Jack sat opposite Rogers at his big leather-topped desk and went through his plans for the regatta.
He watched as Rogers made careful notes on a laptop then waited as the broker carried on typing for a couple of minutes.
“Can’t see any problems with any of this, old chap,” said Rogers. “Leave it with me, and I’ll come back to you if our people in London have any questions.”
“You don’t need to come down to the river, see the course?”
“River’s a river,” said Rogers, standing up. “I’m sure the Carnival Committee knows what they’re doing. Good of you to drop by.”
The meeting was clearly over, thought Jack.
Rather perfunctorily.
Perhaps Rogers had to get back to the golf club and tee up?
Jack got up too and Rogers walked him to the door.
On the wall he noticed a faded college photo: he could just make out the words Balliol Freshers, 1974 below serried ranks of students in suits and gowns, standing in front of an ivy-covered wall.
Now at his shoulder, Rogers laughed.
“The old alma mater! I’m in there all right — but you’ll never find me, not under all that long hair! Bunch of damn hippies we were!”
“Not quite my scene,” said Jack. “New York punk — that was the sound I grew up with. Ever hear of a place called CBGBs?”
“Can’t say I have,” said Rogers, taking a breath. “Anyway, we must compare record collections. Vinyl’s all the rage these days!”
Jack laughed, and then just as Rogers was about to open the door he thought he’d take a shot at one last question.
“Mr Rogers, there was one other thing …”
“Fire away! I’m happy to quote for anything, long as it’s not teenagers and car insurance!”
“Not insurance,” said Jack, laughing with him. “It’s about Tim Simpson.”
“Oh yes …?”
Jack instantly felt Rogers’ chummy tone freeze, but he carried on anyway.
“I was kinda concerned to hear about the way Mr Simpson just … seems to have gone away on vacation this weekend.”
Rogers took his time.
Weighing just the right response.
“Sorry for asking, but what exactly has Tim Simpson’s private life got to do with you, might I ask?”
“Oh — old habits, Mr Rogers. Used to be a NYPD detective. Things like that — well they make me curious.”
Rogers remained stony-faced throughout. Then: “Brennan — right? Thought I recognised it. You’ve got, what, some kind of amateur detective agency down in Cherringham?”
The word amateur emphasised.
Uh-oh, thought Jack, here’s me getting kicked out.
“Not quite an agency,” said Jack. “My friend Sarah Edwards and I sometimes take on a case if we think the police have missed something, or are maybe too busy.”
Jack watched as Rogers walked back to the desk and then turned to face him.
This meeting had suddenly gone badly wrong. But then Rogers surprised him.
“Right. You do pretty well, from what I hear. Solve cases.”
“Usually.”
“So — you any good at finding people?”
Jack smiled.
Might as well take a stab at it.
“You want us to find Tim Simpson?”
Rogers rolled his eyes. “God, no. Throw good money after bad?”
“What do you mean?”
“You find Simpson, Mr Brennan, and I shall be first in line to thank you. And also to collect the fifty thousand pounds I loaned him last week — just before he disappeared!”
Well, wasn’t that interesting? Jack thought.
“That’s a lot of money, Mr Rogers,” he said calmly. “Good of you to loan it.”
“Stupid of me, more like.”
“Did he say what he wanted it for?”
Rogers shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell me. But he did intimate that he was in some kind of trouble and the money would get him out of it. And I was fool enough to believe him! Now it turns out from his email that he’s used the money to run away abroad somewhere. Morocco, I ask you! Well, I bloody want that money back.”
“Makes sense.”
Though, Jack thought, dashing away with that money?
The idea of Simpson returning, seemed to grow slim.
“What happens if we find him? What happens to Simpson?”
“Who cares! I don’t give a damn about Simpson any more. He’s let me down very badly. Not only has he left me totally in the lurch, he’s doubled my workload and hit me badly in the pocket. If you find out where the hell he disappeared to then I’ll let the police decide what happens to Tim Simpson.”
Jack nodded and thought about this. The whole thing now spiralling in a totally different direction.
His original concern for Tim’s safety now seemed misplaced: had Tim just run away with the boss’s money?
But for what reason?
What trouble?
“Can I ask you something? Why haven’t you gone to the police?”
“And destroy our company’s reputation overnight? Our business is built on trust. Personal relationships. This kind of scandal? We wouldn’t survive.”
Jack could understand that. In the age of the web — who needed insurance agents like this to get a deal?
“Now, if there’s nothing else,” said Rogers, closing the lid of his laptop and standing, “I have a lunch appointment, Mr Brennan.”
Jack knew when he was being invited to leave.
“Appreciate you seeing me this morning,” he said.
“Welcome. Meanwhile — this Simpson matter — I hope I can rely on your discretion?”
“Sure.”
And Jack shook Rogers’ hand and headed out through the office.
As he did, he looked across at Miriam, who had her head down behind her computer. She looked up and gave him the slightest of smiles.
Then he went down the stairs and out into the sunshine and the throngs of tourists.
Time to hit the chandlers.
No sunbathing for me today, he thought.
Just hours below decks sorting that damn pump …