Kinda Cotswolds CSI, Jack had joked when he first saw it.
As well as her desk with computers, scanners, and space for a laptop — the room had shelves of textbooks from her abandoned Open University criminology course.
And, in pride of place, a whole wall of whiteboard. A key tool in any investigation.
Right now, most of it was still bare apart from some notes she’d made a couple of days ago on the body in the woods. And now some bare details on Tim Simpson.
Sarah took her coffee and sat at her desk. Then she handed her phone to Jack who was taking in the whiteboard.
“You can swipe through the screen grabs. That first one, a newspaper ad from 1998. ‘Harbottle Insurance — welcomes their newest agent to the successful Cherringham office, Mr Tim Simpson …’.”
“Strange.”
“Hmm?”
“The big welcome to Cherringham. Then he jumps ship — goes to Bourton not long after. You know exactly when he left?”
“No, I imagine they don’t advertise that, but I did find a record of Rogers’ company in Bourton. He used to have four agents working under him, but only a few years later there’s just Simpson.”
“Okay. So maybe he was good — and Rogers poached him. Greener pastures?”
“That’s one explanation.”
Jack grinned at that. “Have you become so, um, suspicious due to my bad influence?”
“Influence, yes. But bad? I’d say that suspicions are pretty useful.”
”Everyone has secrets,” Jack said, looking back to the screen.
And Sarah wondered.
The way Jack just said that.
Every now and then a bit of something else comes out.
Things Jack hasn’t shared. Things seen. Experienced.
Maybe done?
Could he have secrets?
Imagine he must, she thought.
“Tim’s family wasn’t local. Not sure what drew him to the area. But there is a graduation photo.”
Jack flipped at the screen.
“Oops. Daniel’s last birthday. Went too far. Okay. There we are. Oh — Oxford.”
“He read ‘PPE’. Doesn’t say which college.”
“Um, ‘PPE’?”
“Oh, Philosophy, Politics and Economics. At least we know he graduated — just months before taking up the insurance job in Cherringham.”
Jack looked back at the whiteboard.
Thinking …
“What?” she asked.
He pointed at Sarah. “Well — you know me well enough by now. When I get a feeling, that there’s something right there, before my eyes, your eyes.” He laughed. “Damned if I know what it is.”
“Was just thinking, Jack. Based on what you’ve told me, about Rogers, the money.”
“Yup?”
“When I get back to my machine, I could see if Rogers knew Simpson from Oxford.”
“Doubt it. Must have been a good twenty years older.”
“Some other connection then? I mean, to lend an employee — even someone who has been with you a long time — fifty thousand pounds?”
“I know. Lot of money.”
“And … I didn’t get much else.”
“Nothing on those texts and calls he was making?”
Sarah shook her head. “I asked a couple of old pals if they could hack into the records — but no deal. These days, it’s just too risky.”
“Shame,” said Jack.
“I suppose now I could check if he belonged to any societies devoted to the care and breeding of guinea pigs.”
“Based on what I know of your wonderful country, I’m sure such a noble organisation must exist. Send these to me, will you?”
He handed Sarah back the phone.
“Doing it now,” she said tapping at the screen.
And when she looked up.
“So, time for plans?”
“Absolutely.”
***
Sarah wrote her to-do list on the whiteboard.
“The licence plate,” she said, over her shoulder. “I’ll get the owner’s name — might take a day or two. Depends on my contact.”
“Be very interested in that. And maybe in the morning I’ll check in with Alan. See if there’s anything new on the body in the woods.”
“Hmm, I have a feeling maybe we’re off that strange case.”
“For now.”
“That reminds me — I’m due to Skype Mum and Dad in Sydney tonight — I’ll ask Dad if he knows who was the local police sergeant back in the nineties.”
“Great idea. If anyone will remember it’ll be Michael,” said Jack.
Sarah watched him fold his arms and walk from one end of the board to the other.
Jack … processing things.
“Problem?” said Sarah.
“No,” said Jack, turning to her and smiling. “Thinking — we don’t have much to go on. I need to get into Simpson’s place.”
“Hmm?”
“Maybe go in at night. Look for his computer, find bank records, see what I can see.”
Sarah shook her head.
“Now hang on, Jack. Let’s just say that his computer is there.”
“Yeah?”
“Have you somehow acquired the necessary skills to get his emails, maybe break into his bank account?”
Jack grinned at that.
And she had to think — did he know that’s what she would say?
“Right — so I go in,” she said, “and you stand watch. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Jack nodded.
“Guess that makes sense.”
“We will, of course, be breaking and entering in a village where we don’t have such a cordial relationship with the local police.”
“Or any relationship.”
“I’ll be quick.”
Another grin from Jack. “You know, I am definitely convinced that you find that kind of stuff exciting.”
“But it is, isn’t it?”
A nod.
“It’s going to have to wait, though, Jack. I’ve got to take Chloe to Oxford station at the crack of dawn tomorrow — then back to the office, work late to catch up.”
“Okay,” said Jack. “No bad thing. And anyway, looks like I’m back on bilge pump duty. Day after?”
“Daniel’s school concert. In fact — the rest of this week’s a complete nightmare.”
“Real life, huh?”
“I don’t have a free evening until Saturday. Which — in case you forgot — is the opening day of Carnival Week. The Grand Summer Fête at Todwell House.”
“Jeez — losing track of the time,” he said. “That means I have just seven days from tomorrow to get my part of the regatta organised.”
“Plenty of time. You have me and Daniel on the team.”
“For which — my thanks.”
“Hey — it’s fun.”
“Oh — another thing. Before the fête officially opens on Saturday they have a special lunch for the committee, donors, small group.”
“Ah the famous Carnival Committee lunch,” she said, smiling. “You are going to go, aren’t you? It’s a rare privilege.”
“Not really my thing but guess I have to.”
“The great and the good of the Cotswolds will be there.”
“Yup. And Tony and the Bucklands too, so won’t be too unbearable. And a chance to do a little digging perhaps.”
“Maybe you should bring a plus one?”
“You are reading my mind.”
“Then — soon as it’s dark — off to Bourton.”
He laughed. “To break the law.”
“All in the cause of justice.”
“Hopefully. Could be this is much ado …”
“About nothing?”
Jack took a breath, looked away.
And Sarah guessed that Jack didn’t believe that possibility at all.
He looked at her and smiled.
“I had best head back. Getting late. Terrific barbecu
e and martinis.”
“And those steaks … I think nothing for me but salads for the next week.”
“Me too.”
And with that, Jack took his mug back to the kitchen. Sarah followed.
A mystery in their laps. And some exciting plans to dive into it.
All hatched on a perfect summer’s night.
And not for the first time, Sarah thought: I do so like living here.
18. Ray’s Return
Jack walked back down the towpath towards The Grey Goose, taking in the silver river in the moonlight, savouring the sound of the countryside and the smell of the summer night.
As he got closer he saw a light on Ray’s boat.
The wanderer returned?
Instead of carrying on to the Goose, he decided to catch up on his neighbour — and who knows — maybe grab a nightcap?
He could still use his help with the regatta.
He took a step up the plank of Ray’s boat, the wooden plank probably at risk of breaking in two with a small misstep.
“Ray?” Jack called.
But nothing.
Odd. Nice night like this, even if he’d been away, Ray would usually be ensconced on his deck, a spliff in one hand, a beer in the other, enjoying — as he called it — “the good life”.
Then again: “Ray?”
For a moment Jack was alarmed. For someone with Ray’s lifestyle, well, things could easily happen. And Ray’s routine certainly hadn’t been normal these last few days.
Suddenly, Ray Stroud opened the door of his boat’s cramped saloon. That opening always required the applied pressure of one’s shoulder to get the swollen door unstuck and popping open.
And Ray was there.
Jack had a thought … none the worse for wear.
But even with Ray just catching the reflected light, his wavering stance, glassy eyes, well, he quite clearly was the worse for wear.
Something’s up, Jack thought,
“Ray. Got a few minutes? For a chat?”
Normally Ray jumped at any opportunity to talk to his boat-owning neighbour, Jack knew.
Loved nothing more than asking every question he could about NYC policing, all based on whatever US shows made it over here.
He especially liked the murder stories.
But this time, Ray hesitated.
Very strange.
Then he nodded, gestured to the two metal chairs, paint peeling, that served as Ray’s viewing and smoking platform on the port side of his barge.
And Jack came aboard.
***
Jack declined — as usual — a toke on the marijuana joint.
Not a big issue for him, but a beer or a martini took care of things just fine.
And Ray had supplied him with a can of Tesco’s best lager.
After a few sips, with Ray still uncommonly quiet, Jack turned to him.
“So, Ray, you know I’m on this committee …”
“Yeah. The carnival.” Then he raised a finger. “You know, I don’t know why the hell they don’t use more locals workin’ the damn thing, Jack. Bloke like me could use the extra few quid. Hard times and all. Instead—”
Jack nodded.
“Well, Ray, you know that the rides are run by a company with their own people. And the games and the stalls? Seems like the Parish Council and different shops have all staked their claim to them.”
Ray shook his head. Not terribly pleased with the answer.
“But then, Jack, what about the food? I can grill something as good as anyone?”
Jack decided not to point out to Ray the obvious questions of hygiene, not to mention safety, that the image of Ray Stroud over a smoking barbecue summoned.
“Well, Ray, they asked me to do something … kinda different.”
Ray nodded.
Not too interested.
“And,” Jack raised a hand, “I think there might be something for you to do.”
Ray turned.
“For money?”
And though Jack knew that any cash paid to Ray to serve as his assistant would come straight from his own pocket, Jack nodded.
“Not a lot. But you’d help with what I’m planning, a competition on the water. Something I used to see as a kid.”
Ray leaned forward, either very interested in what this competition might be, or in the promise of cash in his pocket.
So Jack explained his idea for the big river event he had in mind … and exactly how Ray could help.
***
And when Jack was done talking, Ray had a lot of questions. He actually thought that Jack’s plan was a little daft.
Coming from Ray, that was saying something.
“We’re bloody British, Jack. That sounds crazy, but — hell, yeah — fun! So, yeah. Count me in!”
Then he sat back, grabbed another beer for himself, with Jack demurring.
And he went back to being quiet — different from his normally bubbly and stoned self.
Which prompted Jack to say: “Ray, is anything up? Anything happening? Couldn’t help noticing you’ve been away?”
Ray hesitated, a man whose words usually flew out of his mouth before any part of his brain could engage and evaluate them.
“Well, they told us all not to talk about it. Least for a few days. But something happened a couple of weeks back, at this dig I was working at.”
“Dig?”
Jack decided to play dumb about the body in the woods — get the evidence nice and fresh, straight from the horse’s mouth.
And Ray told Jack about the site, and his role shovelling and smoothing the trenches made by the digger.
Then, after a big gulp of beer, about a body that was found.
And how he’d decided it might be wise to disappear from view for a while until the publicity died down.
“Thing is, Jack, me and the tax man don’t quite see eye to eye on a number of matters.”
“Let me guess, one of them being you working and not paying tax?”
“In a nutshell, yes,” said Ray. “It’s a matter of principle see. I’m not against tax when it’s rightly due.”
“But you don’t see that you should owe any?”
“Exactly. I mean — a bit of cash here or there, hard enough to make ends meet as it is without the bloody tax man sticking his oar in and taking a share. You understand that, don’t you, Jack?”
“Sure, I do,” said Jack. “All you’re doing really is just cutting out the middle man — that right?”
“Spot on,” said Ray. “They was paying me cash in hand up at the dig. My business. What does the tax man know about my damn living expenses? I knew if I stuck around doing stupid police interviews it would only complicate things, wouldn’t it? Just add to their paperwork. Waste their time.”
“Sounds like you did a public service there.”
The gentle sarcasm completely lost on Ray.
Jack watched him take another roll-up from his top pocket and light it.
“Too bloody right. Cost me as well — I went and stayed with a mate over in Reading and he bloody charged me a fiver a night for the privilege.”
“What kind of pal is that, hmm, bill you when you’re on the run?”
“Ha ha, you got it, Jack!” said Ray. “Anyway, I gave it a few days, reckon it’s all died down now; didn’t see much in the papers any more. Thought I could slip back here, keep my head down, forget all about it.”
Jack saw him take a swig of lager, then lean forward conspiratorially.
“Thing is, Jack. That body. It was horrible, it was. I can’t stop dreaming about the damned thing. Giving me bloody nightmares, it is!”
Jack could see that Ray was rattled.
He’d seen enough experienced cops face a corpse, in any condition, and it was an experience no one ever got used to.
“And so Alan never spoke with you?” Jack said.
“Don’t think he even knows I was there.” Ray took a toke. “Best that way, hmm?”
Jack
nodded.
“Ray, wonder if I could ask you a question. About that body …”
Ray turned to him, the beer and pot combo having the effect of giving Ray a glassy-eyed look that would probably see him sleeping late into the next morning, especially now he didn’t have to get up and work.
But with that question — Ray seemed to sit up a bit straighter.
And maybe his usual haze momentarily cleared.
19. Body Secrets
Jack leaned a little closer to Ray, voice lowered as if, instead of being all alone on Ray’s ramshackle barge, they were surrounded by people.
“How did the body look? I mean, was it, you know, very deteriorated?”
Ray forced his eyes open at that question as if it was prompting him to return to the unwanted photo file in his brain.
“That’s it. It was all just bones at first. All blackish, darker than the soil even. And the hair on the head? That was like white and spiky. Bits of an old sheet too.”
“Sheet?”
“Dunno. That’s what it looked like. All rotted away.”
Ray shook his head at the grisly memory.
“And the skin?”
“Like I said, not much left of that. Nasty, Jack. Gotta tell you.”
Jack smiled at Ray describing the cadaver that way, when Jack had seen so many nasty corpses.
He could ask more questions but — for now — his curiosity was sated.
Ray’s description matched the words in the report he’d seen: the body had been in the ground a good twenty years.
All depended on what the coroner called the “medium” the cadaver was suspended in.
In this case, good Cotswold soil loaded with who knows what minerals.
Dark soil, iron, remains from whatever had grown on the plot of ground for centuries.
That was the medium, and the speed of decay would reflect that.
Jack looked at Ray, whose eyes had drifted away, and a thought occurred to him. “Guess at first you must have thought you’d found yourself a Roman soldier, hmm?”
“How do you mean?”
“Archaeological dig — that’s what you were there for, no? Finding ancient remains?”
“Ah, yeah, gotcha,” said Ray, reaching out and opening another can of beer. “Thing is, Jack — I’m not one of yer archaeological experts that’s for sure — but one thing I do know is, yer average Roman soldier didn’t wear a watch!”
The Body in the Woods Page 10
