***
Standing by Sarah’s Rav4, Jack shot a look back at the beehive of flats.
“Nice folks,” he said.
Sarah nodded. “Sammi gave them a hard time. Still, they were rough.”
“And old Malcolm sounds as if he was — is — mighty upset with his daughter.”
“You don’t think—”
“Think? We’re just finding out things, Sarah, yes? Tell me, do you have time for another stop?”
“I can check on the kids. But they’ll be okay for a bit longer, they’ll be doing homework.”
While Daniel and Chloe would have heard about the drowning, Sarah had decided not to tell them that she knew Sammi, that they had been best friends.
“What do you have in mind?” she said.
“Your friend officer Alan said that Sammi went to the pub. She must have had a reason. Let’s go see if we can find out what that reason is. Okay?”
Sarah nodded. Then: “Thanks, Jack. She wasn’t your friend. It’s good of you, taking all this time.”
He smiled at her. “No — what do you say — worries? Gets me out to see parts of the village that I might otherwise overlook. Besides — I like pubs.”
She smiled back, and they both got into her car, heading to The Ploughman, a pub that everyone seemed to visit at some point during the week.
8. The Ploughman
At the door to the pub, the inside filled with Cherringham’s thirstier, Sarah reached out and touched Jack’s elbow.
“Jack. This is a village pub, y’know.”
He turned to her. “I have been here for a while.”
“Yeah, the local. And they won’t be too happy with anyone asking questions. Especially …”
“Oh. An American.”
She nodded, and grinned. “Exactly. So maybe I’ll ask the questions. And if I miss something …”
“I’ll pass you a note.”
And with that, Jack opened the door, and Sarah led the way in.
***
“Half a Boddington’s please Billy,” Sarah said.
She could see Jack hadn’t understood a word she had said.
“Jack?”
Billy Leeper — who had been the main barman for as long as Sarah was legally able to come into the pub — was already pulling Sarah’s beer.
“I’ll have a pint,” Jack said.
And when the barman put the two glasses down, she looked right at him. “Billy, guess you heard about Sammi?”
He nodded. “Bad business. Poor thing. You were mates back in the day, right?”
Sarah nodded. “Alan told us she was in here the night she died.”
Sarah could sense that that question made Billy pull back a bit. “Yeah. Hard to recognize her, y’know? Looked like she’d gone through some rough times. Bit battered, know what I mean?”
“Yes, I—”
But then Billy was summoned by a trio of men at the end of the bar. Sarah caught them looking back at her, maybe wondering what she was doing with the fifty-year-old Jack.
Jack leaned a little close, his voice low. “Find out who, if anyone, she spoke to.”
“I know, I know. I’ll get to it. If he comes back …”
Billy was having a laugh with the guys in jeans and denim shirts, sleeves rolled up tight.
Then the barman gave a nod in Sarah’s direction, and she felt even more conspicuous.
“This is so awkward,” she said, her voice low.
“Hang in there. Sip the beer. He’ll be back.”
And after what seemed like a long time, Billy Leeper walked away from that end of the bar, back to Sarah.
Perhaps he thought it would look odd if he didn’t come back when she had just started talking about Sammi’s death.
“Yeah, poor girl. Sammi, God. Heard she got into some bad stuff up in London. But then,” — a grin showed that Billy had lost a few teeth on his journey to be the Ancient Barman — “who wouldn’t?”
“Billy, did she talk to anyone when she was here?”
The barman’s eyes went from Sarah, to Jack, then back again. His face lost its puffy geniality. Now the eyes narrowed.
Even though this was Sarah’s village, she too had been gone a long time. This isn’t exactly my local anymore, Sarah thought.
At least not yet.
“Yeah. I mean, I passed a few words with her. She seemed distracted. But then Robbo came in, and it was like — well, like they’d been looking for each other.”
Jack looked at Sarah. Probably wanted to know who Robbo was. Time for that when we get out of here, Sarah thought.
“They just talk? Here?”
Robbo. Sammi’s old boyfriend had a temper, and didn’t mind showing it. Sarah had steered clear of him since she had come back to Cherringham.
On the rare night that Sarah did stop here, Robbo could be found just sitting in the corner, putting away the pints, glaring at her. He knew that Sarah had warned Sammi to stay away from him.
Over tea one afternoon, Grace told Sarah that he and his mates had got into some legal trouble, something about drugs.
Could be just gossip — but Sarah wouldn’t have been surprised if it had turned out to be true.
“They went to a table in the other room. That time of night, no one eating dinner. But boy — you could hear them out here. I remember this quite clearly cuz it was the second half of the England-Germany game. No one was walking way from that match, I can tell you.”
A voice called to Billy, and he moved away to another customer.
“Robbo?” Jack said. “Who’s this Robbo?”
“Her ex. Nasty bit of work.”
“Yeah. Not feeling any warmth for him from you.” He gave her a smile. “You’re doing great, by the way. Keep going.”
Billy came back. “That’s about all I can—”
“Did they stay here?”
“No. Like I said, everyone was watching the game, and the two of them, I saw them storm out of here, Sammi, then Robbo following. All steamed up. You know how he gets. I mean, he’s been a little better since his run in with the police. Has to watch it. But that night — it was the old Robbo.”
So there had been police trouble. She’d have to find out about that. Billy’s words made her feel chilled.
If Robbo had been angry, anything could happen.
“They just walked out?”
Billy nodded. “Never came back. Could see them out in the car park. Talking I guess. Maybe fighting. Then, when I looked again, they was gone.”
He wiped the wood bar with a cloth as if signalling that the interview had ended.
“Another round for you two?”
Sarah looked at Jack to see whether he felt there was more to gain here though she felt that Billy had told what he knew.
Not that it was that much.
“Not for me,” Jack said.
Billy had his eyes on Jack as if he maybe knew the American might be pulling the strings here.
“I’m good too—” She put down her beer, half finished.
And with the locals’ eyes following them as if they were Russian spies and this was the Cold War, she and Jack left the pub, for the cool summer’s night air outside.
And she had the thought, tinged with a bit of alarm …
What exactly are we doing here?
And more … where will it lead?
Once outside, Jack said. “Quick dinner? Compare notes?”
Sarah checked her watch.
“Sorry Jack,” Sarah said. “After last night, I told the kids I’d be home to cook their tea.”
Jack smiled at that. “No problem. How about I call you later?”
“Sure. You think we should talk to Robbo?”
“Oh yes. Do you know where he works?” As she shook her head he said, “Well then any chance you can track it down? We’ll give him a visit tomorrow.”
“Can I give you a lift?” said Sarah.
“I’m fine. Nice evening for a walk. Now you get home.�
��
With a nod, he turned and headed towards the toll bridge. Sarah watched him casually lope away down the hill.
Dinner? When was the last time anyone suggested she go out for dinner?
9. Down on the Farm
Sarah sat in the window seat in Huffington’s and sipped her coffee. Thursdays she usually only went into the office after lunch — though in practice that didn’t mean taking a morning off.
It just meant a half-day at home doing the week’s washing, cleaning the kitchen floor, sorting the bedrooms, doing a supermarket run, then looking at the weeds in the front garden and realizing she’d once again run out of time to deal with them.
So today was a genuine morning off. Unless being a Private Detective counted as work, she thought.
In front of her she had a notepad filled with scribbles about Sammi, and what she’d learned in the last few days. Notepads solve crimes, Jack had said to her.
She doubted that, but it was amazing how much she’d learned about Sammi’s life in the last twenty-four hours. And about other people in the village too.
A few phone calls to friends had unlocked some pretty unsavoury stories about Robbo. Complaints from girlfriends about violence — most of which never seemed to go to court.
No witnesses.
Or witnesses that never turned up.
The most recent had ended in a three-month sentence for punching a girl in a club. He’d only just come out of jail and was on probation, working on a farm a few miles out of the village.
It was unlikely he’d told the farm manager about the prison spell — that was Jack’s theory when she’d brought him up to speed on the phone. So maybe that gave them some leverage if they were going to have a little chat.
A horn sounded. She looked up.
A little green sports car pulled up in the village square car park opposite. Austin Healey Sprite — top down, nice car, she thought. The driver waved — it was Jack, aviator shades on in the bright morning sunshine and looking much too big for the two-seater.
This was a surprise — Jack in a classic sixties sports car?
She drained her coffee, grabbed her notebook and went out.
As she crossed the road and climbed in the car, she didn’t have to look behind her to know that the Huffington’s regulars were already deep in conversation about her developing relationship with ‘the American’.
And as they pulled away fast into the traffic, she resisted the urge to give a regal wave to the congregation. Or would that be two fingers …?
With the top down, the car was too noisy to chat. In the brief pause while they waited at the traffic lights at the top of the High Street, Jack asked for directions.
“Left here onto the main road, then there’s a turn after a couple of miles. I’ll give you a shout.”
The lights changed, and with a gravely roar, they sped east away from Cherringham.
***
At barely walking pace, Jack edged the Sprite towards the tight bend, leaning forward in his seat to get a better view. The dry stone walls on each side of the narrow country lane were topped with hedges so it was impossible to see if anyone was coming the other way.
And it was his experience in England that when someone did come the other way they were usually going at twice the speed limit.
“Want me to drive?” said Sarah next to him.
“No, I can handle it,” he said, trying not to frown.
“Plenty of room for people to pass.”
“Not how I see it from here.”
“Never mind,” she said. “We’ve got all day.”
Jack flashed a quick glance at her. Was she teasing him? Maybe.
Kath used to tease him just like this. For being cautious.
That’s how I survived thirty years on the streets, madam, without once getting shot, he used to tell her.
Sure it’s not because you were always the last one to arrive? She used to counter.
But today he had a different passenger. And as long as they built roads better suited to horses than cars in this country, he was going to drive how he liked.
The road finally widened, giving glimpses of the countryside. Jack had never been up here. It was mostly pasture, dotted with the odd farm building made of heavy honey-coloured stone.
In the distance he could see far hills, and also the outlines of the massive hangars of RAF Belton, one of the busiest military airbases in the country.
This wasn’t the Cotswolds that the tourists came to see. It wasn’t chocolate box — it was agri-business. And in the winter, it would be bleak and windy up here.
“Turn left at the T,” said Sarah.
He did as he was told.
“There’s Clay Farm,” she said, pointing to a wide gate and a gravel track, leading to a featureless ’sixties detached farmhouse. He swung the car off the lane and headed for a concrete apron in front of some hay barns where heavy tractors and trailers were parked.
The place seemed empty.
He turned the engine off. From behind one of the barns came the sound of heavy machinery.
“You do the talking again?” he said to Sarah.
“Sure,” she said.
She looked nervous, he thought, as they climbed out of the car.
“This guy Robbo’s no big deal, Sarah,” he said.
“You don’t need to tell me that. If it looks like I’m going to hit him, you stop me, okay?”
Jack nodded — and told himself to stop making assumptions about her. She could handle herself. Or at least — she believed she could.
She headed round the back of the nearest barn, and he followed.
***
Sarah recognised Robbo straight away, even with his back to her. Tall and wiry, with long black hair — tied up and shoved into an orange hard-hat. “My Italian good looks” he used to call it at school. Not that he’d even been to Italy.
He was standing next to a bright green wood chipper, lazily feeding in chopped branches from a great pile on the concrete. The machine noisily ate the wood and spurted out chips into a hopper.
Sarah walked carefully around him so as not to startle him and motioned to him to turn off the machine.
Without taking his eyes off her, he leaned in and pressed a button and the machine clattered to a halt. He removed his hat and pulled out some earplugs, his eyes flicking across to take in Jack too.
“Well, if it ain’t the Admiral’s daughter,” he said, leaning back against the machine.
“Robbo.”
“What’s this then? After a bit of farmyard action?”
Sarah hadn’t spoken to him in twenty years but in an instant his school bullying came back to her. Not that he’d ever got one over on her or Sammi, she remembered.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
He shrugged and turned his attention to Jack.
“Bit old for her mate, aren’t you? I hope you know where she’s been.”
Sarah watched Jack smile — how was he going to react to that?
“Robbo — you okay me calling you ‘Robbo’?” said Jack.
Robbo looked confused for a second by Jack’s politeness. He shrugged.
“Good,” said Jack. He took a small step closer. “So here’s the thing, Robbo. Remember you were down at the Ploughman’s the other night?”
“I might have been.”
“Anyway — Robbo — it turns out you were the last person to see our friend Sammi alive.”
“What’s this about? Who the hell are you anyway?”
“You see — not long after you and Sammi left the pub, she turned up dead in the river. Course you know that. He knows that, Sarah, doesn’t he?”
Sarah saw the way Jack was going to play this.
“Oh, I think he does, Jack. Robbo’s a clever guy. He watches a lot of TV. You watch TV, don’t you, Robbo? Crime shows?”
“Maybe. But I don’t see what —”
“So Robbo, you know that it’s always the last person to see
the victim who gets the blame,” said Sarah.
She smiled, so reasonable.
“Blame? Blame for what?” said Robbo. He was looking confused now, like a boxer who’s been hit and can’t quite remember the routine.
“Blame for murder, of course,” said Jack.
Robbo blinked hard.
“Who says she was murdered? She fell in, didn’t she? Everybody knows that.”
“That’s not what the cops are saying now, Robbo,” said Jack. “They’re thinking maybe it was murder all along. And what with you being on probation—”
“How do you know about that? “ He looked around anxiously. “You can’t go round saying crap like that — and who are you anyway?”
Robbo started to move from side to side, agitated. Sarah took a step back.
This is like a game of Pop Goes the Weasel.
“Robbo — you mean you haven’t told your boss about being on probation?” she said. “You really ought to — I mean really.”
She saw his hands tighten into fists.
“Don’t be stupid, you stupid—” He caught himself. “If he heard about that I’d lose my job.”
There. Robbo’s confidence had evaporated. Sarah felt totally in control. She looked across at Jack who nodded discreetly. Time to turn the screw …
“You’ve got more to worry about than your job, Robbo. We’re talking murder — remember?”
“I didn’t kill her. I just talked to her!”
“When was that, then, Robbo? At the pub?”
Robbo’s eyes darted from her to Jack and back again.
“If I tell you this stuff — can you get the police off my back?”
“Sure, Robbo,” said Sarah. “All we want to do is find out who killed Sammi. We don’t want the police to go round wasting time investigating innocent people.”
Robbo breathed deeply.
“All right. This is what happened. I was watching the game on the big screen down at the Ploughman. With the lads, you know? Anyway she comes in, all kissy-kissy. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of years. She wanted to score, didn’t she? Like she was all nervous bout something.”
Cherringham - Murder on Thames Page 4
