and the solitary shopped at such a time, and since he felt more or less alive he had to fall into the other category.

Giving the closed booze aisle a wide berth, he headed for the home goods aisle.

Might as well add a token present.

He paused, rubbing the stubble on his chin as he peered at the gloomy shelves, the overhead lights on half-power here. Perhaps a roll of duct tape to hold down the curling corner of living room carpet, or a new mop and bucket to fight the mould creeping across the kitchen floor.

Camping gear appealed, the idea of vanishing into the wilderness, never to return, but his budget was fifteen quid and the cheapest tents were over twenty.

He settled on a beginner fishing set, £14.99.

Perfect.

He had once briefly lived on a canal, but the closest he had come to fishing was begging outside the local chip shop for a few leftovers at closing time. How hard could it be? The set even came with a small instruction booklet in plastic wrap rolled around the thickest section of rod.

With a smile that for once felt genuine rather than ironic, he picked up the set and balanced it across the top of his basket.

He ate his cake when he got home half an hour later, wished himself happy birthday, and washed it down with a coffee thick and bitter enough to wake the dead.

Then, conversely, he lay on his bed and tried to sleep, staring at the ceiling for a pointless hour before rising again, taking a shower and then brewing another coffee.

He had some stale bread so he toasted it as black as his coffee then doused it in butter and crunched it while he stared at a local Ordnance Survey map.

There. The River Tewkes, leading into Longwell Reservoir. Far enough away from any real civilisation that he could enjoy his birthday in peace.

It was just getting light outside so Slim headed out. He bought a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water from a corner shop, then located a bus stop with a line that stopped within walking distance of the river. An hour later he was trudging along a narrow, overgrown lane that meandered its way down into a river valley. The Tewkes, twenty feet wide in places, flowed languidly through pastureland. Finding a dry, grassy spot hidden from the field by a stand of trees, Slim laid down a blanket and set up his gear.

It was a quarter past ten when he poked the hook through a piece of ham taken from his sandwich and made his first cast. It struck the water’s surface with a comforting plop and sank out of sight. Slim watched the little float bobbing up and down, feeling a rare sense of calm. He smiled at the ease of it all, wondering if catching an actual fish was even necessary. With the line extending out into the water and the rod propped up on a rock, he lay back on his blanket and closed his eyes.

2

The missed call was from Kim, his elderly secretary.

‘I wondered if you’d be coming into the office tomorrow,’ she said when he made the call back that evening.

‘Actually, I was thinking of taking a short holiday,’ Slim said.

‘Well, you’re the boss after all. I can keep things going while you’re away. However, I will need to forward a few messages which require your response, if that’s at all possible. I know you’re picky about your cases, but you’re turning down a lot of good work being so finicky about what you take on. Have you ever thought about hiring more staff?’

Slim shook his head. With his phone held against his ear with one hand, he opened a birthday card with the other, pushing his nails under the seam and splitting it along the gum line.

The light scent of a familiar perfume revealed the sender before he opened it. Lia. Slim stared at the name for a long time, then ran a finger over the line added at the bottom.

Call me sometime.

He would. Perhaps.

‘…I mean, many of these cases are routine,’ Kim was saying, although Slim had filtered out a large portion of her discourse as he remembered the few blissful days with Lia before he had broken his sobriety at a family party and things had gone wrong again. ‘You could have someone doing the basic investigations and the drudge work while you concentrate on more intricate things.’

‘I hear what you’re saying, Kim.’

‘I’m not sure you do, Mr. Hardy. I know it’s not my place to tell you how to run your business, but with the press you’ve received over the last couple of years, you could be running a six-figure business by now. I’ve seen your accounts … and you can barely afford to pay me. I don’t know how you get by on what little’s left. I’ve had to buy toilet roll out of the petty cash because the fee from the Webster fraud case won’t be deposited until next week.’

‘We have petty cash?’

‘It’s that jar under your desk that you always raid for your coffee.’

‘It’s empty.’

‘I know it is. I started putting the money somewhere else because it was disappearing quicker than I could top it up.’

Slim couldn’t help but smile. Kim was like the mother his own had never been. He rarely thought about the woman who had brought him into the world, but when he did it was of snoring behind a closed door as he left for school, or fake fur wrapped so tight it could have choked her as she headed out, leaving meals uncooked, rooms uncleaned, an ashtray full on the kitchen table, sometimes an empty bottle or two, and the sensation that his presence in her life was an unwanted one, an unnecessary burden.

At his mother’s funeral he had promised he would never end up like her, but in many ways he was a mirror image.

‘Thanks for thinking about me,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep it in mind. By the way, do you know how to cook a fish?’

‘What kind of fish?’

Slim glanced across at the kitchen tabletop. The single fish he had caught lay on a chopping board with a knife beside it, awaiting its destiny.

‘It’s about eight inches long. I caught it in a river.’

‘Could be trout. Top and tail it, gut it and put it under the grill, a minute or two on each side.’

‘Can’t it be deep fried? I was thinking of grabbing a portion of chips, make a real celebration of it.’

‘Celebration?’

‘My birthday.’

‘Oh, well, I mean, I must have seen it on your documents somewhere—’

Slim smiled. ‘It’s okay. I’m not one for parties or anything like that.’

Kim sighed. ‘Well, it’s probably not a good idea to deep fry it unless you know what you’re doing, and men usually don’t. If you’re not careful you could burn your house down.’

‘I’m on the top floor of three,’ he said. ‘The two below would be safe, wouldn’t they?’

From the other end of the line came a long groan. ‘Sometimes, Mr. Hardy, I think you need a good woman at home to keep you in order.’

Slim couldn’t help but smile. ‘Are you offering?’

‘That depends on the pension plan. I’m not sure I have the legs in me to keep picking up after you. It’s hard enough keeping your office tidy. So, where are you off to?’

‘I’m going on a fishing holiday,’ Slim said. ‘Along the Dart Estuary. I’ll be back by the end of the week.’

He hadn’t booked it yet, but as he said the words he ran his finger along the catalogue he had picked up in the free rack in the local newsagent, his finger hovering over the phone number.

‘It sounds nice, Mr. Hardy. I suppose you have to do what you have to do, in order to escape the trappings of fame.’

‘I’m sure I’ll be hounded mercilessly,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of buying a new jacket to confuse them.’

‘You’d better consider something other than grey-green or black in that case,’ Kim said. ‘You are, of course, aware of the existence of other colours?’ She started chuckling at her own joke, before adding, ‘In all seriousness, I wish you a good trip.’

‘Thanks.’

For a few minutes they talked over what business Kim could handle without help while he was away, and for what he would need to be contactable. He had hoped to disappear, but was finding that the arms of the world refused to let him go now that he had a business which, despite his best efforts at self-sabotage, was proving a moderate success.

Perhaps Kim was right. Perhaps he should employ someone to run things in his name, allowing him to slip quietly away into whatever sense of oblivion he chose.

But that would be the easy option.

A fishing trip for people trying to stay off the booze. Rehab in all but name.

He had left that part out of their conversation.

He dialled the number and found his hands shaking as he waited for someone to answer.

‘How may I help you?’ came a pleasant woman’s voice.

‘Uh … hello. I’d like to ask about availability for next week.’

There was a short pause. Slim considered hanging up. Then, the same woman’s voice said, ‘We have a number of vacancies on several of our tours. Did you have any particular location in mind?’

3

Dartmouth’s Castle View Hotel lived up to its name only by a sliver if one craned one’s neck from the outer corner of the front terrace to see past the edge of the neighbouring property’s high garden walls, but nevertheless the view of Kingswear on the opposite hill across the Dart Estuary was as impressive as anything Slim had ever seen. To the south, the hills opened up to reveal the English Channel beyond the river’s mouth, while to the north, the river swung languidly up through imposing forested hills spotted with luxury homes, the masts of dozens of moored yachts glittering in the sun like shiny needles.

Set on a steep hillside, by the time Slim had climbed the thirty-five steps from the road up to the hotel’s entrance, he was too tired to explore the terraced gardens accessed through a gate to the rear. A narrow front patio was home to several benches, picnic tables, and sun loungers, so Slim got a coffee from the self-service machine inside the dining room and took it outside.

A few other guests were enjoying the afternoon sunshine, some talking, others sipping coffee or fruit juice, one man crunching an oat bar which sent a cascade of crumbs over his knees with each bite. Slim took a seat at an empty table and gazed out across the valley, idly watching a couple of sightseeing ferries pass each other, one heading directly across to Kingswear, the other upriver in the direction of Totnes. A short distance north on the far bank, a party of canoeists explored the inlets beneath the trees, while on the near side a tourist-laden paddle steamer worked its way between two moored yachts, both large and spectacular enough to be worth more than the hotel rising over Slim’s shoulder.

‘Makes you want to quit your job and move down, doesn’t it?’ came a voice from behind him. As a shadow fell over Slim, the man added, ‘What’s your line of work?’

Slim paused before answering, hunting a suitably passive answer that would satisfy this yet unseen stranger without provoking further questions.

‘I’m in research,’ he said at last, realising as the words came out that he’d chosen the worst possible thing to say.

‘What kind?’ the newcomer said, pulling a plastic chair out from beneath an adjacent table and setting it down across from Slim. ‘Consumer? No, I bet it’s educational. I thought so. You have the look of a man fighting injustice. There’s a story in your eyes, I can see it.’

Slim wasn’t sure how to respond. He regarded the newcomer for a few seconds, taking in a face in its early sixties, a deeply unfashionable moustache spoiling weathered but otherwise handsome features. Eyes that wanted to know more than was due darted about, examining Slim’s appearance but at the same time taking in the other guests sitting across the patio, sizing them up, judging them one by one.

‘I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here,’ the man said. ‘I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?’ He reached up and tugged his mustache. ‘The disguise … it’s not a great effort, is it?’

Slim forced a smile. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

The man flashed a sideways grin and nodded furtively as though this were the expected response. He stuck out a hand.

‘Max Carson. It’s my voice, not my face that you remember. I host Country Club?’

‘Right.’

‘Radio Three. Are you a regular listener?’

Slim, who didn’t own a radio and had rarely had cause to listen to one since his military days ended, said, ‘Things got on top of you, too?’

Carson nodded. ‘It was my wife who insisted. She couldn’t handle the affairs, the booze and the Charles.’

Slim frowned. ‘Charles?’

Carson grimaced. ‘I’m being deliberately cryptic. You never know who’s listening, do you? Every man and his goddamn dog carries a hidden camera these days.’ He shifted closer, glanced over his shoulder, then pulled something out of a bag at his feet. Slim glimpsed a whisky miniature hidden inside Carson’s big hand as it visited his mouth with a quick jerk and then dropped out of sight again.

Slim had a moment of realisation. He had been thinking about more mundane things, but now it made sense. Charles. Charlie. Cocaine. Max Carson was a man from a fast lane Slim’s broken-down car of a life had never known.

‘Anyway,’ Carson continued, slipping the miniature back into his bag before Slim could get any ideas about asking for a turn, ‘you have to go through the motions, sometimes, don’t you? It’s easier to keep things out of sight and out of mind when you’re out of the public eye, isn’t it? I bet no one’s peering over your shoulder to see who you’re sleeping with?’

Slim, whose rocky patch with Lia had now lasted longer than their briefly euphoric good patch, just shrugged. ‘Not that I know of,’ he said. ‘No one much cares what I do in my private life.’

‘That’s the thing, isn’t it?’ Carson said, making himself comfortable. ‘I don’t doubt she has lovers of her own. I mean, I’ve caught her whistling while she’s making up the beds. It wouldn’t surprise me if half of Manchester has been through my bedroom while I’ve been out on location, but I have one little fling, do one little gram … and my career’s on the line. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’

‘Quite,’ Slim agreed.

Carson took him by the shoulder and leaned close. ‘I’m sensing we’re cut from the same cloth, you and me. Didn’t come down here for the fishing, did you? Not the kind on the brochure, at any rate.’ He pushed Slim’s shoulder until Slim had no choice but to turn in the direction of two middle-aged ladies sitting a couple of tables to their right. Both were a little overdressed, and while Slim saw only two faded wallflowers touched up just enough to turn the occasional reminiscent eye, he remembered Carson had nearly two decades on him. ‘I bet neither did they.’

‘I suppose you’d have to ask them,’ Slim said.

Carson grinned as one looked up and threw him a quick smile before ducking her head away. Cheeks painted with blusher appeared to take on an additional tint, although Slim supposed it could have been a reflection of the tabletop lacquer. ‘I already did. What’s say you and I head down to the harbour this evening and pick out a boat for a little river cruise? I could do with a wingman.’

Slim felt an urge to wash. He eased Carson’s hand off his shoulder and stood up. ‘While I appreciate the offer, I’m afraid I already have an appointment for tonight,’ he said, flashing a smile. ‘With my room and a newspaper.’

Carson’s countenance darkened. ‘Well, don’t come back begging me for another try tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Nobodies like you don’t get second chances with somebodies like me. I’m telling you, there are women in this town with more money than brains, and who cares about a husband off on his yacht somewhere?’

Slim resisted the urge to punch Carson in the face.

‘It was nice to meet you, Mr. Carson,’ he said. ‘If I spot a clean beer mat lying around I’ll come and find you for an autograph.’

As Slim made his way back into the hotel, he heard a coarse, ‘Don’t bother!’ aimed at his back, and wondered quite how low his karma stocks had fallen for him to have made an enemy on his first evening.

4

That night there was an arranged social event in the hotel’s banquet room. A trestle table laden with party food stood along one wall, with other tables and chairs haphazardly arranged around a politely sized dance floor. After an initial introduction and welcome speech by one of the tour company’s representatives, the guests were left to mingle. Slim, frustrated that there was a jug of orange juice and another of dandelion and burdock of all things, but no hot coffee, lingered near a window with a view out over the river.

Max Carson was nowhere to be seen, much to Slim’s relief. There was also no sign of either of the women Carson had been eyeing up, suggesting that there had been some truth to the aging radio personality’s claims. That or they were fighting a different kind of addiction and had realised a walk down through the village would be of more interest than the welcome event. Slim, feeling more and more like sneaking out to the nearest pub and to hell with recovery, was envious.

Worried he was beginning to look conspicuous, Slim reached into his back pocket and withdrew the folded tour brochure he had been handed on arrival. Another folded piece of card came out with it, and Slim stared at the crumpled remains of the birthday card Lia had sent him. He closed his eyes, thinking of calling her, then shook his head. No. It was better to let her go. She was fifteen years his junior, in the prime of her life. She didn’t need to ruin what should be her best years while he limped and struggled along beside her. It didn’t matter that she wanted to. It didn’t matter that she said that she loved him.

Sometimes, he thought, it was possible to disguise love with sympathy, and the misplacement of either could cause more hurt than it could remove.

A wastepaper basket poked out from beneath the nearest table. He went to throw the card away but changed his mind, sliding it back into his rear pocket. He would likely forget it when he next did his laundry anyway.

The tour brochure offered five days of combined fishing and sightseeing trips, coupled with evening social events. Everything was designed to be low stress and companionable, casually drawing the guests away from what life perils had jogged them into signing up. He had already overheard two men sharing gambling ills, one who had lost his family and another hanging on to his by a thread. Nearby, a pair of middle-aged women barely held back tears as they talked, one lamenting a sex addiction which had broken up her marriage and forced her husband into suicide, the other fighting depression and PTSD after a car accident in which the taking of too many prescription painkillers had resulted in her nodding off at the wheel and hitting a truck head on, killing her young son and his school friend who had been larking about, unbelted, in the back.

Suddenly a little alcoholism seemed like nothing. Slim picked at some finger food for a few minutes then went out to the lobby, where to his great relief the self-service drinks machine was still switched on. He grabbed a coffee then headed for the outdoor patio.

With a firm, chilly wind blowing in off the river, the patio was empty. Slim sat and watched the lights of the town below glittering off the water. A couple of boats moved among the static lights of the dozens of moored yachts, perhaps late night fishermen or pleasure seekers taking some alone time away from the tourist crowds. At the thought of couples enjoying each others’ company, Slim pulled his phone from his pocket and opened up the messages, thinking of sending one to Lia.

As he stared at the blinking icon, however, he knew he had nothing meaningful to say. I’m sorry. What for? Me being me. For being as useless as I told you I would be, for letting you down as I said I would, for dragging you into my tempest and letting the storm of my life rag you and toss you aside. I’m sorry for everything I told you would happen.

With a frown, he switched off his phone and put it away, then took a sip of coffee that wasn’t nearly strong enough.

He didn’t sleep particularly well, but a few hours were better than none at all. The room’s phone woke him, an automated service calling him down to breakfast.

The bleary eyes around him made it clear some of the other guests had already fallen prey to their personal demons. Max Carson was again nowhere to be seen; he had no doubt been lucky or unlucky, depending on the circumstances. Slim sat at a table for four. On one side was an overweight lady with a scrunched face who introduced herself with a smoker’s rasp as Irene Long. On his other was a young girl with long hair and wide, unblinking eyes. Eloise Trebuchet. Opposite sat a big man with a thick beard running up to eyes shaded by an overhanging brow. He didn’t introduce himself nor even glance in Slim’s direction, but a self-written name tag pinned to his shirt pocket labelled him as George Slade.

Before Slim could attempt a conversation, a tour rep stood up and called for quiet. The man, around thirty, handsome and smart in a blue shirt and checkered tie, introduced himself in an overtly flustered manner as Alex Wade. A colleague standing off to the side was Jane Hounslow. Alex continued, talking through the day’s itinerary while wiping sweat off his brow, leaving his sleeve visibly damp.

An hour later, Slim found himself sitting in the prow of a motorboat with a chill river breeze ruffling his hair. Eight other people sat around him, including Irene from breakfast. The group had been split into three, with his breakfast companions George Slade and Eloise Trebuchet allocated to one of the other two boats. As they bumped and skidded over the choppy water’s surface, Alex pointed out various local sights, but otherwise there was little conversation.

The first stop was a small inlet a couple of miles upriver where they disembarked at a rickety pier and followed a narrow path leading beneath the trees to a spot where Alex claimed they would find good perch and carp in beneath the riverbank. It was clear from the tackle carried by the passengers that the group ran the gauntlet from wannabe pros to complete beginners. While some had their own gear, others borrowed rods and tackle from the boat before making their way to secluded spots along the riverbank where deckchairs had already been arranged in the shade beneath the trees. There, they were left to their thoughts, with the guide, Alex, stopping past every thirty minutes or so.

Slim, proud to have remembered all his tackle, nevertheless caught only a piece of passing driftwood which became tangled in the line. A couple of fish had disturbed the water’s surface nearby, however, and he was convinced he was heading for a major catch when Alex wandered past and informed him it was time to move on.

What followed was lunch on the boat and then a trip to a local sightseeing spot where the group climbed a steep path through the forest up to the ruins of a stone-age hilltop fort. Despite a few grumbles, most people seemed in good spirits, and Slim found himself sharing pleasantries about the view with a Londoner called Dan who mentioned something offhand about a recently completed prison sentence.

After a short lecture on the site’s history, the group were given twenty minutes to wander before heading back down to the pier. Upon reaching it, they found an agitated Alex talking on his mobile phone, and as the guests climbed back into the boat, Alex’s look of dismay grew. When everyone was assembled, he ended his call then signalled to the driver to wait before starting the engine.

‘Can I have everyone’s attention, please? I’m afraid we have to cut short the day’s excursion.’ He paused to wipe his brow before taking a deep breath. ‘There’s been an incident.’

5

Alex refused to give any specific answers until everyone was back in the hotel’s banquet and function room, insisting that he knew little more than they the reason for the group’s unexpected recall. All sorts of rumours were circulating, but when two police officers climbed onto a podium at the far end of the room, Slim knew it was serious.

With everyone assembled, Alex took a microphone and called for order. As the hush settled, he introduced the police officers as PC Dave Rogers and WPC Marion Oaks. WPC Oaks, a slim, pretty lady a full head taller than her squat, muscular counterpart, took the microphone and cleared her throat.

‘I apologise for interrupting your day’s activities,’ she said. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. There’s been an accident.’

A ripple of noise passed through the crowd. Slim, standing near the back, glanced at Irene standing nearby. She had a hand over her mouth, her eyes already tearful.

‘Early this morning the body of a Mr. Max Carson, a guest on your tour, was found near Greenway House, a couple of miles upriver. Greenway House, as you may be aware, is owned by the National Trust and is a famous local tourist attraction. Mr. Carson is believed to have fallen from an unfinished railway bridge on an abandoned section of the Kingswear-to-Paignton line, a fall of approximately thirty feet. Early coroner’s reports suggest he died from a broken neck.’

As questions rose out of the ensuing noise, WPC Oaks lifted a hand. ‘There’s not a lot more I can tell you at this stage,’ she said. ‘Our investigation is still in progress. However, I would like to ask that all of you remain here at the hotel for the next forty-eight hours, until we have spoken with each of you. If anyone has what you believe to be relevant information, please come forward in a few minutes and get the attention of PC Rogers or myself. I’d like to mention that none of you is considered implicit in anything that might have occurred. We simply wish to establish Mr. Carson’s last movements, and whether anything he said gave a clue as to what later transpired.’

Regardless of the police officer’s words, people began to mutter among themselves about the falling eyes of suspicion, about how someone in the room had to be guilty of something. With so many fragile people present, within a couple of minutes several had begun to cry, one wailing so loudly that a couple of hotel staff helped the sobbing figure from the room.