Jack found a place to park his little Sprite on the edge of Bourton and walked through to the centre.
Second-prettiest village, Sarah had said — and maybe that was true.
But it was the most crowded for sure. This time of year, Jack could hardly see the cafés and gift stores for the milling crowds of tourists.
He threaded his way through the visitors, looking for Tim Simpson’s insurance office which his secretary, Miriam, had said was on the High Street.
The name: “Rogers and Partners, International”.
Jack looked for a brass plate, expecting something pretty respectable with a name like that.
But when he reached the right street number — he saw it was just another gift shop.
He went in anyway, and asked the young woman behind the counter who was dealing single-handedly with what looked like a whole coachload of Chinese visitors.
Barely looking at him, she pointed to an open staircase in the corner of the store.
Not terribly grand.
He climbed the stairs and emerged in an open, shabby office area with two or three desks — the place empty as far as he could see.
“Hello?” he said. “Anybody home?”
He saw a door open at one end of the office, and a woman appeared. In her late forties, flowery old-fashioned dress, tired-looking and — it seemed to Jack — flustered to find someone in the office.
“Oh — so sorry — did you have an appointment? Who are you? Only look — um, I’m really sorry — but you see, there’s nobody in the diary — in fact to be honest there’s nobody here — other than me. Are you here to see Mr Rogers?”
The whole speech came out in a rush.
“Miriam — that right?”
“Well … yes.”
Jack saw her blush. Her hair seemed somehow to have come undone and she brushed it out of her eyes, then tried to pin it back without success.
He stepped forward, held out his hand.
“I’m Jack Brennan — we spoke on the phone? And I’m so sorry if just turning up like this is a problem — I was passing through and thought it might be worth stopping by.”
“Oh yes. Of course. You had an appointment with … Tim. Not in my diary, as I mentioned, but … er, Tim, he … um—”
He saw her swallowing hard as if saying the name was an ordeal — then she burst into tears, and fled to the far corner of the office.
Well. Something was going on here.
Jack walked over: she was bent down on the other side of a desk, scrabbling in one of the drawers for something.
Back in the States, Jack might have been concerned about what she was going to pull out — but he felt pretty confident that, here in the Cotswolds, secretaries didn’t usually keep handguns taped under the desk.
“Miriam — I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” she snuffled, finally pulling out some paper handkerchiefs and wiping her eyes and nose. “Not your fault. It’s me. Silly me.”
Jack waited while she seemed to compose herself.
“God I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. Crying like that at the drop of a hat. Ridiculous.”
Jack crouched down, level with the desk, trying to take the measure of the situation. He could see tears still flowing down Miriam’s cheeks.
“That your kitchen back there?” he said, gesturing towards the door she’d come through.
He saw her nod a yes.
“Well then, why don’t I make us both a cup of tea then we can chat?”
She nodded again and smiled at him, her eye make-up smudged, face pink.
He smiled back, stood up and headed for the kitchen.
Ever since he’d moved to England he’d been a big fan of the power of a cup of tea to resolve even the most difficult situations.
It rarely failed.
***
Jack put two mugs of tea on the desk then pulled up an office chair and sat patiently opposite Miriam.
“Thanks so much,” she said.
He watched her take a sip.
“That better?”
“Much,” she said, nodding. “You must think I’m a complete chump.”
Jack shook his head. “I have met a chump or two in my day, Miriam. Very much doubt you are one.”
He saw her smile and thought how much younger that smile made her look. Then she sat up straight as if remembering her role in the office.
“Were you hoping to see Mr Rogers?” she said. “Only he’s not due back for another half hour.”
“Well, I thought I might see him. But really I wanted to talk to you about Tim. About his going away.”
“Ah.”
Jack could see that the mention of the name had again jolted her.
“Get the feeling you’re worried about him, aren’t you?” he said.
“I am,” said Miriam. “It’s hard for me to hide, I suppose. Worried? Yes. Very.”
“Mind me asking why?”
“This whole thing — disappearing. It’s just so … out of character.”
“Go on,” said Jack, taking a sip of tea and watching her carefully. She frowned.
“If I might ask, why are you so interested?” she said. “I mean — you don’t know him. Why should you be bothered?”
Jack smiled. “Ah. Good question. Okay, here’s the thing.” He needed to take care with his words. Miriam did seem to get rattled easily.
“I used to be a cop, back in the day. And sometimes, even now I’m not a cop any more, when people do something — like you say — out of character, well, a part of me gets concerned that maybe something’s up, you know?”
He waited to see how Miriam was taking his explanation.
“I think I understand,” she said, not with a terrible amount of confidence.
“I mean, somebody might be in trouble, right? And if nobody follows up on the little clues then maybe a bad thing happens that could have been stopped. Guess that’s why I’m here. You could say it’s a selfish thing, I suppose. Me wanting to get rid of the nagging worry. But that’s the honest truth.”
Jack saw her take this in, then nod.
“Okay. And you think with Tim — Mr Simpson — there is some kind of trouble?” she said, taking another sip of tea.
“Probably not. But you were going to tell me exactly why you’re worried.”
“Oh yes,” she said.
She looked away. And Jack was suddenly glad he had dropped in on this office and found Miriam.