The line went dead.
Great. Another dead end.
She sat back and stared at her computer. Where now? One by one she closed the windows on the screen, thinking — need to get rid of clutter, find some focus …
Which is when she saw that the Cherringham Newswire page was open — she hadn’t yet checked her posting about Bill’s disappearance.
Maybe the photo of Bill and Emily had nudged somebody’s memory?
She scrolled down past the morning’s missing dog notices, special Christmas offers at the butchers, gossip about some planning application … until she reached the double photo — Bill as Santa, and next to it the anniversary picture of Bill and Emily.
And her plea for help.
The first comments were hardly a surprise:
Bill gone missing? Ha! Suggest you look down the Ploughman’s!
Desperately Seeking Santa? Have you talked to the Elves?
Heard a lot of banging on my roof last night — typical Bill!
A few other people had posted “genuine” sightings of Santa during the evening — but it was obvious to Sarah that they’d just been people off to fancy dress parties, or overindulging in the Christmas spirit.
Not the genuine Cherringham Santa. Not Bill Vokes.
But then she saw a posting from a username she didn’t recognise — Clarissa.
Important. Think I might have some information for you. Can you call me?
Followed by a local number.
Odd, thought Sarah. Why not just post the sighting, if that’s what it was?
She picked up her phone and dialled. Was this the breakthrough they needed?
The phone rang and rang. Then a woman’s voice:
“Hawthorn Lodge Nursing Home. How can I help you?”
A nursing home, thought Sarah.
Surely Bill’s not turned up there?
*
Jack had nearly reached the end of the line of market stalls when he saw it.
The perfect item.
And like a doomed man issued an eleventh-hour reprieve, he picked it up, not caring what the item cost, as the stall owner went about unpacking other additions to his wares.
Whatever the price — it would be a perfect and fitting gift for Sarah.
He held it up, turning it slowly in the late afternoon sunlight.
A silver and gold inlaid magnifying glass — exactly the kind of thing Jack imagined Sherlock Holmes himself used.
He gestured to the owner.
A burly man in a thick woolly sweater and skull cap, unshaven grizzled face — someone for whom the holidays were probably a lot of what was known in Brooklyn as schlepping.
“And this?”
The guy reached across and took it from Jack.
“Oh yes,” he said, nodding at the artefact as if reacquainting himself with a dear old friend. “A very discerning choice, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Jack saw the man put the glass down on the velvet-covered table, and take a measured look at him now, trying to guess the size of this American customer’s pocket.
“How much do you want for it?” said Jack.
He saw the man rub his stubbly chin between thumb and forefinger.
“Hundred?”
“Whoa!” said Jack. “Way over my budget. Give you thirty.”
“Eighty.”
“Forty.”
“Fifty.”
“Done,” said Jack, sliding the glass towards him. He reached for his wallet and took out a card to pay.
“Sorry — cash only,” said the man, shaking his head. “Don’t take cards.”
“Ah,” said Jack. “Not sure I’ve got fifty on me.”
“Well, you’re in luck, mate,” said the man. Jack saw him gesture towards Greenwoods Bank just across the road. “They’re still open.”
Jack wondered if it was a coincidence, this guy taking a pitch right opposite Cherringham’s only bank.
Pretty crafty.
“Be right back,” he said, and headed across the snow-covered street.
He swiped his card at the entrance, opening the lobby where the cash machines stood, and went in. Just as he entered, the main door into the bank opened and a customer came out. Jack glanced inside and saw a woman at the counter turn toward the door.
He recognised her immediately from the photo that Sarah had shown him: Emily Vokes.
Jack had never met her — but he didn’t doubt his eyes for one second.
It was Bill Vokes’s wife all right — and whatever she was doing in the bank — it seemed to be causing quite the commotion.
Jack watched her turn back to the screen and lean forward. At her side, resting on the counter, he spotted a large valise. On the other side of the counter screen, Jack saw two bank staff standing next to the seated teller. And behind them, fussing over something, was Roger Reed the manager.
What was going on?
Jack ignored the cash machines, opened the door into the bank proper, and stepped in. He couldn’t just walk up to the counter. He needed to find some cover so he looked around. To one side, he saw a small table with stacks of leaflets and forms, and a couple of chairs. Without pausing he went up to the table, sat down, randomly took one of the forms and a pen and started writing.
He was just too far away to hear what the bank staff were saying — but close enough to see what was happening.
The staff were counting, recounting and wrapping into tight bundles — banknotes.
A lot of banknotes.
First, one of the standing tellers counted a bundle. Then the second teller checked it. And finally Roger himself counted the bundle a third time, occasionally moistening his fingers on one of those little sponge pads.
All three employees looked stressed, nervous.
But who wouldn’t be, counting that kind of money?
When each bundle had been checked twice, Jack saw Roger place it on a stack.
Jack counted the stacks. Assuming the notes were fifties, and each bundle had fifty notes …
Jeez, thought Jack. There’s got to be a hundred thousand pounds there — at least.
He saw Emily turn again: her eyes flicked around the room.
Jack was the only other customer. She seemed to stare straight at him. Quickly, he looked down at his form again, started to scribble.
When he sensed Emily had turned back to the counter he looked up surreptitiously, to monitor the progress.
The tellers had stopped counting. Now, Roger passed some paperwork through to Emily with a pen. Jack watched her sign the document, then push it back. Then the tellers and Roger countersigned it.
Finally, he saw Emily open up her old-fashioned case. One by one, Roger passed the bundles of notes to her under the glass.
And, one by one, she took them and stacked them in the case.
When the last one was in, she closed the case, pressing hard on the corners to shut it on the bulging stacks of notes.
Jack watched as she carefully turned the little wheels on each lock.
Then, with just a few final words from Roger — whose grim face looked very concerned by all this — she gripped the handle carefully, turned and headed for the exit.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw her march past him, open the main door and head out of the bank.
Then he looked back at Roger and the other tellers.
They seemed to be in a state of shock. He saw Roger take out a handkerchief and wipe his brow. Then the bank manager spotted Jack at the table.
Jack waited as Roger opened the door from the secure area and came out to greet him.
“Well,” said Roger. “Well, well, well.”
“Roger,” said Jack.
“Well, well.”
Jack could see that Roger was still sweating heavily, his cheeks pink. He pulled his hankie from his pocket again and dabbed his glistening forehead.
“Either that was the politest bank heist I ever saw,” said Jack, “or Emily Vokes just withdrew her
life savings.”
“All my years, Jack,” said Roger. “All my years, I’ve never seen the like.”
“Lot of money.”
“Incredible.”
“Must have been stressful for you — having to authorise that.”
On cue, Roger puffed himself up a little.
“A trifle unexpected, you know,” he said. “But all part of the training. Life as a bank manager, every day a new challenge.”
“Must have been a hundred thousand at least,” said Jack.
Roger leaned in, so his face was near Jack’s ear.
Discretion not the manager’s forte.
“More like two hundred, old boy,” he said.
“Wow,” said Jack. “She say why she was withdrawing it?”
“Not a word.”
“Guess it’s a competitive market,” said Jack, playing innocent. “Better interest rate elsewhere.”
“I hardly think her actions could be driven by the incentive of an extra half a per cent interest, Jack.”
“No?”
“I rather imagine she’s doing the dirty work for our missing Mr. Vokes.”
“Ah. Some kind of nefarious investment, hmm? Another of those dodgy offshore deals you referred to?”
Insinuated more like …
“Oh yes — very likely,” said Roger, now appearing to have recovered from his stress.
And in that moment Jack saw him look down at the table and the form he’d been pretending to fill in for the last five minutes.
Jack looked down at it too. Without realising, he’d made a bearded face out of some of the boxes, and drawn a big fat body and legs.
Santa on his sleigh.
“Um — was there something you particularly wanted, Jack?”
Jack took out his debit card.
“Truth is, I came in for some cash myself,” he said, getting up from the chair. “Fifty should do it.”
He patted Roger on the arm. “Nice chatting to you though,” he said. “Good to see you at the shoot this morning by the way.”
And then he got up and headed back out to the cash machines, thinking …
Soon as I’ve picked up Sarah’s present, I need to get over to Emily Vokes’s house — try to see what she plans on doing with that money.
And if it was the family savings — just what had happened to Bill Vokes?
Was he really pulling the strings somewhere? Had he asked Emily to withdraw all that cash?
Was he in trouble — needing some kind of pay-off?
Or was he maybe not involved at all?
Could this be Emily’s doing?
In which case, was Bill Vokes … dead?
12. At the Home
Sarah gripped the wheel tightly and checked her speed.
The road ahead, lit by her headlights, sparkled with ice — and more than once she had felt the rear of her normally steady RAV-4 twitch as she took a corner.
In high summer, this road to Chipping Norton was fast but safe, curving gently through farmland and over long ridges.
But now — in the early evening darkness, with snow barely cleared from the tarmac and the relentless rush-hour traffic speeding towards her — she felt nervous.
“Can’t you just tell me over the phone?” she’d asked Clarissa earlier.
But no — Clarissa had insisted they meet face to face.
Quite why, Sarah didn’t know.
She slowed as a car overtook her, spraying snow in its trail.
Crazy, on this ice.
Then her phone rang. She tapped the in-car system — it was Jack.
“Sarah.”
“Hi, Jack. I’m driving.”
“Ah — okay, that answers that question. I was hoping I could get you to come join me.”
“Where are you?” she said.
“Outside Emily Vokes’ house.”
“What?”
And Sarah listened as he told her about the cash, about his theories, and how he’d followed Emily home and right now was freezing his butt off standing in the street watching Emily through her front window as she calmly drank tea and watched TV.
“Sorry Jack — I’m going to be at least an hour,” said Sarah. “Get this — you know the photo in the newsletter? I’m meeting someone over at Chippy who saw the photo, says she’s got information about Bill.”
“Hmm. Real lead, you think?”
“Could be,” said Sarah, easing the car round a tight corner. “Though it is a nursing home … and you know …”
“Memories not that dependable?”
“Right. That’s my fear.”
Then: “Jack — do you really think Emily could be acting alone? That she knows what’s happened to Bill?”
“Just keeping options open.”
“You know, now I think about it, I’m not quite sure she was being totally honest with me when we had our little chat.”
“That right?” said Jack. “Anyway, you drive safe — I guess I’ll still be here. Just look for a snowman in a big coat.”
Sarah had a thought.
“Jack — call Grace in the office. I know she’s still there. Get her to drive down — you can sit in the car with her.”
“You think she’ll be okay with that?”
“You kidding? A stake-out with Jack Brennan NYPD.”
“Ex-NYPD.”
“Hey, who cares? Anyway she’ll love it — and I’ve got to go. I’m here, I think.”
She peered ahead — and could just make out a large sign at the side of the road.
Hawthorn Lodge Nursing Home — Bringing Joy to Twilight Years.
“Okay, see you later — and remember, you drive safely.”
“I always do, Jack. You’re the guy with the super-fast sports car — remember?”
“Ha, guess I am. Later …”
She clicked the phone off and slowed down. Then turned off the main road into a snow-covered driveway.
After a few seconds, the drive opened up to reveal a big 1930s house with lots of extensions, covered in fairy lights.
Lit up and festive, it managed to look welcoming, with a Christmas tree just by the front door.
As Sarah parked in the visitors’ car park she wondered:
Joy for one’s twilight years?
And she wondered: Am I going to get any here?
*
Sarah didn’t have to ask for Clarissa — she turned out to be the assistant manager who opened the front door when Sarah pressed the bell.
Sarah shook her hand.
The woman looked to be in her forties, brisk and efficient, with a ready smile. No need to worry about dementia, at least.
After locking the front door, she took Sarah into a small office whose walls were covered in notices, notes, Christmas cards and photos.
“Got to lock the door,” she said. “Only takes a second and one of my ladies or gentlemen can easily just slip out, poor things, and we’d never know.”
Sarah smiled and nodded. From one of their early cases, she knew that all too well …
“Anyway — this weather, you’ll want to be getting back to Cherringham sharpish won’t you?” said Clarissa. “And I’m guessing you want to know why I made you traipse all the way out here?”
“Well, I was wondering.”
“Course you are,” said Clarissa. “Well, first — come with me.”
She got up and headed out of the office, beckoning Sarah to follow.
Down a corridor, draped with decorations — Sarah could hear the house full and busy: conversations, carols being sung on a radio, a busy kitchen somewhere, a bath being run.
She saw other carers appear from rooms, bustle past, smiling.
As far as such places went, this “home” actually seemed close to being one.
One carer pushed a frail old man in a wheelchair, a blanket over his legs.
“In here,” said Clarissa, stopping and waiting by an open door.
Sarah went in and looked around, seeing an empty bedro
om.
She saw a single bed with rails, a wardrobe, chest of drawers, commode, some kind of lifting equipment.
The bed neatly made. And next to it a bedside table with photos.
She saw Clarissa gesture towards the photos and Sarah went over to look.
A few steps — and Sarah froze.
Yes!
There was no mistaking the identity of the man in the pictures.
Bill Vokes!
There were more than half a dozen photos, taken, she guessed, over fifty or more years.
One or two black and white; Bill — she guessed — as a baby in his mother’s lap. Bill in a toy car being watched by two adults. Bill as a teenager, hair in a quiff, now looking like the Bill Vokes she knew.
Then Bill in his forties in a slick 80s suit, an elderly couple by his side.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” said Clarissa.
“Yes, absolutely” said Sarah. “But this room — whose is it?”
“His mother, Miriam.”
His mother?
But Emily had said Bill’s parents had died.
“Where is she? Oh. She’s not—?”
For a second Sarah wondered whether Miriam had indeed just passed away for real.
“Oh, don’t worry — she’s fine,” said Clarissa. “Well, as fine as she can be for a long-term dementia patient. She’s just having her tea. We can go and meet her in a minute — but I thought you ought to see this first.”
Did Bill keep this secret from his wife? And, if so, why?
“Will she be able to talk to me?”
“Depends. Some days things do make sense to her for a while. Other days … not so much. Bit hit and miss, you know.”
“Ah, okay,” said Sarah, understanding. Her own grandmother had spent her final years in a home near Cherringham.
“Clarissa, if you don’t mind me asking,” said Sarah. “Why did you say I needed to come here tonight? I don’t really see why we couldn’t have done this on the phone …”
“Well, here’s the thing,” said Clarissa. “Miriam is Bill’s mum all right. But her name’s not ‘Vokes’.”
Sarah stared at Clarissa.
Where was this going?
“Her name is Armitage. And so is Bill’s.”
“What?”
“Take a look at the mother and baby picture — and turn it over.”
Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, picked the photo up and flipped it round. Tucked into the frame she could see a folded piece of paper.
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