Claire shook her head.
“It was there on Friday.”
“You’re certain?” said Sarah.
“I checked.”
“How often do you check?” said Jack.
“Every week,” said Claire.
“You’ve always kept it like this — in the closet?”
“Can’t beat it. Even when we lived in London. Got robbed enough times there, but no one ever found my shoebox money.”
“Why not put it in a bank?” said Jack.
Sarah turned to him. “Jack I think the whole point is — you don’t know when you might need to run away,” said Sarah. “Isn’t that right Claire?”
“Sounds like you’ve been there too my love,” said Claire.
“I have,” said Sarah. “I just didn’t have the foresight to keep a shoebox full of cash in my wardrobe.”
Jack didn’t say anything. He knew how dramatic the end of Sarah’s marriage had been — even now, years later, the memory of her husband’s betrayal and her escape from London could bring Sarah’s mood crashing down.
He moved across and looked more closely at Terry’s side of the closet.
“What’s this?” he said. “Gun cabinet? Police checked it?”
“Yes,” said Claire. “Wasn’t touched. Not a scratch.”
“What’s in it?”
“Terry’s shotgun.”
“He hunts?”
“Clay pigeons.”
Jack nodded.
“Well, Claire, I think we’ve seen all we need to in here.”
“Okay,” said Claire. “Can I make you another coffee?”
“Very kind of you, but I’m all coffeed out.”
“But thank you,” said Sarah.
Jack put his hand gently on Sarah’s shoulder. “You got anything else you need to see in the house?”
She smiled at him.
“No, I’m cool.”
“Good,” he said. “Guess we’ve seen everything we can …”
But as they walked down the stairs, through the house and into the back garden, Jack was thinking …
…and none of this makes any sense at all.
*
“Well what do you make of that, Monsieur Poirot?” said Sarah in her worst French accent as they drove back up the lane towards the main road.
Jack laughed. “Okay — no more Poirot and Miss Marple, and I’ll tell you what I think. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Something stinks — and I’m not just talking about that coffee. Which was terrible by the way. When did someone decide that foam should replace caffeine?”
“I managed to pour half mine down the sink when Claire wasn’t looking,” said Sarah.
Jack laughed. “Well, you owe me. I had to finish mine.”
“So tell me, what don’t you buy?”
“Okay, here’s the thing. On the surface everything points to this being a professional burglary — yes?”
“That’s what Alan reckoned when I spoke to him this morning.”
“Can’t blame him. No fingerprints anywhere, alarm somehow disabled, in and out while the occupants are away — so you gotta assume some period of surveillance, tracking the occupants, finding their patterns, schedules … A lot of effort.”
Sarah slowed at the junction with the main road and waited for some traffic to go by, then took the left turn that would take them back to Cherringham.
“But?” she said.
“But — a pro doesn’t needlessly trash the place like that. For no reason? Those photos — drawers pulled out of cupboards, tipped up. Why?”
Jack looked away, thinking.
“No, a pro starts at the bottom of a chest, pulls out one drawer, then the one above and so on and so on. Very methodical. And all that portable tech — those Macs? They’d take both of those for sure. Plus — they left half the jewellery behind.”
“And the shoes?”
Again Jack laughed.
“Okay. A pro may not know those shoes are worth so much.”
“Right. So you’re saying — it was amateurs? Maybe kids?”
“Ah, no I’m not saying that either. Because amateurs leave prints. And amateurs don’t know how to disable an alarm system.”
“Alright,” said Sarah. “So if it wasn’t professionals, and it wasn’t amateurs, then … who?”
Jack took a few seconds to think. His brow furrowed.
Perplexed, she knew.
But with an idea.
“Inside job,” said Jack. “Got to be.”
“You mean Claire? Or Terry?”
“Or both,” said Jack.
“Insurance?”
“Could be. But then why not take the other Mac? The gun too, maybe.”
“But that rules out Claire, right? Why get us involved? Especially if the police don’t look like they’ll solve it anyway. Surely that defeats the whole purpose?”
Again a pause.
“True.”
“And Jack, if they both did it — then Claire’s twenty grand didn’t get stolen at all. So why draw attention to it?”
“Also true.” He shook his head. “None of this adds up.”
“And what she said about Terry sleeping in the other room. No love lost there.”
“You’re right,” said Jack. “Not exactly the basis for a criminal partnership.”
They drove for a while in silence.
“But on the other hand, if it wasn’t an inside job — then how did the burglars know the cash was in the shoebox?” said Jack.
“And Claire said nobody knew about it,” said Sarah. “Do you think she was telling the truth?”
“You don’t?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I liked her. But something about what she said … I didn’t quite believe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Almost as if she kept … forgetting to be upset.”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “That’s a good way of putting it.”
“How about the back of the house — you see anything there?”
“Hmm,” said Jack. “Pretty easy to access. And not much sign of security.”
“No clues?”
“Just the broken window — and we know Alan’s done forensics on that.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Well, we ought to talk to Terry. And the son Oliver.”
“You think he could be involved?” said Sarah.
“Can’t rule him out. Don’t forget — he has the password for the alarm too.”
“And Claire did mention he often asks for money,” said Sarah.
“And he was here with his pals while mummy and daddy were away. Plenty of time to go scouting round the house for what might bring a few extra pennies …”
“You’re such a cynic, Jack.”
“Comes with the job.”
“But he can’t be more than nineteen. Just a kid.”
“Sure. But we can’t leave him out. Oh, and Sarah — maybe you can do a background check on the family finances, huh?”
Sarah thought about this.
Back when she’d lived in London she’d picked up some not quite legal computer skills. She didn’t mind using them when she and Jack were on the trail of somebody criminal.
But a friend of her mother?
It didn’t seem right.
“You not happy doing that?” said Jack.
“Not really, Jack. Maybe if we get some hard evidence that they’re up to something. I mean — Claire is in mum’s choir, you know?”
“Sure. It’s no big deal. How about, instead — you track down where Olli Goodman hangs out in Oxford? That allowed?”
“That’s allowed,” said Sarah, relieved that Jack understood how she felt. “One condition though.”
“Name it.”
“I’m the who one goes to Oxford to talk to him.”
“Oh, I get it. You get to go to the big city while I interview the sleazy car dealer, huh?”
“I could use a dos
e of city.”
Jack laughed. “I hear you. Enjoy.”
“Wish I could tell you to enjoy the visit to the dealership.”
“Not possible …”
Sarah laughed and slowed down as they reached the usual mid-day queue for the toll bridge.
“Hey, you want to come back for some lunch on the Goose?” Jack said.
Sarah always loved visiting Jack’s big old Dutch barge which was moored just upriver from the bridge. But she knew that Grace would need her in the office by now.
“I’d love to,” said Sarah. “But I ought to be getting back. We do have work piling up.”
“Sure. We’ll touch base. Let me know how you get on with Oliver. You think you’ll go this afternoon?”
“If Grace is okay, yep.”
“Great. Then I’m going to grab a quick bite to eat then go test drive some luxury four wheel drives-”
He climbed out of the car.
“Have fun in the big city,” he said with a grin.
Sarah watched him cross the road and head off down the path that led alongside the river to the moorings.
Then the queue started to move on and she drove over the bridge up the hill into Cherringham.
6. Student Life
Sarah decided she’d try to talk to Oliver Goodman first, then hit the shops on Walton Street before they shut for the day and catch the cheap train back to Cherringham at seven.
But actually locating Oliver wasn’t as easy as she’d expected, especially as she and Jack had agreed it was best not to let Claire know she was going to speak to him.
Pelham College was quaint — old-fashioned, with ivy-covered walls, and a friendly atmosphere.
But when she just strolled through the entrance and into the first quadrangle, she was quickly approached by one of the porters and asked her business.
Years ago, as a student in London, she’d come up to Oxford to see friends many times. And she was always advised ‘just walk past the porters’ lodge like you belong and nobody ever stops you’ — the trick got her in every time.
So why didn’t it work now?
And then she realised.
I’m getting too old to look remotely like a student.
Time flies.
She tried to persuade the porter that she was a relative of Oliver Goodman, just passing through Oxford, wanted to surprise him … and all she needed was his room number …
The porter had smiled at her, but his words were anything but warm and he declined to reveal ‘any student’s private address’.
So Sarah had politely withdrawn to rearrange her tactics.
Just opposite the college, she saw an old chapel and a tea shop … and — through the windows — the place bursting with students.
So in she’d gone and finally — after three cups of tea and a dozen conversations with students — she found someone from the college who knew Oliver.
“Olli Goodman?” The long-haired guy laughed. “The Good Man! Sure, I know where he hangs …”
And after explaining that she was his aunty and had a big birthday cheque for him, the guy grinned and gave Sarah the address.
Adding: “He can use that cheque …”
The place was a house off the Cowley Road, shared with half a dozen other students.
“Big house. They’re total party animals, it’s really cool.”
Without the car, the Cowley Road was a good twenty-minute walk.
Sarah realised her city shopping plans were doomed.
And she set off down the High Street, hoping that Oliver would be in when she got there.
*
Sarah stood outside Oliver’s house and took it in.
Tall, terraced, and in a state of disrepair. Half a dozen bikes were stacked against each other in the front garden.
She saw bags of rubbish, boxes, crates of bottles, and old bits of carpet.
She pressed the doorbell and braced herself for the oncoming glimpse into modern student life. This might be Oxford — but she knew it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Party animals weren’t known for their hygiene.
She waited a minute, then pressed the doorbell again.
Still no answer. Finally, after a third ring, there was the sound of shuffling footsteps from within the house and the door creaked open.
A young man stood there in his bare feet, bleary-eyed in a dressing gown. Behind him the house was in darkness.
Sarah recognised him from the photos at the Goodmans’ house — though in those pictures he actually looked alive.
“Bloody hell, what time do you call this?” he said to her.
“Two thirty in the afternoon,” said Sarah.
“Jeez.”
The guy had clearly just got out of bed. Sarah watched him scratch his chest and blink in the winter sun.
“I’m looking for Oliver Goodman.”
“He’s not in.”
“I think he is,” said Sarah. “And I think I’m looking at him.”
“Bloody hell,” said Oliver. “Are you from the bank? I spoke to someone ’bout things, and—
Sarah laughed.
“No I’m not from the bank. But I do need to talk to you about something important. Look …”
She held out a plastic bag.
“I brought a cake from Patisserie Valerie.”
This seemed to wake Oliver up.
“Really? That is one righteous cake. Okay.” He seemed to look at Sarah differently … in a way she didn’t like at all.
And she hoped he had something on under that dressing gown.
God …
“All right then. You’d better come in.”
He opened the door wide and Sarah stepped into the darkness.
*
Once inside, besides the gloom, Sarah picked up the distinct and — she guessed — permanent odour of marijuana.
She thought she probably could get high simply by breathing the cloistered air of this dingy temple to partying.
She watched Olli collapse into a giant chair.
Any light here, and she would have probably seen a cloud of dust kick into the room.
But the gloom rendered that impossible.
“Take a seat,” he said. “Anywhere.”
Olli had already popped open the box revealing a chocolate-cherry layer cake and quickly yanked out a piece with his bare hands.
Due to his mouth being full, it was hard to decipher his next words which sounded like, “Oak, wha you wanno awk bout?”
It took a second for her to translate the question.
“I’m here to talk about something that happened to your parents.”
Olli swallowed — which made the next words a tad clearer.
She had to wonder: did this amazing specimen of humanity really attend classes in the world-renowned Oxford?
Seemed impossible.
“What about them? They moving again?” Then he snickered. “Mum pregnant?”
Sarah shook her head as if it was a real question.
Olli sat sprawled on the over-padded chair, one leg over an arm, his dressing gown barely covering much.
She had thought that Jack was the one getting the sleazy option.
But it looked like she had won that prize.
“Your parents. They’ve been robbed.”
Olli showed no reaction to that.
But — she noted — he did dig out another piece of cake. And after wiping his already chocolate stained cheeks with the sleeve of his gown, he took a giant bite.
Nice big pause there, Sarah thought.
And she waited.
*
Jack had parked his Sprite right in front of the Lux-4 dealership where his little sports car looked like a shrimp about to get a beating from the mammoth SUVs hulking nearby.
He looked at the building.
New, with giant glass windows that showed more SUVs — the really expensive ones … Lexus, Cadillac … and even a black vintage Hummer H-1, standing guard to the sid
e.
Just what the world needs, Jack thought.
More behemoth ‘cars’.
He walked into the gleaming dealership.
He saw two men in suits; stick-thin legs, narrow, dark glasses.
Modern-day Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, Jack thought.
The nearest salesman hurried over.
“Oh, hello — and welcome to the Lux-4 Automotive Experience …”
Automotive experience? Jack thought.
You mean … a place where one buys gas-guzzlers?
“Hi,” Jack said.
“My name is Gerrald, and I can take care of you today. Can I ask what kind of vehicle you might be interested in? Perhaps you’ve seen our TV ads? We are a full-service—”
The guy was on script, and rambling through the dialogue like a fisherman who suddenly landed a big one after sitting at the edge of the boat, empty-handed for a very long time.
“Maybe in a bit. But you see,” Jack looked around, “I'm really here to speak with Terry Goodman.”
The salesman’s head bobbed like a dashboard toy. “Oh, of course. A personal contact of Mr. Goodman’s?”
The salesman backed away as if he had been burned by the heat of a stove. His right hand flew out and pointed to the side of the showroom.
To an elevated reception desk.
And behind that desk, a woman with waves of jet-black hair, dark red lipstick, and a blouse straining to remain buttoned.
That she was filing away at her nails only completed the picture.
“You’d best check in with Liz there. She can see if Mr. Goodman is free.”
Jack smiled, nodded and walked over to the reception desk.
And when the receptionist didn’t look up.
Don’t want to miss a slice at that index cuticle to acknowledge someone …
“Excuse me. But I’m wondering if I could have a few words with Terry Goodman?”
The woman’s eyes, outlined in deep black, finally looked up slowly, as if wondering who would dare interrupt such a delicate operation.
“And wot is this in reference to, Mr.—?”
“Brennan.”
The woman nodded.
“It’s kind of a private matter.”
She looked down at a calendar on her desk. “I believe he is on a call now. And he has appointments scheduled, and—”
“Maybe you could tell him it’s about his house. About the robbery?”
Her cherry-red lips formed a fish-like ‘O’ of understanding.
Cherringham--Follow the Money Page 4