Cherringham--Death on a Summer Night

by Neil Richards

  It was Tim. He was too far away for her to tell if he’d seen her down here by the car.

  She looked back at the driver, knowing she was safe now.

  “Heading back to the village?” he said, still smiling.

  She nodded. “Yes, maybe—”

  Then, as if anticipating what she’d say …

  “Need a ride?”

  “Could you? Such a long walk.”

  The man made a small laugh.

  “That it is. Hop in. Get you back in minutes.”

  Another deep breath. “Oh — thank you,” she said as she raced around to the other side of the car to get into the passenger seat.

  She popped open the door and slid in fast.

  “You certainly don’t want to be out here on these roads so late at night,” the man said as Dinah closed the door … and the car began moving.

  “And buckle up. Safety first.”

  She nodded, searching for the latch of the buckle.

  But then her hands found the seatbelt latch and brought it around to the buckle, and with a snap she was safe and secure.

  As the car drove off, she caught a glimpse through the back window of Tim running, stumbling down the path towards the road — then he disappeared in the darkness.

  3. Twenty-Five Years Later

  Jack put the two pints of lager on the small table that sat to the right of the Ploughman’s U-shaped bar.

  “Big crowd tonight,” he said to Sarah. “They’ve got Ellie and Billy working those taps non-stop.”

  Sarah grabbed her glass and took a sip. “It’s this heat. Nice and cool in here though with the air conditioning.”

  “Still can’t quite believe this is the only place in Cherringham with AC,” said Jack.

  “Bit of a luxury in England, Jack.”

  “Like power showers, huh?”

  “My mother used to say showers are for washing, not enjoying,” said Sarah. “Though I think this weather’s made her change her mind.”

  “Yup,” Jack said, taking a deep sip of the lager, “even on the Goose, on the water, it’s stifling. Kinda strange for England, hmm?”

  “I can’t ever remember it being this hot.”

  “Let’s hope it holds for the big concert next weekend. You going?”

  “Never miss it. And this year sounds special: Handel by the river …”

  “And then the 1812 with real cannons to wrap it up? That should be something.”

  “You’d better warn Riley.”

  “Ha, you know what — that dog loves fireworks,” he said. “Every July fourth, sitting outside on our stoop. Fireworks exploding overhead …”

  For a minute Jack seemed lost in reverie. Days gone by, and people too …

  “Kids coming?” he finally asked.

  “Oh — Daniel will. If I can drag him away from the pool — and now the fair. And Chloe …” Sarah looked away. “At her dad’s flat in London.”

  “Oh.”

  Whenever the kids were with their dad, Sarah always felt uneasy. As if the bad thing he did to their marriage — the cheating that ended it — could somehow affect them if they stayed with him.

  If she had her way, they’d never see him.

  But she knew that wouldn’t be right. Good or bad, he was their father.

  “Thanks for coming out,” Jack said. “Been a while.”

  “We should get together more anyway — case or no case.”

  Jack smiled. “Maybe there’s no need of our services anymore.”

  Sarah laughed at that. “Not so sure about that. Either way, I hope not!”

  Jack nodded. “It is fun, isn’t it? I must admit, I kind of like getting back to it, even in an unofficial way. What do they call it?”

  “Busman’s holiday?”

  “Right. And you? Business at the shop good?”

  “It’s gone a bit quiet. Summer, you know. Those who can afford it are off to Andalucía or the hills of Provence. Things will pick up.”

  “I’m sure they will. But you got a bit of buffer … I mean …?”

  “Oh yes. Can’t run a freelance business like mine and not do some financial planning. I’ve got a little put by. And this has been a good few weeks for Grace to be on holiday.”

  “And where did she go?”

  “Majorca with three of her pals from school.”

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  Sarah grinned. “There will be fun — but Grace is pretty level-headed. I told her — holiday or not — keep me posted with Facebook updates and Instagram pics.”

  “Postcards … so passé …”

  “What’s a postcard?” Sarah said with a straight face.

  Jack laughed and took a sip of his beer.

  It felt good to just sit, catch up with him. They had become real friends, and Sarah knew — that with Jack — that really meant something.

  She was about to ask about his plans for a trip back to the States — something he had mentioned that he’d like to do in the autumn, when someone walked into the pub.

  And in that way she sometimes could tell that something was wrong, without even seeing what it was, simply by feeling it, Sarah turned to the door.

  As so did a good number of the people at the bar and tables on this full night at the Ploughman’s.

  From the sudden silence, clearly some of the people knew who the man was that just walked in.

  And they weren’t happy.

  Jack leaned closer to Sarah.

  “What’s up? Know him?”

  Sarah looked at the man, standing by the pub door. In his forties, razored hair, denim jacket, his eyes cold, scanning the room. She didn’t know him. She turned back to Jack and shook her head slowly.

  Now, after his conversation-stopping entrance, the man walked to the bar.

  To the very centre of the bar where Billy Leeper, the barman, stood. Billy moved away to the side, grabbing some glasses and plunging them into a sink of soapy water.

  Ignoring the man.

  “That’s interesting,” Jack said quietly.

  And when Ellie began to go to the man, Sarah saw Billy wave her off, a quick shake of his head — a nod to stay down at the other end of the bar.

  Leaving the man standing, waiting.

  Sarah noted that while some people had begun to mutter, many just kept their eyes locked on the man, as if waiting to see what would happen next.

  Something about it made her stomach tighten.

  There was something wrong here.

  To Jack it must feel like one of those classic westerns, she thought.

  A stranger walks in … except he isn’t a stranger.

  Then the man spoke, the voice loud, clear, shattering the silence:

  “I’d like a pint of Stella.”

  Sarah watched Billy fiddling with the soapy glasses.

  Then he turned and went to the far end of the bar, away from the man completely, and quickly refilled the two glasses of Phil Nailor and Pete Bull, standing together.

  Neither of them had asked for a refill.

  And when Billy didn’t turn back left, didn’t walk back to the centre of the bar and serve the man, the newcomer repeated the words.

  “I said … I’d like a pint of Stella.”

  Still nothing, and the air felt even more frigid.

  “Jack,” she whispered, “this isn’t good.”

  Then, from a table by the bay window to the left, Ploughman’s regulars, one stood up.

  The always well-lubricated Terry Hamblyn.

  The sound of his chair being pushed back.

  Sarah turned back to Jack.

  What did he make of all of this?

  She saw Jack’s eyes locked on Terry — someone they knew from when his father died in a tragic fire.

  Terry now walked as straight as he could, right at the man waiting for his beer that never came.

  And when he was about four feet away, Terry said: “Tim Bell. You’ve got a damned cheek walking in here.”

&nb
sp; Terry looked around the room as if seeking the support of all the on-lookers.

  And that name.

  Tim Bell.

  For a second Sarah couldn’t place it.

  Familiar, but how …?

  And Tim Bell turned to face Terry.

  “I wanted a pint,” he said.

  Which is when Billy from behind the bar finally spoke. “You won’t get one here. You can just get the hell out of my pub!”

  And Terry added: “You heard the man. Now get out of here before—” and Terry looked back at his table, at his burly mates, their arms folded, looking as if waiting for a signal to stand up and throw this man out.

  Tim Bell.

  Still — nothing.

  Then she remembered.

  The name.

  What he had done.

  The terrible thing that he had done so long ago.

  “Not sure I like this,” Jack said, his smile gone.

  Sarah guessed he’d be alert in a situation like this. The possibilities, the danger.

  Bell looked around the room, as if taking in all the accusatory eyes locked on him. All those set faces.

  “I have a right to get a beer if I want.”

  Which is when Terry took another unsteady step closer. On cue, his drinking buddies stood up as well.

  “And we have a right to throw a murdering bastard like you right out on the streets.”

  Then other men took steps as well, creating a circle around the man.

  Which is when — with Sarah not even noticing the move — Jack stood up.

  And after a moment, he walked straight to the bar.

  4. A Killer Returns

  Seeing Jack walk into the mob surrounding Tim Bell scared Sarah, now that she finally had placed the name.

  Tim Bell had been in prison for twenty-five years. And Sarah had heard rumours that he had been released just a few weeks ago.

  She had been barely eleven or twelve when the thing happened, all those years ago. It was soon after she and her parents had moved to Cherringham, after a lifetime of living on RAF bases around the world.

  And it had put a sinister shadow over her first few months of living in the English countryside.

  One of the older girls from school — Dinah Taylor, just sixteen — had disappeared.

  And the last person to see her was Bell.

  There had been enough evidence — blood, bit of a dress — to send him away to prison, with the mystery never solved. Everyone assumed he had killed her. There were stories of drugs, a late night, a terrible fight.

  But he denied it all.

  Who wouldn’t?

  And now, Sarah could feel the hatred in this room. As if they might drag Bell outside, and hang him from the nearest tree.

  Some of these men had probably known him back then, known Dinah. And here he was — back, bold as brass, and demanding a beer in the local pub.

  She was afraid that Jack was in over his head.

  “Hey,” he said turning to look at the crowd. “Maybe we all better calm down here, hmm?” He looked at the man who was the focus of the mob. “And maybe this isn’t the night for a beer?”

  It seemed like a stand-off, Jack becoming part of it without knowing what he had walked into.

  But Sarah could guess one thing: he didn’t like the odds.

  “Don’t you tell us, Jack … don’t you bloody tell us you’re going to defend this bastard, after what he did?”

  Jack shook his head. “Not defending anyone, Terry. And,” — with another look at the man — “I don’t know what he did. But I think, on a hot night like this, we could use some cooler heads. Maybe everyone takes a breath, huh?”

  Still no movement.

  And then the Ploughman’s door opened. And Alan Rivers, in uniform, walked in.

  Sarah was never so glad to see the police show up.

  Probably summoned by a text from someone here, she thought.

  Arriving just in time to defuse the situation.

  Or … Sarah hoped he could defuse it.

  “All right, everyone. Settle down.”

  With the arrival of Alan, Jack walked back to Sarah, some of those eyes locked on him, angry at him for sticking up for this returned killer.

  “Mr Bell, perhaps you and I should take a walk outside. Let everyone get back to their drinks, shall we?”

  Jack sat back down and he and Sarah watched to see if the man would move.

  For a second, nothing. Then a nod.

  Right, Sarah guessed.

  Bell had to be on parole, just released. And if a police officer asks you to do something, you do it, if you want to stay free.

  Then Bell moved through the circle of men, pushing past them, while Alan, just behind him, gave the mob a warning glance before following.

  And then everyone started talking at once.

  *

  It didn’t take long before Terry wobbled over to Jack.

  “You shouldn’t’ve done that, Jack. None of your business.”

  Jack nodded, then smiled.

  “Probably right, Terry. Just looked a little dangerous to me, you know?”

  “Too right! That man there, he’s a bloody killer, Jack. And dangerous?”

  Terry looked around the bar, “You bet it’s gonna be dangerous for that one if he hangs around this village much longer.”

  There were mutters of agreement from nearby tables.

  “Good thing then that Alan has his eyes on him,” Jack said.

  The reference to the police straight after Terry Hamblyn’s drunken threat made him go silent.

  Sarah knew that Jack was pretty clever at pushing buttons.

  All that practice on the streets of New York.

  And as Terry nodded, wheeled around unsteadily, and went back to his neutral corner, Jack took a sip of his beer.

  “Maybe we should go,” Sarah said.

  But he smiled, and shook his head.

  “Think we can enjoy the rest of our beer, yes?”

  Not one to run either.

  “And maybe you can tell me who that guy was, and why so many people here seem to want him dead?”

  *

  Sarah told him what little she knew of Tim Bell and what happened all those years ago.

  “So you mean … that though there was no body ever found, he was still convicted?” he asked.

  “Yes. I think our law here is different than yours. I was only a kid of course, but I remember it was in the news for weeks, the search for Dinah Taylor, then for her body.”

  “Never found. And now the man who was sent to prison for that disappearance, that murder, is back.”

  “Yes.”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why would he come back here?”

  “I know. With the people here … all of them remembering.”

  Jack nodded to Terry and the other men. “Back home, we’d call that bunch a lynch mob. But … I can only think of one reason he’d come here, now that he was free.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Maybe he has something to prove. I don’t think a guilty man would have done what he did. Walk in here, let everyone know he was back.”

  “But what could he be trying to prove?”

  “Don’t know that. But a guess? If I did twenty-five years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit, I’d have a lot of anger built up.”

  “Now you’re scaring me.”

  “Well — none of our business,” Jack said.

  But when Sarah looked at him, she wasn’t so sure.

  Something made Jack stand up like that.

  Had he seen things like this before, a mob, a lone man facing them?

  Then — as if clouds were clearing — he smiled.

  “Hopefully Alan will give the guy some advice.”

  “Such as?”

  “Get out of Dodge. Or in this case, Cherringham.”

  “He didn’t look like he was ready to take any advice.”

  “You might be right. A
nd could be things are about to get hotter in Cherringham.”

  Sarah finished her beer.

  “Time we went.”

  “Think the patrons here will hold it against me, what I did?”

  Sarah looked around. Some of the men might look at Jack differently. But a lot of people liked him, respected what she and Jack had done, helping people in the village.

  She doubted that that respect could go away.

  And the villagers who knew Jack … she guessed they’d take the view that what had happened was just “typical Jack.”

  Standing up for people at difficult times.

  I think,” she said smiling, “you’ll be fine.”

  “Great — hate to lose drinking privileges at the Ploughman’s or my standing ‘biscuit’ order at Huffington’s.”

  Sarah stood up. She did feel eyes on them.

  Some people here — not too happy.

  But she guessed Jack could handle that.

  “I dread heading out into that heat,” she said.

  “I know! I think I might sleep on deck tonight. Has to be better than in my cabin. Riley has already gone for that option.”

  “Smart dog.”

  Jack nodded as they headed out of the pub to the still hot pavement outside, the night air doing nothing to cool things down.

  “Wish his owner was as smart sometimes,” said Jack as, with a wave, he turned and headed down the road towards the river.

  She laughed. “Night, Jack.”

  And with that, Sarah went to her car for the quick drive home.

  5. A Sleepless Night

  Jack leaned against the hood of his Healey Sprite, sipped his coffee, and looked around the sunlit market square in the centre of Cherringham.

  Even at this time, just eight-thirty in the morning, the place was busy. Last week of the summer holidays, blue skies forecast for weeks to come; he could see the tourists were already out in force.

  Soon the coaches would arrive and the shops and cafes would fill up with visitors from around the world looking for the genuine “Cotswolds experience.”

  “Come in November,” he always felt like telling them. That’s when you’ll see this place at its best.

  Having lived here for a couple of years now, he knew that the fall was when Cherringham was at its most beautiful: wood-smoke in the air, mist down on the river, the warm stone and the falling leaves blending together, the tea-rooms softly lit, and roaring fires in all the pubs …