“Of course,” said Sarah.
She smiled at Jack — and could see that he was finding it hard to keep a straight face.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning, Jack, and take us through what you know. The forensics report?” said Jen.
At that, she saw Jack shoot her another look.
How’d they know that he had seen the forensics report?
Or was it just a lucky guess?
“Good idea, Jen. And we’ll see if you’ve missed anything,” said Joan helpfully, turning her lasers back onto Jack.
And with that, Sarah left Jack to his fate and turned to Tony Standish.
If there was a really wise person in this room, it was Tony.
***
Over the years, Tony had proved to be a reliable counsel in her and Jack’s investigations.
But he was also a longstanding friend of her father.
Ties like that mattered to her. And she knew that they did to Tony as well.
“How long shall we give him before we rescue him?” said Tony, nodding to Jack, reading the situation perfectly.
“Ten minutes?”
“Perfect!” he said, topping up her glass. “I so rarely get a chance to catch up with you and the family. How are you? The kids? Though hardly kids these days, hmm?”
Sarah smiled and started on all the latest family news.
All the while itching to get Tony onto the subject of the body in the woods.
And the missing insurance salesman.
Tony had been living in Cherringham since the year dot, and knew absolutely everyone in the village.
He also knew their secrets …
22. Trouble at the Fête
“Simpson? Insurance chappie on this year’s Carnival Committee?”
“That’s the one,” said Sarah. “I don’t know him, but apparently he used to live in Cherringham?”
Sarah waited patiently while Tony took a sip of wine, then sat back as one of the waiters leaned in and served his main course.
“Hmm, yes,” he continued. “Worked in the village way back. Nice young lad, I always thought. Had a good degree, I believe. And I remember thinking at the time that he should be doing better for himself.”
“This was late nineties, yes? Insurance company on the High Street?”
“That’s the one. Now I come to think about it, there was a little … upset, not long after he arrived. I do believe he had some kind of breakdown. Rumours mostly. You know how people gossip — even in our lovely village. Word was he had to move away. Next I heard, old Rogers over in Bourton took him on — far as I know, it worked out fine. All’s well etc. Must have been allergic to Cherringham!”
“You don’t know any more about him?”
Sarah watched Tony shake his head. “I do believe that is the sum total of my knowledge about the man.”
Sarah nodded as he took another sip of wine, and then leaned close.
“Sarah,” his voice low, making sure his words wouldn’t be heard, “this couldn’t have something to do with that body they found up the river from here? Could it?”
Sarah did a quick scan for any nearby ears. Then: “Might be, Tony. Hard to tell.”
“Hmm. Okay. Just that I heard you were sniffing around the case. In the nicest possible way, I mean. Well — if there’s anything there, I’m sure you two will find it. Good luck with that one.”
Sarah laughed. “I think we’re going to need it, Tony!”
“Yes. After all these years.” Tony looked away. Then he raised his fork in the air as if something rather remarkable had just occurred to him.
“Now hang on a moment. Come to think about it — Simpson’s ‘little upset’ must have been around the same sort of time, if the police are correct in their estimate of how old the corpse is. Say, ’97? ’98?”
Sarah watched him put down his knife and fork and give her a beady eye …
“Aha!” he said. “So, guessing you think there’s a connection — between the two? John Doe and your insurance broker?”
Sarah quickly told him about Tim’s appearance at the dig, his disappearance, the missing money.
“Good Lord. Well, now I am astonished!”
“The whole amazingly fast trip to Morocco?”
“Well, that, yes. Seems, rather … a panicked thing to do, hmm? But also, I can’t quite believe old Rogers would part with fifty grand. Hard enough getting him to buy a round of drinks whenever I play golf with the bugger.”
“Out of character for Rogers, then?”
“In my opinion? Totally.”
Sarah toyed with her food. Was everyone connected to Tim Simpson acting out of character?
And if so — why?
Then Tony leaned forward, even more conspiratorially.
“Hmm. I just remembered one more thing about your Mr Simpson. Probably nothing. Which is why I didn’t mention it. But, in light of events …”
“Go on …”
“I do believe before he took that job in Cherringham, he worked on the estate here for a while. Summer job, something like that.”
“Wait. You mean at Todwell House?”
Sarah saw Tony nod. She looked out of the windows, down towards the river.
Now that was interesting.
“Really? We’re only a couple of miles downstream from the site of the dig,” she said as much to herself as to Tony. “I mean, he could have been working here when it happened.”
For someone who didn’t seem to know much about Mr Tim Simpson, Tony had just provided a most interesting connection.
“Could have been, indeed,” said Tony. “You should talk to Harry about him, while you’re here. Worth a shot, and all. Don’t bother with Amanda — if it doesn’t have a pound sign in front of it, it barely registers on her consciousness!”
Sarah laughed. “Tony — you’re terrible!”
“My dear Sarah, when you reach my age you can be as terrible as you like. It’s one of the few rewards for getting old.”
Then, as if to emphasise the point, he raised a finger to one of the waiters and turned to her.
“Shall we have one more glass of this delicious Chablis before we head outside?”
“No. I’m—”
Tony nodded. “Ah. You’ve some, er, work to do later?”
Sarah smiled at that.
Tony didn’t miss a trick.
She turned to look at the rest of the long table. People had started getting up from the table and heading out for the opening of the fête.
The waiter poured for Tony, while she put a hand over the top of her glass. She knew that — like Jack — she was going to need a clear head this evening.
And maybe she could also catch Harry Tyler before he left.
***
Jack stepped out into the rear gardens of Todwell House and instantly felt he’d been dropped into one of those fifties Ealing movies about rural England.
He took in the scene.
While he and the other special guests had been enjoying their lunch, the Summer Fête had kicked off in earnest and already half of Cherringham seemed to have turned up.
Everywhere he looked, the ornamental gardens were filled with marquees, tents and stalls, children’s games, bookstands, some kind of game with coconuts — and, all over, flags and bunting.
This was way beyond the small-town carnivals that travelled throughout the towns in summer back home. Those consisted of rides, funnel cakes, some totally unwinnable games.
This was really something else. A true village celebration.
Under the shade of a weeping willow, a brass band played with gusto, murdering “Seventy-Six Trombones”.
He strolled out into the still-bright sunshine, nodding to Cherringham locals that he recognised, threading his way through the crowds, wondering if Sarah was out here somewhere.
He looked down to the river — and the boathouse he and Sarah had seen the other day on their way upriver to the dig.
He spotted movement �
� there were people down there.
Maybe part of the fête, he thought.
Stopping first to buy a hot dog, he left the ornamental garden and strolled down across the field to the river.
That hot dog, though, turned out to be a million miles away from the real thing. More of a sausage than one of those oh-so-tasty “dirty-water” dogs you can get on nearly every Manhattan street.
But — it filled a gap.
As he got closer to the boathouse, he saw people arriving by boat — tying up at the jetty, then walking up the field to the fête.
He nodded and smiled at a family group that came past.
Must do that myself next year, he thought, taking out a handkerchief and wiping ketchup off his hands.
When he got to the boathouse, there was nobody around.
Just a few dayboats and dinghies tied up to the jetty. Another boat — a sleek launch — was moored right next to the boathouse, covered tightly with form-fitting tarps.
Harry’s boat, he guessed.
A rich man’s toy. Largely — maybe completely — unused.
He turned to the boathouse: the building itself was substantial — big enough to put a couple of bedrooms in.
Cedar and oak — no expense spared, a set of antlers over the door, curtains on the louvred windows.
Hardly a boathouse any more — though one end of the building still butted the riverbank.
Jack climbed the steps onto the oak deck and peered in through one of the windows.
It might be all right for some, he thought, taking in the slick interior.
Far cry from the splintery docks of Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn.
There seemed to be one main room — a games area at one end. Half-size snooker table. A bar. Bookshelves.
Sturdy red, leather chairs — perfect to enjoy a whisky after a day on the water. A place where one could entertain after docking the boat.
Rustic but warm.
Then — a voice behind him: “Excuse me, sir—”
He turned to see Sarah standing with a giant pink cotton candy — candyfloss — in one hand and a teddy bear in the other.
“You took some finding,” she said. “Being nosy?”
“Seeing how the other half live.”
“Not for the likes of us, Jack Brennan,” said Sarah.
She offered him the cotton candy.
“Care for a bite?”
“Thanks. But already had a hot dog,” he said.
“My commiserations.”
“When in Cherringham.”
They walked down the steps together and started back up the field towards the house.
“What happened to you?” he said. “Looked around, couldn’t see you.”
“Got lucky on the tombola,” she said, taking an enormous bite out of the candy floss. “My weakness.”
“Tombola? Definition, please?”
“Oh — hmm. They have a big tub with tickets. Pay your money — stick your hand in, get the ticket, win the prize. Easy!”
He looked at the teddy. Rather small and threadbare.
“If I were you I’d drop by one of the thrift stalls, leave teddy there. Seen better days, that one.”
She laughed, and they carried on walking together up the field towards the house.
“What do you think of the fête?”
“Remind me what year this is. 1950?”
“I know. Amazing, hmm? Something worth protecting.”
Sarah stopped for a moment to tackle a difficult bit of candyfloss.
Jack waited.
Then she gestured around the field.
“This is where the drive-in movie’s going to be staged,” said Sarah.
“You kidding me?”
“I saw them doing a dry run a few weeks back. Very impressive. Big screen up here, champagne tents and food over there by the trees. They’ll line up the cars all the way down the lawn to the river.”
“Champagne?” said Jack. “You guys do drive-ins a little different from the ones I went to as a kid.”
He saw Sarah laugh, and then he turned to check they were alone.
They were still well out of earshot of anyone.
“Saw you chatting to Tony,” he said, turning back to her. “Anything interesting?”
He listened as Sarah told him what Tony said. But Jack’s eyes went wide at the news about Tim Simpson’s past connection with Todwell.
“Hey. That is interesting. Might be something,” he said. “Got to say though, when I mentioned the name to the great man himself — not a flicker of recognition.”
“Long time ago. Twenty years,” said Sarah. “Easy enough to forget a young employee — especially if he didn’t work here for long. Think we should try and catch the MP before he goes though. The doors to the house will close and, well, this might be our only chance.”
“Sure,” Jack said. “One other thing. Only occurs to me now. Harry was annoyed that Tim left the committee in the lurch.”
“Really? That’s odd?”
“No concern for why the guy suddenly up and ran away!”
Sarah nodded at that.
“Okay. Why don’t I drop Teddy here back at the car, and see you up at the house? Feel a little silly asking questions, with this guy in my hand.”
Jack laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”
Jack watched her turn and walk back towards the stalls, then took one last look at the perfect view down to the river, and headed for the house.
23. Memory Jogged
When Sarah got back to the car park it had completely filled up.
Inside her car was baking hot, so she opened all the windows, then put the teddy in the back seat.
Grace’s little nephew is going to love that, she thought. Charity stall indeed!
Now to find Jack in the house somewhere.
But when she looked at the front of the house, she could see the doors were shut tight — and a “no entry” board stood on the steps.
So quick.
From previous events at the estate, she knew there was a shortcut through a side gate that skirted the house and came out via a kitchen garden onto the rear terrace.
Basically — trespassing.
But if this was their only chance …
So although the gate was marked “private” she went through anyway, shut it behind her, and went down a narrow path with the house on one side and thick bushes and a trellis on the other.
Half way round she heard the sound of raised voices — and stopped.
A man’s voice — harsh, threatening. Then a woman — arguing back.
So hard to make out the words. But it had the tone of a fierce argument.
Then louder. Swearing.
Those words she could make out.
Sarah edged forward — spotted a door open into the house.
Beyond the entrance, a kitchen storage area, or boot room, with freezers and then a line of coats hanging from hooks.
A window to one side — she took another few steps and now — heart racing — she peered in.
To see a woman pinned against the wall — and a tall man holding her arm in a tight grip, his other arm against her shoulder.
Sarah froze — this was totally unexpected. Shocking to witness with the sounds of the summer fête just yards away, filling the air.
But she had no choice as to what to do. She was here — and she had to act.
Sarah stepped towards the doorway. The woman shoved the man away and he stumbled back, losing his balance and crashing into a table.
“You’re a bloody idiot, now get the hell out — just get out!” she shouted.
The guy looked drunk. And now, as if surrendering, he raised his hands in the air and backed away towards the door.
The conflict — over.
But then he turned, and looked surprised to see Sarah facing him.
In his forties, wiry, with greased-back hair, and tattooed arms ballooning from a short-sleeved shirt that hung over torn jeans — Sarah
thought at first that he might be one of the kitchen staff, but then she recognised him from somewhere.
The village?
“Out the bleedin’ way,” he muttered, pushing her to one side.
Then she watched as he headed back down the path, flung open the gate, and disappeared round the front of the house.
She turned back to the woman — and realised the connection with the man who’d just left.
The woman who had been getting throttled was Karin Carter — Amanda Tyler’s sister. She ran a beauty salon in the High Street and lived outside the village.
And the man?
Had to be Bruno Carter, her ex-husband.
Twenty years ago, Bruno had been an infamous figure around Cherringham — ex-soldier, kicked out of the army, always getting into fights up at the Ploughman’s, betting heavily, crashing cars.
A textbook ne’er-do-well.
And certainly not the ideal brother-in-law for a then aspiring politician such as Harry Tyler. Sarah imagined that when Bruno disappeared to Thailand some ten years back, the whole Tyler clan must have breathed a sigh of relief.
But now, it seemed, he was back.
She turned to Karin, who she saw had pulled out her phone to use as a mirror to put on make-up as if nothing happened. “You okay?”
The woman shrugged. “I’ll live. What the hell has it got to do with you anyway?”
Sarah took a step back, surprised. “Whoa. Sorry, I just thought—”
“Well — don’t. Private argument. All right?”
“Sure.”
“And this is a private house. Fête’s that way, missy.”
Sarah saw her point towards the back of the house.
“No problem. Sorry to intrude.”
And she turned and headed back down the path to find another way into the house.
***
Jack paused, alone in the long corridor, and looked up at the paintings that stretched all the way up a grand spiral staircase to the upper floors.
He looked back to a group of smaller paintings set in a circle on the wall, amidst muskets, cutlasses, a set of ceremonial bagpipes and a framed collection of medals.
He’d found his way back to the dining room — but then, looking for Harry — had got lost. Only half accidentally.
The Body in the Woods Page 12