downstream towards their moorings in Fethering, passing within inches of her. Jude had tried tapping on the porthole glass to attract attention, but her small sounds had been lost against the rush of the fast-flowing river.
Although apparently inaudible herself, she could hear tantalizing noises from outside, the hum of traffic crossing Fedborough Bridge, a raucous shout of laughter from one of the nearby pubs, distant brass music from some Fed-borough Festival open-air concert, the clock of All Souls Church delineating the quarter-hours of her incarceration.
In the first hour, she had looked around the room for a heavy object with which to smash one of the portholes, so that she could shout for help. But there was nothing in sight. The space she was in was a slice across the back of the boat, a low-ceilinged tapering room with a row of three portholes each side. All the wood had been punctiliously stripped down and varnished to a high sheen. The brass fittings also gleamed immaculately.
The space seemed to be used as some kind of office. On the far wall was a honeycomb of pigeon-holes, from which rolled-up charts neatly protruded. There was a manual typewriter and a pack of Basildon Bond notepaper, the source of the anonymous letter she had received that morning.
In the middle of the room was a large box-like structure, presumably engine-housing from the days when the vessel had been seaworthy. Either side of this were benches screwed down to the floor against inclement weather. More benches ran along the curved sides of the space. Realizing these were storage lockers, Jude had opened them with gleeful anticipation. But they were empty. No convenient blunt instruments in there. It made her wonder whether her imprisonment had been planned.
She had another surge of hope when she found the door on the end wall was not locked, but there too disappointment soon followed. The space behind, in the boat’s tapered stern, had been converted to a washroom, with toilet and basin. While Jude was glad to take advantage of the facility, this room offered her no more than the other had. Two even smaller portholes either side, and nothing more substantial than a plastic lavatory brush with which to attack their thick glass.
There was no way out until her captor wanted her out. And after the reference to what had happened to Roddy Hargreaves, Jude hoped that moment lay a long way away.
Carole would realize something was wrong. Caroled come looking for her. Pity her neighbour wasn’t on speaking terms with Ted Crisp, thought Jude ruefully. He’d be invaluable in a situation like this.
After the first shouted exchanges, Jude’s captor had gone silent, refusing to answer her questions and pleadings. Whether she was now alone on the boat, she didn’t know. It had been a long time since she had heard any sounds from the other part of the vessel.
There was nothing she could do but sit in the office area and wait. Jude hated the sense of impotence. She was used to making her own decisions, organizing her life in her own idiosyncratic way. Now her plans – and even the life itself – were in the hands of someone else.
Before being locked in, Jude would not have thought her captor capable of murder. Now she was less sure. The need to silence her was a very compelling motive – as had been the need to silence Roddy Hargreaves. His fate gave an air of hopelessness to hers.
The July day was almost giving up its struggle against darkness when Jude heard footsteps walking along the towpath towards her prison. She pressed her face against a porthole, but because of the angle couldn’t see much until the walkers were directly alongside her.
Two pairs of feet walking from Fedborough Bridge to the houseboats beyond. Male grubby sweatpants leadingdown to even grubbier trainers. Female leather walking shoes so sensible she recognized them instantly. Carole and Ted. It was Carole and Ted!
Jude hammered against the glass of the porthole until her hand hurt. But the noise didn’t reach them. The footsteps receded.
Never mind, thought Jude, as she sat back, nursing her bruised hand. The direction in which they were walking was a dead end. At some point they’d walk back. Somehow she’d manage to attract their attention then. It was simply a matter of waiting.
A bubble of hope rose within her.
Then she heard a banging on the door which had been locked behind her.
“We’ll be moving soon,” said the voice of her captor.
? The Torso in the Town ?
Thirty-Nine
It was the furthest of the houseboats. No lights showed inside, and the rickety structure looked so uneven in the water that Carole found it hard to believe anyone lived there. But Ted Crisp stepped confidently on to the deck and knocked on the sagging half-open door.
“Suppose he’s not there?” Carole whispered.
“He’ll be there.”
Proving his point, a rough old voice from the gloom inside asked, “Who’s that?”
“It’s me, Ted.”
“What’re you doing here, you old bugger? Have you brought me some whisky?”
“Yes, of course I have,” replied Ted, who’d prudently raided the Crown and Anchor’s stock before leaving Fethering.
“Then you’re very welcome. Come on in.”
“I’ve brought a friend with me. Carole Seddon.” She liked the ease with which he said that.
“She’s welcome, and all,” said the voice, “so long as she’s a whisky drinker.”
Carole was about to say she didn’t really care for spirits, but realized it wasn’t the moment.
“Can we have some light?” asked Ted, as he stepped down into the interior of the boat.
“Oh yes, of course. I keep forgetting how dependent you lot are on seeing things.”
“Can I help, Bob?”
“No, no. Matter of moments.”
Carole, who was still waiting on the deck, heard the clatter of metal and glass as an oil-lamp was primed, then the scrape of a match as it was lit. A warm glow spread through the interior of the space ahead of her.
“Let me give you a hand down.” She felt Ted Crisp’s strong hand around hers as he led her down the few steps into the houseboat.
What the oil-lamp revealed to her blinking eyes was a space whose side walls had been neatly boxed in with chipboard panels. But the dominant impression was not of neatness; the interior was rendered grotto-like by objects hanging from every strut and rafter. There were rowlocks and rusty tools, pieces of leather harness and lengths of chain, greenish bottles and sheep skulls, bicycle wheels and old boots. Without being told, she knew that everything she could see had been scavenged from the river. And that wasn’t only because the interior of the houseboat smelt more like the Fether than the Fether itself.
The one part of the decor that didn’t look as if it had been fished out of the water was a small shrine set on a table against the wall. A plaster statuette of the Madonna and Child stood sentried by white candles in brass holders. In front of it was a well-thumbed Bible.
The man at the centre of this grotto, seated by the table from which the oil-lamp glowed, was dressed, in spite of the July weather, in thick denim jacket, jeans and short gumboots. All had faded or were stained to the same colour, somewhere between navy and black, but lighter than either. The man’s hair was white, tidied more often by a hand than a brush, and his sightless eyes were a cloudy blue.
Remarkably, though shabby, Bob Bracken contrived to look very clean. Though the houseboat smelt deeply of the Fether, there were no human odours.
The other thing that was obvious the minute Carole entered was that Jude wasn’t there. While Ted busied himself finding glasses, she said urgently, “We’re looking for a friend of mine – of ours. We thought she might have come to see you.”
“What friend would this be?” the old man asked. “Her name’s Jude. Quite plump, blonde hair.”
“Colour of her hair wouldn’t mean much to me, would it?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
