Cherringham--Cliffhanger

by Matthew Costello

  Jack felt Alan stiffen in his chair.

  Not liking this at all.

  “And I’m thinking that there’s some other agency in town on this case — bumping up against me and Sarah.”

  “Case? Really, Jack? Now I’m really not getting what you’re telling me. What case?”

  “Don’t BS me.” Jack smiled, hoping to defuse the building tension between them.

  But Jack knew. Amazingly enough, Alan Rivers was definitely hiding something.

  “You have to know that for twenty-five years I worked NYPD and every cop, and every detective knew what it really meant when things were suddenly taken out of our hands. High up, strings being pulled. So — me and you — we’ve seen a lot in this little village. Why not just tell me what’s happening here and Sarah and I will back off.”

  Jack waited, while Alan pondered this.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you. But, Jack, this goes no further than you and Sarah, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Susan Braithwaite is an analyst, yes. But not the financial kind. She works over at GCHQ.”

  “Intelligence gathering?”

  “That’s as much as I was told, yes. All I know is, she’s important. Tons of security clearances. She was doing this week of hikes, on leave, while some big… thing — some event, I don’t know what, they didn’t tell me — happened that she’s been working on. So, when she reported to them that someone had tried to kill her—”

  “Ah — she was pushed?”

  “Oh yes — no doubt about that. Anyway, when she reported that, I was told to treat it like an accident and look the other way. Stay completely out of it. The guys from London are all over this now, trying to figure out what happened. Who did it, and why. Watching her house, 24/7. They even called me, asking who the hell you and Sarah were.”

  “Difficult spot for you, hmm? We kinda figured something like that. But — and I’m guessing this you don’t know — they just broke into Sarah’s car. Took her notebook.”

  “Really? Sorry about that. But you know what I’m going to say — what I have to say.”

  “Nothing you can do?”

  “Exactly. And I suggest you do likewise. This is a job for whoever it is she works for. And I imagine, these are people who know what they are doing. Attempted murder, something like that? Job for professionals.”

  Ouch. Jack knew what Alan meant — but the implication of what he’d said stung nevertheless.

  “Fair enough,” said Jack. “I’ll tell Sarah. And we’ll back off, yes? Maybe you can do me a favour?”

  Finally, Alan grinned, a deal struck. “If it’s reasonable.”

  “Tell them to back off too? On us? I don’t fancy having my boat turned over by some over-eager government agents in hoodies. And, gotta say, if I find someone doing that on The Grey Goose… I’ll treat them like I would any intruder.”

  Alan’s smile faded. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that, Jack.”

  “Good.”

  And he got up from the chair, went out of the office and headed out into the clean, open air.

  *

  Sarah stood at the back of the darkroom, watching Daniel and his friend Cal as they carefully poured chemicals into the developing tank.

  Back in the day, it was the way all pictures came into existence.

  Now, more of a lost art.

  But Cal — evidently a serious kid from the way he worked the vats, mixing the developing liquid — clearly knew what he was doing.

  “You know, Mrs Edwards—”

  Sarah let the “Mrs” stand, but she did think, I’m not a Mrs anything anymore.

  “—very interesting that this person shot in black and white.” He turned to her. “Most of the great photographers — people like Weegee, Diane Arbus, even Stanley Kubrick before he started making his masterpieces, they showed the power of black and white.”

  “Great,” Sarah said, though she didn’t mention that, with black and white, she wouldn’t be able to see the colour of whatever the person on the cliff was wearing.

  But, she hoped, at least maybe I’ll get to see him. Her? Whoever it was.

  Stephanie’s two rolls of film had been turned into negatives, and were now in strips all ready to be examined.

  Cal had Daniel measuring out what Sarah assumed was some other liquid important to the process, while Cal worked on another vat.

  “That there is the stopper. Basically, stops the developing process cold. And this — the fixer — locks it in. The photo will last forever. Or nearly,” he said with a grin.

  Sarah remembered, standing here, in this very darkroom, red safe light on, with one of her early boyfriends, back when she was a student. He had taken photos for the yearbook. Invited her to the dark room.

  To see how it’s done.

  Least, that’s what he’d said.

  And there was something about that, the two of them, a red light glowing in the darkness… so exciting.

  Ah the memories that going to one’s old school could summon.

  Most of them — for her — good. If not a little awkward to recall with Daniel standing by her side…

  “Nearly ready,” Cal said.

  Sarah waited.

  11. Not Quite Off the Case

  Jack was going to head back to The Grey Goose.

  Normally, he was able to roll with how things played out.

  Once you’ve dealt with the bureaucracy of the NYPD — some city councilman always upset about something, civilian review boards, and the mayor’s office scrutinising anything controversial — as a detective you either, yes, rolled with things, or the whole system would roll over you.

  But in all his years in Cherringham, working with Sarah?

  And it was work, he thought, real work. What they did — often so important.

  In all these years he never had that feeling. No one watching them, supervising them. No landmines to be avoided. Jack felt he could make things happen more easily in the village. Bend a rule here and there. Do some things that — legally speaking — slipped into a grey area.

  But now to be told, quite clearly “hands off” when it came to looking into Susan Braithwaite’s fall…

  Just didn’t sit that well.

  So, to clear his thoughts, as he passed the Ploughman’s, he had an idea.

  Something, on a normal day, he wouldn’t do.

  Step in. Have a mid-day pint. Forget about how he felt about that order from Alan.

  Just enjoy the pub.

  Least, that’s what he thought he was going to do as he stopped walking towards the river and his boat, and instead turned and headed to the Ploughman’s, doors wide open, a perfect day, sun, warmth and the pub so inviting.

  *

  Cal stood back from the trays that he and Daniel had prepared.

  “Okay. So,” he turned to her again, “now the big question. You want all these images developed?”

  She was about to say yes, but then, she thought, that might take a while.

  “Wait. Using the negatives, maybe I can get an idea of what the picture is. Maybe narrow down which ones I want a real picture of?”

  She took care not to tell them what she was looking for or why.

  But she knew Daniel, for one, could guess.

  “Sure, I mean, you won’t be able to see details, any faces and all. And even things like the terrain — bit hard to tell as negatives. But if you have a rough idea of what you’re looking for, totally do-able. Come over here, we can look at the first roll.”

  And Sarah passed her son, giving him a smile. His knowing Cal turning into a lifesaver. And it looked like Daniel, very much a modern kid with digital everything, seemed genuinely interested in the alchemy that was old-school photography.

  “See this.” Cal pointed to a squat device with an eyepiece, not unlike a microscope. “For looking at negatives. Not state of the art at all. There’s digital ones these days that can even show the real image, straight from a film
negative. But this is all we got.”

  He pointed to the eyepiece.

  “You can look in here, run the strips of negatives through, right here. Just turn the knob. And if you see one you want, let me know, I’ll note it, and when you’re done, we’re good to go.”

  Sarah nodded. She knew what a negative looked like. Her mother and father had boxes of them in the attic, some real treasure probably in those boxes. Scenes from a hundred years ago.

  So, she knew what a negative could reveal — and what it couldn’t. And also what she was hoping to see…

  Clevedon Crag. A lone hiker atop it. And someone, something else behind.

  God, she hoped that Stephanie had been right.

  That she just might have caught someone with her camera.

  If she did, it was all about to be revealed now.

  *

  “Jack, been a while! Too long! How are ya?”

  Billy Leeper, the proprietor, manned the bar himself, tending to the slim early afternoon crowd at the Ploughman’s. Just a few regulars. Mostly pensioners, gathered at a table, nursing their beers, but also some workers at a table eating a latish pub lunch.

  The Ploughman’s food — basic steak and kidney pies, bangers and mash — was serviceable at best, and not something that Jack often sampled.

  Jack remembered suggesting to Billy that maybe, just maybe, a real cook would be a worthwhile investment.

  Billy, though, felt that his limited menu was more than sufficient.

  “I’m not too bad, Billy. Enjoying this weather.” Jack looked over the spigots. “Um, how about a half of Hooky?”

  Full pint was too much for this time of day, he thought. One of those giant beers was sometimes like consuming a loaf of bread.

  Billy took a glass, then pulled on the big hand pump, filling it in one gush.

  There’s an art to that, Jack thought.

  “You and Sarah been up to anything lately?”

  Again, Jack knew everyone had developed more than a little interest in Sarah’s and his collaboration.

  And having just been told to back off the case, Jack’s answer was easy.

  “No. Been quiet.”

  “Sleepy village, hmm?” Billy said. Jack nodded, even though, in his experience, this village was not so sleepy.

  “Just taking care of my boat, getting my dog out for his walks, and God, enjoying this weather. It’s absolutely—”

  When Jack heard a voice.

  Someone yelling, using a string of expletives not often heard — even late at night — at the Ploughman’s.

  Coming from the backroom, where Billy had a dartboard and pool table.

  He looked at Billy. The voice, so loud — American.

  Jack could easily have been in a bar in Red Hook.

  Billy started to rub his hands on a bar towel, taking a breath, getting ready to check out the row.

  Jack put up a hand.

  A smile.

  “Hey — you got customers. And sounds like one of my countrymen. I’ll take a look.”

  And Jack sailed to the back room, the angry words continuing.

  *

  Sarah had already examined one full roll of negatives, all showing — quite clearly — shots of scenery, and no mysterious figures lurking.

  In terms of people, there were only a few shots of the hiking party, obviously posed pictures. Most of the pictures were landscapes — or zoomed shots of birds.

  Other than that — nothing.

  And certainly, nothing to be developed.

  And now she was on the second roll, where Stephanie had said she remembered that she had taken a sequence of quick pictures of a bird that included the crag, even one — she thought with Susan Braithwaite — on top of it.

  Sarah fed another strip in, hoping — as Stephanie promised — that it would show the crag. Susan…

  And maybe — just maybe — something more.

  The last strip.

  Either something was here, or this whole exercise had been a waste of time.

  A few clicks, and she looked at yet another negative image.

  But on this one — she took a deep breath.

  Sarah stopped on a negative. A bird, caught in perfect focus. Below it, the crag. But just the crag, no one on it, or even near it that she could see.

  She turned the knob on the negative viewer.

  And with the next few clicks of the sprocket…

  There it was.

  The crag again. But now a person near the edge.

  Even in negative form, Sarah could tell that it was a woman. The dark hair all white in the reverse image.

  And this obvious fact, she was alone. No one behind her. No one poised to give her a shove off the cliff to the rocks below.

  She did slip. That’s all.

  What had Susan Braithwaite said?

  Just a silly accident.

  But even as she had that thought, she turned the dial another few sprockets to cue the next negative in sequence.

  And nearly the same image. Nearly.

  But this time there was someone behind her. Quite clearly, someone had emerged from the within the rocky outcrop close to the cliff edge.

  Only maybe a foot or two behind the woman.

  In those precious seconds, did Susan hear the person? See him?

  No guarantee it was a “him”. The person in a waterproof or hoodie of some kind.

  And not knowing the colour of the waterproof, there was no way to tell it was a member of Will’s tour group.

  Not like this. Not as a negative.

  Still — she pulled back from the eyepiece. Felt Daniel’s eyes on her. Did he sense she had found something?

  “Cal, I know — um — this is black and white film, but is there any magical way to tell what colour someone is wearing?”

  “Interesting question,” the serious Cal said. “You can rule out certain colours and shades. But as to an object’s true colour? When you merely have grey tones? I’m afraid not possible.”

  “Mum,” Daniel said, feeling the importance of the question, “do you see something?”

  She nodded. “Maybe, Daniel. Not sure.”

  She knew the only way to tell was to go back to the eyepiece. And see if — by some miraculous chance — the photographer from Germany had taken one more quick shot.

  *

  Walking into the back room, Jack saw a familiar face.

  Ray, a neighbour (of sorts) of his, who had his own ramshackle boat near The Grey Goose.

  Ray’s lifestyle seemed to cycle around pot, the Ploughman’s and whatever smalltime semi-legal activities could fuel both.

  But — all in all — he was a not-too-bad sort who had helped Jack in the past.

  On Ray’s face, a bit of shock. Maybe even fear?

  Across from Ray, steps away, on the other side of the pool table — stood another man. Few days’ dark growth on his face. Mostly bald head, with just some wispy hair on the sides. And — Jack noted — a pool cue held firmly in his two hands.

  Like he was about to use it, but not to sink the three-ball in the corner pocket.

  “Hey, Ray,” Jack said casually. Another look to the man with the cue. “What’s going on? Bit noisy back here.”

  The man with the cue took a step closer to Jack. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. This goddamned cheating bastid.”

  The words, and the accent, so familiar to Jack.

  Pure, one hundred percent, New York. Or to be more precise, Brooklyn. An accent that Jack grew up hearing and — except for the visiting hikers — hadn’t heard in Cherringham… ever.

  What is going on here?

  Jack liked being the village’s lone yank. This guy, and even maybe the hikers staying at the Bell, were giving people from NYC a bad name.

  As if we need that these days.

  Jack turned to the guy with the cue, who seemed to be the problem here. Ray was, more or less, cowering.

  Fights in bars? Pool table squabbles? Day-drinking and
booze in play? Jack had handled many such similar situations before.

  “Yeah,” Jack said, “you were saying?”

  “This village idiot thinks he can make a bet on a goddammed game of—”

  Jack put up a hand.

  “Easy there, pal. This is my local, you know? Kind of a quiet place during the day. So, want to watch the language?”

  The guy’s eyes, bloodshot, narrowed. Giving his face a feral look. Rat-like. Still holding the cue though, and maybe wondering if he might challenge Jack on that question.

  Jack hoped not.

  But if he did, well, wouldn’t be the first time either.

  “All right. This ass… — um — guy and me, we bet on the damn game. And when he scratches—”

  “Jack — it wasn’t a real scratch. I hadn’t really taken my shot.” Ray cleared his throat. “And I think this bastid was hustling me anyway!”

  The man with the stick pivoted towards Ray.

  “You took your damn shot, missed — and that is” — look to Jack — “a scratch. And when I sink the eight ball, my game, my win. And you owe me—”

  Jack took a step towards the man.

  He also fired a look at Ray, a warning.

  Just keep quiet, okay?

  Ray, who looked ready to defend himself, stopped.

  “And you, buddy — let’s put the pool cue down, hmm? Before anyone gets hurt.”

  Jack had to wonder, did Ray even have money to bet? Ray wasn’t above a quick hustle himself, thinking he might win some quick drinks money.

  The man with the cue didn’t move. But Jack’s carefully worded request, followed by a step closer to the man, led to the cue slowly being lowered.

  And, as the stick came down…

  “You may not know this, but gambling, on a game like this, in our village… my village…” Jack added for emphasis, “’fraid, it’s not legal at all.”

  And a quick turn to Ray who hopefully picked up on what Jack was doing (since Ray bet on absolutely any kind of activity in the village that he could).

  “Now, I know you don’t want the attention of the police. And I had my friend Billy out there hold back from calling the cops.”

  Jack guessed “calling the cops”, wasn’t a phrase this guy liked hearing.