The Body in the Woods

by Neil Richards

  First ever real job. Working out back, washing up, serving, making the coffees — and the abrupt launch from school hours into long working days was already taking its toll.

  “What time do you finish, love?”

  “Short shift today. Should be through by three.”

  “Okay. If you walk up to the cricket club after work — I’ll give you a lift back home.”

  “Hmm?” he said, mouth full. “Cricket club — what you doing up there?”

  “Carnival match. Village vs The Todwell Toddlers. And Jack’s playing for the Toddlers.”

  This woke Daniel up — he stopped eating, spoon mid-air.

  “Awesome! I didn’t know Jack played cricket.”

  “Nor did he!”

  Daniel laughed. “Hey, I can show him some strokes in the nets, help him out.”

  “He’ll need it,” said Sarah.

  She picked up her tea and headed towards her office, leaving Daniel to clear up and make his own way to work.

  A good habit for him to get into, she thought, as she sat at her desk and turned on her computer.

  She took the portable drive out of her handbag and slipped it into the USB slot. While it loaded, she opened the book of passwords and checked the clock above her desk: plenty of time to delve a little deeper into Tim Simpson’s digital life before heading off to the office.

  First — his folders.

  Whoever had accessed Tim’s machine clearly didn’t know much about computers. Most of the files they’d deleted were easily recoverable.

  Those folders matched the drawers and cupboards of Tim’s bedroom: tidy, minimal, ordered. Insurance, savings, correspondence, car …

  Hmm — car. Hang on. Where was that?

  She didn’t recall seeing a car parked outside Tim’s house.

  She made a note to follow up the details with Alan — he might flag it on the National Police Computer.

  He could be pretty good about bending the rules — if she asked him the right way.

  She opened a folder marked photos, and as she scrolled through the contents, she finally began to build a sense of the real Tim Simpson.

  A sense of somebody quite solitary. Alone.

  Was this really Tim’s complete photo collection? Her own photo folder had thousands — maybe tens of thousands of pictures.

  But these … Though they seemed to go back at least ten years, there can’t have been more than a couple of hundred. No laughing faces, crazy parties, kids growing up.

  Nothing of what constituted “life” for most people.

  No. Just a handful of dismal landscapes. A few grey images of French towns devoid of people. A photo of his guinea pigs in their hutch. And an elderly couple captured again and again over various Christmases across the years. The holiday sweaters unchanging.

  Tim’s parents, she guessed.

  Tim himself appeared in a few of those hardly festive shots — wearing a party hat and staring solemnly into the camera.

  The last one two years ago — and then no more Christmases with the elderly parents.

  “Bye, Mum!” came Daniel’s voice from the hallway, and she heard the front door slam.

  The house — now empty. She felt as if she was alone with Tim’s dreary life.

  No exciting secrets here! For a second she wondered what Chloe was up to right now. Where was she going to be today? Belgium? Holland?

  It seemed so … unsettling not to be able to place her daughter on a mental map.

  Perhaps she should check the schedule again! But no, she told herself.

  Back to work …

  Then she tried to recover Tim’s internet history. She’d already checked the browser that sat on his desktop. But another browser sat tucked away amongst his programmes, with no short cut.

  Last opened — a week ago. The day before he was supposed to meet with Jack …

  But when she opened it and checked the history — there was nothing. Which was — in itself — intriguing. The amateur hacker who had been in here deleting emails surely wouldn’t know how to find this browser and remove internet files without leaving a trace.

  So where had they gone?

  Or was Tim himself being careful not to leave tracks on the internet?

  Maybe — he did have secrets ….

  Might be something? Did the sad, lonely guy become somebody else online? Someone who looked for excitement — and found trouble?

  Sarah left the emails until last. The inbox was empty — as she’d seen back at Tim’s house. But though they’d deleted all of his incoming and outgoing mail, it clearly hadn’t occurred to them that most of his mail would still be sitting on the server.

  Nicely accessible …

  With the book of passwords, it took Sarah just a couple of minutes to get into his webmail.

  All of Tim’s mails scrolled in front of her. Going back for weeks, probably.

  She started with the most recent. A lot of spam. Again, was that evidence that he spent a lot of time on the internet?

  One good way to find out …

  Back she went to Tim’s folders, until she found details of his phone and internet deal.

  Fast fibre — the fastest — and priciest.

  Okay — so Tim was somebody who used the internet a lot and was happy to pay the extra for a fast pipe.

  Back to the mails.

  Most of the recent ones were from his office, either just “FYI” or to be dealt with when Tim returned “from Morocco”. Very few personal mails — and certainly nothing from his so-called “friend” the mysterious Lionel.

  Then, deeper, a few ranting emails from Tim’s boss Malcolm Rogers around the time Tim disappeared — Jack had told Sarah how angry Rogers was at Tim’s surprise “holiday”.

  She scrolled back even further, into the week before, then stopped at a mail from the unlikely sender “PinkBunny”. Cheery nomenclature.

  Must be spam.

  But she saw straight away it wasn’t spam.

  And the mail itself was anything but cheery.

  Short. Simple. Sinister.

  Don’t forget — cash. Twenties. Leave it where you were told and walk away.

  She caught her breath.

  Talk about unexpected.

  Did this have to do with the fifty thousand? Tim handing over that money to …

  PinkBunny.

  If so, this looked like the final message in a blackmail routine — had to be.

  Sarah did a quick search to see if PinkBunny had sent other mails — but this was the only one. Other communications must have been by phone or text — or even letter.

  No way to track those.

  She carried on through the emails, searching back, day after day.

  Then — another strange mail. Different sender — in fact this one was clever, the email a spoof, when someone hijacks a real address. This apparently sent by the Bourton Public Library.

  But what library would send a message like this?

  Don’t panic. And don’t do anything stupid. Or else.

  Certainly not a reminder for an overdue book.

  She checked the real sender’s name behind the library spoof — but it was just a jumble of letters and numbers. And way beyond her ability to trace.

  Whoever had sent this mail knew exactly what they were doing — or they had contact with people who did. They were pros. Which made its contents even more threatening.

  Or else …

  Sarah scrolled through the rest of the mails but found nothing. She sat back from her computer and thought through the implications.

  Two emails. Were they even from the same person?

  One thing was clear.

  Tim had been threatened. Blackmailed.

  Had he paid up? He’d certainly got the cash out. Maybe it hadn’t been enough?

  And maybe whoever was blackmailing him got impatient — and decided just to get rid of him?

  She looked up at the clock — she was late for work.

  Warm su
mmer day — but she felt suddenly chilled.

  Things — she thought — have just taken a turn.

  She shut down the computer, locked the house, and headed out to her car.

  Wondering:

  Who is PinkBunny?

  What was Tim Simpson’s secret?

  Had it got him killed?

  ***

  Jack pushed open the door of the Ploughman’s and walked up to the bar. He saw Billy Leeper, the owner, down at the far end pulling a pint for a local, and gave him a nod.

  Then he scanned the room while he waited.

  The place was quiet. Just midday so only a handful of customers — most of them sitting alone at tables, grabbing a quick workday lunch.

  “Don’t often see you in here at this time, Jack?” said Billy, coming over.

  Jack turned and smiled.

  “Just thought I’d drop by,” said Jack.

  “On your way to the ground, I expect,” Billy said, grinning

  “News travels fast,” said Jack.

  “Yank playing cricket — what’s not to like?”

  Jack smiled.

  “No one wants to miss that. Be up there myself, later,” said Billy. “What you having?”

  “Club soda.”

  “Sure you don’t want a whisky in that? Dutch courage?”

  “Think playing cricket is one part of the English experience I need stay completely sober for.”

  He watched as Billy poured the drink, then, as he paid him he said: “Billy — there’s a guy I need to talk to. Name of Tom Vining. He been in this morning? Hear he comes in for his lunch most days?”

  “Sure. Reckon he’s in the back bar.”

  Billy nodded to a table right at the far end of the bar, where Jack recognised the square-built shape of the digger driver. He sat alone with a pint, a plate of pie and chips, and a newspaper propped in front of him.

  “Thanks. See you this afternoon maybe?”

  “Oh you will do, Jack,” said Billy, giving him a rare smile. “I open the bowling for Cherringham.”

  Jack watched him wink, then turn to serve a customer.

  He picked up his drink, turned and walked towards the back bar.

  This was going to be interesting.

  28. All in the Detail

  “Mind if I join you?” Jack said, looking down at the digger driver.

  He saw Tom put down his knife and fork and look slowly around the empty bar.

  “Lots of free tables, mate,” Tom nodded, clearly not happy with the interruption. “But reckon you’re going to — even if I say I do mind.”

  “Spot on,” said Jack, pulling out the chair opposite and sitting down.

  “What’s this about?” said Tom.

  Jack took a sip of his club soda then watched the digger driver carefully.

  “A watch.”

  The barest of flickers in one eye. A tell …

  Jack continued.

  “Went missing. Up at the dig. Where you’re working.”

  He watched Tom pick up his knife and fork again and take a mouthful of pie.

  “That right?” he said. “Guess you ought to go back up there and look for it. If that’s where you think you lost it.”

  Jack smiled.

  “Oh it’s not my watch.”

  “That so?”

  “Cut to the chase,” said Jack. “That day you and Ray Stroud found the body. The victim had a watch. Now Ray tells me that he didn’t hang around that day. In fact, in his words — he legged it. And Will Goodchild — in charge of the dig? I checked with him. He says when he got to the corpse there was definitely no watch.”

  Tom chewed slowly. Then took a sip from his pint.

  “So, Tom. Explain this to me. Since you’re the only person that never left the scene, is it not the logical conclusion that either you took the watch — or you know who did?”

  “You’re not a bloody cop. Who the hell are you? What are you? Damn reporter?”

  Jack ignored the question.

  “Now you could deny you took it, of course. You could even say that some total stranger turned up, dug down into the earth, took the wrist from the corpse and made off with it. But you see — that would be a mistake.”

  “Oh yeah? Why?”

  “Well, here’s the thing. Will Goodchild told me you’ve been charging a hundred pounds a day for the added services provided by Ray. And apparently you have signed a form to say that you pay his tax and insurance. But Ray tells me you pay him just fifty pounds a day. Cash deal. No paperwork.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know the law here all that well. But don’t need to be a native to see that’s about as illegal as it gets. So follow me now … if I call the taxman and tell him about your interesting deal — you know what? I don’t think he’ll be too happy. Fact, think he’ll want to find you, ask you some difficult questions.”

  Jack watched this sink in. The driver had not touched his food for a couple of minutes. He sat back and put his hands in the air as if he was surrendering.

  “Think — you may need a solicitor. But you know, Tom, even a great one can do only so much.”

  Tom cleared his throat. Alert and attentive.

  “Okay. I hear you. What do you want?”

  “The truth.”

  Jack watched him mull this over.

  “And if I tell you — this all goes away, hmm?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Yes — I did take the damn watch. Reckoned it wasn’t any use to the bloke in that hole. Like — my reward for finding him.”

  “Reward? Nice way of putting it. So where is it? See you’re not wearing it.”

  “Sold it, didn’t I.”

  Jack sighed. Was this going to be a dead end?

  “Want to tell me where?”

  “Fella in Swindon. Has a, er, second-hand watch shop.”

  “Time Flies?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  “What did he give you for it?”

  “Few hundred. Bloody rip-off merchant he is.”

  “You think it was worth more?”

  “Rolex Oyster? You kidding me?”

  Now Jack leaned forward.

  Even second-hand, a Rolex was worth thousands.

  “You sure it was a Rolex? Genuine?”

  “Oh, I know the real thing when I see it. I used to wear a copy, didn’t I? But this was solid.”

  Jack sat back.

  One step forward two steps back.

  He watched Tom return to his pie and chips. Then he stood.

  “Thanks for your time, Tom.”

  “Welcome,” said Tom, chewing, then pointing with a meaty finger. “You’d better stick to your bloody word.”

  “And you’d better be telling me the truth,” said Jack. “Bon appetit.”

  He turned, headed for the door and went out into the car park where his Sprite stood, top down.

  He got in and paused before starting the engine.

  The bad news — he was still no nearer the watch.

  But the good news …

  He knew from police investigations way back in NY: each Rolex carried a unique number on the case. And with that number, Rolex could tell you where and when it was first sold.

  If he and Sarah could find the watch — they might just be closer to figuring the identity of the body in the woods.

  And what happened to him.

  ***

  On any normal day it would take only five minutes to drive from the Ploughman’s through the village up to the cricket ground.

  But Jack had forgotten the traditional events of Carnival Week. As he hit the High Street, the village was crammed with trucks unloading the rides for tonight’s fair.

  He remembered coming here a couple of years back: the High Street filled with spinning rides, a big wheel, ghost train, the works.

  Amazing how they managed to fit it all in. Even now, traffic had slowed to a walking pace through the busy crowds of tourists, locals and workmen. />
  And if that wasn’t enough, as he drove past Sarah’s office into the square at the heart of the village, Jack saw the streets were filled with vintage cars.

  Everywhere he looked stood cars from different eras, their drivers kitted out in period costumes: twenties open-top Rolls Royces, massive fifties cars with fins, a line of Mini Coopers straight out of that movie The Italian Job, a wartime Jeep, a vintage red London bus, and then …

  A big old NYPD police car that looked like it came from a film prop store.

  A blue and white Dodge Fury, just like his first squad car when he hit the streets as a rookie.

  Where on earth did they get that from?

  Some people were clearly taking the “Hands Across the Water” theme pretty seriously.

  He saw a man in a white coat step forward and wave him to one side — the guy clearly thought that Jack’s old Sprite must be part of the show:

  “Car Treasure Hunt this way!”

  “Just passing through,” Jack said, and the man nodded, waving him on.

  He had a cricket match to get to.

  Though he’d much rather be driving round the countryside in the sunshine picking up clues than having a bunch of crazy English guys trying to teach him cricket.

  ***

  He parked at the grounds and was glad he’d got here a good hour early. Already he could see players practising. Younger guys hurling the ball at terrifying speed at a helmeted guy with a flat bat who casually seemed to just pick it out of the air and swat it sideways into nets at the side.

  That — I could probably do, he thought.

  That is, if that’s what you’re supposed to do!

  But God forbid he’d have to face that kind of pitch.

  Did they call the throwing of the ball a “pitch”? Bowling, they called it.

  Who knew why?

  Taking a breath, he walked over to the pavilion where a cluster of players stood chatting, all dressed in white shirts and pants.

  He recognised Josh’s son Todd, the electrician from the village.

  “All right, Jack?” he said, coming forward and giving him a big handshake. “My dad said they had you lined up to play — we reckon you might be a big hitter, don’t we lads?”

  Jack saw the other players crowd around, to shake his hand and he recognised more familiar faces from the village.

  Already he felt a bit more comfortable about this.