Cherringham--Death on a Summer Night by Neil Richards

Henry?”
    “I should do,” said Henry, “been here twenty years.”
    Jack noticed that Henry never looked at him directly when he spoke, always kept his eyes averted.
    Habit? Some kind of nervous tic? Or a sign of … shame? Guilt?
    “You own the business, huh?”
    “That’s right.”
    Trask stopped dead and signalled him to be quiet. Jack waited another minute until they moved on. Then:
    “You live down here by the lake?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I saw the cottages. You rent them out?”
    “No. Then I have to take care of them, change sheets. Hell with that.”
    “Pretty isolated then, I guess.”
    “That’s fine by me.”
    Jack looked out across the black water. On the far side, a couple of hundred yards away, he saw that a fish had taken someone’s line and the man was playing the trout in the water, slowly bringing it to shore.
    “Couple of lakes I passed on the way here, they had sailing dinghies, kayaks, all sorts — you never thought of branching out?”
    “It’s a fishing lake,” said Trask, who paused again by the side of a willow tree that overhung the water.
    Jack stopped too.
    “I hear there’s good money to be—”
    Trask suddenly spun round and stepped forward — Jack took a pace back.
    “You’re no fisherman, are you? And what’s with all these questions! What do you want? Who the hell are you?”
    Trask’s eyes bore into him and Jack could see the man was angry — and he had gotten that way fast, like lighting a match.
    “Whoa, Mr Trask, let me explain—”
    “Bloody journalist, are you? That it? I’ve got nothing to say. This is my lake; I can do what I want with it!”
    Jack took another step back. Trask had gone from passive to aggressive in seconds.
    “I’m not a journalist, Mr Trask.”
    “Okay — so who the hell are you?”
    And Jack told him.
    *
    They sat together at a picnic table at the far end of the lake.
    Jack told Trask about Tim Bell’s return to Cherringham and the doubt over his conviction.
    Trask had calmed down, and Jack watched him carefully as he listened to Jack’s explanation of what he and Sarah were doing: the fisherman just nodded and stared into the distance.
    “I apologize for not making it clear from the beginning why I was here, Mr Trask,” said Jack. He smiled. “An old detective habit, I guess.”
    “Hmmph.”
    “And it’s always difficult bringing up events from the past that people would rather forget.”
    “I hardly knew the girl — you know that, don’t you?”
    “But you lived close — and you and Dinah’s mother …”
    “God — that was years after.”
    “You never spoke to Dinah?”
    “I don’t know . Maybe.”
    “Perhaps you went to Dinah’s house, met her there one day?”
    “No, I never did. I only met her mother later, when she’d moved out.”
    “I see.”
    “Hang on. What are you implying? That I killed her? You can’t say things like that, not on my property!”
    “I’m not saying that, Mr Trask. Just trying to establish who Dinah knew.”
    “Well, she bloody well didn’t know me.”
    “What about that night, the night she died?”
    “You don’t quit, do you? What do you mean? What kind of question’s that?”
    “Well … Where were you that night? Did you go to the fair?”
    “No! Are you daft? I don’t go to fairs! I’ll be going to tomorrow’s concert, but I avoid the fair — always have — like the plague!”
    “Okay, okay. But you know the police had your car on a list to be examined—”
    “What? Wait a second. No. I did not know that. And how did you get that information?”
    Trask stood up. From the expression on his face, Jack knew the interview was over. He stood up too.
    “Hey — I’m sorry to bring all this up, Mr Trask,” he said. “But I had to talk to you. What do I owe you for the lesson?”
    “You’ve got a bloody cheek. Take your money and get the hell out of here now. And be thankful I haven’t called the police.”
    Jack left his rod and net, and the