The Body in the Woods

by Neil Richards

  Jack froze. Eyes locked on Ray.

  “Watch?”

  “Right. First thing I noticed once the shovel turned over the earth. Light caught the metal, bit of sparkle, see? Soon as we scraped away a bit more dirt — I could see it right in amongst all them bones!”

  “So that’s how you knew it wasn’t something ancient?”

  “Too right. That’s why I legged it before the cops turned up. That was no ancient corpse — that was some bloke had been shoved in the ground.”

  Jack thought back to the forensic reports he’d seen at the police station. There was no mention of a wristwatch. Surely it hadn’t just been lost in the ground.

  Mislaid?

  Stolen?

  He knew that a watch could supply a wealth of clues.

  Jack tried to make his next question sound so casual.

  “Ray — you didn’t happen to see if the watch was still with the body when it was taken away?”

  A head shake. “Like I said — I was out of there.”

  Jack made a mental note.

  Call Alan in the morning — check that forensics report again.

  “Well, Ray, thanks for that. Just curious, you know. Was kind of my line of work.”

  Ray nodded.

  “And I’ll be depending on you for help with the carnival event.”

  Another nod. “Sounds like fun,” Ray repeated.

  For a minute, Jack had the thought, maybe old Ray here was not telling him everything about what happened that day. Soon as he’d checked with Alan, he and Ray would have another little chat.

  But for now …

  Jack stood up.

  “Going to turn in.”

  “See you, Jack,” Ray said.

  “Take care,” Jack said.

  Then a thought occurred to him.

  “You’ve lived in Cherringham twenty-odd years, right?”

  “Forty years, Jack. Since I was a lad.”

  “You don’t remember anyone going missing — that never got found? Never turned up?”

  He watched Ray shake his head.

  “Not that I can remember. People come and go of course, but never anyone totally ‘disappeared’. You thinking about that body, hmm? If you ask me, I don’t reckon that was local.”

  Jack nodded. If the body wasn’t that of a local man it was going to be very difficult to track him down if the DNA led nowhere too.

  He thought about the missing insurance broker.

  “What about the name Tim Simpson — that mean anything to you?”

  “You reckon that’s the bloke we dug up?”

  “No — somebody else who’s actually gone missing. Just recently. Used to live in Cherringham apparently, years ago.”

  “Not a name I know, Jack. Sorry.”

  “Not someone you might have come across at the bookies in Chippy — or Swindon maybe?”

  “Possible. Tend not to ask too many people’s names in them places, Jack,” Ray said laughing, then coughing with the joke and the smoke.

  “Sure.”

  “Um — what’s he look like, this Simpson bloke?”

  Jack took out his phone and scrolled through the photos from Sarah until he found the one of Tim Simpson at an Insurance Awards dinner. He enlarged it — and showed it to Ray.

  “Bloody hell!” said Ray, leaning back, his face shocked.

  “What is it, Ray? You know him?” said Jack, excited there might at last be a lead.

  “Too right I do,” said Ray. “I didn’t mention it to you — didn’t seem important. But that day — that day we dug up the body — this very bloke was hiding up in the woods, staring at me, watching. Right spooked me out, the bugger did!”

  “You sure? You sure it was this guy?”

  “Swear to God, Jack,” said Ray. “Bet my life on it — he was up there all day, watching us digging, watching, watching. All creepy it was. And I tell you what I think, Jack — and this is really spooky …”

  “Go on …”

  Ray’s voice now a whisper.

  “It was almost like he knew what was going to happen. Almost like he knew that body was there …”

  Jack put the phone away, drained the last of his lager and looked out at the deep, black river as it flowed silently past.

  Jack stood up.

  “Thanks for this, Ray. May be useful.”

  “You on a case then?”

  “Kinda,” said Jack. “See you in the morning, anyway.”

  “Night, Jack.”

  And as he walked off Ray’s boat, over the groaning, splintery planks, he thought of Ray’s words.

  Almost like he knew that body was there.

  PART TWO

  Carnival Week

  20. Lunch at Todwell

  Sarah pulled to a halt at the gates of Todwell House and watched as a security guy in a hi-vis jacket came over to the car.

  The young man smiled and peered in to check the occupants.

  “We’re here for the lunch,” she said. “Jack Brennan. Sarah Edwards.”

  She waited while he checked the names against a clipboard, then smiled again.

  “End of the drive, then park in front of the house,” he said, waving them through.

  She headed down the long tree-lined drive towards Todwell House. The trees were strung with coloured bunting and balloons.

  On either side of the lane she could see rolling meadows, perfectly dotted with ancient oaks. Sheep grazed and huddled under the shade of the trees.

  “Kinda heavy security for a summer fête?” said Jack.

  “Dunno. Harry Tyler’s an important MP,” said Sarah. “I imagine anyone having any access to the house itself gets vetted. But things will be much more relaxed this afternoon when it’s just the open gardens. And I don’t expect Tyler will hang around for long talking to us hoi polloi.”

  “Hoi polloi?” said Jack. “I’ll have you know you’re addressing an honorary member of the Cherringham Carnival Committee, young lady.”

  Sarah laughed.

  “Forsooth, my apologies. I had no idea, sire.”

  She slowed as they reached the end of the drive.

  Tall trees hid the house from view — then as they followed the directions of another security guy, they got a proper sight of Todwell House.

  And that was quite something.

  ***

  No matter how many times she’d been here, Sarah was still in awe of the place.

  It was not its size that made it so special — for a country mansion it had no more than half-a-dozen windows along the top floor.

  She just loved its quirky character.

  White stucco. Italianate pillars. Cupolas picked out in gold that would have done a Venetian palace proud.

  All of it a little over the top, especially for Cherringham!

  And all softened under a spread of wisteria and jasmine that she could see spread across nearly the whole façade of the house.

  As she pulled up next to a line of luxury cars, she looked over at Jack to get his reaction.

  “Wow,” said Jack.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty? Bit of an understatement. Been to a few of your country mansions now, but must say — this is like no other. You’d never guess from the view round the back that it looked like this.”

  “Designed to impress.”

  Sarah climbed out of her Rav-4 and waited for Jack to join her.

  As he did, she saw that he was doing up the top button of his shirt and taking out a tie from his pocket.

  “Wonders will never cease,” she said. “Jack Brennan in a tie?”

  “When in Todwell …”

  “I hope they’re honoured by the gesture,” she said.

  “And I hope the lunch is worth it,” said Jack, reaching into the back seat for his linen jacket. “I had to go buy a new iron this morning. An iron — you believe that?”

  Sarah laughed.

  “Got an image of you standing in your shorts on the deck of the Goose i
roning, Jack.”

  “Well that’s pretty much how it was. Boats and ironing not made for each other.”

  “Nothing dressy then, for your boating life?”

  “Well — I did bring my dress uniform. Still zipped up in a plastic bag. Not sure why I brought that at all …”

  For a minute, Jack seemed to drift away, as if something from his old life was suddenly there. Reminders of so much.

  Good and bad, Sarah guessed.

  Then he took her arm, and together they walked towards the steps that led up to the open front doors of the house.

  But before they climbed them, she paused and gently turned him round, facing away from the building so as not to be overheard.

  “You talk to Alan by the way?” she said.

  “Yep. Didn’t actually mention the watch — but he confirmed there was absolutely nothing on the body.”

  “So, somewhere between uncovering the body and doing the autopsy the watch just — disappeared.”

  “Totally.”

  “You think somebody stole it?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “You don’t think — I mean — the killer maybe?”

  That seemed to give Jack pause.

  “Can’t rule it out.”

  “You always say — never rule anything out. So that means, incredible as it sounds, we also can’t rule out the fact that the killer — from all those years ago — might still be around. In Cherringham. In the here and now.”

  Jack smiled.

  “Anything’s possible. And now we got this link with Tim. What was he doing in the woods that day? Did he know about the body?”

  “And suddenly — he’s gone. So let’s run with this. Maybe he panicked when he saw Ray and the digger — did a runner. Borrowed the money from Rogers to finance his disappearing act.”

  Jack nodded slowly. “Can’t rule it out. Find it kinda hard to believe though. I mean — this is a guy who keeps guinea pigs.”

  They both laughed.

  “But the two cases could still be linked, right?” she said.

  “Well, with Tim at the site, then his mysterious disappearance, no doubt about that. But in what way?”

  Sarah looked back at the house.

  “You know, Jack, most of the people coming to this lunch will have been around twenty years ago. What do you think? A little discreet questioning might be in order?”

  “Totally.”

  “So let’s go to work,” she said, grinning, taking Jack’s arm again and leading him up the grand staircase to Todwell House.

  ***

  Inside the house, a smartly dressed butler led them down a long corridor to emerge in a grand gallery, filled with chattering guests.

  Jack took in the room, spotting faces from the village and the committee, acknowledging all with smiles and nods. He saw Sarah disappear immediately into the crowd to greet an old friend.

  “Aha, Jack!” came a woman’s voice from one side.

  He turned to see the hostess — Amanda Tyler, looking cool and sophisticated in a lemon dress, a string of enormous pearls, white against her tanned skin.

  Next to her, Jack saw an older man, in a perfectly cut dark-grey suit. Salt and pepper hair, groomed, tanned, brown eyes, a broad smile.

  Gotta be the politician, he thought instantly.

  Jack watched him step forward, one hand out to shake — a confident grip — whilst the other hand came round doing that politician’s thing of grabbing the upper arm and giving a hearty squeeze.

  “Harry Tyler,” said the man. “Welcome to Todwell. I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Brennan — bravo for picking up the gauntlet of the children’s race!”

  “Your wife made it an offer I couldn’t refuse, sir,” said Jack, smiling.

  “I know the feeling,” said Harry, laughing.

  “Nonsense, darling,” said Amanda, then turning back to Jack: “Harry never does anything I tell him, and rarely does anything I ask him.”

  “Not true,” said Harry, leaning in conspiratorially to Jack. “The only house where I ever get a proper hearing is the House of Commons.”

  Jack guessed he was witnessing what this well-heeled couple passed off as “banter”.

  Not all that amusing to listen to.

  “How are those regatta plans coming along Jack?” said Amanda, pretending to ignore her husband. “My spies down at the boat club tell me it should be an absolute riot.”

  “Think we’ve already got some teams lined up,” said Jack. “Course that hiccup with Tim Simpson didn’t help.”

  Jack saw Harry looking blank — then Amanda turned to him as if to explain.

  “The committee member who looks after the insurance, darling. Decided to disappear on a two-week holiday, without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’. Imagine.”

  “God. How very inconsiderate,” said Harry with a frown, then he turned back to Jack. “Do tell me about the races though, Jack — maybe I should be getting a Todwell crew together?”

  “Oh — afraid that’ll have to wait, darling, look — there’s Lady Repton,” said Amanda. “Do excuse us, Jack.”

  And with that she slipped past with practised ease, gently manoeuvring her husband to welcome the next guest.

  Jack saw Harry shrug and move with his wife, departing with what seemed to be a genuine: “Catch you later, Jack, pleasure.”

  And then the two of them headed off into the crowd, leaving Jack to pick up a glass of bubbly from a passing waiter.

  When in Rome.

  Guess I can’t compete with the aristocracy when it comes to the meet and greet, he thought.

  He looked around the room.

  Tall windows opened to well-stocked formal gardens, walls filled with portraits of what he guessed must be ancestral Tylers. Massive chandeliers and a pastel painted ceiling depicting angels, cherubs and biblical scenes.

  I’m a long way from Brooklyn, he thought.

  Who would have thought it?

  Then he spotted a face he recognised from his brief time in the Cherringham church choir and headed into the crowd too.

  21. Speculation and Suspicions

  Sarah hadn’t been looking forward to this formal lunch at all.

  As a kid, she had been dragged to so many of these interminable affairs. Stuffy and formal, despite the great setting.

  But this, to her surprise, she was enjoying.

  She and Jack had been assigned seats at the very furthest end of the dining room, away from the important local dignitaries and key committee members.

  At least that humbling position made it easy to chat quietly and gossip even while the inevitable speeches droned on at the other end of the long table.

  And a real treat was to find her old friend, longtime Cherringham solicitor Tony Standish sitting opposite, along with the redoubtable Buckland twins.

  Waiters moved to and fro in the long, sunlit dining room, topping up wine liberally.

  She saw that Jack, after his first small flute of bubbly, was now sticking to water.

  Good idea. We’ve got an important job to do tonight, she thought.

  It wasn’t long before the subject of the body in the woods came up — in fact, the starters had hardly been cleared away before Sarah heard the word “murder” being whispered.

  “Clearly cold-blooded murder,” said Jen Buckland.

  Or was it Joan?

  No, definitely Jen.

  Whichever it was — the two sisters were now on their favourite subject — crime. Sarah knew that while they ran the tollbooth on Cherringham Bridge — thanks to an ancient charter from the King — they really spent their days obsessively reading mysteries and solving local crimes …

  … in their imaginations.

  Sarah glanced at Jack who was now squarely caught by the two sisters in a pincer movement.

  No beating around the bush for either, whichever “J” was doing the questioning of the NYPD detective.

  “So — no doubt you and Sarah are on the case?” />
  Jack looked at Sarah. As much as he liked the Bucklands, they could be a bit “full-on”.

  “We did drop by the scene last week,” Sarah said quickly. “But to be honest, there doesn’t seem to be much to go on.”

  “Word is, the poor lad had not a stitch on him,” said Joan.

  “A professional job, in my opinion,” said Jen.

  Sarah saw Joan roll her eyes, then lean closer to Jack.

  “Jack, you’ll have to forgive my sister. Guilty as ever of being manipulated by the evidence at the crime scene, with no regard to the wider statistical context.”

  “Which is, sister dear?” said Joan, downing her glass of wine and signalling to a waiter for a refill.

  The Bucklands were on the “case”.

  And that was bound to be amusing. Maybe, possibly, even enlightening.

  ***

  Jen waited until the wine-pouring waiter had completed his task, then — coast clear — she launched into her thesis on the body.

  And the possible murder.

  “Professional ‘jobs’ as you call them, are rarely committed in such a fashion. Most deaths by strangulation are crimes of passion. True, Jack?”

  “Well,” said Jack, looking like he didn’t want to pick sides, “I’m sure that …”

  “Then there is the matter of a relatively shallow grave. Hardly professional at all. But I’ll grant you this, Joan, few crimes passionelles are conducted with such cold-blooded planning for the total removal from the corpse of all forensic evidence. Right, Jack?”

  “Well,” said Jack, “I do think …”

  “Nonsense!” said Joan. “It is hardly beyond the wit of any able-bodied woman — or man — to commit a murder driven by deep emotion and then tidy up properly afterwards. For instance, were I to have recourse to murder Jen here, perhaps in a frenzied knife attack—”

  “Not poison? You’re too kind, sister dear—”

  “Welcome. I would certainly not baulk at the obligation to thoroughly cleanse the immediate area and then dispose of your dismembered remains with the utmost caution.”

  “Dismembered? Such a thoughtful touch! And though that may be the case, Joan,” said Jen, not appearing to mind one bit about the image that Joan was toying with, “as we both know, most murderers are not blessed with our unique understanding of the various homicidal modus operandi. Present company excepted, of course.”