Cherringham--Killing Time

by Matthew Costello

*

  Jack had a lot of thoughts. That interview had not gone exactly the way he thought it would.

  But he had a more pressing thought.

  “I think we should stroll over to Huffington’s. Do some planning.”

  He noticed that Chloe was now standing by her mother, maybe thinking the three of them would repair to the café.

  Jack had no need to say anything about that, as Sarah turned to her daughter.

  “Chloe, best you stay here, catch up on the work we—”

  Jack saw that Chloe’s face looked stunned.

  “Hang on. It’s my friend we’re talking about. Her boyfriend’s dead. Don’t you think I should help?”

  Sarah put a hand on her daughter’s forearm. And in the gentlest of voices said, “Chloe, it’s precisely because of that. Jack, and I — we don’t know what we’ll find. What might happen. Maybe nothing. No case at all. But these are your friends, and it might not be such a good idea for you to be involved.”

  Jack didn’t see any softening in Chloe’s gaze.

  And he was reminded of the time, not too many years ago, when Chloe’s gap year in France turned unexpectedly into a second year, with that obviously too-fast engagement that almost happened.

  Sarah’s Chloe could have been gone, forever. Her life, her decision.

  But Chloe, older, wiser, came back. And the bond between Sarah and her daughter now seemed — to Jack — unbreakable. Still …

  “I could help, Mum. You know I could. Lots. I could—”

  Sarah’s hand remained on that forearm.

  “I know. But maybe another time, another case. Where you don’t have a connection. Might be better. Right, Jack?”

  Jack smiled. “I’ll say.” Jack took a breath. “Just not this time.”

  And finally, he saw a break in the young woman’s expression, the logic maybe making sense.

  Sarah added, “And — with the backlog of work we have, it’s just great to have you here. Knowing that you’re handling it means I can breathe more easily.”

  And finally — like sun breaking through the dark clouds — Chloe smiled, with a simple “okay”. Then, “But next time …”

  And Sarah smiled as well, as she turned to Jack. “Absolutely.”

  Then a nice, tight hug.

  Jack remembered those hugs with his own daughter. Never seeming to last long enough, the moment so precious.

  He led the way down, a planning session at Huffington’s awaiting.

  6. Biscuits, a Spot of Tea … and Questions

  Sarah watched as Lizzie put down a plate of shortbread with a few other biscuits mixed in, the pot of tea still steeping in front of them.

  As usual Lizzie beamed at Jack.

  Her doting on him was actually cute.

  “Lizzie,” he said, “I think you let some unordered cookies escape onto the plate here.”

  Lizzie laughed, shook her head. “Oh you and your cookies, Jack. You know we only have biscuits in Cherringham.”

  “Well, whatever you want to call them, I must say, you do provide us with the very best.”

  Another warm smile from the waitress and she moved on.

  “You,” Sarah said, “are shameless.”

  “What? Just having a little chat with the serving staff. They’re people too, you know.”

  “If you ever stop coming here Lizzie’ll be heartbroken.”

  “Well, that’s never going to happen. This place — one of the treasures of the universe.”

  “That it is. Shall I pour?”

  “Do believe it’s ready.”

  She took the pot and poured the tea, and as Jack picked up a shortbread, lightly dusted with sugar, he began.

  “I’ll start. Some confusing things here.”

  “I agree.”

  “Okay, so, we know solo exploring is not the rule. Maybe even frowned on. But seems Zach had a weakness for it.”

  “Yup. And?”

  “Also — this was no hobby for Zach. Made a lot of money.”

  “And,” Sarah added, “apparently he liked all that money.”

  “What’s not to like?”

  “Only — maybe he wasn’t making enough anymore? So he took risks.”

  “Ergo accident.”

  “Makes sense,” said Sarah.

  “Something else — least for me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ella and Megan,” said Jack. “Not on the same page.”

  Sarah laughed. “You noticed?”

  Jack grinned. “Oh yeah. Megan — naturally enough, I guess — major blind spots regarding Zach. But Ella … her reaction … Dunno. Surprising?”

  “Yeah. Almost as if she was angry he went into Blackwood House.”

  “Lot of possibilities there,” said Jack.

  Sarah took a sip of her tea — sweetener added, dash of milk, still nicely hot.

  “Such as?”

  “Zach the star. Charismatic. Talented. Bit of a showboat. He might have had more than one of the group’s members as fans.”

  “Oh. Right. Maybe,” said Sarah. “Ella, for sure. You see the way she and Megan could hardly make eye contact?”

  “No love lost there.”

  “And then that last question you threw at Ella, well …”

  “Right. Kid’s not much of a liar, is she?” said Jack. “I’m thinking she and Zach might have had something going on.”

  “And maybe Megan knew about it?”

  “Or suspected it,” said Jack. “But — okay — how does that connect to Zach’s death?”

  “Exactly,” said Sarah. “I still don’t see anything that screams foul play.”

  “Motive? Means? Opportunity?”

  “None of that. More like — a young man in a hurry, with too much to prove.”

  “Still,” Jack picked up a biscuit with dollop of cherry at its centre, “in spite of all that, there’s something about this that just doesn’t ring true to me.”

  “Okay. So, I need to get online. Check them all out, ’specially Zach. See if there’s any skeletons in the closet. I mean, we still don’t really know anything yet, save Zach is dead, and his girlfriend simply doesn’t believe it was an accident.”

  “Absolutely. One thing — I’d like to take a look at the house. Where it happened.”

  “Alone?”

  Sarah suddenly felt a bit of concern. Jack, she knew, could well handle himself. But that house had already caused the loss of one life.

  “Think — with security on the premises and all — might cause less of stir if it’s just me,” he said.

  Sarah hesitated. “Place really could be a deathtrap, you know. Why not wait till we can do it together?”

  “You got plenty on your plate. And I’ll be careful.”

  “You have a torch?”

  “You mean my trusty flashlight? Do indeed. Fresh batteries, and good to go.”

  “Okay. But something else …”

  “Yeah?” said Jack.

  “We know there’s the GoPro video. But I’m also wondering did Alan Rivers or any of the ambulance team notice anything else? Maybe worth a chat?”

  “Great. Yeah.”

  Cherringham’s lone police officer Alan Rivers wasn’t always happy about what she and Jack did. But with so many cases solved in recent years, he now — quite openly — would admit …

  They know what they’re doing.

  And, within the limit of the law, Alan helped them when he could.

  She saw Jack look out the window. The day had started mostly sunny — puffy white clouds in the sky. But since meeting with Megan and Ella — and their time in Huffington’s — those clouds had turned grey, threatening.

  “Rain later, I think,” Jack said.

  “All the more reason to be careful.”

  “Always.”

  Sarah poured out the rest of the tea. That second cup, the perfect temperature. They both drank for a minute in silence. The perfect moment passed.

  “Jack. Your gut feeling?”


  “Oh, that old thing?” he said, smiling.

  “Telling you anything?”

  He laughed. “Not yet. But trust me, when it does, you will be the very first to know.”

  *

  Sarah walked from Huffington’s to the police station where she hoped she’d find Alan.

  A call could have confirmed that, but best — she thought — to surprise the officer with her questions.

  She took the steps up the station door, pushed it open to see Alan standing at a desk, looking at some papers.

  “Sarah. Anything up?”

  Clearly trying to give the impression that a drop-in from her — or Jack — would be anything but casual.

  “Alan. I just had a chat with Megan Dunn.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s asked me and Jack for help and, well, I thought we should catch up.”

  “Not much to catch up about. But, sure, come on through.”

  And Alan led the way into his office …

  *

  Jack didn’t worry about parking away from Blackwood House. Much better, he thought, just to be brazen — drive right up to the front door.

  Any security around — in broad daylight — they’d spot him anyway, speeding up the long drive.

  Past a series of lurid warning signs he went, in his green MG sports car, under grim, grey skies.

  The wide lane, lined by a long picket fence, must have — once upon a time — been a grand entry for the house.

  Now he could barely see it through straggly bushes and tall weeds while his car’s suspension rocked and jolted as he dodged potholes.

  At last he crested a hill and got his first look at the manor house. At first glance, impressive, one of those homes that had bathrooms and bedrooms in the double digits.

  Yet also — from the disarray of the surrounding uncut grass, gangly bushes and overgrown shrubs — clearly the place had been left to do whatever it wanted.

  He parked the car to the side of the house. Feeling the first drops of rain, he quickly put up the cover.

  No sign of security — maybe all the signs just a bluff — so he walked to the front, spotting a broken window on the ground floor. Probably the place Megan and her friend Luke used to enter, still with the jagged teeth of glass around the perimeter of the frame.

  Not for me, Jack thought.

  And as he took the stone steps, dotted with clumps of leaves long turned into slimy, mudlike piles, he dug out his lock-pick set.

  Holding the small but effective tool kit in his hand, he looked at the lock. Straightforward. More than likely a three- or four-tumbler system, the type he had faced — and picked — many times before.

  It had been a while since he had gently tripped those tumblers in a lock chamber.

  He chose the narrowest pick with an even thinner, narrowed point and bent down.

  In seconds, he felt he had reached the last tumbler and now could turn the lock mechanism to slide the bolt back.

  A satisfying click, and he tested the result by grabbing the doorknob, twisting it.

  Guess some skills you just never lose.

  7. Digging Deeper

  “Tea, Sarah. Or, um—?”

  But Sarah shook her head, taking a seat facing Alan’s desk.

  “Alan — thanks for this. Megan’s one of Chloe’s friends. Just trying to put her mind at rest.”

  Alan didn’t say anything.

  Every now and then she remembered that he had actually fancied her, albeit a lifetime ago when they were both at Cherringham High together.

  And while Sarah had married (though that hadn’t turned out well at all), Alan had remained a bachelor.

  Right now, she still counted him as a friend. But perhaps he still watched for lines he shouldn’t cross.

  “Had you noted anything odd about Zach’s fall? His death?” she said.

  Alan smiled. “Well, it’s odd enough he was in that house in the first place. With all the water damage, burst pipes, rotting wood — accident waiting to happen. So, his fall? Not surprising at all.”

  “But he was highly experienced,” she said. “He knew what he was doing.”

  “Yeah. I know. The videos. Still — ever see those climbing movies? Those guys who do it on their own with no equipment? Sooner or later, as good as they are, they can make a mistake.”

  Obviously, Alan had no suspicions here. Which, Sarah knew, was very typically Alan.

  “I wonder, were there photos? I mean, before the body was removed?”

  “Course.”

  A bit of caution there. She smiled.

  “You think I could take a look?”

  A pause.

  “Sure. Why not? They’re not crime photos, according to the lads from Thames Valley, or anybody else — me included.”

  Alan spun around in his chair, slid open a file drawer — just behind him and to the left — and rifled through some manila folders, before yanking one out and sliding it to Sarah.

  “Bit nasty, Sarah.”

  “Gotcha. I’m prepared for something gruesome. And I’ve taken some courses, forensic pathology.”

  Sarah opened the folder.

  *

  Jack walked into the house.

  First impression: the smell, a stench, made up of sodden wood, carpeting, even the water-stained wallpaper peeling off the walls like skin being shed.

  Then, the darkness. The day had turned gloomy, and not much light seeped in through the old stone-framed windows.

  He took a few steps, and heard the sound he made on the floor. Not the creak of old floorboards, but more the squish of wood that had been weakened, turned almost spongy.

  The place, Jack thought, was so far gone that anyone who wanted to buy it would probably have to gut the interior and start all over.

  Another step. When — and he hadn’t heard a sound behind him — a voice barked.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

  *

  Sarah looked at the series of pictures.

  First one, Zach curled up like a human doll tossed to the floor, landing awkwardly. The next one, tighter, so now Zach’s head filled the frame, shocked eyes wide open, yellow helmet askew.

  And though Sarah had protested that she had seen such things before …

  Still, this … was quite strong.

  A brown pool of oxidised blood beneath the skull.

  “The wound,” she said. “Days old at this point, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Alan. “Happened on the Thursday. Discovered by Megan and Luke four days later.”

  “Thursday,” she said, looking at the disturbing photos. “You got the day from the GoPro camera, right?”

  “We even know the exact time.”

  She looked up at Alan.

  “Camera recorded it all. His prowling through the house. The step he took just before he fell. Turns a bit blurry right there, when he falls. Then just freezes. Stops. Dead at 11pm.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “The GoPro. Did Zach speak, while moving through the house?”

  “No,” said Alan. “Not his style. Think he used to stick a voiceover on afterwards.”

  Sarah thought back to Zach’s other videos and realised how they differed from other urbexers: cool music and playlists probably generating more income than a stumbling voiceover ever could.

  No wonder he could afford a flat in Cherringham Crescent.

  *

  Jack turned to see a bear of a man, one of those guys that looked like they had been stuffed into their clothes, equal parts significant muscle and fat.

  The severest of crew cuts, and eyes that — even in this dim light — glowed angrily in a bowling-ball head.

  “You heard my damn question? What the—”

  Jack put up a hand.

  He could see on the man’s blue shirt, a logo and name tag. Couldn’t make it out, but enough for Jack to guess this was the security guy.

  “And you are?” Jack said.

  “Ma
loney. Security for this dump. And you — my friend — are trespassing.”

  Jack didn’t react to the man’s volley. He had hoped he’d be able to walk around, see the spot where Zach fell — the place where he died — with no one the wiser.

  But clearly that was not to be.

  “Okay, Mr Maloney. A few things I think you should know.”

  Those beady eyes looked, from this distance, rheumy.

  Maloney was probably more used to tippling something during the day than stopping intruders.

  “I know that you’d better get the hell out of here.”

  But Jack didn’t move.

  Instead, he took a breath. In America a guy like Maloney would be armed — making him far more dangerous. Nevertheless, a tussle with this character would be no walk in the park.

  “My colleague from the agency is, as we speak, with Alan Rivers at Cherringham police station, who — well — knows that I’m here. We are looking into how someone died in this place.”

  That gave Maloney pause. But then — like sluggish life preservers bobbing to the surface — a few more words erupted from the security guard.

  “Don’t care what no police says. I’m the bloody security. No one comes in here without me knowing, my ‘say so’. So you’re going to get yourself out of here, right now.”

  Okay, Jack thought.

  This part of his recce of the mansion was turning out to be not as easy as breaking in.

  Jack took a step towards the man, closing the distance. Not exactly a threatening move, but enough to throw someone off.

  “Your job, is to see that no one comes in, huh? Like the night Zach Woodcote came in and got himself killed? You weren’t doing much security work that night.”

  “You bloody—”

  “Or — now that I think about it — even the day his friends came and they found the dead body. You didn’t seem to be doing much guard work that day either.”

  The man licked his lips.

  Words failing him, Jack thought. The man’s brain, altered or not by any substances, struggled for an answer.

  “Now, I could get the police to come up here again, to tell you to leave me the hell alone.” A bluff of course, but it looked like it was working. “Imagine whoever pays you to do this high-quality security work might not like you interfering with people trying to look into how someone died here.”