The Body in the Woods

by Neil Richards

  “Oh yes,” said Sarah, getting up.

  She walked over to the washing machine, put the envelope in and shut the door.

  “In this house,” she said, “that is without doubt the safest place. There is categorically no chance of anybody else opening that door.”

  Jack laughed as she came back to the table.

  “I’m thinking,” he said. “How much time you got today?”

  Sarah shrugged. “Not much. But I can make some. Enough to pay another visit to Rogers.”

  “Yeah, what I was thinking. With the connection you found, and now this, he may know more — a lot more — than he shared with me. And maybe track down our friend Lionel. Is he staying in the village? If so — where?”

  “I’ll try and chase Alan too — maybe he’s got news on Tim’s car by now.”

  She saw Jack turn back to the whiteboard. “Something happened in Cherringham twenty years ago. Something that’s come up to the surface with that body. Something that’s still having deadly effects.”

  “If only the body could talk,” said Sarah.

  “Next best thing,” said Jack, “is the watch. Maybe that can tell us something. Which is where I’m heading now.”

  He pulled out his car keys and headed for the door.

  “Keep in touch,” he said. “And stay safe — know what I mean?”

  She took a breath and watched him head out to his car.

  Stakes high. Whoever pushed Bruno — still out there.

  They’d have to move fast.

  38. The Watch

  When Jack got to the little watch shop in Swindon — “Time Flies” — it looked dark, as if it might not even be open, his trip here wasted.

  But when he turned the doorknob, it opened and a small bell rang.

  Jack walked to a glass counter, rows of vintage watches arranged below it, gleaming, all meticulously announcing the same time.

  He heard steps as a small man with tufts of unruly white hair and a shuffling gait walked out of the back room.

  He looked up at Jack as if he didn’t expect any customers, not now, maybe not ever.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “Hoping you can,” said Jack.

  The man waited. Perhaps he had been in mid-surgery on a timepiece and this was clearly an intrusion.

  “A friend of mine. Said he sold you a watch.”

  The man stood there, not responding.

  “A Rolex.”

  At that, the old man took another shuffled step closer.

  “I do carry Rolexes. Not — here, of course.” He had gestured to the watches in the case.

  No, Jack guessed. Rolexes would be kept in a safe so no quick-fingered robber could simply dash in, smash the glass, and grab a fistful of the valuable prizes.

  “Of course. This was only a few days ago. A vintage piece. Maybe twenty years old.”

  “And your interest in this watch? To purchase?”

  The man was on guard.

  In his line of work, Jack guessed he probably didn’t always ask questions about the provenance of the expensive timepieces that came his way.

  Jack leaned close, as if he didn’t want to be overheard. Voice low, even though they were quite alone in this small shop.

  “You see, this watch was found with a dead body.”

  The man’s lips, tightly pursed, tightened. Probably exactly the kind of news he didn’t want to hear.

  “We do not ask where the watches we buy come from. It is a simple transaction, seller to seller.”

  Jack put up a hand.

  “No worries there. No one saying anything wrong has happened here. But you see, with the watch being found on the body … I’m afraid.”

  “Are you the police?” The man shook his head. “Didn’t know we got our police from America these days.”

  “Let’s just say — I’m investigating,” Jack added: “And that watch may tell us important things about that body.”

  “It tells time,” the man said without humour.

  Jack had to smile.

  “I bet it does. But a Rolex. I heard that each Rolex can tell a bit more?”

  He waited. This flinty old man wasn’t one for volunteering information. But, perhaps with an idea of avoiding any trouble, he finally said.

  “That is true. Each Rolex, individual. Has a serial number on the case. Nothing readily visible, of course.”

  Jack nodded.

  “And that tells you …?”

  “Why and where the watch was made, and the registered dealer who sold it when it was new.”

  Jack thought: need to tell Ray just how helpful his information about the watch has become.

  The man moved slowly.

  Jack waited and listened.

  ***

  “Even after all these years?”

  “Of course! This is a Rolex — a spell underground is nothing to be concerned about!”

  Jack took a breath. This little old watch repairman didn’t seem like a pushover. So now Jack mentally crossed his fingers and—

  “You think you could get that watch? Take a look? See where it came from?”

  The man didn’t respond right away, processing the request. “That’s it? That’s all you want?”

  In truth, Jack might have liked to take the watch. But for now—

  “Yes. Just that little bit of information.”

  The man licked his lips, eyes darting left, then right.

  “Very well. If said watch is indeed here I shall get it. First I need to lock the door. Can’t have it open while the watch is out and I’m examining it.”

  And Jack waited the eternity it took the man to hobble to the door, turn the lock, and then shuffle back, past the counter, to his inner chambers, to retrieve the watch that had — only days ago — been lying with that corpse for two decades.

  But when he returned, he carried not a watch — but a big, heavy ledger.

  “My … assistant … tells me,” said the old man, putting the book down on the counter, “that particular watch has already been sold.”

  Jack stared at him.

  Assistant? Yeah, right …

  “Oh, really?” he said. “Don’t suppose your assistant remembers who bought it?”

  The man shook his head as if the whole idea was absurd.

  “And when exactly did your assistant sell the watch?” said Jack, not expecting much luck with the question.

  But instead, the old man opened the big book and started turning the pages, his finger slowly running down lines and columns.

  “This morning, apparently,” he said, finger finally coming to a halt on one hand-written entry.

  “Terrific,” said Jack. Then: “Guess you can’t tell me what the person looked like?”

  He stared at the man. The man stared back.

  Impasse.

  And Jack thought, who else even knows the watch exists?

  Then — he remembered.

  But the man, as if understanding Jack was trying to figure things out, raised a finger.

  A change of heart?

  “No. We do, however, make a record of the serial number and I don’t see any reason why I can’t furnish you with that.”

  He turned the ledger around and prodded at a number. Jack took out his notepad and copied it down.

  “Apply to Rolex and in due course I’m sure they will enlighten you with the place and date of first sale of the aforesaid watch.”

  He then closed the ledger with a loud thud and a cloud of dust.

  “Will that be all?”

  “It will,” said Jack. “And thank you for your help.”

  Then he turned and headed for the door.

  “I believe if you are lucky, you may have your answer within a month,” said the man as Jack opened it.

  “Oh I’ll have it long before then,” said Jack as he shut the door and went out. Then he took out his phone, and started to send a text, thinking: Give this number to Sarah and I’ll have my answer before I have tim
e to make a coffee …

  39. Back to Bourton

  Sarah pulled into a parking space by the bridge in this quaint village that often seemed to be competing with Cherringham for sheer charm.

  She killed the engine and checked her phone — a text from Jack that she’d have to deal with when she got back to Cherringham.

  She climbed out of the car, and thought of an old boyfriend who came from this village.

  How, on summer nights, they’d walk along the river at this very spot — picture-perfect swans lazily following them. The late summer sun would last well into the evening, making all the shops — and the river itself — glisten, golden.

  Now though, time to focus on the matter at hand.

  She checked the slip of paper with the address for Rogers’ insurance office, crossed the road and walked into the shop. A bell rang, signalling a customer. A young shop girl, standing expectantly behind a counter, looked over.

  Knick-knacks at the ready.

  But Sarah smiled and pointed to the staircase in the corner.

  The shop girl’s smile faded, with the sale of a “Beautiful Bourton” mug or “handmade” crocheted tea cosy (probably made in China) fading as well.

  Sarah started up the steps.

  This — she knew — was a long shot.

  Still — armed with what she’d found out about Rogers’ connection to Harry and the reality of the fifty thousand pounds — she knew it was a lead they had to follow.

  And if nothing came of it, it wouldn’t be the first “wild goose” she and Jack had chased.

  ***

  She knocked at the door, with old-school bevelled glass and swirling letters grandiosely announcing “Rogers and Partners, International”.

  Did Tim ever make partner in this rather shabby office?

  When she turned the knob and walked in, she saw a middle–aged woman at a desk. The woman — in a starched white blouse, and tied back hair — wore glasses that slid down her nose just a bit, making her look like a secretary from another era.

  This must be Miriam, she thought.

  Miriam, who had seemed so upset when talking with Jack about Tim. Some kind of connection there? Not romantic to be sure.

  At first glance — her demeanour, her matronly look –suggested, perhaps, a bit of protectiveness.

  Miriam looked up from her computer (though Sarah would not have been surprised to see the woman pecking away at a typewriter).

  “Yes,” she said in a soft, barely audible voice.

  Sarah smiled.

  “Hi. Yes, um, I was hoping to see Mr Rogers?”

  Those words sent Miriam’s eyes flying down to her desk, flipping pages of what had to be a diary.

  “Oh — I don’t see any appointments for him. No, um, does he …?”

  “Well,” Sarah continued, keeping her smile firm, in place, “he actually isn’t expecting me. The other day, my friend came here, looking into Tim Simpson’s disappearance.”

  At those words, Miriam’s face went flat.

  She blinked, and her lips came together, the epitome of the word “pursed”.

  “You do remember him? Mr Brennan? We still have so many questions about Tim that—”

  And then, the inner office door — the door to Rogers’ office, she guessed — flew open.

  A man in a crisp suit, neatly folded handkerchief in his top pocket, matching his deep purple tie, came out.

  Or stormed out, more like.

  Had he been at the door, ears cocked. Listening?

  “What is this? Miriam, you said I have no appointments.”

  Sarah saw the secretary physically recoil at the words.

  How many years has she been working here, letting that man bully her?

  Did he bully Tim Simpson as well, despite lending him that money?

  For a getaway that never occurred.

  If that whole story was true.

  Sarah jumped into the breach hoping to defuse the scene.

  “Mr Rogers, sorry, you spoke to my colleague, Mr Brennan.”

  “And told him every damn thing I knew about Simpson, running away with my money. There’s absolutely nothing else to say!”

  Hearing Rogers’ words — his anger having gone from zero to sixty in about that many seconds, she thought of that line from Shakespeare …

  About protesting too much …

  “We just have a few more questions, about your days at Balliol, and your connections to Harry Tyler—”

  Rogers’ hand shot up as if he was directing traffic in the middle of Piccadilly, a four-way collision about to occur.

  “My connections are my bloody business. I have nothing more to say. And if you do not have—”

  A glare at Miriam.

  “—an appointment, then I would like you to vacate my office.” He took a breath. “Now.”

  Sarah fired a small smile at Miriam, probably the secretary sympathising, seeing someone else suffering her boss’s bellows.

  But Sarah had dealt with a good number of duplicitous and deadly people, and Rogers didn’t seem much of a threat in that department.

  She fixed him with what she hoped was her best icy stare, and said …

  “Fine.”

  A last smile to Miriam, and she turned to the door, and the stairs down to the gift shop — such an incongruous portal to the insurance company.

  ***

  She sat in her car, feeling like she’d failed to do what she had come here to do.

  Then a tap at the window.

  And she turned to see Miriam standing there, beside the car window, still that nervous look in her eyes, clutching her handbag in a way Sarah had only seen in old movies. The bag in front of her, an anchor against a reality that was not at all like that black and white world.

  Sarah lowered the phone as she hit the button for the window.

  “Miriam,” she said simply.

  “I … I was wondering … after all that … up there … Maybe could we have a little chat?”

  That chat — Sarah thought — was best not carried out here on the pavement.

  “Absolutely. Get in. I’ll find a spot — where we can talk.”

  Sarah smiled — hoping to dispel any fear the woman had.

  But she guessed that would be no easy task.

  And when the woman got into the seat next to her, Sarah started the car and slowly backed out of her parking space, intending to find a more secluded spot to see what Miriam had to say.

  ***

  Sarah drove down a lane that led to a small park, dotted with picnic tables.

  Only one other car parked here.

  She turned to Miriam.

  “I don’t think anyone will see us here. You seem worried about Mr Rogers.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Always a temper. And I just tried — I mean really tried — to keep the office running smoothly.”

  She looked right at Sarah. “It wasn’t always easy. Isn’t always easy.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “So — Miriam — what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  At that, the woman looked away. This quiet little spot — so beautiful.

  “It’s about Mr Simpson. You see, I think I saw something. I didn’t mention it. But, well, it might be important.”

  Sarah knew better than to prod the woman. It had clearly taken a lot for Miriam to decide to do this.

  “When I saw Mr Simpson so upset — and something going on, between him and Mr Rogers — I got worried.” She made a small smile. “I’m that type of person, I’m afraid. Always worrying. About other people.”

  Another look away.

  “I suppose that’s what comes, I mean, from not having any children of one’s own.”

  “You were worried about Tim?”

  She hesitated, then: “Yes. I mean, given what I knew about him. His, um, well, we all have secrets, don’t we? Nowadays, his secret doesn’t mean much of anything, does it? I know that. But when he started at the company,
well — you know — different days, different … attitudes.”

  Sarah could guess what the prim Miriam was referring to.

  “But I still felt that discretion was a good thing. One’s life is one’s business, no?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “But you see, I was so concerned about Tim — what he was going through. So, I decided to go to his house. Look in on him. See if there was anything I could do. To help. With whatever was going on.”

  “You went to his house?”

  Miriam nodded. And Sarah felt a chill. She suddenly had the feeling that Miriam was about to tell her something very important.

  “Yes. On that Sunday night. And when I got there, I saw Tim. Standing outside his house. With another man.”

  “This man — did you know him?”

  “No. A big man. Like a workman of some kind. You know the type. Taller than Tim. And they were talking, close to each other. The man was laughing, you know, putting an arm round Tim. But it looked to me like Tim seemed a bit nervous.”

  And then something flashed. Sitting here, talking to Miriam. Was Sarah talking to the last person who’d seen Tim alive?

  “Anyway, after a while, I saw Tim nod. I didn’t have the foggiest what they had been discussing, but Tim, well he got into his car, and that big man, gave him a big thumbs up and then he got into his car.”

  Sarah tried not to ask the obvious question too quickly: “Miriam — I don’t suppose you saw what kind of car it was?”

  “Tim’s car?”

  “No, the tall man’s car.”

  “Oh, I see. Well it wasn’t a car really. It was a van. A white van.”

  A white van.

  “And was it new or …?”

  She shook her head. “No, not at all new. A battered old thing. Sort of thing a workman would drive. You know? Hubcaps missing. Dents. Needed cleaning. And this man—”

  “Short hair, almost bald?”

  “Yes,” that gave Miriam pause. “Oh! Y-you know him?”

  “I’m not sure. You said tall. Over six feet then?”

  Another nod.

  And Sarah thought: Bruno. It has to be Bruno.

  “Anyway, that man — he got into his van, he drove away and Tim got into his car, his little Ford and followed him. Right behind him. And, and—”

  Miriam hesitated.

  “Yes?” Sarah said gently.

  “I never saw him again. I mean, maybe … nobody ever saw him again. Except for that man.”