Knowing that by the time pubs and pints rolled around again, it would be seen for what it was … a mad prank, and a clever one as well.
But Ryan’s phone showed no calls.
Nothing from Josh. Or anyone else.
Sitting up in bed he thought, something’s not right here.
Could Josh be that angry?
Or maybe …
Too keen on getting off that golf course and back into a bar somewhere …
He scrolled through recent calls, found one from his friend days ago, and pressed ‘call’.
He heard the rings … three, four, five and after the sixth Josh’s recorded message.
‘Not free at the moment. Leave a message.’
Short and to the point.
“Josh — you okay? Thought we’d be getting loads of grief from you this morning …”
Ryan stopped, the light-hearted tone not seeming right any more.
“Anyway, give us a call, mate, eh? Just a bit of a laugh, right?”
He cut the call off. Then, slipping out of bed, he pulled on his trousers from last night that he had let fall to the floor.
Then he sat on the rickety wooden chair that faced the smallest — and splintery — desk he had even seen.
He called Marcus.
This time — two rings in, and Marcus picked up.
“Marcus, you hear from—”
“No, I’ve called. Lots of times. So’s Gary.”
“He that mad at us?”
Marcus hesitated. “No. I mean, I dunno! I went down to that boat of his. Reckoned he’d be sleeping there, after being out in the chilly air all night. But it was all locked up, like he never even got back there.”
Ryan looked up at the sun-drenched window.
This new day getting off to a very bad start.
“What do you think?” Ryan finally said.
Another hesitation. “God. I don’t know, Ryan. I was sure he’d call us, scream bloody murder. And his barge. Locked up tight. Empty. What’s going on?”
Ryan had hoped that Marcus would have had an answer to that.
“What are we going to do, Marcus? We’ve got to tell people.”
“I called the club already. Asked if the workers there … saw anything usual, you know, on the eighth hole.”
That had to be an interesting discussion, Ryan thought, “Excuse me, did you happen to find anyone tied to one of your mowers this morning?”
“But they didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. I mumbled about maybe having lost something on the hole.”
“He was gone?”
“Must have been. But where?” Then pointing out the obvious. “This isn’t good.“
Ryan thought about his own life, back in London.
A law practice that just seemed to be getting off the ground. A girl he had been dating who — for the first time — seemed like she could be someone he could really be interested in.
That life … endangered by this?
He knew what they had to do. No matter what the repercussions might be.
“Got to call the police, Marcus.”
“What?”
“Tell them the whole deal.”
“Not sure they’ll be that interested mate. I mean — Josh is probably down the pub now planning his revenge.”
Ryan thought about that. It was possible. But he had a bad feeling.
“Ryan I mean, let’s not over-react, eh?”
Marcus was one of those guys who always seemed to be scoping out a situation to minimise the damage to themselves.
But, in this case, maybe he was right.
“There is one other thing, Marcus.”
His friend waited. Probably with a massive hangover …
“One of us has got to tell Lauren.”
“God, no. Can’t we wait?”
“With all the preparations they have going on? She’s probably already phoned him, wondering why he hasn’t called back.”
His friend didn’t volunteer.
But Ryan guessed that Marcus knew Lauren better, having come down from London and visited Josh here a few times.
“Best you do it, Marcus.”
“And what do I tell her?”
“Everything. And see what she thinks about going to the police.”
Ryan could only imagine how this information would go down, just days before what was supposed to be one of the greatest days of her life.
Now turned into … what?
A missing person story?
A runaway groom?
At this point Ryan didn’t have a clue what was going on.
“Okay,” Marcus said with a massive sigh. “I’ll try to catch her on a break from teaching. Not going to be easy, that little chat.”
“I’m sure.”
And after a moment’s silence, “Okay, Marcus, I’m going to get going on this.”
“Right.”
Then the call ended, while Ryan sat there thinking again, what had happened to their good friend?
4. A Lunchtime Visit
Sarah stood behind Grace’s chair looking at the just-approved final copy of the Cherringham Golf membership brochure.
“It’s absolutely brilliant, Grace.”
Her young assistant turned back to her. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Makes me almost want to take up the game.”
“Golf? Kinda for the older set, isn’t it?”
“Well, my dad loves it. You want to check in with the printer — see when they can deliver a proof, and then the first print run?”
“Already did. I think the young guy who runs the place likes me. He said, ‘for you, I’ll make it a priority’. We can have a proof tomorrow, and after sign-off, the first boxes off to the club by next Monday.”
“How’s the website coming along?”
“Nearly there too. All the location videos are in now so just a case of deciding which shots to use.”
“Fab. We should—”
Sarah was about to suggest a celebratory lunch. Usually they didn’t stop for lunch, wolfing down a quick salad or soup while working.
But then Sarah heard the downstairs door open, someone coming up the stairs.
She looked at Grace.
No one in their diary and no appointments.
They rarely got any walk-in business.
Sarah turned to the staircase, and with Grace, waited.
Until a young woman walked in.
Long brown hair, pulled back, glasses that did nothing to hide stunning blue eyes; Sarah knew who she was.
Lauren Proctor.
The Year 3 teacher at Daniel’s old primary school.
Looking into those eyes, Sarah could see that something was very wrong.
*
Sarah guided the teacher to a chair used for clients that faced her desk.
“Would you like a cup of tea, or—”
The woman shook her head.
“No.”
Her voice tentative, catching.
Sarah guessed this wasn’t about any printing job.
As did Grace.
“Shall I pop out, let you two?”
But some instinct told Sarah it might be a good idea for Grace to stick around.
Sarah had kept the world of her web and printing business very much separate from what she and Jack Brennan did, more and more she was open to letting Grace help.
While also making sure that her young worker never did anything that could be at all risky, or dodgy in the eyes of the law.
Which she and Jack did quite often.
The teacher looked over at Grace. A small smile.
Then back to Sarah.
“I … I don’t have a lot of time. I teach … at the primary. I’m on lunch break.”
Sarah nodded. While this teacher had arrived after Daniel and Chloe had moved on, Sarah had seen her at the school. She had also heard other parents giving her high marks.
Caring and competent.
Two good traits you wa
nt in your child’s teacher.
“But you see, I got a call this morning.”
The woman looked away, and Sarah saw a tiny pool form in each eye.
This woman looked devastated.
“I’m getting married, this Saturday, and …”
Another nod. Sarah had put that news into the last issue of the village’s online news bulletin.
Lauren wiped at one corner of an eye, then the other.
“And this call came this morning. From one of Josh — my fiancé’s — good friends saying that something has happened.”
“What did they say?” Sarah asked.
She looked over at Grace, her face set, serious, listening carefully.
“That Josh was gone. That he was … was nowhere to be found, that, that …”
Now the tears flowed freely, and before Sarah could make a move, Grace had delicately brought over a small box of tissues and passed it to Lauren.
Nobody said anything for a few moments.
Then, tears momentarily stemmed, the bride–to-be looked up.
“Can you help me? Can you do something?”
Then more sobs, the woman’s body shaking as Sarah stood up, and came beside Lauren who — still crying — leaned into Sarah as if she was a sturdy tree somehow capable of holding her up.
*
At first, Sarah didn’t see Jack.
She knew he must be somewhere about since Riley sat at the end of the Grey Goose’s wooden gangplank, head comfortably resting on his paws.
Resting, that is, until he saw Sarah come closer; then the dog popped up as if the day had just become significantly more interesting.
“Jack, are you around?”
She started up the gangplank.
Then Jack’s voice, from somewhere near the front of the boat.
No, she thought, not the front …
The bow.
Jack did like to observe nautical protocol.
“Over here!”
She followed the sound, now hearing a scraping noise.
To see Jack, suspended from the front railing.
A harness of some sorts was attached to one of the rails at the bow, supporting him as he leaned backwards, nearly upside down.
And she saw the source of the scraping.
Jack was moving a small metal tool back and forth over the wood.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He smiled from his topsy-turvy perch.
“Goose is getting old, like its owner. Needs maintenance, bit of paint.”
He turned back to the spot where he had been scraping, blew at it, then looked back up at Sarah.
“Can you hand me that coffee can. Careful, has paint.”
She turned to see a can lodged against the railing, picked it up and then carefully handed it down to Jack.
Jack meanwhile had stuck his scraper into a pocket of his jeans, and then took the can with one hand while slowly pulling out a small brush with the other, the creamy brown paint glistening in the afternoon sun.
“Won’t be a minute,” he said.
And then he proceeded to go back and forth over the freshly scraped spot.
A few strokes and he paused.
“There. That should do it. For that bit.”
He looked back at Sarah. He slid the brush back in. “Think you can take the can?”
She reached down and again — carefully — took the can and found a spot to wedge it against the base of the railing.
Then — belying his age — Jack reached up to that railing and pulled himself up, going from his upside-down position to somehow sitting on the bow, a big smile on his face.
“You’d make a mighty fine painter’s assistant.”
She smiled. “Least I didn’t drop the can.”
“Exactly. So now — to what do I owe the pleasure? Maybe a cup of tea is in order?”
And she nodded. “Sounds good …”
Sarah waited while Jack unbuckled himself from his harness.
5. The Missing Artist
Jack listened, nodding as Sarah told of Lauren Proctor’s surprise visit, the prank, and now the missing groom.
Then he shook his head.
“Hang on, something I just don’t get here.”
“And that is?”
“These were his ‘friends’ who tied him up, pulled down his pants, I mean trousers?” A grin. “And left him there to be found? Some friends …”
“It’s what they do over here, Jack. Stag night pranks can get pretty extreme.”
Another shake of Jack’s head.
“Never fly in the States. Sure, go have some fun, too many drinks. Reports of the occasional stripper have been noted. But that kind of thing?”
“The bigger the better.”
Then another smile. “Glad I’m never getting married again …”
“Never say never.”
And as soon as Sarah said it, she realised that was wishful thinking on her part — for Jack to find someone.
But also, to be honest, she wondered if those hopes were more about her than Jack.
“Okay. The bride’s a teacher. And the groom?”
Sarah dug a small spiral notebook out of her purse.
“You have notes? I approve.”
“Learned from the best,” she said. “Anyway, Josh Andrews. He’s an artist, sculptor. Studied at St. Martins in London.”
“Local guy?”
She shook her head. “No. From Manchester, I think.”
Another nod from Jack.
Then: “Successful artist?”
“I’ve listed some shows he’s done in the newsletter, at quality galleries around the Cotswolds. He seems to sell pretty well.”
“Still, hard life, an artist’s. Can be a poverty existence I hear. And he lives …?”
“Not far from you actually. On a barge berthed down near Iron Wharf.”
“Convenient. For his work, I imagine. And the girl, Lauren, she local?”
Sarah nodded. “Yes. Parents well off, big on the social scene. James and Babs Proctor. Her father is captain of the Golf Club.”
“What? Really? You mean they pranked their friend in a place important to the father-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“Now that is something.”
Sarah reached in her bag, took out a photo and handed it to Jack.
“Photo of Josh taken earlier this year. Lauren gave it to me. You can hang onto it.”
“Good looking kid,” said Jack, staring at the photo.
She watched as he tucked it in his pocket.
“So, what do you think? Did a runner maybe? That or … what?”
Jack didn’t answer quickly. Instead he said.
“Oh, I have a few more questions for you and your notebook, Ms. Edwards. But first — how about another cup of tea?”
“Sure.”
He stood up. “I also have more spots to paint but must admit this — so far — seems way more fun.”
And he walked over to the galley’s small stove and got the kettle quickly whistling again.
*
“Another biscuit?” said Jack, nodding towards the tea tray.
He watched Sarah shake her head. “I will have a top-up though,” she said, picking up the teapot and pouring herself another mugful.
Jack sat back in his deck chair, observing the wheelhouse of the Grey Goose, which he’d spent the whole of yesterday painting.
From down here on the foredeck, in the late afternoon sun, he could see it would need another coat.
“Well?” said Sarah. “Is it a case?”
Jack turned back to her. “She talk to the police? What do they think?”
“Apparently the best man went into Cherringham police station this morning.”
“Not an easy conversation, I’m sure.”
“I spoke to Alan myself, before I came down here. He wasn’t amused.”
Jack could imagine that. Alan Rivers was Cherringham’s lone policeman, and as Jack kn
ew, didn’t have tolerance for drunken antics of any kind.
The guy had a big area to look after single-handed, and Jack guessed that explained why he turned a blind eye to his and Sarah’s occasional crime-solving escapades.
“He go up to the Golf Club? Take statements?”
“He rang Lauren,” said Sarah. “Told her it was still too early to put Josh down as a missing person.”
“Well, I kinda agree. I mean — it is only a few hours.”
“Lauren was pretty insistent there was something wrong.”
“Well, she would be. Brides tend not to like their future husbands disappearing. Presumably she got her dad to check out the course this morning? Make sure the kid wasn’t asleep in a sand trap?”
“She hasn’t told her parents.”
“Really?”
“Doesn’t want to worry them.”
Jack thought about this.
“So, she’s desperate enough to ask for our help but hasn’t told daddy a thing?”
“Apparently daddy doesn’t approve of her choice of husband.”
“Aha. So this wedding — was gonna be beneath the social radar, huh?”
“On the contrary. Full house at St. James’s and then a marquee wedding reception at the Golf Club. Dinner for two hundred.”
“Sounds like mum and dad are getting over their ‘issues’ then.”
“Not sure they have much choice. ‘Grin and bear it’ is what they’re doing, so I hear.”
“You got mutual friends?”
“Not quite,” said Sarah. “Dad’s a member up at the golf club. Lauren’s father, James, is the Captain of the club. They play together sometimes.”
“Hmm. You think your dad would give me a little tour of the place?”
“If it took in the club bar, I’m sure he would.”
Jack liked Sarah’s father, Michael, and over the last year or two had discovered a shared interest in well-aged single malts.
“Why don’t you give him a call,” said Jack. “Might as well examine the scene of the crime.”
“Really? So you think it is a crime?”
“To be honest Sarah, no, I don’t. I think our wayward groom is going to turn up with his tail between his legs, sorry he’s caused a fuss. I’ve seen disappearing grooms before and they always return safe and sound.”
“But you still want to visit the club?”
“This Lauren, she’s got five days to get through till the wedding, huh?”
He saw Sarah nod.
Cherringham--A Bad Lie Page 2