Cherringham--Last Train to London

by Neil Richards

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “But there’s something else we can do. Right now.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows, not following.

  Sarah filled in the gap.

  “Just how good was Otto at keeping secrets?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Did he keep his secret from everyone?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Jayne Reid …”

  “Exactly,” she said. “I think it’s time we paid her another visit – don’t you?”

  And with that she took Jack’s last biscuit and stood up.

  “Hey,” said Jack. “That was mine.”

  “Got to be quick to catch me, Jack,” she said. “And joking aside – this afternoon is piling up for me. Not only have I got to do a food shop but I’ve also got to make up a costume for Chloe and wash Daniel’s cricket whites and have them dry by morning.”

  “The life of a single mum, hmm?” said Jack gesturing to Doris that he’d left cash on the table.

  “Tell me about it,” said Sarah, heading through the teatime crowd to the door.

  12. The Fugitive

  Halfway down the High Street, Sarah stopped.

  “Oh no! I don’t believe it,” she said, turning to Jack. “Look.”

  Jack followed her gaze as she pointed at the little shop on the other side of the road.

  “What’s up?” said Jack following her gaze.

  “Costco is closed. Which means when we’re done with Jayne, I’m going to have get in the car and drive out to the supermarket for the kids’ supper.”

  “Kinda odd – just being closed in the middle of the afternoon,” said Jack.

  “Been a robbery, hasn’t there,” said a voice next to them. Jack turned. A roundish woman in her thirties pushing a double buggy had joined them. Jack caught an exasperated roll of eyes from Sarah. He figured the woman was one of the army of mums that Sarah knew in the village.

  “Hi Angela,” she said.

  “I’ve been waiting an hour for them to open,” said Angela. “It was only a break-in, you’d think it was a bank-job or something the way your mate Alan’s playing Sherlock bleedin’ Holmes in there.”

  Jack noticed the little police car parked up outside the store: through the window he could just see the figure of PC Rivers talking to the owner.

  “Someone filled a bag, did a runner out the back,” said Angela. “Doesn’t surprise me, the prices he charges. I mean, how are we supposed to —”

  “Terribly sorry Angela – got to dash,” said Sarah, surprising Jack with the speed she moved away down the High Street.

  “Well,” said Angela. “Don’t mind me …”

  “Nice to meet you, Angela,” called Jack as he headed off to catch up with his fellow detective.

  Why Knot was down a little alleyway off the High Street which Sarah jokingly called ‘Cherringham’s medieval quarter’. Jack knew it from the nearby bookshop and a terrific deli that he liked – he realised he’d walked past Why Knot a hundred times without ever really noticing it.

  He’d also hardly noticed the old fashioned jeweller’s next door, which now stood closed and shuttered.

  Why Knot was brightly lit, but looked empty. Sarah pushed open the door and Jack followed. The place probably had hardly changed in fifty years: racks of wool, stands of knitting needles, trays of buttons and piles of patterns.

  A tall, intelligent-looking woman emerged through floral curtains that masked a storage area.

  “Can I help —” she said. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Hello Jayne,” said Sarah. “I hope you don’t mind, we had some more questions about Otto.”

  Jack watched Jayne Reid sizing him up. He smiled at her.

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” said Jayne, ignoring him. “Bringing your American friend along isn’t going to change that.”

  “I’m afraid what we have to tell you will change things,” said Jack, watching her closely.

  “Oh, I very much doubt that,” said Jayne confidently.

  Jack saw Sarah catch his eye – he could tell she wanted to run with this. He nodded at her, their short-hand working together as good now as any of the partners he’d had back in New York.

  “Jayne, we’ve found out some things about Otto which – to be honest – we don’t understand,” said Sarah. “And we thought you might be able to clear them up.”

  Jack could see a tell-tale flicker of concern move across Jayne Reid’s face.

  She knows something … he thought, and watched intently as Sarah told Jayne of his visit to the rival puppeteer and of Krause’s denials of anything to do with the puppets’ theft. Then he mentioned Krause’s assertion that Otto was not German.

  At this Jayne grunted.

  “Krause!” she said, through gritted teeth. “That bastard would lie about anything – especially about Otto! Is this what you’ve both come here to tell me?”

  Jack watched as she walked to the shop door and opened it wide.

  “Get out, or I’ll call the police,” she said.

  Instead of leaving, Jack went to the corner of the shop, pulled out a fold-up chair and sat on it.

  “You really don’t want to do that Jayne,” he said patiently. “You see my police contacts back in New York tell me that Otto was Romanian, and the tattoo he had on his side, you know – the vulture...”

  Jack could see from Jayne’s expression that she knew exactly what he was talking about. The trick here, the trick of teasing the truth out of this woman, was not to reveal how little he and Sarah actually knew.

  “Yes, you know the tattoo, don’t you?” he said. “Well, they told me how … important … that tattoo was. But you know that too, don’t you? You talked to Otto about the tattoo and he explained it.”

  He smiled at her – and that seemed to break the spell that held all three of them motionless.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I know. But I don’t want it spread around – you understand?”

  He watched as she shut the door and came and sat next to him. It was as if she had surrendered.

  He caught Sarah’s eye – she turned the sign on the door to ‘closed’, flicked the latch, then pulled another chair out and sat close to them.

  “Otto was the kindest man I ever met,” said Jayne Reid. “Old-fashioned – he always opened the door for me. Such a gentleman. But in truth, until he came here, he had a terrible, terrible life.”

  Sarah watched silently, not wanting to distract Jayne from her story, listening intently to every word.

  “You are right. He was Romanian. His family stood up to the Ceauşescu regime – you know they were the Communist party that ran the country for years? So evil. Otto’s father was in the opposition. He was executed. So Otto took up the cause – that’s why he had that tattoo. He told me it was a secret sign for the revolution. But he was captured and tortured. By the Secret Police. The Securitate. You know of them?”

  “I’ve read about them,” said Jack. “They were about as bad as you could get. Took their methodology from the KGB. But even more brutal. Cross their paths and you disappeared. I remember after the Communists fell, all the truth came out – mass assassinations, torture, you name it.”

  “Otto never liked to talk about it. But I pieced together what happened to him. After they killed Ceauşescu, he was released from prison. He thought everything was going to be wonderful. But those people who had been in the Securitate, they wanted revenge. They were like mad men – they went after everybody who had crossed them. They hunted down the rest of Otto’s family and killed them. Then they came after him. So in 1989 he fled to Germany.”

  “To Erfurt,” said Sarah.

  “Yes,” said Jayne. “That part was true. But he only stayed long enough to get a new identity. Then he came here.”

  “But all these years later – why didn’t he just own up to who he was?” said Sarah.

  “By then I guess it was too late,” said Jack, turning t
o Sarah. “He was in the system. Easier to stay as Otto Brendl.”

  “That is true,” said Jayne. “But also with the internet, more and more he felt that those terrible people – they were going to catch up with him. Revenge never goes away for them.”

  “So that’s why he had such security at his cottage?” said Sarah.

  “It was partly for his beautiful puppets,” said Jayne. “But also he worried the Securitate were getting close. In fact he told me that – just the night before he died – he thought someone had tried to break in.”

  “While he was in the house?” said Jack.

  “Yes. He said nothing was stolen. But he feared the worst.”

  “Jayne – did he ever tell you his real name?” said Sarah.

  “No,” said Jayne. “I think perhaps to protect me. But I didn’t mind. He was Otto. He’ll always be Otto.”

  Sarah sat back and looked at Jack. His face was stern; was he as moved as she had been by Jayne’s story?

  “So I’ve told you Otto’s secret. What will you do with it?” said Jayne.

  “I really don’t know,” said Jack. “All we were doing was a little background check for the school. Now with this – I just don’t know.”

  “Can’t you get his puppets back at least?” said Jayne.

  “We still don’t know who stole them,” said Sarah. “But I guess we can still try – what do you think, Jack?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But what do we tell Mrs Harper? About Otto?”

  Sarah didn’t know the answer.

  “All that I’ve told you, it happened a long time ago in a country far away – isn’t that the saying?” said Jayne. “Maybe it should just stay that way. I don’t think there’s anything in the life of Otto Brendl the German jeweller that should concern Mrs Harper.”

  Sarah walked with Jack back up the High Street to where he had parked in the village square.

  Pretty busy for a weekday he thought, but then remembered – it was the school holidays and the tourist season was in full swing.

  Jack climbed into the little open-top sports car. Sarah leaned against the bonnet.

  “So,” she said. “Where do we go from here?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We’re kinda done, aren’t we? We found out Otto’s secret. Seems to me the only question is what we tell Mrs Harper.”

  He could see something was troubling her.

  “But are we done? What about the missing puppets? Don’t you think we should try and get those back – for Otto? For Jayne?”

  “Maybe – but the police are already on the case. And they have far more resources than we do.”

  “Okay. But Jack – come on. Don’t you think there’s other weird things about this? That guy we saw on the road. The Russian chap asking about you down at the boat yard. Well Russian – Romanian – how would they know the difference? You could be in danger.”

  “Why?”

  Sarah pulled back.

  “Something we saw in the cottage maybe? Something else that Jayne didn’t tell us?”

  Jack also looked around.

  “Or maybe it’s just some guy who wants to buy a boat? We haven't seen him since. I can check if he’s been down by the river again. Maybe it’s not even the same guy.”

  But Sarah didn’t let it go.

  “He asked about you, Jack. Why?”

  Jack nodded, then a small smile. “You must think I have all the answers.” Then: “Look, I'll be careful. Remember, I'm kind of used to dealing with bad guys.”

  Sarah shook her head. “As the target?”

  Touché, he thought.

  “Okay, I’ll be very careful. And I will take care of myself. Gotta give Riley a nice long walk. Touch base tomorrow?”

  “Great. Daniel’s got a match. So, I don’t know … If you think we’re finished with Otto then maybe I’ll go watch. Pretty quiet in the office …”

  Jack had to wonder if Sarah struggled to make ends meet. She always seemed to have a few web design commissions. But did she get enough of them? She clearly found being an amateur detective a whole lot more fun. Was that why she didn’t want this case to be over?

  A big SUV drew up next to them. A middle-aged woman with puffy grey hair accompanied by a young woman in summer top, were in the front seats. Mum and daughter out for the day, he guessed.

  “Sorry, are you about to go? No parking spaces anywhere!”

  Jack looked at Sarah. She shrugged.

  “Talk tomorrow, Jack,” she said.

  “Enjoy the cricket,” he said as she turned and headed off to her own car.

  Then he smiled at the couple in the car and started the engine. “All yours.”

  “Lovely!” the woman said, backing out of the way.

  Lovely. And not for the first time he thought, I'm not in Brooklyn anymore …

  13. A Quiet Night on the Goose

  Riley sat beside Jack, head in his paws. Jack had thought about having a cigar – but on a night like this?

  Clear dark sky, no moon yet so the stars were so bright.

  Seemed a shame to mess that up with smoke.

  Instead, he sat outside on his boat and tried to figure out if Sarah was right about this ‘case’ not being over.

  What had they really learned in the past twenty-four hours?

  They now knew that Otto Brendl wasn’t German.

  That old Otto had in fact come from Romania just before the whole Communist world began to fall apart, just like the Berlin Wall being torn down.

  Then – more interesting – he was in trouble; that Brendl was, in fact, in hiding from operatives from the old Romanian secret police.

  That – according to Jayne Reid – all these years later – someone still wanted to find him.

  Then – do what?

  Punish him? Kill him?

  But the man just had a heart attack?

  Isn’t that what happened?

  At that moment, Riley stood up, stretched. He placed his head near Jack’s right hand and Jack gave him a pet.

  “Time to head in, Riley?”

  The Springer tilted his head left and right.

  It was late. But on a night like this, you could just sit out here till dawn.

  Might do that sometime, Jack thought.

  Worse ways to spend an evening.

  The thoughts kept coming …

  Someone had tried to break in the night before the puppeteer had died. But according to Jayne, they had failed. Then – only a couple of days later someone had actually gotten in and stolen the puppets.

  Krause. Was he lying? Did he have something to do with the stolen, apparently irreplaceable, puppets?

  And something else that had been niggling Jack: why hadn’t Otto told the police if he was worried about being attacked? Perhaps he feared losing his residency status. But would that outweigh his fear for his life?

  And who was the man at Iron Wharf asking after Jack Brennan? In spite of what he’d said to Sarah, he hadn’t taken that report lightly …

  “More questions here than answers, Riley.”

  The dog’s head bobbed. Good. He agrees.

  For Jack, an imbalance in questions-versus-answers always made him feel uncomfortable.

  Riley made a small noise – probably eager for his doggy pillow rather than the wood deck of the ship.

  Jack stood up. “Okay, let's head in, boy.”

  And Riley led the way inside the Grey Goose.

  Jack had left the wicker case with the Punch and Judy puppets just inside the wheelhouse.

  Did those puppets have any value, he thought? They seemed pretty standard issue as far as puppets went, at least to Jack’s untrained eye.

  Still – they were all that was left of Brendl’s collection.

  Now he grabbed the crate by a thick leather handle at one end, and dragged it down the steps and into the galley area. Tomorrow, when it was light, he’d look at them more closely. It was just instinct that had him hold onto them after all of the other
s had been stolen.

  But maybe there was something else there, some ‘answer’ that he had missed.

  Riley found his pillow just inside the bedroom.

  “Okay, I’m coming,” Jack said.

  With the night air, the stars gone, he felt suddenly tired. Despite all his questions, sleep would be good.

  Minutes later, the Grey Goose was dark, and the boat completely quiet.

  Jack’s eyes opened. He had been asleep. He looked at the clock on the small dresser across the room.

  2:18. 2:19.

  He usually didn’t wake up in the middle of the night. But now —

  Riley was standing. The dog walked up to the head of the bed, then did a small circle.

  Hearing something. It was probably his paws – the claws on the wooden floor – that had awakened him.

  Something outside probably. Bunch of rabbits having a late dinner of greens near the edge of the river. That’s all it was …

  Jack was about to tell Riley to relax. Back to sleep. It was nothing.

  He was just about to say the words; the dog was smart and understood a command when he got one.

  When Jack heard a noise.

  A rattle. Hard to place. The sound of something being wiggled, then a creak.

  One of the windows near the stern of the boat. Being forced open. They could be latched, but on such a warm night, Jack had left them open.

  The sound again, now more measured: someone being careful.

  Again Riley did another small circle; he made a noise, not quite a growl, as if he was aware what Jack was thinking.

  Better that whoever it is … doesn’t know we’ve heard him.

  Jack pulled off the sheet, ready to slide out of bed.

  Those windows, one on each side, big enough for someone to crawl into the boat.

  Another grumble from Riley, louder now, and any chance of surprise would soon evaporate.

  It was time for Jack to move.

  His bedroom – he still found it hard to call it a cabin – was in the bow of the Grey Goose, separated from the big saloon by a bathroom and walk-in shower.

  To get to the far end of the boat he would have to navigate the space in total darkness.