Cherringham--Episode 22-24 by Matthew Costello

Author:Matthew Costello [Costello 1, Matthew 1, Richards 2, Neil 2]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-3-7325-2129-6
Publisher: Bastei Entertainment
Published: 2017-09-30T00:00:00+00:00

9. A Little Breaking and Entering

Jack shipped his oars and let the little rowing boat drift the last few yards downstream to Iron Wharf.

As soon as he was close enough, he grabbed hold of one of the old truck tyres that hung down against the timber edge of the dock then pulled himself along to the rusty ladder which clung to the side of the wharf.

A quick loop of the rope through one of the old iron rings, then he climbed up the slippery rungs onto dry land.

Jack took in the old boat yard, the dilapidated caravans, piles of timber, and boat parts.

The place looked empty. Six o’clock on a fine summer’s evening, most of the guys who worked down here repairing boats would be up at one of the village pubs by now.

He looked down the line of moored barges, their black hulls hugging tight to the edge of the wharf.

Which one belonged to Josh?

Keeping any eye out for anyone moving about on the wharf, he strolled as casually as he could along the wharf.

Technically, he wasn’t trespassing. Not yet, anyway.

This wasn’t a residential mooring and Jack knew most of the barges would be empty. Waiting for repair, up for sale — or even for breaking if they were real old wrecks.

According to Ray, one of Jack’s neighbours, Josh had been here for six months, paying weekly, on the basis that he was waiting for a proper mooring to come up further up river, near where Jack’s own Grey Goose lay.

He carried on walking toward the end of the wharf.

There was no mistaking Josh’s boat when he reached it.

Tied to the stern, like a tender, was a mini-barge, shuttered up with an aluminium chimney sticking out of the roof.

A sign hanging on it read ‘Josh Andrews, ironwork, repairs’.

The little boat must contain some kind of forge. Jack had heard of these boats — owned by blacksmiths, they had travelled the canals and rivers of nineteenth century England, when water, not rail, was the main transport system.

Josh clearly used it to make his sculptures — but also to eke out a living doing repairs or making garden furniture.

Next to the barge stood a tall pile of tangled metal — girders, poles, old prams, fence wire, car and boat parts.

Jack couldn’t see any of the sculptures that Josh made from this raw material. He guessed they were worth too much to be left out as Iron Wharf had a reputation as a favourite haunt for Cherringham’s lighter-fingered inhabitants.

Jack stood by the barge and took a long careful look around the yard and across the river.

No sign of movement.

The barge itself was surely empty. All the windows had their shutters drawn tight. No clutter on deck, a chain ran across the gangplank.

From the wharf, he could see the main door that would lead down into the barge, and the heavy padlock and black-leaded hasp that protected it.

He reached into his pocket for the little bag of lock-picking tools that he had been given years ago back in NYC.

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