Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

  About the Book

  The Authors

  Main Characters

  The Vanishing Tourist

  Copyright

  1. A Tour of Cherringham

  2. The Departed

  3. Fishing

  4. The Missing American

  5. Now You See Him …

  6. The Way out of the Village

  7. Barrows Lane

  8. Questions in the Cottage

  9. Couchsurfing

  10. The Day O’Connor Vanished

  11. Chopping Wood

  12. The End of the Lane

  13. Family Connections

  14. The Lone Soldier

  15. A Tale of Two Warriors

  16. Handling The Truth

  Next episode

  Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

  “Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. A new episode is released each month. The series is published in English as well as in German, and is only available in e-book form.

  About the Book

  When an American tourist goes missing in Cherringham, the local police don't see reason for concern — people often wander away from such tours. But when that tourist's sister shows up from New York, desperately looking for answers, Jack and Sarah become convinced there's more to the disappearance than meets the eye. Soon, they are entangled in a mystery with a secret history of betrayal, sacrifice, dishonour … and death.

  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.

  His writing partnership with NYC-based Matt Costello goes back to the late 90’s and the two have written many hours of TV together. Cherringham is their first crime fiction as co-writers.

  Main Characters

  Jack Brennan is a former NYPD homicide detective who lost his wife a year ago. 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. Two 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 Costello

  Neil Richards

  CHERRINGHAM

  A COSY CRIME SERIES

  The Vanishing Tourist

  BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

  Digital original edition

  Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

  Copyright © 2015 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

  Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards

  Edited by Victoria Pepe

  Project management: Kathrin Kummer

  Cover illustration © shutterstock: Buslik | Andromed | Ansis Klucis | Artur Marfin | Alexlukin

  Cover design: Jeannine Schmelzer

  E-book production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf

  ISBN 978-3-7325-0850-1

  www.bastei-entertainment.com

  1. A Tour of Cherringham

  Will Goodchild pulled out his pocket watch, handed down from his father who had never tired of telling him that he wore that watch on D-Day, hitting Gold Beach, leading his men in the gallant struggle of World War II.

  It was perhaps Will’s most prized possession, and outside of an occasional adjustment by an old-school watch repair shop in Oxford, it told time perfectly, even chiming the hour.

  Now — standing in the grassy area in the village centre that held three donated benches and the medieval stocks that — he noted — seemed to be weathering away more each day — he saw that it was 11 a.m.

  And the bus was late.

  Almost as he had that thought, a big white coach, looking barely able to manage the narrow high street of Cherringham, lumbered slowly into view as if the driver was afraid he'd sideswipe the shops that lined each side.

  The few villagers out for a walk stopped on the pavement to observe the out-of-place behemoth as it rolled into view.

  Will straightened up. He planted a welcoming smile on his face — all part of the show, he thought — as the bus came close to the little grassy square and then turned into the parking area where half of it would jut out into the street.

  It would be an eye sore for the next few hours!

  As he walked over to the door, the coach’s engine was killed, and with a great whoosh the front door popped open.

  Will watched the portly driver scramble out, blinking in the bright spring sunlight. A too-small cap perched atop his round head, matched by an equally round body.

  Not a driver who Will knew.

  Will took a step forward.

  “Hel-lo,” he said. “Professor Will Goodchild. Your guide.”

  The man nodded as if that information bordered on the irrelevant. Then the driver gestured at the steps that led into the bus.

  “Full load, professor … and here they come.”

  Will stood back as the passengers, who had travelled all the way from London for a full-day tour of the Cotswolds, stepped out onto the normally quiet streets of Cherringham.

  *

  Will had the crowd circled around him as best he could.

  Some people held up phones, even looking away from Will as he spoke, taking pictures of the village’s buildings as if it was a theme park — and even worse, selfies.

  Will hated selfies.

  And the driver?

  Smoking a cigarette while chatting on his phone, standing well away from the group.

  “Welcome to Cherringham,” Will said, speaking as loudly as he could. “Today you will see some of the spots that make this village the historic and beautiful place that it is. If you have any questions …”

  It was hard not to be distracted by the distracted tourists, many of whom didn't seem to be paying any attention at all.

  Why on earth did they take this tour?

  Anyway — Will pressed on.

  He explained that the stocks before their eyes were indeed genuine, centuries old and used for everything from tax evaders and philanderers to suspected witches — including the local Mabb sisters, each of whom spent some time imprisoned in them.

  “We will shortly be walking over to St. James Church, which dates from the twelfth century. But first, please follow me as we visit perhaps the most historic sight in the whole village.”

  As Will began to lead his gaggle of tourists, he looked over to the driver, expecting him to follow — bringing up the rear as was often required on these day tours.

  But the driver just nodded and held his phone up.

 
“Got a bit of business to attend to, prof.”

  The driver then nodded and grinned to his charges as they passed.

  “Have a good tour, folks!”

  Though Will usually didn't approve of unspoken judgements of others, he rolled his eyes as he passed the rotund driver.

  He'd be sure to tell the owner of the tour company that protocol had been violated! While he was at it he might request a little more civility from the drivers as well.

  Prof indeed!

  Will started down the high street, passing shops, and even a few people hitting the pub early, watching the geese-like line of people following behind like an ill-prepared invasion force.

  Just past the village hall, Will stopped at a towering stone cross that loomed over the group, smack in the centre of the old market square.

  The tourists immediately began taking pictures, while Will pointed to a metal plaque just below the cross.

  “This plaque commemorates the Battle of Cherringham, during the English Civil War. The year — 1646.”

  He then did his best to fire the imagination of the sun-glassed tourists.

  “Imagine — if you will — the Parliamentary army marching right this way, while before them, they face a brave but overwhelmed assembly of Royalists. You can almost hear the clash of swords! And at this very spot where you are standing, right here and all around you, the streets turned red with blood.”

  He looked down at the plaque — Will himself could easily picture the scene …

  The screams. The mayhem.

  “It was reported that this ‘river of blood was so deep that the ducks could bathe in it!”

  A woman at the back raised her hand.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “When do we get to visit Huffington's for tea? I've read on Trip Advisor that they bake the absolute best …”

  Will felt that his warm, fabricated smile might crack and fall to pieces.

  Tea and biscuits already? And we’ve only just begun this supposedly historical tour?

  Amazingly, he was able to retain his smile.

  “Yes, madam, we shall terminate the tour at the famed Huffington's before you board the bus for your next stop.”

  And whatever poor fool must give them a tour there.

  “But for now, shall we press on? To St. James Church.”

  *

  Will had asked all the tourists to be as quiet as possible once inside the church.

  Though he saw that caution had no effect on a few who chatted away, taking snaps and selfies, as though they were in a shopping mall.

  He stood before a truly giant painting of the crucified Saviour.

  “This painting,” he said quietly, "was a gift of the Mogdon family, painted by the famous contemporary of Rubens, Gaspar de Crayer.”

  He turned and looked at the painting, easily twice his height in length and width. “You will not find a finer sample of such an altar work even in the great cathedrals of Gloucester or Worcester.”

  A moment to let the tourists continue taking pictures before he was ready to move onto what was for him the most special spot in the church, especially given his background as an historian.

  He noted that some people at last did seem held by his words.

  Good, he thought.

  Best to concentrate on them as opposed to the distracted few. Even one candle in the darkness is a victory for illumination, he thought.

  He took a few steps, the amorphous crowd moving with him.

  “And here at perhaps the most sacred spot in the whole church …” Will turned from his charges to look at the marble wall before him, immediately moved as he always was.

  2. The Departed

  Will said nothing for a moment — his own personal “moment of silence”.

  Above him, carved into marble, were the names and ages of all the local Cherringham lads who had gone off to Flanders fields to meet their fate, and in a matching marble piece to the right, those who a mere two decades later, joined them in yet another world war.

  Many of the names were of families who still lived in the village; others had long since moved on.

  Or perhaps, between two wars, the families were simply eliminated from history.

  Such is what war can do … and does.

  “The village's war dead,” Will said solemnly. “To your left, from the Great War but,” he paused to turn and look back at his group, “how dare we call any war ‘great’?”

  Finally he seemed to have the attention of the full body.

  Some things transcend even the idle racing of our modern, overstimulated brains! he thought.

  “You will note, that over there, to the left, there is also a roster of those who died at sea. Those ships, those sailors, victims of the unrestricted submarine warfare that transpired. Such young men, all perishing in the chilly waters of the North Sea and off the coast of France. No remains here, of course.”

  He paused.

  Another few moments before continuing:

  “This church, by the way, also has history in terms of the Civil War. After the Battle of Cherringham, captured soldiers were kept here, while their fate was being decided. Just imagine this church filled to the rafters with Royalists!”

  As people looked around, he slipped out his pocket watch.

  Needed to move things along.

  One last glance around the church to make sure the group was still together, then he led them out to the graveyard.

  The winding pathway was merely a shortcut — or a place where teenagers slipped away to do what teenagers did, well out of sight of adults.

  Everybody loved gravestones!

  *

  Will watched the tourists stroll around the small graveyard, peering down at stones that had fallen flat, attempting to read carvings with names and dates long since weathered away.

  He himself had been instrumental in setting up the St. James database so — to the extent possible — the burial sites and the remains they held could be identified.

  But there were still many 800-year-old gravestones with occupants lying below them that no one would ever know about, not unless the remains were exhumed and examined.

  Will always thought that if he had unlimited resources — money to donate — that’s how he would spend it. Wouldn’t that be something?

  “Alright, everybody, time to make our way through the alleyway ahead, single file I’d recommend …”

  He looked at the woman who still seemed to be waiting with baited breath for tea and biscuits.

  “And, as scheduled, we’ll end at Huffington's before you re-board your coach.”

  The woman smiled.

  So much for all this amazing history.

  He turned and led the way to the back of the graveyard which, just down a few steps and past an iron gate, brought them to the flat, stone walls of the alley that ran from the old marketplace to what had been an open area, to herd and finally lead the animals to be sold.

  Will turned to his group.

  “Do take care not to lean against these dry stone walls. Nothing holding them up save their own weight. We will be walking in the steps of those who used this lane to lead their unsuspecting beasts to market.”

  He cleared his throat; a hint of irony there, he thought, as he looked at the ten-foot tall walls on each side.

  “I'm sure more than a few Royalists attempted to escape running down this way. Probably unsuccessfully.”

  Then he turned, the people behind him now truly seeming like a row of geese, as they followed, one by one.

  No longer a floating mob but a meandering line.

  *

  The driver came over to Will, standing just outside the front door of Huffington's.

  “No problems, professor?”

  There was something about the way this portly man with his open necktie and ridiculously small hat said “professor” that bothered Will. As if calling him “prof” wasn’t bad enough.

  Ah well, at least the company paid on time.<
br />
  Tour protocol called for Will to wait until the tea break was over and then wish his charges a good onward journey.

  Which meant engaging in chit-chat with this man.

  “You’ll have two more lots next week, by the by. Season’s picking up. Though it looks like we got some nasty weather ahead …”

  Then Will looked at the nameplate, tilted at an angle, pinned to the man's shirt.

  Babcock.

  Same name as the man who owned the tour bus company.

  Or …

  “Mr. Babcock?”

  The man looked at Will as though that was obvious.

  “Yeah?”

  Will felt genuinely befuddled.

  “You’re the owner?”

  “Lucky me. Yes. My regular driver for this trip got ill. So I get the pleasure of driving to and from London. Tell ya something though professor. I can’t stand that bloody trek on the M4. But with all these punters, better than cancelling.”

  Will was about to remind Babcock that he would be emailing his invoice for the coming month’s tours, but people started streaming out of Huffington's. The coffee shop’s tea and baked goods having worked their magic, there were smiles all around.

  Will was happy enough to avoid the conversation — he didn't really like discussing money, at least not in person.

  Seemed somehow … indecorous.

  Much better handled with a quick email.

  Babcock adjusted his cap so it fitted less comically on his head.

  “Alright, everyone. We’re good to go.”

  The driver went to the open coach door, and stood by it as people streamed in.

  “Same seats?” a woman asked.

  “Sit where you like, my darling,” he said with a toothy smile. “The view’s the same front or back.”

  The woman turned to her husband. “You see, Milton — I told you!”

  Will kept his smile on as they streamed by him, duties nearly over. A few people just nodding, others saying quiet ‘thank yous’.

  When one man proffered him a few coins — God, a tip! — Will shook his head, smile still plastered on.