Cherringham - Murder on Thames

by Costello, Matthew; Richards, Neil

  Only minutes into the tea and conversation and it was beginning to seem that this interview was over.

  So much for my solo detective work, thought Sarah.

  “In fact, I haven’t taken Brady there for his walk since. Don’t know if I ever will.”

  Sarah nodded. How could she press on? Louella Tidewell had been through enough.

  She was about to get up. Maybe things would have turned out differently if Jack had been here.

  And then —

  A detail.

  “And she was dressed so beautifully.”

  Sarah stopped.

  “She was? In what way?”

  The woman’s eyes met Sarah’s, clearly picturing the scene.

  “When I saw her, when I walked over, I could see how muddy it was there. It had been raining the day before. Such a mess! Muddy, the ground was, almost impossible to walk on.”

  “And Sammi?”

  “Short for Samantha, I suppose. Such a pretty name. An old-fashioned name. Anyway. Such a mess all around her and there she was in a beautiful top, sparkly. It caught the light even on that overcast morning. And her skirt. Smart, like you’d wear on, well, a date. Or to meet someone. She had only one shoe on. Such a sad thing to see. And not a shoe to go tromping around a muddy river.”

  “She was dressed to meet someone?”

  “Why, that’s certainly what it looked like.”

  A meeting. A rendezvous.

  Could this be important Sarah thought? Another bit of evidence that said that Sammi didn’t get all dressed up to jump in the river.

  She was convinced that whomever Sammi got all dressed up for had to be the killer.

  Then she caught herself. What was it Jack said about jumping and conclusions?

  Still — it seemed important.

  She gave the woman another smile. “Is there anything else?”

  “No. I mean, I told you everything I saw. Now it’s something to forget. Close my eyes — and I can still see her.”

  Sarah reached out and patted the woman’s hand.

  “Thank you for talking to me, Lou.”

  “Not much help I’m afraid. I mean, for you to understand.”

  Sarah stood up.

  She looked down at the Golden Labrador. “Beautiful dog.”

  “Brady? He’s my old friend. My companion. Makes life worth living to have him by my side.”

  “Thanks again. I better get home — children to feed and all that.”

  “Yes. And you stay safe, dear.”

  Sarah nodded, and with a last smile, left the small cottage.

  ***

  Sarah entered through the kitchen door, twisting the knob with one hand and holding a bag of quickly purchased groceries to fix the children’s tea, only to see Chloe standing at the open fridge.

  Her daughter spun around.

  “Oh, Chloe, I’m sorry, I’m running a bit late. But I got—”

  Her daughter shut the fridge door with what seemed more force than necessary.

  “Mum.” Her voice was flat, disapproving. The chat with Lou Tidewell had gone on for a bit longer than Sarah had wanted.

  Still, Sarah had texted to say that she was on her way and food was forthcoming.

  “Where were you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I called your office. Grace said you hadn’t been there for hours. Had some errands.”

  Divorce does unfair things to kids, Sarah knew. The kids would for ever be between Oliver and her, never knowing who to blame, who to trust …

  Maybe who to love.

  “I had work errands, Chloe. Some clients to meet—”

  Her daughter took a few steps closer as Sarah put down the bag of shopping. “One of my friends said that you’ve been with that old American.”

  Sarah smiled at that. “He’s not that old, and—”

  “Mum!” Chloe said cutting her off. “What’s going on?”

  Teenage girls.

  Always heard they could be a challenge, and I’m only just getting started with Chloe.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “Daniel’s in his room, he’s got some big project to do.”

  Sarah nodded. “So, you heard about the woman they found?”

  “Yeah. The kids at school said she used to live round here. She drowned.”

  Sarah thought it best not to say too much. “I knew her.”

  Chloe’s eyes went wide.

  “We used to be, well, best friends. Years ago.”

  To make this easier, Sarah began to unpack the shopping bag, the wedge of cheddar, milk, macaroni, an onion. All the essentials for a quick baked macaroni cheese.

  “And there were things I didn’t understand. The American — that ‘old’ guy — is from New York. A retired detective. He’s just helping me.”

  “You mean she didn’t drown?”

  Bag unpacked, now Sarah took a step closer and put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  Won’t be long before she’s my height.

  “No. I mean I’m not sure. But since she was my friend, I’d just like to know more. Why she came back here, what happened. That make sense?”

  And finally Chloe nodded.

  “Good. So now that mystery’s solved, how about you help me whip up my famous macaroni cheese. I’m famished.”

  Chloe smiled.

  Teenagers can be difficult but — apparently — they could also empathize.

  “Sure.”

  The two of them set to fixing the quick dinner, and Sarah had only a passing thought about Jack, and when she could tell him of her chat with Lou Tidewell.

  And learn exactly what he was doing that he didn’t want her to know about.

  15. A Case of Cars

  Jack had waited on his boat until the sky turned from a rich deep purple to a moonless black.

  What he was about to do was better done at night.

  It was a hunch. Despite his suggestion to Sarah that she avoid assumptions and conclusions, he himself had no problem about having a hunch — and following it.

  He scooped the Sprite’s keys off the kitchen counter and, leaving a light on, walked out to the sports car.

  ***

  Tricky enough driving around here during the day, he had pretty much avoided any extended night driving where the looming hedges could turn into black walls that swallowed an oncoming car’s headlights.

  Ignition on, the Sprite’s engine gave off a deep, sweet roar — one of the things he loved about it. It required a lot of TLC but — like most demanding things in life — it was worth it.

  Headlights on, he pulled onto the small road that led away from his boat’s mooring, and drove, even more slowly than normally, towards the village, thinking through the details of his hunch.

  Sarah’s friend had come to the village. And though the police seemed to think she came by car, there was no car registered to her. So, if she came in a car and met someone here then that car — a rental maybe, or a car she borrowed from someone yet unknown — had to be somewhere.

  The police would probably find it. Even without any top-shelf detecting skills, if it was within ten miles of Cherringham, they’d eventually locate it.

  But he wanted to find it first.

  Could be a long night, he thought.

  ***

  He drove slowly through the village, looking at the restaurants, the unlit shops, people doing late-night shopping at Cherringham’s only convenience store.

  If you wanted to put a car somewhere no one would notice it, where exactly would that be?

  Jack had seen people do that every week since he came here.

  People who’d drop their cars in a car park, and train into London.

  Lot of unnoticed cars there.

  But how could he tell which one might be Sammi’s?

  He literally didn’t have a clue about that.

  ***

  He was coming up to the car park but then saw, parked across the street in front of th
e Railway Arms, a police car.

  An officer stood outside talking to a man who, even at this distance, Jack could see was wavering in the wind.

  Couldn’t go into the car park now. Not with a cop right there.

  He’d have to do another loop, though to a sharp-eyed cop even that would look suspicious.

  Might help if I had a less recognizable vehicle, he thought. Not too many of these throaty little sports cars running around.

  Need some generic Ford. Something so bland as to be unnoticed.

  He drove past the pub, giving the scene with the cop and the drunk only a quick glance.

  And he left the warm glow of the village, lit up at night, for the dark road that headed west, to the hills past Cherringham.

  ***

  Looping back, like a fighter plane on a strafing run, he drove down the street that led to the pub, hoping that Cherringham’s finest had cleared up whatever trouble had been there.

  The big car park was just across the way. It was large because the train station was close by.

  He took a breath, and then saw the lit sign of the Railway Arms.

  The police car was gone.

  He slowed, put on his turn indicator, and, just as he entered the car park, he killed his lights.

  ***

  Jack cruised up and down the aisles of cars, thinking, wondering … what am I looking for?

  Sometimes when you follow a hunch, he thought, you have to hope something will just leap out at you.

  He passed the pay meters at one end. You could buy a few hours or a day’s parking. Nothing more. So this was strictly for commuters.

  Okay. That might be useful.

  He turned down the next aisle of cars, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as he kept the sports car to crawl. Looking, left, then right, searching for a sign from the automobile gods.

  Something. Anything.

  Then he came abreast of a car that had papers stuck to its windshield by the wipers, flapping in the gentle evening wind.

  Parking tickets.

  For someone who left the car there and hasn’t come back in two or three days.

  He stopped the Sprite. Across from the suspect car — a boxy Honda of some kind — he spotted an empty parking space.

  And he pulled in thinking: I haven’t been this excited in a long time.

  ***

  Jack looked around to make sure no one was watching, and then popped open the tiny boot of the Sprite.

  He walked to the back and pulled out a thin metal rod.

  Been a while. But this should be just like riding a bike.

  He closed the boot as slowly and quietly as possible.

  While he may have once been a decorated member of the NYPD, Jack imagined that breaking into a car would still be viewed by the locals as a crime.

  He walked over to the Honda, the tickets still blowing in the wind. Four of them, so the car could have been there three days, which matched perfectly the time Sammi arrived in Cherringham.

  He leaned closer to the car, and hiding the shiny piece of metal with his body, he made the metal strip slip between the window pane and the door slot. He looked into the car to check for any theft alarm but didn’t see the glowing red light.

  Okay, he thought.

  So when I pop this I won’t have an alarm screaming through the car park, waking the dead and those glued to their stools in the pub.

  Then: Here goes.

  With a quick motion he slid the metal bar down and fished around to find where the inside lock connected to the manual one on the inside of the door.

  Despite his confidence that he could do this, it wasn’t going well.

  He shook his head, wondering how long before the cop car did another loop, maybe came in here.

  That would end any detecting.

  He also had the thought … what am I really doing?

  I’m done with all this, aren’t I?

  But even as he had those thoughts, with a gentle summer breeze blowing through the trees creating a soft rustling noise, the village at night so quiet, so sleepy, he hit something.

  Something stopped the bar and — if the car door was organized the way ninety-nine per cent of them were — he should be able to bend the bar, and from the inside trigger the door latch to open.

  And then — an open sesame moment — he watched the door lock pop up.

  The car that had been parked here since Monday, gathering parking tickets from the attendant but still so far under the radar of the local cops, was now unlocked.

  And as fast as he could he popped open the door, and slid into the Honda.

  ***

  The car looked and smelled new. No whiff of marijuana, no tell-tale powder on the seats.

  A rental, a friend’s car? Now inside, still no way for Jack to tell. And he didn’t find any slips of paper, a petrol receipt, directions to Cherringham, anything that told him who may have been driving.

  Could be just some commuter who didn’t care if he collected a few tickets while in London.

  He reached down to the side-door compartment, which was empty and then over to the glove compartment, which also was pristine save for the car’s manual in a leatherette cover.

  The great NYC detective strikes out, he thought.

  And he had such high hopes for his idea.

  He could check plates but that would take a few calls — and favours — to some London friends on the job. And the more time that went on, the colder this whole thing got.

  So cold, he had to wonder if it was too late?

  He reached under the driver’s seat, then the passenger’s seat. Nothing.

  He guessed that if he looked in the boot it would have been equally immaculate.

  He turned and looked at the back seat which, even in the darkness, with just a bit of milky light from a distant car park lamp, he could see was empty.

  Time to give this up, he thought.

  One more thing.

  And he twisted around so he could turn and lean into the back. And then, looking down, he checked the floor of the car in front of those seats.

  And there, just behind the driver’s seat was a lump of some kind.

  Jack reached down for it, stretching more, delivering a spike of pain to his side muscles.

  Not as limber as I used to be.

  He reached for the object, just out of reach. A bit more of a painful stretch, and his fingers closed on the object, pulling it up off the floor.

  And even before he got a good look at it, he knew what it was.

  A phone. Hidden back there.

  Maybe left behind on purpose? Maybe dropped, wobbly after mixing drugs and drinks??

  Jack knew how useful phones could be.

  He slid it into his shirt pocket — this was not the place to make it spring to life.

  He looked around the car park which was still deserted but he heard a train whistle. The late commuters would be coming here soon.

  He grabbed the metal rod and opened the door, keeping low so that his head didn’t loom over the small Honda.

  And then, crouching, he walked back to his Sprite, which was now looking even more absurdly small, especially when he wanted it to be hidden, unobserved.

  The train was pulling into the station.

  He fished out his keys, started the car — always a throw of the dice with a temperamental sports car — and, with a rumble, he started to back away, lights still off.

  Slowly he moved past the Honda, looping around to the entrance across from the pub as the train now screeched to a halt in the station behind him.

  People hit the stairs from the platform, up to the walkway to the car park.

  Jack got to the entrance, turned on his lights and, forcing himself to drive slowly when all he wanted to do was step on it, he pulled away.

  16. The Last Texts

  Sarah sat at the kitchen table with the TV on but muted so she couldn’t hear explosive laughter from whomever Graham Norton found so amazingly funny.
<
br />   She hoped that Jack would call, curious about what he was up to that he couldn’t tell her about and also wanting to share what Lou Tidewell said.

  She had this feeling, now stronger than ever, that they were close to something. And that while her friend might be dead, Sarah would do all she could to find out how it happened.

  Her phone sat on the counter, quiet. Maybe a glass of Pinot Noir, she thought? And just as that idea seemed so appealing, the phone vibrated and she snatched it up.

  “Hello?”

  Jack.

  “Look. Sarah, I found something. Love to show you.”

  “Right. When? Tomorrow?”

  He hesitated. “Can you get away for a bit now?”

  It was late and Daniel and Chloe were both in their rooms. She had to remember that she was a mum.

  I can’t lose sight of that, she thought.

  “I don’t know, Jack.”

  Which is when Chloe walked into the kitchen, her face set. Still a hint of disapproval there. Sarah smiled at her.

  “Can I ring you right back?”

  “Sure. I’ll wait.”

  Sarah killed the call, and then turned to face her daughter.

  ***

  “That him? The American?”

  Sarah nodded. “You say that like he’s an invader.”

  Chloe’s non-response showed that was exactly what she did think.

  “Chloe, I wonder … He called, said he found out something. About my friend, Sammi. Think you could keep an eye on Daniel for a while?”

  “Mum. He’s nearly eleven!”

  Sarah nodded. “I’d feel better knowing you were, you know, in charge. I’ll be quick.”

  Her daughter seemed to hold onto her stern pose for a few more moments then nodded. “Sure.”

  “You’re a star, Chloe. Be back before your bedtimes.”

  Chloe nodded again, then turned, walked away.

  Sarah hesitated a moment, thinking that maybe she needed to talk to her daughter about what happened to their lives. She was growing up so fast.

  And not for the first time Sarah thought how hard this was to do, all alone.