The Body in the Woods

by Neil Richards

  But it was this cluster of paintings that really interested him. And the photos mixed in with them.

  “Jack. I see you’ve found the ancestral shrine,” came a voice behind him.

  Jack turned to see Harry Tyler standing, drink in hand, looking up at the paintings too.

  “That’s what we called it when I was a boy,” said the MP.

  “Military family?” said Jack.

  “God, yes. Since way back. Colonels, generals, brigadiers — right down to my father. Not me though.”

  “Not interested?”

  “Failed the medical, I’m afraid. Let the side down, according to the old man. Had more sense — according to my mother. How about you?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “Always been a cop,” he said. “Brother in Vietnam. Never came home. Grandfather hit Omaha beach on D-Day plus one. Those two words — plus one — probably explain why I’m here at all.”

  He saw Harry step closer.

  “Funny old world,” he said, pointing to the medals. “My grandfather landed on Sword Beach just the day before. Took a bullet at Pegasus Bridge — retired hurt. Year later he was keeping wicket against the village team. Lot of his pals weren’t so lucky.”

  Jack turned and looked at him, the man suddenly seeming so honest and open — a switch from the public face of the politician he’d seen in the reception.

  “Though, by all accounts he was a total alcoholic bastard the rest of his life,” said Harry, with a shrug. “But then who wouldn’t be, after living through that?”

  He half laughed.

  Jack guessed Tyler had been a disappointment to such a military family.

  “Um, shall I show you the way back? I assume you got lost.”

  “Oh — yes. Thanks, appreciate it,” said Jack, thinking he’d wait for Sarah before changing the subject to the young Tim Simpson.

  Together they walked down the corridor then took a turning, heading towards the noise of the fête.

  “Talking of cricket,” said Harry, “don’t suppose you play?”

  “Play?” Jack laughed. “Don’t even understand it. And I’ve had a number of good folks take a shot at explaining it to me.”

  “That doesn’t daunt me. You can hit a baseball?”

  “Sure.”

  “Same difference,” said Harry. “All in the mind, old boy. Thing is — we’re short of a man tomorrow to play the village eleven. Nothing serious, bit of a laugh, for charity. Do it every year. Highlight of the carnival. Fancy a run out with the Todwell Toddlers?”

  “Well, I …”

  “Don’t do it, Jack,” said Sarah.

  Jack looked up — to see her standing at the dining room door that now faced them.

  “They’ll sign you up for the rest of the season.”

  “Too late,” said Harry. “Can’t say no to a man who’s just bought you lunch, eh, Jack?”

  He was actually beginning to like this Harry Tyler.

  But then — that may simply be what a good politician does.

  Jack saw him grin, then turn to Sarah and offer his hand.

  “Sarah Edwards — isn’t it?” he said, shaking her hand. “Amanda said I should meet you — not quite sure why, but I never question her judgement! Or commands!”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Tyler,” said Sarah. Jack watched her smile pleasantly, then give the slightest of raised eyebrows to him as if to say “you asked him yet?”

  Jack gave the slightest of shakes of his head in response.

  They walked together down a corridor, heading towards French doors that led back out into the garden.

  “Enjoying the fête?” said Harry.

  “Always do,” said Sarah. “Actually, Mr Tyler, I wonder if I could ask you a question — about somebody who used to work here?”

  “Ah, don’t do references I’m afraid — got an estate manager for that. Clean hands and all that, hmm?”

  Jack watched the politician effortlessly side-step the request.

  “Not that kind of question, actually,” said Sarah.

  At the doors into the garden, Jack saw her stop and pause — perfectly timed and positioned to halt Tyler in his tracks.

  “The person in question used to work here many years ago.”

  “Gosh! A memory question!” said Tyler, laughing. “Not my strong subject!”

  Jack watched. Harry keeping things light.

  “His name’s Tim Simpson.”

  Jack saw Tyler frown again.

  “Déjà vu all over again,” he said, with a glance to Jack. “Didn’t we already talk about this chap? Tim Simpson? Insurance man? Holiday in Morocco? The lackadaisical committee member?”

  “Apparently he worked here straight out of university,” said Sarah.

  Jack listened. She was handling this perfectly.

  “Think you’re mistaken there,” said Tyler. “I would have remembered.”

  “Really?” said Sarah.

  “Really,” said Tyler with a shrug. “Totally.” Then he tapped his head. “Even with the old brain cells failing now and then!”

  Then he turned back to Jack, and Jack felt that politician’s hand again on his upper arm.

  “It’s a two-thirty start at the village ground. No need to bother about whites, old chap — we’ll sort you out with something.”

  “Whites?” said Jack, playing the dumb Yank.

  “I’ll explain,” said Sarah, smiling at Tyler. “Come on, Jack — we’ve got places to go.”

  Jack shook Harry Tyler’s hand.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said.

  “Looking forward to it,” said Jack.

  Then he and Sarah stepped through the doors and walked through the fête towards the car.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” said Sarah.

  “Yep.”

  “He dodged that. So fast. And Jack — did you mention Morocco?”

  “Nope.”

  Silence for a moment. Then:

  “Neither did I. The guy was lying.”

  “Agree. Question is,” said Jack, “why?”

  “Let’s go burgle Tim Simpson’s house and find out,” said Sarah.

  “You’re a woman after my own heart,” said Jack.

  24. Breaking and Entering

  Sarah drove to Bourton, the last light fading from the sky.

  Their timing — perfect.

  For this trip, they took her Rav–4 — so nondescript — as opposed to Jack’s Sprite.

  Good for those moments when they were about to break the law.

  Jack guided her to Tim’s street — quiet, tucked away from the main village, where town melts into country.

  Lights on in a few of the houses.

  Streets so still.

  Probably a good number of Bourton residents in Cherringham for the carnival opening night.

  Still — though they had done this before — she felt a now-familiar tension.

  Hard to believe that she, a respected mum, was about to commit a serious crime.

  Jack pointed out the house.

  She slowed the car ….

  ***

  “Should I park away from the house? Think that’s best? Not cause any suspicion?”

  Many houses had lights on, windows glowing a soft yellow. A few — like Tim’s — were dark. People out for dinner, or away on holiday.

  From the corner of her eyes, she saw Jack shake his head.

  She knew he had done so many “stake-outs”, as he called them. Of course, those were all in the line of duty, all legal.

  This — was decidedly different.

  But if anyone knew how to do this, it would be Jack.

  Still — that confidence didn’t make her heart race any less.

  “No. Park in front. You don’t want a long walk to the door. Then, if you have to get out fast, no long walk back. Best option.”

  She pulled up right in front of Tim’s door.

  Killed the lights.

  Turned the ignition k
ey. Engine silent.

  “Okay,” she said, the quiet accenting her words. “How do we do this?”

  ***

  Jack’s voice was low. She noticed that he kept looking at the side and rear-view mirrors as he talked.

  “Well — I will use my lock pick, get you in. Come back here. Sit in the dark. You go in. Work your magic. As fast as you can.”

  “And if someone comes?”

  “You mean one of Bourton-on-the-Water’s finest?”

  “For example.”

  “Um — I will text you. You be ready to move. Might be that a back-door retreat’s the best. If whoever it is slows down, stops — I will text you again. That’s your signal.”

  “To get out of Dodge, as you say?”

  He laughed at that. “Precisely. But no second text from me, go back to your digging.”

  “And if said officer turns up, asks you questions, what are you going to do?”

  Jack nodded.

  She guessed that he hoped that the odds of that happening were slim.

  “I’ll think of something.” He turned to her, a reassuring grin on his face. “Always have in the past.”

  “Good. Okay then. No time like the present?

  Another nod, and they both popped open the doors to her car.

  ***

  She stood in the dark shadows, close to Jack as she heard — but could not see — him fiddle with the lock.

  “Damn thing,” he said quietly. “Tumblers not turning.”

  She held her phone in her hand. “Want some light on it?”

  “No. That would look mighty suspicious to any of Tim’s good neighbours out here.”

  Then she heard a clear, sharp “click”.

  Jack gave the doorknob a turn, the door a push, then backed away.

  “Okay, in you go. Keep your phone on vibrate, and close.”

  “Yes.”

  Then, taking a deep breath she entered Tim Simpson’s house.

  ***

  It took a moment, but soon her eyes adjusted and she could make out the shape of things in the small house.

  A dark hulk that was the sofa. Pale light from a kitchen area further on. Stairs to the bedrooms.

  All of which might be worth exploring.

  But, for now, she was looking for a work desk. And, if this was her lucky night, a computer.

  She turned to the front window. Net curtains let in muted light from the outside street lights.

  And she saw a small desk.

  Something sitting on top of it.

  And it looked as though — if Tim really did go to Morocco — he didn’t take his laptop.

  As she walked to it, she thought that in itself is pretty strange.

  ***

  Jack sat in the car.

  While he would never tell Sarah, it was harder sitting there, worrying about her inside, what could happen, than doing the deed itself.

  She had a job to do; she was busy

  While he waited, scanning one mirror, then the next.

  He also knew there was a limited amount of time before someone noticed the car with someone in it.

  Just sitting here. Sooner, later — someone would notice. Some neighbour who liked to keep their eye on the street.

  So whatever Sarah could do, could find, he hoped she did it fast.

  Then he felt his phone vibrate in his shirt pocket.

  He had previously brought the screen brightness level down to the bare minimum.

  Enough to read by, but not enough that it illuminated the Rav-4’s interior.

  A text message. Two words.

  Found it!

  ***

  Jack looked at the message.

  It? He assumed Sarah meant Tim’s computer.

  In which case, knowing her skills, this could be major.

  Still — it did little to soothe his discomfort just sitting out here, while she was inside.

  Every minute seeming interminable.

  Funny, he thought, if we were doing this in Cherringham, with our history there, that would be one thing. But this village? Virtual strangers breaking the law?

  He didn’t like it.

  And yet, if they were going to get some idea of what the hell was going on with Simpson, there was no way around this.

  He looked down into the dual cup-holder of Sarah’s car.

  Nice hot cup of jo would be good, he thought.

  Instead he went back to scanning the mirrors, all quiet on this sleepy road.

  ***

  The computer screen sent a bright light that seemed glaring compared to the near-total darkness she had been walking around in.

  Sarah found the key to kill the brightness and got the screen down to a more subtle level.

  She saw Simpson’s wallpaper.

  The now-familiar guinea pigs.

  A bunch of the furballs in a wire and wood hutch, all looking at the camera. Either eager to have their photos taken, or waiting for some yummy food pellets.

  And she had to think, a guy getting all that cash, scrambling away to a distant country, and his passion is …

  Raising guinea pigs?

  It just didn’t fit.

  But now she hurried. With things like this — as Jack never ceased to tell her — do it fast. Do it as thoroughly as you can.

  Because you may only get one shot at it.

  So she went to the mail programme.

  Thinking: let’s see who Tim has been communicating with.

  ***

  But when she opened it, the mail programme showed every box empty. All received mail, sent mail, even spam.

  All gone.

  Or …

  So one would think.

  No time to play with it here, but there was “gone” …

  And there was not-so-gone.

  She dug out the slim one-terabyte hard drive, plugged it into a USB port on Tim’s rather dated computer, and started copying sections of the hard drive.

  Luckily not so much on there. But it would still take minutes …

  While she was waiting — time to check out what else could be on the machine.

  Like … search history. Bookmarked sites. Favourites. Auto log-ins.

  The house so quiet.

  And instinctively, to dispel the gloom, she said …

  “Okay, Tim Simpson let’s see what you like to get up to on the internet …”

  ***

  Jack saw a quick flash of light on the driver’s side mirror.

  He straightened up.

  The light — a pair of headlights. In the distance. Not on this street yet.

  But pointed this way.

  He cradled his phone in his hand.

  Not time to alert Sarah.

  Not yet.

  He kept his eyes glued on the two bright lights. The car they belonged to, invisible in the dark.

  While not having a moon was useful for breaking in, right now, he wouldn’t have minded a bit of ambient light.

  See what that car was up to.

  He kept looking. And he waited.

  25. Shots in the Dark

  And what do you know …

  Sarah looked at Tim’s bookmarks.

  And besides seeing sites devoted to “Small Mammal Fanciers”, and a lot of pages of recipes, she spotted a travel site.

  Cheapotravel.

  And when she opened the page, Tim’s login had been helpfully remembered.

  Still — there was the matter of the password.

  Back in her home office, she had some powerful programmes to search for a password, something that could be found and tested in so many ways that the average user had absolutely no clue about.

  But she couldn’t do that here.

  And here, she was on Tim’s Wi-Fi, his IP address. Couldn’t duplicate that back at her house, not without writing down all his log-ins.

  That could take time.

  So …

  She opened the top drawer.

  Pens, pencils, a pack of mints with the f
oil carefully folded over. A plastic tray of paper clips and rubber bands.

  All very orderly.

  Then the next drawer.

  To find … a little book. A small spiral notebook, though the cover was adorned with the smiling face of yet another guinea pig.

  She laughed.

  Despite being here, in the dark, in someone else’s house — pretty funny!

  She flipped it open.

  And like her mother — who she always warned about doing such a thing — on the alphabetical pages of this mini address book Tim had written …

  Passwords.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Always great when the person being investigated makes things that easy.

  She found and quickly entered the password onto the Cheapotravel Travel site.

  The Wi-Fi surprisingly fast. The pages loaded.

  ***

  More lights.

  Now Jack could see these new headlights in both the side and rear-view mirror.

  This car, closer.

  Stopped. Not heading here.

  But maybe time to get out of here anyway, he thought. Leave Bourton.

  When he looked at his phone, he realised Sarah had been there only about ten minutes. And those lights had stopped. Maybe just someone dropping off a babysitter? Or giving a friend a lift home?

  Jack made a judgement call.

  And he didn’t alert Sarah.

  ***

  Sarah wrote down Tim’s log-in for the site. The password book — she decided she’d bring back with her.

  But she quickly scanned Tim’s complete travel history for the past five years it seemed — all there, not that there was much of it.

  Hardly the exotic traveller: France. Ireland. Cornwall.

  Then she moved on to his online banking. Again the log-in helpfully popping up.

  People really should not enable that feature, she thought.

  Again, the little book helpfully supplying the password.

  And she could immediately see what happened to the £50K.

  Though she wasn’t at all sure what it meant.

  She shut the page quickly. She could access that from home too.

  She looked at her phone, next to her USB drive.

  The password book by it.

  And she thought: there’s one thing that would blow this Simpson thing wide open.

  One bit of evidence.

  If it was here, if she found it.

  She turned and looked at the stairs leading up.