Cherringham--Death on a Moonlit Night Page 8

  “Not popular with the workers, I hear.”

  “Too right! Bloke was a total bastard — took against you for no reason, then got rid of you as soon as.”

  “That what happened to you?”

  “He never liked me.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t kiss his arse like some of them.”

  “So he fired you.”

  “Pretty much. Waited till I clocked up the required three misdemeanours, then — wallop — you’re out, Bailey!”

  “But he didn’t do the firing himself.”

  “Oh no, not Taylor. Always got his sidekick to do it. In this case, poor old Nick.”

  “And you never saw Nick act badly at the store — get angry, or violent?”

  “What? We are talking about the same Nick Marston, yeah? You have to be kidding.”

  Interesting, Jack thought. Then: “You do know the police think Nick killed Lee Taylor?”

  “So I heard.”

  “You think that’s possible?”

  “Look, Nick Marston was just about the nicest bloke I worked with at Hardwick’s. Kill Lee Taylor? No way!”

  “Any idea who might have done it?”

  Bailey laughed. “Plenty of people had a grudge against him. Any one of ’em, I suspect. But if you find out — let me know, eh? I’d like to shake their hand.”

  *

  Sarah took a sip of coffee and leaned into her screen. She’d narrowed down the list of possible “Tracy Ifields” on Facebook to around twenty.

  Some had full security features on — no chance of snooping around their posts and photos.

  But amazingly, most didn’t. One by one, she had gone through them, crossing off the ones that didn’t fit the description.

  Until — just a few left.

  She scrolled through more statuses, likes, photos, friends …

  And then — yes — there she was.

  No doubt at all.

  Her profile page showing her in a swimsuit by a pool, glass of wine in hand, smiling to camera.

  Status — single. Living in — Oxford.

  The big question — where?

  She scrolled through Tracy’s posts. Nothing political. Nothing sinister. Just photos of cats. Cooking videos. Celebrity gossip.

  The photos — country walks, nights out in Oxford with friends. A holiday in Australia.

  Nothing useful — nothing that would help track her down. Place of work. Home address. Some hope.

  Then —

  A “like”: Hipster’s Gym off the Cowley Road.

  Why would you follow a gym — unless maybe you belonged? It made sense.

  Sarah checked the place out — it was big. Hundreds of members.

  A professional website. Users area for personal profiles.

  Gym as dating agency …

  Not something that Sarah could easily hack into — but she had a good idea how the system might work.

  Worth a try …

  She picked up her phone, rang the number.

  “Hipsters, hi, how can I help?”

  Sarah took a deep breath — the secret now was to hurl questions fast, keep interrupting and with luck … hope the person on the phone would forget their security routine.

  “Yeah, hi. Tracy Ifield here, I’ve been trying to update my details online but it keeps crashing. Can you take a look for me?”

  “Sure, let me see—”

  “Oh and also I left a top in the changing rooms yesterday, maybe you can make a note for me?”

  “Yeah, can do—”

  “Pink. My fave top, you know?”

  “Sure, I’ll check the lost property box—”

  “You busy now? Maybe I should just drop in?”

  “No problem, we can sort it on the phone.”

  “Last night was hectic, wasn’t it? I’ve never seen it so busy!”

  That line — a gamble.

  But …

  The person on the phone laughed. “People going on holiday — want to take those pounds off.”

  “Tell me about it! Anyway what I’ve been trying to do is put my flat number in the address but it doesn’t seem to accept it — does it say Flat Four, can you see?”

  “Hmm, no.”

  “So — what’s the first line?”

  “25 Wolvercote Crescent.”

  Got it, thought Sarah.

  “God, that’s so annoying, can you just change it on your system?”

  “Sure.”

  “Actually, know what? Don’t do that, I’ll drop by this morning and do it there, if that’s okay?”

  “No problem, Tracy — anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, thanks. You’ve been a star! Thanks!”

  Wow, she thought.

  It worked.

  She opened maps and looked for Wolvercote Crescent.

  In an area called Kidlington, North Oxford.

  Assuming Tracy was still a hairdresser, she was probably still at work somewhere. It wouldn’t be so easy to find out where.

  With the clock running, she was going to have to go to Oxford.

  But not on her own. If what Nick had said was true, then Tracy Ifield was potentially a killer.

  She would need to have Jack along.

  She picked up her phone and called him.

  14. A Trip to Oxford

  Sarah leaned back in the driver’s seat of her Rav-4 and looked across at 25 Wolvercote Crescent.

  “Six o’clock,” she said. “What if she doesn’t come home?”

  “Guy in the corner shop said she’s regular as clockwork,” said Jack. “She’ll be here.”

  “And if not?”

  “We wait until it gets darker — and take a look ourselves.”

  “Break in?”

  “Don’t have much choice,” said Jack. “First thing in the morning, I’m taking Nick up to the station.” He took a breath. “And we will have run out of time.”

  “Even though he’s innocent?”

  “Longer he’s out, the more chance of something going badly wrong. You heard the radio — they’re warning the public and saying he could be dangerous. That means, cops looking for him will be issued firearms.”

  “Dangerous, all right. But for Nick …”

  Jack nodded. “Yep. Innocent or guilty, guns in play, things can go wrong. So, partner, we crack this case tonight or not at all.”

  She nodded and peered down the street. The houses were small, with scrappy front gardens.

  This end of Oxford was never pictured on postcards: bikes leaning against fences, tattered curtains in windows, cars and small beat-up vans parked in the tiny driveways.

  On this warm summer evening, a few kids were out on bikes tearing up the dusty grass strip that ran alongside the road.

  “Potato chip?” said Jack. “Sorry — potato crisp as you guys call them.”

  “Love one,” she said. “But I won’t. That chat with the gym reminded me that this time last year I was a size ten.”

  “Well, if you change your mind …”

  Then he opened the bag and started eating. He tilted the now-open bag towards her.

  “Tell you what … come and help me paint the Goose. Burns calories.”

  “Hmm, sounds like torture to me. Think I’ll stick to walking the dog.”

  And she took a crisp.

  Then she saw a bus pull up at the far end of the road. Just one person got off — a woman.

  She started walking down the crescent towards them.

  “Hang on,” said Sarah, nodding at the woman. “Look.”

  “You think it’s her?”

  “Could be.”

  She waited as the woman approached. Checked the page she’d printed from Tracy’s Facebook profile. Passed it to Jack.

  “Bingo!” he said.

  Sarah watched as the woman entered number 25. After a minute, a light went on in the front bedroom and the curtains pulled shut.

  “Showtime,” said Jack.

  *
<
br />   Jack looked to the side of the door.

  Then to Sarah: “No bell.”

  “Guess we go old-school,” she said, and then rapped hard on the door.

  The woman must be just inside, perhaps even startled that someone was knocking only minutes after she entered.

  Sarah looked at Jack. They’d both decided that she’d take the lead in any questioning.

  The door popped open, the woman’s eyes smiling, her face younger-looking than Sarah had expected. She looked from Jack to Sarah.

  “Hi. Can I help?”

  The voice friendly. Sarah, for a moment, not prepared.

  “Tracy Ifield?”

  “Yep, that’s me!” said Tracy. Then suspicious: “Oh God, you’re not going to sell me something are you?”

  “We’re not selling anything. My friend and I wondered if we could ask you a few questions?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The woman screwed up her face as if that was an even more outlandish suggestion than selling overpriced cosmetics, herbal supplements, or vacuum cleaners door to door.

  “Questions? Is it a survey? Look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve just got back from work and I’m absolutely—”

  Sarah put a hand up, and smiled.

  Keep it light, she reminded herself.

  “No survey. We wanted to talk to you about Nick Marston.”

  And those smiling eyes seemed to narrow just a little at that name.

  “Nick, hmm? Are you police? Don’t tell me — Nicky’s got himself into more trouble?”

  Suddenly it was Tracy who was asking the questions.

  Sarah turned to Jack but — sticking with the plan — he didn’t pick up the ball and run with it.

  “You could say that. And yes, the police would very much like to speak with him.”

  The woman quickly flashed a “game over” smile, thinking that she was about to dispatch the two people at her door.

  “Oh God! And you thought maybe he’d come here? Has he … hurt somebody?”

  “Just wanted for questioning, Tracy.”

  “I see. Well, look, thanks for the warning. Appreciate it. I’ll make sure I lock up properly tonight.”

  Sarah smiled. But in reality — she was confused. Tracy seemed to think they were worried for her.

  And if she was innocent then, of course, that was exactly what she would think.

  But if she wasn’t …

  “When was the last time you saw him, Tracy?”

  “Nick? Gosh. I haven’t seen him for years. Cops should have put him away, when he attacked me, shouldn’t they? Then they wouldn’t be looking for him now, right?”

  And Sarah realised, talking to this woman, that there was something not quite right. Her words had an edge.

  “Look, um, is that it?” said Tracy. “Only I’ve hardly eaten all day and I—”

  Tracy started to close her door.

  But Sarah put a hand out, slowing its progress, knowing it was now or never.

  “Just one thing, Tracy. That’s not quite true — is it? That you haven’t seen Nick for years. We know you saw him last week. Last Friday to be precise. The night before he disappeared. The night before he got into trouble. You went to his home — in Cherringham.”

  The door stopped, and for a moment the woman also stopped, probably thinking what the hell just happened?

  And also — how to react?

  And Jack? Still standing there, so quiet.

  With Sarah knowing that should things go off the rails, he was there.

  Hopefully to right them.

  “Didn’t you?” said Sarah.

  And now the woman nodded. Words ready.

  And she responded.

  *

  “Look. All right. I did go to his house. Sure. Heard he was hmm,” a shake of her head, “getting married. And, you see, we had history, so I needed to get some kind of closure, you know? After what he did to me.”

  Jack cleared his throat.

  “We know all about your history.”

  Sarah watched Tracy look up to Jack as if he was a tall tree planted on her walkway.

  “Oh, he speaks, does he? In American, no less. Tell me, Yank, don’t you lot have enough problems of your own back home without coming over here?”

  Now there was a dark edge to Tracy’s words and Sarah could see the woman’s whole body language had shifted.

  Her stance like a cornered dog, but giving as good as she got, keeping the questions and answers at bay.

  Sarah decided to up the ante.

  “We know all about the deal Nick did at his trial. How it was a bad deal. We know,” she took a breath, “the real story of what happened back in London. And we also know what happened when you visited Nick last week. We’ve got a witness, you see.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sarah glanced quickly at Jack.

  This’ll surprise him, she thought.

  “Somebody saw you driving off in Nick’s car that night, Tracy. Returning later. Then driving off in your own car. So, what we’d really like to know is why you—”

  And then Tracy took a step forward, out of the doorway, her movement unexpected.

  “You know what, you two? I don’t give a damn what you’d like to know, or why, or how.”

  She raised a finger, and waved it in front of both their faces.

  “I just want you to get the hell off my property, now.”The woman’s cool had been blown, but she clearly wasn’t intimidated.

  Sarah looked at Jack, thinking maybe she’d lost this one chance to get any information about that night, her lie just leading to a dead end.

  Jack nodded, the message clear.

  Time to move on.

  Sarah watched him turn back to the woman in the doorway.

  “Of course, Tracy,” then dripping sarcasm, “and thank you for all your help.”

  Sarcasm which — from the look in the woman’s eyes — seemed to only confuse her more.

  But she stayed there at the doorway as they walked down the path, past the scrappy grass and unkempt bushes, over cracked stone steps.

  Dismal place, Sarah thought.

  And they got to the road and kept walking.

  And Sarah said softly, “Think she’s still watching us …?”

  And Jack laughed. “What? Can’t you feel her eyes boring holes in our heads?”

  And they kept up their measured pace, walking to the Sprite, Sarah thinking, they’d be heading back to Cherringham empty-handed.

  And that would be her fault.

  But, as ever, Jack was full of surprises.

  15. What Happens Next?

  Jack popped open the car door, and slid in — always tricky with his large frame.

  He loved his Sprite, but it was not easy for someone his size to fit into it.

  “Well, that went well,” Sarah said.

  “Actually — think it did.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Didn’t take Tracy much to lose it. Really confirms what Nick said. Tough cookie.”

  “Tough enough to turn violent?”

  “That remains to be seen. But my guess is we have gotten things in motion. Or rather — you have.”

  He kept his eyes on the woman’s shabby house, the front door, her car just outside.

  Thinking: hope she stopped staring at us before we got to the Sprite.

  “What do you want to do?” Sarah said.

  “Wait. Just wait.” He turned to Sarah. “No plans tonight. Do you?”

  “Other than this, er, stakeout as you call it? No.”

  He laughed.

  “Could be wrong. But a woman like that, turning vicious on a dime. We may get lucky.”

  Jack sat back. The shadows of the evening hiding them in the car.

  Both eyes locked on the house.

  And it didn’t take long at all …

  *

  “Jack — there she is.”

  He nodded, watching Tracy emerge from the house, lock the
front door quickly, and scan the street.

  “Okay.” He turned to Sarah. “Old trick from my days as a beat cop. Put a little pressure on someone, then sit back. If they have a secret — something to hide — sooner or later, they’ll move.”

  He saw her climb into the beat-up Fiesta parked outside the house. Car lights came on, and in no time at all she pulled away.

  “Whoa!” he said. “She’s moving. And fast.”

  He turned the key of the Sprite. And for a moment, nothing happened.

  “What?” Sarah said.

  “Not now,” he said to the car.

  But with a few more twists of the key, the primitive ignition connected, engine started. Headlights thrown on. He pulled away.

  “That was close,” she said.

  “Starter system on these things. With age, can get finicky.”

  “Finicky?” Sarah said. “Really?”

  “They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”

  “Probably a good thing. Next time, for a stakeout, we use my car?”

  “And miss all the adventure?” said Jack. “Tailing someone in a sports car?”

  “You are a romantic.”

  “You bet,” he said.

  And he attempted to keep up with Tracy, who went tearing down the suburban streets, heading to the highway.

  *

  But once she hit the highway, Tracy only increased the speed.

  “Where are the traffic police when you need them?” Sarah said. “This road’s notorious for speed traps.”

  “Actually, we really don’t want them. Wherever Tracy is going, we want her to get there.”

  They came to a curve, road ample enough, but, at this speed, Jack could feel the Sprite hanging on as best it could.

  “Jack — what if she sees us trailing her?”

  “I’m staying as far back as I can. We’ll soon see where she’s heading.”

  “You’ve no idea?”

  “None,” said Jack. “You?”

  Another curve, and Jack felt that one in the pit of his stomach.

  Least his Pirelli tyres were doing their job.

  “Maybe,” said Sarah. “Maybe … if she really was involved that night … Nick, the gun, the money …”

  Jack nodded. He almost forgot, with Nick a fugitive for murder, that there was a robbery at the centre of this.

  Sarah turned to him. “…then maybe she didn’t do it alone? Or — maybe she’s just gonna disappear? Cops have their suspect. Ton of evidence. Easy enough for her to vanish.”