“Maybe time for you to stop the game? No harm, no foul. Maybe have a quick beer. Or better — maybe not. Maybe just move on. There are other pubs in the village.”
This guy, really was caving much too easily.
Was it the spectre of the police? Or Jack, close by, a big guy, while the rat-faced man with the pool cue was slim, wiry? Wouldn’t be great in a fight, despite Ray’s cowering.
In response, the man nodded, as if there would be more to come later.
And instead of neatly putting the cue back in its rack with the others, he threw it to the ground.
“Stupid English,” he said, moving from Jack to Ray.
Then he turned and walked out of the backroom.
Ray didn’t move.
Because Jack turned to him, and said something that was more important than asking how’d Ray get into a game and the shouting match with the man.
A much more interesting and burning question.
Which was: “Ray, do you know who that guy is?”
12. What Happened on the Cliff
Sarah turned to the next negative. And there it was.
The crag, nobody on it, seconds after Susan fell, the mysterious figure behind her gone.
And Sarah thought: thank you Stephanie.
And then Sarah turned to Cal.
“I have three negatives — love to get prints. Large as you can.”
Cal nodded. “Limited by the size here of the enlarger, and of course the photo paper. In a big lab, Oxford, London? Could get it real big. Here, well, I will do my best.”
Then she, Daniel beside her, looked on as Cal, like a wizard from another era, took the strip of negatives Stephanie had just been looking at. He then fed it into the enlarger, lights still on. And throwing a switch, the enlarger projected the negative onto the table.
Cal moved a piece of ordinary paper into position, showing the projected negative of what Sarah recognised as the first picture she wanted developed — Susan at the cliff edge.
“Okay,” he said. “Large as I can get it. Now for the magic.”
He turned off the enlarger, and the image from the negative vanished.
Cal reached up, and threw a switch for what he called the “safe” light, a warm red filling the room as he killed the regular light.
And then he grabbed a box, pulled out a black envelope and removed a single sheet of photo paper.
Placed it where the negative would be projected, then reached over and turned a small dial on a timer.
“Ten seconds,” he said. His voice so serious.
Sarah looked at her son by her side, also watching intently.
Cal turned on the enlarger again.
The timer ticked away seconds. Sarah guessed Cal probably could time each part of this process without the aid of anything.
A bing. He shut off the enlarger.
Then using plastic tongs, he picked up the photo-to-be, and slid it into the tank of developer fluid.
“Two minutes,” he said with the tone of a surgeon in an operating theatre.
And during those minutes, he grabbed the tank, and sloshed back and forth. Daniel on one side of Cal, Sarah on the other.
As slowly, as though emerging from a cloudy mist, an image began to appear.
And then — in this instant digital age, where we shoot thousands of pictures documenting everything, maybe losing sight of those truly special moments — the image was there.
Magic indeed.
And there was Susan Braithwaite, a nice, crisp, sharp black and white image. The woman at the edge of the ridge, gazing out across the Cotswolds plain.
Cal used the tongs again, and slid it into a second vat.
“The stop bath. Freezes the developing. Just thirty seconds and—” He leaned down to scrutinise the picture in the second tray. “Not bad,” Cal said. “If I do say so myself.”
Then Cal plucked the photo out of the bath, let it drip a minute and then finally into the third and last tray.
“The fixer locks the image in the brightness. Basically sets it.”
“That’s so cool,” Daniel said. “Way more fun than digital.”
“Exactly what I think.”
Cal let it sit there for about a minute before he plucked the finished photo out, and tossed it almost cavalierly into a larger tray in the sink, a tub, with a thin hose of water pouring in.
“Just rinsing it,” he said, with a smile that even the dull red safe light caught.
He turned to Sarah.
“Two more? Yes? The next two?”
Sarah nodded, and she had to admit, creating this bit of evidence, a real piece of evidence that someone meant to harm, even maybe kill, was so exciting.
She smiled at Daniel, and they both waited.
The next picture — the important one.
*
“Look Jack, you know me. Kind of a ’get along with any bloke’ sort of fella, right?”
Jack nodded, though he knew his good-natured friend travelled some shady circles, often just narrowly avoiding real problems with either the law, or the less than stellar associates he hung out with.
“So, this guy, seemed bored. Dunno, like he was waiting for something, killing time. So, I’m thinking maybe a game of pool.”
Jack nodded. “Which you wagered on?”
Ray grinned. “Well, yeah, I mean, why not make it interesting, hmm?”
Interesting enough that Ray nearly got skewered with a pool cue, Jack thought.
“Okay, so you’ve seen him around?”
Ray nodded. “This past week.” Those words got Jack’s attention. “Seen him a few times. Not exactly the tourist type, eh? Not here to enjoy our lovely village and all that.”
“And any clue where he’s staying?”
“Oh yeah — more than a clue. Had a couple of pints the other day with Tom Vining. And Tom said that Harry Markham up at the Railway Arms was complaining about some bloody yank saying he’s none too happy with the rooms — which to be honest, Jack, you know, ain’t much.”
Jack had never had the dubious pleasure of staying at the Railway Arms. But the pub was famously at the very bottom of the league of Cherringham’s three inns — and he could guess the quality of the rooms.
“That’s where he’s staying?”
“Still is, I imagine.”
Jack nodded.
“Got a name?”
“Can get it easy enough,” said Ray.
“Appreciate it if you could. Let me know, hmm?”
This yank, as Ray called him, a New Yorker. With a temper — edgy, violent.
Maybe someone worth looking into.
Jack nodded again to Ray. “Thanks, Ray.” Then he headed through the pub itself, and onto the street, sun low, door still open, nice end-of-the-day warmth.
He tried to make sense of what he and Sarah knew — and all that they didn’t.
*
Sarah, Cal and Daniel hovered over the picture, the second one, about to be developed.
Sarah hadn’t told them exactly what she was looking for, but it was as if the two boys — young men — knew that this next picture was important.
And then the image appeared, again crisp, clear in that amazing way black and white can be.
Showing: Susan, still more or less in the same position, at the cliff edge.
And then someone standing — just a few feet behind her.
Right behind her.
For a moment, Sarah thought the guy’s face — if it was a guy — might not be visible. Hood pulled up, angle wrong…
But as Cal moved the developing picture around the tray of chemicals, that face was turned just enough. Emerging from a shadowy near-blur, and every second becoming clearer, sharper.
Until, almost as if they were watching a movie, the scene coming to full life, Cal swooped in with his tongs and slid it into the stop bath.
The developing stopped. The image frozen.
The face, maybe not as large as Sarah would like, but defi
nitely clear.
If I saw that face, I’d know who it was, she thought.
But that was the thing.
It wasn’t anyone from the hiking group.
And not anyone she had ever seen in Cherringham.
Yet clearly, this was the person who had pushed Susan off that cliff.
She looked at Cal. One more pic to develop. The empty crag, finishing the story. But she imagined her expression said it all.
Something bad had happened on the cliff.
And — more importantly —this was the guy who did it.
Then lastly a question…
Why?
13. A Tough Call
Jack had taken only a few steps from the Ploughman’s this late spring evening that was just about perfect.
And he really wanted to go walk by the Railway Arms.
That’s what I’d do normally. Look into the mystery of what really happened on Will Goodchild’s hike.
But Alan’s warning — and Jack wanted to respect that — was clear.
Back. Off.
About to head back to The Grey Goose — thinking about maybe an evening walk with Riley (which for Riley would be more of a giddy race through the meadow at top speed, circling back to Jack who took a more leisurely pace) — his phone buzzed.
He slid it out.
Sarah.
And somehow, even before answering, he felt — intuition again — she has found something out.
*
Jack slid into the passenger seat of Sarah’s car. Her windows all open, the smallest of breezes making the envelope she carried rustle in her hands.
He looked at her. “I must say — you have me quite interested in the result of your school trip.”
Jack could see, from her smile, the light in her eyes, Sarah, too, was excited at what she held.
“Jack, I couldn’t believe it. I mean, what chance was there that Stephanie caught something on film?”
“But she did.”
Jack put out his hand for the envelope.
“May I?”
He undid the metal clasp — and right now he himself felt like a spy, a top-secret dossier handed from one agent to the other.
But as he took it, he knew he had something important to pass on to her.
“You know, we’ve been told to back off.”
“What?”
“Someone high up telling Alan.”
“You’re kidding.”
Jack shook his head: “Our local hiker — turns out she’s more than the analyst we thought.”
He told her what Alan had revealed that morning.
“Really?” said Sarah, shaking her head. “Susan Braithwaite — a spy?”
“Take my word for it. Guess spooks never look like spooks.”
Jack waited as she stared out the windshield, clearly reviewing events.
“Hmm — it kind of all fits together, doesn’t it?” she said. “Those mysterious cars everywhere. Susan’s house looking like a rental. Hey — my car! The break-in! My notes!”
“Alan said he’d try and get them to back off us.”
“Got a good mind to sue them for the damage! Who do they think they are? They can’t go around breaking into cars like—”
Jack laughed. “’Fraid they can, Sarah. And they do. Lot of things at stake here maybe — bigger than just a little incident on a cliff.”
“Meanwhile we’re just supposed to sit back and do nothing?”
“Yes, we are.”
Jack saw real anger in Sarah’s eyes. He nodded at the envelope: “And this — these pictures. Not exactly backing off.”
“Okay. But just take a look, Jack. Honestly — what harm can it do?”
He stared at her, making his mind up.
And then he pulled out the eight by ten glossy black and white photos, arranged in order.
Three of them.
*
Sarah kept her eyes on him. He didn’t rush. Studying the crag. The image of Susan amazingly clear.
“Pity not in colour,” Jack said.
He turned to her. “And so far, photo number one, she appears all alone up there.”
“Next…” Sarah said.
And he slid the top photo away, to reveal the second.
And the look on his face.
Well, she expected surprise, maybe even a grin that here at last was evidence that someone was up there, as he moved onto the last photo, revealing that someone had indeed pushed Susan Braithwaite over.
But on his face…
Something more.
He turned to her. Sarah knew that he was thinking through something, his eyes darting slightly left and right.
“Jack — what is it?”
“You’re not going to believe it. I’ve met this guy.”
“You what?”
Her turn to be surprised.
“I mean…”
She saw him look out the front of the car, then to the sides, and behind them.
She had parked at the far end of the pub car park.
Isolated.
He’s checking to make sure that no one is nearby, who might see us looking at these photos.
He continued. “I just saw him. Right here at the Ploughman’s. Starting a fight with good old Ray.”
“You mean, the guy in the pic going after Susan is some kind of agent?”
“Agent?” And at that she saw him shake his head. “Extremely doubtful. An American. New York accent as thick as a pastrami sandwich from Katz’s.”
“Um, Katz’s?”
Despite the air of tension, he laughed.
“It’s the deli from that movie, you know When Harry Meets Sally? Sandwich with about four inches of the best pastrami in the universe. But” — another small grin — “I digress. Guy seemed like a cheap hood. Backed down right away when I broke up the party.”
Sarah reached out to take the photos, shuffling to the one that showed — quite clearly — the face of the man behind Susan.
“You’re sure it’s him?”
“No doubt about it.”
“He tried to kill her.”
“So it would seem.”
“But who is he? What’s his connection to Susan Braithwaite? And Jack — you think he’ll try again?”
“All excellent questions — to which I have no answers.”
He did another quick scan of the area around the car.
“Maybe put those back in the envelope. Just in case. So, no, I know nothing about the guy. ’Cept the one thing Ray could tell me.”
“Ever useful Ray.”
“He’s staying in the village. Railway Arms.”
“We got a name?”
“Not yet. But Ray said he’ll get it for me.”
“Hmm, okay,” said Sarah. “Funny how useful Ray can be at times.”
Jack kept looking at her. Those eyes suspecting something. “Um, just what are you up to, Sarah Edwards?”
“Plotting,” she said. “Right now though, I have to get back to the office, give Grace a break. But are you free tonight?”
“I am.”
“Fancy cooking me some supper?”
“Always a pleasure.”
“And always a pleasure to eat it! I’ll come over around seven. And I’ll bring my laptop.”
“We going to work too?”
“As you would say, Jack — you bet we are.”
14. Pasta and Plans
Sarah slid her plate over to the pasta bowl. “May I?” she said. “This is yummy.”
“Help yourself,” said Jack.
She dug deep into the bowl of linguine and mushrooms in butter and parmesan — such a simple meal, but just perfect to eat out here on the deck of The Grey Goose, the warm May evening sun as good as anything Italy might offer.
“Needs finishing tonight,” said Jack, passing the pepper and parmesan. “Though Riley always hopes we might leave a little for him.”
At the mention of his name, Sarah saw Riley look up from his position by Jack’s
chair and give her his most pleading expression.
“In your dreams, Riley,” said Sarah, raising a fork of linguine, then she smiled at Jack.
She nodded as he lifted the bottle of Verdicchio from the ice bucket and offered her a top-up, then filled his own glass and sat back.
“So, what’s the plan?” he said.
She spun the linguine on her fork, ate, then took a sip of wine too.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m thinking — right now all those clever spy, spook, intelligence guys are running around, hunting down some kind of global conspiracy reason for a murder attempt on Susan Braithwaite.” She took another sip of the icy-cold wine. “But we — you and me — know that the culprit is some nobody from New York. Hardly agent material. And also highly unlikely to have any connection whatsoever to the prim and proper English lady from spy central.”
“With you so far on that,” said Jack.
“And we also know that for our bad guy to get the timing and location right for the push off the crag — there must have been somebody else involved. Some kind of signal — a warning. Right?”
“Someone else tracking the group.”
“Or maybe, someone in the group,” said Sarah.
“Good point,” said Jack. “Meaning — perhaps — that one of our walkers wanted rid of Susan Braithwaite?”
“For whatever reason.”
“And hired said schmuck to do the dirty work.”
“Schmuck! Perfect! Not a word we hear much in these parts. But, yes, exactly,” said Sarah. “Now, of course that would only really make sense if there were some Americans in the suspect group — oh, wait, hello — yes — so there are! Five of them!”
“The two couples — and our ex-intelligence friend Heidi,” said Jack. “However — unless you’re thinking there’s a blue-on-blue angle here — I’m more inclined to believe one of our happy little foursome is involved.”
“Blue on… what?”
“Meaning some problem between a US agency and its British counterpart. Like cop vs cop. Don’t think I see that here, though.”
“Okay. So, the foursome then. Which is why I think we spend the rest of this beautiful evening checking the walkers’ histories and backgrounds. See if any one of our four — somehow, somewhere — crosses paths with Susan.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Jack.
Cherringham--Cliffhanger Page 8
