Cherringham--Death on a Moonlit Night

by Neil Richards

  “Not exactly what they said, Nick.”

  “Why would they say that? I mean — Charley’s a mate …”

  “Sounded to me like you went in heavy. Least that’s what Charley and Robin think.”

  Jack looked at Sarah, the tone suddenly shifting. He wondered if she’d sense he was pushing harder at Nick now.

  To see how that goes.

  Does Nick have a short fuse?

  And then — Nick took a breath.

  “Look …”

  His voice low again.

  “I was made Taylor’s number two for a reason. To get rid of people that he wanted gone. That — was my job. I hated it, but I couldn’t walk away.”

  He stopped for a minute.

  “Some of the people didn’t like it. Who would? Some of them wanted to take a shot at me.”

  Another pause, and then each word rolling out so slowly.

  “But … I … never started anything.”

  Jack nodded. That all made sense.

  He looked at Sarah, then back at Nick.

  “You’re right about the gun, Nick,” he said. “The cops dredged it up out the river. It’s yours — no question. And it matches the spent cartridge case found at Taylor’s house.”

  He watched Nick shake his head and look down at his feet.

  Need to see those eyes, he thought.

  “There’s three things you haven’t got an answer for,” he said, and waited until Nick looked up again. “One — your shotgun is the murder weapon. Two — your tyre tracks are on the grass at Taylor’s house. Fresh tracks.”

  “What? I’ve not been there for days.”

  “And three — they have your prints on the safe in the house.”

  “Impossible,” said Nick. Then: “No, wait — a few weeks back I helped Lee with the cash float. There was a problem with the cash pick-up; he needed to keep the money there overnight.”

  Nick’s either a very good liar — or he’s telling the truth, thought Jack.

  His story could be checked. It would certainly explain the prints. But if he wasn’t the killer — who was? The stalker girlfriend? Did she take Nick’s gun when she left that night? And then return it?

  (Then a voice in his head warned him to be careful. A good liar can dupe even a trained detective.)

  “Okay, Nick. Late now. You told us a lot …”

  Just not sure how much of it is true, Jack thought.

  “A lot that Sarah and I can look into. But I’m afraid, see, with you a fugitive, the clock is ticking. This chat here — can’t imagine the police would look too kindly on it.”

  Nick shook his head.

  “I didn’t do it, you know. I’m not going to turn myself in.”

  Jack waited. A look to Sarah — hoping she was on board with what he was about to say.

  The clock indeed ticking.

  “That’s not my plan, Nick.”

  And Jack picked up the metal lawn chair, placed it close to Nick, and sat down.

  “Here’s my plan.”

  *

  Sarah watched as Nick got into Jack’s Sprite out on the lane, and shut the door.

  “Are you sure about this?” said Jack, joining her at the front door. “We could get into big trouble.”

  He nodded to where Nick sat in the passenger seat, waiting. Seeming more like a scared kid than a cold-blooded murderer.

  “As sure as you,” said Sarah.

  “Ray’ll let Nick sleep on his boat. Rest. Hide,” said Jack.

  “But for how long?”

  Jack rubbed his chin.

  “Hmm. With everything they got against him? No matter what he’s told us? Police would think — just hearsay.”

  Jack looked away, then, slowly back. “Think all we got is the next 24 hours, Sarah. Then — like it or not — we have to hand Nick over.”

  She took a breath.

  “And that will be that?”

  Jack looked away.

  She knew that look.

  Jack. Wanting justice.

  His calling in life.

  “You think he’s telling the truth?” she said.

  “Ton of evidence says he’s not.”

  “And you say?”

  “Ask me tomorrow.”

  “You don’t buy the idea this woman Tracy just turned up?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t buy the idea of a female armed robber blowing away a guy with a shotgun on his own doorstep — just to get back at another guy who walked out on her. I mean, do you?”

  “Right. So there has to be another motive,” said Sarah. ”Something we’re missing.”

  “Always is …” Jack smiled at that. “What’s the motive for killing Taylor? Or for framing Nick?”

  She shrugged, then saw Nick look over at the two of them. Could he just panic and bolt again, suddenly rethinking Jack’s offer of sanctuary?

  “Anyway — sooner I track down Tracy, sooner we either get some answers or rule her out of the picture. I can get started in the morning.”

  “Woman like that — if she is how Nick described — won’t be easy.”

  “And the lawyer. I can try to find out who that was. Has to be buried somewhere in the court documents.”

  Jack smiled at that. “Your friend in London?”

  “If need be,” she said.

  “And this Pete Bailey,” Jack said. “I’ll go see him first thing. Hear his side of things. How that fight really played out. Nick can tell me where he lives.”

  Sarah looked over at Nick, who now stared blankly out of the car window into the night.

  She turned back to Jack. “You know, I was thinking about Nick’s story. That champagne — sounded like it was spiked.”

  “Sure. Could be. If it was — the forensics guys will have picked up on it. They’ll have scoured the house for sure.”

  “I’ll call Alan in the morning, ask him.”

  “Good luck with that. Alan seemed none too helpful when I last spoke to him. Meanwhile …”

  “Tick-tock, hmm?”

  “’Fraid so, Sarah. Let’s hope for Nick’s sake we can get lucky fast.”

  A nod.

  It was late, the moon now low in the sky, hidden by the trees that girded the house.

  And for a second Jack didn’t move.

  Stood there as if debating to say something else.

  Until: “And Sarah …”

  “Hmm …?”

  “If you’re right — and Nick is innocent — that means … that whoever took his gun and killed Taylor is still out there. The real killer.”

  “I know.”

  Then the gentlest of smiles.

  So as to not be too alarming …

  “Just be careful. Doors locked. Phone close by. You know—”

  She laughed even though the warning itself was dire.

  “—the drill?” she said.

  “Right.”

  And then Jack walked down the garden path out onto the lane and popped open the door to his Sprite. Started the car.

  But didn’t pull away.

  No.

  Not until, with a nod, Sarah turned around, and walked back to the house. Slipping quietly inside. Shutting the door tight. And turning the deadbolt.

  Only then did she hear Jack’s car pull away.

  *

  And she thought: start digging now?

  But in the coolness of her hallway, the house so still, the kids fast asleep upstairs, she shook her head.

  She was tired; and it was so late.

  Best to hit it in the morning, fresh, first thing — set the alarm on her phone (which she would, indeed, keep right beside her) — and, as Jack said, hope that she got really lucky.

  12. A Woman with a Past

  Sarah looked over at Grace, sitting at her computer in the corner of the office. Her assistant seemed to be doing a good job of holding things together — so far.

  But Sarah guessed from her red eyes that she wasn’t getting much sleep.

  She wished she co
uld tell her that she’d seen Nick — that he was okay. And that maybe he had good reason to disappear.

  But she knew — no matter how much she trusted, loved her young assistant — she couldn’t place that burden of secrecy upon her. If, no, when they cleared Nick’s name, that would be the time to tell Grace.

  Sarah could only hope she would understand.

  Twenty-four hours — that was how long she was going to have to remain silent.

  Twenty-four hours to find out who killed Lee Taylor — and why.

  First she needed to get Grace out of the office. The internet searches and phone calls she had to make this morning could only be done in private. Time for some half-truths.

  “Grace — think you could do me a favour?”

  “Sure,” said Grace, her voice hollow, turning in her chair, wiping her nose discreetly with a paper hankie.

  “I’ve got some proofs need picking up in Chipping Norton — and I’m running out of time to do it. Would you mind popping over now? I thought you might like the change of scene too — what do you think?”

  “’Course. To be honest, I’m not really getting much done here. Better off running errands.”

  “Now I feel guilty!”

  “No, really, Sarah. It’s a good idea. I’ll go now.”

  Sarah watched Grace grab her handbag and head out.

  She waited until she heard the street door shut downstairs then picked up her phone and called Alan Rivers.

  “Alan. Sarah Edwards. Got a big favour to ask you.” She waited a moment, and then: “About the forensics report on Nick Marston’s house.”

  *

  Jack drove slowly through the little housing estate, past Cherringham primary school — and Sarah’s old house.

  Remembering the times he used to come here and drink tea with Sarah in that tiny backyard, her kids still little.

  Those early cases they worked together — the retired cop and the single mom discovering they made a good team.

  Years flying by, he thought.

  He drove on until …

  Blenheim Road — there it was. Number 17.

  Pete Bailey’s address, according to Nick. He parked his Sprite outside the little terraced house and turned off the engine. Then his phone rang.

  “Sarah.”

  “Jack. I asked Alan about the forensics and — get this — he didn’t even have to check online.”

  “Let me guess — they already found some kind of knock-out stuff?”

  “Traces of GHB on one of the glasses in the kitchen.”

  “Wow. Date rape drug, hmm?” said Jack. “From what I remember it’s pretty fast-acting.”

  “That’s right. Twenty minutes and you’re out. In some cases with total memory wipe next day.”

  “Kinda fits what Nick described. Don’t suppose they got any prints on the glasses?”

  “Only Nick’s.”

  “Guess Tracy knew what she was doing.”

  “You’re buying Nick’s story then?”

  “Well, I’m buying that part of it. Maybe. But, like I said, I’m reserving judgement until I know more.”

  “Alan said they were adding the drugs trace to the list of charges they want to bring against Nick. I didn’t say I thought he was the intended victim.”

  “Yeah,” said Jack. “Best keep quiet about that, for now. They still searching for him locally?”

  “Big time,” said Sarah. “People up in the woods, dogs, police cars all over the place. They’re checking boats down on the river too. You sure Ray’s cool with hiding Nick?”

  Jack laughed.

  Ray lived on the next barge downriver from Jack.

  He was definitely one of Cherringham’s edgier characters. An ex-hippy whose idea of the right side of the law changed according to what he was currently smoking or what illicit goods he had stashed in the back of his van.

  Jack knew that hiding a fugitive appealed to Ray’s nature as an outlaw and honourable thief.

  “He’s loving it,” said Jack. “This morning he was up early cooking bacon and eggs up on his deck. Said it would confuse the search dogs. Confused me for sure — I’ve never seen Ray emerge before noon. Sober too.”

  Sarah laughed: “Okay, well good luck with Pete Bailey. I’ll let you know if I get a handle on Tracy.”

  Jack put his phone back in his pocket. He climbed out of the car and went over to the house, through a little picket gate, and then to the front door — scratched and peeling, the house number faded.

  He knocked and stepped back.

  Best be safe: the guy was a fighter apparently. And people didn’t take kindly to private detectives turning up on doorsteps.

  Let alone American ones.

  He waited, then the door swung open.

  A young guy, hair swept back in a tight bun, scruffy jeans and a stained T.

  And — gripped firmly against one shoulder — a baby, with a bottle.

  Man and baby stared at Jack.

  “Pete Bailey?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “Name’s Jack Brennan.”

  He turned to shut the door. “Whatever it is, I’m not buying.”

  Jack leaned in fast.

  “I’m not selling anything, Pete. I’m a friend of Nick Marston and I need information.”

  Jack saw the man pause. “What kind of bloody information?”

  “Nick’s in trouble. And he thought you might be able to help.”

  “Dunno why the hell he thought that.”

  “You’re not a friend of his?”

  The baby dropped his bottle. Jack reached out fast, caught it, and handed it back to Bailey.

  “Good catch.”

  “Got a granddaughter,” said Jack.

  He watched the young dad look up and down the road as if checking to see who was watching. Then he seemed to soften.

  “Okay. You’d better come in,” he said, turning and disappearing inside. The baby — now with bottle re-inserted in mouth — looked over Bailey’s shoulder at Jack who stepped through and shut the door behind him.

  *

  Sarah stared at her screen, frustrated at her slow progress. She’d managed to track down the lawyer who’d represented Nick at his trial. But when he’d finally returned her call he hadn’t given her much to go on.

  She’d pretended she was writing an article about domestic violence — the spin being that she was looking at female-on-male attacks — but she suspected he saw through that from the start.

  And though he was happy to reiterate the fact that he’d advised Nick to plead guilty, he gave her nothing that wasn’t already in the public domain.

  She tried to get an address or a phone number for Tracy but that was a definite no-go.

  His final words though were encouraging: “Looking back on that trial, I might have handled it better,” he said. “He was a good lad and I hope he’s in a better place now than he was then.”

  Which was debatable.

  Call over, Sarah went back to her computer. Name-checking Tracy Ifield — the full name that Nick gave her — didn’t get her very far in national directories.

  She did, however, manage to track down Tracy’s employer in London — a hair salon in Ealing.

  And, luckily, the manager remembered her. Sarah said she was an old friend who’d lost touch. No, the manager didn’t have a contact, but the woman did remember her saying she was moving to Oxford a year or so back.

  Oxford. Not much, but something.

  But then — amazingly — Tracy’s face was still showing on the salon’s web page, “our team”.

  Okay. A city. A name. A face.

  And if Tracy was still in hairdressing — maybe even a job.

  Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Sarah.

  Time to hit Facebook.

  13. Breakthrough

  Jack bounced little Henry upon his knee while Pete Bailey went to find the pack of diapers.

  Cute kid, giggling and laughing.

  W
hen Jack was first married, he’d wanted a son. Wanted all the great stuff that dads and sons could do together.

  Then, after their daughter was born, his late wife, Kath, had been unable to have more children, and Jack had had to get used to the fact he wasn’t going to have a son to play baseball with, and take to the big games.

  As it turned out, life with their daughter had been full and happy — and she had a great arm, pitching in the girls’ softball league.

  He couldn’t have loved her more.

  And now he had a beautiful granddaughter — albeit back in the States. There would be visits as she grew older — she’d still be part of his life.

  A lot for a man to be happy about.

  “Sorry about that,” said Pete, coming back into the room lifting Henry off Jack’s lap and taking him over to a changing table.

  “No problem,” said Jack, clicking back to the present. “You look like you know what you’re doing there.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Pete, deftly removing the old diaper, “me and Pam share the load. Know what I mean?”

  “She working?”

  “Got to — what with me being kicked out of Hardwick’s. That’s what you want to talk to me about, hmm? Me getting canned?”

  “If you don’t mind. Sounds like it turned out badly.”

  “Stuff happens,” said Pete, finishing the change and placing Henry in a pen with some toys.

  Then he came over, sat opposite Jack.

  “So people are saying Nick was out of order, hmm?”

  “That’s about it,” said Jack. “Saying he laid into you.”

  Pete laughed: “Couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  “No?”

  “I was the one who was way out of order that day. I deserved a good kicking.”

  “And Nick didn’t give you one?”

  “Calm as you like, he was. Real gentleman.”

  “Not violent?”

  Jack saw Pete laugh again. “Who’s giving you that bullshit?”

  “Fella called Charley. And another called Robin.”

  “Oh yeah? No surprise there.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “When Nick got promoted to assistant manager, that put their noses out of joint. Been there years longer than Nick, they both had.”

  “So they should have got the job?”

  “By rights — under the old regime, yeah. No question. But Taylor — he had his own nasty way of doing things.”