Cherringham--Too Many Lies Read online

  “None at all.”

  Sarah watched him closely — and for a second she thought she saw a flicker in his eye as he spoke. The briefest of tells maybe …?

  “No enemies from a previous campaign perhaps? A grudge, revenge?”

  Another headshake.

  “If a protest has succeeded — why come after me? Too late then.”

  “What’s the most recent you’ve been on?”

  She saw him shrug. “This year? Sedge Hill fracking. Oh, and the Milton by-pass up in Scotland.”

  “Busy man. Won them all?”

  “I’m good at this. So — I win.”

  “Every time?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “It must get personal sometimes.”

  “If it has to. Can’t fight something without making enemies.”

  “On both sides?”

  “Sure. But okay, listen up. You see, I’m always cleverer than they are. And it helps I don’t have any skeletons in my cupboard. Clean as a whistle.”

  We’ll see about that, thought Sarah, knowing she must be careful not to get riled by his rather astonishing bravado.

  “But that’s something you take advantage of? Skeletons in cupboards?”

  She saw him shrug. Smile.

  “You do have so many, many questions, now, don’t you?”

  “Just asking. For your part, you personally are okay digging up the dirt on people?” she said.

  “Well, sure — social media’s a big part of what I do. Pretty handy on the old internet. It’s good at uncovering truth.”

  “Which — I’m guessing — you’re not above using as leverage?”

  “All’s fair,” said Syms, no longer smiling. “I fight the good fight.”

  Sarah held his gaze, and sensed what a dangerous — and indeed clever — opponent Syms must be.

  Not someone I’d want to make an enemy of.

  “Last couple of questions,” she said. A small smile to disarm him, she hoped. “You’ve been very patient … um … so how long do you—?”

  But before she could finish, Chloe’s voice at the door behind her, loud, alarmed.

  “Ralph, you’ve got to come—”

  “What is it? Chloe?” said Sarah.

  But Chloe had already turned, rushed back into the office. Sarah saw Syms get up quickly, and she followed him into the shop.

  One of the female assistants sat against a desk sobbing, another held arms around her.

  Sarah could see that in one shaking hand the assistant held a folded piece of paper.

  Chloe went to the woman, took the paper from her hand, came over to Syms.

  Gave it to him.

  “It was deep in the pile of post from this morning,” said Chloe. “Kelly only just opened it.”

  Sarah joined Syms as he unfolded the paper. He didn’t need to read it out.

  She could see the large printed words quite clearly, big capitals:

  “BACK OFF SYMS — OR NEXT TIME SOMEBODY DIES. ONE OF YOUR PRETTY LITTLE ASSISTANTS MAYBE? OR YOU? YOUR CHOICE.”

  She looked at Syms. The tough exterior had immediately vanished. He looked genuinely shaken.

  Not surprising. Sarah felt the same way. Chilled.

  Scared.

  God. If this was a real death threat, then everybody standing in this office was a target.

  Sarah’s own daughter included.

  5. A Free Lunch

  Jack threaded his way through the busy lunchtime crowd of the lounge bar of the Angel, past the open fire to the dining area.

  In the corner — the best table, of course — he saw Tony and Carl Coleman, and walked over to join them.

  Tony — as ever — in tweed jacket, blue checked shirt, neat crimson bow tie. Coleman in what looked to Jack like a very expensive suit — and a tan that didn’t come out of a bottle.

  “Jack, wonderful to see you, as ever,” said Tony, standing to shake his hand. “And thank you for coming over. You and Carl haven’t met, I believe?”

  Jack shook Carl’s hand, then sat. “No,” he said, with a nod to Coleman. “But — of course — I’ve heard about you, the work you do in the village.”

  “All good, I hope?” said Carl, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt sleeves as he sat again.

  “Sure,” said Jack. “Seems you’ve brought some fresh ideas to how Cherringham’s businesses can work together, right?”

  Jack didn’t say what he else he’d heard: At a cost to anyone who didn’t sign up to the “project”.

  “Too right!” said Carl. “Cherringham’s a terrific brand. You know — put the word ‘Cherringham’ into any search engine, you only get this village. And what a pretty place it is. Now — to make it turn a profit!”

  “Guess that’s what this whole thing is about, hmm?” said Jack. “How to keep the ‘brand’ and still make money?”

  “Nothing wrong with that, is there?” said Carl, handing him the menu as the waiter hovered. “We’ve ordered the steak by the way, always good here.”

  Jack shrugged and didn’t bother opening the menu: “Sure, I’ll go with that.” Turning to the waiter, “Make mine rare, thanks.”

  As the waiter left, Tony poured Jack a glass of red, then looked around as if to make sure they weren’t overheard.

  “So, Jack, I’ve brought Carl here up to speed on some of the other work you and Sarah have done—”

  “Discretion, Jack, that’s the key word here,” interrupted Carl. “I’m sure you understand. Stay under the radar, find out who the troublemakers are, pass on the information to us, we’ll do the rest.”

  Jack took a sip of his wine.

  “Troublemakers — plural?”

  “Well, obviously,” said Carl. “Syms and his cronies, of course, we all know about them. Very dodgy set-up and no mistake. But, after last night, it’s clear that there are now people on the other side of the development … who have gone too far.”

  “The knife attack … yup … definitely too far, hmm?” said Jack.

  He saw Carl frown and look around — as if the very sound of the word might lower Cherringham’s stock in the eyes of the world.

  “That incident,” he said. “Is bad for all of us. And whoever was involved must be found — and dealt with. Discretely.”

  “Handed over to the police, you mean?” said Jack.

  “Sure, yes. But quite honestly I’d rather see them first—” said Carl.

  “None of us,” said Tony, stepping in before Carl could say any more, “would condone anything illegal, Jack, you know that. We just need to know, well, what the hell is going on!”

  “I know you wouldn’t, Tony. But — there’s not a lot of wiggle room here, you know? Sarah and I aren’t in the business of making lists of people according to what their views are. We’re just good at finding out who did a deed. Seeking justice and all that, hmm?”

  “Of course,” said Carl. “And making lists is not what we’re suggesting.”

  “Really? Sounds like it to me,” said Jack, looking right back at him. “But then — I could be wrong.”

  Something not right here, Jack thought, and as he turned to look at Tony he could see the lawyer uneasy at the direction the conversation had taken.

  “Three steaks, two medium-rare, one rare,” came a voice from behind Jack, and he waited while the waiter served them all.

  He watched Coleman tuck into the steak. “Excellent,” he said. “Don’t forget to give it five stars online, Jack. All counts — and we all benefit. ‘Great steak at Cherringham’s Angel!’”

  “Don’t worry,” said Jack. “I won’t.”

  Three stars maybe, he thought. It’s not a patch on the Spotted Pig just down the High Street.

  After a minute or two’s silence, he put down his knife and fork; sat back.

  “I understand it’s for the good of the village that we all do what we can to keep our little family spats off the screens. And sure, Sarah and I can maybe keep tabs on things if they turn violent. Quietly, of co
urse. Just to” — a look to Tony — “help.”

  Jack took a sip of the wine. Quite good, though not his normal lunchtime beverage.

  “But aren’t you jumping ahead here? I mean — we don’t know yet if the attack on Syms has anything at all to do with the hotel development?”

  “True, Jack,” said Tony. “But Syms has had press and TV all over his office this morning, implying there are ‘dark forces’ at work in the village.”

  “We can’t let him control the narrative, Jack,” said Coleman.

  Jack took a sip of wine: “Dark forces? He means Ted Ross, presumably?”

  Tony shrugged: “Short of saying the name, that’s definitely his implication.”

  “And you think he’s right?”

  “Of course not!” said Coleman. “A man like Ross? His company’s listed in the City dammit!”

  “I’m guessing … that’s important. Sorry, still some things new to me here. In my experience though,” said Jack, “one’s standing and reputation are not necessarily an indicator of innocence.”

  “I’m with you on that, Jack,” said Tony, laughing.

  Jack saw Coleman look at the two of them, and he too shrugged and laughed: “Yes, well, I know — I guess — what you mean. But, I’ve got to say, it’s pretty unlikely — don’t you think?”

  Jack let that question hang. Then: “Okay.” He looked at Tony, as if this next proposal was for him. “Would it make sense for me to drop by — talk to Mr Ross himself?” said Jack.

  Tony’s eyes were locked on, thinking over the plan. He nodded. “Yes. I’m sure if you framed it, well, as an intervention by the concerned members of the council, then that would be a very sensible thing to do, Jack,” said Tony. “His son Callum too, perhaps? Who I believe is really the hands-on manager of the development.”

  “Sure,” said Jack. “Anybody else worth dropping in on?”

  “That’s just it. Nobody springs to mind,” said Tony, smiling. “I know the mother-and-toddler group aren’t keen on moving to a new site, but I don’t imagine they would resort to violence.”

  Jack laughed. “Yup — that would be a stretch, but guess it’s a case of who’s got most to lose?” he said. “What about the actual builder? What’s his name? Hayes?”

  “Sure. Why not? Worth a chat,” said Coleman. “Find out who his subcontractors are. It’s a multi-million-pound project. Lot of cash flying all around. And people can get pretty antsy when real money’s concerned.”

  “I’ll give you all the names, numbers,” said Tony.

  “Here’s mine,” said Carl, sliding a business card across the table. “Now if you don’t mind — I see my wife’s here to pick me up. Got a spa afternoon booked up at Repton Hall. You a member, Jack?”

  “Little out of my league,” said Jack.

  “Love the place. Excellent shoot on the estate too. You must join us one day. You shoot?”

  “Only if the other guy shoots first,” said Jack.

  Jack saw him laugh, then slide his plate away and stand up as the woman he’d noticed at the meeting approached the table from the bar area.

  Hair up, jeans, converses and pink cashmere top. She was striking — and Jack noticed her eyes as she smiled at him.

  “Natalie, darling — you know Tony,” said Coleman. “And this is Jack Brennan — he’s … um … helping us out with something.”

  “Oh, right! The famous American detective,” said Natalie, smiling and taking Jack’s hand.

  And holding that shake …

  “Infamous, more like,” said Jack. “And in truth — it’s ex-detective.”

  “You don’t look to me like someone who’s retired.”

  “Looks can be deceptive, hmm?” said Jack.

  “That a rule you live by?” she said, smiling. “One of your New York sayings?”

  “Always.”

  He saw Coleman step forward, arm around his wife’s waist.

  His wife — clearly a handful, Jack thought.

  “Hate to interrupt the little tête-à-tête, but I imagine you’re parked on a yellow, darling, hmm?”

  “Of course,” said Natalie, giving a shrug.

  “Nat’s parking tickets cost me a fortune,” said Carl with a hearty laugh.

  Jack noticed that Natalie didn’t smile, lips tightly drawn. Carl reached out, shook Jack’s hand, put his other hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  “Counting on you, Jack,” he said. Then he spun round and — wife at his side — headed for the door.

  Jack watched them both go, then turned to Tony.

  “You don’t need to say it, Jack,” said Tony. “That hand on the shoulder thing?”

  Jack laughed. “No worries. I can live with it,” he said, not sitting back down at the table.

  “Care for a coffee?”

  Before Jack could answer, his phone pinged with a text. He took it out — a message from Sarah.

  Urgent. Trouble. We need talk. My office?

  Jack hit reply: On my way.

  “Sorry. Kind of you, Tony. But I think, with the big vote just a few days away, I should get on this. Catch up with Sarah.”

  “Right. Thanks. Lunch is on Carl’s tab by the way. Good luck.”

  Jack smiled, turned on his heels and headed out into the High Street. In the parking lot he saw Carl and Natalie standing by a slick Tesla. No smiles now; an argument in quiet — discrete — progress.

  At a quick pace, Jack crossed the road towards Sarah’s office.

  Knowing that when Sarah used the word “trouble”, she meant it.

  6. A Motive for Murder?

  Jack took the narrow staircase up to Sarah’s small office with its great views of Cherringham’s High Street and even the Village Hall itself.

  Halfway up, he heard voices. Grace probably, Sarah’s bright assistant, only months away from her big wedding day.

  Now that will be a fun occasion to celebrate.

  Once again, Jack marvelled at how easily all these people in the village had become his friends — as if he’d known them all his life; had always cared for them.

  He thought of his own Brooklyn, with everything he grew up with there, and the years working in New York City, marrying, raising a family.

  Then — losing his Kath.

  Now, here — every day Cherringham felt more and more like home.

  In fact, he thought, as he reached the top of the stairs, he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  And if God and the Fates allow, he thought, I won’t have to.

  The office door was half open, and Jack pushed his way in. Sarah had — after all — said — “urgent”.

  As he walked in, Sarah looked over. A nod, no smile. Grace grabbed her coat from a rack.

  Looking rushed, even rattled.

  “Jack,” Grace said nodding. Then, as if to explain: “Got some errands to run.”

  And with that, she passed Jack, and hurried down the same creaky staircase.

  Jack turned to Sarah with a look that he hoped said: What was that all about?

  *

  Sarah filled the kettle.

  “That? Well, bit of a surprise, I must say. I’m still digesting it.”

  “Everything okay, with Grace and all?”

  Another nod. “Yes, I mean the wedding plans are all falling into place. But …”

  With a flick of her thumb, Sarah got the electric kettle working.

  “Turns out, her fiancé, Nick—”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s being transferred. Straight after the wedding.”

  “Oh …”

  “Yes. To Glasgow. So Grace, well, she loves it here, but of course, she will be leaving, and—”

  “Looked like she was close to tears.”

  “Not close to. Definitely a tear or two. I told her that, well, you never know what life will make you do.”

  “Well, isn’t that the truth. But I’m thinking—”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re about to head into one of y
our really busy seasons, no? The holidays coming up.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And Grace, you depend a lot on her.”

  “Tons!”

  “What do you think you’ll do?”

  As soon as Jack asked the question, he wished he hadn’t. Nothing worse than being asked what your plans were when you — at the moment — absolutely had zero idea.

  Still, Sarah managed a grin. “Dunno! I’ll manage. Guess I’ll find someone, right?”

  Jack knew better than to offer the bromide that people so often uttered as if it magically made things better.

  Words like it will all be all right.

  Instead: “We’ll have to do some thinking, planning, hmm? Me, you, your possibilities? Maybe dinner tonight at the Spotted Pig?”

  “Sounds perfect. I could do with getting out of the house.”

  Jack heard the kettle click off, water boiled.

  “You said urgent?”

  “That I did. Let me get our tea sorted and I’ll bring you up to date.”

  *

  Sarah saw Jack put down her copy of the death threat, then look away. Across the open room of the office, to the windows, a crisp blue sky outside.

  “This certainly raises the stakes,” he said. “You’re thinking Chloe’s in danger?”

  “Yes. I was worried before. But now — even more so.”

  Jack’s face looked grim. She knew that Jack really cared for her kids, now almost grown up. This news would rock him as well.

  “You notice anything about the note?”

  “Plain paper. Printed. Envelope no postmark.”

  “So — hand delivered?” said Jack.

  Sarah shrugged: “Doubt Alan will find a witness.”

  “And he’s sure not going to waste time digging around for CCTV,” said Jack.

  “Could have been slipped through the door in the middle of the night.”

  “Means what we’re doing is definitely more important … more urgent. That is if we keep carrying on with what Tony asked us.”

  “If?”

  Jack took a sip of his tea. And again, she noticed, having seen it so many times before, the way his eyes would get this … faraway look. As if, when speaking, he was also thinking about so many other things, all connected, all with implications.