Cherringham--Mystery at the Manor by Neil Richards

iron.
    Somewhere in here, Terry Hamblyn had chosen to live.
    He didn’t have to look hard to see where. In a corner of the boatyard stood a ramshackle old trailer, with smoke pumping out of a chimney on the top and heavy metal pumping from an open window.
    Bit of a come down from the old manor, thought Jack.
    Parked up next to the trailer was a rusty old pick-up — and a smart yellow four-by-four with the words ‘Monster Madness!!!’ stencilled on the side. Jack recognised the brand — they had a big arena the other side of Swindon and advertised ‘truck mayhem’ aggressively on television.
    As he approached, Jack saw the trailer door open and two figures emerge, laughing: one was Terry and the other was a big, balding guy in a leather jacket. Jack hung back and watched as the two did a bit of blokey back-slapping, then shook hands.
    The bald guy climbed into the four-by-four, spun it round and with a honk on the horn roared off across the boatyard, kicking gravel behind.
    Jack waited till Terry had gone back into the trailer, and then sauntered over. The back of the pick-up was full of rubbish — bits of boat, sacking, a small space heater. Jack examined the heater. The cable was blackened.
    Interesting …
    A refuse bin overflowing with rubbish sacks, cans and bottles sat by the back door. More out of habit than anything else, Jack peered into the bin and did a double take: some of the wine bottles were old, he was sure. Very old …
    He pulled out an empty wine bottle and examined the label. Château Mouton Rothschild 1928.
    Jeez — could that be for real?
    He sniffed the contents. It was.
    My God. That one bottle alone is worth a couple of months’ pay …
    Jack fished deeper into the bin. There were more bottles of a similar vintage beneath — obviously just thrown into the bin when they were finished, to rest among old curry cartons and cheap cans of lager.
    Jack took out a paper handkerchief and wiped his hands, then tossed it into the bin and approached the door of the trailer. Terry Hamblyn had some questions to answer.
    “Like I said. Me and dad were best mates,” said Terry. “He gave me that wine for Christmas. Because he loved me.”
    “You know how much that stuff’s worth?”
    “Sure. Gotta be at least ten quid a bottle. It’s real French.”
    Jack watched Terry, unsure whether to feel pity, anger or simply disgust. They were seated facing each other across Terry’s table in the back of the trailer. A thin layer of grease, old food and possibly engine oil coated the surface and Jack was trying hard not to touch anything.
    “And you still say you weren’t there on the night he died?”
    “I was here asleep. Bit of a home boy, me.”
    Jack looked round the filthy trailer, piled high with unwashed plates, alcohol, magazines and discarded clothes.
    “I can see that, Terry. And I really don’t want to get you into trouble …”
    “I haven’t done anything, so you can’t.”
    “But you know, if the police did find out you were there when Victor died, then things might very quickly get … difficult … for you — you know what I mean?”
    Jack smiled at Terry and was rewarded with a dopey smile back.
    “Sure. Appreciate you dropping round to tell me that.”
    He got up — and Jack saw his cue to leave.
    “Any time you need a bit of help in the future — I’ll be sure to remember how you came down here to help me,” said Terry seriously. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine, know what I mean?”
    Jack headed for the door and climbed down the little steps out of the trailer. He could sense Terry standing behind him and turned quickly.
    “How’s the deal coming along with Monster Trucks?”
    Terry didn’t stop to blink.
    “Pretty good,” he said. “Soon as the land’s mine we’re going to sign the contracts and then …”
    Jack could almost see the synapses in Terry’s brain connecting.
    “And then?”
    “Oh, shit,” said Terry.
    “Thanks for the chat, Terry. See you