Cherringham--Secret Santa

by Neil Richards

  “Possible,” said Jack. “Back home in the States, that would be no big deal. But I’m feeling that here maybe trucks aren’t the classiest way to get rich.”

  “Trade, they used to call it,” said Sarah. “And no — not classy at all in some people’s eyes.”

  She looked away.

  “Right.”

  She turned back to Jack. “You know, I’m getting an increasingly bad feeling about this.”

  “Make that two of us.”

  “I mean — what are the options? One: Bill was suddenly taken ill, wandered off, got lost in the snow …”

  “Possible,” said Jack. “But I guess that someone would have found him by now.”

  “Exactly. So, on to option two: he went off somewhere on one of his disappearing trips, had some fun, let off steam, whatever he does. But, thing is, he’s never been gone this long.”

  “Right — this seems more than letting off steam. Which leaves option three: he just ‘did a runner’, as you call it. Left his old life behind.”

  “On a whim?” said Sarah. “Just before he hands out the kids’ presents? I dunno — I don’t buy that.”

  “Agree. Course, there is another option — which we haven’t really talked about.”

  “Go on,” said Sarah.

  “Somebody took him. Lifted him off the street.”

  “What? Really?”

  “It happens.”

  “But why Bill?”

  She saw Jack shrug. “Some kind of prank maybe?”

  Sarah thought about this. “You mean, a bunch of guys, too much to drink, spot Santa, chuck him in the back of a car?”

  “Right. Just a stupid game.”

  “But surely after a few hours the joke wears thin, they sober up, let him go?”

  “Yup. But what if there’s an accident? Something goes wrong? They panic, leave him somewhere …”

  For a moment, Sarah was silent, then: “Now you really are worrying me,” she said.

  “Trying to cover the bases. It would help if we knew more about Bill.”

  “I agree. But so far he’s a hard guy to pin down. Every time I think I might have got a handle on who he is, he just seems to — disappear!”

  “Think you can break from work a bit this afternoon, do some digging online?”

  She took a breath. “We’re up against it in the office right now. But as you always say, trails get cold fast. And if something has happened to Bill …”

  “Great. I’d help you if I could work the magic that you can.”

  “I may have to call on someone for help too.”

  “Ah — your friend in London?”

  “Lips sealed,” she said, grinning, “but yeah.”

  “Okay. I think I want to walk the stalls, maybe take another look at the scene.”

  “Of a crime?”

  She saw Jack shrug.

  “Like I said …”

  “See you later then. I’ll keep you posted.”

  And with a nod, Sarah turned back, and headed towards her office.

  *

  For a moment Jack stood there.

  The wind, which had been relentless and biting had suddenly eased. And now, with stalls opening up, early birds hunting worms, eager for the perfect gift, sun shining — the place looked magical.

  From this spot, he could look over at St. James.

  A few men worked on scaffolds, arranging pine-branches over the church door.

  What do they call that?

  Jack tried to recall from his time back in Brooklyn when they dutifully went to their local Catholic church. Going to church for their daughter, the sermons, the Sunday school …

  Ah, yes. The greening of the church.

  And the proud stone church did indeed look wonderful as the garlands stretched from one corner of the building, then up and over the entrance way, down again, and around to the side.

  All set for an amazing Christmas Eve … then Christmas Day.

  Although this year Santa was currently AWOL.

  Jack looked at a nearby stall. This one, antique books, an old wooden writing desk for your lap. Classic wall clocks all showing — amazingly enough — the same time.

  He always liked his thinking time on a case, and with one present still needed, and with the stalls popping open, like gifts themselves … he started to stroll back … eyes on all the items on offer.

  But also thinking. The question now becoming clearer …

  If Bill had money it was a mystery where he got it from. Well then … was that connected to his disappearance?

  And, lost in thought, barely looking at the items for sale, he was startled when someone touched his shoulder.

  “Jack.”

  Jack spun around to see Reverend Hewitt, underdressed with just his clerical garb and dark Dickensian scarf wrapped tight.

  “Reverend Hewitt …”

  Jack liked the young vicar.

  St. James was a mainstay of the village, its heart in many ways. A place where all of Cherringham got married, where they mourned their dead, where they celebrated the rite of spring that was Easter. And then this — Christmas — magical to all but the most hardened adult.

  “All set for your big week?”

  The vicar smiled and nodded towards the men hanging the garlands.

  “We’re getting there. And inside the church? Looks marvellous. I swear the ladies on the flower rota outdo themselves each year. I assume we’ll be seeing you, Jack?”

  Though Jack’s relationship with the deity was anything but solid, he had taken to the rhythm of St. James and its events quite naturally, occasionally subbing in the choir, and always up to help with whatever was being planned.

  He never failed to be moved by the memorials to the war dead at the back of the church. The Great War to end all wars … that didn’t. Then — the memorial to those lost at sea. This was, after all, an island.

  And Jack, who grew up by the sea — who always had boats and the Atlantic as part of his life — felt especially moved looking at those engraved names and the ages of those who died. Some had been under 18, impossibly young — ships sunk, life snatched from them.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Then, with the sun glinting in Hewitt’s face, thin frosty clouds escaping his mouth as he spoke, Jack had an idea.

  “Reverend — would you have a minute?”

  And from the expression on Hewitt’s face, Jack guessed that the vicar suspected what was about to be discussed.

  10. The Invisible Man

  Sarah looked at her email inbox, overflowing with updates, enquiries, people eager for their projects to be done, signed off, ready for printing and all those crazed post-holiday sales.

  Was she going to get the time to investigate Bill Vokes?

  But then she saw Grace look over.

  “Sarah — all right there?”

  Sarah blew a stray hair off her forehead. She would have liked to get a cut, maybe something special for the holidays, but she’d be lucky even to have time to get dinner on the table for the kids tonight.

  Sometimes it was hard to balance it all.

  “Just — well — I think it’s manageable, but …”

  “Do you want a hand? I’ve nearly cleared the decks here.”

  Sarah turned to her with a big grin.

  “Would you? God, you are a star!”

  Sarah spent a few moments telling her all the last-minute things required for the print and web flyers.

  “Good. Sorted,” Grace said. “Now, you go do whatever it is you need to do.”

  Another smile, a nod, and Sarah turned back to the usually all-knowing screen, hoping that it would soon reveal the secret of who was Bill Vokes.

  *

  “Reverend Hewitt, wondering if I could ask you a question?”

  A pause, but then: “Um, of course Jack. Absolutely.”

  “About Bill Vokes …”

  “Ah, yes … very disturbing that. Quite baffling.”

  “Sa
rah and I are trying to find out what’s happened to him.”

  “No luck yet?”

  “Not much. But I just had a thought. He’s your Santa—”

  “The village’s Santa,” the vicar said, smiling.

  “But does he attend services, take part in things?”

  The vicar looked away, thinking over the question but — Jack guessed — his question had triggered something else.

  “No, not really. I mean, as Santa, he’s the star of the annual children’s party. But, more than that? ’Fraid not.”

  “So — you don’t really know him?”

  Another pause. The vicar scratched his head.

  “Can’t say that I do, save by reputation.”

  “Which is …?”

  “Well — it’s not for me to share tales and hearsay, but I know he likes his drink. Oh — and I heard he also does have a habit of just disappearing from time to time.”

  Hewitt stopped.

  Jack pressed on: “And that’s it?”

  The vicar looked away, as if debating something in his mind, then he turned back to Jack.

  “You know, Jack Brennan — and I imagine it was the same in your parish church in Brooklyn …”

  “Back in the day,” Jack said with a laugh.

  “Well, what one tells one’s vicar, priest, rabbi … is kind of protected. Confidentiality and all?”

  “I get that. Still, if it’s a case of helping Bill, maybe the good Lord might look the other way?”

  The vicar nodded.

  And then, it was as if he made up his mind.

  “All right. I’ll tell you something — it might or might not be helpful.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “About six or seven years ago, it must have been. Not long after I arrived, um, Bill had apparently been doing the Christmas party for ages but I was new to the village.”

  Jack waited.

  “And like any new vicar, I wanted to reach out, make contact. So, when he was alone after one of the parties, Santa suit off, you know, I tried to have a little chat with him.”

  “And that didn’t happen?”

  “Not really. Not a chat, exactly. I tried asking the usual questions, but he seemed all closed up. By then, of course, I knew he didn’t come to regular services. And yet, he had this great heart. Doing this wonderful thing for the children.”

  He took a breath. Another frost cloud.

  “But otherwise, a total mystery.”

  “Been discovering that myself.”

  “But then, as I was about to make my exit — a retreat more like — he reached out and touched my arm.”

  “Hmm?”

  “As it turned out — he had a rather profound question …”

  *

  The all-knowing screen, with its deep links to everything in the past, gave Sarah …

  … absolutely nothing.

  Nothing about Bill Vokes, save for the yearly announcement about his Christmas appearance as Santa.

  No web stories, no images, no official records, no email address — nothing.

  That, Sarah thought, has never happened before. There’s always … something.

  Even if somebody lives their whole life off-line.

  Her email pinged. Before she left the office this morning, she had fired an email off to her old friend Phil at his security company in London — with his access to every data bank known to man or woman — to try to get some basic background on Bill. And now here was his reply, a quick email that took Sarah just a couple of seconds to read.

  “Sarah — who is this mysterious Mr. Vokes? So far … Zilch. Zero. Nada.”

  Normally, Sarah would have said that that was impossible. And it led to one inescapable question … How could Bill Vokes go missing, if there was no Bill Vokes?

  And she must have audibly groaned as she hit another blank wall.

  “Not going so well?”

  She looked over at her assistant. She and Jack had — on just a few occasions — let Grace help, just a bit.

  But in this case, there was seemingly nothing to be done.

  “Not well, to put it mildly.”

  Grace nodded, observing boundaries.

  “Anything maybe you’ve forgotten? Something overlooked?”

  “No, I—”

  Then she stopped herself. It was far too easy to respond so quickly.

  Grace’s simple question deserved an answer, at least in her own mind, for her own confidence.

  Anything overlooked …?

  “Grace, thanks! Just remembered something I could do.”

  And Grace laughed. “And all I did was ask a question.”

  And Sarah laughed as well. “Pretty much, that’s all Jack and I do!”

  And she turned back to her screen.

  *

  “He just had one question for me,” Hewitt said.

  Jack couldn’t have been more curious about what that might be.

  “He said, ‘Vicar, does the good you do outweigh the bad?’”

  “Wow. Big one, that.”

  “Absolutely. I wish there was a clear and easy answer. I mean, it’s maybe a question we should all ask.”

  “And if you don’t mind, can I ask how you responded?”

  “Well, after attempting to make a little chit-chat with him, it kind of took me aback. The two of us were in the vestry — children, families gone — Bill out of costume but still with those big black boots. It was quite a moment, you know?”

  “Can picture it clearly.”

  “So I said: ‘Bill, we’re all a balance of good and bad. But I think, at the end of day, in the eyes of the good Lord, the scale has to be tipped towards the good.”

  “Wise answer.”

  “Thanks Jack. But I have to tell you, the question, out of the blue like that, did catch me short. I barely knew Bill, and it was, I don’t know … so …”

  “Personal?”

  “Precisely. It was no idle question.”

  “And one more thing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did he say anything back?”

  Again, the vicar looked away, trying to remember.

  “Um, I do believe he said something like ‘that’s what I thought … but good to hear’.”

  “‘Good to hear …’”

  Hewitt nodded.

  And while Jack didn’t think this bit of a conversation on such a weighty matter, from many years ago, was something that could be an “open sesame” and reveal what happened to Bill, still it made him think.

  This bit of insight into this mysterious character could be important.

  Damn important.

  “Thanks for that. Now I’d better see if I can find the last little item I am looking for.”

  “Lots of choices this year,” Hewitt said, looking at the row of stalls exploding with local and handmade goods of every kind. “As for me, I must get back to the church, or the good ladies will bury the altar and the pulpit under a mountain of pine branches!”

  And Jack grinned at that as the vicar turned — probably shivering with just his scarf to keep him warm — and made his way back to the centuries-old church.

  And Jack thought once again: Not one for going to church. For a lot of reasons. But here, in this village with that church, that vicar …

  Why, it made perfect sense.

  And he turned and restarted his elusive hunt once more, amidst the items for sale — Christmas clocks still ticking.

  Though he kept thinking about the tiny fragments he had learned about Bill. So tiny.

  When what he and Sarah needed was the big break.

  He knew that sometimes you got those from the most surprising places.

  11. A Little Cash Withdrawal

  Sarah thought of something Emily Vokes had mentioned. Something she and Jack hadn’t paid much attention to.

  The warehouse unit up on the old airfield where Bill tinkered with cars. A place like that … they’d have a gate … someone watching … controlled
entry and all that.

  Could Bill have gone there? Hungover? Confused? Out of sorts? Needing a quiet refuge?

  It was worth a call.

  She found the number easily. But after eight rings — and with no answer, and no voicemail kicking in — it seemed to be a dead end.

  But then someone picked up.

  The voice gravelly, as if the person on the other end had just rolled out of bed.

  Except it was midday.

  “Waddya want?”

  Sarah started by asking the man if he could help her with a bit of information. About Bill Vokes. His warehouse unit. Had he been by recently, and …?

  The man interrupted her with a phlegmy clearing of his throat, his answer barked.

  “I’m afraid, Miss, we don’t share any information, about anyone who rents a unit. Strictly con-fi-dential.”

  Sarah guessed if the police showed up, such “confidentiality” would quickly dissipate, and that tight-lipped mouth would magically pop open.

  But she didn’t have that card to play.

  Instead: “Ah, yes. I know that … but you see, I’m calling from Cherringham, and our beloved Santa has gone missing. Quite old, you know. I heard he had a workshop unit out there, and the family, the church …” then the trump card for anyone with a heart … “all the kiddies are so worried too.”

  She paused to see whether the man on the other end would remain in scrooge mode.

  “All I need is for you to just tell me whether he’s been around today. Then — of course — we’d go through all the legal channels.”

  A pause on his end.

  Weighing the legality?

  Then to sweeten the deal.

  “It would mean ever so much … especially at this time of year …”

  A big breath.

  “Perhaps you didn’t bloody hear me. One: we don’t share information about our clients. Two: even if we did I couldn’t tell you anything because I’ve never heard of your Bill Vokes. And three: we’re bloody closed for bloody Christmas. You hear me now?”

  Was she paranoid — or was there a bit of a threat in that?

  And she thought … Does this gatekeeper do this for all his customers? Or is Bill Vokes someone special? Do they — perhaps — have an arrangement?

  But she knew when a door had been firmly shut.

  “Okay, got that. No worries.” Then, with as much insincerity as she could muster: “Thanks so much for your help.”