Sarah nodded. And she walked beside Jack, stepping around the black crater of the fire, to the front door.
Bell’s lips were pursed, and as she got close she heard Alan …
“You’ll have to come down to the station to fill out a report, Tim.”
She watched Bell shake his head.
“No, I don’t. Don’t have to file any damn report. Not if I don’t want to.”
Alan looked up as she and Jack got to the door. He gave her a look … as if saying … please help. Make this guy see sense.
But Bell didn’t seem to be looking for any advice.
“Alan, Tim …” Jack said. “Nasty business.”
“I was telling him, Jack, that he really should fill out a report. We can have a proper investigation then, maybe get a forensics team down here.”
Sarah watched Bell. His eyes locked on the site of the fire. If it was meant to scare Bell off … it didn’t seem to working.
“Tim,” she said, “any idea who did this?”
Bell’s eyes slowly moved from their position locked on the smouldering mailbox to Sarah.
“I’d say … anybody in this town, wouldn’t you? ’Cept maybe you two. Guess—” he forced a grin, “you’re off the hook.”
Jack took a step closer. “Might help us if you let Alan do his job.”
Tim looked to Jack now. Then the smallest of nods.
“And maybe,” Alan added, “…maybe think about leaving the village for a while. Let things settle down. While we look into things.”
With that Bell shook his head.
“Leave? Oh I left, didn’t I? A good long twenty-five years ago. Not now. You see—”
And now he took in all three of them …
“—whoever did this, why maybe that’s just what he wants. Because there’s someone here, in lovely Cherringham, who knows what happened to Dinah. And I mean to find out who the hell that is …”
Sarah looked to Jack. She didn’t like Bell. But his anger at what happened, today — and so long ago — now had her judging him less harshly.
Not a nice guy at all.
But a murderer?
She didn’t think so.
“Look Tim,” Jack said, “how about this. You let us know if there are any threats, anything else that happens. Okay? And we’ll keep digging. But in the meantime — you file the report with Alan here. Who knows what they might find in that mess on your front lawn?”
For a second Tim kept his arms folded, locked against any suggestion of “what he should do.”
But then Sarah watched as, in that near magical way Jack had of getting people to move, just a bit, Tim unfolded his arms.
“All right. I’ll do it. And you promise me you’ll keep talking to people, asking questions. If not for my bloody sake — then Dinah’s.”
Jack looked at Sarah. This was a decision for the two of them. She gave Jack a small nod.
“You got it.”
And with that, Bell followed Alan to his patrol car just as the fire engine did a tricky three-point turn and then headed slowly back down the street, siren off, fire ended.
Then Jack said …
“Guess you’d best get back for Chloe — didn’t you say she was home from London today?”
“God, yes — nearly forgot.”
“We’ll talk … plan later. Meanwhile, I need to take Riley for a long walk and do some thinking.”
“Great. Later then.”
And Sarah turned and walked down the still quiet street, the hot afternoon air relentless, so close and humid …
Not unlike the fire that exploded in front of Bell’s house.
A warning. A threat.
With — Sarah thought for sure — more to come.
11. The Conductor
It was lunchtime the next day before Sarah finally had time to meet Rik Chase.
She’d stayed up late with Chloe who had all kind of tales of her week staying with her father in London. Trips to the theatre, cinema, ballet, a “totally amazing” launch party at the Royal Opera House, lunch at The Ivy “Mum, you’ll never believe who was on the next table!”
Sarah had to work hard to hide her frustration that her ex-husband lived a life of conspicuous expense while she, Chloe, and Daniel survived by careful budgeting and foregoing holidays abroad.
Chloe had clearly been dazzled by that London life — just as Sarah had been when she’d left Cherringham to find her fortune years ago. And with a pang, Sarah realized that Chloe herself would be gone in just a few years’ time — to university, to work, to her own life as an adult …
So — late to bed, and a late start at the office: then a morning crammed with deadlines, phone calls, rushed meetings, and finally a little genuine design work at her screen.
And now, after a hurried sandwich, here she was in Cherringham’s only real “posh” street — Bradwell Crescent — looking for Rik Chase’s house.
Only a dozen houses sat tucked away in the crescent, which curved around a shared garden. Sarah walked slowly along the imposing line of tall Georgian houses, looking for number eight. She could only dream of living here.
If Cherringham had a pyramid, this was the top of it.
The imposing houses were identical and, through the windows, Sarah could see that though each interior might be decorated in a different style, the common denominator was wealth.
She climbed the steps to number eight and tapped the black lion’s-head knocker against the door.
It swung open immediately, surprising her. A man stood there, tall, dark hair, tanned. He grinned at her:
“Hi — Sarah?”
“Mr Chase?” said Sarah, taken aback.
“Rik — please,” he said, gesturing to her to enter. A big smile. “Come on in.”
She went through and stood in the hall while he shut the door. Then as he passed close by her she caught a note of expensive aftershave she recognized.
No shortage of money here, she thought. Or style …
“This way,” he said, pacing away from her down a corridor towards the back of the house. “Fancy a coffee? Just made one.”
“Thanks,” she said, and followed him.
Rik wasn’t what she’d imagined at all.
What she’d expected was a dusty old music teacher.
What she’d got was Italian film star in tailored white shirt, black skinny jeans, and loafers …
The corridor opened into a bright modern kitchen, the width of the house, with a big glass extension giving out onto a raised terrace and walled garden.
While Rik set off an espresso machine in the kitchen area, Sarah looked around the room.
Big bright canvases filled the walls, while three brown leather sofas surrounded a glass coffee table. And near the room’s back windows … a grand piano and a dozen pricey-looking acoustic guitars — in their stands — looking like musical soldiers ready for battle.
“Beautiful room,” she said.
“Ought to be — for what it cost,” he laughed. “Had to get guys from London — the Cherringham builders fell at the first hurdle.”
She pointed at a series of black-and-white photos on the wall: Rik at the piano with a variety of young musicians, mostly female — and many holding trophies or awards.
“So you teach in here?” she asked.
“Not much these days,” he said, handing her a coffee. “Unless they’re really special.”
“Looks like you were pretty good,” she said, nodding towards the photos.
He gestured to her to sit on one of the sofas, and she watched as he put his own coffee down then leaned back with his hands behind his head watching her.
“If a kid’s got talent and knows how to work hard, they’ll make it,” he said.
Sarah gestured to the room: “So how …?”
Another laugh. “—did I afford this?”
“Yes,” Sarah laughed. “Hard work and talent?”
“Ha, no — that’s for fairy tales, I am afraid. Pu
re luck if I’m honest,” he said laughing again.
He certainly found things amusing.
Sarah watched him run his hand through his thick hair and sweep it away from his forehead.
If he’d still been at Cherringham School when I was doing GCSEs I definitely would have taken music, she thought.
“Mid-nineties, I packed up teaching and got into composing my own stuff. Club scene was massive — and I wrote a couple of tunes that turned into hits. I’m still big in Estonia by the way. You can dance the night away in Tallinn to one of my tracks!”
“I feel ashamed I haven’t heard of you — Cherringham’s own rock star hmm?”
“Oh, no — not anymore,” he said. “Made a shedload of money. Then started composing properly. Got a studio in the basement.”
“Anything I’d know?”
“Not unless you listen to contemporary classical.”
“Ah, no,” she said. “I’m more Mumford and Sons …”
“Nothing wrong with that. I just like to push at the edges a bit.”
She watched him smile then put his coffee down on the table and lean forward.
“So,” he said, his eyes direct. “Your assistant said you wanted to ask me about something that happened back when I was working at Cherringham School?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, this is going to be a real change of subject.”
“That’s cool; no worries.”
Sarah told him about Tim Bell’s reappearance in Cherringham, the hostile reaction, and the possibility that perhaps Tim wasn’t guilty of Dinah’s murder.
She also explained how she and Jack had decided to reinvestigate the case. Rik listened closely and nodded sympathetically.
“Hmm. You really think he’s innocent?”
Sarah shrugged: “Right now I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
“To be honest, I can’t say I liked the boy at the time.”
“You knew him?”
“I played a few acoustic sets down the Ploughman’s in those days — he was always first in the queue to ruin the evening.”
“I doubt he’s changed much.”
Rik got up, went to the window and looked out into the garden.
“I don’t really connect with this village anymore — so I had no idea this was going on. How awful.”
“Nobody’s talked to you about it recently?”
“I haven’t heard that Dinah’s name mentioned for … over twenty years.”
“Couple of her friends said she was pretty keen on you.”
“Really?” Another laugh. Quick, fast. “I used to get that quite a lot — sorry, that sounds arrogant, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all,” said Sarah. “Teaching teenage girls — it’s going to happen. Especially if you’re young.”
“Cherringham was my first teaching post,” said Rik. “I must have been — what … twenty-two? Just a kid myself.”
“So you don’t remember Dinah any more than the other girls?”
He turned back from the window and sat down again: then, amazingly, Sarah could see his dark eyes glistening, wet.
“Oh, but I do.” He sniffed. Strange. “She was an amazing musician. Breathtaking. She already had a place waiting at the Royal Academy.”
“God — you must have been upset when she disappeared.”
“Devastated. I didn’t really talk about it to anyone at the time — but I think, you know, I became depressed. Clinically depressed — for quite some time.”
“Is that why you stopped teaching?”
Sarah watched him as he nodded and swallowed. She waited for him to answer. The room was silent.
He took a deep breath: “I stayed only another few years at the school. Then I gave it up for good. I just couldn’t … invest in any of the kids any more. Lost my way a bit, to be honest.”
“But you found it again,” said Sarah. “If you hadn’t left teaching—”
“Clouds and silver linings, huh?”
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” said Sarah quickly.
“It’s all right. You know, I left Cherringham completely. When I came back a few years ago it was as if Dinah Taylor had never existed.”
Sarah could see him drifting off into his memories. She waited, then: “Did you think Tim Bell was guilty, at the time?”
“Who knows? There was evidence.”
“You never suspected anyone else?”
“I was just a young teacher at the school — what did I know?”
Sarah nodded. This felt like another dead end. She put her coffee cup down.
“I’d better be off,” she said. “Rik … I’m sorry I’ve had to drag up all those memories.”
“No problem. Some ‘memory lanes’ are darker than others. I’ll show you out.”
As she got up to leave, she passed the wall of photos. In some, Rik was much younger, in his twenties. So many students — but she couldn’t see Dinah Taylor in any of them.
Maybe just too upsetting, she thought.
She let him lead her back down the corridor. As he opened the front door she noticed a flyer for the concert at the weekend, sitting on the hall table.
“Are you going to the concert?” she said.
“Going? I’m conducting it.”
“Wow — that’s amazing!”
“Isn’t it? I’m this year’s guest conductor. Local boy makes good, I guess.”
“Have you conducted these pieces before?”
“Oh, yes. Couple of times, in the States. Though — gotta say — never with live cannons for the 1812. That will be something.”
“Sounds like I’d better bring earplugs.”
“Oh, I’m not that bad—”
“God, I’m sorry. For the cannons I meant! I’ve put my foot in it again—”
“Hey — I’m teasing,” he said smiling.
She laughed and held out her hand to shake his. He took it and leaned forward, kissed her goodbye on both cheeks.
Dashing indeed.
And maybe, also haunted by a student that got away … or was taken away?
She turned and went down the steps to the street. He called from behind her: “I should have asked — if you need a lift? Great fun with the top down.”
She turned: he pointed to a little blue sports car which was parked just in front of her.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Maybe some other time.”
“See you at the concert.”
“I’ll be there,” she said, and then, as if on a whim: “Oh — just one thing, Rik — I completely forgot to ask you …”
“Fire away.”
“Where were you that night? The night Dinah Taylor disappeared?”
She saw him falter.
That’s the first time he’s been lost for words since I got here, she thought.
“Are you serious?” he said.
“Sorry — just occurred to me,” she said smiling. “You know how it is.”
“Um, God, Sarah. I can hardly remember,” he said. “Such a long time ago.”
“But the police must have asked you?”
“Er, yes, sure, everyone was asked about that night.”
Sarah waited, smiling sympathetically, nodding her understanding.
“Um — I think I had something to eat and then went to the fair. Everybody went to the fair. Yes. I’m sure now.”
Sarah wasn’t …
“Fine,” she said. “Great. See you at the concert Rik, lovely to meet you.”
And she turned and walked away down the street. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was still watching her.
Jack’s technique of throwing a “curved ball” at the end of the interview had worked.
Whatever he was up to that night — he doesn’t want to talk about it, she thought.
And she headed back to the office — to so many looming deadlines.
12. Ghost Train
Jack picked up a stick of candyfloss and made his way through the funfair. Midday and
most of the rides hadn’t set up yet. The only ones he could see open were the small joints selling cheap candy or hot dogs, or offering games for the little kids.
Those games.
Looked so easy, but always with a gimmick that made them impossible to win.
The big rides with the thumping music and gut-twisting spinning seats were closed. Aimed at the teen crowd who wouldn’t be hitting the fair until dark.
The floss took him back thirty years to fairs back home — always did.
Watching his own daughter’s face as she took that first sticky bite.
He looked around and tried to imagine this fair twenty-five years ago, when Dinah was her with her two pals. Flashing lights, pop music blaring from every ride, kids laughing and screaming — and somewhere in the crowds …
A killer waiting for the right moment.
Tim Bell, maybe.
But Jack now doubted that very much.
He rounded the Super Waltzer and there ahead of him — right in the centre of the fair, the prized location — was the Ghost Train.
The spooky ride wasn’t lit yet — but the bright painted sign that ran thirty feet across the front in lurid, blood-dripping letters, made the theme clear: Ghost Train — the only way out of Dodge City …
Every Ghost ride had a theme, Jack guessed — and this one was westerns.
Jack scanned the front of the ride: shotguns poked from phony windows; a skeleton in full cowboy outfit stood outside the gaol; vampire saloon dancing girls lined up, fangs protruding, their legs kicking high, bullet-holed coffins leaned against the entrance.
Jack walked closer — and saw a guy with a cigarette dangling from his mouth lying under one of the cars, hitting a wheel with a hammer and cursing.
“Hi,” said Jack.
“We’re not open,” said the guy, not looking up.
“I’m looking for Charlie Kite.”
“Your lucky day, mate. You found him.”
The ticket seller at the entrance knew just where to send Jack.
“Hi Charlie. My name’s Jack Brennan. And I’ve been told you might be able to help me.”
Jack watched as the guy kept hammering.
“It’s about Dinah Taylor.”
The hammering stopped.
Jack watched as the man put the hammer down and sat up slowly.
Cherringham--Death on a Summer Night Page 6
