The Angler's Tale Read online

  The Angler’s Tale

  Jack Benton

  The Slim Hardy Mystery Series

  The Man by the Sea

  The Clockmaker’s Secret

  The Games Keeper

  Slow Train

  The Angler’s Tale

  “The Angler’s Tale”

  Copyright © Jack Benton / Chris Ward 2020

  * * *

  The right of Jack Benton / Chris Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.

  * * *

  This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  The Angler’s Tale

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  About the Author

  Contact

  Become a Patron

  Acknowledgments

  For the real Alan McDonald,

  the finest of men

  The Angler’s Tale

  1

  John Hardy pulled the REDUCED sticker off the little cardboard box and peered through the plastic lid at the iced sponge cake inside. He smiled. Small enough not to threaten his nickname of “Slim”, but large enough for a celebration.

  He dropped it into his basket, as an afterthought adding a pack of candles.

  A gong sounded from somewhere overhead. Slim glanced at his watch: 3 a.m. Only the dead and the solitary shopped at such a time, and since he felt more or less alive he had to fall into the other category.

  Giving the closed booze aisle a wide berth, he headed for the home goods aisle.

  Might as well add a token present.

  He paused, rubbing the stubble on his chin as he peered at the gloomy shelves, the overhead lights on half-power here. Perhaps a roll of duct tape to hold down the curling corner of living room carpet, or a new mop and bucket to fight the mould creeping across the kitchen floor.

  Camping gear appealed, the idea of vanishing into the wilderness, never to return, but his budget was fifteen quid and the cheapest tents were over twenty.

  He settled on a beginner fishing set, £14.99.

  Perfect.

  He had once briefly lived on a canal, but the closest he had come to fishing was begging outside the local chip shop for a few leftovers at closing time. How hard could it be? The set even came with a small instruction booklet in plastic wrap rolled around the thickest section of rod.

  With a smile that for once felt genuine rather than ironic, he picked up the set and balanced it across the top of his basket.

  He ate his cake when he got home half an hour later, wished himself happy birthday, and washed it down with a coffee thick and bitter enough to wake the dead.

  Then, conversely, he lay on his bed and tried to sleep, staring at the ceiling for a pointless hour before rising again, taking a shower and then brewing another coffee.

  He had some stale bread so he toasted it as black as his coffee then doused it in butter and crunched it while he stared at a local Ordnance Survey map.

  There. The River Tewkes, leading into Longwell Reservoir. Far enough away from any real civilisation that he could enjoy his birthday in peace.

  It was just getting light outside so Slim headed out. He bought a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water from a corner shop, then located a bus stop with a line that stopped within walking distance of the river. An hour later he was trudging along a narrow, overgrown lane that meandered its way down into a river valley. The Tewkes, twenty feet wide in places, flowed languidly through pastureland. Finding a dry, grassy spot hidden from the field by a stand of trees, Slim laid down a blanket and set up his gear.

  It was a quarter past ten when he poked the hook through a piece of ham taken from his sandwich and made his first cast. It struck the water’s surface with a comforting plop and sank out of sight. Slim watched the little float bobbing up and down, feeling a rare sense of calm. He smiled at the ease of it all, wondering if catching an actual fish was even necessary. With the line extending out into the water and the rod propped up on a rock, he lay back on his blanket and closed his eyes.

  2

  The missed call was from Kim, his elderly secretary.

  ‘I wondered if you’d be coming into the office tomorrow,’ she said when he made the call back that evening.

  ‘Actually, I was thinking of taking a short holiday,’ Slim said.

  ‘Well, you’re the boss after all. I can keep things going while you’re away. However, I will need to forward a few messages which require your response, if that’s at all possible. I know you’re picky about your cases, but you’re turning down a lot of good work being so finicky about what you take on. Have you ever thought about hiring more staff?’

  Slim shook his head. With his phone held against his ear with one hand, he opened a birthday card with the other, pushing his nails under the seam and splitting it along the gum line.

  The light scent of a familiar perfume revealed the sender before he opened it. Lia. Slim stared at the name for a long time, then ran a finger over the line added at the bottom.

  Call me sometime.

  He would. Perhaps.

  ‘…I mean, many of these cases are routine,’ Kim was saying, although Slim had filtered out a large portion of her discourse as he remembered the few blissful days with Lia before he had broken his sobriety at a family party and things had gone wrong again. ‘You could have someone doing the basic investigations and the drudge work while you concentrate on more intricate things.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Kim.’

  ‘I’m not sure you do, Mr. Hardy. I know it’s not my place to tell you how to run your business, but with the press you’ve received over the last couple of years, you could be running a six-figure business by now. I’ve seen your accounts … and you can barely afford to pay me. I don�
��t know how you get by on what little’s left. I’ve had to buy toilet roll out of the petty cash because the fee from the Webster fraud case won’t be deposited until next week.’

  ‘We have petty cash?’

  ‘It’s that jar under your desk that you always raid for your coffee.’

  ‘It’s empty.’

  ‘I know it is. I started putting the money somewhere else because it was disappearing quicker than I could top it up.’

  Slim couldn’t help but smile. Kim was like the mother his own had never been. He rarely thought about the woman who had brought him into the world, but when he did it was of snoring behind a closed door as he left for school, or fake fur wrapped so tight it could have choked her as she headed out, leaving meals uncooked, rooms uncleaned, an ashtray full on the kitchen table, sometimes an empty bottle or two, and the sensation that his presence in her life was an unwanted one, an unnecessary burden.

  At his mother’s funeral he had promised he would never end up like her, but in many ways he was a mirror image.

  ‘Thanks for thinking about me,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep it in mind. By the way, do you know how to cook a fish?’

  ‘What kind of fish?’

  Slim glanced across at the kitchen tabletop. The single fish he had caught lay on a chopping board with a knife beside it, awaiting its destiny.

  ‘It’s about eight inches long. I caught it in a river.’

  ‘Could be trout. Top and tail it, gut it and put it under the grill, a minute or two on each side.’

  ‘Can’t it be deep fried? I was thinking of grabbing a portion of chips, make a real celebration of it.’

  ‘Celebration?’

  ‘My birthday.’

  ‘Oh, well, I mean, I must have seen it on your documents somewhere—’

  Slim smiled. ‘It’s okay. I’m not one for parties or anything like that.’

  Kim sighed. ‘Well, it’s probably not a good idea to deep fry it unless you know what you’re doing, and men usually don’t. If you’re not careful you could burn your house down.’

  ‘I’m on the top floor of three,’ he said. ‘The two below would be safe, wouldn’t they?’

  From the other end of the line came a long groan. ‘Sometimes, Mr. Hardy, I think you need a good woman at home to keep you in order.’

  Slim couldn’t help but smile. ‘Are you offering?’

  ‘That depends on the pension plan. I’m not sure I have the legs in me to keep picking up after you. It’s hard enough keeping your office tidy. So, where are you off to?’

  ‘I’m going on a fishing holiday,’ Slim said. ‘Along the Dart Estuary. I’ll be back by the end of the week.’

  He hadn’t booked it yet, but as he said the words he ran his finger along the catalogue he had picked up in the free rack in the local newsagent, his finger hovering over the phone number.

  ‘It sounds nice, Mr. Hardy. I suppose you have to do what you have to do, in order to escape the trappings of fame.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be hounded mercilessly,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of buying a new jacket to confuse them.’

  ‘You’d better consider something other than grey-green or black in that case,’ Kim said. ‘You are, of course, aware of the existence of other colours?’ She started chuckling at her own joke, before adding, ‘In all seriousness, I wish you a good trip.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  For a few minutes they talked over what business Kim could handle without help while he was away, and for what he would need to be contactable. He had hoped to disappear, but was finding that the arms of the world refused to let him go now that he had a business which, despite his best efforts at self-sabotage, was proving a moderate success.

  Perhaps Kim was right. Perhaps he should employ someone to run things in his name, allowing him to slip quietly away into whatever sense of oblivion he chose.

  But that would be the easy option.

  A fishing trip for people trying to stay off the booze. Rehab in all but name.

  He had left that part out of their conversation.

  He dialled the number and found his hands shaking as he waited for someone to answer.

  ‘How may I help you?’ came a pleasant woman’s voice.

  ‘Uh … hello. I’d like to ask about availability for next week.’

  There was a short pause. Slim considered hanging up. Then, the same woman’s voice said, ‘We have a number of vacancies on several of our tours. Did you have any particular location in mind?’

  3

  Dartmouth’s Castle View Hotel lived up to its name only by a sliver if one craned one’s neck from the outer corner of the front terrace to see past the edge of the neighbouring property’s high garden walls, but nevertheless the view of Kingswear on the opposite hill across the Dart Estuary was as impressive as anything Slim had ever seen. To the south, the hills opened up to reveal the English Channel beyond the river’s mouth, while to the north, the river swung languidly up through imposing forested hills spotted with luxury homes, the masts of dozens of moored yachts glittering in the sun like shiny needles.

  Set on a steep hillside, by the time Slim had climbed the thirty-five steps from the road up to the hotel’s entrance, he was too tired to explore the terraced gardens accessed through a gate to the rear. A narrow front patio was home to several benches, picnic tables, and sun loungers, so Slim got a coffee from the self-service machine inside the dining room and took it outside.

  A few other guests were enjoying the afternoon sunshine, some talking, others sipping coffee or fruit juice, one man crunching an oat bar which sent a cascade of crumbs over his knees with each bite. Slim took a seat at an empty table and gazed out across the valley, idly watching a couple of sightseeing ferries pass each other, one heading directly across to Kingswear, the other upriver in the direction of Totnes. A short distance north on the far bank, a party of canoeists explored the inlets beneath the trees, while on the near side a tourist-laden paddle steamer worked its way between two moored yachts, both large and spectacular enough to be worth more than the hotel rising over Slim’s shoulder.

  ‘Makes you want to quit your job and move down, doesn’t it?’ came a voice from behind him. As a shadow fell over Slim, the man added, ‘What’s your line of work?’

  Slim paused before answering, hunting a suitably passive answer that would satisfy this yet unseen stranger without provoking further questions.

  ‘I’m in research,’ he said at last, realising as the words came out that he’d chosen the worst possible thing to say.

  ‘What kind?’ the newcomer said, pulling a plastic chair out from beneath an adjacent table and setting it down across from Slim. ‘Consumer? No, I bet it’s educational. I thought so. You have the look of a man fighting injustice. There’s a story in your eyes, I can see it.’

  Slim wasn’t sure how to respond. He regarded the newcomer for a few seconds, taking in a face in its early sixties, a deeply unfashionable moustache spoiling weathered but otherwise handsome features. Eyes that wanted to know more than was due darted about, examining Slim’s appearance but at the same time taking in the other guests sitting across the patio, sizing them up, judging them one by one.

  ‘I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here,’ the man said. ‘I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?’ He reached up and tugged his mustache. ‘The disguise … it’s not a great effort, is it?’

  Slim forced a smile. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

  The man flashed a sideways grin and nodded furtively as though this were the expected response. He stuck out a hand.

  ‘Max Carson. It’s my voice, not my face that you remember. I host Country Club?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Radio Three. Are you a regular listener?’

  Slim, who didn’t own a radio and had rarely had cause to listen to one since his military days ended, said, ‘Things got on top of you, too?’

  Carson nodded. ‘It was my wife who insisted. She couldn’t handle the
affairs, the booze and the Charles.’

  Slim frowned. ‘Charles?’

  Carson grimaced. ‘I’m being deliberately cryptic. You never know who’s listening, do you? Every man and his goddamn dog carries a hidden camera these days.’ He shifted closer, glanced over his shoulder, then pulled something out of a bag at his feet. Slim glimpsed a whisky miniature hidden inside Carson’s big hand as it visited his mouth with a quick jerk and then dropped out of sight again.

  Slim had a moment of realisation. He had been thinking about more mundane things, but now it made sense. Charles. Charlie. Cocaine. Max Carson was a man from a fast lane Slim’s broken-down car of a life had never known.

  ‘Anyway,’ Carson continued, slipping the miniature back into his bag before Slim could get any ideas about asking for a turn, ‘you have to go through the motions, sometimes, don’t you? It’s easier to keep things out of sight and out of mind when you’re out of the public eye, isn’t it? I bet no one’s peering over your shoulder to see who you’re sleeping with?’