Cherringham--A Fatal Fall Read online

  Jack waited for Kevin to head off, but the man seemed to have something more to say.

  “So Jack … will you be attending the funeral on Friday?” said Kevin after a pause.

  “If I’m welcome,” said Jack. “Is it in the church?”

  “St. Francis’s,” said Kevin. “Though I don’t remember Dylan having much use for priests …”

  “I’ll make a point of it. Kind of feel like I know this McCabe now …”

  “I’d appreciate that,” said Kevin. “I doubt there’ll be much of a crowd. Sparks has given me a couple of hours off — since I knew him best — but the other lads will be hard at it.”

  “No family I suppose?”

  Jack watched Kevin shake his head.

  “One other thing …”“Hmm?”

  “Dylan had a van and caravan down at Iron Wharf. Far as I know, no one’s even been and sorted it, but …”

  “You’re thinking it might be worth me having a look, huh?”

  “Dylan had me down as his next of kin — the eejit — so the police gave me these …”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag with keys and a wallet. He took out the bunch of keys and handed it to Jack.

  “To be honest, Jack, I couldn’t bring myself to sort it.”

  “I understand,” said Jack.

  He saw the big man swallow hard.

  “You said Dylan might have had some gambling debts,” said Jack. “Any idea who he played with?”

  “Well, you didn’t hear it from me. But there’s a bunch of rough guys working up on the motorway build — you know the new bypass? Word is they run an all-night poker game — real serious — over on the big caravan park up near Emmingham service station.”

  “Think they might have put the squeeze on him?”

  “If he was behind, dodging them … as I said, real rough bastards. Don’t want to mess with them.”

  “Guess they’d know their way round a building site too?”

  He saw a look in Kevin’s eyes, getting the implications. “Sure.”

  Jack thought about this. “If I need to go and talk to anyone up there — would you come along?”

  “If you think that it might have something to do with Dylan’s death — you bet.”

  “Appreciate that. One other thing — did Dylan have a phone on him?”

  “Police didn’t say. You think it might be important?”

  “Maybe — maybe not,” said Jack.

  Though he knew from experience that in Sarah’s hands a phone might unlock all kinds of useful information on a case.

  “Right you are then,” said Kevin, wiping his gloved hand across his nose. “Anyway — it’s too damned cold for me out here. I’m off for that curry. See you at the funeral.”

  Jack watched him head back across the car park to his three mates, then turned, and started to walk down the hill towards the bridge, and the river path that led to the Grey Goose.

  *

  As Jack walked, the only light on this moonless night came from the occasional car that drove past, heading down to the toll bridge and out of the village.

  He passed the little Catholic church and the track which he knew led to the Convent of St. Francis. The church was dark and though the convent was just through the trees, he couldn’t see any lights.

  It was late. People were in bed. Which was where he should be.

  Then, half way down the road Jack heard a sound …

  The unmistakeable scuff of footsteps on the pavement behind him. He stopped dead, turned, and peered up the road into the blackness.

  Nothing.

  Whoever was there had stopped too.

  Jack waited until a car came down the hill. As it passed and its headlights lit up the pavement and hedges, Jack looked back up the hill.

  But whoever had been behind him — maybe following him — had melted into the hedges. Maybe even passed through into the field beyond.

  He turned and carried on towards the bridge.

  Then as he left the road and started up the towpath along the riverbank he waited again in the darkness.

  Had he been hearing things?

  But whoever had been walking behind him must have turned and vanished …

  If they had been following, maybe they had given up once they knew they’d been spotted.

  Okay, he thought. I’ve been treading on somebody’s toes with all my questions …But whose?

  9. Unwelcome Visitors

  “And watch out for the pavements, they’re very icy,” said Sarah, as she watched Chloe and Daniel go through the garden gate and head up the road towards the village.

  “That’s because it’s winter, Mum,” said Daniel turning and grinning at her. “It’s a meteorological phenomenon.”

  “Very funny,” she said. “Have you got your lunch?”

  “Yes Mum, you already asked me. I can’t wait.”

  Cheekier by the day.

  I have to admit though — he does make me laugh, she thought.

  “See you tonight then, love,” she said, but Daniel was already off, running across the road to join his best pal, Will.

  Sarah watched the two of them spinning each other round on the icy pavement and had to stop herself from calling out loud to him to watch the roads.

  Now that he went to the same big school as Chloe, she knew she shouldn’t treat him like he was still at the primary school.

  But the trouble was he still behaved like a kid.

  Whereas Chloe, now joined by her own best mate Zoe and deep in conversation, looked like she was eighteen already.

  These hectic school day mornings won’t last for ever, she thought. Better enjoy them while I can …

  She shut the garden gate and headed off into the village.

  *

  Coffee from Huffington’s in one hand, Sarah stood in the bitter cold outside the front door that led to her office, fumbling for her keys in her handbag.

  Then she noticed that the door was slightly open.

  That’s odd, she thought.

  It was only eight-thirty and the estate agents on the ground floor never opened up before nine.

  And the little firm of accountants which occupied the middle floor were usually the last ones in around ten.

  But she wasn’t alarmed. With Christmas just days away, maybe someone had come in early to get some urgent work finished.

  She climbed the narrow staircase up the two flights to her office and again reached for her keys as she neared her own door.

  And now she was worried.

  Because her office door was open too.

  And unless Grace had beaten her to it then there’d been a break-in.

  Or maybe there was a break-in going on right now.

  Should she call out for Grace now? If someone was in there and they came hurtling out, she was trapped out here.

  She knew what she ought to do. Go quietly back down the stairs, stand outside, call Grace on her mobile. And then call the police if Grace was indeed still at home.

  That’s what she knew she should do.

  Instead she pushed open the door and went straight in, calling out loudly.

  “Hello? Anyone in here? Can I help you?”

  She stood in the empty office, her heart pounding. She looked around. The desks were as she remembered leaving them the night before. Computers were turned off. Christmas cards all standing on every spare space. The little Christmas tree in the corner stood over the small pile of presents from the local businesses.

  But the kitchen door was closed.

  She and Grace never closed it.

  She took a deep breath, walked over, and pushed it open.

  Empty.

  Relieved, she went back into the office, put her handbag on her desk, and sat down in her chair to think this through.

  Someone had been in — there was no doubt about it.

  She took out her phone and rang Grace.

  Grace answered straight away. She
was still at home but wouldn’t be long.

  And no, she hadn’t popped in early to the office this morning — why?

  Sarah explained and Grace said she’d be over as soon as she could.

  Sarah looked around the office again. Whoever had broken in had been a professional. Nothing had been moved, nothing damaged.

  She turned on her computer and went straight into the operating system. Years back when she’d been going through her divorce she’d been taught some of the dark arts of hacking by a detective she’d hired to track down her husband’s shenanigans.

  And since then she’d always made sure that her own systems were doubly protected.

  Her defences were rock solid — better than many she’d encountered working with Jack.

  And now she could see that at some point in the night someone had tried to access her server. The trail of attempts was clear …

  For more than an hour according to the log. And when they’d failed to get through her firewall, had someone actually come to her office to see if they could find the passwords?

  No such luck here for them either.

  Sarah and Grace knew better than to leave written passwords around.

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  But it was all still scary. She picked up her phone to ring Jack and warn him.

  She thought: someone’s trying to find out what we are learning.

  *

  Jack parked his little Austin Healey Sprite in the lane by the entrance to Iron Wharf and casually walked in to the yard, hands in the pocket of his big winter coat.

  Jack knew the old wharf well: whenever he had work to do on the Grey Goose he’d always come up here first for parts or advice.

  A busy boatyard in the summer, used by locals and working boats, but now on a cold winter’s day the place was deserted.

  As he strolled across the yard, he looked around at the ramshackle mess of old huts, sheds, piles of timber and rusting metal, winches, masts, railway sleepers, abandoned cars, and upturned boats.

  He was looking for a caravan — Dylan McCabe’s caravan.

  The yard owners often let people park their trailers or vans down here in the winter for a few quid a week. There were water standpipes dotted around — and an old toilet block which looked like it dated back to the steam age.

  One of the boat owners emerged from a moored barge and passed by. He nodded to Jack and Jack nodded back.

  But otherwise there was nobody about.

  Jack passed a familiar caravan, its curtains shut, but a tell-tale trickle of smoke coming from an old tin chimney sticking out of its roof.

  He remembered who owned it …

  Terry Hamblyn, one of Cherringham’s dodgier characters, and who had crossed Jack’s path more than once.

  Jack walked further down the wharf until finally, tucked away under a couple of trees at the very end of the yard, he spotted the caravan he was after, curtains drawn and next to it a white Ford Transit that matched the description Kevin had given him.

  He walked straight over to the caravan, took the keys from his pocket, opened the door, and went in.

  It took a few seconds for Jack’s eyes to adjust to the dark and when they did he wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

  He’d expected a mess: dishevelled bed, washing up left in the sink, beer cans, food, McCabe’s clothes left lying around.

  But amazingly the caravan was clean and tidy. Sink clear. Clothes folded neatly.

  Jack looked carefully at the surface of the table: it had been wiped clean and smelled of bleach.

  What was going on? Dylan had no family, he lived here alone and Kevin had the keys.

  Jack opened the door and went over to the van. He opened the double doors at the back.

  Nothing — no timber, no tools, no dirt, nothing.

  The cab was just the same. Not a sweet wrapper or a CD or an old coffee cup.

  Empty. Clean.

  Too clean.

  It took a moment for him to connect the dots.

  Someone had been down here and had both vehicles professionally cleaned.

  And Jack could guess it wasn’t out of respect for the poor, dead young labourer.

  They were getting rid of evidence.

  But what?

  Had Dylan been keeping a log of safety breaches on the site — or maybe on other sites?

  Or had he seen something — something else which Jack and Sarah didn’t know about — which was worth killing him for? If that’s what happened, was someone going to all this effort to cover tracks?

  When Sarah had called him this morning he’d told her straight away about his feeling of being followed home from the Ploughman’s. And since her office had been broken into as well — then not only the Grey Goose but maybe also Ray could be next on the list.

  What were he and Sarah getting into?

  Somebody was clearly rattled.

  He knew that Sarah had planned to meet Charlie Winters this morning. Seemed pretty decent, she had thought.

  No matter — he’d send her a text, just to warn her to be on her guard.

  Jack shut the doors on the van and went back to the caravan. He opened the door, stepped inside, and looked around.

  He knew from experience that even professional cleaners didn’t get everything. Somewhere in this caravan could be a piece of evidence they’d missed.

  Twenty years as an NYPD detective had taught him how to search a property.

  Really search — that is.

  He took off his overcoat and laid it carefully on the table. Then he took out a small toolkit of screwdrivers, picks, and pliers.

  And, starting with the highest cupboard, he began to search Dylan McCabe’s caravan.

  *

  In the end it only took him a couple of hours.

  But he had a small evidence bag crammed with small objects. Most of it rubbish: coins, pins, can tops, a tiny wrap of weed, cigarette ends, receipts, an ear plug.

  No cell phone.

  But a photo.

  A printed one; rarity in these days of mobile phone selfies.

  Hardly anyone prints out photos any more, he thought. Except one place …

  The passport photo booth.

  And who can’t resist a bit of fun while you’re getting your ID photo done, especially, perhaps, if your girlfriend is standing outside waiting …

  Jack stared at the small colour photo which he’d found when he’d unscrewed the chest of drawers by the bed.

  A young couple stared out at him in the picture, both grinning, their faces pressed close together, the man’s arm tight around the girl.

  He recognised Dylan McCabe from the file photo in Alan’s office.

  He didn’t know the girl. She looked to be around twenty. Very pretty. Dark hair.

  Both happy. So happy.

  Jack turned the picture over. No date stamp.

  Was this the girl that Viktor had seen? The girl Dylan was serious about?

  If so — who was she?

  And why hadn’t she come forward when Dylan had died?

  He put the photo back in the evidence bag, then put the bag in a safety wallet that tagged to the inside of his belt. Then he put his overcoat on and buttoned it tight.

  This investigation seemed to be getting risky and he had no intention of losing the evidence.

  He opened the door of the caravan and after checking that the wharf was still empty, he stepped out, and locked the door behind him.

  When he got back into the Sprite, he took out his phone and sent Sarah a text.

  Any doubts that Dylan McCabe had been murdered were fading …

  And yet he still had no idea at all why.

  10. A Family Man

  Sarah pulled her car up to a stone column with an intercom on the right. The ten foot tall metal gate in front of her looked strong enough to stop a tank, and Charlie Winters’ house — no Cotswold cottage to be sure — could not even be seen.

  She lowered her window down, and pre
ssed the intercom button.

  In a moment, she heard a voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Winters? Sarah Edwards.”

  For a second she heard nothing.

  Had Winters forgotten that he agreed to talk with her about Dylan McCabe?

  She was about to remind him … when she heard him say:

  “Yes. Come on up.”

  Then a loud buzz, and the gate began to slowly open as if unlocking the way to the Emerald City.

  And when it was fully open, she drove up the winding driveway, a snake-like path, all gravel, and lined on either side by tall poplars.

  Not a common tree for the area, she thought.

  And she guessed the same would be true of the house.

  *

  From the driveway, Winters’ house looked deceptively modest. The façade not overly grand, even with two white columns flanking a double doorway

  But she noticed as she got closer that the house extended well to the back, and other buildings sat to the left and right, one perhaps for the gardener, the other maybe a small guest house.

  Very impressive, she thought.

  The construction business — for Winters at least — had to be going well.

  She turned the engine off and, grabbing her notepad from the passenger seat, walked up to the double wooden doors.

  Which opened as she hit the top step, as a smiling Winters waited there.

  “Hi! Better hurry,” he said with a warm smile. “Nasty weather, this.”

  She smiled at that. “It’s freezing,” she said … and as soon as she entered, she detected the rich smell of a fire.

  “Got a nice fire going for our chat. Guaranteed to take the chill away.”

  She followed Winters into the house, and as soon as she entered the sitting room she noticed something.

  Something more than the thick Persian rug on the floor, or the dark leather furniture with wooden arms … or the floor-to-ceiling windows to the side where she could glimpse a garden, with small tress wrapped up with insulation to protect them from the frost.

  No. She immediately looked at the wall and the mantelpiece, all filled with photos of children, babies, young kids, birthdays. A young family on a beach, a small ballerina on pointe, a boy holding a football with a winning smile that matched his dad’s.

  Hardly a space without a photo of one of his kids.