by Oliver Tidy
Dusk was fast approaching and with it another gloomy Marsh winter evening.
‘It’s going to be open, isn’t it?’ said Jo, as we hurried on foot towards the wonky wooden gate of the little churchyard’s cemetery.
‘It’s always open,’ I said, with more confidence than I suddenly felt. I soothed my worries with the knowledge that it was Sunday. Surely, if there was one day of the week the Church wouldn’t lock people out it would be Sunday. And then I was struck by the idea that there might be people worshipping inside. That could make taking the place apart awkward.
It was unlocked and empty. I’m a practising atheist but the insides of the Marsh churches, any churches, usually brought me a palpable multi-sensory pleasure, a feeling of inner peace. I was just letting this claim me when Jo trampled all over it with a, ‘Come on. Hurry up. The light’s going.’
I smiled an apology to Jesus as he bled for us on a crucifix nailed to the wall, and turned my mind to thinking about where Sigmund could have hidden a briefcase. As I stood scanning the interior, I noticed that there were a few big floral displays around the place that weren’t there the last time I’d been in. The air was heavy with the rich scent of lilies, a flower and smell of which I was particularly fond. I wondered what they were in aid of. None of them were wreath shaped so probably nothing to do with recent death, Sigmund or otherwise. It was possible there’d been a wedding the day before, although not too likely in the middle of winter.
Jo had already pushed off for some ferreting. I went in a different direction. I knew the church well enough from touristy visits on lazy summer bike rides but I didn’t really know it. I had no idea where something like a briefcase could be concealed, so it was simply a matter of looking everywhere it could be.
I started in what I thought to be the places least likely to be disturbed by either casual visitors or more regular ones: those involved in the upkeep and business of the church. I found a lot of dust and the paraphernalia of a small remote house of worship clogging and cluttering up the areas tucked away from where the congregation would gather, if indeed there was still a congregation worthy of the label frequenting St Rumwold’s.
I found it slipped in behind a low bookcase that was higgledy-piggledy with Bibles. It was well tucked away, not to be seen or found by anyone other than a determined searcher or a spring cleaner. The discovery gave me the biggest thrill I’d had for a long time, not least because it was my idea that it could be in the church.
I called Jo and held the case aloft much as I’ve seen various Chancellors of the Exchequer do with their packed lunches on Budget day. She came trotting up the aisle and her eyes were sparkling with intrigue in what remained of the half-light. She smiled at me and congratulated me on my detective work.
The briefcase was of the executive type, like a small suitcase. It was the kind of case men chained to their wrists in films because they were full of precious stones or gold bars or top secret documents. It was not particularly heavy. No gold bullion then. I shook it and didn’t hear the noise of diamonds ticking against each other.
‘What are you doing?’ said Jo, with a maternal tolerance.
I had to admit to being terrifically excited by the find. I met Jo’s stare and saw the professional exterior had softened somewhat to be replaced by something childish. We smiled at each other, like a couple of big kids on Christmas morning.
‘You want to open it here?’ I said.
‘No. I think we should take it back to Mrs Swaine and let her do the honours,’ said Jo.
‘I hope you’re joking.’
‘Of course I am, you dunce. Come on, get on with it. Let’s find out what was worth two lives and a load of deceit.’
‘I hope it’s not locked or wired with explosives,’ I said, as I positioned my thumbs on the catches.
‘Wait a second,’ said Jo. She went and stood behind a solid-looking wall. ‘OK. Ready when you are.’
I pretended she was joking and gently applied pressure to the catches. They weren’t locked and it didn’t blow up. I lifted the lid.
Jo hurried back over. She looked down at the contents and said, ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ Out loud. In a church. If I hadn’t been feeling the same thing I might have remonstrated with her for her blasphemy.
The case was packed with bundles of twenty-pound notes. I lifted a hand with the intention of picking one out and received a quick slap on the back of it for the idea.
‘Close the lid, David. Don’t touch anything in there.’
I understood but I didn’t immediately shut it. With only my eyes, I quickly tallied the packets of twenties – eight wide and three across: twenty four. I shut the lid and shared that with Jo.
‘How much altogether, do you think?’ she said.
‘If it were only twenty-four and let’s say they are bundles of a thousand pounds that’s twenty-four thousand pounds. If there are two layers that’s four-eight thousand. I think there could be at least four layers. That’s nearly a hundred grand in used notes.’
‘That’s worth killing for,’ she said.
‘Yeah, but not yourself.’
***
38
If it had been just me, I’d have shoved a fiver in the donations box, left quietly, whistled my way back to the car, driven home, locked myself in my bedroom, emptied the contents of the case on the bed, stripped off and rolled around in it all. But what we did next was, of course, entirely Jo’s call. It was her case and so, as far as I was concerned, it was her briefcase.
My senses, temporarily overwhelmed with a sudden release of the mind-altering drug called adrenalin, stood down from DEFCON orange to green. I became aware again of my surroundings. The hushed, simple but dominant atmosphere descended like holy fallout to bring a calmness and gravity to proceedings. I was able to smell the flowers again; I could hear what the big open space was doing to our voices; I noticed a saintly, red-robed statue in a niche, hands clasped in front, staring down on us. Waiting to see what we would do.
‘What now?’ I said, and I realised I was deliberately keeping my voice down.
Jo inhaled very deeply, like someone about to plunge into freezing water. When she let it go she said, ‘Goldenhurst.’
Like I said, it was entirely her call, but I couldn’t help myself. ‘Are you sure?’
She turned her police eyes on me. ‘What do you mean?’
I turned my ‘take a reality check’ eyes on her. ‘Jo, there could be a hundred grand in here. Think about it.’
‘I don’t have to, David. It’s not mine. The case belongs to the next of kin of Nigel Tate.’
‘What about the contents?’
‘And the contents.’
‘Who says?’
‘I says.’
I knew I was disappointing her but, like I said, I couldn’t help myself. It was still a lot of money. ‘If this is “dirty” money, something come by dishonestly, whose is it then?’
‘What are you trying to do?’
‘Just playing devil’s advocate.’
‘In here? Is that wise?’
‘I’m encouraging you to consider all the angles.’
‘There are no angles. There’s just a straight line.’
‘As in straight and narrow?’
‘If you like, and it leads back to Goldenhurst.’
I was losing. I’d probably already lost, but like a trainer with no arms I just couldn’t throw the towel in. ‘Shouldn’t you at least see exactly how much is in there and whether there might be some important documents under the money?’
‘Important documents?’
I was clutching air where there should have been straws. ‘Something to help you in the investigation. This is about being a detective for you, right? Solving puzzles of the human variety?’
‘As much as it’s about anything.’
‘So, what if you hand this over to Mrs Swaine and she decides to keep things from you?’
‘That’s her prerogative.’
‘Because she’s a woman?’
‘No, because she’s my client. Anyway, why would she if she wants answers?’
‘Maybe she’d get them. Maybe they’re in here. And then she wouldn’t need you.’
‘So? Job done. Move on.’
‘But you wouldn’t know. Could you live with that?’
‘I’d have to.’
‘But you don’t have to. Listen, I understand the money is going to your client. Your decision. No problem. But why don’t we first just check everything out? Just so we know. Just so you know.’
I was getting to her. It was in her hesitation. It was in the fact that we were still standing there talking about it. And it surprised me.
I went for the kill: ‘What if there is something very illegal going on and there is something about that in here?’ I tapped the lid for emphasis. ‘Something that could have an effect on innocent lives? You said yourself, you wouldn’t keep something like that from the authorities.’
‘We can’t look in it here,’ she said.
‘Agreed. Let’s go home. Check everything out. And then you can call your client and share the find with her. It’s just a delay. It’s not going to hurt anyone, is it?’
I took off my jacket and concealed the case under it as we walked back to the car. It’s funny how being in the wrong and knowing it can make you feel. Fifteen minutes earlier, I couldn’t have cared less who saw me arrive, park and walk up to the church. Now, I kept a keen lookout for anyone who might be able to provide descriptions of us and my distinctive ‘tank’.
Jo was quiet on the drive back and I didn’t probe at her silence for fear of her changing her mind. She had the case on her lap and stared out of the window at nothing. My personal curiosity regarding the contents of the case was threatening to cloud my judgement if it hadn’t already.
All was quiet at home on our return. Only the night lights for the shop were on. I let us in the back.
‘Upstairs or down here?’ I said.
‘Can anyone see in down here?’
‘Not with the blinds properly closed.’ I went over to check that they were.
Jo slumped down into one the sofas in the same secluded area where she’d had her first meeting with Rebecca Swaine. It seemed hard to believe that was less than a week ago.
There was still coffee left and I gave two mugs thirty seconds in the microwave, carried them over and sat opposite her. The case lay on the low table between us. I thought of something, got up, disappeared into the cleaning products station and returned with two pairs of new rubber gloves. I hoped to earn a brownie point or two back with that.
‘Shall we?’ I said.
Jo snapped up her gaze, snapped on her Marigolds and snapped open the case. She turned it so we could both see inside. The high tide of my adrenalin was back. I was beginning to realise that lots of money had that effect on me. We carefully removed the bundles of notes and piled them up on the table. I checked one: a thousand pounds. When they were all out the case was empty. No other surprises. I was disappointed. Jo felt around for false bottoms. Nothing. Jo took out a few random notes to check them and I saw a chance to vindicate our decision to bring them home first.
‘If there’s counterfeit money here, we’d have to hand it in to the authorities, right?’
‘Of course,’ she said, holding one up to the light.
‘Well then, that’s another good reason for bringing it back to check.’
‘These are all genuine,’ she said.
‘We weren’t to know, were we?’
We counted the bundles. There was a hundred. We put them back neatly, shut the case and peeled off our protection. I got a whiff of sweaty rubber, which stirred a potent and inappropriate memory. I went and washed my hands.
When I came back Jo had her phone out. I sipped my coffee and I said, ‘Ringing her tonight?’
‘Now, actually. If she wants to see me this evening, I’ll drive over.’
I hid my face behind the mug and nodded my acceptance of the way things were. I wondered if Jo would want company, especially with that kind of money in the car. Not that I could imagine much happening to her between Dymchurch and Aldington. It wasn’t downtown LA. She’d be lucky to pass another vehicle the whole way there.
After several rings she gave up and said, ‘Not in.’
‘Or not answering. Maybe she just doesn’t feel like talking. She looked pretty upset at times today.’
‘She has a right to be. Can you imagine: your brother and your husband deceiving you like that? And they all lived under the same roof.’
I said, ‘I haven’t got a brother and I hope I never have a husband, honest or not. Where do you think the money came from?’
‘That’s the hundred thousand pound question, Watson: where indeed.’
‘I think it will come as a shock to your client. Hey, what if it’s not Nigel’s case? Maybe it has been lying around the church for months.’
Jo smiled. ‘It still wouldn’t be finders keepers. We’d have to declare it to the police.’
‘You should ask her to describe the case to you before you go giving all that money away.’
Jo’s mobile started dancing around the table and playing a tune. She looked at the display.
‘I can ask her now,’ she said, and answered it, looking triumphant.
She listened and her expression went from winning to grimly serious in the time it takes a stranger to say, ‘Hello, Miss Cash. We haven’t met. Mrs Swaine is with me. She’s asked me to give you a message. She wants you to concentrate all your efforts on finding her husband’s briefcase and when you do you are to ring this number. We believe it contains something that belongs to me. If you want to see your client alive again, unharmed, I want my money back. And no police. I’ll be in touch.’
***
39
I said, ‘She said what?’
Jo repeated what the female caller had said.
I said, ‘Rebecca Swaine has been kidnapped?’
Jo seemed in mild shock. She said, ‘That was her number. And that’s the idea I got.’
‘How? Why?’
‘Who? We don’t even know who?’
‘It was a woman? A man and a woman have been looking for Nigel Tate.’
‘Perhaps they’ve been keeping an eye on his gallery.’
‘Or paying someone else to and to let them know if any one shows up.’
‘And we did this morning and gave them plenty of time to get round there.’
‘How would they have known where to find Rebecca Swaine?’ But even as I said it, I understood: they would only have had to follow us back from London.
‘Did you notice anyone following us back from London?’ said Jo.
I shook my head. ‘I wasn’t looking, was I?’
‘It looks like we might have led them straight to Goldenhurst.’
‘We weren’t to know, were we?’
‘I’m not blaming us, David.’
I said, ‘Good. How the hell would they know we had the money?’
‘I don’t think she does. I didn’t get that impression.’
‘Then what was she on about?’
‘We’re to find it for her.’
‘Well we have, haven’t we? Job done.’
‘Maybe. Maybe it’s not hers. Maybe it’s not all of it.’
‘Call the police.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘She said not to.’
‘You have to.’
‘And tell them what?’
‘What’s happened.’
‘Then we lose control and we give up my client’s money.’
Jo and her client’s bloody money. ‘Didn’t you say the caller said it was hers? So pay them and get her back.’
‘Shhh; I’m trying to think and it’s impossible with you making all that noise.’
All that noise? That hurt. It continued to amaze me how quickly Jo and I could alter our positions in arguments. Since we’d fo
und the money I’d been urging her to think very hard about handing it over to anyone and she’d been adamant to do ‘the right thing’. Now we’d had another of our role reversals.
Jo said, ‘Get me a pen and paper, will you?’
I think she was just trying to get rid of me or shut me up, but I got them anyway. She scribbled a few things down and I waited.
‘It’s the woman and the man with the tat and the tail, isn’t it?’
‘Possibly.’
I tried again: ‘Jo, your client has been kidnapped. You must call the police and report it.’
‘One: no one mentioned the word kidnap, and she said not to. Two: maybe my client wouldn’t want me to. Three: it would take time. Four: I’d lose control. Five: if every time I encountered a crime in my work I went running to the police I wouldn’t have any work left.’
I said: ‘One: of course she’d say that, she’s kidnapped your client. Of course she doesn’t want you to involve the police. Two: why the hell wouldn’t your client want the police involved if she’s been kidnapped, taken by force from her home? Three: so what if it takes time? It’s going to take a lot more time and be a lot worse for you if something happens to your client and you did not involve the police when you should have. Four: You wouldn’t be losing control, you’d be handing responsibility and control over to a law enforcement organisation that is trained, experienced and equipped to deal with such a situation. Five: this is different and you know it.’
Jo said, ‘Yes it is,’ and then completely disregarded what I thought was my rather good reflexive analysis and argument a propos her weak position. She said, ‘I should have said, what money?’
‘Eh?’
‘She said I want my money. I should have said what money.’
‘Did she give you the chance to?’
‘Not really.’
‘Call back and ask her. Then probably she’ll just think she surprised you.’
‘That would make me look stupid.’
‘What?’
‘It’ll sound dumb.’
‘No it won’t.’ I was wasting my breath; she wasn’t listening to me.