“Think — long as nobody tries to explain the rules I’ll be okay,” he said.
“You’ll be fine mate,” came a voice from the crowd.
“Half the blokes here don’t know the rules either and they been playing donkey’s years!” came another.
Jack laughed. “Apparently somebody sent over, um, a uniform. All white — which I guess is what you’re all wearing?”
He thought he saw a few players laugh and nudge each other.
Not a uniform?
What do they call it then?
Todd pointed to a door in the pavilion marked “Changing Rooms”.
“Think some of your lot are in the visitors’ changing rooms,” he said. “If you’re short of any gear just give us a shout.”
“Plenty of old boxes at the bottom of our kit bag,” came a voice and everybody laughed.
“Boxes?” said Jack.
“Ignore that rabble,” said Todd, grinning. Then, his face serious — “But do wear a box mate if you’re batting.”
Box? Then, thinking it through, he understood exactly what kind of protective gear a “box” was.
Two peoples separated by a common language.
“Oh, I will,” said Jack. “Don’t you worry about that.”
He stepped up onto the deck of the pavilion and through the changing room door.
Ahead he saw a dingy corridor with scuffed walls and a bare floor. The place smelt just like locker rooms back home — and he was taken straight back to baseball games in his teens.
The smell of sweat, sport and fun.
And — in his case — youth.
At the end of the corridor — two doors facing each other. The one marked “Home Team” was closed. The other, marked “Visitors” was just ajar.
As Jack approached he expected to hear the kind of chatter that had been going on outside. Instead, he heard low voices. Insistent. Arguing.
And he recognised one of the voices: Harry Tyler.
Jack edged forward slowly, listening.
Whoever was in there — it didn’t sound like they were discussing cricket.
“Trust? Don’t you talk to me about bloody trust—”
“For God’s sake, calm down — there’s nothing you can do, just—”
“Don’t you bloody patronise me. And anyway, if you hadn’t screwed up … then we wouldn’t be in this effing mess …”
“Lost?” came a loud voice behind Jack and he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun round, fast.
A big burly guy, in his fifties, with a deep sun tan, in a bright red shirt and chinos stood grinning at him.
“Looking for the Toddlers’ dressing room,” said Jack, smiling back.
“Looks like you found it,” said the man. “You been roped in too?”
“Jack Brennan.”
“Aha! The American baseball star — least that’s how Harry described you,” said the man, his grin even wider. “Brian Larwood — a fellow Toddler. Reluctant one too!”
“Good to meet you, Brian.”
As they talked, Jack saw the dressing room door open — and a tall guy in T-shirt and jeans, whippet-thin, stood peering at both of them.
“Bruno,” said Brian, not smiling. “Long time no see.”
“Larwood,” said the man, his eyes flitting from Jack to the other.
“You playing for us?” said Brian. “Have standards slipped so low?”
Bruno paused. “Got the wrong room,” he said and Jack saw him push past and head down the corridor and out.
“Not a friend of yours, I’m guessing,” said Jack.
“Old acquaintance, you might say,” said Brian, pushing open the door and gesturing Jack to go in.
Inside, Jack saw Harry Tyler sitting alone on a rough bench, looking like he was half way through changing.
The man’s face was clouded, dark. Then — as if he were an actor stepping into a stage role — he stood up, shook their hands and grinned.
“Jack! Brian! My two favourite cops! And you’ve already met! Welcome to the Toddlers’ lair.”
Jack looked at Brian and nodded in recognition.
“Ex-cop,” said Jack.
“Snap,” said Brian.
They both laughed.
And Jack thought — how about that?
There’s another cop in town.
29. Fine Leg
By the time Sarah got to Cherringham cricket ground, the carnival match had already started.
But she couldn’t tell from this distance which team was batting — Cherringham or the Todwell Toddlers?
She walked over to the pavilion: a grand name for what was really not much more than a large shed, with changing rooms at one end, a small bar, and a deck.
The deck was filled with spectators and she could see plenty of familiar faces from the village, some of them spilling over into deckchairs that had been scattered along the edge of the playing area.
“You looking for Jack?” came a familiar voice from behind her.
She turned to see Sam, the chef and owner at the Spotted Pig — her favourite restaurant in Cherringham.
“I am,” she said. “I hope he’s surviving!”
Sam laughed. “Oh he’s doing fine,” said Sam. “Down there at fine leg, not had much to do so far, but he’s thrown a few in from the boundary, saved some runs.”
Sarah peered into the distance and could just make out Jack in white shirt and trousers hovering at the very edge of the field behind the far batsman.
Jack in cricket gear! Now that was a sight!
“He should be pretty safe out there,” she said. “I’ll go and give him some moral support.”
“Think he’ll need it. At the rate we’re batting he might be out there for a couple of hours.”
She smiled and headed off round the ground, nodding and waving to other spectators sitting out on the grass in the sunshine enjoying the match.
A couple of minutes later and she got there — just in time to see Jack scooping up the ball and throwing it back to the wicket in a classic baseball pitching action.
She clapped loudly. “Well fielded, sir!” she called.
She watched Jack turn and smile.
“Now don’t you go distracting me,” he said, turning his attention back to the game. “I’ve managed to work out one percent of the way this game works and I reckon I’m doing pretty well at it.”
“So what happens?”
“Well — if the ball comes anywhere near me, I throw it back as fast as I can to Harry Tyler who’s standing up there with the big gloves and the helmet. That part — at least — a lot like a throw home in baseball.”
“Wicket-keeper I think they call it, Jack.”
“Yeah? Makes sense. That being the wicket and all.”
He turned back to her for a moment.
“Here’s another thing. I’ve been out here about an hour now, and there’s one thing I’ve figured all on my own.”
“What’s that?”
“We are playing very badly this afternoon and will probably lose the match.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a shame!”
“It is. But it’s also kinda interesting from the point of view of our little investigation.”
“Go on …”
Jack looked around to make sure they couldn’t be heard. Then: “Harry Tyler is having a lousy game. Missing everything — even I can see that. Dropping catches. Cursing. Blaming the other guys. The lot.”
“Hmm. You think — rattled?”
Jack nodded.
“Maybe when you all come in for tea, could be a good time to ask him why he lied about Tim.”
“Just what I was thinking. And another thing. When I got here — Harry was in deep with a guy called Bruno. Lean, mean-looking guy. Sound familiar?”
“That’s got to be Karin’s Bruno.”
“Yep — matched your description perfectly.”
“I asked around — seems he just turned up out of the blue a couple of weeks ago. And moved
right back in with her.”
“Really? Quite the forgiving lady, hmm?”
“Not how I’d describe her,” said Sarah.
“Oh — look out — incoming!”
Sarah waited as a wide ball came pinging down the grass towards Jack — and watched as he got his body in the way, caught it, and hurled it back.
There was a smattering of polite applause from the fielders and the spectators.
“Jeez, that thing hurts. They make it out of stone? Dunno why we’re not all issued with gloves. Nice mitt — would be great asset.”
“That would be ungentlemanly, Jack.”
“Ha, gotcha. So look — while I’m doing the hero stuff out here, wanna tell me what you managed to find out online? Because I know you found something — you got that look.”
Sarah told him about the contents of Tim’s computer, in between Jack’s occasional obligations to the game.
“Doesn’t sound good, does it?” he said, suddenly serious.
This case — having turned.
“Blackmail, threats — then the victim disappears. No, it doesn’t. You think we should tell Alan?”
“Hmm — could do. He’s up there waiting to bat as it happens. But you know, everything we have is the result of our little break-in. Hardly admissible evidence.”
“Ah, I see what you mean.”
“And truth be told, all we really got is some spooky emails that could be just spam or a bad taste joke from an old pal. PinkBunny — whoever he is.”
“Or she.”
“Quite,” said Jack. “Oh — hang on, this is where everyone swaps round and I get busy. It’s called a new over. You see Billy Leeper is out there getting ready to take a turn with his bat? Boy, does he ever know how to use that thing.”
Sarah watched two balls in a row come flying down the ground so fast and hard that even though Jack made a heroic attempt, there was no way he could stop them going over the boundary.
Then a quieter patch of play came along.
Another look. No one within earshot.
And he told her about the Rolex.
“Wow — so either our corpse is a rich kid, or he’s got wealthy friends,” she said.
“Maybe,” said Jack. “Course — it could be stolen. Could be a gang thing. Drug dealer. Rolex — kinda trophy watch, know what I mean?”
“Next stop Swindon though — you think?”
“Definitely. In the meantime, think we have that chat with Harry. I know you said tea break eventually, but this game seems designed to stop people getting together, having a nice chat. Very unsociable.”
Sarah smiled. “Plenty of time to talk later while you’re waiting to bat.” Then she remembered: “Oh, and Daniel’s coming up after he finishes work, he’s going to give you a batting lesson.”
“Well, I’m going to need it,” said Jack. “Uh-oh!”
Sarah watched him sprint for another fast ball and just stop it with his foot. He picked it up, threw it back, and came back to his position.
“Ouch, that really hurts! You could break a bone playing this game.”
“I shouldn’t distract you, Jack,” she said. “I’ll go mooch around the pavilion, see who I can talk to. See you in an hour or so?”
“God willing,” said Jack.
“Oh he will be,” said Sarah. “Did you not notice — the vicar is one of the umpires?”
Sarah watched Jack peer up the field.
“That’s the vicar? An umpire? Didn’t recognise him with that silly hat on.”
She laughed and was about to head off — just as Billy swatted another great drive down the ground.
She and Jack watched it sail majestically over their heads into the hedge.
“Can’t blame me for that one,” said Jack with a shrug.
Then he trotted off to find the lost ball and she walked back round the boundary to the pavilion.
30. Sticky Wickets
Sarah went into the pavilion, bustling with people who — like her — had little or no interest in the epic match taking place outside.
Daniel had arrived, and was keeping watch and would alert her when Jack and the rest of the Todwell team came in from the field.
She walked over to the kitchen area, made herself a cup of tea, and put some money in the little pot as instructed.
And as she took the first soothing sip, she looked around.
And there — over by a long table filled with cakes, pastries and towering trays of sandwiches — she saw the mistress of Todwell herself.
Behind the table as if to greet the commoners.
Who certainly didn’t normally get an extravagant tea like this on an average match day.
But now, she was turned left, and engaged in what looked like an intense conversation with her sister, Karin.
Those two — she thought — did they fit together at all?
She thought of what she and Jack knew about Tim. Harry might be the one to ask about Tim Simpson, about his “forgetting” about Simpson …
But Amanda was here. Now.
And if she was a tad upset about something, all the better.
So taking another fortifying sip of tea, Sarah walked over to the table, where the massive floral centrepiece of roses and lilies stood above it all.
***
“Amanda,” Sarah said quietly.
The use of the first name — sounding a bit forward. She was — after all — the wife of an MP. But then, she was also the match-day host and — apparently — symbolic server here.
Now Amanda and Karin stopped their chat — their faces inches away from each other. The lines of those faces, hard, drawn.
Definitely something upsetting going on.
And as Amanda turned, the tight lines of her face softened, a smile surfacing like a life jacket bobbing up after a shipwreck.
When she emerged she was fully the elegant, unflappable hostess by the time she faced Sarah.
“Oh, hello? Enjoying it all?”
Karin’s face meanwhile had not softened at all.
“Lovely. You’ve outdone yourself here. I’m not sure future events will be able to match.”
“Harry and I just love doing this. Anything for Cherringham Carnival, hmm? So many good causes in the village get supported.”
Sarah nodded. Karin still had her face screwed up as if she could not wait for Sarah to move away, and they could get back to whatever piece of meat the two of them were tussling over.
Whatever could that be?
“Jack and I … we found out something. Just wanted to run it by you, check again.”
Amanda made a large, “O” with her lips. Then: “Um, really? Concerning …?”
“Tim Simpson. You know, he was on the committee. He just suddenly — disappeared.”
Cracks began to appear in the steely smile of the hostess.
“A holiday, I thought? No? I’m not sure we can help you there, Sarah. And I see—”
Amanda looked around the tables as if some urgent chore would provide the handy excuse to dash away from this conversation.
But Karin seemed to finally feel the need to interject.
“My sister and I were having a private conversation.”
Oh yes, Sarah thought. Karin — cut from a different cloth entirely.
Or — she thought — maybe not?
“Sorry, it’s just that, well, your husband said he didn’t know Mr Simpson.”
“Why, yes that’s right. I can’t see any reason why he would. That’s—”
“But you see, we found out that he did in fact work for you. Worked for Todwell Estate. When he came back from university. Before he left the village and went to live in Bourton.”
A new expression bloomed on Amanda’s face.
Then: “I’m afraid, I really have no recollection of that. I mean — that must have been years ago! It’s impossible to remember all the staff who have worked for us. Let alone the casuals! And anyway, the affairs of the house, they were always left in Ha
rry’s hands.”
Not what he said, thought Sarah.
“Perhaps we should ask him again?”
The last bit of Amanda’s smile evaporated.
“My husband, Ms Edwards—”
There we are, formalities returning.
“—is a very busy man. A lot of responsibilities, not to mention the pressures of being an MP. I must insist—”
Interesting phrasing …
“—that you not bother him with any more questions about this ridiculous insurance salesman.”
And with that line delivered, Amanda stood there, frozen, and suddenly she and her hairdresser sister didn’t look so different at all.
Sarah nodded.
“Okay. Shame. My friend Jack really does want to find out what’s happened to Tim Simpson.”
And when Amanda again said nothing, she wondered: is this woman protecting her husband? Has Harry’s lie now become her lie? Do they stand together?
And the really big question …
Why?
But at that moment she heard a familiar voice, cutting through quiet conversations of non-cricket fanciers enjoying Huffington’s pastries with their steamy tea. Daniel …
“Mum! They’re coming in.”
Then he was at her elbow.
“I said to Jack that I’d grab him some tea, then give him a knock up in the nets. That okay?”
“Course it is, love,” said Sarah smiling at her son as he headed over to the cakes and started loading a couple of plates.
“They’ve put him quite high up the order,” said Daniel (with a look that said poor Jack), “so I think he’s sure to bat.”
Sarah — for her part — turned and gave Amanda a smile. “Must dash,” she said, the strangeness of the chat she just had fading as she went out to the match.
***
And there was Jack standing in the practise nets. Looking like a cricket player in his whites. But holding the bat at an angle behind him — like a baseball player for sure.
She watched Daniel throw down a ball so it bounced nice and slow in front of Jack.
Jack didn’t even make a swing — just watched it go past him into the wicket.
Daniel scratched his head. Then he walked down to Jack and tried to arrange the New Yorker’s stance.
Side on to the bowler. Bat vertical. Head up.
The Body in the Woods Page 16
