Jack saw her drain her tea then put the mug on the table, as if not sure whether to reveal more.
“Go on …”
“Thursday of last week? Back to square one again. Looked terrible. Dropped a whole file of papers. Swore at a client — I mean really swore at him! Very sweet gentleman, just wanted advice about his house insurance. Tim calmed down, I could hear. But next day — same thing again!”
“Always checking his phone, racing in and out?”
“Exactly. Then, straight after lunch he took a call and just left the office! Not a word of explanation! Just walked out! Didn’t come back until tea-time.”
Jack thought back to the week before.
That must have been the Friday — the evening of the Carnival Committee meeting.
When Tim had spent the whole time lost in his phone.
“Then — that email came, about him flying off to Morocco. Morocco! I ask you! The man probably never took a bus to Bournemouth let alone fly to Morocco!”
Jack sat back, trying to get a handle on Tim’s behaviour.
“So the last time you saw him was here in the office on Friday?”
“Um, yes, I suppose so,” said Miriam, looking away, her voice quivering.
Jack watched her carefully. She seemed on the edge of tears again.
“Do you think perhaps he was having some kind of breakdown? Was work here very stressful?”
“Stressful? Hardly. I mean — look at the place. Not exactly a high-pressure environment is it? Mr Rogers — he likes to have just enough turnover to be comfortable — no sense in racing after more. Four-day week and a round of golf, that’s Mr Rogers’ philosophy.”
“You giving away all my secrets, Miriam?” came a voice from the stairs.
Jack turned to see a tall man in his fifties, in a blazer with a panama hat in one hand, smiling at them.
Looks like he’s just heading out to a cricket match, thought Jack.
“Oh, Mr Rogers, didn’t see you and, um, I didn’t mean that,” said Miriam standing quickly. “It’s not at all how it sounds.”
“Don’t you worry, Miriam, just teasing,” said Rogers walking over to Jack and offering his free hand.
“Malcolm Rogers,” he said, scrutinising Jack as if measuring him up for a mission in No Man’s Land.
“Jack Brennan.”
“Aha! From what I hear, the new Admiral of the Cherringham Regatta no less!”
“Not yet,” said Jack, smiling. “Got to earn my stripes first — which is why I’m here.”
“Thought we were meeting tomorrow, old chap?”
“Oh, I had to pass through Bourton, dropped in on the off-chance …”
“Ah well — strike while the iron’s hot, eh?” said Rogers. “Come into the office. We’ll sort the paperwork. Shouldn’t take but a minute. I see Miriam’s already served you with tea.”
“Yes,” said Jack, before Miriam could reply, “she’s been very welcoming.”
He turned to Miriam and smiled, then followed Rogers into his office in the far corner, thinking …
Maybe the boss might be able to throw some light on the mysterious Mr Simpson.
14. Dead Ends
Jack sat opposite Rogers at his big leather-topped desk and went through his plans for the regatta.
He watched as Rogers made careful notes on a laptop then waited as the broker carried on typing for a couple of minutes.
“Can’t see any problems with any of this, old chap,” said Rogers. “Leave it with me, and I’ll come back to you if our people in London have any questions.”
“You don’t need to come down to the river, see the course?”
“River’s a river,” said Rogers, standing up. “I’m sure the Carnival Committee knows what they’re doing. Good of you to drop by.”
The meeting was clearly over, thought Jack.
Rather perfunctorily.
Perhaps Rogers had to get back to the golf club and tee up?
Jack got up too and Rogers walked him to the door.
On the wall he noticed a faded college photo: he could just make out the words Balliol Freshers, 1974 below serried ranks of students in suits and gowns, standing in front of an ivy-covered wall.
Now at his shoulder, Rogers laughed.
“The old alma mater! I’m in there all right — but you’ll never find me, not under all that long hair! Bunch of damn hippies we were!”
“Not quite my scene,” said Jack. “New York punk — that was the sound I grew up with. Ever hear of a place called CBGBs?”
“Can’t say I have,” said Rogers, taking a breath. “Anyway, we must compare record collections. Vinyl’s all the rage these days!”
Jack laughed, and then just as Rogers was about to open the door he thought he’d take a shot at one last question.
“Mr Rogers, there was one other thing …”
“Fire away! I’m happy to quote for anything, long as it’s not teenagers and car insurance!”
“Not insurance,” said Jack, laughing with him. “It’s about Tim Simpson.”
“Oh yes …?”
Jack instantly felt Rogers’ chummy tone freeze, but he carried on anyway.
“I was kinda concerned to hear about the way Mr Simpson just … seems to have gone away on vacation this weekend.”
Rogers took his time.
Weighing just the right response.
“Sorry for asking, but what exactly has Tim Simpson’s private life got to do with you, might I ask?”
“Oh — old habits, Mr Rogers. Used to be a NYPD detective. Things like that — well they make me curious.”
Rogers remained stony-faced throughout. Then: “Brennan — right? Thought I recognised it. You’ve got, what, some kind of amateur detective agency down in Cherringham?”
The word amateur emphasised.
Uh-oh, thought Jack, here’s me getting kicked out.
“Not quite an agency,” said Jack. “My friend Sarah Edwards and I sometimes take on a case if we think the police have missed something, or are maybe too busy.”
Jack watched as Rogers walked back to the desk and then turned to face him.
This meeting had suddenly gone badly wrong. But then Rogers surprised him.
“Right. You do pretty well, from what I hear. Solve cases.”
“Usually.”
“So — you any good at finding people?”
Jack smiled.
Might as well take a stab at it.
“You want us to find Tim Simpson?”
Rogers rolled his eyes. “God, no. Throw good money after bad?”
“What do you mean?”
“You find Simpson, Mr Brennan, and I shall be first in line to thank you. And also to collect the fifty thousand pounds I loaned him last week — just before he disappeared!”
Well, wasn’t that interesting? Jack thought.
“That’s a lot of money, Mr Rogers,” he said calmly. “Good of you to loan it.”
“Stupid of me, more like.”
“Did he say what he wanted it for?”
Rogers shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell me. But he did intimate that he was in some kind of trouble and the money would get him out of it. And I was fool enough to believe him! Now it turns out from his email that he’s used the money to run away abroad somewhere. Morocco, I ask you! Well, I bloody want that money back.”
“Makes sense.”
Though, Jack thought, dashing away with that money?
The idea of Simpson returning, seemed to grow slim.
“What happens if we find him? What happens to Simpson?”
“Who cares! I don’t give a damn about Simpson any more. He’s let me down very badly. Not only has he left me totally in the lurch, he’s doubled my workload and hit me badly in the pocket. If you find out where the hell he disappeared to then I’ll let the police decide what happens to Tim Simpson.”
Jack nodded and thought about this. The whole thing now spiralling in a totally different directi
on.
His original concern for Tim’s safety now seemed misplaced: had Tim just run away with the boss’s money?
But for what reason?
What trouble?
“Can I ask you something? Why haven’t you gone to the police?”
“And destroy our company’s reputation overnight? Our business is built on trust. Personal relationships. This kind of scandal? We wouldn’t survive.”
Jack could understand that. In the age of the web — who needed insurance agents like this to get a deal?
“Now, if there’s nothing else,” said Rogers, closing the lid of his laptop and standing, “I have a lunch appointment, Mr Brennan.”
Jack knew when he was being invited to leave.
“Appreciate you seeing me this morning,” he said.
“Welcome. Meanwhile — this Simpson matter — I hope I can rely on your discretion?”
“Sure.”
And Jack shook Rogers’ hand and headed out through the office.
As he did, he looked across at Miriam, who had her head down behind her computer. She looked up and gave him the slightest of smiles.
Then he went down the stairs and out into the sunshine and the throngs of tourists.
Time to hit the chandlers.
No sunbathing for me today, he thought.
Just hours below decks sorting that damn pump …
15. Following the Money
Sarah breezed into the office carrying two coffees from Huffingtons’ café. Grace sat at her computer, leaning forward, looking at something on the big monitor, then holding up a colourful trifold for inspection.
“Easy, Grace. Don’t want to fall into the screen.”
Grace turned to Sarah as she put a coffee down on her desk.
“Hi. Take a look at this trifold for the hospital. The colours seem — I don’t know — off? Need to check them on our original layout.”
“These new printers — we do need to watch the proofs carefully. Good catch.”
Grace beamed at that.
Sarah doubted there ever was a more cheerful co-worker. Because that’s what Grace was, not just an employee, this was their business, together.
While Grace compared the digital versus the print document, Sarah slid into her seat and pulled her keyboard towards her. She took a sip of coffee. Twenty emails having accumulated. Questions, changes, enquiries.
For now, anything about the body in the woods would have to wait. Then her phone rang — it was Jack.
“This a good time?” said Jack.
“Never a bad time,” said Sarah, leaning back in her chair and glad of the distraction. “How’s the bilge pump?”
“Ha, you sure know how to chat up a guy,” said Jack. “Took me the best part of the afternoon and it still isn’t working. Though I did get a chance to drop by Tim Simpson’s office …”
She listened while Jack told her about his surprise trip to Bourton-on-the-Water the day before.
And the even bigger surprise about Tim Simpson.
“Fifty thousand?” she said. “Wow. First thing, who has fifty thousand lying around to help out an employee?”
“Exactly. Guess that’s why insurance costs so damn much,” said Jack. “So what do you think? I still don’t buy Simpson as some kind of hit-and-run fraudster.”
“Out of character?”
“Totally. And you know what really worries me? Fifty grand’s worth of trouble is a lot of trouble to be in.”
“Sounds to me like, rather than hunting him down, we should actually be concerned for him.”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe we do a little delving ourselves,” said Sarah.
“Agree. Can you do some of that delving in that computer of yours?”
“I’ll try — this afternoon. Got a ton of work on.”
“Sure. Tell you what — think you can track down Simpson’s address? It’s somewhere in Bourton-on-the-water. Might check out the place later.”
“Okay, can do,” said Sarah. “I’ll text you.”
“And thinking — if Tim’s in trouble — see what you can find on his credit rating, hmm? Debts, court judgments — any big money troubles?”
“Sure. And I also have an ‘in’ to one of the big bookies — I can see if they have him listed. Guy could be a player — got into trouble, you know the kind of thing …”
“Good thinking. A secret gambler. We’ll catch up later, hmm?”
“Yeah. Oh, hey I’m doing a barbecue for the kids this evening. Pop over, join us, we can catch up once they disappear to their bedrooms.”
“Barbecue? You have picked up some bad habits from me, haven’t you?”
She laughed.
“Sounds great,” said Jack. “I’ll bring the steaks. Four bone-in rib-eyes. And don’t forget — text me.”
Sarah put her phone down and couldn’t help smiling.
She actually hated barbecues — but she knew Jack loved them. Suddenly a chore was looking like being a fun evening.
“Let me guess,” said Grace, “you’re back on a case.”
“Hmm … unofficially.”
“When has it ever been official?” said Grace, laughing.
“Ha, you’re right. And actually this time — it’s two cases.”
One cold — and one definitely hot.
“Just let me know if you want me to cut you some slack,” said Grace, laughing.
“Grace — did anyone ever tell you you’re the perfect partner?”
“You do — often — but I never mind hearing it again,” said Grace getting up from her desk. “Meanwhile — I’m going to head out to the printers. Think I need to do this in person. Reckon that gives you an hour to do all your secret detective stuff.”
Sarah smiled at her and watched her leave.
She knew that Grace understood that sometimes Sarah used some not quite legal contacts to track down data — a legacy of a messy divorce years back in London that involved lifting the lid on her husband’s secret bank accounts.
Whenever Sarah used those same contacts on a case — or used the hacking skills they’d taught her — she always kept Grace at arm’s length: no need to implicate her innocent assistant in the risk of a data prosecution.
Tim Simpson … Sarah said to herself, putting her coffee to one side and pulling the keyboard close.
And with her own workload put aside for the moment, Sarah thought it was time to see what the internet knew about the mysterious insurance salesman who took a surprise trip to Morocco.
***
Jack drove slowly down Sutherland Avenue and pulled up outside number ten — the address for Tim Simpson that Sarah had texted him.
He turned the engine off and took in the house and neighbourhood.
Not quite the pretty little cottages that the tourists came to see in the centre of the village.
Modern semi-detached houses, all neat and tidy in a row — kind of thing they called a starter home, or maybe where a retired couple might downsize to.
Identical front doors, patch of grass out front, a little fence and a side gate to — he guessed — a tiny backyard.
But parked in front of Tim Simpson’s house, a sleek, black Lexus.
Based on the office Simpson worked in, Jack really doubted that could be Tim’s car.
He got out of his Sprite and walked to the front door. Rang the bell. Turned casually to see if any curtains were twitching.
Nothing there that he could see, but this open space, late afternoon, sunny day — not a good idea to go breaking and entering.
Which was always an option — he never left his little pouch of lock picks at home if he was out on a case.
And right now he definitely felt he was out on a case.
He turned back to the house.
No answer to his ring on the bell of course — Tim Simpson was away. Morocco, supposedly.
Maybe.
He crouched down and peered through the letterbox.
On the bare wooden
floor in the hallway he could see scattered mail — three or four days’ worth. That made sense. He saw that the internal doors to the other rooms were all closed.
He stood up and walked over to stand in front of the downstairs window. Took out his cell phone, pretended to make a call in case someone found him prowling.
Oh, I must have the wrong address.
And as he did, he turned this way and that, taking in the interior of that front room as he did so.
Nothing unusual that he could see — a sofa, TV, bookcases. No pictures. No ornaments. Bland, really. Bare. Almost like a rental property.
Then he heard a voice from round the back of the house.
A man’s voice — swearing.
God. Was Tim Simpson home? Or had he let the place?
Or had somebody dropped by to pick up that fifty grand?
Jack slowly walked to the side of the house and the tall, wooden, slatted fence and gate that gave onto the backyard.
Amidst the cursing — whoever this guy was he was really unhappy about something — there was an incessant, high-pitched chirping.
Kinda like birds.
But no.
Definitely not birds.
He tried to find a gap in the fence to peer through but the thing was solid.
He heard more shuffling and cursing.
Breaking in maybe? If so, he needed to act now, while this person was in the open, not in the confines of the house.
He took a deep breath and put his hand on the handle of the gate.
Options: try and creep in, or use surprise?
Had to be surprise …
He wished he’d put his old nightstick in the car — NYPD issue. Old-school, but sure helped stack the odds in your favour going into a situation like this.
Then he clicked the latch and opened the gate …
***
The man standing in the small backyard spun around quickly.
He made for a totally incongruous sight.
A sharp, blue pin-striped suit, with matching vest. Robin’s-egg shirt, bright, red-striped tie. Over-dressed for the setting and the warm summer’s day.
Even from feet away, Jack noted the gleaming, pointy dress-shoes; the quality leather dotted with bits of dirt and grass.
The Body in the Woods Page 8
