What Lies Beneath

Chapter 1

1

For Bob Tranter, Sunday mornings began the moment they shut off the outboard motor. The only sounds left were those of the birds, the lapping of the water and the odd car in the distance. This was his heaven.

He rolled with the movement of the boat as his friend, Geoff Hampson, unzipped the Thermos bag and took out their supplies: a Cornish pasty each (still warm) and a flask of black coffee to share. To Bob and Geoff, it was what Sundays were all about.

Each week, Bob set his Sunday alarm for seven o’clock. Then it was straight into the shower and dressed ready for half past, when Geoff would pull up outside Bob’s house in Corby — bumping his way up the kerb as he always did — ready to arrive at the Rutland Water Fishing Lodge just before eight. There was something special about being the first boat out.

It wasn’t always fishing, of course. Sometimes they’d happily bob around on the water all morning, or occasionally head over towards Egleton or Barnsdale to spot birds. Either way, it was the ultimate form of relaxation. As much as they loved their wives, there was nothing more enjoyable than spending a few hours on Rutland Water, alone in a boat and putting the world to rights.

Bob sank his teeth into the thick pastry, his tastebuds coming alive as he devoured the snack within seconds. Each week he told himself he’d make the next one last longer, and each week the hunger took control.

He sniffed as he unscrewed the top of the Thermos flask and poured himself a cup of coffee, watching as the steam rose upwards, swirling amongst the morning mist, becoming one with it.

‘Beautiful morning for it,’ he said, the same as he did each week, whatever the weather.

‘You’re not wrong there,’ Geoff replied, true to the script.

Bob sniffed again. ‘Much new with you, then?’

‘Nothing to write home about. You?’

‘Nah. Same old, same old. You know how it is.’

‘That I do, Bob. That I do.’

Today wasn’t a fishing day — that much had been decided the night before, when Geoff had called Bob to confirm he was still on for a seven-thirty pick-up. That was part of the routine, too. A seemingly pointless cog in the machine of their Sunday morning relaxation. It had been the same for years. It was comfortable, familiar. Today was for ‘just sitting’. Their annual permit gave them the right to fish, but there was no law saying they had to, and no-one had told them off yet. Besides, ‘just sitting’ shook things up occasionally. It was an exciting divergence from what would otherwise be boring and routine.

‘Good pasty?’ Geoff asked, in case Ginsters had radically changed their recipe since last week.

‘Beautiful.’

‘Not bad, are they?’

‘Not bad at all, Geoff. Not bad at all.’

Bob had tried to explain the fascination to Freda, but she didn’t understand. She said it sounded boring floating around in a wooden hull for hours on end, doing nothing, talking about nothing. Which was odd, considering how damned good Freda was at talking endlessly about nothing at all.

The nothingness was precisely the point. Out here on the water, there were no stresses. He wasn’t being nagged. He didn’t have to spend two hours on hold trying to get through to Legal & General to sort out his contents insurance. He didn’t have to listen to Mrs Calderwood’s sodding dog barking all day. He was only half an hour from home, but he might as well have been in paradise.

‘Here, wassat?’ Geoff said, deviating from the script.

‘Where?’

‘Over there, on the rocks.’

‘Can’t see from here,’ Bob replied. ‘Left me glasses in the car.’

‘You and me both. Start her up, will you? We’ll go have a looksee. Something’s not right, here.’

Bob had to agree. They knew the water like the backs of their hands, and this was far from normal.

With the outboard motor spluttering to life, the boat made its way towards the rocks at Normanton Church. Bob squinted as they neared, trying to make out the shapes. To him, it looked as though someone had dumped a big bag or a pile of clothes on the rocks. But as they got closer, it became immediately apparent to Bob that this was no pile of clothes.

He sucked in a breath. Adrenaline bolted through his chest.

‘Bugger me,’ he said. ‘It’s a body.’