Cherringham--Too Many Lies

by Matthew Costello

“So,” he said. “Let’s start at the beginning. Last night — you were at the meeting in the Village Hall, yes?”

  *

  Ten minutes later, Sarah saw Alan click the top on his pen, fold the notebook closed and put it away.

  “Wish I could tell you more,” said Jack. “But in truth I didn’t get a real look at the guy’s face.”

  “I understand, Jack,” said Alan. “But I think we’ll get you up to the station in the next day or so, have you look at some photos anyway. Never hurts. Sometimes memory jogged, hmm? Syms has picked up his fair share of enemies over the years.”

  “I’m guessing you’ve had no luck with the usual suspects so far,” said Jack.

  “I already explained to Sarah,” said Alan, leaning forward as if sharing a confidence. “We did the usual recce on the lane, looking for clues, evidence. Course … absolutely nothing there. And the one CCTV camera — where the lane circles by the church? It just caught someone in a dark hoodie, dark trousers. Face hidden. Did catch his jump over the wall. Impressive that. And you following, of course.”

  “My wall jumping days probably over.”

  Sarah knew Jack could still be pretty physical when the situation called for it. And as a young NYPD Detective, well, he must have been fierce.

  Still — time marches on.

  Alan laughed: “In a way, that’s the other thing I wanted to mention.”

  “You said you had something else to talk about,” said Jack. “Shoot.”

  She swore Jack took on a quizzical look and — unless she was imagining it — it was matched by one from Riley sitting nearby.

  “This Village Hall issue,” Alan said. “Jack, I was born and raised in Cherringham and I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, this village … so divided. The anger, and all the outsiders on both sides.”

  Alan took a breath.

  “A ‘powder keg’,” he said. “You have that expression?”

  Sarah saw Jack grin. “That we do.”

  “The thing is,” Alan said, his face serious, “and I’m sure you weren’t planning to, but I just wanted to say, I’m expecting you — both of you — to stay out of this. No telling how things could go, especially after last night.”

  Sarah caught Jack’s eye — knowing how he reacted to being warned off anything, especially by another cop.

  Jack kept his smile on, but …

  Powder keg was the right phrase.

  And now, still with his usual relaxed, friendly manner Jack said: “Alan, you asking us not to get involved?” His face serious too. “Or — warning us?”

  “Bit of both, perhaps. I’m just saying, Jack — as politely as I know how — this is something new, something different in Cherringham. And I think you or Sarah asking questions will only stir things up more.”

  “Alan,” said Sarah quickly, “I promise you, Jack and I have no intention of getting involved in this — isn’t that right, Jack?”

  That promise, parsed in such a way that Alan didn’t see she had left a loophole open.

  She watched Jack look down at his tea cup.

  He’s probably already two steps ahead.

  Alan leaned forward.

  Jack looked up, his smile big and broad: “You kidding? Hey, come on. There’s trout in the river right now that got my name on ’em. This little squabble about a hotel can go take a leap for all I care.”

  “Well I’m pleased to hear that, very pleased.” Alan looked around. “Lovely autumn day. They’ll be biting for sure.”

  Jack patted his left-side pocket.

  Never had she been with him when he didn’t have, in that same exact pocket, no matter what time, what day …

  His notepad.

  And it was all she could do not to laugh as she realised what message he was sending her.

  He looked at Sarah, speaking for both of them.

  “In fact — anything we can do to keep things calm here.” Then, as if it bore repeating. “Anything. Love this village, Alan.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Okay then,” and Jack stood up.

  And Sarah, following on as the double act that they were, stood up too.

  “Alan, don’t want to keep you from your business, people to talk to and all that — but as you say, those fish are biting.”

  And with that, Sarah watched as Alan pocketed his notebook, drained his tea, then with an official nod turned and headed down the gang plank over to his car.

  *

  Jack stood next to Sarah and gave a small wave as Alan reversed the little police car, turned around, and drove back along the lane towards the bridge and the Cherringham road.

  “Okay. So we’ve been advised — warned — yes? But Tony came over, this morning,” she said. “Asked me a favour.”

  “Oh really?”

  Jack — she guessed — not surprised at all.

  “Well, it was him and Carl Coleman together, asking the favour.”

  He turned to Sarah and smiled.

  “Oh, do let me guess,” he said. “They’d like us to investigate what happened to Syms?”

  “Exactly. And keep an eye on things. They’re both worried that this is all beginning to turn nasty.”

  “Bad for business, hmm?” said Jack, knowing that Coleman owned all kinds of real estate in the centre of the village.

  “I imagine that’s Coleman’s angle. For Tony, it’s about the village, the people. He was shaken by last night.”

  “Well, they’re right to be worried,” said Jack. “What did you say to him?”

  “I said we were on it already.”

  “Did you now? Without consulting with your partner?”

  “Well, we are — aren’t we?”

  “Oh yes. You bet we are,” said Jack. “Anything for Tony, and anything for Cherringham. Let’s grab ourselves a quick coffee and get to work right away, hmm?”

  As he said this, he felt Riley nuzzling against his leg.

  He looked down — Riley’s expression disappointed, the dog seeming to know exactly what this conversation just meant.

  “Oh … sorry, boy,” he said. “Think it might be a day or two before we get those rods out.”

  He turned and followed Sarah down to the galley, already feeling that old familiar excitement of a new case.

  4. Pop-up Protest

  Sarah came down the narrow stairs from her office, opened the door onto the High Street and stepped out into welcome lunchtime sunshine.

  Although it was October, there was still warmth in the sun and — at this time of year, with few tourists around — Cherringham was relaxed and reasonably traffic-free.

  She looked across at the Village Hall, so very familiar: not a pretty building by any means, with its heavy stone Gothic windows and tall church-like steeple.

  But so much of her past was linked to the place. As a child — hours of revision in the library for school exams. Later, tap and ballet class in the upstairs meeting room twice a week.

  Then, when she came back to the village with her own tiny children — the bustling mother-and-toddler group upstairs; jumble sales, Pilates classes — and a whole year sitting at a big PC in the library while she tried to set up her web design business.

  So much of her life connected to a building.

  And since then, she had been part of the many landmark events in Cherringham’s life that took place right around the hall: the Christmas market, Summer fêtes, veteran car rally, carnival week.

  The hall, like the village’s anchor.

  But — times change. Finances change. And change had to be dealt with — if not always welcomed.

  She followed the High Street down, past cafés, gift shops, the little supermarket, a newsagent — all “landmarks” in their own way — until she saw the glass frontage of the “Save Our Hall” campaign HQ.

  Once an old-fashioned shoe repair shop (she guessed something people just didn’t bother with anymore) now it had been transformed in a couple of weeks into Cherringham’s own “h
otbed of political activism” — at least, that’s what Councillor Coleman had called it when she’d interviewed him last week.

  Outside the pop-up HQ, she saw a truck parked — “Radio Gloucester” on its side. And inside she could see a bustle of activity — lots of volunteers, a youthful army in green T-shirts with logos, desks with laptops, tables with piles of placards and posters …

  … and in one corner, Ralph Syms being interviewed by a young female journalist.

  The door was open — and she walked in, just as the interview appeared to come to an end and Ralph gave the journalist a hug.

  “Great talking to you, as ever, Sophy,” she heard Syms say. “Ping me when it goes live, hmm, and I’ll link to it.”

  “Will do,” said the woman, packing up her tape and mic. “And hey, stay safe, okay? There’s some nasty types out there and, God knows, you’re one of the good guys.”

  Well that’s sure going to be one impartial interview, thought Sarah, as she side-stepped to let the woman out of the busy shop.

  She looked at Ralph, one arm in a sling, hair tied back in a tight bun, stubble, earring, and dark eyes.

  And charismatic indeed.

  No wonder Chloe goes all defensive when I mention him, she thought.

  “Sarah?” he said, spotting her, stepping forward. “Sarah Edwards?”

  He held out his left hand to shake and Sarah took it with hers, laughing at the awkwardness for both of them.

  “My knight in shining armour,” he said. “If not for you—”

  “Oh, that’ll be Jack, not me. He gave chase.”

  “Rubbish — I think it was you that scared that bastard off. That’s what I told the cop and he didn’t seem surprised. Apparently you have a bit of a rep. ‘Fearless’ was one word.”

  “That is definitely inaccurate. I have a lot of fears …”

  She let that line sit, wondering if Syms picked up on her concern.

  About her own daughter.

  “As to reputations, don’t believe everything you see and hear, hmm?” said Sarah, aware that Syms had taken control of the conversation completely. “Anyway, just thought I’d pop in, see how you are.”

  “As you can see — I’m good. Great job at the hospital. Quick couple of stitches and I’m good enough to get back to work for sure.”

  Syms’s words confirming that the wound was pretty minor.

  Lucky guy, she thought.

  “You should be careful. Whoever did it is still out there.”

  Syms didn’t seem alarmed at all.

  “Hey — that’s rock and roll, right? Goes with the territory.”

  “Really? A physical attack? Has it happened before?”

  She saw him laugh and shake his head. He turned and called to the back of the room.

  “Hey Chloe! You were right.”

  Sarah looked over his shoulder — and saw her daughter by a copier, laminating posters. Chloe looked up, smiled at Syms, nodded at Sarah, then went back to work.

  Syms turned back to Sarah. “Chloe said you’d be coming around, asking questions.”

  “Oh, did she?” said Sarah, again feeling off balance.

  “And your clever daughter was right, now wasn’t she?”

  Sarah saw the smile disappear from his eyes and he stepped closer. “Thing is — sorry, got to ask this — but who are you asking the questions for? And please don’t say it’s out of the kindness of your heart. Or” — his look, withering — “curiosity.”

  “Not the police,” she said.

  “I didn’t for a second think so,” said Syms. “That guy that came to see me this morning — Rivers? Nice enough. For a cop. But clearly useless. Couldn’t care less. So who?”

  “Let’s just say some concerned locals,” said Sarah.

  “Oh really? Concerned for me — or for their little money-making scheme?” he said, getting even closer, his eyes cold.

  There were clearly many sides to this Ralph Syms.

  And Sarah was amazed that he could have this dialogue and keep it so low that none of his army of believers picked up on the tension in the air.

  “For you — and for the general good of the village.”

  “You really think that?”

  “I do — actually,” said Sarah, staring him out.

  She saw him shrug and step back, lean against a desk.

  “Okay,” he said. “I believe you.”

  Practised smile back in place.

  “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

  “Any time. Now what exactly did you want to ask me? If it’ll help catch the bastard who knifed me, I’ll answer anything.”

  Sarah took out her notebook then looked around — this was kind of public.

  “Oh, right! There’s a back office,” said Syms, turning. “Through here — we can grab a coffee too.”

  Sarah followed him, past the laminator where Chloe didn’t look up, and then into a small office with a table and a couple of chairs and a sink in the corner with kettle and mugs.

  As Syms made the coffee, she thought about Chloe, just outside. Again, a sense of a growing gap between them.

  Something to worry about? thought Sarah.

  Maybe just embarrassed having Mum drop by.

  Or something more?

  *

  Jack parked his little MG sports car in the main square and climbed out.

  He debated putting the top up, but the sky looked pretty clear and it didn’t feel like rain.

  He wondered how Sarah was getting on with Syms. When they’d drawn up lists of people to talk to, she’d been pretty adamant that Syms should be on hers.

  And — Jack guessed — with Chloe working there, it was a chance to catch up.

  But maybe — although he knew she’d deny it — she also had an interest in finding out first-hand what made the charismatic Ralph Syms tick?

  Jack felt he knew the type from the knock-down battles he’d witnessed in the political circles of Manhattan.

  But for Sarah — a new beast?

  Meanwhile he was to meet the councillors instead. At least he was going to get a free lunch out of it.

  He walked round the line of parked cars and past the back of the Village Hall towards the Angel, planning how to handle this meeting.

  Carl Coleman and Tony Standish were unlikely to lead him to the knife-wielding attacker in a hoodie, but he might at least learn something more about the politics behind the whole fiasco.

  *

  Sarah sipped her coffee — so bitter — wishing she’d declined the offer. Whatever this stuff was, it gave organic a bad name.

  “So, you didn’t recognise the man who attacked you?”

  Syms rolled his eyes. “Like I said last night — didn’t see his face at all. In fact — it might not have even been a ‘him’ for all I know.”

  “Really?” said Sarah. “Interesting.”

  Remembering that Jack had been pretty certain it was a man.

  “Right, then so he — she — didn’t say anything?”

  “Just crashed into me, knocked me the hell over, slashed with the knife, blade — whatever it was — then you appeared — ta-da — and the attacker ran.”

  “Definitely not a robbery then, you think?”

  “Doubtful. I mean — I had my wallet and phone — if they’d asked I’d have handed them over.”

  “Okay, so why do you think they did it?”

  “Well, come on. It’s obvious — isn’t it? It’s a warning. Telling me to stop.”

  “You think it’s connected to this … to the protest?”

  “Well, duh — obviously. With money at stake, things like that happen. You do read the papers, watch the news and all that?”

  “Okay,” said Sarah, choosing not to get riled by his attitude. “Let’s go back a bit. How long have you been involved with the ‘Save Our Hall’ protest?”

  “About a month, I guess.”

  “Somebody from the village brought you in, right?”

  A slight hesit
ation. Syms suddenly guarded.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me who?”

  “Er — no.”

  “Really?” said Sarah, surprised at the blunt reply.

  She saw him smile: “Nor can I tell you how much they’re paying me.”

  “I could find out.”

  “You could try. But I’m bound by client privilege so I won’t be telling you.”

  Interesting, thought Sarah. Jack and I need to find this information.

  “All right. So — you were hired — to run the protest?”

  “No. To organise, and then win the protest. To make sure the council votes against the hotel development on Friday. And then to follow through at higher levels — up to national if necessary — to ensure their ‘no’ vote is recognised and the plans go away.”

  “Big job. Guessing you must be getting big money for that.”

  “Sarah — can I be honest? I don’t like these questions. I’m the victim here. Remember? Instead this — I dunno — interrogation?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Sorry. Just trying to get the background straight.”

  “It’s straight enough already.”

  Again — that edge.

  Sarah made a couple of notes, took a sip of the vile coffee.

  “Nearly done then. Now … tell me, how long have you been in the village, ‘organising’ as you say?”

  “About a month. Stayed in a hotel outside town at first, to get the lay of the land, at a distance. Figure out who all the players are, so to speak.”

  “And when did you move into the village?”

  “These questions of yours just keep coming, hmm? Couple of weeks ago, I guess.”

  “Staying in a hotel again?”

  Syms seemed surprised by the question: “No. Here.”

  He nodded upwards.

  “There’s a small flat upstairs, goes with the shop.”

  “Whoever attacked you must have known your routine — maybe guessed you’d be walking through the short cut?”

  “I didn’t make a secret of it. And yeah — I use that little lane most nights, head up for a beer.”

  “Right. You haven’t noticed anything unusual while you’ve been here in the village? Anyone following you?”

  “No, nothing. Apart from some nasty looks from the village fat cats.”

  “And outside of your work to save the hall, you can’t think of any other reason why anybody would wish you harm?”