The Boat House

Beyond the moorings a small tributary ran away from the main estuary and Frey turned the boat left up it. Now the little creek wound into the hillside, trees clinging to the steep landscape. They’d passed a house at the entrance to the creek, but now there were no signs of civilisation at all. Frey appeared to read her mind because he nodded at the banks closing in on both sides.

‘1971. Somewhere on the Mekong River Delta. Yes?’

‘Might as well be. You sure we can get there by boat?’

Frey cocked his head and looked at Savage and then swung the RIB to starboard to avoid a clump of flotsam. ‘Be tight, but we’ll get there.’

They followed the creek as its course curled left and then right, more mud exposed as they approached the higher reaches. At one point Savage spotted a trio of little egrets fishing in the shallows. The white birds pecked intermittently at the water where shoals of fry darted back and forth. A little farther on a curlew trilled out an alarm call as it flew low over the water and disappeared into the mist.

The creek narrowed and Frey now had to navigate the RIB along a channel that cut deeply through the mud. Trees loomed high to either side, cutting off the view and hemming them in. The gathering gloom and the mist added to the sense of confinement. It was almost as if they were forging through a narrow gorge. If Savage had heard the sound of approaching rapids she wouldn’t have been surprised. Then she did hear something like water falling and as they rounded another corner she saw a small stream flowing over a weir and into the estuary.

‘There.’ Frey pointed to one side of the weir. ‘Home sweet home.’

Savage turned her head to where an old boathouse stood on the shore. Stone walls climbed down the rocky bank to meet the water and a channel led up to ramshackle wooden doors, their bottom edges suspended in mid air now the tide was falling away. Ivy crawled over one side of the structure, running up past a window and onto the slate roof. At one end of the roof a brick chimney poked up from the stone construction. Smoke curled from the pot and drifted in amongst the trees and the thickening drizzle.

‘Bloody hell,’ Savage said. ‘Somebody lives here?’

‘I thought you knew? A Mr Whiddon found the body. He reported it.’

‘By phone?’ Savage stared at the surroundings. There were no telephone cables leading to the property and she doubted there’d be any mobile coverage.

‘No. He rowed down to Newton Ferrers and told the Harbour Master. He called us.’

‘This place isn’t fit for human habitation.’ Savage turned to Frey. ‘There can’t be more than one room in there.’

‘No, there isn’t. Still, Whiddon’s lived here for as long as anyone can remember. Rumour has it he moved here after his wife ran off and left him. He was heartbroken apparently. Craved the isolation. The property is owned by the local estate, but there’s not much point in kicking him out. Nobody will buy the place. There’s no access apart from a couple of hours either side of high water and you’d never get planning permission to extend it.’

‘Right. And this Mr Whiddon, has he been in trouble with us before?’

‘No, not as far as I know. He’s odd, but then that goes with the territory, doesn’t it? Living on your own up a deserted creek. I grew up round here, sailed on the estuary with my friends, went for picnics up the higher reaches. “Look out for Whiddy Whiddon the Weirdo,” my dad used to joke. “He’ll ram your boat and take you home and cook you up in his big iron pot.” But that’s all it ever was, a joke.’

‘No truth at all? Even today, with all we know about historical abuse?’

‘The man’s a loner,’ Frey said, his tone harsh, censorious. ‘But I never saw anything to make me think there was more to it than that.’

‘So this body …?’

‘Don’t know much more than you, Charlotte. I suspect it’s something brought in on the tide. Now, check the depth at the bow would you?’ Frey turned the RIB and began to nose in up towards the boathouse to where a stone quay jutted out from the structure. ‘Don’t want to risk getting stuck on a rock.’

Savage moved to the bow and leant over. The water was cloudy with silt and she couldn’t see more than a few inches beneath the surface. She waved Frey on tentatively.

When they were within a boat’s length of the quay Frey put the engine into astern. Water boiled around the propeller and the boat stopped just short of the quay.

‘Off you go then,’ Frey said. ‘I’ll go back into the deep water and wait for you. Don’t want to get trapped here.’

Savage looked back at Frey for a moment. Then she pushed herself over the high bow of the RIB and dropped onto the quay. She moved away from the edge, aware that Frey was already backing the boat up, disappearing into the mist. In a few seconds he was gone, the low chugging from the outboard the only sign he was still out there somewhere.

Savage took her life jacket off and hung it on a wooden post. Then she walked along the short quay and up the steps at the end. She turned to look at the water but the estuary had disappeared. Instead, a river of fog filled the space, tendrils creeping into the trees, the moisture caressing her face. She shivered, the air cold and dank, somehow depressing. Her earlier excitement at her first real assignment had vanished. She cocked her head on one side, listening for Frey. Nothing. He’d probably dropped his anchor and killed the engine. She wondered about calling out for him, but that wouldn’t exactly make a good impression, would it? She took a deep breath and dropped off the landward edge of the quay onto a small path that ran along the edge of the mud to the boathouse. She pulled herself together and tried to put all thoughts of mad serial killers from her mind.

The path ended at a pile of lobster pots and a cluster of marker buoys, which rested up against the wall of the boathouse. A little to the right a door lay recessed deep in the stonework. Savage approached the door, looked for the door bell and then shook her head for being so stupid. She reached out and rapped on the wooden surface.

Nothing.

She rapped again, this time a creak coming from inside. Somebody padding across the floor. A rattle as the latch was lifted. Another creak as the door swung open.

Mr Whiddon stood in the threshold. He was mid sixties but already wizened and stooped over. White hair flowed down to his shoulders but far from being unkempt it looked clean and recently washed. The white hair contrasted with the dark suit he wore: black velvet with silk detailing at the cuffs, lapels and pockets. In one lapel a yellow crocus wilted. Beneath the suit was a stiff white shirt with a black tie. The suit was layered with a patina of dust, in places thread-worn and moth-eaten. Whiddon blinked at Savage and then grimaced, showing gums and a smattering of blackened teeth. Savage gasped as she caught a whiff of halitosis.

‘Mr Whiddon?’ she said, forcing herself not to step back.

‘That I am, that I am,’ Whiddon said. He looked Savage up and down and then stared over her shoulder into the mist and sniffed the air. ‘What you be wanting all the way out ‘ere then, lass?’

‘Police, Mr Whiddon.’ Savage reached into her jacket and pulled out her warrant card. Whiddon squinted at it. ‘Sorry if you’ve got visitors or were about to go out, but you reported a body?’