*
They had taken a few steps up the hill, Riley straining at his lead, ready to head home.
Jack said nothing, and Sarah guessed he wanted to wait until he was sure they were well out of earshot of Karen Taylor.
But then, halfway up the slope, he touched Sarah's arm.
She was about to say something in response, when he put a finger to his lips and pointed.
To a nearby tree, then he leaned close.
The closeness itself … unusual.
Jack's voice in her ear.
“See up there. That branch?”
Sarah tried to see where he was pointing, only seeing the twisted tree limbs, the clumps of leaves — but then … movement.
“Some kind of hawk … young. And looks like he’s eating … um, thought it was a mouse. But there are small feathers falling away to the side.”
Then Sarah could see it, the so-recognisable profile of a bird of prey, and the brown furry clump resting on the branch, held tight but its talons.
“A sparrow?”
“Probably. Quite the feast for such a small bird. Must be a young hawk.”
Then he looked at Sarah, as if suddenly aware how close he had been, whispering about the scene playing out above them.
“Or maybe you have small raptors here I don’t know about. I’ll have to look at my bird book.”
Then the hawk, as if suddenly aware of being observed, opened its wings, and — prey firmly grasped — flew away, swooping down below, towards the stream.
Jack laughed.
“Guess we interrupted lunch. Speaking of which, quick bite, Ploughman's?”
They had resumed their steady climb up.
“Jack, I’d love to. But I’ve got so much stuff to get through …”
“Right. I know. As soon as you’re all caught up with work and end of school, we can get back to our regular chats, right? It is one of the reasons I do love Cherringham!”
She smiled at that.
She also realised that she took it for granted, this thing they did — this accidental crime solving that had also turned into an incredible friendship.
If she wasn't so busy, with so much work and the kids’ plans — she'd have lunch with Jack anytime.
“Jack — ” she said with a glance down to the hollow, “what do you make of our young mum?”
“Hmm? Well, she loves that baby girl.”
“I know. That was clear. And her answers?”
“Those I'm not too sure of. Could be that out here on her own — maybe she’s just naturally guarded.”
He turned and looked at her. “But I felt something. Well, like she might know something — maybe it’s important, maybe it’s not — but for some reason wasn't telling us.”
“You don't think she could have anything to do with the disappearance?”
“I doubt it. But I felt there’s something there.”
They were nearly at the top, back to the lane proper, which led down to the bridge.
“And yet you didn't press her?”
He shook his head.
“Think she has enough on her hands raising that baby without me doing any probing. But I do think we should find out what we can about her.”
“Like?”
“I know you’re busy but …”
“Ah — searching the records, deeds for the place, who owns it, where did she come from?”
“It might be useful.”
She laughed. “Yes, I am busy. But yes I will do all that. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
“Great.”
“And you?”
They walked the lane slowly.
Almost too nice a day to think about going inside back to the world of screens and clients.
“I’m going to find this Rob Ferris guy. He seemed to be following O’Connor on that video.”
“Could just be the way it looked.”
“Could be. Still, that's a chat where I will, um, use more of my skills.”
“I've seen that in action. Hate to be on the receiving end.”
Jack laughed at that.
“And how will you find him, with no home address?”
“Supposedly Billy at the Ploughman's will know. I’m hoping he can tell me … and then, a surprise visit.”
“Wish I could be there.”
“I will let you know all about it.”
When they reached the Cherringham road, she saw Jack digging in his pocket for coins.
“You going back to the boat first?” she said.
“Yep, gotta get Riley home,” he said. “I’ll head out after lunch.”
“I tell you, I like those Buckland sisters but that—” he pointed at the bridge and smiled — “is a racket.”
“True fact!” Sarah said, laughing.
And she turned and walked up the road back into Cherringham, a long day at the computer in front of her.
9. Couchsurfing
Jack rapped on the door to the flat next to the entrance to Todd Robinson’s electric shop.
Jack had given Todd a wave as he went to the door.
He rapped again hard and pressed the buzzer button.
No sound. Probably doesn’t work.
Another series of hard raps, and he was about to give up when he heard a steady thumping, like someone coming downstairs from the place over Robinson's shop.
The sound of a chain being undone, a deadbolt being turned.
Whoever lived here clearly did not want any surprise visits. Most people in Cherringham rarely kept their doors locked.
The door pulled open. A long haired guy, no shirt, jeans plastered to his skinny legs, a mop of stringy black hair as he blinked in the brilliant sun.
This is like waking a sleepy groundhog mid-January.
The man's voice a nearly indecipherable slur.
“Yah, whazzit?”
He wasn't Rob Ferris. No match for the grainy CCTV image.
Maybe Billy had the wrong place, or maybe — and that would be bad — the homeless Rob Ferris had moved on.
“I’m looking for Rob Ferris.”
The shaft of hair with a droopy half–asleep head attached nodded.
“Right. Well, man, he's like sleepin’, y’know? And –” the guy laughed as though his own wit was just too much not to provoke laughter. “– I was too.”
“Sure.” Then Jack looked away, the street quiet. No reason at all this guy had to let him in.
But Jack well knew, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d barrelled his way inside someplace, search warrant or no search warrant.
“You can go back to sleep. No worries there.”
The guy nodded, happy to hear that.
“But I do need to speak to Ferris if he's here.”
A pause. Jack making eye contact with the stringy fellow before him; it was amazing that such bloodshot eyes could work.
It’s that magical moment, Jack thought.
Guy weighing the odds, the possibilities, the options with Jack's face inches away from his.
“Right. Well, okay. He's on me couch. Lazy sod. Sleeping. Guess you can talk to him. If you have to. I’m off out.”
And in case the guy changed his mind, Jack used the moment to push open the door, freeing the edge from the man’s grasp, as Jack started up the stairs with the reluctant doorman left behind.
*
Jack kicked the couch and — for a moment — got no response from the curled up figure of Rob Ferris.
Then another hard kick, and Ferris popped up as if this wasn't the first time he had been rudely awoken from a deep sleep.
And as he did, he reached to the floor, right under the couch, his eyes darting.
“Looking for this, Rob?”
Jack held up the long hunter’s knife he had spotted — and removed — from where Rob was sleeping.
“What the hell—”
Jack remained standing over the guy who now looked at him. Sizing me up, Jack guessed.
But then his eyes went back to scanning
left and right.
A man who liked to have a quick getaway at the ready.
Was he also the man who could tell them what happened to Patrick O’Connor?
Jack was about to find out.
*
Jack had pulled a wooden chair from the kitchen close so he could look at Ferris eyeball to eyeball.
The man licked his lips.
“What the hell do you want?”
Ferris's hands were balled into tight fists. Someone with an explosive temper, and very much used to just letting it go “pop,” Jack guessed.
“Got a few questions for you, Rob. Hope you can help me out a bit …”
“You're no bloody police. I got rights. You can’t ask me squat.”
Jack smiled at that. Cornered animals always barked back.
It was time to explain to Ferris exactly how this would go.
“You see, you’re both right and wrong there, Rob—”
“That’s another thing. How the hell do you know my name? I never—”
Jack put up a hand. “That’s not all I know. And yeah — guess you could not talk to me. Guess I could go to the police and let them sort it out. But I'm hoping, well — that just we two could have a chat.”
The words seemed to confuse Ferris. His eyes sunken. Jack spotted a trace of white powder on one of the seat cushions.
Must have been a late night with the Colombian marching powder.
“Couple of weeks back, you remember walking down towards the Buckland toll bridge?”
Ferris didn't nod or say anything.
“Maybe you forgot. People like you do tend to forget things, don't they? But you see, that bridge has cameras. And I saw you coming down the road from Cherringham. But you weren’t alone …”
Ferris licked his cracked lips again.
“No, you were following someone.”
Again Ferris stayed quiet. The threat of the police had shut him up.
But Jack needed him to talk.
If not, that video would be slim evidence.
Jack leaned closer to Ferris.
Guy was also definitely in need of a shower.
“The evidence shows it quite clearly, Rob. You stalking this guy, following him. And you know what?”
Jack paused.
Ferris took the bait.
Curiosity, it never fails.
“What?”
“The man you were stalking … he was never seen again. So—”
As much as Jack didn't want to get any closer to the slimy vagrant, he put a hand on Ferris’s shoulder, his hand closing.
Tight.
“What did you do to him?” Then, Jack's voice low. “Did you kill him, Rob?”
Ferris shrugged off the hand as if it was a claw about to rip into him.
“No way. I didn’t do anything to him, didn’t—”
Jack shook his head. “You know, I really can’t stand liars. Now, maybe you didn't kill him. But you’re going to tell me what you did do. Or I will do my best to convince the police that you killed that poor, old man.”
Another swab across his gummy lips. Ferris looking like he was weighing options.
Jack wasn't surprised by his response.
“Okay. Look. I’ll tell you what happened. The truth, you know what I mean? Let me just get a coffee — all right?”
Jack sat back and waited while Ferris went over to a grimy kitchen area in the corner and filled a kettle. A couple of minutes later he came back with a mug of black coffee and sat on the edge of the couch.
Jack watched as the young man gulped his coffee and scratched his stomach underneath his tattered t-shirt.
Then he listened, ready to hear what may or may not be the truth from someone who might have been the last person to see Patrick O’Connor alive.
10. The Day O’Connor Vanished
“Okay, so that day … I’m sitting having a nice quiet pint down the Ploughman’s, when Terry gives me a bell, says there’s a coach full of punters come into town. So I chucks back me pint, then I heads up to the car park, have a look for meself.”
“You interested in tourists, Rob?”
Jack watched him give a toothy grin.
“Ha, you could say that,” he said. “Fact, I’m a bit of an expert, I am …”
“Let me guess,” said Jack. “Where they keep their cash, which ones have the best phones, which ones fight back?”
The grin widened.
“So you went up into the square. What happened then?”
“Big coach was in and the tourists was all piling out. So I went over, casual like, sat on that bench by the stocks. Listened. Watched.”
“And you liked what you saw?”
“Nah, they was old mostly. Mixed bunch — Americans I reckoned. Not ideal.”
“Oh?”
“Japanese is best. Young ones — phones, cameras, they got all the best kit.”
“But you reckoned this coach would do?”
“Beginning of the season. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Jack nodded. Like a lot of small time street criminals, Ferris seemed proud of his abilities — saw his little scams as hard work, a skilled trade.
“What then?”
“I looked for a mark, obviously.”
“Patrick O’Connor.”
“Yeah. Bloke with the white hair.”
“Why him?”
Jack watched Ferris shrug.
“He was on his own … know what I mean? No mates to deal with. And he had one of those handbags. Man-bags, that what they call ‘em?”
Ferris laughed. “Wouldn’t catch me dead with one of those. But I reckoned he might have a bit of dosh in there. And he had a neat little camera. Very smart.”
“So what did you do then?”
“This just between me and you, right?”
Jack nodded. “As long as you tell me the truth.”
“Right. That posh bloke with the stupid voice — he took ‘em off on his tour. So I just hung about behind them. It’s the same every time — you know?”
Jack nodded.
“Anyways, I waited till the punters went in the church, then I stayed back in the alley — that one with the dog-leg — you know? I reckoned if they took the alley, then our friend whitey might be at the tail end.”
“And the alley’s a good place to pick them off, eh?”
“Oh yeah. Grab the gear, push ‘em over — by the time they know what’s hit ‘em, I’m out of there and they can’t see me coz of the dog-leg.”
“Very clever,” said Jack.
Ferris grinned and Jack could see he liked the praise and missed the sarcasm.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to put pressure on this guy at all.
“Tricks of the trade,” said Ferris. “But it doesn’t always go like you plan.”
“No?”
“I hung about by one of the graves and watched ‘em come out of the church. But no whitey. So I’m thinking — perfect. He’s got distracted, he’ll deffo be on his own. And sure enough — out he comes. But here’s the weird bit …”
Jack waited, nodded.
“He stands in the porch, looks around, like he’s checking that nobody’s following him. Then he heads right across the church yard and into the village.”
“He didn’t follow the others?”
“Nope — totally opposite direction. I mean, what was that about?”
Jack leaned forward. What was O’Connor doing striking off on his own.
“How was he walking? Casual?”
“No way. He went off like a rocket. Straight through the alleys with the shops, then down the main road.”
“Like he knew where he was going?”
“Oh yeah. Like he was late for a bloody meeting or something.”
“And you followed?”
“Yeah — but on the other side of the road. Hung back a bit — you know?”
“Then what?”
“Well, he’s off, isn’t he — like he’s on the flat with just h
alf a mile to the finish. He’s got this stick and he’s striding off down the hill.”
“Past the Ploughman’s?”
“Yeah. Ha … I could have had another pint and waited there for him!”
Jack smiled, but he didn’t feel like smiling.
He would have loved nothing more than to push this punk up against the nearest wall.
Still — he was talking …
“And now he’s out of the village.”
“’s right. Heading down to the toll bridge.”
“The Catholic church is down there — did he stop?”
“No, didn’t pause. Didn’t miss a beat.”
“Again — like he knew where he was going?”
“Definitely.”
Jack watched Rob take another gulp of coffee.
“Then what?”
“Well, he’s nearly at the bridge — and I’m thinking ‘can I be bothered?” — when he suddenly just disappears! Vanishes! Boof! Like he can do magic!”
“But he hadn’t disappeared. He’d gone down Barrows Lane.”
“How did you know that?”
“Like I said — there’s a video.”
“Oh yeah. And I’m on it …”
“You certainly are. And so is he.”
The light bulbs took their time coming on inside the petty crook’s head.
“Hmm.”
“Okay Rob, let’s get back to it. You ran down the hill, then followed him into Barrows Lane.”
“Yeah. Thing is — when I turned the corner, he’d only bloody gone a couple of yards! I ran right into him!”
“Wait a second — he was just standing there?”
“Yeah. He had a bit of paper, he was staring at it.”
“And what did you do?”
“Bloody surprised me, he did. I said sorry. Then, in a flash, I grabbed his bag. But the old bastard wouldn’t let go! So I pushed him. Just a bit. Then he fell over.”
“And accidently knocked his head, right?”
“No.”
“You saying he didn’t get hurt?”
“Bloody hurt me more than I hurt him. He had this stick — when I leaned down, he started hitting me on the head with it. Fact he went mad. Stark raving bonkers. And stronger than he looked!”
“Then you ran?”
“Too right,” said Ferris. “But not before I got his bag. Ha ha.”
“Brave guy.”
“Idiot more like. He was well out of order. All he had to do was hand it over, nice and polite. People like him cause trouble, they do …”
Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist Page 5
