Cherringham - Episode 31-33 E-Book

Matthew Costello

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 413

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Jack's a retired ex-cop from New York, seeking the simple life in Cherringham. Sarah's a Web designer who's moved back to the village find herself. But their lives are anything but quiet as the two team up to solve Cherringham's criminal mysteries.

This compilation contains episodes 31 - 33.

TRAIL OF LIES

Last year at Cherringham High, and for three girls that means facing the School Summer Challenge, a grueling fifty-mile hike across the Cotswolds, through thick woods, over steep hills, camping each night under the stars. But when one of them disappears in the middle of the night and is found dead in the morning, most believe a terrible accident has taken place. Was it really an accident? Jack and Sarah aren't convinced - and soon discover that secrets and lies can have terrible consequences ... and always leave a trail ...

DEATH TRAP

When Edward Townes - famed writer of novels about knights and maids, and castles and conquering - attends a medieval launch party for his latest book, he arrives ready to do more than celebrate. But party night brings a blizzard, a once-in-a-century storm that sees Townes staggering home, alone ... only to be found dead the next day. With Cherringham cut-off and the blizzard still raging, Jack and Sarah start investigating. Their questions reveal that many of those still stranded in the dark village have secrets. And Townes' killer is still in the village ...

CLIFFHANGER

When a hiker falls from a cliff edge while walking the Cotswolds Way, it seems like no accident. The more Jack and Sarah investigate the walkers on the trail that day, the more likely it seems that danger is still afoot. Is there a potential killer in this Cherringham tour group? And when will he or she strike again?

Co-authors Neil Richards (based in the UK) and Matthew Costello (based in the US), have been writing together since the mid 90's, creating content and working on projects for the BBC, Disney Channel, Sony, ABC, Eidos, and Nintendo to name but a few. Their transatlantic collaboration has underpinned scores of TV drama scripts, computer games, radio shows, the successful crime fiction series Cherringham, and - most recently - the historical series Mydworth Mysteries.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

The authors

Main Characters

A Cosy Crime Series Compilation

Copyright

Trail of Lies

Death Trap

Cliffhanger

Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

“Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. The series is published in English, German and Finnish.

The authors

Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of a number of successful novels, including Vacation (2011), Home (2014) and Beneath Still Waters (1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed The 7th Guest, Doom 3, Rage and Pirates of the Caribbean.

Neil Richards has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He's also written script and story for over 20 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Starship Titanic, co-written with Douglas Adams, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.

Their transatlantic collaboration has underpinned scores of TV drama scripts, computer games, radio shows, and the best-selling mystery series Cherringham. Their latest series project is called Mydworth Mysteries.

Main Characters

Jack Brennan is a former NYPD homicide detective. Being retired, all he wants is peace and quiet. Which is what he hopes to find in the quiet town of Cherringham, UK. Living on a canal boat, he enjoys his solitude. But soon enough he discovers that something is missing — the challenge of solving crimes. Surprisingly, Cherringham can help him with that.

Sarah Edwards is a web designer who was living in London with her husband and two kids. A few years ago, he ran off with his sexy American boss, and Sarah’s world fell apart. With her children she moved back to her home town, laid-back Cherringham. But the small-town atmosphere is killing her all over again — nothing ever happens. At least, that’s what she thinks until Jack enters her life and changes it for good or worse …

Matthew CostelloNeil Richards

CHERRINGHAM

A COSY CRIME SERIESCOMPILATION

Episode 31—33

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Digital original edition

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright © 2020 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards

Edited by: Eleanor Abraham

Project management: Kathrin Kummer

Cover design: Jeannine Schmelzer

eBook production: Jilzov Digital Publishing, Düsseldorf

ISBN 978-3-7325-8567-0

www.facebook.com/Cherringham

Matthew CostelloNeil Richards

CHERRINGHAM

A COSY CRIME SERIES

Trail of Lies

1. Homeward Bound

“You can do it, Holly! Just don’t look down — look straight at me, I’ll grab your hand.”

Holly Wilson stared ahead, eyes locked onto her friend Amy — already at the other end of the flimsy rope bridge — the girl looking so small against the towering trees.

Amy — smiling, so confident, so reassuring.

Just a few short steps away. Like crossing a room, really. What could be easier?

But then she looked down, through the knotted grid of swaying rope — in truth, not a massive drop, twenty feet or so — into a shallow stream.

But enough to hurt if you landed badly. Twisted ankle, knee banged up.

And then this hike would suddenly change.

And twenty feet might just as well be a hundred if you were as scared of heights as she was.

Holly could already feel her heart rate climbing — and her breathing coming faster.

Last thing she needed now was one of her panic attacks.

Bad enough when one hit as she walked the corridors of their school.

But here … now?

She shut her eyes, reaching into herself for all her strategies that she had been taught, that — sometimes — could keep the beast at bay.

Breathe deep and slow. Focus. Take control of the fear. Own it. Don’t even try to push it away.

“Oh, do come on, Holly! God! It’s not exactly the effing Amazon rainforest, now is it?”

Jasmine’s voice, from right behind her. “And you’re hardly likely to slip through the gaps, are you?”

Jasmine.

Just what she didn’t need. That voice in her ear.

Holly turned, just in time to see Jasmine, hands on hips, rolling her eyes. Then — a taunting grin.

“Oh — sorry — I mean, with your backpack and everything, there’s no way you can fall through. Right?”

Holly saw another eye-roll. Jasmine’s nasty smile broadened.

Nice attempt at a recovery, thought Holly. But I know what you meant, Jasmine.

You meant “Holly you’re so fricking fat you couldn’t fall through that bridge if you tried.”

Then, another voice, pulling her back from Jasmine’s cruel words.

“Come on, Holly,” said Amy. “You can do this.”

Holly turned back to look at Amy. Good, reassuring Amy — on the other side of the stream.

“Think of all the other scary stuff we’ve got through on this trip. Stuff you’ve aced. And this is the last bit — okay? Here on in, it’s just woodland trails, couple of hills …”

“And one more night in the sodding tent,” said Jasmine.

“One more night of your cooking too,” Amy shouted back.

“Ooh, nasty, Amy — no chocolate or biscuits for you tonight,” said Jasmine.

“Keep your chocolate,” said Amy. “Do I care?”

“Got other treats hidden away, hmm?” said Jasmine.

“Me to know, you to cry over,” said Amy.

Holly looked from one girl to the other, trying to keep up with this little exchange, feeling that there was stuff between the two that she didn’t know about.

But also, with the distraction, now feeling her panic subsiding, as the focus switched away from her onto Amy.

It was always so hard to have people looking at her.

Imagining what they thought; what they whispered.

And knowing most of it, all in her head.

She took a deep breath, checked the straps on her backpack — though they certainly didn’t need a re-check.

And then, excuses for any hesitation gone, she stepped forward onto the wobbly bridge.

That first brave step.

“Hey! Way to go!” said Amy. “Go Holly! Go Holly!”

One step. Then another. Eyes locked on Amy.

Hands gripping the guide ropes tight.

The bridge now really swaying with every step, below her water rushing over rocks.

The panic back … full-on … rising again.

Oh God, I’m going to fall, I’m going to fall and die.

“Just two more steps and you’re home, Holly. Look at me. Look at me,” said Amy.

Holly forced her eyes back up from the rushing stream and focused on Amy again — so solid, so confident, like a real explorer, one hand locked onto a tree trunk, the other hand reaching out to her now.

Mechanically, Holly shuffled her feet once more, moving her hands along the rope guides, nearly there, just one more step …

Releasing the rope guide. Reaching out.

And then her hand locking onto Amy’s hand, as she stepped forward onto the rock, feeling Amy’s arms wrap around her, Amy’s cheek pressed against hers. Amy’s beautiful long hair across her face.

“Go girl!” said Amy, pulling back.

Holly looked into her grinning face — those eyes so dark and deep and trusting — and smiled back.

“About bloody time,” said Jasmine, hurrying behind her.

Holly turned to see Jasmine already across.

“Oh, sorry. Just kidding,” she said. “Um, nice one, Holly. Now then, get the bloody map out. And how about we figure out where the hell we go now?”

Holly unzipped the map from the plastic sleeve she had on a loop round her neck. They all had roles, and one of hers was map keeper.

She unfolded it, placed it on a flat section of rock, took her compass from a pocket, and crouched down to work out her bearings.

Aware of the other two girls standing at her side, waiting.

Knowing that this was one skill neither of them had.

She stood up, looking back at the bridge and the stream — then at the woods that stretched away from them into a grey sky.

“Okay. We go that way,” she said, pointing at a rough track that disappeared into dense undergrowth.

Then she picked up her backpack, swung it back onto her shoulders, and headed off up the track.

She had passed the rope challenge and now she was the leader.

“Better be right,” said Jasmine behind her.

“Maps? Navigation? Holly’s always right,” said Amy.

Holly, hearing, smiled to herself as she pushed her way through the bushes that had grown over the path.

Love you, Amy, she thought. But then — who doesn’t love Amy?

*

Jasmine leaned back against her pack, opened the plastic lunchbox and looked inside.

The night before they’d stayed with other groups from school in a youth hostel, and this morning they’d all been given packed lunches for the day’s expedition.

“Eugh,” she said. “Cheese sandwiches — again? Holly — you want?”

She watched Holly pull herself up, then walk over.

God, it’s like watching a creature climb out of a waterhole, she thought. Waddle, waddle …

“Um — you sure you don’t want them?” said Holly.

“It’s the twenty-first century, Holly; nobody eats cheese sandwiches.”

“I do,” said Holly. “I love them.”

What don’t you love to eat? Jasmine thought.

“Can see that,” said Jasmine.

“I’ll have one,” said Amy. “Reminds me of primary school lunches!”

Jasmine saw her step over and take one from Holly.

Amy, suddenly — on this trip — watching out for Holly.

“Remember … how we used to swap biscuits back at Cherringham Primary?” said Amy.

“You always had the best ones, Amy! Your mum, right? A real baker at Huffington’s!” said Holly.

Why does she even bother with her? thought Jasmine. It’s not like we’ll ever talk to Holly again once this term’s over and real life starts!

She picked at the limp salad in her lunchbox, then looked at her two companions sitting and eating in this little glade in the forest.

What a waste of time this whole trip had been — and it should have been so cool!

Five days, trekking across the Cotswolds, camping one night, hostels the next — fifty miles, no teachers, just three girls.

The challenge — a ritual for final-year Cherringham High students — a trek they organised entirely themselves to raise money for charity.

God — it could have been totally amazing.

But Freya had got ill just before the trip — and she and Amy had got stuck with loser Holly instead.

Loser Holly. I mean — duh? How the hell did that happen?

And — worst of all — Amy now seemed to actually get on with her! What was that — some kind of pity thing? Like looking after a lost puppy?

Sooner we get back to Cherringham and dump Dumpy the better, she thought.

She looked over at Amy — phone out, texting. She watched her for a while, wondering who she was talking to.

Good friends — but recently Amy seemed to be keeping some things secret.

Jasmine felt a shiver of anxiety. Being Amy’s best friend was, well … everything.

She pulled out her water flask and took a big swig.

“So, Holly — you know where we are then?” she said.

“Think so,” said Holly.

“‘Think so’ — not ‘know so’?”

“Well, I’m pretty certain.”

“Now you’re filling me with confidence,” said Jasmine, looking over at Amy for support.

“Hey, easy, Jas. Holly’s done an amazing job so far,” said Amy, putting away her phone at last.

“Not saying she hasn’t,” said Jasmine.

“What do you think, Holly, then?” said Amy. “Another ten miles this afternoon and we’ll be at Shipton Woods, hmm?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Holly.

“Shipton Woods?” said Jasmine. “Never even heard of that ‘beauty spot’.”

“Where we’re going to camp tonight,” said Holly. “Leaves us just about five miles from Cherringham. Easy run in tomorrow.”

“Thank God for that,” said Jasmine. “I could do with a night in a bed.”

“I could do with a day in a spa!” said Amy.

“Hot stone massage!” said Jasmine.

“Bottle of prosecco!” said Amy.

“Roast dinner!” said Holly, joining in.

Jasmine caught Amy’s eye.

Roast dinner? Always with the food!

What planet did Holly live on?

2. Fear of the Dark

“Water break?” said Jasmine, as, one by one, they climbed over a stile set into the dry-stone wall at the side of the little lane.

She reached into her backpack for her water flask and took a long draught.

The last two hours had been tough: single file down muddy, slippery farm tracks, then clambering up and over broad, hilly meadows, every step in the heavy ploughed soil making her legs ache.

She watched Holly take out the map again and check their location.

“Do tell me we’re nearly there,” said Jasmine.

Holly brought over the map, placed a finger on it.

“Here’s us,” she said, tapping the map. “And there’s Cherringham — the other side of the escarpment.”

Jasmine looked to where Holly was now pointing — up across the meadow towards a dark ridge of woods.

“Escarpment?” she said. “Looks like another bloody hill and a cliff to me.”

“Well, technically it’s an escarpment,” said Holly.

“And what’s that?” said Jasmine, tapping a blue patch on the map next to Holly’s “escarpment”.

“Blackwater Lake, it says.”

“Sounds spooky,” said Amy coming to join them, looking down at the map.

“It’s some kind of old gravel pits,” said Holly. “Filled in with water.”

“Can see that,” said Jasmine. “We have to go round it, do we?”

“Not unless you fancy swimming across,” said Holly, laughing.

“Skinny dip it!” said Jasmine.

“No way,” said Amy. “Not in black water — eugh!”

“Monsters of the deep!” said Jasmine.

“I think it’s called Blackwater because it’s so deep,” said Holly. “Not because it’s actually black.”

Jasmine looked at her.

Get a life, Holly, she thought. She saw Holly blink, then look back at the map.

“Anyway, once we get up through the woods there, above the lake, it flattens out so—”

“Hol, is that where’re we going to camp?” said Amy.

“Think … yeah. Far edge of Shipton Woods. Just … there,” said Holly, pointing to a small patch of green in the forest on the map. “Nice and flat at the top. And we’ll be there before dark, time to set up the tents, get a fire going—”

“How very jolly,” said Jasmine, looking across at Amy. “Our last night in paradise.”

She saw Amy fire her a look.

“Just leave me out of the sing-songs, won’t you?” said Jasmine, putting her flask away and tightening her backpack.

Then she set off across the field.

“Come on then,” she called, over her shoulder, not looking back.

Sooner this is over, the better, she thought.

*

Amy grabbed an overhanging mossy branch and dragged herself up the muddy slope, then braced her boot against a tree trunk so she could pull Holly up beside her.

“Nearly there,” she said, smiling at Holly, whose face — sweaty and smeared with mud — looked red hot.

Tough stuff for her.

“Thanks, Amy,” said Holly, bending over to catch her breath. “On the map … looked easier.”

“All this rain,” said Jasmine, stopping up ahead and turning back to them. “Should have been obvious really. Some pathfinder!”

“Not Holly’s fault,” said Amy, looking ahead up the track past Jasmine. They’d already been trekking for the best part of half-an-hour through this dark wood, the trail constantly disappearing in the undergrowth and mud so they’d had to keep stopping and checking the map.

The only constant, the dark waters of the lake just visible through the trees below them as they circled it.

Sometimes having to go deeper into the wood to avoid sharp drops and cliff edges.

Now though, the woods up ahead seemed to be lighter, the sky at last visible through the tree tops.

“Nearly there,” she said, putting her hand on Holly’s shoulder. “Go on.”

Holly smiled and pushed on up the track past her towards Jasmine.

Amy watched her go — and then her eye caught a movement, something in the darkness of the trees to one side.

Then — a tiny flash of light — like sunlight caught on glass …

She spun round, staring into the dense mass of oaks and pine.

There! Yes! Something there! An animal?

Or … Someone …?

A dark shape — visible for a moment only as a pattern of darkness different from the darkness around it. The shape seemed to slide behind the fat trunk of a distant oak.

A distant rustle, the crack of a twig.

Then it was gone.

Amy stayed still, listened. The only sound — her own breath.

Her chest suddenly tight — her heart pounding.

Her brain coming to the obvious conclusion.

The shape had looked like …

A person.

She looked up the slope ahead — Jasmine now out of sight, Holly just reaching the top of the hill.

Don’t want to be down here alone, she thought.

And she stepped back onto the path, her boots slipping on the mud even more as she hurried, and pushed on up the hill.

*

Holly tested the last guy rope anchoring Amy’s tent, and then moved onto Jasmine’s. Getting hard to see now in the gathering darkness.

As usual, all of Jasmine’s ropes were loose.

No surprise there, she thought.

She looked across at the other two girls sitting at the flickering campfire, both huddled over a little pan, making hot chocolate.

“Don’t drink it all without me,” she said, pulling one of Jasmine’s pegs farther from her tent, and hammering it in.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Amy.

“Do hurry up though,” said Jasmine.

Holly stepped back from the tent and looked around the camp.

Not bad.

The three little one-person tents, perfectly symmetrical, on three points of the compass, entrance flaps pointing inwards so they could all see each other when they finally went to sleep.

Bit of reassurance there.

Nicely sheltered here in this grassy glade, and no danger of any big branches coming down on them in the night if it got windy.

Gas lights hanging on the front of each tent — like something out of a kids’ adventure book, she thought.

She loved it.

So comfy these last few nights, wrapped up in her sleeping bag, knowing that Amy was just there, within reach, within earshot.

And even Jasmine too — though Holly didn’t have much to say to Jasmine.

She knew Jasmine didn’t like her — maybe despised her — but she’d been determined all week not to let that get to her.

And it hadn’t.

She felt proud of what she’d achieved. Navigating fifty miles on foot, two hostel nights, three nights camping, a few panic attacks, sure …

But no giving up, no tears.

She couldn’t wait to tell mum.

Time for cocoa.

But then …

A rustle in the trees behind her.

She spun round — but she couldn’t see anything.

“Feel that? Bit of a wind coming up,” said Amy, getting up from the campfire and coming over to her with a steaming mug. “Here — no sugar — right?”

Holly nodded and took the drink. “Thanks. Can I show you something?”

“Sure.”

“This way,” she said, crossing by the campfire and walking ahead of Amy outside the circle of lights. “Can you see okay?”

“Fine,” said Amy catching up, and Holly felt her arm go through hers.

After a minute, she stopped, then pointed through a gap in the trees that she’d noticed earlier.

Far away in the valley below, she could see a warm cluster of lights … and the ribbon of street lights that headed out of the village past the school.

“Cherringham,” she said.

“Wow,” said Amy. “It looks so close! Like you could reach out and touch it!”

“Just a couple of hours’ walk tomorrow. Easy, downhill.”

“Like you promised,” said Amy.

“Like I promised,” said Holly.

At that moment the clouds drifted open and a half-moon appeared, lighting the valley.

Holly could see the Thames now, silver as it looped across the plain between them and the village.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Holly, feeling the warmth of Amy’s arm still through hers.

“Amazing. To think we’ve spent all our lives together down there,” said Amy, “and then — in September — we’ll all just … fly away … and live different lives completely.”

“Like butterflies,” said Holly, feeling she was going to remember this moment with Amy for ever and ever.

“Eugh,” said Amy. “Butterflies — that means that now … we’re caterpillars?”

Holly laughed. “Sometimes I think I am,” said Holly. “Hoping things may change for me. That … I will change. So, a caterpillar … maybe. I’m sure that’s what Jasmine thinks.”

“Listen — who cares what Jasmine thinks,” said Amy. “I don’t.”

Then Holly shivered. “Come on, let’s get back to that fire, I’m freezing!”

They turned to go — then Holly heard Amy’s phone ping in her pocket. She waited while Amy dug it out and scanned the screen.

“Um, just be a minute,” said Amy. “You go ahead, I’ll catch you up.”

“Sure,” said Holly, and she walked back towards the campfire where she could see Jasmine sitting with her hot chocolate.

Probably hadn’t even noticed the moon appearing.

But behind her, she heard Amy talking quietly on her phone.

Time to start cooking dinner, she thought.

Jasmine isn’t going to, that’s for sure.

*

“Night, Amy. Night, Jasmine,” said Holly, turning off her torch and putting it next to her sleeping bag.

The only light now the flickering, dying campfire embers — visible at the end of her sleeping bag through the closed flaps of the tent.

“Night, Holly. Night, Amy,” came Jasmine’s voice.

“Night, Jasmine. Night Holly!”

Holly smiled to herself and snuggled up in her bag and waited as the other two tent lights went out.

She shut her eyes and started to think back through the day — the high points, the low points …

And then, this final, beautiful night by the campfire, the three of them chatting away about the past — and the future.

Jasmine off to St Andrews. Amy to Cambridge.

Holly thought of Amy in a gown and mortar board, riding on her bicycle to lectures, punting on the river with friends, bottles of champagne popping, being so clever in tutorials, acing her finals …

That would be Amy’s life.

Fun. And brilliant. Standing up to anyone who tried to put her down.

And seconds later, those images in mind, she quickly fell fast asleep.

*

Sometime around two or maybe three — she couldn’t be sure of the time exactly — she thought she heard something in the distance.

The sound startling her awake.

Then — that first chilling thought.

Sounded like a scream.

Then thinking. A fox’s screeching cry? Or maybe a bird? Some night owl she had never heard before?

Yes. A bird, an animal, she thought.

Had to be. But what if it was something bigger?

And she was up, immediately scared, her heart beating fast.

She listened carefully, staring into the darkness of her tent — but heard nothing more.

Sounded a long way away. And anyway — it was probably just a dream.

She lay back, pulled her sleeping bag tight … and soon drifted back to sleep.

*

A little while later, she woke again.

No scream, no bird call this time … but sure she’d heard a sound just outside the tent flap.

Movement. The crack of a twig being stepped on.

She sat up, willing her eyes to adjust to the dark.

She couldn’t see much through the fabric of the tent as the fire had now completely died down, the moon hidden behind clouds.

She leaned forward in her sleeping bag and peered through a gap in the tent flap. Jasmine was climbing back into her tent.

Must have gone for a pee, she thought.

Holly watched silently as Jasmine clipped her tent flap shut — clip by clip.

She looked at Amy’s tent. The flap shut tight.

Nothing to worry about, she thought, and again drifted back to sleep, hopefully to dream of next day and the triumphant return of the three girls to school after their great adventure.

*

But next day, only two girls returned to Cherringham High.

3. Rest in Peace

Sarah Edwards slipped quietly into the back of St James’s Church, and squeezed into a small space on the last pew.

She looked around the church. The place as full as she’d ever seen it.

The heady scent of lilies, and the measured chords of Pachelbel’s Canon underscored the low murmur of conversations around the church.

Here and there, sobbing.

Ahead, in front of the altar, a coffin on trestles. Heaped high upon it — an enormous array of wreaths and bouquets of flowers.

The altar itself was wrapped around with more flowers than Sarah had ever seen here — the colours rich and vibrant, oddly speaking of life at this sombre moment dealing with death.

And though most of the congregation in front of her wore black, some souls had gone against convention by wearing bright colours — reds and pinks and greens.

She looked through the rows. The first two or three were clearly for family — parents, elderly relatives, cousins and so on, she guessed.

Then behind, row after crowded row: young people. Teenagers. Hardly boys and girls any more — these children, she knew, were nearly men and women.

Full lives ahead of them; save for one.

A lot of teachers as well, dotted among the pews; many she recognised. Some had taught her own kids, Daniel and Chloe.

And among them, Louise James, the amazing head who had become something of a friend in recent years — though only as much of a friend as she could be, until Daniel finally left school this year.

Daniel …

She looked through the rows again, trying to spot him. The girls looking so alike — did they mean to? Same hair, same make-up, same voices even.

And the boys. Awkward. Spilling over on the narrow seats — most looking serious, drawn, clearly affected — one or two fidgeting, giggling even, as if this dreadful and unexpected rite of passage was somehow too much for them.

Ah — there was Daniel.

Sitting upright, hands together in his lap. Not religious — Sarah knew that — but he had a definite spiritual side. Certainly here, now.

Poor kid. The last weeks had been difficult for him. A lot of tears. And anger.

Sarah and her older daughter Chloe had both had to tread carefully — being there for a hug and a talk, but only when the time was right — backing off when Daniel needed it.

She knew that many of the other parents had faced the same challenge — and as she scanned the church she saw familiar faces, some nodding to her in recognition.

This loss had hit the village hard.

Between the Cherringham parents, too, there’d been so many late-night phone conversations, and unexpected meetings and suppers these last few weeks.

The unexpected death had drawn them together for support. Sarah had reconnected with old friends from the village that she had hardly seen since Daniel was at primary school.

Then, Sarah saw the door to the vestry open, and the choir emerged, to take their places either side of the altar.

Behind them, Reverend Hewitt walked slowly to the centre of the church, to stand in front of the coffin.

The congregation now utterly silent.

A long pause.

This is too heartbreaking to bear, thought Sarah, wondering how any parent could possibly ever deal with it.

And praying that it should never happen to her.

Then the Reverend Hewitt’s calm, warm tones filled the church.

“Dear family … friends … we are gathered here today, to mourn a great loss, but also to celebrate a life. Our Amy Roberts — taken from us so suddenly and so tragically, just weeks ago …”

*

Sarah stood at the edge of the churchyard and pulled her coat tight against the cold wind.

The grim service at the graveside was clearly nearly over, and she could see the students from school, Daniel among them, line up to take a handful of earth and drop it into the grave.

So sad.

“Dreadful thing, to lose a child,” came a voice from behind her. She turned to see Tony Standish — lawyer and such a good old family friend — approaching.

He leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks.

And Tony, always one to feel things, showed the tell-tale signs that he too had shed tears.

“I-I couldn’t bear to stand by the grave, Tony.”

“I know.”

“She had such an amazing life ahead of her, I’m sure.”

“I’ve lost count of the number of funerals I’ve attended over the years, but you know, Sarah, when it’s folks of my age, well, I can bear it. Sometimes even enjoy the chance to catch up with old friends! Celebrating a full life, well lived. But this? A child …”

“Do you know the family?” said Sarah.

“Peter and Christine — yes — professionally. Can’t say I know them, if you know what I mean. I assume your Daniel was her classmate, hmm?”

She nodded. “He has a good friend who was one of Amy’s friends.”

“How’s he coping?”

“In some ways, better than I could have hoped,” said Sarah. “In others … oh, look here they come anyway. You can say hi.”

Sarah could see the mourners now leaving the grave and heading down the main path towards them, past ancient headstones and drooping trees.

She waited with Tony as they passed, mostly silent, reflective.

Then in the crowd, she saw Daniel walking with his friend Holly, one arm around her shoulder, comforting her.

That’s my Daniel, she thought.

He paused as they passed, then guided Holly over. “Mum.”

“Holly — I’m so sorry,” said Sarah.

Sarah could see the girl was barely able to speak — her face tear-streaked, her hands shaking.

“I’m going to get Holly home, Mum,” said Daniel.

“Course, love. Take care now. I’ll see you later.”

She watched the two of them head down the path into the village.

Then she turned as the parents — Peter and Christine Roberts — approached and shook hands with Tony.

She took in the mother and father. Peter — tall, immaculate in a black wool coat and hat, face betraying nothing, eyes so cold. And Christine — elegant, also perfectly dressed, but face drawn, grey, any expression absent as if she was on drugs, tranquilisers.

Which she probably is, thought Sarah. Who wouldn’t be?

She waited as they both exchanged hushed words with Tony. Then surprisingly, the father turned to her.

“Sarah Edwards — isn’t it?”

The voice so low, hollow.

“Yes,” said Sarah, wondering how he knew.

“I saw Daniel with you, just now,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Hmm, yes. Thank you.”

How many times had the poor man heard those words?

“Well, there’s something … that I want to talk to you about.”

“I’m sorry?” said Sarah, not at all sure where this conversation was heading.

The man looked around; again, the voice so low. Just a conversation for the two of them.

“I’m not satisfied with how things have been handled.” A quick look to his wife. “Correction — we’re not satisfied.”

“I don’t understand …”

“Well it’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it?” he said, his voice suddenly rising. “I mean the police have totally mishandled the investigation into Amy’s death.”

Sarah waited, feeling uncomfortable having this conversation as mourners and children were still filing past.

People might hear.

“Mr Roberts — perhaps this isn’t the place …?”

She watched him take this in, then look around as if he genuinely had forgotten where they were.

“Oh, yes well. You’re coming to the house now, I assume?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Sarah. “I have to get back to work.”

Even if she had planned to go — Sarah knew she would have declined the invitation in these circumstances. Such events, for family and the closest of friends.

“Ah,” said Peter. “That’s — er — very inconvenient, you know.”

Sarah stayed quiet. Stress affected people in different ways and in the case of Peter Roberts tact was clearly one of the first casualties.

Sarah reached into her handbag and produced a card, which she handed to him.

“Why don’t you call my office, and we’ll arrange to meet?”

She watched him stare at the card, then back at her, as if this was all too difficult to process.

“Then you — and your wife — can explain what it is that concerns you. And I’ll get my colleague Jack Brennan to join us. See if there is anything we might do to help.”

She watched his shoulders droop as he accepted there was going to have to be a delay.

“Very well,” he said. “I will do that. Maybe even … today. When the people leave …”

Then he turned to his wife who was in mid-conversation with Tony.

“Christine.”

Sarah watched her turn to him numbly, then shake Tony’s hand. The two parents nodded a goodbye.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Peter Roberts as he took his wife’s arm and slowly walked down the path towards the funeral cars.

Sarah turned to Tony.

“Did you hear any of that?” she said.

“Didn’t have to,” said Tony. “Peter’s been bending my ear on the subject for the last two weeks. Not surprised he’s reached out to you.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t think his daughter died accidentally,” he said. “He thinks something happened. That she was murdered.”

4. Amy’s Last Night

Jack raced up the stairs to Sarah’s office.

He opened the door, and saw Sarah at her desk, and seated nearby, two people. Afternoon sun pouring in.

The two of them turned to see him as he entered.

“Sorry — the Goose burst a pipe, had to deal with that.”

“The Grey Goose,” Sarah added. “Jack’s boat.”

The couple nodded at the news as Jack grabbed a chair and pulled it close.

“Jack, the Roberts were just telling me the police ‘version’ of what happened to their daughter.”

Jack nodded.

Version — they called it.

He was tempted to take out his small spiral notebook.

But this wasn’t a case yet.

He had seen a lot of grieving parents during his years on the force in New York.

Grief could do strange things to people.

Thinking of all the what-ifs; all those should-haves; anything to push away the immense, overwhelming reality of the loss.

In this instance — from what Sarah had said to him on the phone — this distraught couple didn’t believe that their daughter, only months away from university and the rest of her life, had somehow had a terrible accident.

Jack nodded. Keeping quiet for now.

Peter Roberts continued.

Jack had to wonder if his wife shared his fears, his suspicion …

… his — perhaps — paranoia?

Sometimes, it was the men — the husbands, the fathers — who struggled to accept the reality.

Some never did.

“Yes, um, the police team—”

“The SOCOs?” said Jack, using the British term for the crime scene officers.

“Yes. After they found … Amy’s body, in the lake … that local chap Alan Rivers had a look around, then they brought in a whole team from Oxford. Stayed for days. God knows what they were doing. Then the policeman in charge said what they thought happened — and as far as I can tell, nobody questioned it. Nobody.”

Jack fired a look at Sarah. He knew that — through Daniel and her own connections to the school — this death had hit her hard.

For the past weeks, Sarah had been different. Clearly rattled.

Loss like that, affects all parents.

“They said that my daughter,” the man reached out and clutched his wife’s hand, “must have woken up on the night. Then left her tent and somehow—”

He took a breath.

So hard for him.

“He said — itwas dark, she must have got lost, disoriented.”

Jack had followed the story in the local paper when it had first happened and, at the time, felt it just looked like a tragic accident.

But now he heard in the man’s voice, that Peter Roberts — and maybe his wife — didn’t believe it at all.

“That my Amy then — supposedly — somehow wandered to that cliff edge!”

His voice shook.

“Somehow, took a step off. And fell — hit her head on the rocks. Then just slipped … slipped … into the lake. And drowned.”

And, at that, his wife started crying.

Jack wondered how many tears they had both shed.

Both parents themselves thinking when will it end? The pain. The tears.

And Sarah passed over a small box of tissues.

For a moment, quiet.

*

Keeping his voice as low as possible, Jack spoke.

“And what about the inquest — I’m guessing there’s going to be one?”

“Some bloody use that will be,” said Roberts, with a grunt. “Police have already decided what happened.”

“And you’re convinced they’re wrong?”

Jack watched Peter Roberts look at his wife.

Was she on board for opening all this up? Jack wondered. Or was she hostage to the obsession now driving her husband?

At that glance, Christine Roberts looked down.

Couples … Jack thought. Amazing the ways they learn to communicate. Sometimes without words. Just a look. A touch.

He and his Katherine had been like that. And not a day went by that Jack didn’t miss her.

“My Amy.” A breath. This was still so difficult for him. “Our Amy — she was a bright girl. And they tell us, she goes wandering off, middle of the night—”

Now Jack looked at Sarah. She had to be processing this quite differently. Kid the same age. A daughter not much older.

Something he best keep in mind.

“Top of her class, so smart, she was going to read law, you know. Cambridge gave her an amazing offer, and—”

The man’s wife reached out. Touched his hand.

Steadying him.

“She gets up, so she’s going to take her torch, isn’t she? She’s not daft. We’ve all been camping. All those girls had torches. She’d take it with her. Find her way out of the tent, into the woods — and back.”

The man’s voice, having started low, began to rise, as if the outrage at what had happened was still growing.

“Um, Peter—”

Sarah’s voice gentle. As if she might calm the storm.

“But the police … did they find her torch?”

Peter Roberts turned to Sarah as if the question made absolutely no sense. Then a slow shaking of his head.

“No. They didn’t. No torch. Not in the bloody tent, not anywhere!”

Then the man turned back to Jack. “Can you explain that?”

The man waited, leaving the challenge solidly with Jack.

Jack asked the obvious.

“And they searched the area?”

“Yes. Spent days. But in the end, you know what they said?”

Jack waited.

“They said, out there, woods everywhere, trails everywhere. If she’d wandered around lost, the torch dropped, maybe batteries dead … could have been anywhere.”

Again Sarah:

“And the lake, where she was …?”

“Where they found her body? Yes, they searched there too. Divers even. Nothing. Now you tell me — does that make any sense at all?”

And again, Jack looked at Sarah. Guessing that she must be thinking what he was.

That nothing Peter Roberts had said so far suggested murder.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “But a missing torch — on its own—”

“But it all adds up, doesn’t it? And here’s the other thing. They found her body, not by the cliff, oh no, but on the far side, caught up under some fallen trees. So how did it get there then?”

The man nodded, as if the meaning of his words were obvious.

But back in New York, Jack had seen what currents and tides could do to a body, moving here, there, until finally it was fished out.

Never a pretty sight.

Jack looked at Sarah, then back at Peter.

“When somebody drowns, the body often … well … it drifts. It’s very common, Mr Roberts.”

“No, no, no. Something happened. That night. In those woods. And we don’t have a damn—”

Again, the slightest trembling of the man’s lip. Always so close to losing it.

He stopped.

And then his wife spoke. Her voice so hollow. A type of voice Jack had heard may times back in New York. A voice worn to a whisper. By the sobs. The tears.

“Tell him, Peter. The other thing.”

Peter Roberts turned back to look at Jack, then Sarah.

“And you know what? What else they didn’t find?”

Jack waited.

“My Amy’s phone! Up in the middle of the night. No torch. No phone?”

And the man looked away, perhaps — Jack thought — remembering his daughter crouched over her cell, an image familiar to any parent.

Yet another terrible thought making that loss, the grief so hard.

Thinking: If only we could go back in time.

Then the girl’s mother looked up, eyes wet, like pools slowly filling — looking at Jack but giving Sarah her final locked-on stare.

Jack waited, then turned back to her husband.

“Mr Roberts, apart from these police … failings … which you mention, is there anything that makes you think somebody might have wanted to harm Amy?”

The man seemed surprised by the question.

“What do you mean?” said Roberts.

“Trouble at school. Threats, maybe? Recent fights, arguments? Some kind of changed behaviour in your daughter before she went on the hike?”

Jack looked at both of them and for a second saw a flicker of something in the man’s eyes.

Something he’s not telling, thought Jack.

Then Peter Roberts’s face went still again.

“No, nothing. Everybody loved Amy.”

He looked to his wife for confirmation and she nodded.

“And there’s no chance,” began Sarah, pausing for a second. “I’m sorry I have to ask this. No chance — she might have taken her own life?”

“Never,” said Mrs Roberts.

The word was spat out so quickly — angrily.

“That day she left,” Amy’s father added, “she couldn’t have been happier.”

Jack watched as his wife reached over, took his hand, squeezed it tight.

“So, will you help us?” she said, turning back to Jack and Sarah. “Help us find out? What could have happened?”

And at that, Sarah, who Jack thought had also started tearing up, turned to him.

One of those moments.

No need for them to speak about this.

And Jack leaned forward, a small physical gesture to accompany his words.

“Well. We’ll try.” A look to Sarah. A nod back in confirmation. “We’ll try to find out what we can. Not sure we can promise—”

But his words were cut off as the two people — feeling such relief, even at such a terrible moment — fell into each other.

And stayed that way for minutes.

*

Sarah grabbed a notebook from her desk.

She saw Jack follow suit as they now quickly got down all the details that the couple could share, starting with the names of the other two girls on the trip.

The route they took. What happened when.

Her assistant Grace was away, tending to details for her wedding. That big date getting close! Giving them privacy.

Notebooks closed, Sarah stood up.

If she and Jack were to help, they had best sort out what they could possibly do.

Once the Crime Unit were satisfied this was an accidental death — well, that was usually it.

And what were the odds they could be wrong?

The couple stood up, Jack and the man shaking hands, but Christine Roberts giving Sarah a hug.

And Sarah wasn’t sure she had ever felt this immense sense of obligation to help before.

Jack’s last words as the couple walked down the wooden stars, wood creaking with each step: “We’ll let you know … if … when we find out anything.”

And then they were gone.

Sarah turned to Jack. And damn, if she didn’t feel on the edge of crying herself.

Her notebook filled with names, timings, events.

Not a single suspicious thing she could see.

“What have we just got ourselves into?” she said.

5. A New Case

Jack had suggested they walk past the church, down a small lane, to the grassy area behind.

A quiet, soothing stroll — a place for the two of them to sort out things — just yards from the summertime bustle of Cherringham High Street.

“What are you thinking?” she said.

Jack gave her a look but kept walking.

“I’m thinking … been in this situation before. You know, once, this ten-year-old boy went missing in Bay Ridge.”

Then he added, “That part of Brooklyn, it’s near the ocean, the Verrazano Bridge. I was a newbie — least as a detective. Just a few years in. And I hated to let things go. But everything had been done — all the people talked to, stories checked. It was time — I was told — to hang it up.”

Sarah came to a rickety wooden gate attached to a moss-covered stone wall. She undid the latch, and they passed through.

“But you didn’t ‘hang it up’?”

“Nope. Kept at it. On my own time. Strictly against the book. But didn’t want this little kid to become just another face on a milk carton.”

Jack paused. The ground was dry as they walked — the mud of the path packed hard. Hadn’t rained in quite a while.

“Then — found something. A little … discrepancy. Led to another. Then, bit by bit …”

He stopped, sun in his face. And Sarah could tell it was as if Jack was back there. Like it was yesterday, and not thirty years ago.

“Found out what happened.” He took a breath. “Sadly — no milk box for that kid.” He looked away. “But a funeral.”

“And you feel about this the same way?”

“Look, Sarah, I don’t know. The crime scene people … top notch. Probably scoured as much of the woods as they could for the torch and cell. They’d have to spend weeks, months … and even then, could be anywhere.”

He started walking.

“And a fall like that? Onto rocks — that’s the official version, yes? Accident makes sense. And the body — well, that could have ended up anywhere. But also something else that’s clear, something that must have come out at the autopsy — no sign of any kind of assault.”

“Right. And also — what’s the motive?”

“Exactly. Course we haven’t seen any witness statements yet — if there are any. So we don’t know who else might have been around that night — if anybody.”

“And yet — we said ‘yes’.”

And at that, for the first time — and was it ever welcome — he laughed.

“Why, yes we did. To put those people’s minds at rest, at least. Got things we can check on, double check stories …”

And she knew he was thinking about that other case from so long ago.

“The girls she was with.”

A nod. “Start there. Not much I know …”

As they came to a small slope downwards, the early summer afternoon was growing warmer.

“Jack — I had a thought.”

“Good. Which is?”

“How about I call Alan? Now. See if we can look at the official reports. Might be more there.”

And another laugh. “I know Alan has been pretty comfortable, um, helping us lately. Still — sharing the case details? No crime. The incident resolved. Dunno …”

“Worth a try, don’t you think?”

“Okay. Why not … Maybe then we can figure who we actually need speak with.”

And Sarah slid out her phone.

Alan Rivers’ number — right there in her recent contacts.

Says something about my life, she thought.

And she made the call.

*

Jack watched Sarah nodding; close enough to hear her.

“Yes, Alan. The couple simply wanted us to look into—”

From Sarah’s face, the call with Alan Rivers not going terribly well.

“We just thought … I mean if nothing else … if we could see the interviews maybe? A copy of the files. Just a look, really.”

And at the next pause, Sarah looked right at Jack and made a frowny face.

Nope. However good their relationship with the local constabulary was, right now it wasn’t helping.

Then: “You will … think about it? Yes?” Her face relaxed. “Thanks, Alan. Really. If nothing else, for those poor people.”

And then the call ended.

*

“Well, that seemed to go well,” Jack said.

“I’m afraid he wasn’t pleased with the request.”

Jack nodded. “If his superiors found out — or whoever ran the team that investigated — it wouldn’t be good.”

Sarah forced a faint smile. “But — he did say he would think about it.”

Jack nodded. He knew Alan appreciated what he and Sarah had done over the years; how they had solved crimes that might have easily gone unsolved.