Cherringham--Murder under the Sun

by Matthew Costello

  For a second, Jack thought Len was going to shake his head, and simply refuse to get back into the time machine.

  But instead: “Okay, I’ll tell you what it was like, Jack. What I do remember. What I don’t. Best I can.”

  And Jack smiled, hoping that Len — the soon-to-be father of the bride — was telling the truth.

  *

  Sarah stood outside Beechwood Hospice, earbuds in, talking on her phone. “Right, yes, I understand. And no, I don’t represent any official agency. It’s not that.”

  Whoever she was speaking to at the hospital in Oxford didn’t seem at all interested in any of the words Sarah had produced so far.

  She could imagine the woman on the other end of the line flipping through the Daily Mail as she produced — in a dull monotone — pro-forma answers to Sarah’s simple question.

  Very simple.

  Could she possibly come to the hospital, to where they keep the records, and see if they have visitor registers from thirty years ago?

  And while Sarah hadn’t heard a flat-out “no”, the woman on the phone said she’d have to come in person and speak with someone named Melanie Hardwicke.

  “In charge of archives, she is. The old records. All legal and proper like. You’ll have to speak with her in person. Though I can’t guarantee anyone will be there. It is a Saturday, you know.”

  Seeing that was that, Sarah said a quiet (but not very earnest) thank you.

  And she walked to her car, wondering if Jack was faring any better.

  *

  “That summer,” Len said, starting slowly “it was — dunno — crazy. It was good being ‘DJ Spirit’, getting everyone moving, like my turntables were magic.”

  Jack listened, his notebook out … but having decided he’d only make a note if he had to catch something crucial.

  “I was gigging everywhere, all over Europe. Hacienda Club, Manchester; London; Berlin — you name it. They called it the Second Summer of Love, you know?”

  Jack saw him stare for a moment, then clearly realise maybe this American cop hadn’t been part of that scene.

  “Raves,” said Len. “Acid house music. Take my word for it — it was big.”

  “Big money, too?”

  “Oh yes. I mean, I was just a kid myself really, but, like, ten grand? For a weekend of gigs? Like I said, crazy.”

  Jack saw Len’s face brighten at these memories. The money, the thousands of young people on the sun-drenched island dancing.

  But Jack knew — there was this other part.

  He waited.

  “But then, you know being young, who wants to say no? To anything. It all seemed part of the whole crazy thing.”

  Another nod, but Jack had a question.

  “You mean the drugs?”

  Len nodded. “Yeah. For the punters, pretty much just ecstasy. But for me at least — my mates — anything and everything. Uppers, downers, speed, ecstasy. Sometimes alone, sometimes together. Coke was around too, but even with a lot of cash that could run expensive.”

  Jack remembered a conversation he’d had with a dealer he busted in Bushwick, back when Bushwick was as close to a no-man’s land as any part of Brooklyn. His clientele, as he referred to them, always wanted another line of coke. Then another. As if the drug said, “do me. Then do me again”.

  Jack imagined mixing amphetamines and ecstasy. Pretty potent cocktail.

  Len went silent again.

  “You got in pretty deep with all that?”

  “Yeah,” Len made a small hollow laugh as if “deep” didn’t quite capture it. “Young, like I said. Seemed like everyone was doing it. Maybe me, doing more than most. It was all part of the thing, Jack. Being a DJ.”

  Jack noticed that — so far — Len hadn’t talked about one subject.

  Namely, the victim in Len’s murder charge.

  “Len, what about Sally?”

  “Sally? Right. We got together. Guess the kids today would say ‘hooked up’. But she had a lot of guys who were into her. A beauty, you know. But wild.”

  “Wild?”

  “The drugs, see. That became her thing, big time. Using … then selling. And who was I to judge? Ha — I was a regular customer.”

  “Okay. And you were living together?”

  “Couldn’t really call it that. Lot of the time I was living out of a suitcase.”

  “But based in Ibiza?”

  “Yeah. Bunch of us. DJs mostly. And hangers on. Had a finca — sweet little farm house — out in the hills above San Antonio.”

  “Like the old hippy thing, huh?”

  “Some ways, maybe. Difference was we didn’t want to break the system. We were swimming in money. Cash for the gigs. Dealing. Knocking out smiley T-shirts even, twenty quid a shot.”

  “And these people you were living with — they got names?”

  Jack saw Len pause for a second. The briefest of flickers in his eyes.

  “None that I remember.”

  “Shame,” said Jack, now sure he was getting an edited story.

  “Thirty years ago.”

  “Right. Thirty years. But that weekend, the weekend she vanished. You must remember something.”

  Len’s eye narrowed. And Jack could see that Len wasn’t happy with that question appearing again.

  “Told you, Jack. A blur. Don’t know what happened. Played some gigs. Did some pills. Slept.”

  “But what — the Monday, Tuesday after — you went to the police?”

  “Not sure of that either. That week for sure. Told them she had disappeared. Guess I was clear enough in the head to be a bit worried.”

  Jack nodded.

  And though he liked Len, he felt he had no choice — if he was to learn anything — than to ask the next question.

  “You know, Len, some might say, you going to the police, acting concerned …” Jack stopped there, no need to finish. “I mean, is it possible that you maybe had something to do with whatever happened to Sally?”

  Len’s face was tight now. Any sunny, drug-addled memories of Ibiza faded. The man took a breath, then another.

  Those eyes again, Jack noted, looking teary as Len blinked, frustrated at the failings of his own memory.

  Len fired a look at the guard, standing stock-still in the corner of the small examination room, as he leaned close to Jack and said “Jeez, Jack. I don’t know.”

  *

  Sarah stood in the afternoon sun, feeling the warmth on her face, as she thought about her chat with Lizzie.

  Her new smart phone was held close to her ear. The phone was great at everything, it would seem, save maybe making a real call.

  Two rings, and she heard Jack.

  “Sarah. What’s up?”

  “About to ask you the same thing.”

  She listened as Jack described his interview with Len, with the frustrating lack of information.

  “You think he knows something that he isn’t telling?”

  “Hard to tell. Obviously, ton of black holes in his memory. But I got a feeling some of those holes were put there by Len. And you …?”

  “Well, I heard how he and Lizzie met, when he was recovering from his drugged-out summer, ready to change his life.”

  “That it?”

  “No. Got one small lead.”

  She heard him laugh. “Hey, think I’d take anything at this point.”

  Sarah told him about the mysterious visitor to the hospital in Oxford — and the register.

  “Guy could have put any name down,” Jack said. “Lot of Mickys in this world.’

  “Yeah. Unless he needed to show an ID of some sort. Not sure. It’s really not much, right?”

  “Better than what I got.”

  “You want to go back to Len, see if that name stirs something?”

  She waited, sun on her face, while Jack thought over her question.

  “No. When I go back to Len, I want as much information from 30 years ago as we can get. But got a different idea.”

&nb
sp; Sarah started walking towards her new CRV, an upgrade from her Rav-4. Harder to park, but a star on the motorways.

  “Always like your ideas,” said Sarah. “Shoot.”

  “How about we go to Oxford — right now? To the hospital.”

  “See if we can look for the register?”

  “Imagine it might take some clever negotiating to get in. But yeah, if we’re lucky — and the register still exists — we might at least get a full name.”

  Sarah nodded. “It’s all we have. Sure. But Jack — like they said — it’s a Saturday. Place might not even be open.”

  “Hey. They answered your call. And, you know, sometimes — this kinda thing — weekend’s a good time.”

  Sarah knew that Jack’s daughter was a consultant at a big hospital in LA. So maybe he knew how to swing these things.

  “Okay. Let me check in with Daniel, see if he’s around to feed the dog. Kinda lives his own life these days.”

  “Ha, kids tend to do that. How about you call me when you know and I’ll pick you up in an hour from your office?”

  “Sure. See you then.”

  As she walked back to her car she got a distant view of the steeple of St James, the church seeming to bask in the sun.

  A few days from now it was due to host the big day for Grace.

  And for Len and Lizzie.

  She felt the burden — that it was up to her and Jack to get all of that back on track.

  Was that even possible?

  The whole thing hung on a thread of one name in a thirty-year-old visitor register that might not even exist.

  6. Into the Past

  Jack let Sarah talk to the woman at the main enquiries desk at the hospital, IDs being carefully inspected and handed back.

  She barely looked up at Sarah — probably swamped with questions all day long, as everyone from relatives of a newborn, to emergency victims streamed in.

  They needed to be unflappable, Jack guessed. Eye contact used sparingly.

  The receptionist did raise a finger at one point — the nail covered with golden dots on a shiny deep-purple surface. Said nail acting as sharply defined pointer.

  “Archives? They’re over in the South Building. You will need to go down that hallway, past Oncology, other side of the main car park, follow the signs to their reception. Course, it’s a Saturday, so—”

  “—they probably won’t be open?” said Sarah.

  “Exactly.”

  The woman then peeled off two stickers with the hospital logo on them.

  “Wear these.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said, taking both stickers and handing Jack one.

  And, as they then walked down the hallway indicated, past a cheery coffee kiosk looking out of place near the front windows, Jack leaned into Sarah.

  “Big hospitals — same the whole world over, I guess.”

  “I sense a plan forming, Jack Brennan,” she said.

  “Maybe,” said Jack, smiling at her as they walked. “Less of a plan — more … bit of improv. You up for that?”

  “If it gets us in — you bet.”

  “Okay, game on,” he said.

  And they went through the automatic doors at the back of the main building and headed for archives.

  *

  Ten minutes later, after a few wrong turnings, Sarah and Jack found a small block of offices with “Archives” listed in the bare entrance hall and an arrow pointing down some dreary stairs.

  “God. The whole place feels empty,” said Sarah.

  “Never know,” said Jack, and Sarah followed him down the stairs and through a heavy fire door into a tiny lobby.

  Sarah was surprised to see — in this seemingly forgotten corner of the hospital — a desk with a woman sitting behind it. She looked up as they entered.

  “Sorry,” she said — nearly hidden by her large computer monitor — “no chairs for my little space. How can I help you?”

  Sarah nodded. Jack looked so cramped here as if he couldn’t figure out exactly where to put his 6′2″ body.

  “Ms Hardwicke?” said Jack.

  “Good Lord no!” said the woman, as if Jack had made some kind of joke. “She’s away until June!”

  “What?” said Jack. Then Sarah saw him turn to her. “That can’t be right, Ms Edwards, can it?”

  “Certainly wasn’t my understanding,” said Sarah, catching on, then turning back to her. “Some mistake, surely?”

  “I don’t know,” said the woman. “Did you—?”

  “Saturday, 25th, 2pm — yes?” said Jack to Sarah, who nodded. He turned back to the woman. “That is today, isn’t it?”

  She blinked at Jack. “Well, yes.”

  “See, my British colleague here arranged with Ms Hardwicke for us to see the hospital visitor register from over thirty years ago,” said Jack, shaking his head. “1990 to be exact, and—”

  “Hold on, please. Can I stop you right there? The two of you. Exactly, who are you? Police or something?”

  Sarah saw Jack reach into his back pocket and take out a small wallet, flip it open to reveal a star and a photo.

  “Jack Brennan. NYPD, ma’am.”

  Oh God, Sarah thought. This is going to get us into big trouble.

  But she knew she had to back Jack up.

  She took a deep breath and jumped in. “And I’m, um, liaison for the department of um—”

  Luckily, the woman cut Sarah off, shooting a hand up to the sky like carnival fireworks.

  “Dear me! American police? Ms Hardwicke didn’t say a single word about this,” she said. “But I really don’t think I can help. And it is a Saturday, you know.”

  She finished her last — and what appeared to be a final sarcastic statement — with a smile that seemed to clearly say, “okay, not my business, now if you two will just move along”.

  Which is when Jack, his head nearly touching the ceiling, cleared his throat and took a step forward, glancing at the woman’s name badge.

  Go on, Jack, she thought, work your magic.

  And Jack — she saw — started with a smile.

  Regardless of the urgency of their quest, this was going to be interesting.

  *

  “Ms Davis … Jenny. Can I call you that?”

  Sarah saw the woman nod slowly, as Jack smiled and continued.

  “If I may take just another minute of your time. I mean I can see how busy you must be.”

  Sarah wasn’t at all sure that such busyness was in any way apparent. Jack continued.

  “But I’ve flown over three thousand miles to be here today, to try and right a wrong back in my precinct. A young girl, getting married next week. A smart girl, hard working. Whole community excited about the event. I’m sure you can imagine, Jenny?”

  Jenny Davis’s eyes were still hooded, questioning. The charm offensive showing little results in its early stages.

  “But something happened here, in this very hospital, a long time ago. Can’t tell you the details. But her father — a British gentleman — had been a patient here. Got a visitor, and the name of that visitor, well, let’s just say if we don’t learn who it was, that wedding? On a beautiful late spring day? It will all be off.”

  At this, Sarah thought she saw a smidge of softening, the tightness of Ms Davis’s lips easing.

  Who doesn’t like a good wedding? Sarah thought.

  Then Jack added, maybe playing his last card, “We’re just trying to help the family, Jenny. Your good colleague Ms Hardwicke, was so very sympathetic to our request. A fine woman, don’t you agree?”

  “Well, um, yes, she is …” said Ms Davis. “Though I really don’t—”

  “Confusion with the dates, I guess. Gosh — happens to all of us. But you got to understand — I’m running right out of time here. Just need to see the register. I mean, Ms Hardwicke did say you kept them here.”

  And at that, Jenny stood up, hardly any taller than she was when seated.

  “We most assuredly do. Before e
verything was digitised. Visitor records going back more than a hundred years. Totally maintained, I can assure you.”

  Sarah hoped that Jenny standing up was a good sign.

  “I wouldn’t normally do this. But I see you are trying to help someone. You’re from New York, yes?”

  Jack smiled as the woman edged past them.

  To show us the door? Sarah thought.

  “Am indeed,” Jack said.

  At that, Jenny pivoted, her hand just opening that door which was beginning to feel like a chute that would send them flying out of the building.

  “Oh, I do love New York City. Love it. And that poor girl. Well—” Only now did she look at Sarah. “I can take you down to the archives. Show you where things are kept. Won’t be easy, mind you.”

  The door opened, and Sarah took a breath, realising that they were about to be guided down into the bowels of building.

  “Hardly anyone goes down there. Such old stuff. Air hard to breathe. Not healthy, I’m sure.”

  And Jenny Davis led them on, down another corridor, with more twists and turns. Sarah knew returning to the main desk would be a challenge.

  And as they walked, Jack shot Sarah a smile.

  What Sarah would call a cheeky smile.

  Okay, so sometimes charm does work …

  But a little white lie works even better.

  *

  Jack looked at the metal shelving that stretched down the long aisles to what must be the back of the hospital, as he and Sarah followed Jenny past stacks of dusty files.

  Finally the woman stopped.

  “Ah, here we are. These shelves. The register books, different sizes of course, over the years. People saw no need to standardise things then. Starting back there in the early 1900s and all the way up to the millennium.”

  And, at that, Ms Davis turned and started to walk away.

  Jenny was abandoning them!

  “Um, but where?”

  The woman, who clearly had no interest in any of the actual searching, kept walking, but turned her head, speaking loudly.

  “Years may not be in order. Check the spine. For most years there will be a good number of books. Actually, you’re lucky these are still here. Most of the Oxfordshire archive got centralised years back.”

  And then she disappeared — like some fabled creature — in a maze of metal shelves, boxes and files.