2. A Knock on the Door

Jack stepped out of the Railway Arms, stood under the street lamp, and pulled his coat tight.

Although it was April, the nights were still chilly and there was a heavy mist in the air, making the street shimmer wet.

Behind him in the pub, he could hear the stag team — now at the group singing stage — their evening still a long way from being over.

“Fancy a coffee or a tea, Jack?”

Jack turned to see Len, coat on, pub door swinging behind him. “My place is just down on the bridge road. Wood-burner’ll be lit, so it’ll be nice and cosy.”

Jack paused. It was late, and he was really just looking forward to getting back to his barge, The Grey Goose, down on the river.

And Riley, his Springer, would probably be hoping for a quick few minutes ashore before turning in too.

But he’d enjoyed Len’s company as the night had gotten wilder, and a cup of tea and a chat by an open fire sounded like a good way to end the evening.

Especially as it was on his way home anyway.

“Got something stronger if you still feel like drinking,” said Len. “Single malt perhaps?”

Surprising that, for someone who didn’t drink.

“Ha, man after my own heart,” said Jack. “What are we waiting for?”

And together they walked in easy silence down Cherringham High Street, past the Ploughman’s, turning off down Mogdon Lane, until they reached a row of old cottages fronted by shrubs and picket fence.

Len led the way to the front door of the first cottage, then turned and whispered, “Lizzie’ll be in bed by now, so we’ll have to be a bit quiet. Just slip through to the studio at the back.”

He went inside and Jack followed him in, shutting the door gently behind him. He looked around. The place felt homely and lived in. Old furniture, but modern art on the walls. Lots of photos of family — Jack could see Grace prominent in most of them.

He took off his coat and hung it up, then went through with Len into the kitchen.

“I’ll get the tea going, you help yourself to a scotch from the cupboard there,” said Len, filling the kettle. “Pot luck what’s in there, I never know.”

Jack went over to the cupboard and took out a bottle.

“Twelve-year old Macallan?” he said. “For a man who doesn’t drink you have good taste, Len.”

Len laughed and handed Jack a glass. “Oh, once upon a time I liked a dram or two. I know the good stuff — just don’t fancy it myself anymore.”

Jack poured, sipped, savoured this — one of his favourite whiskies.

“Right then — tea’s made,” said Len. “Let’s go through to the studio.”

And Jack followed him as he opened a door that led off the kitchen.

*

“My man cave, Lizzie calls it,” said Len, throwing another log on the burner then shutting the glass door and adjusting the wheel. “To me it’s my office.”

Jack sat back in the old leather armchair, enjoying the whisky and the late-night feel, with the lights soft and Coltrane playing through Len’s surprisingly serious speakers. Heavy-duty Yamahas, with what had to be 12-inch woofers.

Very classy, thought Jack.

He nodded to the small mixing desk in the corner, monitors and keyboard.

“I guess these days you don’t need a lot of space to record,” he said. “What kind of stuff you compose?”

“Commercials, documentaries, pretty much anything if it pays. Pretty low-key to be honest. Used to do a bit of radio drama, but these days, budgets aren’t up to much.”

“I’m guessing the church and the choir gigs don’t pay?”

Jack had first met Len a couple of years back when he joined the basses in the village choir and sang the “Messiah”. Len had recorded the whole show and somehow — to Jack’s ears anyhow — made them sound almost like a professional choir.

“Ha, no, that’s all pro-bono. Lizzie’s always been a regular churchgoer. I got roped in years ago to help out with the audio for services. Gets more hi-tech every year!”

“Guess you’ll be sorting the music for the big day?” said Jack.

“Oh, you bet. Been going through the line-up with Grace for months. It’ll be special.”

“I’m sure it will be,” said Jack. “Grace is a lovely kid — well, hey, not a kid anymore, but you know what I mean?”

“Always a kid to me. Apple of my eye.”

“Big deal, when one of your kids gets married.”

“I’m loving every minute. Apart from the bills, of course.”

“Ha, tell me about it,” said Jack, laughing. “Just a few days away, now, huh?”

“Walking Grace down that aisle — be the proudest day of my life. Really.”

“Know the feeling,” said Jack, remembering.

“You got a daughter too?”

“That’s right. She’s a doctor in LA. Even got a granddaughter too.”

“You see them much?”

“Not nearly enough,” said Jack, his heart dipping as it always did when he had that thought. “Kinda tough for her to get the time off, fly over, you know? I’m due to head over for a visit soon. Maybe, dunno, make it a long stay. Did that once when she needed some help.”

“Bet you miss her. And your grandkid!”

“I certainly do,” said Jack, taking another sip of the Macallan, listening to a few more bars of Coltrane’s sax. “You got any other kids, Len?”

Len took a breath. Painful subject?

“No. We had Grace a year after Lizzie and I met. We decided that was fine, we’d stop there; Lizzie doing long shifts at the hospital, not a ton of cash coming in and all. So — one kid was enough.”

“Well, you’re lucky to have her,” said Jack. “She’s a star.”

“Oh, I know,” said Len. “She is.”

The doorbell rang, followed by a loud double knock.

Jack looked at Len — his face surprised.

“After midnight,” said Jack as both of them got up. “Strange.”

“Maybe Nick? Some kind of trouble.”

“State they were in, wouldn’t surprise me.”

Len got up, and Jack followed him.

Through the glass of the front door, Jack could see tall shapes silhouetted against the blue lights of an emergency vehicle of some kind.

And he could hear the sound of a radio.

Len looked alarmed as he opened the front door to reveal Cherringham’s local cop, Alan Rivers. Behind him, Jack saw two more police constables and a police van.

Alan — clearly surprised to see Jack standing in the doorway next to Len.

“Alan,” said Jack.

But Alan didn’t answer. Instead he turned to Len.

“Leonard Taylor?” he said.

“Yes, Alan. You bloody know who I am. What is it? Something with the lads, the stag do, or—”

Jack could see that Alan looked completely uncomfortable.

“I am arresting you under the authority of an EU warrant,” he cleared his throat, “issued by the Spanish government, for the offence of murder,” another rumble from Officer Rivers’s throat, “committed in San Antonio on the island of Ibiza in 1990.”

Jack stared at Alan, his mind racing — as an ex-cop — trying to rapidly figure out what on earth was happening here.

Could this be a prank? Some bad joke?

“What?” said Jack.

He looked at Len. The man stood frozen, as if in some kind of trance.

Frozen — but not as surprised as Jack might have expected.

“Len — what is it? What’s going on?” came a woman’s voice from up on the stairs behind Jack.

Jack turned to see Len’s wife Lizzie — he recognised her from the choir — in her dressing gown, standing halfway down the stairs. She pulled the dressing gown tight as she looked in disbelief at the group in the hallway.

Jack moved to one side as Alan stepped forward, his manner abrupt, official. He unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt, reached forward and cuffed Len — the man still frozen.

“You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

And with those words, the two constables stepped forward, one hand each on Len’s shoulders, and shuffled him towards the door. For a few seconds Len seemed to slowly become aware what was happening.

“Don’t worry, Lizzie,” he said. “It’s just … just a thing. Not a word to Grace — okay? Not a word. Please. I’ll get it all sorted.” Then, almost a whisper. “All a mistake.”

Then the men bundled him out through the front door into the dark April night, the lights of the van glowing in the misty air.

“Wait! You can’t do that!” shouted Lizzie. “What the hell? Len!”

Lizzie came flying down the stairs. Jack stepped in quickly, held her tight; the woman struggling to get to her husband,...