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- Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
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 43-45.
A SCORE TO SETTLE
When Cherringham choir stalwart Arthur Chisholm is robbed in the middle of the night, it seems he's just the victim of bad luck. But as more of his fellow choir members are burgled, Jack and Sarah realise that these crimes are no coincidence.
DEADLINE
When journalist Tom Pinder is fished out of the river near Jack's barge, it seems that the hardened old drinker may have had one too many.. and accidentally slipped to a watery death. Jack and Sarah soon discover that he had made some very dangerous enemies...
BAD NEIGHBOURS
When Brian Foley is charged with the murder of his neighbour, the case against the blustering showman seems incontrovertible. But Jack and Sarah are convinced the police have got it wrong. With time running out, can they find the real killer?
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Seitenzahl: 550
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Digital original edition
Copyright © 2024 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Reproductions of this work for text and data mining are reserved.
Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards
Edited by: Eleanor Abraham
Project management: Kathrin Kummer
Cover design: Guter Punkt, München
ISBN 978-3-7517-6464-3
Follow the authors:
www.facebook.com/CherringhamMydworth
About 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.
His writing partnership with NYC-based Matt Costello goes back to the late 90's and the two have written many hours of TV together. Cherringham is their first crime fiction as co-writers.
About the Book
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 43-45.
A SCORE TO SETTLE
When Cherringham choir stalwart Arthur Chisholm is robbed in the middle of the night, it seems he's just the victim of bad luck. But as more of his fellow choir members are burgled, Jack and Sarah realise that these crimes are no coincidence.
DEADLINE
When journalist Tom Pinder is fished out of the river near Jack's barge, it seems that the hardened old drinker may have had one too many.. and accidentally slipped to a watery death. Jack and Sarah soon discover that he had made some very dangerous enemies...
BAD NEIGHBOURS
When Brian Foley is charged with the murder of his neighbour, the case against the blustering showman seems incontrovertible. But Jack and Sarah are convinced the police have got it wrong. With time running out, can they find the real killer?
Cherringham - Episode 43-45
Cover
Title
Copyright
About the Authors
About the book
Contents
Cherringham — A Score to Settle
Cover
Cherringham - A Cosy Crime Series
About the Book
Main Characters
The Authors
Title
Copyright
1. Break-in
2. Rehearsals
3. A Niggling Doubt
4. Crime Wave
5. The Crime Scenes
6. A Common Thread?
7. Rousting Ray
8. A Ghost From The Past
9. Unexpected Visitors
10. Final Rehearsal
11. A Secret and a Plan
12. Off to London!
13. The Royal Albert Hall
14. Lost
15. And Found
Next Episode
Cherringham — Deadline
Cover
Cherringham - A Cosy Crime Series
About the Book
Main Characters
The Authors
Title
1. One Last Pint
2. A Body in the Water
3. Suspicions
4. The Rose in Flower
5. More Questions Than Answers
6. The Man in the Hat
7. Things Get Serious
8. Surprise Visitor
9. The Reclusive Mr D
10. Finally …
11. The Truth about Tom Pinder …
12. Cherchez la Femme
13. Standoff
Next Episode
Copyright
Reading Sample TEA? COFFEE? MURDER!
Cherringham — Bad Neighbours
Cover
Cherringham - A Cosy Crime Series
About the Book
Main Characters
Title
1. Party Time
2. Crossed Wires
3. A Visitor
4. The CCTV
5. The Prisoner
6. Amanda Cranham
7. The Other Wife
8. All in the Detail
9. Return to FunLand
10. A Little Chat with Brian
11. Truth Will Out
12. Hot Tub Pressure
13. A Risky Plan
14. Break-in
The Authors
Copyright
Reading Sample TEA? COFFEE? MURDER!
Guide
Start Reading
Contents
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 as well as in German; and is only available in e-book form.
About the Book
When Cherringham choir stalwart Arthur Chisholm is robbed in the dead of night, ending up in hospital, it seems he’s just the victim of bad luck. Bad timing too, since he will now miss the choir's special holiday performance of Handel's Messiah — to be performed with scores of other local choirs, in London's Royal Albert Hall. But as more of their fellow choir members are burgled, Jack and Sarah realise these crimes are no coincidence. With just days before the concert, can they unravel the mystery of who is responsible — and why — before the Messiah reaches its grand finale?
Main Characters
Jack Brennan is a former NYPD homicide detective who lost his wife a few years ago. 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. Before the series starts, 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 …
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.
His writing partnership with NYC-based Matt Costello goes back to the late 90's and the two have written many hours of TV together. Cherringham is their first crime fiction as co-writers.
Matthew Costello Neil Richards
CHERRINGHAM
A COSY CRIME SERIES
A Score to Settle
Digital original edition
Bastei Lübbe AG
Copyright © 2022 by Neil Richards & Matthew Costello
Copyright for this editon © 2022 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 illustration: © Petra Schneider|iStock/Getty Images Plus; victorass88|iStock/Getty Images Plus; Tatiana Ikoeva|iStock/Getty Images Plus; Irina Gordeeva|iStock/Getty Images Plus; Claudio Divizia|Shutterstock Images; Kriengsuk Prasroetsung|Shutterstock Images
Cover design: Guter Punkt, München
eBook production: Jilzov Digital Publishing , Düsseldorf
ISBN 978-3-7517-1543-0
www.bastei-entertainment.com
1. Break-in
Arthur Chisholm leaned back against his pillows, placed the last of his pupils’ practice exam papers on the pile on the bed and sighed deeply.
“Identify a feature that is characteristic of a Mozart serenade,” he said, staring at the ceiling, not really expecting his wife, Harriet, to answer. “Simple enough question, one would think, no?”
But though Harriet was engrossed in one of her mysteries — her head deep in her pillow, sleep not far away — she did at least acknowledge he had spoken.
“Hmm?” she said, not taking her eyes off her Kindle.
“I can tell you what it’s not ,” he said, knowing he was really just talking to himself. “It’s not ‘a cheesy tune’ which is what Ryan Lomax has written here. A cheesy tune, Ryan Lummox ? Do you really think that’s what the examiner is looking for?”
“What?” said Harriet, still not really engaging. “ Whatever are you talking about?”
“Oh, don’t mind me, just torturing myself,” he said. “You know, I really should leave the most promising candidates until the end. The high-flyers. Not the footballers who pick the music option thinking how hard can it be ? Then at least I’d go to sleep with some faith that this year’s cohort might actually get some A grades. Instead of which …”
He put the pile of marked papers on the bedside cabinet, his green pen ( not red, never red, far too critical a colour these days, he had been informed) on top of them.
“Groan. I always finish with the bottom feeders. The no-hopers. And therefore — QED — I go to sleep feeling positively dreadful .”
He checked the alarm clock by the bed and sighed again. Quarter to twelve already and he’d need to be up at six to catch up with the rest of his marking and finish the end-of-term reports.
Just two weeks to go until Christmas — the rest of the world easing off the pedal while teachers everywhere burned the midnight oil keeping up.
Slates needing to be cleared before one could so much as think about the upcoming Christmas festivities!
“Arthur, it’s not good for your health, leaving all your marking until this time of night,” said Harriet, finally closing the lid of her Kindle and turning to him.
“I know! I don’t do it deliberately, do I? But there’s only so many hours in the day!”
“Your choice to sing the Messiah this year,” said Harriet, rattling her pill box and lining up the night’s usual doses. “That’s what is taking up all your time.”
Arthur stared at each pill as she swallowed. Anxiety. Acid reflux. Hormones. The little pink ones for her blood — not that he really knew what they did.
The things we do … just to keep on going.
Ah, to be young again, Arthur thought.
Then, when she’d finished her medicinal ritual:
“Once every ten years the Cherringham choir sings the full Messiah . And I have never missed a single one, have I? To partake in a performance of Handel’s great masterpiece? Would not miss it for the world ! Not a one since we started back in 1990! Thirty years, you realise? And now, this year … even more spectacular! Just to think, we’re joining choirs across the country at the Royal Albert Hall! There is no way I’m going to miss that! Three thousand of us! Imagine that! Three thousand voices filling the great hall!”
“Yes. I’m sure it’ll be very … loud,” said Harriet.
Arthur looked at her. Loud? Loud?
Was it even worth trying to explain?
“I’ve still got you that spare ticket, you know,” he said. “I can’t keep it forever. There’s plenty of people in the village desperate to come and watch. Free ride in the luxurious coach, too.”
“I know,” said Harriet. “But they still haven’t confirmed my shifts at the shop. I’d love to hear it. But it is our busy time too, you know!”
“Right. The wheels of commerce and all that. Just a week to go, though. Less than a week, in fact. You need to decide!”
“I said I know . All right?”
Arthur knew from twenty years of marriage that now was the time to back off. He also knew Harriet had no interest in coming to London to see the performance — the busy “shoppe” a convenient excuse for her — but he had to go through the motions.
Of course, he did.
This little ritual dance of pleading each time the choir had a concert.
Just enough so he sounded sincere.
“Of course,” he said. “I understand. Maybe tomorrow they’ll tell you?”
“I can’t promise anything. Anyway, talking about tomorrow … You got another of these extra rehearsals right after school?”
“Oh yes. Seven until nine. Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll sort something when I’m home.”
“You getting a lift from school?”
“Um, yes, probably.”
He watched her lean across to her light and turn it off, leaving the room in semi-darkness.
“Well, if we don’t cross paths in the morning, try not to wake me when you get back,” she said, pulling up the covers and turning away from him. “Could do with a good night’s sleep for a change.”
He stared at her back for a few seconds, then got up, put on his slippers, picked up the pile of exams, and headed downstairs to his study to put them safely in his work briefcase.
By the time he had returned to the bedroom, Harriet was already snoring.
Arthur climbed into bed, found his foam earplugs, inserted them, then turned out the light and went to sleep.
*
He was dreaming he was conducting the New York Philharmonic, easing them through those tricky bars in the finale of Mahler’s 8th, the lead first violinist giving him her special smile, the entire audience holding its collective breath, when he heard …
Smash.
Glass breaking. In the real world.
He jolted awake; his eyes wide open in the pitch black and glanced at the glowing digits of the alarm clock.
Three o’clock in the morning.
Quickly he pulled the foam plugs from his ears, straining to hear the sounds of the house.
The click, tick, of the central heating, the radiators cooling. Outside, somewhere in the village, the faint sound of a car.
Next to him, the steady rise and fall of Harriet’s breathing. A slight snort.
Nothing unusual there.
But then — a thunk — a noise he recognised, the way you know all the sounds of your own house, a kind of audio map of the familiar.
And this — yes — the sound of the refrigerator closing.
There was no doubt. There was someone in the house .
Middle of the night … and there could only be one reason.
He gulped, aware now that his heart was racing. His breathing fast.
And damn, his mobile was downstairs somewhere, or he could have used it to call the police.
He thought quickly through other options.
Wake Harriet? No, she might say something loud, frighten the intruder, who knew what they might do if panicked?
Stay here, quietly, do nothing? No — what if they came upstairs looking for money, jewellery? Lying here — we’re way too vulnerable!
But what was the intruder doing? What was he after?
His guitar? But who steals a classical guitar?
His laptop? Maybe …
Damn . All the reports he’d been writing for the last two weeks, not backed up! That would be a disaster!
He sat up, then as quietly as he could, he swung himself out of bed. Tried to think if there was any kind of weapon in the bedroom. He ran his hand over the bedside cabinet. Nothing, except …
The hardback biography of Berlioz? Nearly two inches thick!
It’s heavy enough, he thought, picking it up. A regular brick of a book.
He almost laughed — a Berlioz biography employed as a weapon against an intruder! But then the fear quickly took over again. He pulled the cord on his pyjamas tight, then he crept out of the room — cautious about any creaks — and started slowly down the carpeted stairs, into the darkness.
As he did, he heard Harriet stir in the bedroom behind him and start to snore.
Much louder now!
*
At the bottom of the stairs, Arthur stopped, frozen, and listened hard as he looked around.
The hall was dark, but through the open doors of the sitting room and dining room he could see in the dim light from appliances on standby that those rooms were empty.
Nobody moving.
At least down here there were some more appropriate weapons. The umbrella stand held two umbrellas — and yes — Harriet’s Nordic Walking sticks, with pointy ends!
Those would be good for a solid thwack and a sharp poke.
He gently put down the Berlioz on the hall table, picked up the sticks — and then stepped slowly down the hall towards the back of the house.
The hard tiled floor so cold on his feet.
The door to the kitchen breakfast room was open. He stopped, breathed in deeply, and peered in.
Nobody there.
Phew. He had quick thought, a hopeful thought: could the intruder already be gone? Moving on to pastures greener than this obviously modest home?
On the kitchen counter by the fridge — he saw a half-full bottle of milk.
A bottle that hadn’t been there when he went to bed.
And worse. Just by the kitchen sink, a glass still with the milky film inside.
What? Somebody had broken in to steal the milk? That didn’t make any sense.
But then he finally heard another noise — from the back of the house.
From his study. He took a breath to steady himself.
He carried on walking, barely able to see in the pitch black, the Nordic walkers held in front of him as if he was an extra in a pirate movie.
Ahead, the study door was almost shut. But not quite.
And through the gap at the bottom of the door, he could see a flickering light: a phone light? Or a torch, maybe?
Now he could hear another familiar sound: a drawer being slowly shut, the old wood of his desk creaking as it slid home.
Whoever had broken in was clearly after more than just a pint of milk.
It was now or never. He was going to have to disturb them.
Startle the person! Send them scurrying!
After all, this was his house, wasn’t it? What kind of man just lets an intruder roam free in his own hallowed space? His castle!
He knew surprise was on his side. Whoever was in his study was not to know he was just a meek and mild music teacher. He could be a cop. Or a boxer. Or even a career criminal!
Although Arthur knew that on this sought-after, quiet, tree-lined Cherringham crescent of detached houses with well-tended gardens — there were no cops, boxers or criminals.
Just “the four Ms” as he liked to call them: middle class, middle management, middle of the road … and mums.
Arthur’s hands shook as they tightly grasped the Nordic sticks.
He had never felt fear like this.
He stepped close to the door, transferred the sticks to one hand, the other hand ready to turn on the study light, hopefully blind the burglar.
But then the door swung open on its own!
And Arthur could see nothing as a blinding light shone right in his face, and a hand thrust itself forward into his chest!
“Aagh!” he said, stumbling backwards down the hall.
In the reflected light from the long hall mirror he caught a glimpse of his assailant — a full, black woollen face mask, a bulky puffa coat, maybe dark jeans. And then a hand shoved him again, and the Nordic walkers — all akimbo — got caught in the spindles of the stairs and spun him round so he now fell backwards …
His head crashed against the hard, cold floor, and the darkness overwhelmed him.
2. Rehearsals
Sarah crossed the road from her office to the village hall, her score of the Messiah under her arm, knowing that she’d left it late to get to rehearsal.
Any minute now the church clock would strike seven — and if she was the last latecomer, she knew she would have to endure the walk of shame to the sopranos’ seats, with Mrs Procter, the choir leader, standing, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
How does the woman do it? thought Sarah. Makes me feel like I’m ten years old again!
And yet, Sarah knew that for this special year — with all her old-fashioned discipline — Mrs Procter had corralled this raggle-taggle bunch of amateurs, regulars and newcomers into what was beginning to sound like a cohesive singing force.
Sopranos, altos, tenors, basses — all singing above their weight, if that was the right term.
The challenges of the great Handel score being surmounted, one by one.
Yes, old Mrs Procter was fierce but she knew what she was doing.
“Cutting it fine, aren’t we, Sarah Edwards?” came a voice in the shadows. Sarah saw the burly figure of Pete Bull step into the light of the street lamp, a cloud of vape smoke billowing around him.
Pete — the best plumber in Cherringham, and a good friend — was a choir stalwart with a fine bass voice.
“Thought you’d given that nonsense up, Pete,” she said.
“Only way I can get through these rehearsals,” he said, then he nodded towards the upper windows. “Keep her busy, will you? Distract the enemy and I’ll try and slip in without her spotting me.”
“You’ll be lucky,” said Sarah, grinning, then she hurried past him towards the entrance, skirting round the village Christmas tree, its lights so festive, then into the hall, and up the grand wooden stairs to the rehearsal room.
Through the swing doors into the big upper hall, she saw with relief that most people hadn’t even taken their seats yet — everyone in groups, chattering away, the whole room unusually noisy.
Bullet dodged, she thought.
But this wasn’t the usual. She wondered what had happened. Mrs Procter was nothing if not absolutely punctual.
She walked over to the chairs lined up for the sopranos, where Beth, her old friend from pre-school days, was chatting to Becky Butterworth, one of the new singers.
“Must say, Sarah, you picked a good night to be late,” said Beth.
“What’s up?” said Sarah.
“You didn’t hear ?” said Becky. “Poor Arthur’s in hospital. Got attacked last night, he did. At death’s door apparently!”
“What?” said Sarah, shocked. “You mean Arthur Chisholm?”
Sarah knew Arthur from school, where he’d taught both of her children, Chloe and Daniel.
“Took on a burglar. Very nasty,” said Beth.
“Lucky if he lasts the night, that’s what I heard at Huffington’s this morning,” said Rosie, one of the sopranos, who stepped close to join their little group.
“Word is he won’t make it,” said another of the sopranos dramatically, stepping close.
“Oh pish-posh! I’m sure it’s not that serious,” said Jen Buckland, an alto, quickly offering her thoughts on the situation.
“Well, what does Jessica say?” asked Rosie, and Sarah saw the whole group pivot to look at the altos’ seats.
“She’s sure to know,” said Becky with a knowing smile.
Sarah felt there was some undercurrent here she was missing, but she knew that Jessica Moore taught alongside Arthur in the school music department. She could see the woman sitting to one side, head buried in her score.
“I haven’t asked her,” said Jen. “I’m sure the poor woman is upset enough about her colleague as it is, without being pestered for news at every turn.”
With that parting shot, Jen returned to the altos. Sarah took the chance to move away from the huddle. She never felt comfortable in this kind of gossipy set-up. And all this talk of someone she’d known for years … so distressing.
She looked across the sea of faces towards the far chairs where the basses and tenors were all gathered.
She wanted to talk to Jack — find out what had really happened.
She could see her father — her “recruiter” into the choir this year — and gave him a wave. With him, was his old friend Praveer, and some other familiar faces.
Simon Rochester, a slightly sleazy investment guy … but weren’t they all? Cedric Cauldwell who ran the local estate agents. Pete Butterworth, Becky’s husband.
The choir was really becoming a real village hub these days: but also, there were newcomers, just like her, that she hadn’t yet had a chance to get to know. Newcomers to Cherringham, some of them, she guessed.
Probably drawn by the exciting prospect of singing at the Albert Hall!
She hoped that on the coach journey to London she’d get to know more of them.
But, for now, still no sign of Jack. Until — ah yes — there he was, off to the side, nodding, chatting to their old friend the local solicitor Tony Standish.
Jack looked up and caught her eye. Smiled and gave her a wave, as if suggesting she join them, but then—
A crashingly loud chord from the piano, the sound reverberating in the high-ceilinged room.
Instant silence — as everybody looked over to the piano where Jen Buckland’s twin sister Joan sat, beaming at them all, clearly having enjoyed the effect of her keyboard interruption.
Sarah marvelled that Jen and Joan, remarkable women in their own right, also happened to be the centuries-old heirs operating the toll booth on the old stone bridge into Cherringham. The smallest of bridges, where one still had to pay a modest toll, as granted to the family by none other than Henry VIII so very long ago.
And standing next to Joan — as if the general of this army — Mrs Procter.
“There now, isn’t that better?” said the choir leader. “I can hear myself think at last! Places please!”
And instantly, Sarah saw this sixty-strong crowd of adults of all ages rush to their seats like naughty schoolchildren, pulling off heavy coats, dragging bottles of water and music scores from work bags, shopping bags — all chatter suddenly now at an end.
Mrs Procter walked over to a lectern and tapped her pencil on it.
All that was needed to get everyone’s attention.
“Of course — I understand. We’re all so saddened to hear the terrible news about Arthur. And that means, of course, that basses will have to work doubly hard to make up for his absence,” she said, her voice booming. “He was, as you are all aware, the best of the lot. But this rehearsal is neither the time nor the place to discuss it. You are here tonight to work .”
Sarah guessed, as the choir director paused a moment, that she wanted these last words to thoroughly sink in.
“After this evening, there are only two rehearsals left before we travel to London to sing this great oratorio. Two more, you hear? And, quite frankly, I am worried. Yes — deeply worried — that you are nowhere near the standard expected. And I fear that in comparison to some of the choirs who will be performing alongside you at the Royal Albert Hall on Saturday — you will be found wanting. Seriously wanting.”
Sarah watched Mrs Procter pause now, her eyes scanning the room, seeming to lock onto every singer, as if seeking out the guilty.
This was not a room for slackers !
No chattering now. Just silence — as the director let the ominous deadline register.
Sarah glanced across the room at Jack and caught his eye again. His face — so serious.
But then he winked at her, and she almost laughed out loud.
“I shall not tolerate any horseplay this week,” continued Mrs Procter ( Horseplay? had she spotted Sarah and Jack? ), “nor will I put up with lateness, lost scores or absenteeism. We may be an amateur choir but I expect completely professional attitudes and behaviour. Now, on your feet please.”
Like soldiers coming to attention, Sarah saw the whole room obey, chairs scraping on the wooden floor. Then silence again, and Mrs Procter turned to Joan Buckland at the piano.
“We will start with some scales, blow this dreadful December night air from your lungs. And then we shall attempt a run-through — without stopping — of ‘All We Like Sheep Have Gone Astray’. I am sure you will agree, a particularly appropriate chorus with which to begin this evening.”
As Joan gave them the first note of their scale, Sarah tried hard to concentrate, while thinking: W hat happened to poor Arthur Chisholm?
*
Jack stood by the tea urn at the end of the hall, chatting to Steve Mallory, one of the basses who, like him, was a newcomer to the choir.
Always good to meet new people in the village. In some ways it made him feel even more bonded to the place after all these years. Cherringham was really his home now — much more than New York.
He saw Sarah thread her way through to collect her “half-time” beverage.
“You’re an angel,” she said, as he handed her a cup and a cookie and watched her take a sip of the tea.
“Not sure I sing like one,” he said, picking up his cup as they moved away from the queue to a quieter corner. “Was catching some sharp glances from our fearless leader.”
“Well, you’d better shape up, eh, Mr Brennan? We here in the Cherringham Choir expect nothing less than your very best!” said Sarah. “And you can be sure our leader won’t settle for anything but.”
“You got that right. She’s tougher than any sergeant I had back on the beat in Brooklyn,” said Jack.
“Wow, Jack — you used to be a cop?” said Steve. “NYPD?”
“Ha, for my sins, yes,” said Jack. “Long since retired.”
Then he turned to Sarah. “Oh, Sarah — meet Steve — seems we’re all three of us newbies.”
“Nice to talk to you at last,” said Steve. “Think I recognise you from the high street — I work in the newsagents opposite your office.”
“Ah, right, thought I knew you,” said Sarah. “You enjoying the choir?”
“It’s great. Love it.”
“You been in a choir before?” said Sarah.
“Only at school, back in London,” said Steve. “These days, I sing a bit, but that’s just me and a guitar. Thought this would be a good way to meet people. Get a sense of belonging, y’know?”
Jack saw him shoot a glance to where Mrs Procter was reviewing things at the piano with Joan.
“But, I gotta say, it’s tough too.”
“Tell me about it,” said Jack, smiling.
“You coping with our leader okay?” said Sarah.
“Phew. Guess so — she is something, isn’t she?” said Steve, laughing. “It does do the trick though. Think we sounded pretty good just now, don’t you? Better each time!”
“I’ve nothing to compare,” said Sarah. “I hope so — don’t want to let her down at the big concert.”
“I’m sure we’re all doing fine,” said Jack, taking a bite of his own cookie. He watched as one of the other new basses, Baz Romford came over to Steve and they started chatting.
Then he gently steered Sarah away from the queue.
“Um, you heard about Arthur, I assume?” he said.
“I did ,” said Sarah. “Relying on you to tell me what happened — lot of wild gossip going round. Uninformed, I hope.”
“Was chatting to Tony just now,” said Jack, and, as if on cue, the venerable lawyer came over.
“Sarah,” he said, giving her a kiss on both cheeks.
Jack knew that Sarah loved Tony’s old-school charm — and the affection from Tony was long-standing. And totally reciprocated.
“We were talking about Arthur,” said Sarah. “I gather you know the latest?”
“Yes. I dropped in on his wife, Harriet, just now before the rehearsal,” said Tony. “Arthur’s still unconscious, but stable apparently, in the Radcliffe Hospital. She was with him all day, but she’s going to stay the night at home, get some sleep.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” said Sarah. “So he’s not in danger?”
“Past the tricky part, so he should be fine,” said Tony. “He took a nasty bang to the head, but they don’t anticipate any surgery or complications. Keeping him in for observation. I imagine there’ll be tests, but, fingers crossed, they’ll send him home very soon.”
“Any idea what happened?” said Sarah.
“Seems he disturbed a burglar in the middle of the night. Harriet heard a crash, went downstairs, found him in the hall. Completely out! Front door open, study turned over.”
“She know what was taken?” said Jack.
“She said that she can’t know, not for sure, until Arthur’s home. She thinks his laptop, bag, money perhaps. But not much of great value.”
“So — Alan thinks it’s just an opportunistic theft?” said Sarah.
Alan Rivers — the local Cherringham police officer — was another friend.
But Jack had to admit — not always the sharpest when it came to investigating crime. Fortunately, he’d come to value Jack and Sarah’s help when they provided it.
“So, it would seem. That’s what he has concluded, I believe. He’s doing the usual round of questioning.”
“Guess we all know it happens, even in Cherringham,” said Jack. “Usually drugs related, people desperate for cash for their morning fix. And if that’s the case, likely someone not from around here, already moved on.”
“Absolutely,” said Tony. “But in this case, Jack, I’m not so sure. Couple of things Harriet told me, well … they don’t quite add up.”
“Such as?” said Sarah.
“Dear me, I’m no investigator,” said Tony, smiling. “But … why rob that modest house? Good lord, a music teacher? Must be better prospects. And other bits she said … Anyway, some of the choir clubbed together for some flowers for Harriet and I was going to pick them up tomorrow and pop over to see her.”
Tony lowered his voice. Took a step closer.
“But, it occurs to me, perhaps you two could do the honours? And kill two birds with one stone? Deliver the flowers and set my mind at rest. Have a little chat with Harriet in the morning?”
Jack looked at Sarah. “Sure. Soon as it’s light, I’ll give Riley a good long run — he never lets me dodge that! Then, apart from listening to disc two of the Messiah for the hundredth time while I put some new shelves up on the boat — I’m pretty free. How about you?”
“Well, this close to Christmas most of our work’s done and dusted, so Chloe can look after the office,” she said. “Why don’t I pick you up first thing, Jack?”
“Sounds good,” he said, then he heard Mrs Procter’s voice.
“Break’s over, everyone!” she called. “Back to Part One now for ‘His Yoke is Easy’, then we’ll finish up tonight with the rousing ‘Hallelujah Chorus’. And please remember, sopranos? I do not want to hear people straining for those top notes!”
“Well, that’s you told,” said Jack, pausing for a moment, as Tony nodded a goodbye and returned to the tenor seats.
“Just you wait, Jack,” said Sarah. “She’ll be coming for the tenors, next.”
“For sure,” he said, grinning.
But Mrs Procter hadn’t quite finished.
“Two quick housekeeping announcements while you’re getting ready,” she said. “First — I’m still waiting for payment from some of you for the coach to London on Saturday. You do know who you are, hmm? And, secondly, may I remind you that the Messiah scores we are using are the property of the Cherringham choir. Some of them are the original scores we purchased for the village Millennial Concert more than twenty years ago! Unlike some of you that I see before me, they do not date, but they are extremely costly to replace. At least twenty pounds each! Now, this year I am very sad to report that we have already lost three scores! Three! How is that possible? I have no idea! So please, please, take care of them. I shall collect them from you on the coach home from London by the way. They are all numbered and I have your names, so I will charge you! Right. Places please, on my signal Joan!”
“Catch you after the rehearsal?” said Jack, turning to go back to the tenors
“Sorry — gotta rush off, pick up Daniel from work,” said Sarah. “But nine at your boat, yes?”
“See you then,” said Jack, and he hurried to his place, picked up his score from his seat, and found his focus as Joan played the introduction.
3. A Niggling Doubt
Sarah stood with Jack on the doorstep of number five Wren Crescent, the fresh bouquet of flowers in her arms, while Jack pressed the doorbell.
“Very nice little street,” said Jack turning to look at the other houses, their neat front gardens lined with trees. “All tucked away. Haven’t been down here before.”
“Nearly bought a place here when we moved,” said Sarah. “But soon as I saw the cottage on the river it was a no-brainer.”
The door opened — and Sarah instantly recognised the woman who stood there as a regular behind the counter at the Olde Gifte Shoppe in the village.
“Harriet?” said Sarah.
The woman nodded, looking confused by the flowers.
“Oh — the choir chipped in for these — thought they might be cheery here, or at the hospital while Arthur recovers?” said Sarah.
“Oh — right, yes,” said Harriet. “Tony texted to say someone would drop by. Sorry — I’m a bit all over the place this morning.”
“I’m sure,” said Jack. “I’m Jack Brennan, by the way and this is Sarah Edwards.”
“Sarah … yes, we’ve met. Oh yes — you two, yes, Tony said I should talk to you. About what happened. Come in, please — sorry, leaving you out here in the cold, that wind’s bitter isn’t it!”
She stepped back, Jack and Sarah went in, and Harriet closed the door behind them.
“How is Arthur this morning?” said Sarah.
“Oh, he’s much better,” said Harriet. “I spoke to the ward first thing.”
“Good! You must be so relieved,” said Sarah, handing the flowers to the woman.
“I am. The other night when I found him — just there where you’re standing, actually — well, to be honest, I thought … I thought he’d gone. So scary, you know.”
Sarah looked down at the parquet flooring. Harriet had clearly cleaned up, but there was still a sinister stain in the wood.
“We only just had that floor laid, you know,” said Harriet. “Cost a fortune. Isn’t it always the way?”
Sarah wasn’t sure how to respond, so she just smiled and nodded.
“Tony said there was something a bit odd about the break-in,” said Jack. “Sounded as though you weren’t sure the police understood that?”
“Absolutely,” said Harriet. “Come through and I’ll make you a coffee and explain.”
They followed her into the kitchen and waited while she quickly cut the bottoms off the flowers, put them in a simple glass vase, made the coffee and poured them a mug each.
“So, perhaps best to start … how did the burglar gain entry?” said Jack.
“Back door,” said Harriet. “Broke a pane of glass, reached in and turned the handle, I suppose.”
“And do you have any idea what was taken?” said Sarah, sipping her coffee.
“I do now,” said Harriet. “As far as I can tell it was just stuff in Arthur’s study.”
“He teaches, right?” said Jack, taking his mug.
“Head of Music at Cherringham High. Been there for years .”
“Taught my kids,” said Sarah. She saw Harriet nod, as if that was just to be expected.
“So then — what did the burglar take?” said Jack.
“Nothing in here, or the sitting room, as far as I can tell. I think Arthur must have disturbed them in the study. He was carrying my walking sticks! Silly man …”
Again, Sarah didn’t say anything: she knew shock could affect people in the strangest ways.
“They made a right mess in there,” said Harriet. “I’ll show you.”
She spun around and went out and down the hall. Sarah shrugged at Jack and they followed her, into a room that was clearly the study — or at least, had been.
It was a mess. Drawers emptied, tipped out. Files everywhere, papers.
“I’ve not even begun to tidy,” said Harriet. “Later perhaps …”
“What did the police say when they saw this?” said Sarah.
“Said it looked like a typical druggy break-in. Not planned — just hoping for something shiny to grab and get out quick.”
“And can you tell what’s missing?” said Jack.
“Oh yes. Some of it, at least. Our digital camera, that’s pretty expensive. Some euros for our trip to Tenerife in the New Year. Arthur’s laptop. Oh, and his briefcase.”
“Briefcase?” said Jack. “That have anything valuable in it?”
“The sixth form assessments — and they’re only valuable to Arthur. He will be distraught — he’d just marked them!”
“But nothing else?” said Sarah.
Harriet shook her head. “Not as far as I can tell. Of course, Arthur might notice some other things.”
“Right. Guessing they probably took the briefcase to put the laptop in,” said Jack.
“Tony said you mentioned something a bit odd, though,” said Sarah.
“Well, yes,” said Harriet, turning and heading back to the kitchen.
Again, they followed her as she walked over to the fridge and opened it.
“Whoever broke in took out this milk bottle, right here — and poured themselves a glass of milk!”
Sarah looked to Jack — he had tons more experience than her when it came to break-ins.
“Fits the pattern,” he said. “You’d be surprised how often burglars help themselves to some quick food and drink from the fridge.”
“That’s exactly what that policeman said. But how many search the cupboards until they find a glass, pour the milk, then carefully put that glass by the sink?”
Now that is odd, thought Sarah.
“Maybe Arthur had a drink earlier in the evening?” said Jack.
“No. Arthur has a dairy allergy,” said Harriet.
Sarah could see Jack puzzling over this.
“You know what?” he said. “It is kinda strange. Almost as if …”
“As if someone was trying to make the break-in look exactly like a random affair?” said Sarah turning to Jack.
“Really? Not sure I understand what you mean. Why do that?” said Harriet.
Sarah looked at Jack. By now, guessing he’d be thinking the same thing.
They’d been doing this together … that long.
“To hide what were they really after?” said Sarah.
“Who knows?” said Harriet. “Soon as Arthur’s up to it, I shall ask him. Perhaps he’s been keeping a secret stash of money in there? Perhaps there are incriminating photos of him? Perhaps he’s being blackmailed? Perhaps someone’s got it in for him?”
Sarah looked at Jack. Harriet was suddenly jumping to a lot of rather surprising conclusions.
As if she didn’t know her husband at all well.
Or maybe — she knew him only too well?
Maybe there was something strange going on here?
She waited for Harriet to say more, but the woman just sat silently. She turned to Jack again, gave the slightest of shrugs — a coded message, for … time to leave?
“Well, I don’t think there’s anything more we can do now,” said Jack, putting down his coffee and reaching for his coat.
“No?” said Harriet.
“No. But it’s definitely worth asking Arthur if there was anything else of value in there,” said Jack. “Do let us know what he says.”
“So, you agree?” said Harriet. “That there’s something not right here?”
“Right now, I neither agree nor disagree,” said Jack. “Guess we just need some more facts. In the meantime, I very much doubt you will get a repeat visit from the intruder. But I would keep the doors locked at all times.”
Harriet stared at them both, and Sarah wondered what she was really thinking. There was something odd here. Maybe it was just Harriet’s relationship with her husband.
“Yes, right, well I’ll make sure to do that,” said Harriet. “Please do thank everybody in the choir for the flowers. Whose idea was it, by the way?”
“I … don’t think we know,” said Sarah, wondering at the reason for the question.
“Hmm. No matter,” said Harriet. “I’ll see you out.”
*
“So, what do you think?” said Sarah as they walked back into the centre of the village, where Sarah had parked, coats wrapped tight against the icy wind.
“I dunno,” said Jack. “That milk thing? It is sort of strange. Certainly doesn’t fit the haphazard drug user, looking for money for a quick fix.”
“So maybe Arthur’s got some kind of secret worth stealing?”
“That what you reckon?”
“No, I don’t actually,” said Sarah, laughing. “But our teacher’s wife seems to think so.”
“Yep. Tell you — that seems one very odd relationship, for sure.”
“I know. Her talk of a secret stash? Blackmail? Enemies?”
“Who knows,” said Jack. “Maybe she just reads too many crime stories.”
“So, no reason to go shake up Alan Rivers and ask him to get serious?”
“I don’t think so. Not on that slender evidence.”
As they turned the corner onto the High Street, the wind blew even harder and Sarah pulled her woolly hat tight.
“Coffee at Huffington’s?” she said.
“You bet. I want to ask you whether I really do need to rent a tux for this show on Saturday.”
“Oh — that’s an interesting question. Maybe you can advise me on what I should wear too? Has to be blue, apparently.”
“Deal,” said Jack. “Come on, I’m freezing.”
And she linked arms with him as they both leaned in against the wind, and crossed the road to their favourite café, the Christmas lights across the High Street swinging and rattling in the icy gusts.
4. Crime Wave
Jack parked in the High Street right next to the Christmas tree by the village hall, grabbed his music bag and climbed out of the MG.
Too cold tonight to walk up to rehearsals from the boat — and he didn’t plan on going for a drink after — so just a couple of hours and he’d be home in front of that stove, with Riley at his feet, single malt in hand.
He took in the festive Cherringham scene for a moment: Christmas lights slung between all the stores, decorations in the windows; the big tree all lit up, the street sparkling with frost.
Coat pulled tight, he took the steps of the hall, went inside and up to the rehearsal room.
*
As soon as Jack entered the room he stopped in his tracks. Everyone on their feet, talking — and he could see two groups of people, each in a circle, as if all were listening intently to someone.
Mrs Procter stood in the front, at her post, near Joan Buckland — standing rigid as if she simply had to wait for whatever was happening to pass.
Jack spotted Sarah racing over to him, with Tony Standish not far behind.
She took his arm and guided him, not into the sea of assorted choir members, all talking and gesturing, but towards the back of the hall.
As soon as they were well away from the throng, Jack said, “What’s going on?”
“Jack,” Sarah said. “Last night there were two more break-ins.”
“What?”
Tony nodded to confirm the unexpected news.
“Steve Mallory and Simon Rochester.”
“So, three members of the choir broken into in two days,” said Sarah.
“Guess we called this wrong,” said Jack. “Thinking it was just a one-off.”
Tony cleared his throat. “Jack, Sarah shared your chat with Harriet. Seems to me, there’s something very odd going on here.”
Jack scanned the room.
He could see that there was one group surrounding young Steve, who was clearly talking about his break-in, while another group stood with Simon Rochester.
Knowing Simon, Jack guessed that the finance guy was not dealing with this very well at all.
“Any details?”
Sarah nodded. “A few. Not much. Steve’s flat was apparently hit during our practice last night.”
“Interesting,” Jack said. “And Simon?”
“Seems his occurred later. Simon was actually at home, in bed. Heard the burglar, but he was good and gone by the time Simon got to his phone and called the police.”
“Must have been frightening,” Jack said.
Then he looked at Tony. He knew the lawyer felt a special sense of protectiveness about not only the village but those who lived here. It was, Jack thought, one of Tony’s most endearing qualities.
And he had no shortage of those.
“I’m sure Alan will get onto this,” said Tony. “Probably call in some help. But still—”
Jack knew that Tony didn’t have to add that, well, Alan doing his best? Maybe not something to give one hope.
“No worries, Tony. Sarah and I will look into things. Got to tell you … it’s definitely beyond strange.”
“So, what do you think, Sarah?” Jack said, turning to her. “Try to corral Steve and Simon after practice?”
But she quickly shook her head.
“No. Don’t think so. Everyone chattering away? Hard for us to ask any meaningful questions.”
“Yeah. You’re right. How about we ask after practice if we can speak to them first thing in the morning? Take a look at their places, how the thief got in?”
“And what was taken?”
“Oh yes. That too. Imagine Simon in that big fancy house of his, no shortage of valuable things to steal. But can’t imagine Steve would have much at all.”
“And yet,” Sarah said slowly, “they were both hit.”
“Putting quite a damper on our preparations for the big Messiah ,” said Jack.
“Indeed,” said Tony. “But I’m so very reassured you two will look into things. I feel better al—”
But that was cut off by Mrs Procter suddenly signalling Joan to play her distinctive and rousing discordant chord — and, well-trained, the chattering groups stopped and Mrs Procter’s voice was the only one heard.
“Members of the Cherringham choir! I understand that we are all upset at the unfortunate events that seem, now, to be plaguing our little group. But we cannot — and I will not — allow that to interfere with the great strides we have made, and will make. So then, with matters I am sure in the capable hands of the proper authorities …” She paused as if the next words were a call to battle. “Places, please! And to begin, in your scores, ‘For Unto Us, a Child is Born’ …”
Like the well-trained army that she had moulded them into, everyone went to their chairs according to their vocal group, the hubbub dying down.
Sarah drifted back to the sopranos section, while Tony walked with Jack to the tenors.
And the rehearsal began as if nothing really untoward had happened at all.
While Jack kept thinking the entire session: What exactly is going on here?
*
The rehearsal ended later than normal — Mrs Procter not letting the last section go until it had all the emphasis she wanted in precisely the right places. The consonants clear, a crisp staccato … and all sounding pretty thrilling, Jack thought.
Wonderful … Counsellor! The Mighty God!
But when it was over, many members continued to hover around Steve Mallory and Simon Rochester.
Jack wondered, with three people in the choir now having been robbed, was everyone starting to get a little on edge ?
He imagined that doors would be double-checked tonight, duly locked tight, windows as well.
Phones kept close by bedstands.
But finally, people started drifting out, in small groups, perhaps preferring to stick together as they made their way back to their cars or the nearby lanes.
Sarah stood beside him.
“Shall we see if we can get a meeting with them all set?” Jack said.
“Right.”
And now Jack led the way to Steve, who was finally standing on his own, packing up his bag.
Jack was fast. “Steve, you think Sarah and I could have a quick word? Tomorrow morning? Perhaps before you head off to work?”
The young man seemed surprised at the request.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t quite understand.”
Of course, Jack thought. Being relatively new to Cherringham, Steve wouldn’t know that he and Sarah had gained a reputation for what they would call … looking into things.
“I know,” said Jack. “I should explain. Sarah and I sometimes do a little … investigating, here in Cherringham. Me being a cop, back in the day, you know? Kinda help out the local force with things like this.”
“Oh, right ,” said Steve. “Hey, that’s cool! A New York cop hunting down my burglar! Can’t wait to see you make the arrest!”
“Well, not sure it always works out like that,” said Jack, smiling, “but we can maybe dig around a little.”
“I’ve already got a lead,” said Steve. “Baz reckons it’s one of the other local choirs, trying to sabotage us!”
“Maybe,” said Sarah, laughing. “Though, not sure the local choral world is quite that cut-throat!”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” said Steve, laughing too. “So, where we going to do the interview, guys?”
“Perhaps your place?” Sarah said. “Quick look around?”
“Oh, right, sure. I’ve got a little flat on Quarry Road, 5a.”
Jack nodded. “Yup. Know the street. See you tomorrow.”
“My morning shift at the newsagents starts at six though,” said Steve. “I’m home by eleven — that work?”
“No problem,” said Jack, relieved not to have to get up too early in the cold dark of a winter’s morning.
“See you then … officer ,” said Steve, with a big grin, picking up his bag and heading out.
Jack watched him go.
“Think you’re going to have to play up the ‘Noo York cop’ stuff, Jack,” said Sarah. “Badge and night stick, maybe?”
Jack laughed. Even after all these years, his past life in Brooklyn was still fascinating to some in the village.
He turned to see that Simon Rochester had started making his way out, still attended by some of the curious singers, flocking around. Sarah shot him a look and hurried over.
“Simon … Simon …?”
The banker stopped and looked at Sarah, his eyes owl-like.
“Er, yes?”
“Can Jack and I have a word with you tomorrow morning? About your burglary?”
“Well, I don’t know. Busy day, meetings throughout. Even a petty burglary doesn’t stop things, least in my world.”
Yup, thought Jack, joining them. That’s Simon.
Jack added: “We’ll be fast, a few details. These break-ins … kinda odd, you know? Anything we can learn could help.”
“Right. Very well, then, no later than 9am sharp. My office is—”
But Sarah quickly shook her head. “Best we meet where the crime was committed?”
“ Really ? Oh well, if you must. Then even earlier, I’d suggest. Say half past eight?”
Sarah nodded, smiled.
“And Jack, I think you know where I live …?” said Simon.
“I do indeed,” said Jack, remembering a case a few years back that had involved a visit to Simon Rochester’s apartment outside the village.
And with that, Simon made his way out of the hall.
Jack stood with Sarah as the last stragglers packed up and left; Mrs Procter and Joan Buckland already bundled up against the cold, joining them.
“So,” Sarah said. “We done? Early morning start looming?”
“Could be. Or, maybe before we chat to those two tomorrow, how about back to The Grey Goose ? I’ll get Riley out for his night-time walk? And we talk a bit?”
“Chilly night.”
“Ah, we’ll be just fine. We do some of our best thinking when walking, no?”
“And freezing?”
And he laughed as they finally left the village hall.
*
Riley had just bolted off deep into the darkness of the meadow, the grass icy and brown — winter was taking hold.
Sarah heard the path under their feet crunching as they walked.
Despite the cold, Jack had been right to suggest a walk by the river, away from the other boats, simply talking over things.
Always good.
Maybe not as good as having a pint in the heated confines of the Ploughman’s, or a late dinner at the Spotted Pig, but it always felt good to be with Jack.
“So, what are you thinking, Sarah?”
They had stopped, having strolled away from the gentle lights of the boats; the night moonless but the sky crystal clear, so the stars sparkled. The air had turned even chillier, their breathing producing small clouds.
“First, let’s admit the strangeness of it all.”
“Amen.”
“I mean, three choir members robbed?”
“More specifically, three basses .”
“You’re right. Maybe someone has a problem with the deeper male register?”
Jack laughed as well. “Anything’s possible.”
“But seriously, Jack. There has to be a link, no?”
“I agree. Doesn’t seem random. So, what’s the possible motive?”
“Someone trying to sabotage the choir?” said Sarah. “Like Steve suggested?”
“More likely trying to rattle the choir, maybe? But I don’t even buy that.”
“Okay, so perhaps malice involved? A grudge? Revenge attack on choir members? For some yet unknown reason.”
“Disgruntled singer, you think?” said Jack. Then he laughed. “Hey, maybe someone who got turned down by Mrs Procter?”
“As far as I know — nobody’s ever been turned away from the Cherringham choir. Our leader believes she can whip anyone into proper singing shape!”
“Ha, that explains how I got in,” said Jack, laughing again.
“Me too,” said Sarah, joining him.
“Okay, so let’s forget that as a motive. What gets me is that strange thing — why just the basses?”
“Hmm — maybe just coincidence?” said Sarah.
“You know me and my theory about coincidences.”
“Like in most cases, there aren’t any?”
“Right! Anyway, we’ll know the truth of that if a soprano gets broken into next.”
“You thinking … more robberies to come?”
“Could be. Until the thief finally gets what he wants?”
“Or she,” Sarah said.
“You’re right — or she .”
“Okay, so the plan tomorrow …?”
“First, see how the person broke in. Check what’s missing with Steve and Simon.”
“That reminds me,” said Sarah, “if Arthur comes home from hospital tomorrow, we can get a proper list from him of what was taken.”
“Oh yes,” Jack said. “What was stolen? How it was stolen? Then maybe the big question: ‘why’? Tell you, in all my time working cases? Never had anything quite like this.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Glad we can trailblaze together. Facing the unknown.”
And again Jack laughed.
Riley came racing out of the darkness, speeding like he was going to crash into them.
Such a good dog, Sarah thought. She couldn’t imagine Jack without him.
They turned back to walk towards The Grey Goose . It was getting late, and they had an early morning on their schedule.
“Maybe,” she said, “after tomorrow we may have some idea of what the connection might be.”
“One can hope,” he said, looking at her. His face barely catching the distant lights from the river barges. “Come on — I’ll give you a lift home.”
Sarah nodded and — since, well, the ground was uneven in its frozen state — she again linked arms with him as they walked back.
5. The Crime Scenes
Jack looked around the elegant hallway of the grand apartment in Mead End House where Simon Rochester lived.
Jack had driven out to the stuccoed Georgian manor house a few years back, on one of his first Cherringham “cases” with Sarah.
