Cherringham--Murder under the Sun

by Matthew Costello

  “Yeah, most people hung out there. Nonna’s place they called it. Run by some woman, bit like a mum she was, guess she liked the scene.”

  “Okay, let’s go back — before you crashed — you saw Sally?”

  “Yeah, matter of fact, I did. She was still with Len, the two of them heading off together.”

  Sarah listened carefully — this moment was key.

  “Heading off? Just the two of them? You absolutely sure about that?”

  “Yeah, up the cliff. Led right out of town.”

  “Thirty years ago, Tigz. You really remember this so clearly?”

  “Yeah, I do,” he said, shrugging. “Dunno. Something about it.”

  “Well, that’s quite a remarkable memory.”

  Sarah watched him as he leaned forward.

  “Okay. Here’s the deal. Thing is, you see, I fancied Sally. I thought maybe me and her … But no, she was solid for Len. That’s why I remember.”

  Sarah nodded.

  That extra bit of information made sense. Though something about his story felt too cut and dried. She took out her phone, showed him the photo again.

  “And these other people — you don’t recognise them at all?”

  Tigz peered at the screen. “I dunno. Don’t think so. Though the woman with the kid, looks like that could be Nonna.”

  “And the big guy? The bald one?”

  “Nah,” he said, frowning. “Don’t recognise him.”

  “The other girl? Blonde hair?”

  “Like I said, lots of girls in Ibiza.”

  “Okay,” she said. “One last question. After that Sunday morning — did you see Sally again?”

  “No,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “Never.”

  Sarah put the phone away.

  What Tigz had said, didn’t help Len. In fact — the opposite.

  If he was telling the truth, then the last person Sally had been with before she died could well have been Len.

  *

  Jack leaned back in his chair, watching Micky Hooke ponder the bare details of Len’s arrest. For Hooke’s benefit, he pulled the chair a bit closer, gave a look around at the room, signalling “what’s said here stays here”.

  “Mr Hooke.”

  “Micky’s just fine, Mr Brennan—”

  “Jack, please.”

  “So. You’re an ex-cop, eh? Almost a cliché.”

  Jack smiled, though somehow it was not funny at all.

  “Just trying to help. It’s murder. Len is about to be extradited to Spain. Looks like they have the evidence.”

  “Poor bastard. After all these years.”

  “Right, so I was wondering, you having known him — been there — is there anything at all you might tell us?”

  Hooke tapped out another Marlboro.

  Don’t see many Marlboro men these days, thought Jack. Nicotine be damned.

  After lighting the cigarette, Hooke also looked around, sniffed the smoke-filled air.

  “I’ll tell you what I can. I liked Len. But I have to say — that summer — he was one crazy bastid.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Jack. “You knew him well then?”

  “Well enough. Used to stay at the same place in the hills sometimes.”

  “And what were you doing out in Ibiza?”

  Hooke laughed, a rough-edged smoker’s laugh. “What wasn’t I doing? I tell you, that place was like a money tree in paradise, nothing like it. Them kids? They were so wired you could sell ’em anything.”

  “And you did, huh?”

  “No law against it,” said Micky, smiling. “Least on that island!”

  “Depends what you were selling,” said Jack, smiling back at him. But not smiling inside.

  “Come on. What do you take me for? T-shirts. Sun cream. Water. Liked water, those kids did. Loved it. Funny that. Wonder why?”

  Hooke smirked, as if he was succeeding in playing Jack for a fool.

  But Jack had no doubt — Micky was selling the drugs that made those kids so thirsty.

  “So, Micky, were you around the weekend Sally Hayes disappeared?”

  “Sally Hayes?” said Micky, frowning as if trying to recall. “You mean Len’s girlfriend?”

  Jack took out his phone, flicked to the photo of Sally and showed it to Micky.

  “You recognise her?”

  “Course. That’s Sally. Crazy Sally, we called her. Dancer she was. Down at the Pulse. When she wasn’t up to other stuff.”

  “How do you mean?” said Jack, feeling that finally he was going to get something useful from Micky.

  “You see … Len and Sally … Their relationship? What’s the word? Volatile. Police on the island had to intervene a couple of times.” Hooke stuck out a finger. “You can check that, by the way. The police would just tell them to stop their fighting … screaming. Was mostly Sally. Len liked his drugs, no mistake about that. But Sally, well, she was something else. In the words of that song, she seemed hell-bent on burning out as opposed to — you know — fading away?”

  Jack nodded. Hooke’s words making those days — that summer — come to life.

  “Course, it was Len I really knew. Great DJ. Was ‘DJ Spirit’, he tell you that?”

  Jack answered with a nod.

  “But with that girl — Sally — he was playing with fire.”

  “And that weekend, do you know what Len was up to? Or Sally?”

  “Wait a minute — you’re not telling me Sally is the girl Len murdered?”

  Jack nodded. “That’s what the Spanish police say.”

  “Jeez,” said Micky, shaking his head.

  “You don’t look so surprised,” said Jack.

  “Well — like I said — volatile,” said Micky with a shrug. “That why Len left the island?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” said Jack. “You remember that weekend?”

  “Oh yeah. Big deal when he left, it was. He’d played a couple of big sets — Friday, Saturday night — amazing sets. Then Sunday he just … disappeared. Too many pills probably.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Yeah, big scandal it was — all coming back to me. He had another gig lined up, good money too. They had to cancel, because he never showed.”

  “Same time Sally disappeared, apparently?”

  “Yeah — now that you mention it — it was. Anyway, he turns up a couple of days later, tail between his legs, yes — I remember now — he said he couldn’t find Sally, said she must have had one too many, gone night-swimming, some such nonsense.”

  “When in fact … she had been murdered.”

  “Terrible,” said Micky. “But, you know, that Len … he had a temper on him, that’s for sure.”

  “Really?” said Jack, finding it hard to believe.

  “Famous for it, he was.”

  And now, hearing all this, Jack felt that he had to ask the next question. Such a terrible question.

  “Micky — do you think — based on what you knew about the two of them — that Len could—?”

  Hooke finished the question.

  “Kill her? Hate to say it.” He looked away, shaking his head as this act of betrayal was physically painful.

  Then back to Jack.

  “You never know. The tempers the two of them had. Throw in the drugs. Fights over deals, money …”

  Micky’s voice trailed away.

  “Micky — you say you hung out at the same place. Were there maybe other friends of Len’s we can talk to? People who might know more about that weekend?”

  “Dunno. Talking years ago, Jack.”

  Jack took out his phone again, opened the photo by the pool, held it out so Micky could see.

  “Recognise anyone?” he said, as Micky peered at the photo.

  “Sally. Len there, course.”

  “How about the others?”

  “Faces familiar. But names? Ha — can’t help you there. Sorry.”

  “Sure, understand,” said Jack, standing up. �
�Thanks, Micky.”

  “Any time. Give my regards to Len when you see him.”

  Jack nodded and headed for the stairs. But then he turned. He did have one final question.

  “Don’t suppose you ever saw Len when you were both back in the UK?”

  Jack saw him shake his head quickly.

  Too quickly, thought Jack.

  “No, mate. Last time I saw Len Taylor he was bringing the house down that week at the Pulse.”

  Jack nodded, let himself out and up the stairs onto the Soho streets.

  Was any of what Micky had just told him true?

  Because every one of Jack’s instincts told him that Micky Hooke had just spent half an hour lying through his teeth.

  Meanwhile — another day had gone. Another night with Len in jail coming up.

  And just two days until the wedding …

  11. A Secret Revealed

  Sarah hurried up the creaky steps to her office — a quick check on work, then she’d be done for the day.

  Expecting that office to be empty.

  Instead …

  As she hurried in, she stopped, frozen.

  There was Grace, at the big bank of monitors that was usually Sarah’s domain, monitors that should have been all dark.

  Grace must have heard her bolting up the stairs.

  But she hadn’t turned around.

  Sarah felt her words catch in her throat, as she immediately pieced together what was happening here as Grace slowly turned to her.

  And on that face, the clear trails of tears. Sarah started to shake her head as if she could somehow wish the reality away from her.

  The clear truth of this moment: Grace knows.

  “I—I thought,” the girl started, “I’d check on the last-minute images from the farm store. I mean, bit of a distraction you know? I thought — easier on your big screens. Didn’t mean to pry, to look …”

  Finally Sarah spoke. “Grace. I, um — please don’t …”

  Grace nodded at Sarah’s faltering explanation.

  “Course, the stories were all there, in your history. The man being arrested for murder. That man — my father. Well, can’t fault me for looking, now, can you?”

  Sarah took a breath. “Grace, you have to understand, that this week, I just didn’t …”

  And now Grace stood up, and took a step away from the bank of monitors.

  “Funny way to discover that your dad is in jail, right? Explains things, I suppose. Been quiet ’cause he was — what? — behind bars for murder?”

  At that, the girl shook, like a slender tree in a fierce, relentless wind.

  Sarah took some steps to close the distance, but Grace immediately hardened, her voice turning sharp, accusing.

  “You knew. The two of you. Jack and you, looking into it. And you — my maid of honour — didn’t even tell me? God … my mother too. I have to find out like this.”

  Sarah had stopped, sure that any hug or touch would be quickly rejected.

  “Grace, listen to me. You know how much I care for you. And I know how much you want this week — this wedding — to be perfect—”

  “Fat chance of that now.”

  “Jack and I wanted to see if — somehow — we could sort it all out, get your father released, everything on track — with you none the wiser.”

  Grace managed a rueful smile. “You know, I’ve been seeing you pecking away over here. Thinking maybe, you and Jack could be working on something. I know you never talk to me about that. And that’s okay.” Then she repeated quietly, “That’s okay. But my own father?” Grace shook her head. Then the most damning words. “How could you?”

  Sarah thought, I have to give this one last shot. Otherwise, what? Is this how our friendship ends? Is this how this week ends?

  “Grace. Hang on. You know me. And you know I’d never do anything that I thought could hurt you. We were racing the clock. We are racing the clock to help your father. And if you were out of all that, well, we thought, that’s the way it should be.”

  Grace nodded, non-committal as if she didn’t buy what was being sold.

  The shock, the pain, had to be immense.

  “Tell me one thing Sarah. My maid of honour …” Stinging. “Did my dad do it? Like they say in the charge. Did he kill someone all those years ago?”

  Sarah so wanted to say no. Totally sure. No way your father did this.

  But that — at this point, with the leads they had — could just be another lie.

  “Grace, we don’t think so. We know Len. What kind of man he is. So, no — we don’t believe he did it.”

  Now Grace took a breath, accepting the honesty.

  “But so far, we don’t have the proof we need.”

  At that Grace just nodded.

  She started to take some steps, moving to the side to pass Sarah, to the stairs.

  Sarah thought, Is this over?

  So, she said, “Grace, are we okay?”

  Grace barely looked back as she stepped slowly away.

  “Dunno, Sarah. Gonna have to think about things, right? Talk to mum. Best I be gentle with her. God knows what this has done to her world.”

  “Right.”

  More steps.

  The door to the stairs was still open from Sarah’s hurried entrance.

  Grace started down.

  “We’ll talk?” Sarah offered, hoping for a positive response.

  “Yeah. Guess so. Not now though.”

  And Grace left the office, the stairs creaking with each laboured step as Sarah stood there, as shaken by this as she had been by anything.

  *

  “God,” Jack said, pulling up one of the old chairs, to sit facing her out here on the chilly deck of The Grey Goose. “Sarah, that had to be—”

  Sarah looked up at Jack. She managed the smallest, sad smile.

  “Words fail, eh?”

  “But look, you have to remember …” Jack leaned closer, that conspiratorial way he had, as if sharing some deep and important secret. He reached out with his right hand and covered her left hand. “You and I did what we did to protect Grace. So her whole wedding week wasn’t about her father, the arrest, going to jail.”

  “That worked out well, didn’t it?”

  “Okay.” Now Jack smiled just a bit. “Maybe not. But there’s this. We are working as hard as we can to exonerate her father. And for Grace, for Len … there’s only one thing to do.”

  “Keep on at it?”

  “Bingo. And, if anything, use all these feelings — the hurt and confusion Grace feels — use them, as we keep going.”

  For a moment Sarah said nothing. The only sound, the water lapping at the side of the old barge.

  “You’re right. We need to do what we’re good at doing, yeah?” She took a breath. “Let’s get to it, then.”

  Jack nodded. And — as if he could tell that Sarah had pulled herself together — he removed his hand.

  “Great. Now let’s pull this whole mess apart, piece by piece, over dinner.”

  Jack stood up, his face half-lit by the soft lighting coming from the cabin below.

  “There’s one thing I don’t think I can shake off,” Sarah said. Jack stood there. She guessed he well knew what she was going to say. “What if Len is guilty?”

  And Jack, who usually had a reassuring answer for everything, just nodded and headed down the steps into the saloon of his barge to start cooking.

  *

  “Top up?” said Jack, reaching over to Sarah’s glass with the bottle of Merlot.

  “Sure,” said Sarah, spooning some more of Jack’s signature chilli onto her plate.

  She tried not to think of Grace, and how upset she was.

  Tonight was crucial in planning their next steps if they were to help Len and his daughter at all.

  “You know, when I cook this using your recipe, it never tastes this good.”

  “Being on a boat, that must be it,” said Jack. She watched him top up his own glass. “And ma
ybe one or two little secret ingredients.”

  “I thought so,” said Sarah, taking a sip of wine then tucking back in. “Gonna watch you more carefully next time.”

  She saw Jack smile and raise his glass. Then the two of them ate in silence for a couple of minutes, Sarah feeling more like her old self.

  She loved being here in the tiny galley of The Grey Goose, Jack’s dog Riley snoozing on the leather sofa in the saloon, the wood-burner glowing.

  They’d finally sat down to dinner around nine, and while Jack had cooked, they’d shared what they’d discovered, going back through their notebooks to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.

  Sarah took a last mouthful, laid her fork on her plate.

  “Delicious, as ever, Jack.”

  “Welcome. Shame we had to cancel dinner at the Pig — but I can understand Grace’s decision.”

  “I don’t think I could have kept up the pretence for much longer anyway,” said Sarah. “These last couple of days — been awful working with her, not saying a word about it.”

  “Sure,” said Jack, laying down his fork too. “So — what’s the plan tomorrow?”

  “I have no idea,” said Sarah, shrugging. “We know Tigz and Micky are both holding back on us, but we have no idea why. And I can’t see that we’ve got any leverage to make them come clean about what really happened.”

  “If they even know that,” said Jack.

  She saw him take out his phone and open the photo of the group by the pool at the finca.

  “Something tells me the answer’s right here somewhere,” said Jack, sitting back and staring at the photo. “Been bugging me for a while. The blonde woman. Who is she? And why do both Micky and Tigz claim they don’t know who she is?”

  “Yeah. Funny how they both said that. But you can see from the body language in the photo they all know each other well. So why lie now?”

  “Maybe because she’s important,” said Jack.

  “Because she knows something? Something they want to keep quiet?”

  “Yep, could be. A mystery woman with no name — so far. Course — who knows if she’s even alive?”

  “And if she is — how do we find her? Short of going to Ibiza and asking round.”

  “Road trip?” Jack laughed. “Had occurred to me, Sarah. But time’s running out. Wedding — day after tomorrow.”

  “And Len himself could be on a plane to Spain before then.”