A dozen or so cows in some kind of holding pen. Maybe it was milking time?
Jack wasn’t much of a farm boy, but he guessed early morning and late afternoon were the usual times.
He pointed the binoculars at the edge of the farm, where a line of diggers, rollers and trucks sat on a large concrete apron.
One man stood on a bench, working on an opened engine on one of the trucks.
Behind him, a white van — and next to that, two men talking. To one side of the trucks, a high tank on legs, and a solitary gas pump.
So that must be Owen Haulage, he thought. The sideline that was so profitable.
Back to the sheds: he panned the area.
The milking sheds were surrounded by pens with metal rails that he guessed could be moved to herd the cattle this way or that. Behind them, a gate opened out onto the nearest field.
And that field had tall fencing that, on one side, ran along the edge of the farm all the way to the drive that lead up the hill to the main gates.
Had to be the fencing Charlie helped to build.
On the other side, the fencing ran past a couple of low barns with shuttered windows — the ones that Sarah had found strange.
Jack could understand why — even from here.
They seemed to have no function, even though a concrete track led up to their barred double doors.
And with the binoculars, he could see — on each corner of the barns — perched a pair of large security lights.
Serious lights …
In a wire cage that ran along one of the buildings — two massive dogs strained against chains. Both Dobermans alert — prowling.
And quite the guard dogs.
Jack wondered: What could those buildings be used for?
Storage maybe? That would explain the steel shutters and bars. But what could be so valuable you’d need dogs and security lights?
And then — even from here — a breeze brought that smell of fuel oil.
He knew that oil was used to refine cocaine — but that was at source, working with the leaves.
Not in some last-stop warehouse, if that’s what was happening here.
But maybe oil was used in some other drug production? He thought back to other drug operations he’d busted back in New York, but nothing rang a bell.
The farm location though — easy enough out here to hide trucks coming in and out if you wanted.
Certainly secretive.
What had Charlie got himself into?
Only one way to find out — get closer.
He packed away his binoculars and hoisted the pack onto his back.
Then he took his Yankees cap and pulled it down onto his head, and, map in hand — now a prop — headed down the lane away from the farm towards the head of the valley.
And the woods …
To all observers, for sure, a happy hiker. Perhaps a tad lost, out for an afternoon trek.
*
An hour later, Jack reached the edge of the woods.
A muddy trail walk that had him cursing his lack of fitness — and promising himself he’d sign up to that gym that Sarah kept going on about.
He pushed through some bushes that had overgrown the footpath, then leaned against a tree and looked out at the open field and — just a hundred yards away — Longmead Farm.
He knew he wouldn’t have long before he was spotted, but he’d spent the last hour working out his route, and also his cover.
“Here goes,” he said out loud to himself, then — map in one hand and stout stick in the other — he stepped out from the tree line and marched down the slope towards the farm.
*
The field became very open — and suddenly Jack felt vulnerable.
But he kept walking in what he hoped would pass for the jaunty air of a tourist on a hike, and he marched right on until he hit the first gate at the edge of the farm.
No point in being quiet.
He pulled the gate open, then slammed it shut behind him, making as much noise as he could.
Just fifty yards ahead he could see the first of the shuttered buildings.
The dogs, in their cage, were alert — stretching chains as they pressed against the wire — panting, jostling, growling as this intruder came closer.
Down here … the smell of diesel stronger.
More steps, and then the dogs started barking. Jack saw them leaping up at the fence as he approached, the chains pulling them back with each lurch, whiplashed, as they circled and leaped again.
“Whoa, boys!” said Jack. “Nice doggies!”
Doggies that could rip him apart.
He kept his distance. Chains or no chains — those beasts were killers.
He glanced at the buildings behind them: heavy steel shutters, air-con units, electric cabling along the length.
And at the far end, he could see tall double doors with shiny padlocks and hasps standing open wide.
An opportunity?
He walked towards the doors, past the barking dogs — just a few yards away.
If he was quick enough he might get to the doors, be able to see inside.
But now — from out of the building, and from behind the trucks — people appeared, hurrying towards him.
A voice, loud, and not pleased: “Hey! You! What the hell?”
Jack stopped dead.
He counted one, two, three big guys in greasy overalls. Then, behind him, the sound of an engine.
He turned to see a small buggy-type thing hurtle into view and race towards him.
His retreat now cut off.
He waved politely at the three guys ahead who had stopped in a semi-circle. One held a large monkey wrench. Jack gave him his biggest smile.
Then he turned as the man in the buggy slid to a stop just yards away and jumped out, stepped towards him.
“Hi!” said Jack in his best Western twang. “How ya doin’?”
“Who the hell are you?” said buggy man.
From Sarah’s description, Jack reckoned this must be the son, Chris.
Jack stuck out his hand. “Jack Brennan. Nice meetin’ ya!”
The man didn’t take his hand. Jack shrugged.
“This is private property,” said one of the guys in the trio.
“It is?” said Jack, giving them all his best country grin. “Boy, I’m real sorry. Lost the footpath in the woods up there. Took a shortcut. And here I am in a real Cotswolds farm! How about that?”
“Didn’t you see the signs? No trespassers. Lucky I didn’t have a gun, I’d be quite within my rights—”
“Whoa, whoa — no need for that,” said Jack. “Just a visiting American taking a wrong turn on one of your lovely footpaths. Bit stupid, I know—”
“Too bloody right,” came a voice from behind him.
Jack turned back to the other men who hadn’t moved — as if just waiting for orders.
The man with the monkey wrench smacked it slowly into his open hand — a blunt threat for sure.
Then back to buggy man: “Guess you’re nervous ’bout your stock, hmm?” he said, nodding to the dogs. “Could keep a herd of buffalo behind those there fences!”
His words … the slightest nudge.
Jack thinking: Let’s see how they react.
He watched the man assessing him. Gave another grin. Waited. Then he saw the man nod to the other workmen.
“All right, lads. Back to work. I’ll deal with this.”
Jack watched the men back away.
“Nice meetin’ y’all!” he said. “Have a nice day now!”
He wasn’t surprised when they didn’t respond. He cautioned himself not to overdo the performance.
He turned to the other man, still standing by the buggy.
“Guess I’ll just head on through then,” he said. Then he lifted his map. “See, according to this, the Cherringham Way runs along the top of the ridge, right up there, hmm?”
But the man didn’t speak. He climbed into the buggy, started it up, the
n drew alongside Jack.
“God. Tourists. Get in. I’ll take you up to the gate.”
“Much obliged,” said Jack.
They shot off through the farm. Past the trucks and diggers. The milking sheds.
The big outbuildings …
Jack’s eyes on everything, looking for clues.
Certain there was something going down here …
But the doors to the mysterious barns had been pulled shut.
No way he could see inside now.
*
As they passed the main farmhouse, Jack saw an older man step out.
“Everything all right, Chris?” he said.
So buggy man is the son, thought Jack. And that must be the owner, Pete Owen.
A nice guy, according to Sarah.
“Hiker got lost,” said Chris. “Just getting rid.”
“Hi!” said Jack to the older man. “Nice to meet ya!”
But the buggy was already pulling away fast and heading up the drive.
“Beautiful part of the world,” he said, smiling at Chris. “You sure are lucky living here.”
Chris said nothing.
When they reached the gates at the main road, the buggy stopped and Jack climbed out.
“Hey — thank you for the lift!” he said. “Got me right back on track.”
Chris pointed at a sign on the gate: “No Trespassers”.
“Word to the wise,” he said, “round here, that sign means exactly what it says.”
Then he pulled away. Jack watched the little buggy roar off down the drive and disappear over the ridge into the valley.
He was going to have to walk back to his car the long way round.
But it was worth it.
He now had no doubt — beneath the fruitcake and tea there was a nasty secret lurking at Longmead Farm.
Question was — what the hell was it?
13. Risotto Cacio
Sarah gave the rice a stir, then added a bit more of the Parmesan stock, the liquid released by simmering a giant wedge of the cheese in water.
Jack stood close, unscrewing the bottle top of the Chenin Blanc he’d brought.
“Do miss corkscrews. Something about that ‘pop’.”
She looked up and grinned. “Say this for screw tops though: does speed up the delivery process.”
Jack poured the wine into the two waiting glasses on the counter.
Sarah took hers. She clinked Jack’s glass.
“Here’s to … poor old Charlie,” Jack said. “Whatever the hell he was up to.”
“And to our lack of evidence.”
She took a sip. The wine chilled, dry and perfect for this rather daunting risotto.
“I had a look online,” she said, going over to the kitchen island and bringing back her iPad, flicking it open. “You can see the farm on satellite view. But that’s as close as you get.”
“Need to see inside those buildings,” said Jack, looking at the screen. “I got so close — but they shut the damn doors. Guess they just don’t like tourists.”
Sarah laughed. “I still find it hard to believe the farmer and his wife are involved in anything like drugs.”
“Looks don’t mean a thing in that world.”
“But murder? Those two?”
“You’re forgetting the son.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Not the most welcoming Brit I’ve met.”
She gave the Arborio rice another swirl, tipping the last bit of cheesy broth in.
A taste.
“Aha! I think … dinner’s ready. Let me summon my son who requested this challenging menu item.”
“Hitting the books hard?”
“Yeah — wants to finish the year strong.”
“Too bad Chloe won’t join us.”
“Chloe? Chloe who?” Sarah said laughing. “Never know with her these days. Most nights she’s off seeing this friend, that friend. Quite a gap year she’s having — though I thought the adventures were supposed to take place abroad and not here.”
Jack nodded, his smile fading a bit.
Sarah knew he liked both her kids — and they adored him — but, with a daughter of his own, he felt especially protective of Chloe.
“You worried?”
“That this gap year might expand? Why, yes I am, Mr Brennan.”
She pulled the pot off the heat. Then:
“Daniel! Dinner is served!”
And she picked up the creamy risotto which — having tasted it at every stage — she knew would blow everyone’s socks off.
*
Sarah watched Daniel just about lick his plate.
“Mum, okay if I drop this in the bowl and go? Got tons more work to do.”
“As in no washing-up?” Sarah said. “Go on then. One ‘get-out-of-kitchen-free’ card, just for tonight. Hit those books.”
And Daniel grinned at Jack as he headed to the sink with his empty plate, then darted away.
Jack turned to her. “Must say, that risotto … disappeared.”
“Didn’t it just! You know the recipe was created when this little Italian village’s Parmesan storeroom got flooded one year? The whole stock had to be used fast.”
“Maybe we need more floods!”
He picked up his glass, about to take a sip, when, as if blown by a gust of stormy wind, the back door opened.
And there was Chloe.
*
Chloe: 19, taller than her mother. Just as smart.
And always a kind smile for me, Jack thought.
Even if her mum didn’t always fare so well.
“Chloe,” Sarah said. “Thought you were at—”
“Hannah’s? Yeah, well she got a call from Callum, so — whoosh, off she went. Hey, what smells so good?”
“Risotto. Still warm. Like some?”
“Sure. Glass of wine too?”
Jack still had trouble wrapping his head around the fact that here in England Chloe was of an age to sit and share a nice Chenin with her mother.
Chloe pulled up a chair while Sarah saw to the risotto.
“So, you guys working on another crime?” she said, grinning and nodding at the iPad.
Jack knew Sarah didn’t often discuss their cases with her kids. Still, they both knew full well what they did.
“Maybe,” Jack said, smiling.
Sarah served up the risotto and Jack poured the last of the white wine into a glass for Chloe.
For a moment, all was quiet as Chloe took a heaping spoonful of the creamy rice and tucked in.
“Wow. Mum.” Then after a couple more seconds: “This is fantastic.”
Jack guessed that lately Chloe missed more meals at home than consumed them.
“Daniel’s idea. Saw it on TV. Good, hmmm?”
“Better than good. Give my brother a raise!”
Spoonful after spoonful disappeared.
A sip of wine. “Wine’s not bad either. I really should have dinner at home more often.”
For a moment, Jack thought Chloe might be a bit too bubbly.
He remembered his own daughter, coming home just under the wire for curfew, and somehow … quite hungry and chatty.
Talk about suspicious …
“So, what are you talking about? The case?”
Sarah stood, and picked up Chloe’s plate. But also at the same time, gave the quickest of brushes to her daughter’s dark, short-cropped hair.
Jack well knew …
Kids can turn into adults — but they’re still your kids.
“Actually,” Sarah said, “we have this farm over towards Winsham we want to take a proper look at …”
“Yup,” said Jack. “But getting in for that look? Not so easy. Fact — I paid them a visit today but they had time to shut up shop.”
“Satellite view online doesn’t tell us anything,” said Sarah. “And there’s no street view.”
“Somehow we got to get in there when they’re not expecting it,” said Jack.
“Surpr
ise them,” said Sarah.
Which is when Chloe clapped her hands, and rocketed to her feet.
“I just had the most amazing idea.”
And for a moment Jack watched Sarah’s daughter hesitate, perhaps even enjoying the suspense created by her announcing her explosive brainstorm.
Her eyes wide, smile as big as could be.
Jack looked to Sarah, face dubious.
“Go on …”
*
“You two … can … fly over the place!”
Sarah wasn’t expecting that.
She answered quickly. “Um, I don’t think so. Small matter of a plane, pilot’s licence.”
“No problem,” an undeterred Chloe said. “I can call Grandpa. He can just book a plane out, take you guys up. You can look at that farm all you like!”
The idea was totally mad, thought Sarah.
And it was a tad alarming to have her daughter now helping them to strategise.
She turned to Jack.
Amazingly enough, he looked like he was actually listening.
Another clap from Chloe.
“Let me call him, Mum. It’s a good idea, right?”
Jack gave a small shrug that wasn’t exactly a dismissal.
As for Sarah, this little plan was moving too fast for her to decide whether it had a smidge of merit.
“Um, you know …”
She looked across: Jack in thinking mode.
“I’ve only been in a small plane like that once. Had to run up and down the Rockaways.” He paused, as if catching himself. Probably removing a grim detail. “But,” and now he turned from Chloe to Sarah, “it’s not totally daft. I mean — maybe with the element of surprise — it just might get us a good look, close up, maybe even a view inside the barns.”
Another pause, as Jack looked away. “No. Not a bad idea at all.”
“Brilliant!” Chloe turned back to Sarah. “What do you think, Mum? Say the word. I’ll go and call him.”
And while Sarah didn’t like the idea of going up in a plane again — once was fine, thank you — the plan somehow did make sense. No one would be the wiser as they flew over the farm.
And so, with a small smile, Sarah nodded. “Okay. Find out what Grandpa thinks.”
And, in a flash, Chloe had her phone out.
*
Then it was just Jack and Sarah in the kitchen.
Jack stood up.
“Um, guess you’ll hear about tomorrow’s plans in a bit.”
Cherringham - The Drowned Man Page 8
