Cherringham--Trail of Lies

by Matthew Costello

  “Sure,” said Sarah. “It’ll all be online.”

  “Then I want to go check out those woods. The lake. Where they were camping. With a bit of luck — the papers will have that information.”

  “The crime scene?”

  “If it is a crime scene, yes. I’ll pick up Riley — some boots and a good map too. Make an afternoon of it.”

  “Hey — wish I could join you — but with no Grace today — I’m stuck in the office.”

  “No problem. Fact — it makes a fine alternative to working on the boat. Anything you can be doing?”

  “Yeah. I’m thinking about that missing phone. Maybe I can get into Amy’s call records? Find out who she talked to.”

  “You can do that?” he said, always amazed at Sarah’s ability to dig around online.

  A skill Jack knew she’d learnt the hard way when her ex-husband was cheating on her, years back.

  “Maybe. And if her parents paid for her phone I could even do it legally.”

  “As a former law officer, always my preference, as you know,” he said smiling. “We see the girls tomorrow then?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Just a day after the funeral — still a good time.”

  He waited, as Sarah considered that.

  Moving in when feelings were high was a technique he’d used all the time on the streets of New York.

  But here? And now? Would Sarah approve?

  “Right. Yeah. Agree. I can get their addresses.” She took a breath, ready to plunge into unknown territory.

  “Let’s do it.”

  6. Blackwater

  Jack parked his little Austin-Healy Sprite in the car park at the foot of Shipton Hill and climbed out.

  Riley — his spaniel — waited obediently in the passenger seat until Jack clipped the dog’s lead on, then he jumped out, tail wagging in expectation of a walk somewhere new.

  Jack took a small backpack from behind the car seat, checked he had water, map, cell — then slung it over his shoulders.

  He looked up at the grassy hill that stretched above, dotted with hedges, and here and there, tumbling-down stone walls and random criss-cross trails. The skyline was thick with trees — and somewhere up there, he knew, was the spot where the three girls had camped … on that night that left one of them dead.

  He checked his watch.

  Three hours still to sunset — should be just enough time.

  “Let’s go, Riley,” he said, locking the car and climbing over the stile that led into the field ahead. “Chase some rabbits, hey?”

  And he walked up the hill, the low sun still warm on his back, Riley already pulling on the lead and waiting to be set free to play.

  *

  An hour later and Jack stood on top of the hill among the trees, drinking water from his flask and gazing out at the wide vista of the Cotswolds, so green against the blue summer sky.

  Miles away, across the flat expanse of valley, he could see the Thames looping slowly north and south. And catching the sun, Cherringham Bridge with its medieval arches and toll booth.

  And the line of residential barges and boats moored for hundreds of yards to one side — ending with his own Dutch barge — The Grey Goose.

  “What a view, Riley, hmm?” he said, as the dog sped past chasing scents. “Sure beats fixing a bilge pipe.”

  But Riley was already racing off, into the woods.

  Jack set down his back pack and took out his Ordnance Survey map, checking his bearings to make sure he was in exactly the right spot.

  Back in the office, he and Sarah had gone through all the newspaper accounts of the disappearance — some with photos — noting down the locations of the camping spot and also the edge of the lake where the body had been found.

  He walked across the glade of grass — just fifty or so yards wide.

  Bang in the centre, he could see a bare patch of earth filled with charred stones and ash. The girls were not the only hikers who apparently used this area to overnight.

  He took out his cell and flicked the compass onto the screen.

  Then using the map, he got a bearing on the nearest edge of the lake.

  If the police theory was right, Amy had walked down into the woods to pee, then somehow got lost, slipped and fallen into the lake.

  He looked straight ahead to the edge of the glade. Sure enough, a worn trail disappeared into the trees in just about the right direction.

  “Come on, boy,” he called to Riley, picking up his backpack.

  He waited for the dog to join him, and the two headed off down the trail.

  *

  At first it was easy going, the path wide and well-trodden. Minutes later, however, the trail turned sharply away from the lake.

  He stopped and looked through the trees. He could just see the water — a dark shape a few hundred yards away.

  A theory emerging …

  Amy must have missed the turn and kept going, he thought.

  He checked Riley was still within sight, then stepped off the trail and into the dense undergrowth beneath the trees.

  Down here, it was already getting dark — the sun setting on the far side of the escarpment — and Jack struggled against bushes and roots that tripped and caught his boots.

  More than once he nearly fell.

  But eventually he reached the edge — marked more by the absence of trees than anything else. Bushes and undergrowth just stopped — no defined cliff-face, as if the forest itself was sliding piecemeal into the lake, fresh soil and rocks tumbled together at the water’s edge.

  Evidence of the quick and dirty mining operation that had once created the rocky quarry … the man-made lake itself.

  And that lake straight ahead of him …

  Blackwater.

  He stepped as close to the edge as he dared, feet sliding on gravel and soil. Then, grabbing hold of a barely upright tree, he took in the lake.

  Maybe half a mile across. Flat, a dense blackness, silent. No bird life, no floating lily pads, no sound.

  He looked back into the dense bush. Had Amy really struggled through all of that in pitch darkness?

  It seemed unlikely to Jack. Surely she would have just stopped and shouted to her friends?

  As the crow flies — can’t be more than a couple of hundred yards up to the tents, he thought.

  Middle of the night. The girls would have heard her — come to find her with torches.

  He made a mental note to check the crime notes to see if anyone had actually tried to walk from the camp down here to the water.

  On paper, it looked totally feasible. In reality — it didn’t add up — even now, in the early evening light.

  Time to check out the place where they found the body, he thought.

  Don’t want to get stuck climbing this hill in the dark.

  A nasty place indeed.

  *

  Back on the trail, he made better time through the wood. Riley kept close as if aware there was a job to be done.

  The path led away from the lake for half a mile or so, deeper into the forest.

  Then, after ten minutes easy walking, it crossed a wider track with deep tyre ruts — tractors, foresters’ vehicles probably — but also lots of old car and bike tracks.

  On either side of the trail, undergrowth had been trampled down and the ground between the trees was scarred and blackened with dried mud, like it had once been used as a race track.

  Place for off-road vehicles to race around.

  Had to be illegal, thought Jack.

  But who’s going to get arrested out here?

  He carried on walking, and soon picked up another path that brought him back towards the lake — this time, closer to the far edge.

  Useful to know there’s an easier way into these woods if we need it, he thought.

  Finally, the trees thinned out — and he saw signs of more recent vehicles and activity.

  At the water’s edge, the tattered remnants of police tape hanging in
the branches: what had once been a perimeter, and then clearly an inner cordon. A few square yards of mud and trampled bushes, footprints …

  Jack — knowing what that spot was — stepped into the cordon, squatted down.

  This atmosphere, this feeling, so familiar to Jack from other crime scenes after the fact. The uncomfortable silence.

  Imagination and experience — all his years in the NYPD — now filled in the gaps as he carefully scanned the lapping water’s edge: the scrap of tell-tale clothing, a shape in the water.

  He looked across the lake. He could just see the fallen tree he had been leaning against earlier, twenty or thirty feet above the water. And behind it, the rising woods up to the campsite.

  Yes, he thought. The body could easily have drifted here.

  “Hey! You police?” came a man’s voice from right behind him.

  Jack stood and whipped around in one movement, scarcely believing that somebody had been able to creep up on him so close.

  A man stood just five or six yards away. Jack did his usual scan.

  Six-two, maybe three; beard, scrappy jeans, torn t-shirt. Long hair, in scraggly cornrows. Stud in nose — bone ring in one ear. Cotton bag over one shoulder, a branch for a walking stick in the other hand. Late twenties, early thirties.

  At the man’s side Jack saw Riley, tail wagging as if he’d found a new friend.

  “Didn’t hear you,” said Jack.

  The man smiled.

  “Sorry.” Then he patted Riley’s head. “I found your dog.”

  Jack stared at him.

  “Appreciate it. Though … I don’t think he was lost.”

  Jack clicked his fingers and Riley came over to him, sat at his side.

  “So — you police?” said the man.

  “Friend of the family,” said Jack, gesturing towards the lake edge.

  The man nodded.

  “Terrible thing,” he said, his eyes flicking past Jack to the water’s edge. “That poor girl.”

  “Did you know her?” said Jack, thinking perhaps the man had come over from the village.

  “No. But I heard what happened. Talked to the police when they were here. Helped them out a bit, you know. The woods. Lay of the land. Made them tea.”

  “You local?” said Jack, still not moving.

  “Could say that. I live out here. Wander a bit.” The man nodded as if it was self-evident. “I like the woods.”

  “These woods?”

  The man nodded over his shoulder towards the deeper wood.

  Jack looked for signs of a house but couldn’t see anything.

  “My camp is that way. Over by Shipton village. Mile or so.”

  “Live alone?”

  The man nodded.

  “You are police, aren’t you?”

  “Was,” said Jack, smiling at being caught. “Long ago and far away.”

  The man grinned. Pleased.

  “Thought so.”

  Jack stepped forward.

  “Jack Brennan,” he said, holding out his hand. The other man took it.

  “Josh.”

  “Josh …?”

  “Just Josh.”

  “Mind me asking,” said Jack, “were you out here the night she died?”

  “Not out here, but home, in my camp, yes.”

  “Don’t suppose you heard anything?”

  “You some kind of private detective now?”

  Another smile from Josh but — Jack noted — this one seemed a bit nervous.

  “Nah. Just tying up some loose ends for Amy’s mum and dad.”

  “Important to get closure,” said Josh, nodding.

  “Very,” said Jack. He paused again, then, “So did you hear anything?”

  Josh hesitated as if searching his memory.

  “Well — yeah. Heard the three of them coming through the wood that afternoon,” he said. “Girls that age — not exactly quiet.”

  A grin.

  “I can believe it,” said Jack. “What about later that night?”

  “Not a sound. First thing I knew was when the cops came trampling through. No — tell a lie. I heard the girls shouting, but in the morning. Calling. You know? Guess they were looking for her.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “If I’d realised, I would have gone to help. Maybe found her before—” Jack saw Josh’s eyes water.

  “If it’s any comfort, by then I think it was already too late,” said Jack.

  Josh’s account seemed to fit the reports he’d seen in the papers.

  “You want to come back to the shack?” said Josh. “I’ll make you a tea.”

  The shack? thought Jack. He’d imagined some kind of shabby camp — a tent.

  This guy actually lives here.

  Jack checked his watch.

  “Kind of you,” said Jack. “But I’d better be getting back.”

  “Got another hour of light yet,” said Josh. “You’ll be fine. Head up the path there — bit of a short cut up to the hill.”

  He turned and pointed to a trail that led away from the lake.

  “Appreciate it,” said Jack, slipping his back pack onto his shoulders. “Might come back tomorrow — talk a bit more, if that’s okay?”

  “No problem.” Another smile. “Don’t get many visitors!”

  Jack stepped forward, then stopped.

  “Quick question …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t suppose you heard anybody else in the woods that night?”

  “Police asked me that.”

  “And?”

  “Heard a car, up on the foresters’ track.”

  “That unusual?”

  “Not really. Get kids driving up here some nights.”

  “I saw — back there — like a race track.”

  “Yeah. Used to be worse. Trail bikes. Tearing through the forest. Destroying it! Drinking. Parties. Made me sick. Cops put a stop to it. Eventually.”

  Jack waited.

  “What about that night?”

  “Nothing too bad. Heard a car. Bit of music. Didn’t keep me awake.”

  “What kind of time?”

  Josh grinned. “Don’t own a watch but guessing … two? Three?”

  “But you didn’t see them?”

  Josh shook his head.

  “All these questions. You think it wasn’t an accident?”

  Jack shrugged. “Like I said. Just tying up some loose ends.”

  “You’ve got me worried now. Live on my own out here, you know.”

  “You don’t need to worry, Josh. Really. Like you said — it’s closure for the parents.”

  “Yes.”

  Jack turned to Riley, who sat patiently to one side.

  “Come on, boy — this walk’s only half done,” he said, setting off.

  “See you tomorrow maybe,” said Josh.

  “You got a number I can call?”

  That produced a laugh. “Don’t have a phone.”

  “No coverage I guess?”

  “There’s coverage. I just don’t agree with phones. Bad stuff, if you ask me.”

  “Ah, right.”

  “Waste of resources. Carbon cost. Child labour for the mineral extraction. Social cost. Radio signals. And it’s making for a world of zombies!”

  Jack watched Josh shrug like that was pretty much the case for cells destroyed.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said. “So — er — how will I find you?”

  “Just ask around in Shipton,” said Josh, smiling. “Everybody knows where Josh lives.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Jack. “Pleasure.”

  And he headed off up the trail, thinking, Lot busier in these woods that night than we’ve been led to believe.

  7. Jasmine

  “Jas? Jasmine — do come down!”

  The woman, Jasmine’s mum, smartly dressed, Sarah noted. Had she been at the funeral the day before? Sarah hadn’t noticed, as the woman turned and smiled at them.

  “You won’t be asking her any ups
etting questions, will you? I mean, with the funeral yesterday, her father away in London for work.”

  Sarah looked at Jack and took a step closer to Mrs Todd.

  The house spoke of money and success. A new construction in a small estate on the edge of the village, but done with the look and feel of a classic Cotswolds home.

  And the sleek silver Lexus parked outside also announced — nouveau or not — that the Todds and their daughter were indeed quietly wealthy, if not rich.

  Sarah heard steps on the curved staircase and turned to see a girl coming down.

  With what was a standard look for these days.

  Face locked on her phone even as she moved forwards; white earbuds plugged in.

  Physically there. But all the other sensory inputs decidedly elsewhere.

  But the girl stopped halfway.

  After all, why make that effort to come all the way down?

  “Wot?” she said.

  Sarah saw her mum flick at her own ears, indicating to her daughter that she should remove the earbuds.

  With a shrug and eye-roll visible from even across the room, the girl removed them.

  “These people here,” her mum said hesitantly, exercising that caution of a parent who knows who’s really running the show, “have some questions. About that night. With poor Amy.”

  “More police? Haven’t I told them everything? God.”

  “We’re not police,” Sarah added. Keeping her voice gentle. A bit of smile there, hopefully to defuse the girl — whether shaken by events or just irritated.

  She certainly didn’t appear to be grieving.

  “We — my partner here and I — have been asked by Amy’s parents to kinda … look into things.”

  Now the girl, as if drawn by the words, took a step down, then another.

  “What kind of things? We all know what happened.”

  And now Sarah started to feel that — despite Jack’s confidence — she wasn’t exactly doing a good job handling this particular school friend of Amy’s.

  Jack — quick to the mark — spoke up.

  “I’m sure,” he said, measuring his words, “we do. But you see … Amy’s parents. Well, we’re just trying to put any of their fears — thoughts — to rest.”