Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist (6 page)

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. No granddaughter for him yet. That would be a big change, she imagined.

Big enough change that he might leave here
. L
eave 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.

*

They had taken a few steps up the hill, Riley straining at his lead, ready to head home.

Jack said nothing, and Sarah guessed he wanted to wait until he was sure they were well out of earshot of Karen Taylor.

But then, halfway up the slope, he touched Sarah's arm.

She was about to say something in response, when he put a finger to his lips and pointed.

To a nearby tree, then he leaned close.

The closeness itself … unusual.

Jack's voice in her ear.

“See up there. That branch?”

Sarah tried to see where he was pointing, only seeing the twisted tree limbs, the clumps of leaves — but then … movement.

“Some kind of hawk … young. And looks like he’s eating … um, thought it was a mouse. But there are small feathers falling away to the side.”

Then Sarah could see it, the so-recognisable profile of a bird of prey, and the brown furry clump resting on the branch, held tight but its talons.

“A sparrow?”

“Probably. Quite the feast for such a small bird. Must be a young hawk.”

Then he looked at Sarah, as if suddenly aware how close he had been, whispering about the scene playing out above them.

“Or maybe you have small raptors here I don’t know about. I’ll have to look at my bird book.”

Then the hawk, as if suddenly aware of being observed, opened its wings, and — prey firmly grasped — flew away, swooping down below, towards the stream.

Jack laughed.

“Guess we interrupted lunch. Speaking of which, quick bite, Ploughman's?”

They had resumed their steady climb up.

“Jack, I’d love to. But I’ve got so much stuff to get through …”

“Right. I know. As soon as you’re all caught up with work and end of school, we can get back to our regular chats, right? It is one of the reasons I do love Cherringham!”

She smiled at that.

She also realised that she took it for granted, this thing they did — this accidental crime solving that had also turned into an incredible friendship.

If she wasn't so busy, with so much work and the kids’ plans — she'd have lunch with Jack anytime.

“Jack — ” she said with a glance down to the hollow, “what do you make of our young mum?”

“Hmm? Well, she loves that baby girl.”

“I know.
That
was clear. And her answers?”

“Those I'm not too sure of. Could be that out here on her own — maybe she’s just naturally guarded.”

He turned and looked at her. “But I felt something. Well, like she might know something — maybe it’s important, maybe it’s not — but for some reason wasn't telling us.”

“You don't think she could have anything to do with the disappearance?”

“I doubt it. But I felt there’s something there.”

They were nearly at the top, back to the lane proper, which led down to the bridge.

“And yet you didn't press her?”

He shook his head.

“Think she has enough on her hands raising that baby without me doing any probing. But I do think we should find out what we can about her.”

“Like?”

“I know you’re busy but …”

“Ah — searching the records, deeds for the place, who owns it, where did she come from?”

“It might be useful.”

She laughed. “Yes, I am busy. But yes I will do all that. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

“Great.”

“And you?”

They walked the lane slowly.

Almost too nice a day to think about going inside back to the world of screens and clients.

“I’m going to find this Rob Ferris guy. He seemed to be following O’Connor on that video.”

“Could just be the way it looked.”

“Could be. Still, that's a chat where I will, um, use more of my skills.”

“I've seen that in action. Hate to be on the receiving end.”

Jack laughed at that.

“And how will you find him, with no home address?”

“Supposedly Billy at the Ploughman's will know. I’m hoping he can tell me … and then, a surprise visit.”

“Wish I could be there.”

“I will let you know
all
about it.”

When they reached the Cherringham road, she saw Jack digging in his pocket for coins.

“You going back to the boat first?” she said.

“Yep, gotta get Riley home,” he said. “I’ll head out after lunch.”

“I tell you, I like those Buckland sisters but that—” he pointed at the bridge and smiled — “is a racket.”

“True fact!” Sarah said, laughing.

And she turned and walked up the road back into Cherringham, a long day at the computer in front of her.

Jack rapped on the door to the flat next to the entrance to Todd Robinson’s electric shop.

Jack had given Todd a wave as he went to the door.

He rapped again hard and pressed the buzzer button.

No sound.
Probably doesn’t work.

Another series of hard raps, and he was about to give up when he heard a steady thumping, like someone coming downstairs from the place over Robinson's shop.

The sound of a chain being undone, a deadbolt being turned.

Whoever lived here clearly did not want any surprise visits. Most people in Cherringham rarely kept their doors locked.

The door pulled open. A long haired guy, no shirt, jeans plastered to his skinny legs, a mop of stringy black hair as he blinked in the brilliant sun.

This is like waking a sleepy groundhog mid-January.

The man's voice a nearly indecipherable slur.

“Yah, whazzit?”

He wasn't Rob Ferris. No match for the grainy CCTV image.

Maybe Billy had the wrong place, or maybe — and that would be bad — the homeless Rob Ferris had moved on.

“I’m looking for Rob Ferris.”

The shaft of hair with a droopy half–asleep head attached nodded.

“Right. Well, man, he's like sleepin’, y’know? And –” the guy laughed as though his own wit was just too much not to provoke laughter. “– I was too.”

“Sure.” Then Jack looked away, the street quiet. No reason at all this guy had to let him in.

But Jack well knew, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d barrelled his way inside someplace, search warrant or no search warrant.

“You can go back to sleep. No worries there.”

The guy nodded, happy to hear that.

“But I do need to speak to Ferris if he's here.”

A pause. Jack making eye contact with the stringy fellow before him; it was amazing that such bloodshot eyes could work.

It’s that magical moment,
Jack thought.

Guy weighing the odds, the possibilities, the options with Jack's face inches away from his.

“Right. Well, okay. He's on
me
couch. Lazy sod. Sleeping. Guess you can talk to him. If you have to. I’m off out.”

And in case the guy changed his mind, Jack used the moment to push open the door, freeing the edge from the man’s grasp, as Jack started up the stairs with the reluctant doorman left behind.

*

Jack kicked the couch and — for a moment — got no response from the curled up figure of Rob Ferris.

Then another hard kick, and Ferris popped up as if this wasn't the first time he had been rudely awoken from a deep sleep.

And as he did, he reached to the floor, right under the couch, his eyes darting.

“Looking for this, Rob?”

Jack held up the long hunter’s knife he had spotted — and removed — from where Rob was sleeping.

“What the hell—”

Jack remained standing over the guy who now looked at him.
Sizing me up,
Jack guessed.

But then his eyes went back to scanning left and right.

A man who liked to have a quick getaway at the ready.

Was he also the man who could tell them what happened to Patrick O’Connor?

Jack was about to find out.

*

Jack had pulled a wooden chair from the kitchen close so he could look at Ferris eyeball to eyeball.

The man licked his lips.

“What the hell do you want?”

Ferris's hands were balled into tight fists. Someone with an explosive temper, and very much used to just letting it go “pop,” Jack guessed.

“Got a few questions for you, Rob. Hope you can help me out a bit …”

“You're no bloody police. I got rights. You can’t ask me
squat
.”

Jack smiled at that. Cornered animals always barked back.

It was time to explain to Ferris exactly how this would go.

“You see, you’re both right and wrong there, Rob—”

“That’s another thing. How the hell do you know my name? I never—”

Jack put up a hand. “That’s not all I know. And yeah — guess you could not talk to me. Guess I could go to the police and let them sort it out. But I'm hoping, well — that just we two could have a chat.”

The words seemed to confuse Ferris. His eyes sunken. Jack spotted a trace of white powder on one of the seat cushions.

Must have been a late night with the Colombian marching powder.

“Couple of weeks back, you remember walking down towards the Buckland toll bridge?”

Ferris didn't nod or say anything.

“Maybe you forgot. People like you do tend to forget things, don't they? But you see, that bridge has cameras. And I saw you coming down the road from Cherringham. But you weren’t alone …”

Ferris licked his cracked lips again.

“No, you were following someone.”

Again Ferris stayed quiet. The threat of the police had shut him up.

But Jack needed him to talk.

If not, that video would be slim evidence.

Jack leaned closer to Ferris.

Guy was also definitely in need of a shower.

“The evidence shows it quite clearly, Rob. You stalking this guy, following him. And you know what?”

Jack paused.

Ferris took the bait.

Curiosity, it never fails.

“What?”

“The man you were stalking … he was never seen again. So—”

As much as Jack didn't want to get any closer to the slimy vagrant, he put a hand on Ferris’s shoulder, his hand closing.

Tight.

“What did you do to him?” Then, Jack's voice low. “Did you kill him, Rob?”

Ferris shrugged off the hand as if it was a claw about to rip into him.

“
No way.
I didn’t do anything to him, didn’t—”

Jack shook his head. “You know, I really can’t stand liars. Now, maybe you didn't kill him. But you’re going to tell me what you did do. Or I will do my best to convince the police that you killed that poor, old man.”

Another swab across his gummy lips. Ferris looking like he was weighing options.

Jack wasn't surprised by his response.

“Okay. Look. I’ll tell you what happened. The truth, you know what I mean? Let me just get a coffee — all right?”

Jack sat back and waited while Ferris went over to a grimy kitchen area in the corner and filled a kettle. A couple of minutes later he came back with a mug of black coffee and sat on the edge of the couch.

Jack watched as the young man gulped his coffee and scratched his stomach underneath his tattered t-shirt.