3. The Cause of Death

"You stay there, Riley," said Jack Brennan, as he closed the shutters on the cabin doors and clicked the padlock carefully shut.

Riley stood waiting on the river bank, tail wagging, desperate to be unleashed into the nice summer morning and the delights of the meadow. Jack pocketed the key and stepped across the planks that linked his boat, which he'd christened 'The Grey Goose', to dry land.

Out of habit, he checked the mooring lines fore and aft and gave the big old Dutch barge a once-over along the waterline. Soon be time for another lick of paint, he thought to himself.

He was looking forward to it. He liked to be occupied.

Checking he had Riley's lead in his pocket, he set off down the towpath for their morning walk.

***

Three miles there and back: Jack Brennan had made this trip every morning, come rain, snow or shine, ever since he had arrived here from New York.

One and a half hours it took, including the coffee and free read of the paper up at the weird little cafe in the village. Time was he'd have run the miles but these days he valued his knees and was aiming to get another thirty years out of them, so walking was just fine.

Riley ran ahead, though never more than a hundred yards. The Springer knew the score: he and Jack had spent an interesting summer when Riley was just a puppy working out the terms of their relationship and now they had it down to a tee. Riley had finally agreed with all of Jack's rules - though he'd taken some persuading.

A tad wilful, not unlike his owner. Maybe more than a tad.

Jack breathed in deep. Today was just the kind of day that told him he'd made the right decision to come and live here. Though the morning had been quite cold and wet, the sun had come out and it was warming up already. On the other side of the river, a heat haze hung over the meadow and just overhead, the swallows dived and swooped.

It was a very long way from the gulls and fishing boats of Bay Ridge, New York.

Along the river all the residential boats were just coming alive with the sound of TVs, radios and the smell of bacon and eggs.

There were boats every twenty yards or so - a real hotchpotch of canal barges, river cruisers, yachts, little day-boats, speedboats. So English, this odd community.

But then, what would you expect at the cheaper end of the village? Further downstream, on the other side of Cherringham Toll Bridge, the big plastic gin-palaces were moored, boats big enough to host cocktail parties and outdoor dinners.

Jack guessed a good amount of London money found its way down here.

Not that he ever got invited. Jack Brennan was not the right sort. American, living on an old barge, daily shaving no longer mandatory. He had gotten used to the locals looking him up and down. Just a quick smile back, and they moved on, probably wondering . What's a Yank doing living here . and on the river no less?

As he reached a curve in the bank, Cherringham came into view up on the far hill and Jack could just hear the church bells ringing.

Tuesday, Bell Ringing Practice day, he thought. With a bit of luck they'd have stopped by the time he ordered his macchiato - much as he liked a bit of local colour, church bells had a time and a place, and during his breakfast wasn't it.

As he rounded the curve, Jack caught sight of something that jarred with the peaceful surroundings.

It was something that Jack had once known well, though not here, on his new home turf.

Up ahead by the weir sat an ambulance and two police cars, lights flashing. Nearby, there was a white truck, men scrambling out in matching white suits.

Jack guessed that they were crime scene investigators, though this British version looked more like a hazmat team.

They sure do things differently around here, he thought.

And that was a main reason he wanted to come this far. To get away. Far away. From a lot of things .

Police had surrounded the weir area with black-and-yellow tape, while up on the bridge a handful of locals stood watching the show .

"Riley!" he called. Riley came back reluctantly and Jack clipped on the short lead. His dog may be curious and headstrong - but he always came back on a dime.

As he approached the tape a young policeman stepped up, blocking the river path.

"Sorry, sir, we've had an incident here. 'Fraid, you'll have to go round across the fields," he said.

"No problem," said Jack.

The policeman looked at him a little more closely. The accent. "Don't get a lot of Americans here."

Jack felt an unfamiliar ripple. Suspicion.

"Live on one of the boats, do you sir?"

Jack nodded. "That I do."

"So - you'll know the way round then," the cop replied.

Jack nodded again, and turned to go.

"Come on, Riley," he said.

Jack wasn't interested in the crime scene. That was one thing he'd had his fill of back in the States. Whatever had happened here would be just fine without him knowing a single damn thing about it.

But as he took the long way round, he could sense the cop's eyes on him. Funny - if you didn't stick your nose in things round here, people straight away thought there was something odd about you.

Even after a year in England, this place could still baffle him.

***

Sarah turned off her computer.

What a day. She'd finished two of the three design pitches, but she hadn't been able to face the third. A new website for Bassett and Son's Funeral Directors and right now Sarah wished she'd told both Bassett and his son where to go: one of them wanted "something upbeat and cheerful" and the other wanted "respectful and solemn."

She'd give them respect .

She checked the time. Six o'clock. The kids would both be late back from school and they wouldn't be expecting tea till seven.

She grabbed her car keys and headed out.

***

Down by the river, the traffic now flowed freely. Sarah parked on the village side of the toll bridge and walked across before heading down into the little car park where one police car was still parked.

Further upriver she could see the weir, and another police car.

She headed up the river path, still warm in the setting sun. The scent of jasmine seemed incongruous: she was walking to the scene of her best friend's death, not out for a stroll in the country.

She had debated not doing this. Somehow, though, coming here seemed right.

The police had put up tape all around the weir area, but now she watched the solitary policeman on duty taking it down.

She knew him. How many times had he asked her out since she came back to the village? And when would he stop?

"Hello Alan," she called as she approached.

The policeman turned, the tape in great loops round his arms.

"Was going to stop by, you know. Thought with it being Sammi and all, you'd be well, upset."

 "So what happened?"

"Sarah. You know I can't tell you that. And we're still investigating. But you know Sammi."

"Knew. Come on Alan," she said

"There's procedure I got to follow, rules and that."

"For God's sake," she said. "You, me and Sammi, we used to drink Scrumpy down here together. You want me to remind everyone how you and she got caught skinny-dipping that time?"

He smiled. "You think I don't remember that?" he said. "Just because I got this uniform on, don't mean it's easy for me either, okay?"

Sarah softened.

"Yeah, I know."

"This - this is a lot of crap, this is, being down here on my own."

Sarah put her hand on his shoulder hoping it would not be misinterpreted.

"I'm sorry, Alan."

He nodded - clearly glad of the comfort.

"We had good times, didn't we?" he said.

"Yeah, we did. Never quite knew what she'd do next, our Sammi."

Alan laughed.

"Stuck her fingers up at old Cherringham didn't she," he said. "London. The high life. Don't blame her sometimes."

Sarah nodded.

"So okay. What did happen?"

Alan shrugged. He took a step closer to her. The warmth of the summer day had finally started to fade.

"All right. But listen, you didn't hear it from me, okay? Some old dear found her this morning. She was caught up in the weir, stuck there, half underwater. The crime scene team reckon she fell in upriver and floated down, got snagged up here like."

"Did you know she had come back to Cherringham?"

"Nope. Though I heard she turned up at the Ploughman last night, so they say. Had a few."

"Few too many, you think?"

Knowing Sammi, it could have been things other than pints and shots. She had embraced that part of the high life as well.

"I reckon. You ask me, she comes down here, has a smoke. Always one for the wacky backy wasn't she? Has too much, goes along the river bank, falls in. Or maybe she tries to have a swim. Crazy girl ."

"Where have they taken her?"

"Her body? Gone to Swindon in a bag," he...