Sarah hadn’t expected that.
“What do you mean?” she said. “From the numbers at the funeral, I imagined he was very popular.”
Andrews snorted.
“To his legion of puzzle solvers perhaps … Let’s go and get a drink.”
“I’d rather have a coffee.”
“Coffee? Don’t be ridiculous. The Angel’s just about to open.”
Once again, Sarah watched Andrews turn and walk away from her. Crossing the road, he narrowly missed a bicycle, forcing it to swerve, then disappeared through the main door of the Angel.
Sarah knew she had to get back to work — but this conversation couldn’t wait.
*
Sarah sipped her coffee and watched Andrews raise a pint of lager to his lips.
“That’s better,” he said, finally putting down the glass. He looked around the empty pub. “Fire could do with lighting. Cheap sods. No wonder this place is always so bloody empty in the mornings.”
So this is how Patrick Andrews spends his days, thought Sarah. Railing at the universe. How very sad.
“You said there might have been people who wanted to kill your brother?”
“Apart from me? Oh yes.”
“You going to tell me who?”
“Hmm, well. For starters — most of the countries of the Middle East, South Africa, Pakistan, India, China … rather a long list!”
“Please, Mr. Andrews — I was being serious.”
“So am I. You do know what my brother did, don’t you?”
“He worked for the government.”
“Ha! Right! He was a bloody spy! He supported dictators. He subverted the democratic process. He protected the establishment. Those bastards in Westminster.”
“And you didn’t agree with him?”
“I hate everything he stood for.”
“Then why is he leaving you this money?”
“You mean if I crack this damn puzzle first? Oh, I doubt it will be coming my way. The whole thing’s bound to be fixed. I imagine that bitch Tricia will get it all, no doubt.”
What a charming fellow, she thought.
“You two … have history as well?”
Sarah watched him sink back in his chair and fold his arms. He stared at her.
“Hang on. You don’t know about her, do you?” he said.
“I know she was your brother’s lover—”
“Oh, that viper Tricia was a lot more than his lover. He ran her.”
It took a few seconds for Sarah to understand what Andrews had said.
“You mean — she was a spy too?”
“Bravo! Your light bulbs do eventually go on, hmm? And she was another nasty piece of work too.”
“But why leave her the money? I thought he dumped her?”
“The way I heard it — he was told to dump her. Bit of a security risk apparently. There was some … trouble. Don’t know what. Very hush-hush. Never got to the bottom of it. So Quent pulled down the shutters — and she was out.”
“And — in terms of the will — you think he still had a soft spot for her?”
Andrews didn’t answer. She saw he had an empty glass.
“You want another?”
“Kind of you,” he said. “Time for a Jameson’s I think.”
She got up to get the drink.
“Large one, might as well, while you’re there,” he said, smiling at her. “In for a penny …”
When Sarah got to the bar, she took her mobile from her handbag and called Grace.
She had two meetings with prospective clients later in the morning — but she knew Grace could cover for her.
Patrick Andrews might not be the nicest company — but she felt he still had plenty of dirt to dish on the other puzzlers.
And suddenly Jack’s notion that her father’s genteel chess partner had been murdered was beginning to sound all too credible …
10. Tea and Cake
Jack slowed as he walked past the Angel.
With its low ceilings and Tudor windows the place was always dark inside even on the sunniest days. But he could just make out Sarah at a table in the corner, deep in conversation with Andrews.
She’d texted him to say the brother was talking — and right now he was happy to leave her to it.
He walked farther up the High Street to where it broadened into a car park. Here, for centuries, there’d been a weekly livestock market. These days, the space was filled with lines of cars.
But not all the historic connections had gone. In one corner, under an old and spreading oak — Jack saw the village stocks.
And next to them, in a drab raincoat, he saw Emma Carter, standing, staring into the distance.
“Emma,” he said, as he approached.
“Oh — Mr. Brennan …”
“Jack, please.”
He watched her nod and brush her hair out of her face.
“Interesting place to meet,” he said, gesturing to the stocks.
“It’s one of the clues,” she said. “I think.”
Jack looked down at the ancient device: two slabs of gnarled wood held together with a hinge of iron. And in the slabs two round holes. With the hinge locked shut, the victim’s arms would be pinioned.
“Depending on the crime,” said Jack, “the perpetrator could be in there for days at a time — so I’m told.”
“Horrible thing,” said Emma. “Having to stand there … people throwing vegetables at you.”
“Or worse,” said Jack.
“Doesn’t bear thinking about.”
This is going to be like pulling teeth, thought Jack. “So what exactly do you think is the clue?”
He watched her pull out a tattered piece of paper from her handbag, then put her glasses on.
“‘Bad time to get into stocks.’” she read, slowly, then took her glasses off. “I thought the answer might be written on the stocks. But there’s nothing there. So maybe it means — flowers? You know — stocks?”
“Wish I could help,” said Jack. “But I’m useless at these things so even if I could help — I wouldn’t be much help, if you know what I mean!”
“Hmm, yes. I think so.” She paused. “Perhaps it means shares — you know? Like stocks and shares.”
“Maybe. It sure is a tricky one,” Jack said. “How are you doing with the other clues?”
“I’ve only got two,” she said with a sigh. “It’s a shame isn’t it? All that money. I had thought that maybe Mr. Andrews would leave me a little bit, you know? A thousand or something? As a thank you. It does happen sometimes. It’s not a lot of money, is it? Not to him, but it would be to me.”
She looked away, and Jack had to think about her partner, the bullish Marty.
Would that money mean a shot at freedom for her?
“But you see — this competition’s a bit silly really, I don’t know why I’m doing it. Fact, I think maybe I’ll stop. I should be trying to get another job, get on with my life … not running around fooling myself I could get rich.”
Jack watched her. Trying to picture her with the big, blustering figure of Marty, her supposed ‘boyfriend’. Could she have done something that led to Quentin Andrews death?
It was hard to imagine.
But then Jack had seen violent men — and abused women — act in dark partnerships before now.
“Did you like him?” he said.
“Mr. Andrews?” said Emma. “Oh yes, he was lovely. Most of the time. And so polite.”
“How long did you work for him?”
“Ooh, I don’t know. Three years? Four?”
“Full time?”
“Only days — not nights. He could still get himself up to bed, you know. Didn’t like to be too dependent.”
“And did he like you?”
She hesitated. “I think so,” she said. “I hope so.”
He saw her shiver and pull her coat tight.
“Cold out here,” Jack said.
She nodded quickly. “It is.”
“Can I buy you a tea, Emma?”
Another bit of hesitation. Then: “I’d love one.”
“Come on then. Huffington’s doesn’t look too full. I might even stretch to a cake, how about that?”
Emma smiled and Jack realised he hadn’t seen her smile at all — and that it quite lit up her face.
He turned with her and they threaded their way through the parked cars towards the teashop.
As they did, Jack recognised the figure of James Carlisle in the front seat of a parked black BMW.
He saw Carlisle nod at him and then climb out of the BMW, holding a notepad.
When they reached the entrance to Huffington’s, Jack turned and looked back across the street: Carlisle was now standing in front of the stocks. Jack watched him jot down a brief note in his pad, then head back towards his car.
And Jack thought: seems like the competitors for the millions are starting to fall over each other …
*
Jack watched Emma as she pecked at her chocolate cake like a caged bird.
“It must have been awful for you … the day Quentin died,” said Jack.
“I feel bad that I wasn’t there. If I had been, maybe …”
“You’d left for the day?”
“I did his tea. Washed up. He was looking forward to his chess game.”
“His pills just didn’t work this time, I guess.”
“Um … It happened too quickly I suppose.”
“You guessing … that he didn’t try to take them?”
“I don’t know.”
“He didn’t have his pills with him?”
“I think — he did, I mean he always did. But …”
“Maybe they were just too far away?”
“I don’t really like to think about it.”
Jack watched her carefully as she picked up her chocolate cake again. Did she know where his questions were leading?
“Tell me about Marty,” he said, changing the subject.
“Did he do something bad?” she said quickly, putting down the cake. “He said you were at the house. He gets over excited sometimes, he doesn’t mean it … He’s a good sort really. Bit rough, around the edges, but—”
“He was fine,” said Jack, wondering quite how to phrase the next question. “But you know, it was quite a surprise to find him in the house …”
She looked away. “Some of my stuff is still there. I told him not to go round to get it, but he wouldn’t listen …”
Jack guessed that Marty not listening happened a lot.
“I’m thinking you probably shouldn’t have given him the keys.”
“Like I said, he wouldn’t listen.”
“Does he know about the will?”
“Yes. He asked. Had to tell him.”
“Did he ever ask you about it before Quentin died?”
Jack watched her carefully. She looked nervous.
“No.”
“You sure? Not even once, kinda casually?”
“No.” She looked right at Jack. “What are you getting at?”
Jack reached for his coffee and took a sip, still watching Emma.
“Old habits,” he said with a smile. And …
She’s lying, he thought.
“Did Quentin ever mention the will to you, Emma?”
“No,” she said. “That’s not a thing — well, you know — doing my job, it’s not a thing you talk about.”
Or maybe not a thing you own up to talking about.
“What about the week before he died … Did Quentin have any people round? New people? People you didn’t know?”
“Wait a second. I thought you were supposed to be looking after this puzzle stuff. Why are you asking me all these questions?”
Jack nodded, smiled. “Oh, sorry. Not a big deal, Emma. I’m just interested in how Quentin came up with all the clues — you know?”
Jack watched her as she nodded back. She seemed to accept his reason. He didn’t like lying to her, but he didn’t want her going back to Marty and saying the New York cop thinks Mr. Andrews was murdered …
“I think he had the puzzle already written,” she said. “He always spent a lot of time in his office, working.”
“So — no strangers in the house?”
“Not that I saw. Though in the last few week before he died, I wasn’t there every day.”
“Oh?”
“He gave me three whole days holiday! Out of the blue. Paid as well — got the full eight hours.”
“And that didn’t often happen?”
“Never happened.”
“You know why?”
Jack watched her shrug, as if she hadn’t asked herself the question before.
“And when you came back — was anything different?”
“No,” she said. “Though the place was a bit of a mess.”
“What kind of mess?”
“Dirty cups left all over the house. Tea cups. Coffee cups. I said to Quentin — you must have been up and down to the loo all night what with all that coffee you’ve been drinking!”
“I bet he laughed at that, huh?”
“He didn’t actually. Just asked me to clean them up.”
Jack nodded, and he watched Emma get back to finishing her chocolate cake.
Mysteriouser and mysteriouser, he thought. So Quentin had some guests round in the week before he died.
Guests that he didn’t want Emma to meet.
His mobile pinged and he took it out. A text from Sarah.
We need to meet. My office?
He texted back.
“I’m really sorry, Emma, but I’m afraid I have to go. Something’s come up.”
“Oh,” she said, wiping her mouth with her serviette.
“I’ll cover the tab — you stay here and finish your tea.”
“Thank you.”
As he got up he leaned in.
“You ever been in the square on May the first?” he said. “You can hardly move. And they say there’s been a fair held on that day for a thousand years …”
He could see she was confused at first, but slowly she realised what he was saying.
She smiled at him, then he watched her take out her crumped bit of paper and start writing.
He could just see the word — MAYDAY — and knew she had understood. There couldn’t be a worse day to spend in the stocks than May Day in Cherringham …
He paid the bill, and headed out into the High Street.
He looked across towards the car park. The black BMW had gone.
Was James Carlisle one of the mystery guests who had visited Quentin just a week before his death?
Pulling his jacket tight against the chill wind, he headed down the High Street towards Sarah’s office.
11. Lies and More Lies
Sarah spent five minutes filling Jack in on her meeting with Patrick Andrews.
“Interesting — the delightful Tricia was a full-blown spook?” he said.
“So it seems.”
She saw Jack shake his head.
“She had me totally fooled.”
“I wouldn’t feel bad about that, Jack — I imagine she was pretty well trained …” Sarah grinned, “… at fooling men.”
Jack smiled back. “Gotcha. Even so, I should have known she was lying,” he said. “You think she knew Carlisle?”
“Hmm, good question,” said Sarah. “Carlisle told me he hardly knew her.”
“Well that can’t be true — if Carlisle worked alongside Quentin then he must have known her, right?”
She saw Jack get up and go over to the whiteboard.
“You know what?” he said, turning back to her. “I don’t trust any of these people. They’re walking rings round us.”
He sat down again.
“And this case — if it is a case even — is like playing Telephone.”
“Hmm?”
“Kids’ game. You tell someone something, in a whisper. They pass it on, and the message changes
each time.”
“Oh — we call it ‘Chinese Whispers’ over here!”
“Really?”
“And it’s also a bit like those Russian dolls.”
“Matryoshkas? Lift one top, and another is there, and another …”
“Exactly. Hey — have a sandwich, egg mayonnaise and cress,” said Sarah.
She slid the plate of sandwiches across the desk to him and watched him take one.
“My favorite. Boy did I need this,” he said. “Turned down the chocolate cake at Huffington’s so I’m feeling virtuous — but also starving.”
“Did you get anywhere with the carer?” she said, picking up a sandwich herself.
“Emma? Yes and no,” said Jack. “She’s covering for her orangutan boyfriend for sure — jury’s still out on whether she’s been up to something herself …”
“Hmm — the charming Mr. Marty Kane,” said Sarah. “I pulled this from the Cherringham Gazette database.”
She angled her laptop so Jack could see. She watched him lean forward to read.
“Six-month suspended sentence for handling stolen goods,” he said.
“And that’s not his first offence,” said Sarah. “Did a year inside a while back for a serious assault.”
“Nasty piece of work,” said Jack. “But a killer too? Guy like that is more likely to kill by accident. Let’s go back to the brother. What else he say?”
Sarah put down her sandwich, and nodded to the whiteboard, which now listed the last three clues alongside the nearly completed puzzle.
“After his second Jameson’s he wasn’t making a great deal of sense. I don’t think he’s going to be doing much puzzle solving this afternoon.”
“Less than twenty four hours to go …” said Jack, looking at his watch. “Given up?”
“Either that or he knows all the answers,” said Sarah. “He said that he and Quentin used to do Cherringham treasure hunts when they were kids, and he didn’t seem troubled by any of the clues.”
“Hmmm … they were once close, huh?”
“Oh no! Quite the opposite,” said Sarah. “Quentin may have been a pillar of the establishment — but Patrick was quite the rebel. Spent twenty years on the barricades — Grosvenor Square Vietnam demo, miners’ strike, poll-tax riots — you name it, if there was a cause, Patrick signed up to it.”
Cherringham--The Last Puzzle Page 6
