Under a clear blue sky, the village looked like a pretty postcard scene, but the wind was bitter, and she pulled her coat tight around her neck. As she headed up the street she didn’t see a soul.
Too cold even for the tourists, she thought. Poor old Jack — think he drew the short straw.
Earlier, while Grace was out at Huffington’s grabbing a coffee, Sarah and Jack had put together a list of people they should talk to about Bill’s disappearance.
First they’d called Alan Rivers — the local policeman. But though he took down the details, he wasn’t inclined to call it a “missing persons” case yet. Especially as Bill had a bit of a reputation for going AWOL when the pubs were lively and open.
And, in his eyes, Jack’s tale of footprints and cigarette ends didn’t yet constitute much in the way of evidence.
“Let me know if you find anything a bit more substantial,” he’d said. “It’s not the first time Bill’s done a disappearing act and — to be honest — I’ve got my hands full dealing with the fallout from all this snow.”
So Jack and Sarah had made a list of interviews to be done.
Praveer and the Rotary bigwigs.
Emily Vokes, for sure.
Todd the electrician.
Maybe the landlords of the village pubs. They too knew old Bill well.
Sarah had quickly phoned her father who’d suggested that one of them drive over to Repton Hall with him to talk to some of the other Rotarians — they were on a charity shoot all day.
In this weather, the last thing Sarah wanted to do was stand in a snowy field watching a bunch of local businessmen attempting to blast pheasants out of the sky and boast about their marksmanship afterwards over single malts and a roaring fire.
So — while Jack had made arrangements with Michael — she’d opted for tea and biscuits with Emily.
Much more civilised.
As she crossed the car park by the village, she could see that the overnight snow had frozen into jagged ridges on the road. She took care not to stumble.
Then she turned down the little alleyway at the side of the Angel, and passed the perfect little Georgian house of her old friend Tony Standish, tucked away behind the High Street.
All shuttered up for the winter, the solicitor’s formal front garden now lay a foot deep in snow.
Lucky old Tony. Right now he was probably sitting out on the balcony of his Spanish villa, sipping cava in the midday sun.
She took a left up the back road that led to the surgery.
No snow ploughs had been down here yet and the snow was so thick she couldn’t see where pavement ended and road began.
All the houses were 1930s, semi-detached — small, comfortable homes that, once upon a time, were within range of anybody’s pocket. Now they cost a fortune.
Outside each house stood a snow-covered car.
As she picked her way carefully down the road, she followed the numbers — Emily Vokes lived at 45.
Sarah wondered if she would recognise Bill’s wife: Cherringham was just small enough that over the years you got to know most faces.
She saw that most of the houses had tasteful Christmas lights in the front windows or around the door.
But one house — up ahead — was decked out like a department store, with cascading lights over the roof, an enormous Santa, with nearby sleigh, holding onto the chimney.
On the ground, multi-coloured Christmas trees, garishly lit as well, had been plastered along the hedge.
To complete the spectacle, an inflatable snowman dangled from an upstairs window …
Sarah could hardly see the house number behind all the decorations.
But yes — it was 45.
That made sense. Bill … the town Santa. He’d pull out all the stops with the decorations.
She crossed the road, and slipped between the line of snow-covered cars that looked like they hadn’t been moved in days.
Then she shoved hard against the snow-bound front gate, trudged through the deep snow to the door and rang the bell.
After a minute the door opened — and Sarah immediately recognised the woman who answered.
Plump, pink-faced, in her sixties: of course — it was the cook from Cherringham Primary School.
“Oh, Emily — it’s you,” she said, surprised. “I didn’t realise—”
“Sarah, my dear,” said Emily. “I’m so glad you’ve got the time to help. Come on in now, it’s nasty out there.”
Sarah went in and Emily closed the door behind her.
“Go through, go through,” she said, ushering Sarah ahead like a farmer’s wife clucking at hens.
Sarah squeezed past a line of streamers and confetti that looped around the hall, and went through into a small sitting room, occupied by a Christmas tree so big that it touched the ceiling, and took up nearly half the space.
“Dear Bill,” said Emily, joining her, then seeing Sarah look around at the decorations, “he does love Christmas!”
“Nothing wrong with that,” said Sarah smiling, taking a seat on the sofa.
“Now then,” said Emily. “Cup of tea?”
“Love one.”
“Coming right up,” said Emily, and Sarah watched her bustle out to the kitchen.
*
Jack sat back in the heated leather seat of Michael Edwards’ Range Rover and watched the glorious Cotswold countryside glide by.
Here up on the ridge above Cherringham, he could see for miles — rolling snow-covered fields and woods broken into geometric shapes by ancient dry-stone walls — the whole scene brilliant and bright under a clear, blue, winter sky.
“Think your Sprite would have had trouble along here, old chap,” said Michael, just one hand on the wheel as the Range Rover dealt easily with the snow-covered road.
Jack laughed.
“My Sprite wouldn’t have made it up into the village,” he said. “Couple of years back I learnt to my cost that she’s only truly happy on a warm summer’s day.”
Jack smiled at a memory — chasing a suspect in a snowstorm one night he’d ended up sliding into a ditch.
Loved his sports car, but definitely not the vehicle for bad weather.
“You ever been on a shoot?” said Michael.
“Nope, can’t say I have.”
“That a conscious decision? Pretty popular sport round here, you know.”
“Hunted a bit with my granddad when I was a kid,” said Jack. “Ducks mostly. Can’t say I have strong feelings one way or the other. Just doesn’t hold a lot of attraction for me.”
Jack didn’t mention that, in his former life, shooting took on a whole other meaning. Keeping guns out of the city sometimes seemed an impossible task.
“Well, you’re certainly going to see how it’s done properly this morning.”
“Lady Repton’s estate — I can’t imagine she’d do it any other way.”
As if on cue, Jack saw the sign to Repton Manor flash by.
“We not going in the main gate?”
“Take a turn in a mile or so,” said Michael. “Estate’s about two thousand acres — and the drives are some way from the main house.”
And sure enough, after another few minutes they turned off the main highway down an unmarked farm lane that led down into a deep valley.
Jack could see banks of old snow on either side of the lane, piled a couple of feet high. But the new stuff that had fallen in the night had yet to be ploughed.
His Sprite would definitely now be sliding to the bottom of the hill — brakes or no brakes. But the Range Rover took the conditions in its stride — and with heated seats too! After a minute, Michael pulled over and turned the engine off.
“We here?” said Jack, looking round but seeing no sign of life.
“Nope,” said Michael, opening his door and stepping out. “Just thought we’d take in the view, yes? Come on.”
Jack climbed out of the car, his boots sinking into the snow, and walked round to join Michael who was leaning ag
ainst the warm hood of the Range Rover.
Jack took in the long valley, deep with snow, and on the far hill the wooded slope, dark green against the light-blue sky.
“Hear the guns?” said Michael.
Jack listened — and now he could hear them one after the other, echoing down the valley. At this distance the sound was like corn popping.
“They’ll be on a second drive by now,” said Michael. “There’s a stand on the other side of that hill — one of the best. Beaters are up in those woods, flushing out the birds. Be some good high shots, I expect.”
Jack didn’t pretend to understand everything Michael was saying.
Better — he guessed — that he simply “experience” it rather than ask too many questions …
Jack couldn’t see the birds from here — but he could imagine the scene on the far side of the hill.
“Guess this hasn’t changed in a hundred years,” said Jack.
“Easily. Two hundred,” said Michael, “maybe more.”
“You come and shoot up here a lot?”
“I wish,” said Michael. “Bit pricey for me. I do these charity one-offs with the Rotary Club — enjoy them, good social event.”
“What about Bill — he shoot?”
“Not often — same reason, I expect. Cost. But he’s a loyal supporter, never misses a Rotary meeting — quite a regular. Puts in the hours, like all the members do, for a good cause.”
“Popular guy?”
Michael hesitated. “Most of the time. But — like I said last night — he’s seriously pissed off the committee. And not for the first time. Anyway — those guns you hear, that’s most of our committee. And if you want to find out more about Bill Vokes — they’re the people to ask. And they won’t hold back — that’s for sure.”
Jack thought about this. The more he and Sarah found out about Bill — good and bad — the more chance they had of building some kind of profile. Anything that might hint at a reason for his disappearance.
He pulled his big quilted coat tight — there sure was a biting wind up here.
Michael looked over. “Oh — I wouldn’t worry too much about the cold,” said Michael. “They’ll be breaking for elevenses — and in weather like this they take it in one of the barns. Which is where we’re heading.”
Elevenses?
That a tea break of some kind?
Jack knew he’d find out about it soon, whatever it was.
“Sounds good,” said Jack. “They do coffee?”
“Oh yes — they do terrific coffee. And a splash of something old-fashioned in it too, if you want.”
“Well what are we waiting for?” said Jack, with a grin.
Michael laughed: “Come on, then.”
And Jack went round the hood and climbed back in the Range Rover, hoping the men with guns down in that valley had the information he wanted.
As the hours had ticked by this morning — call it instinct — it seemed less and less likely that Bill’s disappearance had an innocent explanation.
And wherever Bill was right now — maybe still dressed in his red and white suit — Jack hoped he wasn’t out in this bitter cold, alone, desperately waiting to be found.
7. Questions
Sarah took a sip of her tea, then put the cup on the little side table and took out her notepad.
She looked across at Emily, who now sat perched forward on a small armchair, her hands tightly clasped.
Sarah knew Emily from the kids’ time at Cherringham Primary: the jovial lunchtime cook always had time for everyone, earning a reputation for being kind and affectionate to both pupils and staff.
Just the type of person you want in that position.
But now, in spite of her ruddy cheeks, she looked strained and uneasy. Her eyes betrayed a lost night’s sleep.
“Emily,” she said. “I know you’re worried about Bill. But I don’t want to get your hopes up that Jack and I are just going to be able to find him straight away.”
“Oh — I know, love, don’t you fret about that. You’re not the police. But you have solved this kind of thing before — isn’t that right?”
“True,” said Sarah, “but right now, with Bill, we don’t really have much to go on.”
“I suppose so,” said Emily, “but I can help, can’t I? You just tell me what to do.”
Sarah had to smile at Emily’s trust in her.
“Well … I suppose the best thing you can do is answer some questions. The more you can tell me about Bill, the more chance we have of finding out what’s happened to him.”
“All right. Yes. Well. We’d better start — hadn’t we? Like the telly, isn’t it?”
Sarah opened her notepad and took out her pen.
“First of all — obvious question really — do you have any idea yourself what happened to Bill last night?”
Emily shook her head.
“None at all,” said Emily. “I’m just … I don’t know …”
Sarah nodded, and paused a bit before the next question.
“Um, I hear he does have a bit of a reputation for being — what’s the word — spontaneous?”
Emily shook her head and laughed at that.
“Oh that’s the polite word,” said Emily. “Bloomin’ pain in the backside is how I’d put it. There one minute. Gone the next. Then he’ll creep into bed hours later, tipsy as anything, laughing it off as if nothing happened. Long as we’ve been married I’ve put up with it. But this—”
Her voice trailed off.
“This is different?” said Sarah.
She watched Emily blink, as if she was about to cry, then pull herself together and nod.
“Sarah. This isn’t one of his little disappearing tricks,” she said. “Something’s happened to him. I know it. I feel it.”
She looked away, the tears nearly there.
“Something bad.”
*
Sarah waited as Emily turned back, composed herself, reached for her tea, and took a sip.
“Tell me about yesterday evening,” she said. “Was there anything unusual? Anything at all?”
“Nothing I can think of. He left around five, with his Santa costume. Same as every year. Said he’d be done by seven, might have a quick one at the Angel — then we’d planned to go and have a meal down at the Ploughman’s.”
“So when my father called — you weren’t that worried?”
“Not really — not at the time.”
“But when he didn’t call later?”
Emily shook her head.
“I don’t like to nag him, you know?” she said. “But when it got to eight I did call him. But his phone was, I don’t know, turned off, I suppose. Went to message straight away.”
“So you waited here?”
“Not much else I could do, now, was there? I had a bit of tea, then I went to bed. Was going to give him a right earful when he came in, that’s for sure. But then — it was morning. And he hadn’t come home.”
“And then you were really worried.”
“I rang the police station, but they weren’t too bothered, knowing Bill’s ways and all. So I called your dad.”
Sarah took a minute to jot all this down in her notebook.
“Okay. And when he went out yesterday evening, he was in a good mood?”
“Oh yes, positively bubbling,” said Emily. “Like I said — he loves Christmas. Loves the whole Santa thing, giving out the prezzies to the kids, turning on the lights. And, of course, the pub afterwards.”
“And no hint of any … trouble of any kind?”
“Trouble?”
“Well, could there be anybody out there who might want to harm Bill? Any enemies — you know, people he might owe money to, or people he’s argued with for any reason?”
“My Bill?” said Emily, as if the very question were ridiculous.
“Even the nicest people can get into harm’s way.”
“Bill’s the sweetest man in the world,” said Emily.
/> “Of course,” said Sarah.
Thinking: nobody’s that perfect.
“So there aren’t any money worries — any other reasons why Bill might be under pressure?”
“Dear me, no. I mean — we aren’t well off, not rolling in it. But my housekeeping is always there, regular as clockwork.”
Quite the old-fashioned life, thought Sarah. The husband handing out the monthly allowance, the wife grateful it’s there on time.
“You’re obviously very content, together,” said Sarah.
“All things considered — we are. When he isn’t being a stop-out.”
Sarah looked across at an old sideboard covered with framed photos.
“Is that your wedding?” she said, nodding towards a faded colour photo of a couple outside a registry office, that stood among other pictures on top of a sideboard.
She watched Emily reach over and take the photo, look down into it as if looking for an answer.
“Oh, yes. Kensington Town Hall, twenty years ago this coming summer,” she said.
“You both look very happy,” said Sarah.
“We were. Still are.”
“How did you meet?”
“Funny thing! I bumped into him on the tube — literally. Just as the doors were closing. He said I was so beautiful he’d been following me from East Finchley. But I knew he was fibbing, I’d seen him just get on at the stop before. In the kerfuffle, I dropped my handbag — he picked it up, said he’d buy me a drink to apologise, one drink led to another. I was head over heels in a month.”
“Whirlwind romance,” said Sarah.
“Second wind, more like. I’d been married once, thought I never would again.”
“Were you and Bill around the same age?”
“I was in my early forties. Bill was a few years older.”
“So did you stay in London?”
“Moved here a month after the wedding. This house, in fact.”
“What brought you here?” said Sarah. “Work?”
“Oh, Bill didn’t have a job,” said Emily. “Not as such.”
Sarah looked up from her notes.
Interesting … prompting an obvious question …
“Even twenty years ago this place must have cost a few bob,” said Sarah.
Cherringham--Secret Santa Page 4
