Cherringham--Last Train to London

by Neil Richards

  “Oh, you. I thought we were done —”

  Jack figured out the exact tactic he’d use with her. He pointed to the bandage on his face.

  “See that?”

  “Had a tumble, did we?”

  “You might say that. Or maybe someone wanted something from me. And what they wanted … seemed to be Otto’s Punch and Judy puppets.”

  Jayne’s face registered true shock. Least her role in this story seemed to be holding up.

  “You were attacked?”

  “Last night. And I'm thinking, maybe by the same people Otto worried about.”

  “They’re here?” She turned away, clearly both confused and stunned by that news. And maybe, Jack guessed, a little scared.

  “Jayne, I got attacked last night.”

  “I assume you’ve told the police. This —”

  Jack held up his hand, “Was about to, but I need …”

  He always had trouble lying. Maybe because the truth was so important to him. But for whatever reason, it always felt that anyone could see that he was lying.

  “I need to know as much as I can about Otto, about those who wanted to harm him. And there’s one place that might tell me more.”

  He took a step towards her. Perhaps her being scared was good. Jayne was a battle-axe of a woman. But she seemed shaken now.

  “I need to get into his shop. There may be something there that can tell us about these people. Some secret …”

  Her eyes clouded over, and Jack knew that he was onto something here.

  “I told you,” she said, “I don’t —”

  Jack raised a hand, nodded … a smile. A move that signalled, between us, we know that is complete bull —

  “Jayne, I'm just thinking that maybe he kept a spare key. That maybe —”

  Another pause.

  “— you know where that key is.” He paused, then: “Those people still want something, even with your Otto dead.”

  He saw Jayne Reid gulp. Then a nod.

  “Okay, I mean, I didn’t think it was my business to share, but he gave me a set of keys to the jewellery shop. Just for safekeeping. Didn’t think …”

  “Thanks,” Jack hurried to say before she could change her mind. And Jayne nodded again and opened a low drawer behind the counter.

  Jack heard the jangle of keys and then she stood up and handed him a ring with three keys.

  “Don’t know the order – which opens what.”

  “I'll figure it out.”

  In her other hand was a piece of paper. “This is the alarm code. Otto said I should have that too.”

  Jack took the paper on which was written a string of eight numbers.

  “Right. And Jayne – thanks.”

  And Jack walked out, wondering if she suspected that there might be secrets in the shop that maybe ‘Otto’ didn't want anyone to know …

  Even her.

  16. Clocks, Jewels and Secrets

  Jack managed to open the door to the jewellers, and once inside a red light began blinking on a keypad beside the door. He took the piece of paper, entered the sequence of numbers, and the red light stopped blinking.

  He waited.

  No alarm.

  It worked.

  And he shut the door.

  He didn’t know what he was looking for. Many of the jewellery display cases, though locked, were empty.

  Probably kept the valuable stuff in a safe somewhere, Jack thought.

  He walked around the store, and it occurred to him that somehow this place didn’t match the story of ‘Otto, the Punch and Judy man’.

  Or – for that matter, ‘Otto the Securitate Vulture’.

  But then, if someone was a killer for a police state, they would know how to wear many masks.

  Puppeteer. Jeweller. Recluse.

  Killer.

  Just then, first one, then all the clocks in the shop began chiming the hour, some with metal ballerinas and silvery bears that emerged with the chimes, while other big wall clocks produced low sonorous bongs.

  For a moment it felt as if Jack was standing inside a giant clock.

  While some of the chimes still rang, he walked behind the back counter. Wooden drawers sat below the display cases … he pulled open first one, then another, none of the drawers locked.

  No secrets hidden here.

  He wondered what Alan would say if he spotted Jack in the shop.

  Nothing terribly legal about this, he thought.

  He turned around, and saw a door to the back area.

  Might be luckier back there. He opened the door and went in, and immediately felt the dry, stale air. The room was small, claustrophobic. A small table, a wooden chair, some papers still there where Otto had left them.

  Jack picked them up. An electric bill. An invitation from a school to perform at another fête. A cracked coffee cup with pens, pencils, a sabre-like letter opener.

  He turned around and saw the safe: three feet by two and not protected by a combination lock but a keyed entry.

  He took the key ring and hoped that he had the right one. He tried the last, slid it in, turned it, and the safe opened.

  At first, he could only see the trays of necklaces, rings, brooches. All brightly catching the halogen light that went on inside the safe when the door was open.

  But then, he saw a bottom tray, seemingly empty.

  Nothing catching light there, nothing sparkling.

  Jack reached in and slowly slid out the tray …

  “Sarah – I imagine you’re in the middle of dinner?”

  “Jack. Yes, but I was hoping you’d call. Hold on a minute.”

  He stood near his car, holding what he’d found inside Otto's shop.

  As everything started to fall into place.

  “Okay, just wanted to get out of earshot of the kids. Have to remember, they loved old Otto and his shows as well.”

  He told her about the call from Eddie, about the tattoo and the DSS.

  There was silence and for a few seconds, Jack thought the line had gone dead.

  “Sarah? You still there?”

  “I’m here. I’m just trying to get my head around Otto being … I mean … He was our Punch and Judy man …”

  Jack waited. And then:

  “Right. So – Jayne Reid did have the keys to the shop —”

  “I could have guessed that.”

  “And in the store safe, I found something.”

  “Go on.”

  “Brendl’s German passport, then his Romanian one. Turns out his real name was Rica Popescu.”

  “That settles that.”

  “And that’s not all. One more thing: found Popescu’s DSS identity card, in full Securitate Uniform. Looking mean, and not a puppet in sight.”

  “Wow. And you —”

  “Took them. Yes. This whole thing is starting to twist on itself.”

  “Sounds like you almost enjoy that, Jack …”

  “You know, never thought of it that way, but I imagine I do. When whatever this ‘story’ was before, slowly flips and – there you are – the truth. Ugly as sin sometimes, but undeniable.”

  “He was in the secret police, in a secret, brutal branch.”

  “Yup. The truth. And from the badges and medals on his uniform, he had to be high up.”

  “So no one from Securitate was coming after him?”

  “But someone was after him, someone from his homeland. I’m thinking that —”

  Jack stopped. Directly across the High Street, he saw Costco, now open, shoppers drifting in, grabbing milk, maybe a pack of minced beef for a late summer barbecue.

  “Sarah. What you were saying about Daniel? About the storeroom at the Cricket Club being robbed?”

  “Yes. I knew he had nothing to do with that.”

  “As did I.”

  “He and his friends would never dream of doing that. That field is theirs, the practices, the games, the pavilion serving snacks. It’s too much a part of their life.”


  “Right, okay. So – I know I interrupted your dinner...”

  “Let me guess. You want to go somewhere?”

  “However did you know?”

  “The cricket pitch? You have a hunch?”

  “Oh, I’d say at this point it’s a bit stronger than a hunch. Could use a guide – especially if anyone sees a big Yank prowling around.”

  “Let me finish dinner, clean up, get the kids sorted. Say … half eight?”

  “I'll pick you up.”

  “Great, and Jack, I’m beginning to think you know me too well. Drop a hint that there’s something there and … well … I’m there.”

  Jack laughed. “Bet you were a detective in another life. Sherlock Holmes …”

  “More like your Watson.”

  “We take turns. See you in a bit.”

  And Jack stood there, light fading from the sky, watching the Costco, and wondering if the last bit of this play, their own mysterious Punch and Judy show, was about to end.

  17. The Pavilion

  Sarah looked at Jack as he parked his little sports car near the cricket pitch, the pavilion not far away.

  “You think that the mysterious Romanian, the man who planted the needle to kill Brendl —”

  “Popescu …”

  “Yes – that he had something to do with the pavilion break-in?”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Needed food – broke into Costco. Needed Dutch courage – broke into the store here. Smelled boozed up when he came at me. Guy like that with his accent would stand out in Cherringham.” Jack grinned. “Trust me, I know that.”

  Sarah looked away.

  The pitch was dark, a few lights hitting a few areas, but most of it a black sea of grass.

  And she had to admit … it did make complete sense.

  “Maybe the school break-in too,” she said. “I suppose he couldn’t check into a hotel if he was planning to kill Popescu. Surprised he even asked about you down at the boatyard.”

  “Yeah. That had to be a risk for him. And I don’t know why learning about me was so important.”

  “We don’t have it all, then.”

  “No. And then there’s this —”

  Jack pointed at the pavilion sitting in darkness.

  “We know he killed. We know he attacked me on the Goose. And we don’t know where he is.”

  Middle of summer… Sarah thought.

  Yet sitting here she felt almost icy.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Jack popped open the car door, and Sarah followed him, making straight for the buildings ahead.

  All seemed quiet.

  “That the place?” Jack whispered, pointing.

  “Yes. There are changing rooms and the bar. And the storeroom for all the gear is round the back.”

  Jack sniffed. “Let's take a look.”

  And despite walking beside this tall American detective, a guy who certainly knew how to handle himself – and others – Sarah felt her heart racing.

  Jack bent down, digging out his phone.

  He fumbled with it and the phone’s light came on, and he aimed it at the lock on the door to the storeroom at the back of the pavilion.

  “Been jimmied. See the scratches?”

  “You think he broke in here?”

  “Let’s see.”

  Jack handed Sarah the phone, and then dug out his wallet. He slipped out a credit card which he worked into the space between the lock and frame, the lock simple, easy to pop open …which it did.

  “Remind me to give you a call next time I forget my keys,” said Sarah.

  And since she had the light, Sarah went in first as the door creaked open.

  The room was full of bags of cricket gear, stumps, and various equipment for the nets. Otherwise, it was deserted.

  But shining the light down, Sarah saw what looked like rubbish on the floor.

  She moved the light over the pile. Wrappers from Costco sandwiches, plastic bottles of juice, crumpled empty bags of crisps.

  “He was here,” she said.

  Moving the light a bit, she spotted an empty bottle of Stolichnaya.

  “Must have hid here while he planned to kill ‘Otto’,” Sarah said. “Place deserted, no one ever comes here at night. And from here he could slip out to spy on us, ask questions. Course, he needed food. Question is —”

  “Where is he now?”

  Jack sighed.

  Sarah guessed he had actually hoped to find the guy. That would have tied the whole thing together nicely. Instead, all they had was scattered rubbish showing that the killer had once been here.

  “Guess we need to look —”

  But Sarah crouched down. She pushed at the collection of wrappers, sandwich containers, plastic bottles, seeing nothing.

  And then —

  A crumpled piece of paper unlike the others, smaller.

  She picked it up.

  “Find something?” Jack said.

  She used her thumb to smoothe it, and saw a train ticket.

  London to Cherringham.

  Dated one day before Rica Popescu stuck his hand in a puppet and died.

  Sarah stood up, the chill — her fear — replaced now with excitement.

  “Jack. A train ticket. He came from London, stayed here —”

  “And he’s not here now.”

  “He must have gone back.”

  Jack took the ticket from her.

  “Or he’s going back. Sarah, when is the last train to London?”

  Sarah looked away. There was a time she used to have the London-Cherringham schedule memorised. But now —

  “God, I don't know. Half nine … ten maybe?”

  Jack looked at his watch.

  “It’s quarter past nine now. It’s a long shot. But I’ll take any shot we can get. Let’s get to the station.”

  Sarah nodded, and together they ran across the field to his car while she wondered … how much time do we really have?

  And could the killer have left already?

  18. Last Train to London

  Sarah held tight as Jack made the Sprite screech to a stop next to the stairs that led up from the car park to the platform access.

  He didn’t worry about finding a space; he just stopped the car.

  And as if racing for a train themselves, they bolted up the stairs, Jack taking steps two at a time, while Sarah did her best to keep up. The platform for the London train was on the other side.

  She didn’t hear any train horns, nothing indicating a train was approaching.

  Were they already too late? No, the schedule board still had the last train showing …

  Then down the stairs, the whole place eerily deserted, a mid-week London train not getting many customers. On the platform only a few of the station lamps were lit, yellow pools of light in the darkness.

  “Careful,” Jack said, taking the steps like a twenty-year old. Sarah held the rail as she flew down now as fast as she could.

  Until they landed at the bottom, the platform empty.

  Until —

  “There.”

  Down at the far end, leaning against the dark window of the ticket office, someone.

  Easily missed.

  Sarah turned in the direction where the train would come from. Still nothing.

  “That’s him,” Jack said quietly.

  Jack was about to set after him, but Sarah had an idea. She touched his elbow.

  “Jack – I have a feeling …” her voice, a whisper. “This guy, scared, alone.”

  He turned and looked at her. No movement from the figure indicating that he knew they were discussing him.

  Chasing him.

  “Let me,” she said.

  Jack paused a second. Then nodded.

  And now Sarah took the lead, walking slightly ahead of Jack, down to the other end of the platform, slowly, deliberately, looking for the first sign of a reaction from the person waiting there.

  Then – he moved. Away from the window. The
n another step away.

  “He’s going to run,” Jack said quietly.

  And it certainly looked that way, as the figure turned, sweatshirt hood up, now looking at the far end of the platform as if for a way out.

  The only way to escape would be across the tracks.

  Sarah ran and then, as loud as she could, she shouted: “Please wait!”

  The figure hesitated, turning to her.

  “We just want to understand. We know what you did.” Then louder: “We know who Rica Popescu was.”

  Would that be enough to make him stop? After all his hiding, his plans, his apparent murder of the puppeteer?’

  Then, while walking briskly, she said: “We know what kind of man he was.”

  The man didn’t move. Instead, he stayed at the end of the platform, and waited.

  And for what seemed like an eternity, Sarah, with Jack trailing, closed the distance between them.

  Under his hood, the man’s eyes darted back and forth, from Sarah to Jack. Young, thin … he probably could still decide to dash and easily outrun them.

  “You police?” he said.

  “No,” said Sarah. “Not police. We just want to talk to you.”

  Sarah thought that Jack – the interrogator, the guy who actually did such things – would take over now.

  But he didn’t. With a nod from him, this chat was hers.

  “We know the truth about Otto Brendl. Can you tell us … why you came here … why did you do what you did?”

  Those eyes, dark, haunted.

  Then the man cleared his throat.

  “My name is Cezar Dumitru. Twenty years ago, that man and his vultures arrested my father. I was a boy. My father – he was a writer, a historian, a scholar! And Popescu tortured him as though he was scum … simply because my father loved history, because he told the truth.”

  The young man was shaking.

  It’s as if it happened yesterday for him, Sarah thought.

  She nodded slowly. Understanding …

  The young man continued. “They brought his body to the house. I never saw it. But my mother’s sobbing told me all I needed to know. And then, after weeks of her cries, her grief, the accusing looks from neighbours … she jumped into the Dâmbovița river one night. No one could stop her. No one could rescue her. I was alone. Popescu had destroyed my family and my life.”