Free Cherringham--Death on a Summer Night by Neil Richards Page B

long, surrounded by fields and woodland. One end butted up against a steep cliff face — the remnants of the old quarry workings, Jack assumed. At the other end he spotted a small lodge and a couple of cottages.
    As he got closer to the flat, dark water he saw lone figures with fishing rods sheltering from the sun under trees scattered along the edge of the lake.
    The track curved away from the water.
    Guess they don’t want the traffic to spook the fish, he thought.
    He parked outside the lodge, and went inside.
    The place seemed empty: at one end he could see a small bar with plastic chairs. Next to it a shop with the usual fishing gear — rods, bait, clothing. And here, just by the door, an unmanned reception.
    He hit the bell and waited.
    The door behind him opened and a tall, morose-looking bespectacled man walked in, his shoulders bowed as if he’d started apologizing before he’d even entered.
    “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he said. “Staff problems. Kids. Never turn up. Can’t rely on them.”
    Jack smiled at him: “Day like today — who can blame a kid for not wanting to work, huh?”
    “Hmm? Hmm?” said the man, taking off his glasses, wiping them, and then putting them back on and peering at Jack. “American, hmm?”
    “That’s right. Name’s Jack Brennan — I was just passing, saw the sign, thought maybe I could just drop in for a session. Mr Trask?”
    “That’s right. Henry Trask,” said the man, handing him a leaflet from the counter. “What kind of a ‘session’?”
    Jack looked down at the list of services, baffled. “Bit of advice on casting might be handy,” he said.
    He looked up at Trask who was looking back at him as if he was a child who needed help.
    “Stalking,” said Trask.
    “I’m after a trout, not a deer,” said Jack.
    “Tut tut,” said Trask. “Thirty pounds for the hour and you’ll have a fat trout at the end of it, I promise.”
    “Stalking, huh?” said Jack.
    “Come on,” said Trask. “You have a licence I assume?”
    “Sure do,” said Jack. “Though I’m a bit light on gear.”
    Jack watched Trask go to the back of the room and select a rod and a landing net. He came back and then leaned down behind the counter and dragged out some waders.
    “You can borrow these.”
    “No bag?”
    “Don’t need a bag; like I said, stalking.”
    “Travel light, huh?”
    “I won’t even charge you this time. Maybe you’ll become a regular customer.”
    Jack thought — from Trask’s tone — that he rather wished Jack would never become a regular customer.
    Maybe it’s because I’m an American, he thought. Or maybe it’s just because … I’m a customer.
    And he followed Trask towards the door and then out into the blazing sunshine.
    *
    Twenty minutes later and Jack was baking under the hot sun.
    Trask had led him slowly round the lake, pointing out places the trout liked to go, shallows, fallen tree trunks, little gullies.
    Stalking was the right word for it.
    Jack had got a bit of small talk going, but it was hard work. He’d pushed the conversation round to Cherringham. It turned out Trask didn’t go back much.
    Though he was going to be at the concert at the weekend.
    Good chance to have another “accidental” chat with him, thought Jack.
    Jack watched Trask carefully: he walked silently, aware of his prey, always in cover, using shadows and trees to conceal his approach from the fish.
    And when they saw one of the big, fat trout that lived in the lake pop up, Trask seemed to know unerringly which way the fish would swim, where to cast the lure, where to throw bait …
    At one point they waited, not speaking, just watching, until a monster fish emerged from beneath an underwater root system. Jack saw its speckled shape as it glided away into the deep waters.
    Jack knew just enough about fly-fishing to ask the right questions.
    But he wasn’t here to learn about fishing. He needed to find Dinah Taylor’s killer.
    “You sure know these waters well,