Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist Page 4

  Well, if I wasn’t, thought Jack, watching her hurry down the steps, you certainly couldn’t be coming in any faster to find out.

  She entered the galley, walked over to the kettle, filled it up with water then grabbed two mugs from the drainer.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, Jen,” said Jack, wrapping the dressing gown tight and watching her make coffee.

  “Missing persons, Jack.”

  “News travels fast …”

  “Sarah emailed us a scan of Mr. O’Connor last night — just in case we’d seen him,” said Jen, handing him a cup of coffee.

  “And you did?” said Jack, surprised.

  “Better than that,” said Jen. “We got him on camera!”

  “Wait a minute,” said Jack. “You mean he was in a car?”

  “Good lord no!” she said. “We have a camera pointing up the Cherringham Road — just in case someone slips through the toll without paying. You’d be surprised … And your vanished man makes a guest appearance — on foot.”

  “I’ll get dressed,” said Jack, “and come over.”

  “No need for that,” said Jen. “Just grab your laptop and I can show you here.”

  Jack watched her reach into her top pocket and bring out a memory stick, which she brandished triumphantly.

  “Chop chop!” she said. “Joan’s on her own back at the bridge and it’s Cherringham rush hour, don’t you know!’

  *

  Once again Jack found himself scrolling through CCTV footage.

  Now this was more like the quality he was used to back in One Police Plaza: grainy, blurred, out of focus.

  But Jen, who now sat next to him at the laptop, was right.

  With a timestamp of 3:00 p.m. on the day Patrick went missing, the American could clearly be seen walking down the hill from Cherringham towards the tollbooth. Then — without hesitation, as if he knew where he was going — turning down a little lane and disappearing.

  “Well, I’ll be –”

  “It’s him all right, isn’t it?” said Jen.

  “Yep.”

  “I told Joan, but she wouldn’t have it. That woman. So little imagination sometimes. Or maybe it’s her eyes. She is getting on …”

  Jack let the illogicalness of that last statement pass.

  “Is that Barrows Lane he went down?” said Jack.

  “It is,” said Jen. “Heaven knows why — it doesn’t go anywhere.”

  Jack remembered walking down it when he first moved to Cherringham, thinking it might lead to the river. But it had gone up into a fold in the hills and then petered out by a couple of farm cottages.

  What the hell was Patrick O’Connor doing disappearing into the countryside?

  “Have you checked to see if he returned?”

  “Of course, Jack! We went through the next forty-eight hours,” said Jen. “Not a peep.”

  “Guess I should go see.”

  “Indeed,” said Jen. “But there’s one other thing you should know.”

  Jack noticed that her voice was now sombre.

  “Look,” she said, scrolling the footage back.

  Jack watched carefully. At double speed, Patrick appeared on the main road, walked towards the bridge, then turned into Barrows Lane.

  “So?” he said.

  “Wait.”

  Jack peered at the screen. About a minute later another figure walked down the hill — and also took the turning.

  “What? He was being followed,” said Jack instantly, his eyes glued on the screen.

  “My thought entirely,” said Jen.

  “Well — whoever that is — he could be someone who just lives down the lane as well.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t live down there.”

  This is gold-dust, thought Jack. She’s got the ID too …

  “Go on, Jen,” he said. “Tell me who he is.”

  “Rob Ferris. Twenty-eight years old. No fixed abode. Low grade drugs dealer and petty thief. Just did a six month stretch for mugging a tourist in Gloucester.” She took a breath. “A classic ne’er-do-well, Jack.”

  “You researched him too?” said Jack.

  “Joan and I like to keep on top of local crime, as you know.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Jack. “Any idea where I can find him?”

  “No steady abode, so … no,” said Jen. “But if you give Billy a ring up at the Ploughman’s he’s sure to know where he can be found. I hear Rob owes him big time.”

  Jack closed the lid on the laptop and removed the data stick.

  “Mind if I hold on to this?”

  “Be my guest,” said Jen. “Give it back when you solve the case.”

  “If I solve it,” said Jack.

  He didn’t want to appear over-confident with Jen, but he knew this was a breakthrough.

  Solving the case of the Vanishing Tourist was suddenly a real possibility.

  And almost too easy.

  7. Barrows Lane

  Sarah watched Riley race ahead of Jack as he stopped at the small tollbooth and chatted with …

  Jen? Joan?

  As far as she knew, no one in the village could tell the mystery-loving twins apart, though it was said one was more feisty and prickly than the other.

  She watched Jack dig into his pocket for some coins.

  Amazingly, even a pedestrian had to pay a toll to use this twenty-yard span of the bridge, the Bucklands’ right to it dating back to the reign of King Edward.

  If she and Jack had a goat in tow it would cost 5p more, the sign informed them.

  “Joan,” Jack said, “Guess your sister told you about …”

  Brave man …

  The woman took the coins from Jack and dutifully counted them before letting them slide into the till.

  “The missing person? You know I'm the real authority on such things Jack, and I don't think the man on our CCTV matches your person at all!”

  Jack looked at Sarah; a small smile, a nod.

  “Well, good morning for a walk anyway; won't hurt to take a stroll down Barrows Lane.”

  Joan Buckland shrugged.

  “There are better places,” Joan said.

  Sarah saw Jack smile at the toll-taker, and then stand up straight after having bent over for his tollbooth pleasantries.

  She believed that Jack had become better at interacting with these two eccentrics than anyone else in the village — most of whom gave the twins a wide berth, and wouldn't dare think of not paying the toll.

  Maybe it was a brothers and sisters-in-crime thing, she thought.

  “Better catch up with Riley,” he said.

  And with Sarah giving Joan Buckland a quick smile as they crossed, which went — not unexpectedly — unreturned, they headed up the road to Barrows Lane.

  *

  The lane — a dirt road, grooved and deeply pitted by a rough winter — wound to what looked like a dead end, but a spur led down a small gorge, where Sarah spotted a little stream.

  A spur that must meet up with the Thames farther on.

  Funny. This area — not terribly far from the centre of the village — was not a place he had ever walked to.

  But today he was there — and it was quite lovely.

  Sun making the new leaves glisten, tall grass sprouting up on either side, the glistening stream just visible below.

  Riley was having a ball running down to the stream, and then racing back up to Jack as if curious why they were taking so much time.

  At one point, Jack stopped and turned to Sarah.

  “Beautiful here, hmm?” he said. “Even a bit wild, least from what I've seen of the trails and paths of Cherringham.”

  “It is unusual,” she said. “And yes — a little wild.”

  Jack nodded. Then he looked at her, keeping her abreast of what was going on in his mind.

  “Isolated.”

  She nodded back. “Definitely.”

  Below, near the stream, she saw a small cottage at the end of the lane. She didn’t know who
lived there — or even if anyone live there.

  Did Patrick O’Connor walk down here?

  If he did, it would have been — judging from how he managed the steps of the coach — a difficult walk down.

  And if he did, why?

  The big question …

  Why did the bridge CCTV not show him walking back?

  Was this where he went missing?

  Past here — as far as he knew — lay nothing but woods and sprawling fields that led to farms and, eventually, a road that circled the village.

  There was nothing that way, not for an American out to see the sights.

  Just this lane. The cottage below.

  Jack smiled. “Ready to see what we can see?”

  Something about this — now off on their own, the nearby village seeming so far — seemed intimidating. As if they were miles away.

  Her answer simple, direct.

  “Sure.”

  Jack led the way down, taking care with the rocks, the pits on the bumpy path that seemed poised to send one tumbling.

  *

  On the door of the cottage hung a faded wooden sign: Barrows Cottage.

  Sarah noticed a light inside, the view hidden by net curtains covering the two front windows.

  Somebody was living here.

  Jack was about to knock when Sarah took a step forward and — as if by instinct — decided to be the one who rapped on the splintery front door.

  And with the few sharp knocks, they heard another sound besides the gentle burbling of the nearby brook.

  A baby crying.

  She looked at Jack, not knowing what to think.

  The door opened — just a crack.

  It felt so very isolated here.

  A woman, short, with blond hair tied back, blue jeans, and a Walking Dead t-shirt answered, seeming out of place with the wailing, red-cheeked baby girl she held in her arms.

  The baby wore a pink top with leggings; bare feet, nose running from the sobbing.

  The woman, her voice quiet.

  “Yes, um … What is it?”

  The tone guarded, the door held open just the few inches necessary for them to talk to her.

  “Hi. Sorry to bother you.”

  The baby’s eyes tracked the conversation, looking from her mum then to Sarah.

  Good thing, she thought … that she had done the knocking. Whatever would the tiny baby make of a giant of a man standing in the doorway?

  Sarah smiled at the baby.

  “I mean, I hope we don’t wake your little one.”

  The woman shifted the baby in her arms, using her hips both for balance and added support to hold her child.

  “No. She just woke. Always a bit cranky, wanting her bottle and all.”

  Sarah nodded.

  This next part would be hard.

  Sarah wondered whether she should even say it.

  There could be nothing here that had anything to do with Patrick O’Connor’s disappearance.

  But then — as soon as she thought that — she realised that if there was one thing Jack had taught her, it was never rule anything out.

  Because you just never know.

  “My friend and I are helping someone … an American woman. She's looking for—”

  The young mother nodded. “I know. I heard from my friend. That bloke who went missing.”

  Sarah smiled.

  Then she felt Jack move closer to her, to the open doorway as if it was now a bit safer for him to enter the picture.

  “Yes, that’s the one,” Jack said. “Went missing. And we’re trying to find out where.”

  The woman nodded. “It happened here then? Right in the village?”

  Jack took a breath.

  “Might be better if we could come in. Talk to you a bit?”

  Jack’s instincts kicking in, Sarah thought.

  Foot in the door.

  She had seen him do it so many times.

  The woman looked back into the interior of her cottage.

  Was she alone? Was someone else there?

  Or was she simply worried about the inside of the place, what it must look like …

  Then back to Jack and Sarah.

  A small smile.

  “Bit of a mess inside. But yeah, all right, if it might help. You can come in.”

  She stepped back, one arm wrapped under the legs of the baby, who now had somehow magically given up crying as the woman opened the door with her other hand.

  “I’ll leave Riley out here,” said Jack, attaching the dog’s lead and looping it around a fence post.

  Sarah watched Riley lie down, glad of the rest. Then Jack joined her, and they went into Barrows Cottage.

  8. Questions in the Cottage

  Sarah looked around the tiny cottage. The size of the place made Jack look like a giant who had wandered in from the nearby woods.

  A small plastic changing table sat to the side, with a box of wipes and a stack of nappies.

  And she thought … how quickly those days go.

  And yet — when you are in them — they can seem like forever.

  She saw a few toys scattered on the floor, though she imagined that the baby girl didn't do much actual playing. Some stacking cubes, and a plastic wheel with an arrow that could spin towards cartoon farm animals, and probably make their sound.

  An even smaller kitchen at the back of the cottage showed a sink with dishes, a bit of morning light making the white curtains there glow.

  No sign of a husband or partner, Sarah thought.

  Just this woman, her name, she said, Karen Taylor. Not much more than a girl herself, struggling to raise her beautiful baby.

  “What's her name?” Jack said going over to mum and baby, and rubbing the little girl’s left hand.

  And then — almost looking like a moment of trust — the baby’s fingers splayed open, and Jack moved his index finger into the opening as the tiny fingers closed on it.

  “Marie,” Karen said.

  The woman stood there, waiting for them to ask their questions. Though there were two small easy chairs in the miniature sitting room, both were dotted with burp cloths and empty bottles awaiting the next round of washing and refilling.

  So much work.

  “Thank you for talking to us, Karen.”

  The woman guarded, just nodding.

  “The man we’re looking for walked down Barrows Lane. But he never came back. At least not by the bridge.”

  The woman's eyes went from Sarah to Jack.

  “How do you know that?”

  Interesting question to ask, Sarah thought.

  “The bridge has a CCTV camera,” Sarah explained. “Jen Buckland — you know her?”

  A nod.

  “She let us look at the footage. We saw this man, Patrick O’Connor walk down the road from Cherringham, then turn down the lane.”

  “But,” Jack added, “he never came back.”

  Silence from the woman. The baby had calmed down completely and, now balanced on her mother's hip, just watched the conversation.

  “Did you see anyone? Have you seen anyone? Around here?”

  Karen shook her head.

  Quick answer, thought Sarah.

  Then — as if the young mother felt that the headshake wasn't enough:

  “Nobody comes down here. I mean, once in a while someone comes to fish the stream. But that’s in summer.”

  “Must be kind of lonely for you?” Jack said. “All by yourself …”

  The woman shifted the baby to her other hip.

  “Why not have a seat?” Sarah said.

  The woman took the suggestion, pushing aside the burp cloths on one chair and sat down. “I’ll need to fix her a bottle soon.”

  Then the woman looked at her baby with a look that clearly said this was the most precious thing on the planet. “But she's good now, I think.”

  “Maybe she likes having company,” Jack said with a smile.

  Sarah thought of Jack's daughter. N
o granddaughter for him yet. That would be a big change, she imagined.

  Big enough change that he might leave here. Leave Cherringham to go back home, to be close?

  She didn't like that thought.

  “You've been here a while?” Jack asked.

  “Since before baby was born,” Karen said.

  “And,” he looked around the cottage, “do you know what’s out here? I mean if we kept walking past where the lane ends?”

  “Just fields,” she said. “Nothing really. Some farms on the other side of the woods. Eventually the main road.”

  Jack nodded. “No reason anyone would walk out that way?”

  Another head shake.

  “That's what I thought,” he said.

  Finally Jack reached into his back pocket and pulled out one of the photographs that he had of Patrick O’Connor.

  “This is the man, by the way.”

  He handed the print to the woman and as she took it; her baby Marie also reached for it, making a swiping grasp at it that left one corner crumpled.

  Sarah watched this carefully.

  Would she look at the picture or just glance, as though it was something unwanted?

  But the young mother did look at it. Carefully, before she slowly passed it back to Jack.

  “Guess, if you see him you can give us a call?”

  Sarah pulled out one of the business cards.

  “My mobile’s on there. You can just leave a message.”

  Then Jack turned to Sarah. “Guess we better get going?”

  Sarah nodded, then took a step, and lightly brushed the top of the baby girl’s head.

  “She's beautiful.”

  That made the woman smile.

  “I know. I love her so much.”

  Jack had walked to the door. The cottage might be small and, like any place dealing with nappies and feedings, probably a mess most of the time.

  But not a bad refuge for a mother and her not yet one-year-old daughter, Sarah thought.

  “Thanks for speaking to us,” Jack said.

  “Yes, thanks,” Sarah added.

  The woman was still beaming from other people appreciating her wonderful baby. Then, looking up: “I hope you find him, that poor man.”

  “Me too,” Sarah added as Jack opened the door to the shady glen outside, the morning sun making those trees glow with light.