Then she touched her phone’s screen to call Jack back.
***
The Sprite rumbled outside the house like a big cat in the zoo.
She had to wonder what neighbours would think, twitching behind their curtains, wondering, whatever is that Sarah Edwards up to? In a village like this, your business was everybody’s business.
She opened the passenger door and slid in.
“Trouble getting a pass?”
Sarah turned to Jack. “Don’t think my daughter likes you Yanks.”
Jack tilted his head, as if confused. “She doesn’t think that we’re …”
Sarah shook her head.
“No. I mean, I told her what we’re doing. But you know — teenage girls.”
Jack smiled. “Had one of those myself.”
Sarah noted that comment, reminded suddenly of how little she knew about Jack and his past. But now wasn’t the time for family histories.
He pulled away from the house.
“Where we going?” she asked.
“Just going to drive around while I tell you what I found.”
“Important?”
“Could be …”
***
Jack turned off the engine. They’d pulled in at Cherringham’s only twenty-four hour petrol station up on the main road a mile out of the village.
The place was brightly lit but empty. Sarah could just see the guy at the till, drinking coffee, feet up, watching them parked in the tyre pressure bay.
In the shadows.
What do we look like? she thought.
Jack handed her the phone.
“What’s this?”
“Found it. In a car with a lot of tickets on it. In the station car park.”
“You broke in?”
His eyes straight on the road, he nodded.
“Plausible deniability?”
“Exactly. Now look at the texts.”
The phone was a cheap pay-as-you-go flip phone, basic, easy to operate. Disposable.
Sarah opened up the text history. There was a string of texts — from just one number. She scrolled through them quickly.
“Whoa. They’ve been sent every few minutes — it’s a conversation. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ ‘You owe me.’ ‘We have to talk first.’ ‘Don’t threaten me.’“
“See the last one?”
“‘Meet me by the weir’,” she said. “‘Now’.”
“Sent by the other person on the evening she died.”
Sarah looked at Jack, a shaft of neon light from inside the garage making his face look gaunt and serious.
“Well, this proves it, doesn’t it?” she said.
But Jack shook his head. “Proves nothing — except that somebody who parked in the station car park had an argument. And wanted to meet someone at the river. Earlier that evening. A lot earlier. Doesn’t quite fit.”
“But it’s got to be Sammi,” said Sarah. “Lou Tidewell told me that Sammi was dressed up to the nines. Dressed for a date …”
On impulse, she took out her phone and tapped in the number on the texts. But it didn’t even ring.
“No answer. Nothing, not even voicemail,” she said.
“Not surprised,” said Jack. “He’ll have got rid of the phone long ago.”
“So what now?” said Sarah. “Do we talk to the police?”
“And tell them what?” said Jack.
“We’ve got the texts.”
“Okay. But you got to see this from the cops’ point of view, Sarah. It might not be Sammi’s phone. And if it is — all it proves is she was having a text argument with a boyfriend. We still don’t have proof she was murdered.”
Sarah looked around at the dismal, empty petrol station. Every now and then a car raced past in a blur of light down the main road and away from the village.
This was so frustrating. They were getting nowhere. She looked at her watch — nearly ten.
“I’ve got to get back.”
“Sure.”
Jack shrugged and started up the little sports car.
As they drove across the brightly lit forecourt towards the main road, Sarah felt the cashier’s eyes on them.
And suddenly she felt like a complete fool. What was she doing driving around at night with some American guy — some old guy as Chloe called him — a guy she hardly knew, pretending to be a detective on a case?
In the darkness of the car, she cringed to herself. No wonder Chloe was getting at her. She was being an idiot.
Sammi had died. Committed suicide. And she — Sarah — was a single mother of two with responsibilities, and a company and the beginnings of a new life here that might just about bring her back some self-respect and security and peace.
She was a web-designer. Not a cop.
“Hey. You okay?” said Jack, as they turned into the high street.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s late and I need to get Daniel to bed. Left on his own, he’ll stay up all night with his games.”
“Sure. I’ll have you home in a couple of minutes,” said Jack.
Sarah’s phone pinged. She opened it up — a text from Chloe. No words — just a question mark. And Sarah knew just what that one symbol meant.
Where are you? What are you doing? What the hell’s going on, mum?
And worse — it had been sent half an hour ago. The mobile phone coverage round Cherringham was so sparse — sometimes messages could take hours to get through.
Sarah felt guilty. Chloe must have been sitting around all this time waiting for a text back, worrying.
When were they ever going to get a decent mobile coverage round here?
Hang on a minute …
“Jack — give me the phone again, would you?”
Without taking his eyes off the road, Jack reached into his jacket pocket, took out the phone and handed it to her.
She turned it on and pulled up the texts.
“This text telling her to meet,” she said. “Sent at nine o’clock.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But go to the sent texts — and the reply doesn’t go off till 11.58.”
“So? Whoever sent it took their time to reply.”
“No,” said Sarah. “That’s it! I think the reply was sent straight away. It’s just that the first text took a long time to arrive. It happens here a lot.”
“So whoever sent it was waiting by the weir that whole time?”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it,” said Sarah, her head clear again. “And if it was Gordon Williams …”
“In the big flashy SUV …”
“Exactly,” said Sarah. “Somebody might have seen him.”
They pulled up outside Sarah’s house. She could see the lights in the house were still all on — Daniel and Chloe on the sofa no doubt watching some dubious film.
“Talk in the morning, huh?” said Jack, as she climbed out.
“I’ll call you,” said Sarah. “Daniel’s got a cricket match — and it’s my turn to do the ferrying. So it’ll be midday.”
“No problem. I’d offer to come with you, but cricket’s one of those mysteries that’s going to stay that way,” said Jack. “And Sarah …”
“Yeah?”
“You’re doing the right thing here, you know. Sammi was your friend. And nobody else is looking out for her.”
Sarah nodded.
“Talk tomorrow,” she said.
Jack drove off with a quick wave. She took out her key and headed for the front door. She hadn’t felt like this since she was a teenager sneaking back into her parents’ house after midnight …
17. It’s all about the Timing
Jack was up early. He had a lot to do.
First, his usual walk up the river and back with Riley then a shower, breakfast on deck — bacon, eggs over easy — and finally a list of phone calls to some old friends.
Favours to call in. You don’t work thirty years in homicide without getting to know cops around the globe. And, in Jack’s case, making one
or two lasting friendships too.
With a few wheels nicely set in motion, he made sure Riley had a big bowl of water, locked up the boat and headed off down the towpath toward Cherringham Toll Bridge.
***
Jack tapped on the little glass window of the toll bridge booth. Inside he could see the two old ladies sitting at a table drinking tea and chatting.
They both looked up at him, clearly irritated. One of them gestured to an old clock on the wall, mouthed ‘we’re closed’, then they both muttered and went back to their teas.
Jack stepped back and sighed.
Yes, he knew it was 7.45. And he knew the two women didn’t start charging traffic on the bridge until 8 o’clock but that was exactly why he’d timed his walk to get here early.
On either side of the booth the traffic was whizzing by in and out of Cherringham — early birds grateful not to have to pay twenty pence a trip and get caught up in a queue.
He tapped again on the window and put on his cheesiest smile. The women stopped talking again and stared at him. He looked from one to the other. Grey hair tightly bound in buns, over-large glasses, buttoned up blouses and cardigans — these two were the matching Great Aunts from Hell.
And then he realized.
My God — they’re twins …
Slowly, laboriously, the twin with the meaner face put down her dainty little cup of tea, came over to the window and slid it open.
“If you’ve got a complaint, you’ll have to make it to the council,” she said, preparing to close the window again.
“No, no, it’s not a complaint,” Jack replied. “I’m …”
She hesitated. Maybe it was his accent?
“Well, we’re shut,” she said.
“I need your help.”
“Phone box down the road — we’re not a garage you know,” she said crisply.
“What is it, Joan, is it trouble?” said the other twin, rising from the table and peering at Jack. Her glasses caught the early morning sun, turning to blank discs. This was becoming a horror movie, thought Jack.
“Please ladies, I really am sorry for disturbing you. I just need to ask you some questions,”
“Oh? Are you a policeman then?”
“Well — I used to be,” said Jack. “But I’m not officially anymore,”
“And American too, huh?”
“Yank is it?”
“Guilty,” Jack said with what he hoped was a winning smile.
The two women were now together at the window, both peering at Jack like he was some kind of specimen.
“New Yorker from the sound of it.”
“New York’s finest,” said the second woman. “Are you?”
“Oh, be quiet Jen,” said Joan without taking her eyes off Jack. “What kind of questions?”
They seemed to soften a bit.
Something about this interested them.
“About the girl who died in the river,” he said.
“Murder case is it now?” said Jen.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Joan.
“Or me,” said Jen.
“You’d better come in,” said Joan.
And with that she slid the little window shut and the two women disappeared into the darkness of the hut.
Jack waited for a second, confused by the simultaneous invitation and rejection. Then the two women appeared at the other end of the hut.
“Well, come on then, we haven’t got all day,” said Joan.
“We start at eight you know,” said Jen, looking at her watch. “You’ve got three minutes.”
***
Jack was glad he’d started the day with a long walk. Sitting in a comfy chair at the back of the hut, he’d eaten enough cake and biscuits for a week, and still the two old ladies were finding more for him to try …
Just a teeny mouthful, won’t do any harm Joan, will it?
Needs feeding up, that’s what I think, Jen.
From the moment he’d suggested that Sammi’s death was suspicious he’d gone from being irritating intruder to honoured guest.
It turned out that Jen and Joan were crime fans. The little hut was a library — every wall was lined with shelves, each filled with crime fiction. There was everything from mysteries to leather-bound editions of Sherlock Holmes, from police procedurals to serial killer bios, all of which meant that his little request had gone down a storm.
Could they let him see the CCTV footage from the toll booth for Monday evening?
Could they just!
While Jen racked up the twenty pence tolls every ten seconds, Joan helped him search the stored footage frame by frame. And when Jen’s half hour at the coal-face was up, Joan took over and Jen joined him at the little CCTV monitor, loading discs.
Even though the toll booth was only open from eight in the morning to eight at night, the CCTV cameras ran 24/7: late-night revellers from the village had a tendency to speed across the bridge and more than once in the past they’d ended up smack in the middle of the toll booth.
So Jen and Joan had installed the cameras to make sure the insurance always paid out but although the cameras were always on, the lenses weren’t often cleaned. Jack realized pretty swiftly that although the cars might be visible, the plates and drivers were blurred behind months of grime.
Nevertheless, Jack knew this was worth doing. There were no other CCTV cameras in the village — and this was the main route in and out.
It was also the nearest road to the weir: if the killer came this way, he must have passed by the cameras.
Jack took another bite of lemon meringue pie.
“Pop the next disc in, Joan,” he said. “Where are we now?”
“Six fifty-eight,” said Joan. “Just another six hours to go.”
“One more cup in that pot, you reckon, Jen?” said Jack. “I must say, you ladies know how to throw a tea-party.”
Busting drug dealers in Manhattan was never this cosy, thought Jack.
I wish …
18. Sticky Wicket
Sarah lined up the plastic cups on the tray and carefully poured orange juice into each one.
Cherringham’s Under Twelves were fielding and when the weather was hot like this everyone needed a drink break. Today was her turn to do refreshments.
Daniel’s team used the Cherringham Cricket Club pitch just on the edge of the village. It wasn’t anything special — just a little hut with a few changing rooms and a kitchen, and a stack of plastic chairs for the parents and the batting team to sit and watch the game.
She carried the tray of drinks over to the knot of players standing together in the shade of a line of oak trees. She nodded to Daniel and he gave her only the slightest of nods back. Barely a flicker of recognition. Sarah knew the rules. This wasn’t the time to chat. Not while he was with his mates, all boys together. Bad enough that mum was bringing the drinks over.
She’d learned to get over that — or at least to appear not to mind. But it still made her heart jump a little.
One of the dads — Graham — came over to help her out with the drinks. Like her, Graham was a single parent, though in his case he’d lost his wife to cancer a year ago. Sarah had vaguely known them both, but they’d never really been what she’d call friends.
Unfortunately, Graham spent most of these cricket mornings trying to chat to her.
“Cherringham’s single mums and dads society — that’s us Sarah!” he’d say with a cheesy grin.
“Yep, that’s us, Graham!” she’d say back. She just couldn’t be so heartless as to say the truth — you’re so very sweet Graham, but please, no, don’t even think about it. But there he was like a little puppy, every weekend.
Bring on the football season. His little Archy was no footballer, thank God.
Graham walked her back to the cricket hut, while the boys went back onto the field.
“I hear you’re telling everyone that girl was murdered, Sarah,” he said.
“What?” said Sarah, momentarily
thrown.
“Brian in the pub — he told me you’d hired a private detective. Some hard-nosed American.”
“Oh really?” she said, recovering. “Well, you can tell Brian he’s wrong. And if I need someone hard-boiled he’ll be first on my list.”
“So it’s not true then?”
“Graham — I have not hired a private detective. Okay? And to be honest, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t spread that kind of gossip around.”
She saw Graham flinch and realized straight away that she’d hurt him.
“Graham, sorry, I didn’t — that came out all wrong, what I meant was—”
“It’s fine, Sarah. Not a problem,” he interrupted. “Look, they said they might need a hand doing the scoring, so I’ll just pop over and help them out. Catch you later.”
Sarah watched him walk off, his shoulders slumped.
Terrific. Not only do I piss my kids off, I also start laying into the most inoffensive guy in the whole village.
What am I doing?
From the car park came the throaty roar of a car. A sports car.
Jack’s car.
She looked across. This was all she needed.
She watched as he climbed out of his little car and took his bearings. When he saw the pitch and the little group of spectators he headed straight for them.
Sarah folded her arms and waited for him to reach her. Out of the corner of her eye she could sense the other parents had gone quiet and were watching this interesting new arrival onto the Cherringham children’s cricket scene.
What was he doing here?
She’d told him she’d call him — hadn’t she? This was just getting beyond a joke. He had no right to just turn up on … on a Saturday!
“Hey Sarah,” he said, all cheery. “How’s it going?”
Sarah kept her cool.
“Hi, Jack,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”
She watched as Jack sized up the situation, turning to a little group of staring parents, giving them a nod.
He did stand out …
Then he turned back to Sarah.
“We winning? As if I’d know, huh?”
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