Cherringham--Cliffhanger

by Matthew Costello

  “Would help if we had a name for our bar-brawling friend. Could throw him in the mix too.”

  And, as if on cue: “Jack! Sarah!”

  Sarah spun round to see Ray standing on the riverbank by his barge, a four-pack of beers cradled in his arms.

  “Got that name for you, mate,” he called, swaying slightly as he turned towards his boat.

  “The name of that… guy.”

  Sarah watched as Ray clambered aboard — wavering on the gang plank and nearly falling in the process.

  “Whoops,” he said, recovering, and putting the beers down on his wheelhouse roof. He turned back to Jack and Sarah, gave a big thumbs up. “What was I saying, Jack?”

  “You were saying you had that name.”

  “Oh yeah, that bastid from the pub. Tom Murphy, that’s who he is. Sounds more Irish than American to me. Probably made up. But that’s the name he’s using. Tom Murphy.”

  “Thanks, Ray,” said Jack. “Appreciate it. Good work.”

  “Any time,” said Ray, “’s what friends are for, hmm?”

  Sarah watched him smile, still swaying, his next words just a smidge slurred. “Hey, you two wanna come over, share a beer, have a smoke, bit of a party, know what I mean?”

  “Kind of you, Ray. Have to be some other day.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sarah and me are working right now.”

  “Work, eh?” said Ray, squinting at them in the setting sun. “Hmm. Work. Gotcha.”

  And as if the word “work” itself needed guarding against, Ray turned, and Sarah watched him open the wheelhouse door.

  “Getting late anyway,” he said.

  Then he disappeared inside and shut the door behind him.

  Sarah watched the boat for a few seconds more but Ray didn’t emerge. She turned back to Jack.

  “Tom Murphy,” she said.

  “Hmm. Hell of a lot of Tom Murphys in New York, that’s for sure.”

  “True,” said Sarah. “But we have a photo. And you nailed the accent.”

  “Some.”

  “So, maybe your pals back on the force could help? Give me an email, I could scan our photo and send. Only midday there.”

  She saw Jack considering this.

  Bringing an old work contact into a case like this… maybe not a great idea.

  But then he shrugged. “Okay. Sure. What’s to lose?”

  Sarah nodded. Then she got up, gathered the plates and bowls.

  “I can set up my laptop out here.”

  “I’ll get some candles — and coffee,” said Jack, heading into the wheelhouse.

  This, thought Sarah, as she stepped down the stairs into Jack’s galley, beats working in an office any day.

  *

  Sarah watched Jack put her mug of coffee on the desk next to her laptop and then pull up his chair alongside.

  They’d come in from the deck when it got chilly, and spent another couple of hours making web searches and taking notes.

  But so far they’d drawn a blank.

  She rubbed her eyes.

  “God. Nada, hmm? Maybe time we called it a day?” he said.

  “I hate being beaten by this. There has to be a connection.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe our Mr Murphy just likes pushing random people off cliffs. Travels the world looking for victims. Works alone. No accomplices. Just another crazy New Yorker.”

  “You believe that?”

  Jack laughed: “No.”

  “Then what?”

  He shrugged. “Okay. We get some sleep. Start again tomorrow. Take a new angle. Look for different connections.”

  “Yep, you’re right. I’m so tired now I’m probably missing things anyway.”

  She pulled her notes together. Then stopped and took out the three photos, laid them out on the desk.

  “Daniel was so excited,” she said. “’We got the killer, Mum,’ that’s what he said.”

  Jack picked up the photos, and she saw him carefully scan each one again.

  “You said she had more negatives?”

  Sarah nodded and took another envelope from her bag, tipped out a dozen or so strips of negative. Jack took them and one by one held them up to the brass desk lamp.

  “She took pictures every day,” said Sarah, as he slowly examined each shot. “You can tell the ones from the crag because everybody’s got their coats on.”

  “Ah right,” said Jack. “That’s why it’s so hard to tell who’s who.”

  “Will paid a fortune for the logos on the coats. Soon as it rained, apparently, he couldn’t wait for people to put them on. Kind of sweet, really, the way—”

  “Sarah—”

  She paused, knowing that tone in his voice so well.

  That inflexion, a quiet urgency that meant — he’d seen something.

  “What?”

  “I don’t suppose you have any other photos of that day?”

  “Only the ones Heidi and Stephanie took on their phones. But they don’t have anything. I checked. There’s nothing up on the crag.”

  “Show me.”

  Sarah turned back to her laptop. She’d downloaded the photos at the Bucklands’ cottage — checked them, and not looked at them since.

  Quickly she scrolled through folders until she came to the photos, then opened them.

  “Okay. This is day one — when they all met at the minibus in Cherringham.”

  “Okay. Run through them for me, up until the walk starts.”

  Sarah opened the photos one at a time.

  “Anything particular I should be looking for?” she said.

  “I don’t know… yet,” said Jack. Then, “Stop! That one. See?”

  She checked her screen. It was a photo from behind the group, taken in the rain somewhere half way up the hill towards the barrow. She recognised the ploughed field.

  “What do you see?” said Jack.

  Sarah stared at the screen: “Looks like the whole group. Spread out. Heidi’s picture — so she’s not in it. There’s Stephanie with her camera. And there’s Will, leading the way.”

  “The others?”

  “Well, I think that’s Danny Klein — and that one at the edge there looks like Steve Arnold.”

  “You recognise them — even though their backs are turned?”

  “Yes. Body shape, I suppose.”

  “What about the others?”

  She looked intently at the three women, all in purple jackets with their backs to the camera and their hoods tight. There was just no way to tell one from the other.

  No way to tell one from the other.

  She turned to Jack.

  “Whoa. I get it. We’ve been looking at this the wrong way round, haven’t we?” she said.

  He nodded: “Right there in front of us. Out in that rain, the group all mixed up, same coats on…”

  Sarah nodded, exactly on the same wavelength as Jack. “The killer got confused. So, easy to happen. Then pushed the wrong purple jacket off the cliff.”

  “Yep,” said Jack.

  Sarah looked at the colour picture of the whole group spread out, walking up the field in driving rain. The two American couples. The two single women. And Will Goodchild…

  “But if Susan Braithwaite wasn’t the target — who was?”

  Jack laughed. “I don’t know. And this idea — only a theory. More importantly, I don’t think we can know any more until we’ve figured out who this Tom Murphy is.”

  Sarah looked across at the old ship’s clock which hung on the wall above Jack’s stove.

  “Time I was home, Jack,” she said. “I’m sure Daniel will be still up wanting to know the latest.”

  “Sure. We’ll have to pick this up tomorrow.”

  “Last day of the walking tour,” she said, packing up her laptop.

  “I know.”

  “Text me if New York comes back to you,” she said, getting up. “Whatever the time.”

  “Will do. You get some sleep — thinking tomorrow might just be
a busy day.”

  “I hope so,” she said, then she headed up the steps to the deck and the chilly starlit night.

  15. Meet Mr Murphy

  Sarah was still in her dressing gown and making herself a pot of tea, when she saw Digby — her own crazy spaniel — excitedly jumping up at the French windows of the kitchen.

  “What is it, boy?”

  She looked down the long garden, which sloped towards the river. In the early morning light — it was barely seven — she saw Jack, tying up his little rowing boat at the ageing jetty.

  Since he’d written off his car on a case a while back, the river was Jack’s preferred method of getting to Sarah’s house. On foot, she knew the walk took twice as long — and, so far, Jack had resisted all her entreaties to get himself a bicycle.

  She smiled to herself — and put the coffee on.

  *

  Jack sipped his coffee and watched Daniel tuck into his bacon and eggs.

  “Real good work with the photos yesterday, Daniel,” he said, pointing to the pile of prints that sat on the kitchen table.

  “Was fun,” said Daniel in between mouthfuls. “Cal is amazing. Mum said it’s helped crack the case, yes?”

  “Got us close, for sure,” said Jack.

  “Let me know when you catch the guy,” said Daniel, picking up his now-empty plate and taking it to the dishwasher. “Now I’m eighteen we can celebrate together, down the Ploughman’s.”

  Jack laughed and turned to Sarah. “This country. I still don’t get over how young you let your kids drink.”

  “And I can’t believe I wouldn’t be able to drink legally in the States,” said Daniel.

  Jack watched him pick up his shoulder bag, then run a quick hand through his hair in front of the mirror. “Anyway — great to see you, Jack — but I’m outta here,” he said, heading for the door. “World won’t wait.”

  “See you tonight, love,” said Sarah.

  “Later,” said Daniel, with a wave. Then he was gone.

  Sarah came back to the table and sat.

  “Usual whirlwind in the morning,” she said.

  “Where’s he working right now?”

  “Farm shop. While he figures what to do for uni. And to be honest, Jack, now that I see so little of Chloe, I kinda don’t mind if he takes his time deciding.”

  “Hard to see them go.”

  He watched her pour another tea. Then she sat back: “Right then. So I’m guessing from the fact you’re here bright and early that New York’s finest came through?”

  A nod. His face serious. “And then some. Turns out our Tom Murphy has a rap sheet long as your arm. No murders. Least on the books. Mostly minor stuff — drunk, theft, auto crime, bar brawls. Couple of failed store robberies, some breaking and entering.”

  “Any connection to any of our hikers?”

  “Okay. Now this is the nice part. Seems Murphy’s Brooklyn born and bred. But his home patch for the last twenty years has been Kissena Boulevard in Queens. And wanna guess where Danny and Steve’s real estate empire had its first office?”

  “Kissena Boulevard?”

  “Cigar for the lady! Not only that, but my pal Harry asked around. Turns out Murphy managed one of Klein’s rental blocks — until the tenants got him kicked out for a variety of unsavoury behaviour which I don’t think we’ll go into over breakfast. Lived there for free while, I guess, being available to Danny Klein for whatever he wanted.”

  “So — looks like we have our link between Murphy and the four pals.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “But still — no motive.”

  “Not yet. But at least now we know what direction we’re heading.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “By the way, I put a couple of calls in to Will and Heidi this morning — some lingering questions I had.”

  “Such as?”

  “Who actually booked the trip over here? Danny or Steve? Or the two women? And who argued for continuing the tour even after the accident.”

  “Good questions — especially that last one. But without a solid motive, think we’re still chasing air.”

  He saw her nod at that.

  “So, you think we should go see Murphy,” said Jack. “Right?”

  “I do — but what about Alan? His warning?”

  Jack took a deep breath.

  “Well, we were warned away because of whatever government stuff Susan does, right? Alan — and whoever her bosses are — all think it’s related. They’re probably looking into things that match up with that. But this guy? A punk?”

  “And we know now that this has nothing to do with spy stuff.”

  “Right. Which means that if you and me did go talk to him, and he has no connection to Susan’s line of secret work, then we’re not really getting in the way, are we?”

  She laughed. “I doubt Alan or whoever gave him those orders would buy that line of logic.”

  Jack grinned as well. “Was worth a shot.”

  Now Sarah looked away. “No matter. Railway Arms, you say? Guess we know what we have to do, hmm?”

  “I do like the way you think, Sarah Edwards. Shall we go in your car?”

  Another nod from her.

  “Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

  She picked up the photos from the table, and slid them back in the envelope.

  “Going to take these. I’ve a feeling they’re going to be very useful.”

  *

  Sarah led the way up the dingy stairs of the ramshackle Railway Arms.

  Even at this early hour, the pint—sized pub on the ground floor was occupied by a handful of locals who acted like they had a lifetime right to the scattering of wooden chairs gathered around worn and stained plastic-topped tables that looked to date back to the 70s.

  Not a place that attracted the tourist trade, she knew.

  More for workers needing a cheap place while on some big project. Or late-night arrivals at Cherringham station, just up the road.

  Only a few rooms — places that Sarah had never been in — and never wanted to.

  Funny, she thought, how you could live in a village for so long and yet there were certain places, hidden away, that you’d never see.

  Behind her, nearly penned in by the low, sloping ceiling above the stairs and the walls themselves, Jack took measured steps, but still the old floorboards under worn lino gave out a squeaky groan with each step.

  If the element of surprise was important, they had certainly lost that.

  And there was also the possibility that the mysterious New York hood, a “punk” as Jack called him, had left. Though the hollow-eyed guy at the bar said “He hasn’t checked out.”

  But had he skipped out?

  She reached the top of the landing.

  Number 5. Second door on the right.

  She waited till Jack was beside her.

  This definitely was more up his alley than hers. She wasn’t exactly afraid, least not with all of six-feet two of Jack beside her.

  Still, certainly nervous.

  They went to the door.

  A quick look, and with her free hand, the one not holding the envelope, three sharp raps.

  *

  The door opened with a pop, the ancient wood, swollen, tight against frame.

  And then Sarah was face to face with the man in the photo. But he was first to talk.

  Looking from Sarah then up to Jack.

  “You again. What the hell? Get lost!”

  Jack nodded at the suggestion, and then pointed inside the room, where Murphy had a suitcase, full, looking all ready to be zipped.

  “Leaving, Tom? And so soon?” Jack said.

  Sarah saw a cagey look come over the man, his dark shadow of a beard, bleary eyes reinforcing his overall rat-like expression.

  “Had enough of this town. Damn boring. Got to get home.”

  Jack turned to Sarah, holding the envelope, the guy unaware of what she held inside.

  “Hey — how you know my
name?”

  “Common courtesy,” said Jack. “I mean, hate to just call you ’punk’.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed at that. Jack guessed it was a name he had been called before, and one he didn’t particularly appreciate.

  Then a gulp.

  The “punk” sensing something’s up.

  “What the—”

  A nod from Jack, as he raised a hand, pressing an invisible pause button.

  “Well, Tom — here’s the bad news. See, your suitcase is all packed. Ready to leave. But I’m afraid — that just isn’t going to happen.”

  “Hell it isn’t. Nothing you, or her, can do to stop me. I’m an American. I got rights, and I’m leaving.”

  The man forced a grin.

  Teeth not looking in the best shape, Sarah noted.

  The grin cocky, but as she was about to demonstrate — unwarranted.

  Sarah started to undo the metal clasp of the manila envelope.

  “Tom, I don’t think you’ll be leaving. Not today, at least. Maybe not for a while.”

  The hood’s eyes now fell on the envelope, clasps undone, flap open, as Sarah pulled out the glossy photographs.

  “You see,” Sarah said, holding up the pictures — in order. “I’m afraid these show, well, you know this spot, hmm?”

  He said nothing.

  “That cliff? The woman up there? Then—”

  And Sarah had to admit, with big Jack by her side making her feel physically secure, she was enjoying this.

  She slid the top photo away.

  “Well, look here. The woman’s not alone. Someone’s up there right behind her, hmm? Look familiar?”

  The gummy smile faded. The man’s rat eyes darted.

  Then — to the last photo.

  “And here, the woman’s gone, pushed over the cliff.”

  And Tom Murphy from some shabby area of Brooklyn, was absolutely frozen.

  Probably thinking, he had been so close to getting away.

  Jack broke the stunned silence. “How about we come in a minute? Maybe talk over things?”

  Jack took a step forward.

  Towards the man blocking the way, as if the suggestion wasn’t really merely a suggestion at all.

  The man backed up.

  And they entered his tiny, claustrophobic room.

  *

  Tom Murphy had sat down on the narrow bed, as if this confrontation had literally knocked him down.