The Riverside Murder: A Dorset Crime Novella by Rachel McLean, book 3.5 in the Dorset Crime series - Chapter 1

DCI Lesley Clarke had to focus to keep herself from tumbling down the hill towards the River Frome. This lane, a mile or so from Wareham in Dorset, was steep and narrow, the trees reaching over her head and meeting there like a green archway. Her second in command DS Dennis Frampton huffed along behind her, unhappy that they’d had to walk down.

“Come on, Dennis,” she called back to him. “Gail’s been there almost an hour. At this rate, even Whittaker will get there before us.”

Gail Hansford was Lesley’s favourite crime scene manager, which was lucky since most of the time she was the only crime scene manager available. The county of Dorset didn’t have enough complex crimes to justify an army of forensic technicians. Henry Whittaker, by contrast, was her least favourite pathologist. She’d never yet known him arrive at a crime scene on time.

At last they emerged from the canopy of trees where the road widened out, and stopped just short of the river, where it turned into a narrow footpath.

“Where are we going?” Lesley asked, turning back to Dennis. The sun was strong now they’d left the shelter of the woods, and she had to raise a hand to shield her eyes.

Dennis gestured upstream, where a rough track led alongside the river and towards what looked like a marina. “They found him on the sliproad, just before the marina.”

Lesley nodded and carried on walking. Her work in Dorset Police had made her fit. The criminals were selfish here: they tended not to commit their crimes in a convenient spot with nearby parking. Lesley had learned early on that yomping across the countryside was part of the job description.

She turned a bend to see Gail and her team further along the river, struggling to erect a forensic tent in the shallows.

“You sure that’ll work?” she called out.

Gail flinched and dropped the corner of the tent she’d been holding. One of her white-suited colleagues picked it up.

“Lesley!” she called. “You’re SIO?”

“Who else have they got to choose from?” It wasn’t as if Lesley’s department had many DCIs who could act as senior investigating officer on a murder investigation.

“Good.” Gail gestured for Lesley to follow her towards the spot where her two colleagues almost had the tent upright.

“First question,” Lesley began. “Is there a crime for me to investigate?”

“We’ll know more when the pathologist gets here,” said Gail. “But I think so.” She held open the flaps to the tent. “Signs of a struggle, see? Rocks dislodged, edge of the water.”

Lesley looked down. “You want me to wade into the water?”

“It’s shallow. I thought we should leave him where he is until the pathologist has seen him. Then we’ll move him a bit further up the bank. Here.”

Gail held out a pair of wellies and Lesley slid them on, leaning on her friend’s shoulder.

“Right.” She stepped into the tent and approached the body. It was face down in the water, the features hidden. But it was definitely a man. He was huge: six foot five if he was an inch. His shoulders were broad and his frame heavy but not fat. Lesley imagined it would be easy to identify him.

“Do we know who he is?”

“Not officially, but Gav here thinks it’s William Coombs.”

One of the white-suited techs lifted his face mask and gave Lesley a nod. “I’m pretty sure it’s him, Ma’am.”

“You don’t have to ma’am me.” Gavin was a civilian, and she was getting tired of having to remind him about this.

“Sorry.”

“You know – knew him?”

Gavin nodded. “My brother drank with him at the Duke of Wellington. Haven’t seen him for – oh, has to be more than a decade, though.”

Lesley raised an eyebrow. It was possible her girlfriend Elsa might know the man too. She’d had a stint working in that pub, more recently, but you never knew.

“How long has he been here?”

“It’s a busy Saturday afternoon. He was spotted by the couple who’ve bought the farmhouse up there.” Gail gestured past the marina.

“You’ve given me his name, but who is he? Something to do with the marina?”

Gail shook her head. “He used to own the farm. Part-own. His brother was the one who farmed it.”

“He sold it to the people who found him dead?” Lesley narrowed her eyes. Was that suspicious, or just a coincidence?

Gail shrugged. “Mr Dewsbury came down here to check out the area, find out what was on his doorstep. They only moved in yesterday.”

Lesley opened the flap of the tent and looked back out, towards a boulder where a man in his forties sat, a uniformed police officer standing in front of him and taking notes.

“We’ll need to speak to him.” She leaned out of the tent. “Dennis, can you speak to the witness please?”

Dennis looked from her to the man and back again, a question on his face.

“He found the body,” she told him. “Get a statement.”

“Boss.” Dennis hurried towards the man and Lesley let the fabric of the tent drop.

“Gavin,” she said. “You knew the victim. Do you think there’s anything fishy about him being discovered dead by the bloke who bought his farm?”

“Not the farm, Ma’am.”

Lesley let the ma’am go. “How d’you mean?”

“The land was sold off in bits. Fred Vickery up towards Corfe got half of it, Andy Towns from over the other side of Wareham bought most of the rest. God knows why, but there you go. The new family just bought the building and the land around it. They’re not local.”

Lesley allowed herself a smile, wondering what the people of Wareham had thought about outsiders buying a farmhouse that might have stood here for centuries. “Either way, we’ll need to talk to them. Did the deceased have family?”

“His brother.”

“The farmer?”

“Yes. Former farmer.”

“And where is he, now he’s sold all his property and filled his bank account?”

“He’s got a bungalow in Swanage.”

“That must feel odd after years of farming.”

“I heard his wife’s ill. Mental health.”

Lesley nodded. “We’ll need to get a car round there. He’s next of kin, by the sounds of it. I’ll want to interview him and the rest of the family.”

“Er…” Gavin gave her an awkward look.

“Lesley,” Gail said. “Gav’s a CSI. He can’t tell Uniform to send a car.”

Lesley shook her head. “No. You’re right. Sorry, Gavin.” She pushed open the door to the tent and approached Dennis, pulling her phone from her pocket.