Emily nodded. A slight pause here.
“Bill wasn’t short of cash in those days,” said Emily.
“Oh, really?”
“He had a bit of a nest-egg, you see. Made it himself, mind.”
“Did he tell you how?”
“Here’s the thing. He always said he was useless at school. So first chance he got, he went down the docks, jumped on a ship and off he went. Round the world. Everywhere. Cargo ships. Cruise liners. Worked in the engine rooms. Then one day, he got off a ship in Australia and didn’t go back. Got a job driving trucks.”
“Quite the adventurer!”
“Oh that’s Bill. Anyway — after a year, he bought his own truck. Rented it out. Then he bought another, and another. Soon he had a nice little business.”
“And the business did well?”
“Not half,” said Emily. “Ended up renting all of them to a big plant out in the middle of nowhere, in those big coal mines they have. Right place, right time, he always said.”
“So when you came to Cherringham did he start a new business?”
“No need,” said Emily with a shrug. “Not that we were wealthy, mind you. But certainly comfortable.”
Sarah made a quick note to follow up on that.
Sounded almost too good to be true.
“He didn’t have to work at all?”
“Oh he used to follow the markets, stocks and shares, selling and buying,” said Emily. “Think he saw that as his work. Don’t get me wrong — like I said, we’re not rich. But we’ve never struggled.”
“What about family?” said Sarah. “Has he got brothers or sisters he might have gone and stayed with? Old friends, maybe?”
“He’s an only child,” said Emily, shaking her head. “His parents died young. And when I met him in London, he’d just got back from Australia. Didn’t have any old mates — at least none that I met. Just his Cherringham friends, you know. From the pubs …”
“Okay. Thanks for this. I know it’s hard. Um, do you think there’s anybody else I should talk to?”
“People in the village, I suppose. You know — those pals down the pub.”
Sarah wrote this all down, then stopped.
This wasn’t going anywhere — all she was finding was dead ends.
Though the money … Bill’s not working … that was — she felt — somehow strange and maybe important.
“Why did you choose Cherringham back then?” she said. “I mean — why this village particularly?”
Emily frowned.
“Hmm, I don’t know, really. Bill’s idea. He seemed to know the place.”
“You think he comes from round here?”
“No, he’s a Londoner; I’m sure of that.”
“You’ve got no idea how he knew about it?”
“He’s always loved the Cotswolds,” said Emily. “Maybe he came here when he was a lad? On holiday? Sorry — not sure.”
“And does he belong to any clubs here in the village? Theatre? Cricket? Bridge? Tennis? Hard to live in Cherringham without being dragged into something!”
“Ha, well — if you count drinking pints as a sport then you could say he belongs to the Ploughman’s ‘star team’,” said Emily.
Sarah laughed, but she found it hard to imagine a man like Bill just sitting at home all day long.
Surely he had some other interests.
Then Emily spoke again: “Course, he loves his cars,” she said. “Nothing he likes better than getting some old wreck back on the road.”
“Oh really?” said Sarah.
“Most mornings he’s out sticking bits of engine together.”
“And where does he do that — in the village somewhere?”
“Oh no,” said Emily. “He’s got a workshop, not much more than a shed, I think, up at the old airfield. You know — that big industrial estate?”
“Do you ever go out there yourself?”
“Not my cup of tea, love. Cars? Can’t think of anything more boring.”
“You think he might have gone there last night?”
Emily seemed to take a moment to think about that.
“I hardly think so — he’d have been looking forward to a few pints, not sticking his hands in a grease pot.”
Sarah smiled and looked down at her notes again.
Though she’d covered a few pages with her Q&A, she’d learnt very little.
For all his big, blustery character, Bill Vokes remained a mystery.
“Is that it?” said Emily. “No more questions, then?”
Sarah finished her tea and put the cup back down.
“Have you got a recent photo of Bill I could borrow?”
“Photo? Why?”
“I could post it on the village news website — might spark somebody’s memory about last night.”
Sarah saw Emily look uncertain.
Probably not too sure about the internet, thought Sarah.
“No need to worry. You’ll get it back.”
Emily reached over to the line of photos on the sideboard and plucked one out.
“This do?” she said, handing Sarah the framed photo. Sarah took in the formal picture of the couple, smiling into the lens.
“Our twentieth anniversary,” said Emily, staring mournfully at the photo.
“Perfect,” said Sarah. She put the photo in her handbag with her notebook.
“I think … that’s all I need — for now,” she said. “If you think of anything that might be important, just give me a ring?”
She took a card out of her bag and handed it over. She saw that Emily was beginning to cry again.
Sarah took a pack of hankies from her handbag and handed one over.
“I’m sorry,” said Emily. “Stupid of me. Crying won’t bring him back.”
“Emily, of course you’re going to cry; don’t be silly. It’s completely natural.”
She watched Emily wipe her eyes, recovering. Then she looked up, her face lost.
“Where can he be, Sarah?” she said. “What’s happened to him?”
“I don’t know,” said Sarah, putting her hand on Emily’s arm again. “Not yet. But I promise, we’ll do our best to find out.”
Emily seemed comforted by Sarah’s conviction. But Sarah felt no nearer to an answer and could only hope that Jack had discovered more.
8. Hot Soup and Suspicion
Jack sat on a bale of hay in the corner of the old barn, sipping soup and taking in the room.
The English at play, he thought. Quite the spectacle.
At the far end stood a long trestle table piled high with trays of sausages, little pastries, cookies, chunks of bread, a big soup tureen — all served by a team of girls he guessed worked at Repton Manor.
Standing in groups, and sitting on hay bales, around thirty people of all ages, in classic shooting gear, all tweeds and green boots, chatted loudly about the morning’s events.
Seemed like a good atmosphere, and Jack recognised quite a few faces from the village — and some who’d been at the Angel the night before.
“How’s the soup?” came a voice from behind him.
Jack turned to see Praveer Singh, holding a mug of tea.
“Carries quite a punch,” said Jack. “What the hell is it?”
“Mulligatawny,” said Praveer. “A remnant of the Empire.”
“Hmm,” said Jack, putting the bowl to one side. “Think I might move on to the sausages.”
“A wise choice, Jack,” said Praveer, joining him on the hay bale.
He leaned closer: “Michael said you wanted to talk to people about Bill?”
“Get some background, sure. Seems there’s no news of him yet.”
“A group of us got together this morning, did a proper organised search around the village.”
“Not a sign, hmm?”
“Nothing,” said Praveer, shaking his head. “We went round the pubs — even the hotel — none of the bar staff saw him at all last night. Saved you some footwork,
I hope.”
Jack frowned: “Could be. I got to say — I’m getting concerned now. I mean — how can a guy in a Santa suit just be there one minute, and gone the next?”
“It’s dreadful, isn’t it?” said a woman in an old waxed jacket and jeans, joining Praveer. “Poor old Bill.”
“You know him pretty well?” said Jack.
“As well as anybody in the Rotary I think,” said the woman. “Heart of gold.”
“You think of any reason he might have disappeared?” said Jack.
“None at all,” she said. “I just hope he’s not had some kind of a turn. Stroke — you know? He’s that age.”
“Chap’s done a runner, if you ask me,” came another voice. Jack looked round, to see Cecil Cauldwell approaching.
He saw the woman roll her eyes and slip away.
Can’t blame her, thought Jack.
He’d had more than one run-in with Cecil over the years and had little time for his barely legal methods of buying and selling property in the area.
Making it so hard for ordinary people to even dream of living here.
But right now wasn’t the time to re-open hostilities.
“Morning, Cecil,” said Jack. “Care to elaborate on that?”
“I’ve had my doubts about Bill Vokes since the day he arrived in this village,” said the estate agent, his voice booming in the small barn. “Chap tried to rent a cottage from me. Years ago, this is, of course. So I did a credit check — as you do — and it turned out he had no financial records at all. Suspicious that.”
“Very strange,” said Praveer. “But that didn’t stop you selling him a house, I believe, Cecil?”
“Course not,” said Cecil. “Chap wants to pay cash, I’m not going to stop him, am I? Be a bloody fool!”
“What does this have to do with him ‘doing a runner’, as you put it?” said Jack.
“Stands to reason,” said another voice. Jack looked round — Roger Reed, Cherringham’s bank manager, stood, chewing on a stub of baguette.
“Go on,” said Jack.
“Large sum of money. No credit rating. No prior bank history either as far as I know, until he opened with me. Offshore funds, I’d suggest …”
“You checked?” said Jack. “That legal?”
“Um, I was asked to by a client. Confidentially of course.”
“Not quite confidential any more, though, is it?” said Jack gesturing to the group that was now listening to the conversation.
“Just trying to help,” said Reed, frowning.
Oh yeah, thought Jack.
Putting the knife in, more like.
After taking Bill’s money …
“Having offshore funds isn’t illegal though,” said Jack, curious as to why some in this little crowd were so against Bill Vokes.
“No,” said Cecil. “But it shows the kind of man you’re dealing with. Furtive. Suspicious. Has something to hide, I suspect.”
“And therefore has done something wrong — and made his escape. That what you’re implying?” Jack said.
“Just connecting the dots. That’s all.”
“Actually, that’s not all,” said a tall man who stepped out from behind Reed.
Jack recognised Simon Rochester, an investment broker, another of the locals Jack didn’t really think represented the best of Cherringham.
Quite the trio.
“Simon.”
Jack watched Simon turn to the others.
“Remember last Christmas, Bill said he’d made his money in mining?”
Jack saw the others nod, interested.
Everyone crowding round. This was proving quite interesting.
“Well, just a couple of weeks ago, at the Christmas dinner, he was well in his cups. Gave me a complete load of guff about inheriting a farm from his aunty in Ireland when he was a boy.”
“Dear oh dear,” said Roger. “I assume you called him out on it?”
“Not my job, Roger. But I did think at the time — something not quite right here.”
“See what I mean?” said Cecil. “Chap’s bent as a nine-bob note. Must be. And if you ask me, he’s run out of cash and scarpered.”
“Con artist, probably,” said Roger. “Feel sorry for the wife though. Emily. Decent sort.”
Jack stared up at the group not knowing what to believe.
Bill Vokes was famously popular in the village. But a few here clearly had no fondness for him.
Could all these tales be totally made up?
He heard loud voices at the far door and saw a ripple of movement run through the crowd in the barn.
“Duty calls,” said Cecil. “You joining us this afternoon Jack? Going to teach us how Yanks shoot?”
“Uh-oh!” said Roger. “Watch out for friendly fire!”
Cecil and Simon both laughed loudly.
“Thanks Cecil — but I’m just here for the conversation,” said Jack, smiling good-naturedly at them.
Though if I had a gun, I might not be aiming at the pheasants, he thought.
He watched them hurry off to the door. Then Michael came over, voice low.
“You learn anything?” he said.
“Couple of things,” said Jack. “Not least, stay away from the three stooges over there.”
He nodded towards the bank manager, the estate agent and the broker, a huddle by the exit.
“Oh those three,” said Praveer. “Give us all a bad name they do. I should have rescued you.”
“No, no,” said Jack. “It was very useful.”
“Worth coming out here?”
“Absolutely.”
“Sure you won’t join us?”
Jack smiled. “Think I have other things to hunt.”
“Well, I’ve organised one of the serving staff to give you a lift back into the village, hope that’s okay?”
“Sure.”
Michael offered his hand and Jack shook it.
“As I said — we’re not all like them,” said Michael in a low voice. “Good group generally. And whatever they said, I’d take it with many pinches of salt.”
“Gotcha,” said Jack.
But he knew there was rarely ever smoke without fire.
And as he watched Michael head out for his afternoon’s shooting, he thought Time to get Sarah working some magic on that computer of hers.
Time to do some serious online digging into the mysterious Bill Vokes.
9. A Chilling Wind
When Sarah got back to the office, Jack was already there, sharing a cup of tea with Grace.
“Sounds fantastic. Gotta love a big get-together,” Jack said, at first not noticing Sarah.
“Hey, you two,” she said.
“I was just telling Jack how we Brits do a real family Christmas!” said Grace.
Jack turned to Sarah. “Quite the meal. Let’s see if I got it: roast turkey, stuffing, cranberry, and hmm … what was that thing with the cloves in it?”
“Bread sauce, Jack,” said Grace.
“Yep, that’s the stuff. Bread sauce. And roast spuds?”
Sarah and Grace both laughed.
“Followed by Christmas pudding and custard, and Sarah, get this — Grace said they’d even attempt martinis in my honor.”
He turned back to Grace. “I might just have to pop in!”
“Me too! Though, are you all set for your dinner on the Goose, Jack?”
“Maybe ‘set’ isn’t the right word. But it’ll be great to celebrate. Your parents, your kids …”
She put down her handbag and took out the photo of Bill and Emily.
“Good thinking,” said Jack, picking it up and examining it. “Useful to be able to put a face to our missing Santa.”
“I thought I’d scan it and post it on the Cherringham Newswire,” said Sarah. “Grace — we got any photos on file of Bill in his Santa outfit?”
In her spare time, Sarah edited the online Cherringham news and gossip site. More than once it had proved invaluable in helping solv
e a case.
“Could be. I’ll check the photos from last Christmas,” said Grace. “You want me to scan that?”
“Thanks,” she said. “And maybe add a bit of copy — you know the kind of thing — missing since yesterday evening, last seen etc.”
Jack handed the photo over to Grace, who began to prise it from its frame.
Sarah waited a moment, then … “Jack, fancy a walk? Compare notes?”
He stood up. “Great, and I’ll let Grace here get back to work.”
“God. Nearly done with this big project,” she said, “last of the year … then whoosh … holiday!”
“One more for me as well,” said Sarah, though she knew that with this case on her plate, she’d have to burn the candle at both ends to wrap things up before Christmas Eve.
And of course she knew if she asked Grace to pitch in, she could … but better that her hard-working, totally dedicated assistant got some time off.
“Catch you later, Jack,” Grace said, taking the photo over to the scanner.
And Sarah saw Jack smile back, and then lead the way down to the street below.
*
The blustery wind hadn’t eased a bit, though a bright sun made the streets and deep snow shimmer.
As they walked past the Christmas stalls, people had begun shovelling the area around each one.
By evening, people would be able to safely navigate the path by the stalls and take in the lights. It was just about the most perfect picture-book scene of Christmas that this — or any — Cotswold village could serve up.
And yet, with Bill missing, Sarah didn’t feel very much in the spirit.
They reached the far end of the stalls, near the church, and Jack turned.
“You know, soon as they open up, I have to do some shopping. So — what did you find out?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
And after her so brief report, it was Jack’s turn.
*
Sarah nodded. As usual, Jack’s discoveries did not disappoint.
“So,” she said, “Bill has money. And he’s had it for a while. But interesting that everyone has a different idea about where it came from.”
“From mining to real estate. Question is — why so many versions of the story?”
“Maybe he felt embarrassed about making his money in truck hire?”
Cherringham--Secret Santa Page 5
