Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist

by Neil Richards

  Sarah’s ex begrudgingly helped out with cash — but it was never enough.

  She enjoyed working with Jack, solving cases, but it didn’t pay the rent, that was for sure. And much as she loved it, it could add hours to the working day, time away from the kids.

  Not to mention time to herself.

  She knew he was waiting on her to do some background checks — and she hated letting him down.

  This case too was so frustrating. What was it? A missing person? An accidental death? Or something worse?

  It was hard to get a grip on.

  No facts — that was the problem.

  She opened the fridge to make a quick salad to go with the pizzas and saw the bottle of Picpoul she’d bought for Sunday lunch with her parents.

  The bottle was icy cold. Perfect.

  What the hell, she thought. It’s a Friday night. And I deserve it. Now.

  She poured herself a large glass and went out into the tiny garden to sit in the last scrap of evening sunshine.

  *

  An hour later, with the supper dishes out of the way and the kitchen table cleared, Sarah sat down at her laptop.

  She could hear Daniel in his bedroom on his PlayStation.

  A couple of hours of hard work now, then she could hit the sofa, and drift off in front of the TV — that was the deal she’d made for herself.

  She got to work.

  First she hit the local land registry site and hunted down the details of all the properties on Barrows Lane. Two big farms came up, both owned by a local landlord whose name she recognised.

  Then Barrows Cottage — owned by a Peter Taylor.

  No mention of the little cottage that Jack had described.

  Interesting …

  She pulled up the electoral register — and drew a blank. No Peter Taylor. No Richard Latchmore.

  And no Karen Taylor.

  She poured herself another glass of white wine and sat back to see if she could work this out.

  Maybe Peter Taylor was Karen’s husband? Owned the property — died or just left her? She had never bothered to register to vote. Newly married perhaps?

  Time to dig deeper. Births, deaths, and marriages …

  Suddenly, she was intrigued.

  *

  Half an hour later she had some answers — of a kind.

  Peter Taylor was indeed Karen’s husband. He had died just over a year ago. Only months before the baby Marie was born.

  How awful, Sarah thought. That poor woman …

  But it was worse. Peter had died in Afghanistan on military service — just twenty-three years old.

  Sarah could hardly imagine what that must have been like for Karen — to be pregnant, living in that tiny cottage, hearing that your husband has died, a husband who would never see his baby daughter.

  No wonder she had never registered to vote.

  Too many other things to think about.

  But what about Richard Latchmore? The neighbour living in the little cottage just up the lane. Who was he?

  She googled the name — not expecting to find much.

  And there weren’t many hits — but what did come up was puzzling.

  Latchmore too had an army background. A major in the Parachute Regiment — he had been honourably discharged just a few years back, aged forty-five.

  After some kind of secret enquiry.

  Sarah kept digging. There were brief mentions of Latchmore in the national press. He had been a rising star, veteran of numerous engagements going back to the Gulf War and beyond. He had a string of decorations and by all accounts was heading for high rank.

  Then, after a tour of duty in 2011 there was a two-year gap while an enquiry was launched into an action he had been involved in Helmand Province.

  Afghanistan.

  There was no information in any public record of the exact nature of the enquiry. The details, the documents said, were deemed ‘too sensitive’ to be released.

  But just a year later, Latchmore was pensioned out.

  Sarah sat back. Two neighbours — connected by war.

  Was there something here? Or was it just coincidence?

  And what could possibly connect the frail figure of the American tourist with these Cherringham residents?

  She reached across to her handbag, which hung from one of the kitchen chairs. Inside the bag was Patrick O’Connor’s camera.

  She took it out and ejected the SIM card, then inserted the card into her laptop.

  The pictures grouped into albums on her player — going back, it seemed, some years.

  Many were shots of New York — friends, maybe family in happier times.

  They were good pictures.

  But when she opened up the most recent folders, photos taken in the Cotswolds, she could hardly believe they’d been taken by the same hand.

  Some were so badly framed it was hard to imagine that O’Connor had even been looking at the screen when he took them.

  What had happened? Had he suddenly become ill? Was that the answer — that Patrick O’Connor had some terrible ailment that had somehow overcome him while he was on this last holiday?

  It didn’t make sense. Surely his sister would have known?

  Sarah took another sip of wine, and scrolled back through the photos of New York.

  She opened each picture carefully, viewing it full screen.

  Dated just a couple of years ago — was a whole set for a Thanksgiving Dinner. The pictures all taken in a small sitting room — half a dozen people, probably family members, around a table.

  Smiling faces. Laughter. Patrick, a brooding presence in some of the pictures. At other times, a small smile — sharing in the Thanksgiving spirit.

  Was this his apartment? Sarah wondered.

  On one wall behind the dining table, she could see line upon line of family photos. One she recognised as the photo Jack had shown her: Patrick O’Connor and his wife and son.

  She ran her eyes along the line of pictures.

  The teenage boy growing up. The mother now absent. In the final picture on the wall: the boy looking like a young man — now in uniform.

  In uniform.

  A US Army uniform.

  Sarah felt the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly rise.

  She checked the date of the Thanksgiving photo: 2010.

  The boy — a soldier.

  On active service.

  And where were US soldiers serving in those years?

  Afghanistan.

  She reached for her phone and dialled Jack’s number.

  Was this the connection that bound Patrick O’Connor to Barrows Lane?

  “Yeah? Sarah?”

  “Jack — god, I don’t know. But I think I’ve found something …”

  14. The Lone Soldier

  Sarah stood as she talked to Jack, now excited by her discovery and the idea of an early bedtime fading away.

  “Should I come over now?”

  “I don’t think so. Let me look at the photos some more, see what I can find?”

  “First thing in the morning?”

  “Yes. And Jack — maybe let Mary O’Connor know we want to have a chat with her.”

  “Will do. And Sarah — good work.”

  She smiled.

  “Thanks.”

  Then a pause. “And good to have you back.”

  “This is way more fun than work, Jack.”

  He laughed at that — always a great sound to hear.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said, ringing off.

  And Sarah went back to her computer.

  *

  “Who is … he?” Sarah said staring at that young man in his crisp dress uniform, eyes looking straight out at whoever was taking the picture.

  There was one person who would know — after all, she was in some of those pictures as well.

  Mary O’Connor.

  But now, kids asleep, well after 11 p.m., Sarah couldn’t stop looking at the photos, as if prying into someone's priva
te family life.

  Patrick O'Connor, the missing tourist. Mary happily holding a casserole as she smiles at the camera.

  But she kept coming back to the soldier.

  And she thought, it can’t just be a coincidence.

  Latchmore in the war. Karen’s husband, in the war as well.

  And now this young face, the soldier not much more than a kid.

  She had zoomed in on that face. The eyes piercing, a dazzling blue, his face not smiling, but set, determined.

  Maybe about to be shipped over.

  Hard to smile when you were facing that.

  This photo — so filled with emotion.

  And she scrolled over to where she could see a badge on his shoulder.

  101st Airborne it read, the words above a bald eagle head.

  She enlarged it as much as she could, then saw another shoulder badge, going blurry but still she was able to make out …

  A single sword crossing two rifles.

  Below the rifles; Special Operations Task Force.

  An outline of a country, and the name.

  Afghanistan.

  Okay, she thought.

  Now she had the year the soldier was in special operations. She spotted a silver bar on his shirt collar, almost glinting. Was that some kind of rank?

  A quick search …

  Then: Right. He was a first lieutenant.

  With all of that information, she guessed she might be able to find out where in Afghanistan the young soldier might be headed.

  She tried a Google search, and in a few minutes found a site managed by a veteran who tracked who had served where in the US military.

  She entered the 101st …

  And there it was.

  Through the World Wars, Korea, Vietnam, until she hit the year 2010. December.

  And the 101st Airborne Division was sent to Kunar Province, in eastern Afghanistan.

  Then in 2011, and the 101st facing counter-insurgency, major battles and skirmishes popping up all over with a supposedly subdued Taliban.

  She read the comments from the website creator — comments laced with bitterness and sadness.

  Matched with images of fallen heroes …

  So young.

  She sat back, shaking her head.

  Amazing, she thought.

  But what did it all mean?

  She couldn’t wait to meet Jack in the morning and show him this.

  There had to be a connection. And if there was, she needed Jack’s mind to put pieces into place.

  But for now — if she was going to be of any use in the morning — she needed to get some rest.

  Reluctantly she shut the clamshell top of her laptop.

  *

  Both kids were away: Chloe on her amazing school trip to France, Daniel off to school, in the last days of the term.

  She waited for Jack to appear at the back door, a full pot of coffee on.

  She would have fixed breakfast as well — Jack did like his eggs and bacon.

  But she guessed he'd want to speak with O’Connor’s sister as soon as possible.

  Then she heard a tap at the door; Jack peering in, with his typical warm smile.

  He entered the kitchen, always seeming like a giant in its tight confines.

  “You know, I think you Brits have an actual heat wave going on outside. It’s positively gorgeous.”

  She nodded but immediately went to her open laptop.

  “Jack, I think I found something important. I just don't know what to make of it. The connection …”

  “I knew you would. See, much as you would like to stay away from all this …”

  She laughed, and quoted Michael Corleone’s great line from Godfather: Part III: “'Just when I thought I was out … they pull me back in.' Or at least you do!”

  “Funny thing about mysteries,” he said, sitting down. “They're so … mysterious, hmm? Show me what you got, detective.”

  She smiled at that.

  But she knew — coming from Jack — it was a mark of respect. He didn’t take her skills lightly.

  “Okay, I kept going back to that Thanksgiving photo. The young soldier.”

  Jack nodded.

  And now she opened up the photo again on her screen so he could see for himself.

  “Course we don't know who it is …” she said.

  “Hopefully, Mary will fill in that blank.”

  “Right. But I wanted to see if there was anything else I could spot there, anything missing. For instance — do you see how grim he looks?”

  “Like he's not really at the celebration at all …”

  She leaned into the keyboard and tapped some keys.

  “Now watch. If I zoom in on that badge on his shoulder …”

  “His division patch.”

  “That what it’s called? Anyway, look …”

  Jack looked up at the screen. “Wow. The 101st. They’re called 'The Screaming Eagles.' In all the wars, they always caught a lot of the bad stuff. They’re legendary …”

  “And Jack — look at this.”

  She slid to another tab, where she had highlighted where the solider’s division had been sent.

  “Kunar Province, Afghanistan, Jack. He was going to Afghanistan just days after.”

  “So — I need you to tell me. This can’t just all be a coincidence — can it?”

  He sat back. “I learned a long time ago that that there are fewer coincidences in life than we think.”

  “Then this could be something, I mean in connection with Latchmore, Karen’s husband … somehow all fitting together?”

  Jack laughed at that. “With the operative word being 'somehow'.”

  “If only we could find out about the enquiry into Latchmore. You see — the years almost match. Is that part of this? But it’s sealed.”

  “For us …” Jack said.

  “Hmm … what?”

  “For us. But the right person, with the right contacts … well, I guess we could, well, learn about it.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  Jack leaned forward.

  “Your dad. Michael still keeps close to all his contacts in the military. I bet he could call in a favor or two.”

  Now Sarah sat back. “I don’t know, Jack. Dad is very much by-the-book.”

  Jack smiled. “True enough. But I can’t see him saying no to you. He knows all the good you've done …”

  “We’ve done. And I can't see him saying no to you either.”

  “Give him a call.”

  She had already picked up her phone.

  “This should be interesting,” she said.

  She heard the phone ring once, twice … now hoping she could simply leave a message.

  So much easier than asking on a live call.

  But then her father answered with a cheery “Hello?”

  “Dad,” Sarah said, looking at Jack, “I'm with Jack …”

  She took a breath.

  “And I’ve got a big favour to ask …”

  *

  Jack had called Mary O’Connor to arrange a meeting in the sitting room of the Bell Hotel, a place where the chairs and sofas were almost as old as the patrons.

  Sarah still couldn’t quite believe how fast her father had agreed to her request to delve into the sealed records.

  “Yes, there are people I can ask. They may or may not have access, Sarah. But this is serious stuff, you know.”

  But he didn’t press her on the details.

  Jack was right.

  Her father had faith in her, and in Jack.

  He’d ended with, “I’ll see what I can do and ring you back.”

  Now they walked into the lounge of the hotel, French windows open, letting in the delicious heat of a totally summery morning.

  Mary sat in a wing-backed easy chair, hands folded in her lap, waiting for them.

  She looked up as they entered the room.

  As planned, Sarah went over and took the chair closest to her, while Jack sa
t on the stone ledge of the room’s fireplace.

  The woman’s eyes went from Sarah to Jack, those eyes looking so tired, so haunted.

  “You've found out something?”

  Sarah looked to Jack. “Maybe. We’re not sure, Mary. But we needed to talk with you.”

  The woman nodded.

  Almost, Sarah thought, as if she expected what was to come.

  “There are some things we have to ask you. About your brother … your family.”

  A nod. Was that a flicker of guilt on the woman's face?

  “We need to know about this …” Sarah said slowly, removing the printout of the Thanksgiving picture from her purse.

  She handed it to the woman.

  Her lower lip began to tremble.

  Sarah let her just look.

  And when she shot a look at Jack he was hunched over, hands on knees. A small smile and a nod from him told her that this was okay; they could wait until Mary O’Connor was ready.

  When the woman's eyes returned to Sarah, each eye held a tiny glistening pool. As the woman began to speak a small trail started from one, the tear running down a cheek.

  “Where … did you get this?”

  Sarah took a breath.

  She and Jack had agreed that they didn't want to tell her about the mugging, least not yet. “Someone found your brother's camera. There were pictures.”

  Mary suddenly reached out and with a grasp that was so strong, grabbed Sarah's wrist.

  “And were any of the pictures taken here, in Cherringham?”

  Sarah nodded.

  Then, Mary’s voice rising, “Then he was here. My brother has been here. The pictures show that …?”

  “They do. But—”

  She hesitated. For the first time Patrick O’Connor’s sister had actual confirmation that this was a place he had been.

  And that this was also the place he had disappeared.

  And now for the question.

  “Mary,” she said.

  The woman's hand still on her wrist as if Sarah might blow away if untethered. “In that photo, there's a soldier.”

  The woman didn't blink.

  But she did take a deep breath, tears drying … steeling herself.

  The question — maybe for her — inevitable.

  “Can you tell us who that is?”

  Only then did she look away, turning from Sarah, from Jack to the otherwise empty sitting room with its dowdy chairs all garnished with antimacassars, the once bright material worn to a dull colour.