3. Eight Months Later

Jack noticed his springer spaniel, Riley, starting to walk oddly as they hit the gangplank to his canal boat, The Grey Goose.

The early morning walk across the icy meadows had been without incident.

And though Jack had nearly slipped to the ground a couple of times, Riley had — as usual — shown no concern about the treacherous conditions and the bracing wind.

These last few weeks had been as cold as Jack had ever known it in Cherringham — so bitterly, relentlessly cold that even the river itself had started to freeze.

But now, he watched Riley limping and knew something was up.

Usually, at the end of a walk, Riley would have dashed up and down that plank half a dozen times, as if eager to be out of the cold as much as Jack. But now he took the incline of the plank carefully, slowly, obviously favouring his left front paw.

“Hey boy, something wrong there?”

Riley looked at Jack as if wanting to answer.

“We’ll get inside, out of the cold, then take a look, okay?”

Riley had been his dog ever since he’d come to Cherringham. In fact, Jack couldn’t imagine living here without Riley on the boat, always ready for walk, a run. And, on the warm days, a vigorous game of fetch.

If there was anything seriously wrong, Cherringham had a good vet, just at the far end of the town. Always good for Riley’s shots, and the occasional check-up.

Careful not to slip on the icy deck, Jack opened the door to the boat’s saloon, and Riley immediately — and uncharacteristically — went to his pillow bed, and curled up, as if hoping whatever was bothering him would just go away. But Jack pulled a wooden chair from his small table close to Riley and his bed, and crouched down low.

“Okay, boy — just gonna take a look at that paw, right?”

Riley kept his head firmly nuzzled into both front paws and the pillow itself.

Jack reached down, very gently unentangled that right front paw, then raised it a bit. Riley made a small noise — not of protest, Jack thought. Just a sound indicating there was some pain there.

Jack slid out his phone to turn its light on: the pad of Riley’s paw at first looked okay. But then Jack saw the problem.

A needle-like piece of wood was buried deep in the paw, and had probably been driven deeper with each step Riley had taken after picking it up.

“Ah, there we are. A splinter. No one likes those, Riley. Imagine it feels a lot worse when you walk on all fours? Won’t take a second.”

And Jack — again so gently — laid the paw back down and walked back to the ship’s small head, with an even smaller medicine cabinet, with just a few essentials.

He opened the cabinet and retrieved a pair of tweezers — always useful for when Riley picked up a tick — and a small tube of antiseptic.

Then back to Riley.

“Only take a second,” Jack said. And he lifted the paw, and, fastening the tweezers on the small bit of the splinter that protruded, he slid it out.

And Riley’s eyes went wide.

But he didn’t moan or growl. He was too good a dog for that.

“Now, a little something to make it feel better,” Jack said.

He unscrewed the tube, squeezed out a dollop of the ointment, and dabbed it at the entry point of the splinter. If Riley kept his outdoor ramblings to the absolute minimum, he should be fine.

Jack stood up, slid the chair back.

Riley’s response to the medical procedure was to shut his eyes.

Time for some breakfast, Jack thought.

There was a familiar rat-a-tat knocking at the Goose’s door. Familiar because Jack knew only one person who dropped in, and signalled it with that rhythmic pattern of knocks. Jack’s affable neighbour, friend, and someone who liked his beer and weed in equal measure — Ray Stroud.

*

As Jack turned to the door, Ray, without waiting, opened it and leaned in — and Jack could see that this was no jovial visit by his stoner friend.

“Ray … little early for you, isn’t? More of an ‘up by noon’, kind of guy? Got a job interview?”

Normally, Jack’s joke would have produced a smile.

But Ray, someone who played life loose and fast, now looked stony faced.

“Jack, I wonder if I could—” Ray looked around the boat as if checking they were alone.

Yes, not the Ray of late nights and burning the midnight oil.

“Yeah, Ray?”

“—have a word?”

“Sure, take a seat and I’ll—”

But Ray shook his head.

“No. I mean back at my boat.”

Jack said nothing to that. This whole thing was odd, certainly for Ray. Now the request to join him on his ramshackle boat.

“No worries, Ray. Glad to have a chat anywhere.”

He didn’t add that he was now curious exactly why it had to be on Ray’s boat.

But putting his heavy Barbour coat back on, and grabbing a cap, Jack nodded to his friend.

“Lead on.”

And Ray, almost as if he didn’t really want to go back to his boat, turned, and walked in front of Jack as they left The Grey Goose for the old Magnolia.

*

Climbing up the plank to Ray’s barge was always a challenge. A piece of wobbly wood that could barely fit one person, it creaked and wobbled as Jack, at nearly a hundred and seventy pounds, made his way up.

One of these days, he thought, one wrong step on Ray’s plank, and I’ll find myself in the water.

But Ray kept bustling ahead. As Jack entered, the smell of ganja — as always — was heavy inside the boat, along with a few other odours of unknown origin, discernible in the fog of smoke from Ray’s ancient wood-burning stove.

Ray shut his door tight, turned, and hurried to the aft end of the boat, where Jack knew there was a small sunken area where Ray — if the effort of finding his actual bed seemed too much — would often happily pass out.

But now, as Jack took the steps down, minding his head on the low ceiling beam as he did, he saw that the space was occupied …

By a man, who looked like he must indeed be one of Ray’s clan.

Longish, stringy hair. A full chin of stubble. A thick plaid shirt that could easily hide a host of drops and dribbles. Jeans showing signs of mud, paint.

The man looked up as Ray, clearing his throat (the time for a formal introduction having arrived) said, “Jack, this is one of my mates, Charlie Topper. And he says he’s in a whole lotta trouble.”

Jack nodded at this. Bent over with the low ceiling, he looked for a clean space on the tattered U-shaped settee to sit.

Why did Ray come to me? he wondered.

He guessed he wouldn’t have long to wait to find out.

*

“You can trust him, Charlie. Go on. Tell him all about it.”

Jack watched as Charlie rubbed his bristly chin, as if still assessing the risks of talking to this tall, unknown Yank.

“It won’t go beyond these four walls?” said Charlie, peering at Jack.

“Not a word,” said Jack, curious as to how Ray’s boat might have four walls.

“Go on, Charlie,” said Ray.

“Right then. Well, here’s the thing, Jack. This last week, there’s stuff been happening to me. Bad stuff. Accidents … that aren’t accidents. Know what I mean?”

“Maybe,” said Jack. “Explain.”

“Close calls. Like someone wanted to do me some damage. Take me out of the picture.”

Jack nodded, listening, but also gauging Charlie Topper’s words.

“For instance?” he said.

“Got a small gas stove in my place. Monday morning, bloody gas is on, pilot light out. Kitchen full of gas! If I’d turned the light switch on, could have killed me.”

And Jack thought, well whatever Charlie Topper’s lifestyle included, taking extra care with the gas stove was probably not one of them.

“You said other stuff?”

Charlie nodded. “My old car. It’s a bit of a wreck, I tell you. But I get the basics taken care of when needed. Anyhow, Wednesday night, I’m about to climb in it, after a couple of jars down the Railway Inn, and I spot all this liquid on the ground. I’m thinking, oh no, got a damn oil leak. But it wasn’t oil, not at all! All the bloody brake fluid had been drained! If I hadn’t spotted it, car could have smashed into who knows what. Killing me!”

Again, Jack thought, car safety and maintenance were probably not high on the list for this colleague of Ray’s — and certainly no thought of the dangers of drinking and driving.

“More?” Jack said.

Charlie seemed to hesitate at that. But then, with a verbal nudge from Ray:

“Go on, Charlie. Tell him the last thing.”

“Had a note through my letterbox …”

“Do you have it?”

“No. Spooked me, it did. So I chucked it. But it said ‘Leave now — or you’re dead’. Someone threatening me, right there, Jack. No accident...