Robbo sniffed as if his own nostrils also got a regular workout.
“And?” Sarah said.
“So anyway I had some — so I said she could do a line. I didn’t sell it mind, I’m not a dealer. Then she starts arguing, laying into me, giving me all kinds of crap. So I grabs hold of her, takes her outside.”
“So you went out to the car park, huh?” said Jack.
“Yeah. She calms down after a bit and we go for a bit of a walk. Went and sat in her car.”
“She had a car?” said Sarah.
“Yeah. New one from the smell of it.”
“What make was it Robbo?” said Jack.
“I dunno, I was doing a line wasn’t I, not buying the bleedin’ car!”
“So what happened then?” said Sarah quickly.
“We got in the car, all smiles again. Did a line each. Had a laugh. She said she’d come back to the village to sort some bloke out. Some rich bloke who was treating her like trash, she said.”
“Did she say who?” said Sarah.
“I didn’t ask her, now did I? None of my damn business. I thought maybe me and her might get it off, know what I mean?”
“But you didn’t?” said Jack.
“Nah.”
“And this guy — did she say anything about him?” said Sarah.
“Nah. Just that he was loaded. Had some swanky place in London.”
“But he was local?”
“Think so.”
“So what happened then?” said Jack.
“She went all teary — and I hate that. So I told her I was going back to the pub.”
“What time was that?” said Sarah.
“Dunno. ‘Bout midnight. Bleedin’ pub was shut when I got back so I went home. And we lost the match. Crap evening altogether.”
“Yeah, wasn’t so great for Sammi, either,” said Sarah.
“So when you last saw her, Robbo — where was she?” said Jack.
“Sitting in her car crying,” said Robbo. “Useless, she was.”
Sarah looked at his whimpering face and felt the anger surge in her stomach. All she wanted to do now was to push him up against his chipping machine and punch him as hard as she could — for Sammi.
She felt Jack’s hand on her shoulder.
“I reckon Robbo’s told us what we need, Sarah, don’t you? If he’s forgotten anything, we can always come back and have a wee chat with him. Or his boss.”
She watched as Jack turned to Robbo, put a gentle hand on his shoulder and fixed him hard and long.
“You won’t mind that, Robbo, will you? It could be very awkward if you’ve not been honest with us.”
And as she watched Robbo, she saw that he was cowed by what he’d seen in Jack’s eyes.
“No, I won’t mind. I’ve told you the truth, I have.”
Sarah watched as Jack smiled at him before turning to her.
“Come on, Sarah. Don’t know about you but I could use some fresh air.”
And together they headed back to the car.
10. Going Nowhere
Sarah stared miserably at her computer screen. No matter how you cropped, tinted or framed them — pictures of coffins and hearses said only one thing …
Death.
Bassett and Son Funeral Directors. Why this job, this week of all weeks? When all she could think of was Sammi.
Floating in the river.
Lying on a mortuary slab.
Too grim, she thought.
And she had got nowhere with Robbo’s information. Laura in the estate agents downstairs had pointed her at various land registries and sales sites for the local area — but trying to find the right rich Cherringham sugar daddy with a place in London was impossible.
There were nearly three thousand people in the village and she just didn’t have enough to go on.
She looked at the clock. Six o’clock. Grace had gone home. And at seven she and the children were supposed to be going over to mum and dad’s for supper.
Everyone on best behaviour, interrogations about school results, and all those questions …
Was she seeing anyone, how did she cope in that little house? Surely she’d be happier moving back in with them! Had she been in touch with Oliver? No marriage is ever too broken that it can’t be put back together …?
She would have to brace herself.
The phone rang. She picked it up instantly.
“Yes?”
“Whoa. Whatever happened to hi?”
“Jack. Sorry. One of those days.”
“Uh-huh? You tracked down our sugar daddy?”
“Needle in a haystack. You know how many wealthy people live in this area, and so many of them with London flats as well. I need more to go on.”
“I don’t think we got more,” said Jack. “Though I was thinking maybe we should have a chat with the lady who found Sammi. What was her name?”
“Lou Tidewell. She works at the charity shop. We could talk to her in the morning.”
“Sure. We ought to catch up anyway.”
On a whim, Sarah had an idea for making the evening bearable.
“Jack — what are you up to this evening? Fancy dinner? I’m going to my parents’. Mum’s an interesting cook. And dad likes Americans.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“Why not? I haven’t had home cooking in years.”
“Great,” she said. “I’ll pick you up at seven”
She put the phone down and laughed to herself. Poor Jack. What had she just done?
11. Family Matters
Jack chewed slowly in the silence. At either end of the table, Sarah’s mother Helen and her father Michael scrutinized him carefully. Across the table sat Sarah’s two children, Chloe and Daniel, both wide-eyed and suppressing giggles.
And next to him, Sarah looked nervous.
They were sitting on the patio at the back of Sarah’s parents’ house in the late evening sunshine. The broad terrace gave onto a perfect lawn which swept in a gentle slope down toward the Thames itself.
Real nice spot, he thought.
Jack had decided on collar, tie and sports jacket — and he knew it had been the right decision.
“I’m guessing … I think I’m tasting … dates?” said Jack.
“Oh, very good,” said Helen.
“And tuna? No, no, wait a minute — anchovy? In balsamic vinegar?”
“Bravo Jack!” said Michael. “That’s a first, Helen — nobody’s ever unravelled your salad dressing before!”
“Quite an unusual combination, don’t you think Jack?” said Sarah. “I bet you never had that in New York?”
Jack smiled at her. She knew exactly what he was going through.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever encountered one quite like this.”
And that was certainly true. Sarah’s mother had created possibly the worst — and yet strangely the most imaginative — food he’d ever had the misfortune to eat.
“One of the rewards of being a services family, Jack,” said Michael. “Every three years uprooted and flown somewhere new. Airbases. Embassies. Far East, Middle East, all points east.”
“So many influences on my cooking!” said Helen proudly.
“Must have been so difficult for you, Sarah” said Jack, returning the irony. He took a good swig of wine. He was daring her to laugh and she was having a hard time fighting it.
“Nonsense,” said Michael. “All that travelling — Sarah’s picked up life skills that are the envy of her peers!”
“That true?” said Jack.
“Yeah, it is,” said Daniel. “My mum knows how to fire a machine gun and drive a truck!”
“Very good Daniel,” said Michael. “Though I think the technical term is ‘strip an SA80’.”
Sarah shrugged.
“In Cyprus, some of the men in the regiment thought it might come in handy one day.”
“Can’t quite see you in uniform, Sarah,” said Jack.
“Not for want of my trying, eh?” said Michael. “In the end she got too much of a handful and we shipped her home. Then I retired from the RAF and we came back here. And we’ve never regretted it, have we darling?”
“Never!” said Helen. “Our little corner of paradise — I’m sure you agree?”
“It’s very pleasant,” said Jack.
And it truly was. Sarah had warned him her parents liked everything “just so” and the big, white-stuccoed house and gardens were the evidence. Though the RAF had given her father a good pension, he’d still been young enough when he retired to start a consultancy business advising Middle Eastern governments on defence contractors apparently which clearly now made extremely good money. Jack knew better than to ask too many questions, though Helen and Michael had no such qualms about interrogating him. In fact he had to admit they’d got pretty much everything out of him — his New York background, the police, the boat, Riley, how he met Sarah, even his immigration status …
Made him wonder who the ex-cop around here was. But he knew they hadn’t finished.
“So Jack, I do hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but is there no Mrs Brennan in your life?” said Helen.
Jack had been waiting for this question, though when it came it was never easy.
“There was, Mrs Edwards. She died two years back. Cancer.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Helen.
Jack became aware that the table had now gone quiet. That “C” word — whisper it, avoid it, say it loud — it always had the same chilling effect.
“It’s okay. In fact, that’s kinda how I ended up down on the river. Kath and I came here together thirty years ago. Loved the place. Always planned to retire here. So when she died, that’s what I did. Only without her.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s … all for the best,” said Helen awkwardly.
No matter how many times Jack told this simple story, it always led to silence.
There’s got to be a better way to say it, but I’m damned if I know how, he thought.
“Come on kids — let’s clear this away,” said Sarah, rising to her feet and beginning to pile plates.
Jack could see that the kids couldn’t wait.
***
Sarah watched her father and Jack chatting easily. After supper was over, they’d all moved down the garden to the little deck by the river where her parents set up comfy chairs under a gazebo in summer.
The kids were now inside watching TV. On the far side of the river, the sun was going down over Cherringham. And on the opposite bank, the smart river cruisers were alight with conversation and the chink of glasses.
The conversation had shifted to Sammi.
“All I’m saying is, tread carefully,” said her father. “This village needs tourists — and nobody likes talk of a murder. Especially when it’s a couple of outsiders stirring things.”
“I’m hardly an outsider, Dad,” said Sarah.
Her father topped up his glass with red wine.
“You may have gone to school here — but you left. Which makes you an outsider again.”
“How long was I away? Fifteen years? That’s nothing.”
“Regardless. That’s how they’ll see you if they want. Same with you Jack — an American trampling around. They won’t like that at all. No offence.”
“Well, they’ll just have to put up with it,” said Sarah. “Sammi was my friend and if somebody killed her, they need to be caught.”
“She was an accident waiting to happen, Sarah, that’s what we always said, didn’t we darling?” said Michael, looking to Sarah’s mother for support.
Sarah started to fume inside.
This was why she could never, ever come back to live with her parents, they could be so judgemental — and Sammi had been her best friend, did her mother not remember that?
“You’re right, of course Michael,” said Jack. “Nothing worse than small-town politics eh?”
“Spot on,” said Michael.
Sarah looked daggers at Jack. Could he not see she needed some support here?
“So tell me,” Jack continued. “The big boats over there — they ever bother you?”
Her father turned to look at the boats.
“No, they keep themselves to themselves to be honest. We get the odd noisy dinner party, but the kind of people who moor up down here are usually looking for a bit of peace and quiet.”
“Locals, are they?”
“Not necessarily. Some of them come down here for a weekend or a week at the most. A lot cruise all the way from London, then head back downriver on a Sunday night.”
“Need quite a few bob for a mooring, I expect?” said Jack.
“It’s expensive enough here, as I’m sure you know. But up in London they’ll be paying ten or twenty grand a year.”
Jack caught Sarah’s eye — and she suddenly realized what he was suggesting.
Sammi’s sugar daddy didn’t necessarily have to own a flat up in London.
He might own a boat.
And that would make him a lot easier to track down. Just a question of matching boat registers to the electoral register in Cherringham.
She nodded back to him and realized she’d completely forgotten her fury at her father. It had been a good idea to ask Jack along.
Because we just got a breakthrough.
***
While Sarah piled the kids into the Rav4, Jack said his thanks and goodbyes to Mr and Mrs Edwards who now stood in the doorway of the house.
“Will we be seeing you on Saturday, Jack?” said Helen. “At the concert?”
“Oh. I hadn’t planned—”.
“Dear me, do you mean Sarah hasn’t asked you?” she continued. “We’re doing Leoncavallo’s Pagliacci. Not the whole thing, of course! Excerpts. The best morsels!”
“It’s a fine piece,” said Jack.
“An opera buff too, Jack? Full of surprises,” said Michael.
“For an American — or a cop?” said Jack.
“Both!” said Michael.
Jack laughed — Sarah’s father said what he felt, a trait he’d already noted in his daughter. No wonder they kept butting up against each other.
“It’s in the village hall at seven o’clock sharp, I’ll put a ticket aside for you,” said Helen. “If we even go on, of course — our lead soprano’s sick and missed our last rehearsal on Monday night, so fingers crossed or — Lord save us — yours truly will be taking the part!”
“I’m sure Jack’s looking forward to it already, Mum,” said Sarah, kissing her mother goodnight.
Jack bid his farewells and promised Sarah he’d call first thing. He wanted to walk back to his boat along the river.
Interesting dinner. There was a lot to think about. And just as he had on the streets of Manhattan, he liked to do his thinking alone.
12. Cover Girl
Sarah got into the office early.
She saw a large envelope on her desk. She opened it and pulled out some glossy layouts and a note from Grace.
‘I know you’re having a hard time with Bassett and Son so I thought I’d have a go at it. What do you think? Any good?’
They were better than good, Sarah thought. Perfect — not a coffin in sight. All ethereal mist and river scenes — almost made death an attractive lifestyle choice.
Well, maybe not … lifestyle.
Good start to the day — made even better with an email from her friend Gary in London. During the worst of the break-up with Oliver, she’d used Gary’s data skills to nail her ex-husband’s fraudulent behaviour.
Anything digital — and Gary could find it. And find it he had …
She’d called him when she got back from her parents’ the night before with the theory about the boat registry. Gary had matched the registers and come out with half a dozen names of Cherringham citizens with London-registered boats.
Only three were in the country. One of those was in his nineties.
Another was pr
obably out of the question because he had a male partner. But the third was very interesting.
Gordon Williams. Millionaire owner of Imperial SuperYachts. Registered owner of a fifty-foot luxury cruiser moored at St Katherine’s Dock, Tower Bridge. He was currently residing at Imperial House, Lower Runstead. Just five miles along the river from Cherringham.
Was this Sammi’s sugar daddy?
Sarah left a “thank you” note for Grace, rang Jack with the news and headed out of the office at speed.
***
In spite of Sarah’s complaints, Jack insisted on driving.
“Come on — I need the practice,” he said, grinning.
She had called Williams expecting him to have no interest in meeting. Isn’t that what someone — a sugar-daddy with something to hide -- would do? But Williams said they could come over immediately.
It was still early so they had to queue to get over the Cherringham Toll Bridge — which Jack still thought was one of the weirdest things he’d encountered since coming to live here.
The bridge was medieval. And since medieval times, one family (the Bucklands) had somehow collared the right to charge every cart, pony, car and truck that wanted to cross the river and head up the road to Cherringham.
Two old ladies sat in a small windowed hut at the end of the bridge, duly taking twenty pence from every driver.
From dawn to dusk.
Amazing.
There was always a queue. And every time he sat in the queue, Jack did the sums. And every time he concluded that the Buckland family must be clearing nearly a million a year on the toll bridge.
Who were the two old ladies? Were they Bucklands? And if so — what the hell did they do with all that money?
At least the way to Runstead was via a proper road, with white lines and speed limits. And on the way, Sarah filled him in on her phone call.
Williams knew Sammi. He was saddened to hear about Sammi’s death. And he only had an one hour window so could they please be prompt …
Cherringham - Murder on Thames Page 5