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Prologue

The small convoy of vehicles rolled appropriately along the dual carriageway like a funeral procession. At its head, a police car carried two constables and a uniformed inspector. Next, a police van, the title Incident Unit painted on the sides. Behind it, another car. At the rear, a second van, unmarked, dark blue. Anyone familiar with police activity would have identified it immediately as a mortuary van.

They converged on a village in the south of Northamptonshire, not far from the ancient borough of Stony Stratford and the Victorian railway town of Wolverton.

Seven o’clock on a bright mid-summer morning. The sun broke free of cloud cover as the cortege turned off the dual carriageway at a sign indicating Knightly St John. A minute later the leading driver caught sight of the tall square tower of the church, rising up from among the trees. Progress was slow on the narrow, twisting road. It led to a sharp left-hand bend where they passed the first cottages before entering the high street.

Glimpsing houses and cottages of pale limestone under roofs of slate or thatch, they cruised the full length of the street, passing the church on their left and the pub on their right. Just beyond the primary school they turned left and followed the road round in a sweeping curve. The church tower dominated the skyline, the clock face looking down on them like an impassive eye. It registered five past seven as the convoy steered into a modern executive housing estate, known as Martyrs Close, behind the church and came to a halt beside a grass triangle partly covered with bramble bushes, opposite the churchyard’s back door.

A man and a woman were chatting together beside the brambles. Seeing the police vehicles arrive, the welcoming committee stopped talking and turned to face their visitors. The man, in overalls and leaning on a shovel, was stocky with thinning cropped grey hair. The woman wore a grey dress and a dog collar. The Reverend Angela Hemingway, vicar of Knightly St John, shook hands with the inspector and introduced Henry Tutt, church groundsman and grave digger.

After examining and photographing the site, the police began unloading equipment. The inspector gave Henry Tutt the go-ahead; he cleared the bramble bushes away with a chainsaw and dragged them into a pile against the churchyard wall. An open-sided tent like a small marquee provided shade for Henry and one of the constables as they dug down into the clay soil. The young officer was amazed at the work rate of the older man who was well into his sixties but dug steadily without pausing for breath, flinging the earth onto a neat pile just outside the tent.

The excavation had attracted the attention of the neighbours, who looked out at the sombre working party from behind their curtains. The exhumation of a grave cast a morbid fascination over the housing estate, but no-one wanted to be seen standing in the street gawping at the proceedings.

The diggers had just reached a heavier layer of damp clay, and even Henry had had to slow down, when the door opened in the churchyard wall and a girl stepped through. She was thin and blonde almost waif-like in appearance, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Nobody paid her any attention, apart from Angela Hemingway who acknowledged her with a nod. The girl held back at first but gradually advanced until she was standing beside the vicar. They exchanged murmured greetings and watched the digging in silence.

Then it happened. Henry thrust his spade into the earth and met resistance. The police officers gathered round and stared into the hole. Someone remarked that it was not as deep as they had expected. Henry grunted agreement and, alone in the grave, began shovelling the soil more carefully. He took a gardener’s trowel from his back pocket and scraped the wet clay into a bucket. To the accompaniment of mutterings from Henry, the grave’s contents were gradually revealed. Henry scratched his head and looked over at the vicar, bewildered. Some of the officers dropped to their knees for a closer inspection.

A gesture from Henry summoned Angela closer, and both she and the thin girl advanced to the graveside. Angela gasped and put a hand to her mouth. The girl stared wide-eyed at what lay in the dark damp ground by Henry’s muddy boots.

A summer tootle

It was one of those summer days that boat people dream about: just warm enough for relaxing, just enough sunshine to brighten the landscape without dazzling, just enough clouds to make the sky interesting. Anne and Ralph cast off while Marnie reversed Sally Ann out of her docking area. She brought the boat round in mid-channel and pointed her nose north towards Stoke Bruerne, an hour away with plenty of quiet places to tie up for lunch.

At noon they had barely been underway for five minutes when Anne went below and returned to the stern deck with a tray of glasses and a chilled bottle of Aussie Chardonnay. Danny followed her out, carrying a tray with dishes of olives, cashews and pretzels. She had been wondering what could be the attraction of travelling on a narrowboat at four miles per hour. Now she was beginning to understand. While serving the nibbles, she noticed that some of the moored boats they passed were not the same design as Sally Ann. She remarked on this, commenting that Ralph’s boat, Thyrsis, looked somehow different.

Marnie explained. ‘Ralph’s boat is a trad, a traditional design, with a stern like the original working boats. Most people think that’s the most attractive style.’

Danny looked around her. ‘Sally Ann’s got more room out here at the back.’

‘That’s right. It’s called a cruiser stern. Boats with this layout were designed for leisure use. It may offend the purist, but it has certain advantages.’

‘Which do you prefer?’

‘For looks, it’s got to be the trad, like Thyrsis. But for socialising, the difference is obvious.’

‘More space.’

‘You’ve got it. That’s why we use Sally when we go out for a tootle. There are six of us on board, and we have enough room, just about, to stand on the stern deck. If we’d taken Thyrsis, someone would have to be back here steering in splendid isolation, while the rest of us would sit up front, being sociable in the cratch.’

‘The cratch? Is that what you said?’

‘The space in the bows.’

‘Funny name!’

Anne handed her friend a glass of wine. ‘It comes from the French word, crèche.’

‘Is that where the children stayed when the boats were travelling?’

Angela and Randall tried to conceal their mirth but Anne laughed.

‘That sounds logical, but it’s the word for a manger. It’s where they kept the hay for the horse that pulled the boat along before they had engines.’

Danny sipped her wine. ‘There’s more to this boating thing than you’d expect, isn’t there?’

After half an hour Marnie went below with Ralph, leaving Anne in charge of the helm and their guests. Soon the smell of food in preparation began to waft out. The cool summer fragrance of chopped cucumber blended with the pungent tang of garlic, shortly to be joined by a warm aroma. Something good was in the oven. In the galley, Marnie and Ralph noticed the boat begin to slalom and guessed that Danny was making her first attempt at steering. They heard a shriek from the stern deck before the boat resumed a straight course.

They were approaching Stoke Bruerne bottom lock when Marnie looked out to announce that lunch would be ready in ten minutes. From behind her came the encouraging plop of a cork being extracted from a bottle. Danny handed the tiller back to Anne.

At the point where the river Tove entered the canal like a tributary, Anne slowed the boat and announced that they were going to wind. She pronounced it to rhyme with ‘tinned’. Danny laughed, thinking it sounded rude until Anne performed the manoeuvre, a three-point turn. For a few minutes they headed back south and tied up opposite a field of sheep, bounded at the water’s edge by a row of tall willows. The consensus was to eat out on deck, and Ralph put up a huge creamy parasol while Anne set out folding picnic tables and Randall brought safari chairs up from the saloon.

It was the simplest and most satisfying of meals: a classic quiche Lorraine, plus a non-meat version with salmon and broccoli; mixed salads in vinaigrette; new potatoes with butter and a sprinkling of parsley. The wine was a young red Côtes du Rhône from southern France, helped along by glasses of sparkling mineral water.

© Leo McNeir 2009