Jack had never noticed the small roadside pub that sat just about halfway between Cherringham and Bourton-on-the-Water. And as he slowed to take the sharp turn into the Wheatsheaf’s car park, he saw a small blackboard outside promoting “Our Famous Pasties — Fresh Daily”.
Suppose the “fresh daily” is a good thing, Jack thought.
Though he had learned, especially when wandering far afield from his own village, that dining at local pubs could definitely be a hit or miss operation.
Quite often, the latter.
He stopped his MG. Only a scattering of cars in the lot, and none that he felt would fit Mr Ted Ross, successful developer of upscale hotels and restaurants.
As he killed the engine, he looked at his watch. Just before 1pm, the agreed upon meeting time. And this place — chosen rather vociferously by Ross.
“We’re not meeting in my home or in my damn village, you hear me?”
Hence, this pub, off the beaten track, perhaps a stopover for people doing a trek from Gloucester, taking the scenic route.
Time passes — things change, thought Jack.
The Big English highways — the A’s, as he thought of them — now indistinguishable from their American cousins with their giant rest stops with McDonalds and shops selling everything from air fresheners to pain-killers for a rough night.
Roads like this, places like this … left by the wayside, literally.
So, Jack sat, and waited.
Thinking: Ross better show.
Because Jack had a lot of questions …
*
Sarah entered the Bell Hotel lobby, glad to see a familiar face behind the front desk, a girl named Jennie. A year or two behind Chloe, but someone Sarah knew from previous visits to the hotel and all those school pickups back in the day.
Jennie smiled as Sarah walked up.
“Mrs Edwards — good to see you!”
“You too, Jennie,” Sarah answered, deciding to make a bit of small talk before she asked the girl to violate the hotel’s privacy rules.
“How’s the family — mum, dad? You have a little sister, right?”
Jennie continued beaming, either not aware that Sarah was about to ask something of her, or not caring.
“Oh, yes, they’re all good. Me, I’m taking a year here, you know, not exactly a gap year. Need to save up some money before, well, uni and all that.”
At that, Sarah smiled. “University’s expensive. Good thinking, working a bit first.”
Sarah glanced around. The lobby was empty, save for a man in a suit, newspaper open, looking as if he might be waiting for someone to arrive for a meeting, or a taxi to whisk him away somewhere important.
“Say, Jennie, I wonder if you might help me? There’s someone you have staying here …”
Jennie’s eyes narrowed a bit at that, the young girl shifting from her bubbly, chatty mode, to now being attentive to Sarah’s request.
“His name’s Callum Ross.”
No nod of confirmation from the girl.
One thing I’ll say for the hotel, thought Sarah. Seems like they’ve trained their employees to be circumspect.
At least so far …
“Do you happen to know if he’s in his room, or where …?”
With the quickest of looks around, Jennie apparently made a decision. And leaned forward, ready to share a bit of information.
“Right now — he’s where he spends a lot of his time, Mrs Edwards.”
A nod to the bar in the back. “Always with the laptop open, earbuds in. Think he uses it like an office or something.” Then, voice even lower: “Saw him go in there a while back. And not come out. I imagine he’s still there.”
Sarah reached out and patted the girl’s hand.
“Thanks. Big help. Say ‘hi’ to your parents for me.”
“Will do.”
Sarah turned and headed back to the Bell Hotel’s lounge. Just a few years back this place had been a gloomy den, filled with dark wood, and opaque stained-glass windows.
Then new management took over, fitted out the hotel with lots of pastels, bare wood, shabby chic, comfy sofas.
Standard Cotswolds look, she thought, bought by the yard.
She scanned the busy room for Callum Ross.
*
Jack watched as a silver Lexus slowed on the highway, then turned into the parking lot and pulled up, sliding neatly into a vacant space near his old MG.
The two cars looked as if they came from different worlds.
Which — to a very real extent — they had.
Out came Ted Ross, leather jacket unzipped, plaid cap on his balding head. Blue gingham shirt that, thanks to the open jacket, revealed his barrel chest, looking ready to bulge and pop the buttons on the shirt.
Ross wasted no time on pleasantries.
“Brennan?”
Jack nodded.
“We’ll sit outside. Nice enough. Half a bitter work for you?”
Jack wasn’t one to have the casual lunchtime beer. But, when in Rome.
“Sure.”
But as Jack started to follow Ross, the man barked out instructions. Probably used to doing that, managing big projects in the country.
“Grab a table, I’ll get the beers.” Then, with a hint of sarcasm, “For our little chat.”
Jack walked to one of the tables that looked across a field — now ploughed after harvest — leading to a trio of hills dotted with trees, the sun indeed still warm.
After a couple of minutes, Ross came hurrying out of the pub, spry and fast for, as Jack guessed, someone in their mid-sixties.
He put one beer in front of Jack and quickly hoisted a big slug of his own.
“Now what the hell do you want to talk to me about? And why?”
*
Sarah walked into the lounge, tables dotted with people eating lunch, and a few people — smart-casual as befitted the Bell’s clientele — standing at the bar. The murmur of voices low.
Callum Ross sat on a deep sofa by French windows in a corner — alone.
She walked beside the man, eyes looking down at the screen of his MacBook, white headphones in, oblivious to anything else … and Sarah standing feet away.
“Callum Ross?” she said, louder than she liked but to be heard over noise-blocking wireless earbuds.
Callum heard her.
His face pinched. Eyes looking cautious. Hands poised over the keyboard of the laptop, frozen as those same eyes scanned Sarah up and down.
He cleared his throat. He removed one earbud.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
Hoping to cut the mood here, Sarah smiled and said: “I hope so …”
*
Ted Ross shook his head, face red, not bothering to hide his anger.
“It’s that bastard Syms. Stirring things up. Rabble rouser, that’s what he is. Private enterprise terrorist.”
Ross was making quick work of his beer, Jack saw. Now he levelled a finger at Jack’s face. “And you’re here, because you think I had something to do with what happened to him the other night?”
Jack didn’t know what to make of this dramatic display. Ross loudly protesting way too much, under the crisp fall sky, out of earshot of any of the Wheatsheaf’s patrons, who, based on the empty car park, were few.
“Look, Mr Ross,” Jack said, with a bit of a smile, doing what he could to calm the man down, “Ralph Syms was attacked. With a knife. That everyone knows.”
“Then let the damn police find who did it! Doesn’t give you the right to come tracking me down, asking your questions.”
Jack thought: I actually haven’t had much of a chance to ask any yet.
But he held that back.
Jack nodded as if to convey understanding, maybe even agreement.
“Sarah Edwards and I were asked by the head of the Village Council, Carl Coleman, and another member, to look into what happened. They want things to move forward, one way or the other.” Jack left that statement purposely vague. “As do you, I’m sure. But something like this attack on Syms? Well, could change everything, right? The big vote coming up, and all.”
The words — logical, and basically true — seemed to have their calming effect.
“So, a few questions, okay?”
Ross looked away, but — Jack guessed — with the mention of voting local council members, and their concerns, the man would now cooperate.
And talk.
He turned back to Jack. The crimson of his face lowered a shade or two.
A nod.
“Very well, then,” Jack said, taking out his notebook, carefully folding open a new page. “First off, ever run across Ralph Syms before?”
He saw a flicker of surprise at the direct question.
The bowling-ball head, with its scant grey hair on the sides and a dusting of fuzz on top, shook back and forth.
“Heard of him? Sure. Who hasn’t? And I’ll tell you — whoever paid him his bloody money, knew what they were getting.”
“But you’ve never come up against him before?”
“He’d know about it if I did,” said Ross, slamming his empty glass down on the table. “Drink up. I’ll get you another.”
“I’m good,” said Jack, frustrated that the interview was stalling.
He watched as Ross picked up his glass and headed back to the pub.
Underneath all that bluster, Ross is hiding something.