He knew the water was shallow where he stood; he’d worked that much out. While looking for a place to dump the trunk, he read that Tilford Lake boasted a small café, occasional activities and a boat hire. He’d need something robust enough to hold the trunk. He didn’t need anything flash. A small boat on an hourly charge would be perfect.
He made his way to the small wooden cabin by the lake, keeping watch, sizing up the area. From what he could tell, the place was perfect to trunk-dump.
As Oliver approached, he saw a plastic window at the front; the lights were off and the front door chained. The cabin was shabby, in need of wood-staining.
He cupped his hands to the window, peering inside. There were a couple of canoes neatly stacked on a shelf towards the back, a small reception with a till, papers, a cup filled with pens and a roll of Sellotape.
Shit, don’t do this to me, please.
Oliver went around to the side of the hut. This door was also locked with a security chain fastened across the entrance.
Then he saw a sign: Opening hours 10am–2pm.
Wow, what a grafter. This person’s a real high flyer.
He noticed a phone number for general enquiries underneath.
Oliver called the number, and a guy answered on the third ring, sounding like he’d been up all night. His voice was rough, deep, and by the sound of his telephone manner, he wasn’t used to calls. ‘Tilford Lake.’
‘Hi, I was hoping to take a boat out for an hour or so. Would it be possible?’
The guy paused – Oliver thought he’d hung up – then he spoke, unenthusiastic and sounding like he couldn’t be bothered. ‘It’s the middle of winter, mate. The boats were chained up weeks ago.’
Wow, entrepreneur of the year in action right here. What a guy. ‘I understand, I just need to take a boat for an hour, that’s it. A bit of relaxation, clear the head, you know. I’ll pay you treble.’
The guy sighed, blowing out a hard breath into the mouthpiece, sounding like a poorly-tuned radio. ‘Fine. Go for it, knock yourself out.’
He gave Oliver a code to unlock a padlock, then took his card details.
Ten minutes later, Oliver had rowed back to where his car was parked.
He got out, returned to the parked vehicle, then opened the boot, placing his foot on the bumper for leverage, pulling to one side the blanket he had used to cover the trunk.
Oliver quickly checked over his shoulder, looking into the distance, then heaved the trunk out of the boot, dragged it to the edge, removed his socks and shoes and stood in the icy water.
It was beyond cold; his feet were instantly numb as he balanced, feeling his legs sink into the silt. He quickly grabbed the trunk, manoeuvring it onto the boat, then pulled himself over and in. The boat rocked back and forth as he steadied himself. For a moment he thought he’d drop over the edge and into the murky water.
He sat for a second, gaining control, composing himself, then picking up the oars, he rowed into the middle of the lake. Every so often he paused to jab the oars into the water, and when he couldn’t touch the bottom, he stopped. He looked around and then tipped the trunk over the side, watching it drop to the bottom of the lake and out of sight.
Twenty minutes later, Oliver had chained up the boat, dumped the oars and was back at the car.
He stood for a moment, looking out across the calm lake, selfishly gulping fresh air, clearing his mind, filling his lungs, stretching.
He stepped back, aware someone was approaching. Oliver ducked, seeing the old boy from earlier standing at the entrance. His Jack Russell dog was taking a pee, sniffing, then looking towards where Oliver stood. Go, please. Just move on, for Christ’s sake.
The dog moved further down the path, heading to where Oliver was crouched, barking furiously and pulling at his lead.
‘What’s up, boy? You found something?’
Oliver stood, making out he’d just seen the elderly guy. ‘Hi, I’ve just got a flat tyre. I pulled in here so as not to cause an accident.’ Oliver waited, hoping the guy would move on and leave him to it.
‘I’ll give you a hand. Come on, Roofus, there’s a good boy.’
‘No, really, it’s fine. I’ve almost finished.’
‘Don’t be daft, it’s no trouble.’
Oliver watched as the dog pulled harder, anxious to get to the water; he could smell something. The elderly guy seemed pleased for something to occupy his time. Any second now, the guy would phone for help, reporting suspicious activity.
‘I’m Roy, good to meet you, squire.’ The elderly guy extended his arm, struggling to restrain his four-legged companion.
Oliver shook his hand, giving his name and then turning away. He didn’t need this. He hadn’t worked out how to deal with being seen.
The old guy let the dog go, watching him race to the edge of the lake, lapping the water like it was an ice cream on a hot day. The guy wore a smart waistcoat, white shirt and light blue cords. He removed his flat cap, wiping the top of his head. ‘Hard work having one of them,’ he said, pointing at the dog. ‘They keep you fit, mind.’
Oliver was crouched on one knee, making out he’d replaced the tyre. ‘Right, that’s it. Good to go. Well, it was nice meeting you.’ He made for the driver’s seat.
‘Course, we get fly-tippers here a lot. Forever dumping their shit on our land.’
‘Yeah, nasty business,’ Oliver stated, unsure whether the old guy was suspicious. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to make tracks. Good to meet you, oh, and Roofus too.’
As Oliver got into the driver’s seat, he closed the door and started the car.
The elderly guy walked to the side to clear a path. ‘You wouldn’t be dumping stuff now, would you, young fellow?’
Oliver thought, if only you knew. He pulled out onto the narrow country lane, turning right. In his rear-view mirror he watched the elderly man standing by the gate and waving him off.
Oliver thought about what could have happened if the guy had turned up earlier and seen him dragging the large trunk down to the edge. He shuddered.
The road was quiet ahead; the sharp bends forced him to stay in second gear. He pictured the body of gloved-man lying in Tilford Lake, wondering if he’d ever be recovered.
His mind wandered to Claire and her visit late yesterday evening. He wanted to call her but didn’t want to look desperate. She was the only person he could speak with about the situation. Maybe she could help, give him advice. God they’d been so in love, shared great times, and he had to talk to someone. How much he told her was up to him.
He battled with his thoughts and his conscience, justifying his way of thinking. Why shouldn’t I call? Ask her to come over… After all, she made the first move.
He reached a fork in the road with signs pointing left and right, but was unsure which road would lead him to London.
He reached for his mobile and tapped in Claire’s number. He heard the ringtone. Then, ‘Hi, it’s Claire. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back.’ Beeeeeeeeeeeep.
‘Hi, Claire. It’s Oliver. I need to see you. I-I don’t know where to begin. Last night was great. Seeing you, I mean – the best. I know I’m waffling on, but just call. It would be great to hear your voice.’
He hung up, stared at the screen for a second before placing the phone back on the passenger seat.