Then she stopped herself.
Could be …
Could be Lavender had simply bought it from someone, not caring about the real owner.
That probably happened all the time.
But it didn’t seem likely. A thief would have wiped the hard drive before selling it on.
He had to have been the one who stole it …
She needed to explore the cottage some more.
Maybe this seductive lair of Lavender’s had even more secrets to reveal.
*
Jack kept his eyes on the cottage, lights on … normally a risky thing to do with the owner away for who knows how long.
But in this case, Lavender had just left.
And the cottage was totally on its own.
Secluded.
But then … what if Lavender got to his ‘Writers Circle’ meeting, and for some reason he cancelled. No one showing up?
Or some other reason?
If he raced back here, he’d see his cottage lit up like a Christmas tree.
That would require some explaining.
So he also kept looking back to the road where — in the darkness — he knew he’d catch the furtive headlights of any car on the road heading near this rocky lane down to the river.
Then he did see lights.
He dug out his phone.
He and Sarah had a plan if Lavender did come back.
He held the phone ready to call her, with his eyes locked on the road. The lights snaked through the twisting parallel rows of hedges.
Jack watching to see if it slowed as it neared the lane.
It did.
Jack could just about make out the shape of the car — something big, an SUV maybe.
It stopped, its engine running.
But then the lights sped up and barrelled on, like an animal seeking other prey for the evening.
Jack let out a breath — a frosty cloud visible in the night air.
No worries with that car. Must have just been someone lost, or maybe taking a call.
Still, he hoped Sarah finished up fast.
*
Sarah saw that Lavender had left all of Terry’s files and programs on the computer.
She opened his inbox and scanned his recent emails fast.
Then she slipped a USB drive out to grab what she could.
Not sure how relevant it could all be, but after breaking in using lock picks …
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Then — after shutting screens and leaving open only what had been there when she started — she shut the clamshell lid.
She got up and carefully pushed her chair close to the nook.
She looked at her watch.
Jack had said fifteen … twenty minutes for this — tops.
You never know, he had said.
It was already at the fifteen-minute mark, so she just had time for a quick run through drawers, cupboards.
Maybe she’d find more stolen items from the Goodmans’.
Or maybe not.
She walked into the bedroom.
*
Lavender had spared no expense on the bedding.
The fabric, a rich, lustrous swirl of brown and purple. Manly, but still something Sarah thought that a woman would find elegant.
Above the rickety dresser that probably came with the cottage, Lavender had hung a gilt-framed poster of a decade old modern production of Wagner’s ‘Tristan and Isolde’ from the Munich Opera House.
In the image: the two doomed lovers wearing little, entwined in an embrace that would do Gustav Klimt proud.
The prefect boudoir decoration.
She opened the dresser’s drawers.
And they were empty.
The reason soon became obvious.
She looked right. A couple of suitcases sat by the window.
The posters … easily replaced … but Lavender had packed up all his clothes and — save for the MacBook — was ready to go.
She also noted a briefcase; something a businessman would use.
She picked it up and noted that the clasps were locked by a three-digit combination lock.
Should she pop it … force it open?
She doubted the picks would work on it.
Plus … there was the time ticking away.
She dug out her phone to call Jack.
To see she had zero bars; no reception here at all.
“What the hell,” she said.
After all, she had already broken in.
This was just too tempting and intriguing not to open.
She used the largest metal pike of her lock picking set and wedged it under one clasp.
With a sharp flick of her wrist upwards, it popped open.
Then the other one.
She put the briefcase flat on the floor and opened the lid.
And said … “Oh, my …”
*
Jack saw the lights go out in the cottage.
Good, he thought. She's done.
He could see her racing away from the cottage, hurrying over the rocky lane.
And she stopped dead in front of him, breathless — but with a big grin on her face.
“Jack — guess what I found?”
“I’ll bite — what?”
“Terry’s Mac.”
“Really …”
“And not just that — though I did have to use a little force to open a briefcase …”
He watched her reach into her jacket and remove a large envelope.
“The money?”
“20,000 pounds! All of Claire’s getaway money. I thought — whatever happens — I should keep hold of it.”
“You did the right thing.”
“Plus some very nice jewellery. And guess what? Lavender is all packed for a getaway of his own. About to disappear. I’m guessing that this is probably the last night at the Writer’s Circle.”
“You … are amazing.”
Jack popped open the door to his sport car.
“In which case, we better get back to Cherringham. Think it will be interesting to see what happens when the writers’ group ends.”
“And call Alan?”
“Yes. Wouldn’t want Lavender vanishing somewhere. I have a feeling this guy’s a pro.”
Sarah nodded.
She got in as Jack started the car, still keeping the lights off until they got out of their hideaway, and back onto the road.
“And Jack … there’s something else. On Terry’s computer. Read a lot of emails.”
“Hmmm. And his getaways? Off to the continent with his receptionist?”
She turned and looked at him as he hit the road, and turned on the headlights.
“No. In fact, there was nothing romantic there at all. Looks like those trips were to meet with his suppliers, working out terms. Trying to adjust prices, orders. Not a hint of an affair.”
Jack shook his head, and gave her a look and a grin. “Appearances can be deceiving. So our Terry’s a loyal husband. You just never know, do you?”
And Sarah, thinking of the screenwriter turned cat burglar, had to agree.
“No, you never do.”
And Jack drove at what — for him, Sarah guessed — was a fast clip back to Cherringham.
13. Goodbye to Cherringham
“Look — people are coming out,” Sarah said, pointing to the Village Hall.
Jack had parked well away from the hall, in a shadowy spot that didn’t catch much light from the nearest street lamp.
“Class over. And looks like they’re all women,” Jack said.
“Lavender’s charms at work?”
She watched as the women stopped for a moment, saying their goodbyes for the evening.
The plan: wait until the writing group came out and then suggest to Lavender that he might want to walk the few steps down to the police station and tell Alan Rivers what he had done.
That had been the plan …
But then …
After the women left, they sa
w Claire Goodman come out.
She stopped just at the doors to the hall, wiped her eyes.
“Jack,” Sarah said. “Claire Goodman’s in the group.”
“Well waddya know,” said Jack. “Makes sense though — use the writers’ group to find targets. Houses to burgle …”
Sarah watched Claire stand outside the dimly lit entrance to the hall. She opened her handbag, took out a handkerchief.
“It looks like she’s been crying.”
Sarah turned and looked at Jack.
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
“Not sure. Let’s wait and—”
Then Claire walked past the hall, heading to the small car park in the centre of the village.
And they watched Claire Goodman get into Pete Lavender’s Audi.
“That’s interesting,” Jack said.
Then — finally — Lavender came out, looked both ways and walked over to his car.
He got in as well.
And then — even with a few lamp posts that marked corners of the park — it was impossible to see what was happening inside darkened windows of the Audi.
But Sarah could guess.
“Jack — are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Claire and Lavender. I didn’t see that coming.”
“So not only did Lavender steal from Claire Goodman. She’s been having an affair with him. Is that possible?”
“Don’t think they’re solving a story problem in there. Looks to me like a tearful goodbye — with her cash, unbeknownst to her, paying for the getaway.”
She turned to him. “And what do we do now?”
“Not sure. I feel bad for her. I mean, she can’t possibly know that the smarmy guy stole from her.” Jack took a breath. “That will be hard to take.”
“Do we call Alan?”
“Lavender won’t get far. Let's try to tell Claire first. It’s not going to be easy.”
“And her husband?”
“He’ll need to know. About the thief, at least …”
Sarah looked away. She had felt what’s it like when someone you thought loved you … cheated on you.
There was no worse feeling.
And all the time they thought that it might have been Terry who had the wandering eye.
“Look’s like she’s not going back to his cottage,” Jack said.
The door of the Audi popped open.
And with what Sarah could only describe as a determined walk Claire Goodman hurried away from the park, from Lavender’s car, heading back to the Village Hall and her little sports car.
Claire got in, backed out, and sped away from the square and the village.
“Think we need to tell her now.”
That’s going to be terrible, Sarah thought.
But it had to be done.
“Yes.”
And waiting just a few minutes to let Claire Goodman get ahead of them, Jack started the Sprite, their spying over, as he drove to the beautiful Goodman house by the river that was soon about to be turned on its head.
*
Claire Goodman opened the front door.
And clearly she had still been crying.
“What? Oh, Sarah, Jack. Sorry. Is this … about anything important, I … I—”
Sarah saw Jack take a step closer.
“We’re afraid it is Claire. Can we come in?”
And with a sniff, and a quick wipe at her eyes, Claire fully opened the door and let them in.
Stepping in, Sarah shut the door behind them.
“Claire …” Jack said in what Sarah knew to be his most soothing tone, the voice, deep, solid — but still somehow so much gentler, “…we know who robbed you.”
Sarah moved closer to Claire, ready for moral support.
God — maybe even physical support.
Jack waited, the woman’s eyes seemed almost — disinterested in the information, more upset about whatever brought those tears.
“It was … Pete Lavender.”
Only then did the woman’s eyes go wide.
Then she shook her head.
“No. That’s impossible. He’s a fine man, an artist, a writer.”
Sarah put a hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“I was just in his cottage, Claire. He has Terry’s MacBook. Your jewellery. And the money.”
Sarah took out the envelope and handed it to Claire, who took it as if in a daze.
More head shaking.
“He said he had to leave. Some important writing job in America. Tonight’s class — the last one. We were going to have dinner. But I couldn’t … He’s going to be back in a couple of weeks and then we—”
Then, with her arm still on the woman’s shoulder, Sarah told the woman what else she and Jack knew.
“We know you two … had grown close.”
Claire began to shake her head again.
But Sarah quickly added: “We saw you. He’s leaving. You’re right. But he’s not coming back.”
Jack looked around the foyer, a glance into the sitting room. “We wanted you and Terry to know first. Before we call Alan.”
The woman had turned away, still shaking her head, only now accompanied by new sobs.
“He said that he cared, that he—”
“Claire,” Jack said.
And Sarah heard a note of — concern, alarm? — in Jack’s voice.
“Where is your husband? Where is Terry?”
“I … I suppose he’s upstairs. Watching television in our room.”
Jack fired a quick look at Sarah.
“Can we go up? Tell him what we know. Just about the theft. That’s all we’ll say.”
The woman nodded, and led the way up the stairs, still clutching the envelope full of money.
With Sarah wondering …
Can we really keep the full story from Terry, to protect this marriage?
And — what is Jack suddenly concerned about?
At the top of the stairs, Claire stopped and called out:
“Terry?”
But there was no answer. Sarah watched her go first to the ‘spare’ bedroom, which was clearly now Terry’s. She pushed the door open — the room was empty.
The whole top floor was silent.
Was Terry really here?
As Claire walked down the corridor towards the master bedroom, she saw Jack step in front of her.
“Hold on a moment, Claire — I think I should go first,” he said.
Claire looked confused.
Sarah now understood why Jack was worried.
The shotgun.
She watched him move to the door and gently push it open.
“Terry? It’s Jack Brennan. You in here?”
She followed as Jack pushed the door wide and headed towards the wardrobe.
She could see the doors were open.
She could see the gun cabinet.
Its doors were open too.
It was empty.
“Shit,” said Jack.
Sarah watched him turn to her.
“Come on,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”
“Where—”
“Lavender’s place.”
And then he was gone, heading fast to the door, the landing …
…and down the stairs.
Sarah turned to Claire who stood, not comprehending.
“Claire, stay here,” she said, briefly putting her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “Don’t let anyone in.”
Then Sarah turned too and ran for the stairs.
14. Stand-off
“Hold tight,” Jack shouted above the roar of the outboard.
Rope in one hand, Sarah gripped the side of the RIB’s cockpit as Jack spun the boat in a tight curve towards the little jetty.
In the dark, she could see the white foam of their wake slamming into the riverbank … and then the jetty was right there in front of her by the prow.
“Okay — now!” he said, kicking the engine into reverse
to slow them down.
Sarah jumped, and landed hard on the jetty, winded. She righted herself and found the cleat — then tied the rope and made the boat fast.
Jack killed the engine and leapt onto the jetty to join her.
“Come on,” he said.
And the two of them ran up the grass towards the little cottage.
Back at the Goodmans’ house, it had only taken Jack seconds to realise that the fastest way of getting to Lavender’s cottage would be to use Terry’s own boat.
Taking the car would have meant going all the way back to Cherringham and then round on the main road.
This way — by river — had taken just two minutes.
Jack hadn’t bothered with the river’s posted speed limits.
Lives were at stake.
“Terry’s taken the shotgun with him,” Jack had said. “And he’s not going clay pigeon shooting at this time of night.”
While Jack had jemmied the doors to Terry’s boathouse, Claire had called Alan Rivers at the police station.
He was on his way too — but they were sure to get there first.
And now, Jack approached the lighted windows at the back of the cottage, he could see that Alan hadn’t arrived yet.
Through the windows, he saw that his intuition had been right.
Pete Lavender stood, his back to the fireplace, talking fast.
And Terry Goodman stood just feet away, the shotgun pointed at the other man’s chest, his face strained, his whole body taut.
“No sudden moves,” Jack said to Sarah. “Just stay behind me — by the door — okay?”
Then Sarah watched him walk to the side of the house, and gently tap on the door.
*
“Who is it?”
Terry Goodman’s voice. Sounding like he had a drink or two.
“Jack Brennan,” he said. “We need to talk, Terry.”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“Yes there is. I’m coming in, okay? Things to tell you. Things you need to know.”
Silence.
Jack knew he couldn’t wait for Alan — or for Terry to change his mind.
He had to get in there, start talking.
Because talking could take the sting out of these situations. Sap the energy.
Not every time though …
Breathing slowly, he put his hand on the door handle, turned it — and slowly pushed open the door.
He saw Lavender, face pale. He hadn’t moved. And Terry, back to Jack, not taking his eye off the writer.
Writer?
Cherringham--Follow the Money Page 8