Cherringham - Episode 40-42 E-Book

Matthew Costello

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Cherringham: Crime Series Compilations
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 486

Beschreibung

Jack's a retired ex-cop from New York, seeking the simple life in Cherringham. Sarah's a Web designer who's moved back to the village find herself. But their lives are anything but quiet as the two team up to solve Cherringham's criminal mysteries.

This compilation contains episodes 40 - 42:

COLD CASE

It's winter in Cherringham, and petty thief Charlie Topper's life is in danger. Desperate, he reaches out to Jack and Sarah for help: last summer - during a robbery - he witnessed a cold-blooded murder, and now he fears the killer is after him.

NO PLACE TO HIDE

When Ed Finnlay - computer programmer and devoted father of two - goes missing, there’s not a lot the local police can do. As the weeks go by with no news, his wife reaches out to Jack and Sarah for help. But they soon learn that there are odd secrets about this missing husband ...

IN THE FRAME

Jack volunteers at Morton Manor to serve as steward, chatting with visitors about the long history of the house. And when the retired volunteer Cyril Roebuck is found dead in the Great Hall, one morning, it seems at first that the dear old man must have suffered a heart attack. But the room was locked from the inside ...

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

The authors

Main Characters

Title

Cold Case

No Place to Hide

In the Frame

Copyright

Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

“Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. The series is published in English, German and Finnish.

The authors

Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of a number of successful novels, including Vacation (2011), Home (2014) and Beneath Still Waters (1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed The 7th Guest, Doom 3, Rage and Pirates of the Caribbean.

Neil Richards has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He’s also written script and story for over 20 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Starship Titanic, co-written with Douglas Adams, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.

Their transatlantic collaboration has underpinned scores of TV drama scripts, computer games, radio shows, and the best-selling mystery series Cherringham. Their latest series project is called Mydworth Mysteries.

Main Characters

Jack Brennan is a former NYPD homicide detective. Being retired, all he wants is peace and quiet. Which is what he hopes to find in the quiet town of Cherringham, UK. Living on a canal boat, he enjoys his solitude. But soon enough he discovers that something is missing — the challenge of solving crimes. Surprisingly, Cherringham can help him with that.

Sarah Edwards is a web designer who was living in London with her husband and two kids. A few years ago, he ran off with his sexy American boss, and Sarah’s world fell apart. With her children she moved back to her home town, laid-back Cherringham. But the small-town atmosphere is killing her all over again — nothing ever happens. At least, that’s what she thinks until Jack enters her life and changes it for good or worse …

Matthew CostelloNeil Richards

CHERRINGHAM

A COSY CRIME SERIESCOMPILATION

Episode 40 — 42

Matthew CostelloNeil Richards

CHERRINGHAM

A COSY CRIME SERIES

Cold Case

1. A Perfect June Evening

Karl Huntford walked carefully through the tall grass of the steeply sloping meadow, down towards the lake and the small wooden deck he’d built specially for evenings like this.

He held a perfectly chilled sauvignon blanc in one hand, and two wine glasses in the other.

Behind him, carrying a small wicker basket with a healthy wedge of brie and some of those ludicrously expensive biscuits from the farm shop, his wife Christine followed.

It was — as predicted, on this summer evening — absolutely perfect in temperature; warm with just the gentlest of breezes blowing from right over the lake.

He loved this routine of theirs, retreating down to the small deck he had built to overlook the lake and the nearby woods — observing every sign of wildlife as if it was a special show, just for the two of them.

Huntford relished all of it.

Especially having lost a whole year of such things.

After an experience like that — he knew — one learns to appreciate the really beautiful things even more.

This meadow for instance: the first part of the grand re-wilding project for the house, that he’d spent a whole year planning. The deliberately unmown grasses now dotted with oxeye daisies, red poppies, foxgloves.

And the butterflies! Red admirals, tortoiseshells — thrilling dabs of colour dancing from flower to flower.

One day, if I’m lucky, he thought, might even spot an adonis blue.

Karl stepped onto the wooden deck, perched overlooking the lake, with its pair of sturdy metal chairs and a matching table for drinks and snacks.

Just room enough for the two of them — which was exactly how Karl liked it.

Putting down the wine and glasses on the small table, he quickly dug out a simple corkscrew from his back pocket. He used the curled tip to loosen the foil seal.

He definitely did prefer an old-school cork, no matter what the pundits said about the equal efficacy of a simple twist-off cap.

A cap! With all the romance and drama of opening a bottle of ketchup!

He removed the cork with a smooth “pop”.

“Nicely done,” Christine said as she put down the cheese and biscuits.

Dressed in a sleeveless blue gingham blouse and white shorts, she looked fantastic.

“Couldn’t ask for better weather,” Karl said.

Karl knew there would be days ahead, when summer turned to autumn, autumn to winter, that rituals like this simply wouldn’t be possible.

But right now? Perfect.

He quickly poured two glasses and then raised his own to meet Christine’s — a gentle clink — and he saw her smile.

His wife, always beautiful — her cheeks naturally a soft pink, just a spot of lipstick.

No need for makeup. A natural beauty indeed.

I … am a lucky man, he thought.

Then he turned away. Gazing, out to the lake nestled in the valley below, and the thick woods on the hillside opposite.

All belonging to him and his wife. Twilight soon.

“Let’s see what kind of visitors we get this evening,” he said.

And it wasn’t long before they weren’t alone.

*

They had spotted a goshawk, drifting over the edge of the lake and then disappearing into the nearby woods, the trees dark and impenetrable.

Probably sitting up on a high branch in there somewhere, thought Karl. Watching, waiting, for its prey.

After what had seemed like an age — as Karl and Christine shared the cheese and pointed out other birds, and chatted quietly — the hawk suddenly darted out of the trees, diving, fierce and fast towards the edge of the lake.

“Ah — got himself something,” Karl said, as the bird swooped back up effortlessly, a grey shape clutched in its talons.

“Or herself? You told me the male and female are equals when it comes to hunting.”

He smiled. “I did, didn’t I? Oh, see there. Looks like a plump little mouse, or a shrew perhaps? Not much of a meal — perhaps a little takeaway for the chicks back home.”

They watched, sipped, dabbed the occasional biscuit with a smear of the tangy brie.

Then Karl heard Christine say, “Oh — there she is. Mum and the kids from last year.”

“Right on schedule.”

Walking so tentatively, emerging from the dense brush — the epitome of nervous — a quartet of deer: a female doe leading three spotted, and younger, fawns.

The young ones munching while the mother mostly looked left, right, this way, that — ever protective.

Eventually, they would likely be joined by others.

On one occasion, a week ago, the stag had showed up — always a thrilling sight, the beast’s growing antler points like an armoury being readied for battle.

And Karl, as he sat close to his wife, was about as happy and content as could be.

The fabulous French wine — no doubt — helping with that.

*

Charlie Topper had watched the couple make their way from their grand house on the hillside, down the slope, a good hundred yards away.

Just as they had done before on the many afternoons he’d come by, hiding in the bushes and dense cover of trees off to one side of the house.

Regular as clockwork, thought Charlie, which always makes life easier.

At first, Charlie had been simply curious about how he might rob them. Thinking — a house like that, old but all modernised — must have a solid security system.

But then on his little expeditions, where he parked his beat-up Nissan a good mile away, and tromped through the woods, well away from any trail, to watch the couple — to spy on them — he’d noticed one key thing.

They always came out of the house to head down to their cosy little deck by way of a sliding door.

Slid open, then — oh so casually — left open.

People so carefree in summertime. Moving in and out.

As if there was absolutely nothing to worry about.

And when Charlie was patient enough to stay — for an hour, maybe more — he’d see them return, laden with an empty wine bottle and glasses, and just walk back into the house.

No one pushed buttons on a keypad to gain entry.

The security system off.

I guess, he thought, they feel secure, being so close, that there’s no need to lock the whole place down.

And cameras? There had to be some, but they’d be placed discreetly — hard to spot. That was an easy issue to deal with. Charlie had a full-face skull cap, with holes for eyes and mouth.

It would make him just about as invisible as could be.

On such a stuffy and close afternoon, not easy to breathe through, to be sure. But in this case, he had no choice.

So now, he looked down the hill, past all that tall grass. Making sure that whatever they were doing down there, with their wine, looking out at their property, they were well settled — their backs to the house.

Which meant — yes — time for Charlie Topper to see what goodies he might finally find inside.

*

Charlie hurried from his cover in the trees, and slid into the house through the same door used by the couple.

He thought, Security off. Probably any door could be opened without an alarm, but best to be safe.

Charlie had heard rumours among some of his mates that the guy who lived here — despite having done time in jail for something bad to do with money — still must have some cash.

Maybe a lot.

From the looks of things, when he stepped inside and took in the place, that had to be true.

As he moved from room to room, Charlie thought that it looked more like a modern museum — sculptures, art, all lit up. Though Charlie would be the first to admit, being a man of simple tastes, he didn’t have a bloody clue what was valuable and what was decorative.

But there was speculation — again, amongst some of his colleagues in the breaking-and-entering business — that the wife had jewels.

Yes, and jewels were almost as good as cold, hard cash. Easy to slip to a fence. Items with real value that could be turned into quick money.

He edged close to a window and checked that the couple were still sitting down by that lake, then he headed for the stairs.

Because — of course — bedrooms were where people kept their jewels!

And, sure enough, in the biggest bedroom, on a massive pure-white dresser, he saw a chest. With a keyhole, so probably locked …

But amazingly — when he went with his gloved hand to open it — the lid flipped up!

Revealing a dazzling array of things that sparkled.

Some of the more colourful items would — Charlie guessed — have stones he wouldn’t know at all. But he also saw the more recognisable, and easily commercial, diamond earrings and a string of pearls.

A house like this … that kind of husband … a younger wife … he thought. No way those pearls would be fake.

Bloody hell, got myself a real payday here.

*

Karl emptied the last few drops of wine into his wife’s glass. It seemed to have gone fast, but then — he thought — wasn’t that always the case with really good wine?

“Pity. All done.”

Then Christine said something, well, unusual.

An empty bottle usually signalled the end of their time here, talking and observing the wildlife. Now — across the lake — they had a full herd of deer milling about the water’s edge, and the goshawk had been joined by swallows, darting and dashing across the surface of the water catching insects.

There’d even been the briefest glimpse of a kingfisher, its dash of colour absolutely exquisite against the marsh marigolds and purple loosestrife.

“Karl — shall I slip up to the house — grab another bottle? So beautiful. The sunset … this evening.”

Karl nodded. The sun had slipped below the hill behind them, and the cumulus clouds over the woods beyond the lake, were lit with threads of pink and orange.

“Why not. I’ll go—” he started.

But Christine was already up.

“You stay — might see that kingfisher again. Be right back. The same?” She was, of course, referring to the wine. “Why change horses, as they say?”

He watched her head back up the hill and took a deep breath, the evening slowly melting away, then turned again to observe his beautiful lake.

*

Bedrooms all done, Charlie Topper entered a small, dark room on the second floor, curtains drawn. Some kind of office, he reckoned.

The only glow came from a laptop computer, all silver, save for the black keys.

The computer open, and shuffling pictures that looked they came from both this property — the woods, deer, birds — and maybe the couple’s trips abroad.

A sunny beach, Huntford in trunks with a crisp white short-sleeved shirt.

His wife in a two-piece bathing suit.

Yes,Charlie thought, this guy is doing all right.

That is, until this evening.

But it was time he got out. He knew how long their little expeditions down by the lake usually lasted.

But then he hesitated, looking at the computer. Shiny, new. Worth good money too, he bet.

So, he shoved that into his rucksack, into the sea of jewels he had grabbed.

Then, not knowing much about such things, he scooped up all the cords that were attached to it, yanking them from wherever they connected, and stuffed them in the bag as well.

His bag full — like a reverse Santa — he turned, to a small window overlooking the meadow, the valley, the lake below, and teased a corner of curtain to one side, to see …

God!

Huntford’s wife making her way briskly up the hill towards the house!

Charlie Topper knew his careful plans could quickly blow up. It would only take one 999 call to the police, even as he dashed back to his car. Captured with loot in hand!

So, he moved as fast as he could, out of that small office to the broad stairs — down, running, racing.

At the same time thinking: How the hell do I get out now?

2. A Surprise for All

Karl glanced back up the wild meadow to his wife, nearly at the house.

For a moment, he let his thoughts drift away. This place always summoned a special calm mood deep within him: just his wife and nature. Bliss.

It was amazing to think how he’d managed to get here, to this moment, after — well — a financial and personal disaster of such proportions that it would have left most men shattered.

Destroyed.

But not him! And with new plans in the works — the nasty patch over — why, the future looked even better.

He nodded, as if reassuring himself that what he had just thought was indeed true.

In just a few moments, Christine would return with more wine, and perhaps he’d share some more about those plans with her.

Yes, that would be fun.

After all, what good is it to have amazing plans in the works and not tell a soul?

*

Charlie Topper — his rucksack bulging with prizes — ran to a side door he’d spotted, right off the giant, gleaming kitchen.

Putting his gloved hand on the doorknob, he had to wonder: The alarm was off on the patio door, but could it still be set here, on this one?

Maybe the couple weren’t as confident and secure as he’d imagined on a summery afternoon?

But he heard a sound behind him, the wife entering, and Charlie knew he had no choice.

He gave that knob a twist, a tug, then he flew out like he was being hunted.

And then, no looking back, he raced straight towards the dense woods to the side of the house, thinking that in a few moments he’d be nearly invisible in there.

So far — luckily — hearing nothing from the house behind him, no alarm sounds, no tell-tale flashing red lights.

All he had to do now was hurry back to where he had hidden his car, off the road, surrounded by thick bushes, the old Nissan hopefully looking like some wreck abandoned by its owner.

Under cover at last — breathing hard, but feeling the protective safety and shielding of the woods and thick bushes — he turned to look down the steep meadow.

Seeing Huntford waiting for his wife to return.

Would his pretty wife see something amiss … or rather missed, and scream for her husband to hurry back up?

But then …

Then …

Charlie saw a movement in the woods on the other side of the lake. All the time, telling himself that he should just keep running as fast as he could.

He saw someone across the lake, on a level with Huntford, and tucked so deep into the undergrowth that it made him stop — something about the whole situation not right, not right at all.

With a gulp — he saw that the figure was holding something, and he thought, Only one thing looks like that, but surely, it can’t be …

The figure moved a bit again — just the tiniest movement — and Charlie now knew for sure.

The figure was holding a rifle.

In that moment, he saw Karl Huntford lean forward as if he too had noticed something that didn’t belong with the deer and the birds and the peaceful lake.

Charlie was about to shrug the whole thing off — none of his business, some poacher maybe, intruding on Huntford’s property — when he heard a sharp crack, producing an echo in the bowl-like depression of the valley and the surrounding wooded hills.

That sound could be only one thing: the gun being fired.

He watched as Karl Huntford’s right hand jerked upwards for a second, and then the man tumbled backwards, hitting the small metal table as he did, sending the empty glasses smashing down to the deck.

Huntford lay still.

Charlie thought, even as he turned, to run, and even as he heard a scream from the house getting louder and louder …

I’ve just seen a man being murdered!

And then he was racing through the woods towards his car.

The car was just where he’d left it. Charlie flung open the driver’s door, quickly wedged the backpack behind the passenger seat, then — remembering at the last minute not to make a noise — shut the door as quietly as he could and rummaged in his pocket for his key.

Stay calm, Charlie, stay calm, he muttered to himself, trying to slow his breathing, steady his heart.

Nobody saw you, you’re just here for a walk, didn’t see a thing, didn’t hear anything.

He started the engine, gritting his teeth at how loud it sounded, then backed out of the rough undergrowth, and carefully swung the car onto the trail.

It was around a mile through the woods to the Cherringham road — and Charlie knew once he was there, especially with it getting darker by the minute — he’d be safe.

Just don’t panic, don’t go too fast, don’t draw attention, he thought. Done nothing wrong, just out for a nice drive, nothing to see here, officer.

Two minutes later and Charlie was feeling calmer, the old Nissan gently eating up the yards, his headlights off, the woods totally deserted, Cherringham — and safety — getting closer.

No sign of police yet.

He glanced round at the backpack and allowed himself the quick thought — those jewels, worth a fortune!

He reached a crossroads in the woods, and was about to drive straight over, when — seemingly from nowhere — a vehicle shot across the junction from his left, going like crazy.

He hit the brakes hard, and so did the other vehicle.

It slewed past him, missing him by inches — the driver’s face a shocked blur as both vehicles froze. And then it fish-tailed back onto the trail and was gone, accelerating away in a cloud of dust.

Charlie’s eyes were locked on the vehicle as it disappeared round a curve into the woods, his heart smashing in his chest again, his face dripping with sweat.

An old Land Rover, he thought, guessing the vehicle’s make from the boxy shape. But the colour — in this near darkness, impossible to tell.

Had the driver seen him? He couldn’t tell. Maybe. Maybe they would tell the police — and he’d be done for!

He frowned. Why were they driving so damn fast? In fact — what were they doing in the woods, out here, at this time, in this darkness?

And then Charlie Topper had a terrible series of thoughts.

All making perfect sense.

What if that driver was the killer?

And what if they’d recognised him?

Recognised Charlie’s old Nissan?

Guessed that he’d been at the house?

Charlie knew that if the answer to any of those questions was “yes” …

…then he was in big, big trouble.

3. Eight Months Later

Jack noticed his springer spaniel, Riley, starting to walk oddly as they hit the gangplank to his canal boat, The Grey Goose.

The early morning walk across the icy meadows had been without incident.

And though Jack had nearly slipped to the ground a couple of times, Riley had — as usual — shown no concern about the treacherous conditions and the bracing wind.

These last few weeks had been as cold as Jack had ever known it in Cherringham — so bitterly, relentlessly cold that even the river itself had started to freeze.

But now, he watched Riley limping and knew something was up.

Usually, at the end of a walk, Riley would have dashed up and down that plank half a dozen times, as if eager to be out of the cold as much as Jack. But now he took the incline of the plank carefully, slowly, obviously favouring his left front paw.

“Hey boy, something wrong there?”

Riley looked at Jack as if wanting to answer.

“We’ll get inside, out of the cold, then take a look, okay?”

Riley had been his dog ever since he’d come to Cherringham. In fact, Jack couldn’t imagine living here without Riley on the boat, always ready for walk, a run. And, on the warm days, a vigorous game of fetch.

If there was anything seriously wrong, Cherringham had a good vet, just at the far end of the town. Always good for Riley’s shots, and the occasional check-up.

Careful not to slip on the icy deck, Jack opened the door to the boat’s saloon, and Riley immediately — and uncharacteristically — went to his pillow bed, and curled up, as if hoping whatever was bothering him would just go away. But Jack pulled a wooden chair from his small table close to Riley and his bed, and crouched down low.

“Okay, boy — just gonna take a look at that paw, right?”

Riley kept his head firmly nuzzled into both front paws and the pillow itself.

Jack reached down, very gently unentangled that right front paw, then raised it a bit. Riley made a small noise — not of protest, Jack thought. Just a sound indicating there was some pain there.

Jack slid out his phone to turn its light on: the pad of Riley’s paw at first looked okay. But then Jack saw the problem.

A needle-like piece of wood was buried deep in the paw, and had probably been driven deeper with each step Riley had taken after picking it up.

“Ah, there we are. A splinter. No one likes those, Riley. Imagine it feels a lot worse when you walk on all fours? Won’t take a second.”

And Jack — again so gently — laid the paw back down and walked back to the ship’s small head, with an even smaller medicine cabinet, with just a few essentials.

He opened the cabinet and retrieved a pair of tweezers — always useful for when Riley picked up a tick — and a small tube of antiseptic.

Then back to Riley.

“Only take a second,” Jack said. And he lifted the paw, and, fastening the tweezers on the small bit of the splinter that protruded, he slid it out.

And Riley’s eyes went wide.

But he didn’t moan or growl. He was too good a dog for that.

“Now, a little something to make it feel better,” Jack said.

He unscrewed the tube, squeezed out a dollop of the ointment, and dabbed it at the entry point of the splinter. If Riley kept his outdoor ramblings to the absolute minimum, he should be fine.

Jack stood up, slid the chair back.

Riley’s response to the medical procedure was to shut his eyes.

Time for some breakfast, Jack thought.

There was a familiar rat-a-tat knocking at the Goose’s door. Familiar because Jack knew only one person who dropped in, and signalled it with that rhythmic pattern of knocks. Jack’s affable neighbour, friend, and someone who liked his beer and weed in equal measure — Ray Stroud.

*

As Jack turned to the door, Ray, without waiting, opened it and leaned in — and Jack could see that this was no jovial visit by his stoner friend.

“Ray … little early for you, isn’t? More of an ‘up by noon’, kind of guy? Got a job interview?”

Normally, Jack’s joke would have produced a smile.

But Ray, someone who played life loose and fast, now looked stony faced.

“Jack, I wonder if I could—” Ray looked around the boat as if checking they were alone.

Yes, not the Ray of late nights and burning the midnight oil.

“Yeah, Ray?”

“—have a word?”

“Sure, take a seat and I’ll—”

But Ray shook his head.

“No. I mean back at my boat.”

Jack said nothing to that. This whole thing was odd, certainly for Ray. Now the request to join him on his ramshackle boat.

“No worries, Ray. Glad to have a chat anywhere.”

He didn’t add that he was now curious exactly why it had to be on Ray’s boat.

But putting his heavy Barbour coat back on, and grabbing a cap, Jack nodded to his friend.

“Lead on.”

And Ray, almost as if he didn’t really want to go back to his boat, turned, and walked in front of Jack as they left The Grey Goose for the old Magnolia.

*

Climbing up the plank to Ray’s barge was always a challenge. A piece of wobbly wood that could barely fit one person, it creaked and wobbled as Jack, at nearly a hundred and seventy pounds, made his way up.

One of these days, he thought, one wrong step on Ray’s plank, and I’ll find myself in the water.

But Ray kept bustling ahead. As Jack entered, the smell of ganja — as always — was heavy inside the boat, along with a few other odours of unknown origin, discernible in the fog of smoke from Ray’s ancient wood-burning stove.

Ray shut his door tight, turned, and hurried to the aft end of the boat, where Jack knew there was a small sunken area where Ray — if the effort of finding his actual bed seemed too much — would often happily pass out.

But now, as Jack took the steps down, minding his head on the low ceiling beam as he did, he saw that the space was occupied …

By a man, who looked like he must indeed be one of Ray’s clan.

Longish, stringy hair. A full chin of stubble. A thick plaid shirt that could easily hide a host of drops and dribbles. Jeans showing signs of mud, paint.

The man looked up as Ray, clearing his throat (the time for a formal introduction having arrived) said, “Jack, this is one of my mates, Charlie Topper. And he says he’s in a whole lotta trouble.”

Jack nodded at this. Bent over with the low ceiling, he looked for a clean space on the tattered U-shaped settee to sit.

Why did Ray come to me? he wondered.

He guessed he wouldn’t have long to wait to find out.

*

“You can trust him, Charlie. Go on. Tell him all about it.”

Jack watched as Charlie rubbed his bristly chin, as if still assessing the risks of talking to this tall, unknown Yank.

“It won’t go beyond these four walls?” said Charlie, peering at Jack.

“Not a word,” said Jack, curious as to how Ray’s boat might have four walls.

“Go on, Charlie,” said Ray.

“Right then. Well, here’s the thing, Jack. This last week, there’s stuff been happening to me. Bad stuff. Accidents … that aren’t accidents. Know what I mean?”

“Maybe,” said Jack. “Explain.”

“Close calls. Like someone wanted to do me some damage. Take me out of the picture.”

Jack nodded, listening, but also gauging Charlie Topper’s words.

“For instance?” he said.

“Got a small gas stove in my place. Monday morning, bloody gas is on, pilot light out. Kitchen full of gas! If I’d turned the light switch on, could have killed me.”

And Jack thought, well whatever Charlie Topper’s lifestyle included, taking extra care with the gas stove was probably not one of them.

“You said other stuff?”

Charlie nodded. “My old car. It’s a bit of a wreck, I tell you. But I get the basics taken care of when needed. Anyhow, Wednesday night, I’m about to climb in it, after a couple of jars down the Railway Inn, and I spot all this liquid on the ground. I’m thinking, oh no, got a damn oil leak. But it wasn’t oil, not at all! All the bloody brake fluid had been drained! If I hadn’t spotted it, car could have smashed into who knows what. Killing me!”

Again, Jack thought, car safety and maintenance were probably not high on the list for this colleague of Ray’s — and certainly no thought of the dangers of drinking and driving.

“More?” Jack said.

Charlie seemed to hesitate at that. But then, with a verbal nudge from Ray:

“Go on, Charlie. Tell him the last thing.”

“Had a note through my letterbox …”

“Do you have it?”

“No. Spooked me, it did. So I chucked it. But it said ‘Leave now — or you’re dead’. Someone threatening me, right there, Jack. No accident that!”

That was pointing out the obvious, Jack thought.

He shot Ray a look. Something here was not adding up. Did Ray know more?

“Why come to me, Charlie? Police in town would surely be interested?”

Charlie forced a smile. “Ray here, says you, and your friend are good at finding things out? Even better than the police.”

“Let’s just say different,” Jack said.

Charlie nodded. “And someone like me, well, not a great fan of the police, and vice-versa I must say.”

Jack felt his suspicion at all this growing.

“And do you have any idea why someone would want to threaten you?”

Another smile from Charlie as if an inside joke. “Bloke like me, wheeling and dealing a bit, here and there, well — always got my enemies.”

I’m sure, Jack thought.

“Probably just someone wanting to muscle in on the action a bit, you know? Just need to know who it might be, then I can sort it all out. Peacefully, of course.”

“Okay. Well I’m having dinner tonight with my friend, at the Spotted Pig.”

“Never been,” Ray added in his sudden role of restaurant reviewer. “Any good?”

Jack pressed on. “Could discuss your problem with her. Very sharp. We make a good team.”

Charlie’s face seemed to brighten at that, maybe hearing the cavalry racing to his rescue.

“But, you see, Charlie, I won’t be doing that. Nope.” Jack paused hoping that he was shocking Charlie enough to get what he wanted.

“Not unless—” Jack took time with his words “—you tell me the truth. All of it. If not—”

Jack made a movement as if the meeting was over.

But then Charlie fired out a hand.

“Okay, okay. I got it. There’s more. Tell you all of it. Just between us, okay? That lawyer/client thing I hear about on TV shows?”

“I’m not a lawyer.”

Charlie looked back at Ray who — Jack guessed — did know what Charlie had kept secret.

That would explain why Ray also looked rattled by having Charlie holed up here, hiding out from whomever wanted to hurt him.

“Tell me the truth and we’ll see what Sarah and I can do.”

And at that, Charlie Topper took the deepest of breaths.

“It happened back in June. Up in the woods, the other side of Winsham.”

Jack saw Ray take a quick, nervous look up to the door, then back.

And then Charlie leaned forward, his voice low.

“Tell me. Name Karl Huntford mean anything to you, Jack?” said Charlie.

Jack took a second.

“It does,” said Jack, and he felt a chill, even in this cold, draughty boat.

He knew as soon as he heard that name, that this certainly wasn’t going to be about a drunken disagreement in the local pub.

Clearly, this was about something way more serious.

Murder.

4. Dinner — and the Truth — at the Spotted Pig

Inside the Spotted Pig, at their favourite table in the corner, right next to the open kitchen, Sarah looked at Jack and grinned.

“How did you know he wasn’t telling you the truth to start with?”

Jack grinned back. “Guys like Charlie Topper? Well, I met a lot of them back on the force in Manhattan. Guess you kinda develop some cop ESP? You just know when what they are selling you isn’t the truth, least not all of it.”

Sarah looked around at the other tables and lowered her voice to be sure they couldn’t be overheard.

“You really think this Charlie character saw Karl Huntford being murdered?”

“The way he tells it? Yes. He’d barely got out of the house — backpack full of jewels — when he saw the killer in the woods. Heard the shot. Saw Huntford go to the ground. Stands up for me.”

“And all this time he’s kept quiet … so as not to incriminate himself?”

“Well, partially. But I think also out of a certain instinct for survival. For which I don’t blame him — that was one cold-blooded — and well-executed — killing.”

Sarah had another question, in fact a bunch.

But then Julia, the co-owner of the Pig, appeared with a metal tray, and two glasses.

“Here you go. Chilly cocktails that should warm you two up,” she said, landing the two glasses on small coasters in front of Jack and Sarah. One with Jack’s requisite vodka martini, gleaming in a cut crystal glass, with tiny shards of ice from the shaker floating on top for just a few moments before disappearing.

While for Sarah …

“A Manhattan,” Jack said. “What made you order that? G&T usually your go to cocktail, no?”

“I remember last time you told me that there were five classic cocktails—”

“That I did.”

“And this one, named for your former hometown, is one of them.”

“Some debate about that, but most would agree.”

“Never had it before — so I thought — why not give it a try?”

“I look forward to the review.”

Sarah lifted her glass and gave a gentle clink to the lip of Jack’s martini glass. It had been a while since she and Jack had had a chat like this, paired with what would always be a great dinner at Cherringham’s absolute best restaurant.

She took a sip, the drink nice and chilled, but also sweet, just enough to counter the sharpness of the whiskey.

“Wow. That is good. I say — definitely keep it on the list.”

“Does have its fans,” Jack said. “And I don’t know. I make martinis all the time …”

“You’re famous for it, Jack,” said Sarah, smiling.

“But still … having one in a restaurant like this, magically appearing? Perfect in every way. Somehow, always better.”

Julia swung by the table again.

“All good?

“Perfect,” Sarah said.

“And for dinner?”

“Oh, you know me,” Jack said. “The bone-in rib-eye will do nicely. Maybe a small salad as starter?”

“Sure. But I’ll let you in on a secret, Jack. They’re not on the menu tonight, but we do have fresh Guernsey oysters.”

“Oh really?” Jack said. “Then hold the salad, bring on the oysters. With my usual accompaniments?”

Sarah knew that Jack always enjoyed eating the icy cold oysters with his American contribution, a so-called “cocktail” sauce — made with ketchup, horseradish, lemon — that she had to admit, tasted way better than any vinaigrette.

“Terrific,” Julia said. “And Sarah?”

“I think the rack of lamb. Been ages for me. And I will have the salad.”

“Fantastic.”

And, as Julia left, Sarah leaned forward, questions at the ready.

*

“Do you believe that Charlie’s really in serious danger?”

“Think so. I mean — couple of nasty incidents? Then a good old threatening note to get out of Dodge? Definitely looks like someone wants Mr Topper gone.”

Sarah took another delicious sip of her Manhattan. “I guess if he was an eye-witness — it makes sense for the killer.”

“Or,” Jack added, “someone protecting the killer.”

“Right. Gotta watch the jumping to conclusions.”

“Not always easy.”

“But here’s the thing. Why now?”

“Well, Charlie helped fill in that little detail. See, he knew what he had seen. And he suspected the killer was the same person who nearly drove into him when he left the house.”

“But you said Charlie wore a mask, right? No way anyone could identify him?”

“True enough, but the killer will have known from reports after the murder that somebody had been in the house — robbing the place. And that person had most likely witnessed the murder — and maybe even seen the murderer too.”

“I get the feeling, from your description of this mystery guy … maybe not too many details?”

Jack laughed. “Well, Charlie didn’t get a proper look. Still, if I was the killer—”

“Can’t imagine that.”

“Why, thank you. Anyway, if I was the killer, being ruthless and all — I wouldn’t take a chance. I’d want any potential witness gone, permanently.”

“So why the warnings?” said Sarah. “Kinda mixed messages.”

“You’re right. Think Charlie’s being a tad economical with the truth, you know?”

“And here’s something else. Why now — after eight months — is someone coming after him?”

Jack took a moment. “Well, that’s interesting. It seems Charlie didn’t fence out the jewels right away. He didn’t want them to pop up somewhere, and the bad guy track them to him. So he waited till he felt safe — and then took them to a fence a couple of weeks back.”

Sarah nodded. “That makes sense.”

“Except — turns out it wasn’t.”

“Apparently not.”

“And with a cold-blooded killer out there, it’s not a stretch now to think Charlie could be a target, even if he isn’t telling quite the whole truth.”

“Absolutely.”

“Right,” Jack said. “That’s the basics. What do you think? We in?”

Sarah buttered a piece of the warm, fresh bread, took a bite and thought about this.

Something bothering her.

“There a problem?” said Jack. “You’re usually pretty quick to sign up.”

“If there’s a killer out there, and we can catch them, then of course, yes. But Charlie Topper’s still sitting on that poor woman’s jewels, no?”

Jack laughed. “Technically, yeah. According to Charlie — the fence is keeping them ‘safe’ for him.”

“So — hear me out — what if we offer Charlie a deal? We find the killer and keep him off the hook — and in exchange, he hands back the jewels. You think he’ll go for that?”

“Sure. It’s a good offer. Especially if you’re afraid someone wants to kill you. And you’re right about this. It’s the only offer we should make.”

Sarah raised her glass, and they clinked together.

“Excellent,” she said. “I’m in.”

“Great. In which case, I have a few questions for you.”

“Good. I like that game.”

Jack smiled. “I read about Huntford’s murder, months ago. How the cops were all over it.”

“That’s right. They went through every inch of the surrounding woods.”

“Finding nothing, though — so months later, by fall, it was pretty much a cold case.”

“Unofficially, yes, from what I heard.”

Jack took a sip of his martini.

“But this Huntford guy has a history. Been a resident here for a while, right? Along with his wife. What do you know about him?”

Sarah took a breath. She did in fact know something about Huntford, even before he became a celebrated corpse, central to an unsolved murder.

“A little,” she said. “And if we are about to dive into this, some of it may be relevant. Especially the fact that Huntford spent time in jail for fraud.”

“Jail — right, I’d forgotten that. See — already this case is interesting.”

But then Sarah saw Julia emerge from the kitchen with Jack’s oysters, complete with a collection of jars — ketchup, fresh horseradish, Tabasco, Worcestershire sauce — and a healthy wedge of lemon.

“But look! Here come the starters … with your magic ingredients,” she said — knowing that Jack liked to concentrate on his “cocktail” sauce making. “You get stuck into your oysters, and afterwards I’ll tell you all I know about our deceased friend Mr Karl Huntford.”

*

Jack waited while Julia cleared away the starters, then took the Pouilly Fumé from its chiller and refilled their glasses.

“So … Karl Huntford,” he said. “You said he’d been around Cherringham for a while?”

“Since before you arrived, Jack, I think. Not that I knew much about him then. He and his wife always lived out of town; apparently didn’t really socialise here.”

“Reclusive a bit? And no kids?”

“Not as far as I know. Karl used to work in London, I think, but then a few years back — with proper internet — he started working from home. Ran investment funds, pulled in some locals — and that’s how I first got to hear about him.”

“Really? Let me guess — that’s when things started to go wrong?”

“Exactly. Seems when the market bombed a few years ago, he covered up the problems, used investors’ capital to pay out phony profits, falsified statements.”

“Like that Madoff guy in New York?”

“Yup. And lot of good people got badly stung — some of them lost all their savings.”

“Sad but familiar story. So far, not feeling terribly bad for Huntford.”

“Yeah, maybe. Anyway, about three years ago, the whole pack of cards came tumbling down for him and he got caught.”

“That I remember reading about. He had a business partner, no?”

“Yep — a younger guy. Rob somebody. Right, Rob … Fairfax, I think. But I seem to remember the police accepted that he had nothing really to do with the fraud — and he got away with a warning.”

“But Karl ended up in jail, yes?”

“Two years. But out in one, usual deal.”

“Okay. So that was … when?”

“When he got out? This time last year, I think. He moved back to Cherringham, kept his head down — and that seemed to be that.”

Jack took a sip of wine. Thinking over the information.

A key word — as usual — looming.

Motive …

“So, he’d been home — what — around four months before he got killed?”

“About that.”

“That’s plenty of time for someone to plan and set up a murder. You said a lot of people got badly stung, yes?”

“Very. Some were wiped out. And all of them were angry. Demonstrating outside the courts when he got sentenced, wanting him to hang! You know, that kind of thing?”

“All right. Lot of people losing it all to Huntford. We certainly have no shortage of suspects.”

“Absolutely,” said Sarah. “Maybe too many! But I’m thinking, if we ask nicely, Alan might bring us up to speed on who the police spoke to.”

Jack smiled. Alan Rivers, Cherringham’s lone policeman, played things by the book. But in the past, he had benefited from their investigations, and could sometimes bend the rules and feed them information.

“Good idea. Might be tricky though,” said Jack. “High profile unsolved case like this? I’ve a feeling Alan won’t be much help, hands tied. And you can be sure that he’s going to want to know what our involvement is. Don’t like to keep things from him — about Charlie and all that — but we need some kind of cover story here.”

“True,” said Sarah, grinning. “We can hardly say we represent the jewel robber at the heart of the case.”

Jack laughed. “Yup — definitely need to work on that.”

He saw Sarah look away.

Amazing, he thought, give Sarah a problem and she is so good and finding a solution.

“Okay. Maybe for now we just say, ‘terribly sorry, but I’m not at liberty to reveal the name of my client’?”

“We have ‘clients’? Like a lawyer would? He may question that concept. But worth a try,” said Jack. “Meanwhile — apart from Alan — any thoughts who else we should talk to?”

“There’s my dad, for sure. Bent my ear more than once about the scandalous behaviour of ‘people like that man, Huntford’ — he can probably give me names and numbers too.”

Jack knew that Sarah’s father, Michael, ran a small investment club in the village — more for entertainment than profit — and he knew what he was talking about.

“That’s a very good idea,” said Jack. “And what about an ‘in’ to the wife, at all?”

“Christine?” said Sarah. “Dunno. It’s possible the couple used a local solicitor — I’ll ask around.”

Jack nodded at that.

“One way or the other, we definitely need talk to her. It’s even possible Karl Huntford knew somebody might be out to kill him. Worried a bit? In which case, I’d put money on his having confided in his wife”.

“Agree.”

“I really want to check out the house and woods, too,” said Jack. “I’m sure the cops will have scoured the whole area, but you never know. Good to get a feel for the ‘scene of the crime’.”

“What about the fence? You got a name from Charlie?”

“He was pretty reluctant to share that, but, in the end, told me. So, yes, guy in Swindon. Professional fence, Charlie said, as if there is such a thing. Let’s chat with him, when we’re ready. That is, if he’ll even talk.”

“Perfect. You happy talking to Alan too? Ex-cop-to-cop?”

“Yep, can do as well. How about you?”

“First — duty and deadlines call. I need to put in a couple of hours in the office in the morning. But then — I can make some calls, do some research. Usual background stuff? I’ll mail you anything as I find it. Then coffee with Dad? Think he’d love to get involved in a case — and this one? He’ll be thrilled.”

“Perfect timing. Meet up after?” said Jack, seeing Julia emerging with the main courses. “Now — while we eat, you tell me what the kids are up to. And do I ever have some cute granddaughter pics to show you.”

“Can’t wait,” said Sarah.

And Jack knew she meant that.

5. Suspects

Jack drove slowly and carefully up Cherringham High Street and parked in the deserted car park, opposite Huffington’s coffee shop.

As he got out of his MGA, he pulled his Barbour tight — collar up — and tugged his ski hat down right over his ears. The wind was so bitter, the temperature today surely as low as he’d ever known it in the worst of his New York winters.

Head down, he quickly crossed the street, wind gusting, and headed for the old Police Station, glad that he’d put on snow boots this morning. Though there’d been no snow, the pavement looked icy, glistening in the low sun.

He pressed the buzzer outside the station door and waited for the “click” of the lock before pushing it open and going in.

Inside, behind the counter, he saw Alan, hands clasped round a steaming mug.

“Jack,” he said. “Long time no see. Care for a cuppa?”

“Well, if you got a coffee back there, then absolutely, yes.”

“Come through,” said Alan, unlocking the door into the secure office area, and shaking Jack’s hand as he came through. “Cold enough for you out there? Minus fifteen in the night, apparently.”

“Afraid those English numbers never do make any sense to me, Alan,” said Jack, grinning and taking off his coat. “Let’s just agree — come on spring.”

Alan laughed, and Jack saw him grab an open pack of cookies from a shelf and tip some onto a plate. He pulled a chair out for Jack, and slid the plate over, before turning to the small kitchen area.

“Help yourself, while I make the coffee. And you can also tell me why you’re here, because I can always tell when your visit isn’t just for social reasons.”

Jack laughed.

“Fair enough. Okay, appropriately enough, given the weather — it’s a cold case this time.”

“Go on,” said Alan, looking over his shoulder as he poured water into the coffee machine.

“Murder of a gentleman by the name of Karl Huntford,” said Jack.

And then he saw Alan turn, his face serious.

“Jack.” Alan paused, clearly thinking about his next words. The convivial air now turned to something quite different. “That’s not a cold case. So, to that point, you got some information you need to give us?”

Jack smiled, this was not unexpected. But he also took his time with his answer.

“No. Not yet. But let’s say I might have, soon. If you can give me a bit of a heads-up on the case?”

Alan took a deep breath. “No can do. Oxford police are all over this one, Jack, it’s not even my case to talk about.”

Jack paused again. Time for a tactical move.

“Alan, what if I could bring you something the murder guys don’t have?”

“Such as?”

“Such as information on the robbery that coincided with the murder.”

Alan nodded.

He’s interested, thought Jack. But is he interested enough to bend the rules?

“You mean a name?”

Jack smiled and shook his head.

“Not a name — or, at least, not yet. And probably not without some conditions attached. Sorry. It’s maybe something we can run with together — for just a while. Something that might lead you to eventually handing the name of the killer to the Oxford team.”

“That’s a tricky game, Jack.” Another breath. “Not sure I can play.”

Jack had hopes that Alan’s desire to show the big boys how local policing really worked, might persuade him to break the rules.

But this response — not unexpected.

“Okay, here’s an idea. I ask you a question, and you answer it, if you can, without, of course, harming the current investigation. Oh, and by the way—” He waited while Alan, listening hard, made the coffee, then brought it over to him. “—to be sure — I didn’t get any of this from you,” said Jack.

Alan sat down.

Jack knew from his own years on the force, that this offer was about as safe as he could make it for Cherringham’s local cop.

He waited for Alan as he took a sip of the hot coffee.

“Okay, Jack. You ask questions. Maybe I answer. Maybe I don’t.” Then Alan finally smiled. “And you’re right — you didn’t get any of it from me.”

And Jack grinned at that, the tricky spot with Alan finally navigated.

*

Sarah was chatting to Beth — one of her oldest friends from the baby and toddler group years ago — now working the counter in Huffington’s, when she saw her father, Michael, come into the café.

“Dad!” she called, and he came over and gave her a hug.

“You know, I do believe they invented the words ‘brass monkeys’ for exactly this kind of day,” he said.

“Um — haven’t heard that phrase for a while, Dad. But yes — horribly cold out,” said Sarah. “I ordered you a latte, that okay?”

Michael smiled. Sarah knew that her father had lived in the village for so many years, before the invasion of lattesand other designer coffees.

“Sure. If that’s the one that’s really just a white coffee, yes, perfect,” he said, and then Sarah crossed the empty café, and picked a table in the window.

“Village is pretty empty this morning,” he said, as they both took off their coats and sat down. “Hardly surprising — like an ice rink out there. Wait until the snow comes—”

“Oh — wait — snow? I didn’t hear that.”

“Oh yes. Big front coming in. In two days’ time we’ll have a couple of feet of the stuff, mark my words.”

Sarah knew not to doubt her father’s weather forecasts: a lifetime in the RAF had given him miraculous powers of divining rain, sun or snow.

“Right then,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “what’s the case — and how can I help?”

Sarah leaned in too, knowing he loved the sense of this “undercover” work: “Karl Huntford.”

“Oh. That scoundrel!” said Michael loudly, then he looked sheepish. “Sorry, love, I really shouldn’t speak ill of the dead — but that man? Well, you’ll find precious little love for him in the village, or anywhere else for that matter.”

“Dad — you know the police have got nowhere looking for his killer?”

“I do, and it’s hardly surprising. The list of possible suspects must be a mile long. Wait — hang on, Sarah. Is that what you’re investigating?”

“It is.”

“Really? On whose behalf?”

“Well, I can’t really say. It’s complicated.”

“I imagine it is.”

For a second, Sarah thought her father was going to turn down the brief, but then he smiled at her.

“Okay then, tell me — how can I help you?”

She smiled at that, just as Beth brought over two foamy lattes.

“Thanks,” Sarah said, waiting a moment until the coffees landed safely. And then:

“I was hoping you might be able to get me up to speed on just how Huntford made his money — and then, how he lost everybody else’s.”

“Happy to,” said Michael. “Quite an old story — and scam. Not that I was fool enough to get involved. What he was offering people was, I knew, far too good to be true. But I must admit — he was one smart, smooth talker. He pulled the wool over the eyes of some good friends of mine. Where would you like me to start?”

Sarah smiled. “At the beginning?”

“Clever girl,” said Michael, with a wink. “I should warn you — this will be a two-coffee consultation.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Dad, but I think we can stretch to that,” said Sarah. “I’ll even throw in a slice of that date and walnut cake you love.”

“Oh yes. And Sarah” — he patted her left hand, resting on the table — “I must admit, I am flattered. Coming to me for some help? Now then — where’s your notebook? Come on, I’m hungry.”

Sarah grinned, and took out her notebook and pen, as her father began to explain the pros and cons — and perils — of investment and hedge funds.

*

Jack sipped his coffee while he looked over the ballistics report on Alan’s computer.

Alan’s rule of “ask questions only” had slipped away. In fact, his frustration with the slow pace of the case had quickly become clear — and Jack knew that as long as he kept him on side — in the loop — he’d get any information he needed.

“Just a single round fired?” said Jack.

“That’s all it took. Hit the victim square in the chest. Dead before he hit the ground.”

“You think — a professional hit?”

“Possibly,” said Alan. “Certainly someone who knew what they were doing. Hollow point bullet for maximum damage.”

“Someone who knew how to shoot?”

“Exactly.”

“And forensics found nothing in the woods where the shooter was?”

“Some fibres, from a fleece. Could have been from anyone. Otherwise — nothing.”

“Tyre tracks?”

“Sure. But you see, forestry guys are all over those woods. Plus it’s a bit of a 4x4 race track most weekends. So tracks? Not a chance.”

“And the spent round you recovered — a .308 — that pretty standard round here?”

“Don’t think in the Cotswolds we have what you might call ‘standard’ ammunition, Jack,” said Alan. “But let’s say, it’s not unusual in the UK. Hunters like it. Good for the kill.”

“Who would have access to that kind of round? Not like you have many gun stores.”

“Shooting club maybe. But most likely — if it was local — someone with a licence to cull deer, or perhaps a farmer with a serious vermin problem.”

“I guess you did the rounds of all the licence holders?”

“Yep.”

“And?”

Jack watched Alan carefully — for the first time, the guy was uneasy about giving information away. Not surprising — this was seriously crossing a line.

“All right. Chap called Dan Pearce, caught our attention. Lives up towards Banbury. Does a lot of deer control; has quite a collection of hunting weapons.”

“Why him?”

Again, Jack saw Alan pause, weighing up the situation.

“Two reasons. First, he allegedly had a break-in a year ago — reported a very pricey stalking rifle stolen. A Sako.”

“Allegedly?”

“Choosing my words carefully here, Jack. Got a decent insurance payout on the theft, if you know what I mean.”

“Gotcha. Same calibre — .308?”

“Yes.”

“No leads on that?”