Sarah breezed into the office carrying two coffees from Huffingtons’ café. Grace sat at her computer, leaning forward, looking at something on the big monitor, then holding up a colourful trifold for inspection.
“Easy, Grace. Don’t want to fall into the screen.”
Grace turned to Sarah as she put a coffee down on her desk.
“Hi. Take a look at this trifold for the hospital. The colours seem — I don’t know — off? Need to check them on our original layout.”
“These new printers — we do need to watch the proofs carefully. Good catch.”
Grace beamed at that.
Sarah doubted there ever was a more cheerful co-worker. Because that’s what Grace was, not just an employee, this was their business, together.
While Grace compared the digital versus the print document, Sarah slid into her seat and pulled her keyboard towards her. She took a sip of coffee. Twenty emails having accumulated. Questions, changes, enquiries.
For now, anything about the body in the woods would have to wait. Then her phone rang — it was Jack.
“This a good time?” said Jack.
“Never a bad time,” said Sarah, leaning back in her chair and glad of the distraction. “How’s the bilge pump?”
“Ha, you sure know how to chat up a guy,” said Jack. “Took me the best part of the afternoon and it still isn’t working. Though I did get a chance to drop by Tim Simpson’s office …”
She listened while Jack told her about his surprise trip to Bourton-on-the-Water the day before.
And the even bigger surprise about Tim Simpson.
“Fifty thousand?” she said. “Wow. First thing, who has fifty thousand lying around to help out an employee?”
“Exactly. Guess that’s why insurance costs so damn much,” said Jack. “So what do you think? I still don’t buy Simpson as some kind of hit-and-run fraudster.”
“Out of character?”
“Totally. And you know what really worries me? Fifty grand’s worth of trouble is a lot of trouble to be in.”
“Sounds to me like, rather than hunting him down, we should actually be concerned for him.”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe we do a little delving ourselves,” said Sarah.
“Agree. Can you do some of that delving in that computer of yours?”
“I’ll try — this afternoon. Got a ton of work on.”
“Sure. Tell you what — think you can track down Simpson’s address? It’s somewhere in Bourton-on-the-water. Might check out the place later.”
“Okay, can do,” said Sarah. “I’ll text you.”
“And thinking — if Tim’s in trouble — see what you can find on his credit rating, hmm? Debts, court judgments — any big money troubles?”
“Sure. And I also have an ‘in’ to one of the big bookies — I can see if they have him listed. Guy could be a player — got into trouble, you know the kind of thing …”
“Good thinking. A secret gambler. We’ll catch up later, hmm?”
“Yeah. Oh, hey I’m doing a barbecue for the kids this evening. Pop over, join us, we can catch up once they disappear to their bedrooms.”
“Barbecue? You have picked up some bad habits from me, haven’t you?”
She laughed.
“Sounds great,” said Jack. “I’ll bring the steaks. Four bone-in rib-eyes. And don’t forget — text me.”
Sarah put her phone down and couldn’t help smiling.
She actually hated barbecues — but she knew Jack loved them. Suddenly a chore was looking like being a fun evening.
“Let me guess,” said Grace, “you’re back on a case.”
“Hmm … unofficially.”
“When has it ever been official?” said Grace, laughing.
“Ha, you’re right. And actually this time — it’s two cases.”
One cold — and one definitely hot.
“Just let me know if you want me to cut you some slack,” said Grace, laughing.
“Grace — did anyone ever tell you you’re the perfect partner?”
“You do — often — but I never mind hearing it again,” said Grace getting up from her desk. “Meanwhile — I’m going to head out to the printers. Think I need to do this in person. Reckon that gives you an hour to do all your secret detective stuff.”
Sarah smiled at her and watched her leave.
She knew that Grace understood that sometimes Sarah used some not quite legal contacts to track down data — a legacy of a messy divorce years back in London that involved lifting the lid on her husband’s secret bank accounts.
Whenever Sarah used those same contacts on a case — or used the hacking skills they’d taught her — she always kept Grace at arm’s length: no need to implicate her innocent assistant in the risk of a data prosecution.
Tim Simpson … Sarah said to herself, putting her coffee to one side and pulling the keyboard close.
And with her own workload put aside for the moment, Sarah thought it was time to see what the internet knew about the mysterious insurance salesman who took a surprise trip to Morocco.
***
Jack drove slowly down Sutherland Avenue and pulled up outside number ten — the address for Tim Simpson that Sarah had texted him.
He turned the engine off and took in the house and neighbourhood.
Not quite the pretty little cottages that the tourists came to see in the centre of the village.
Modern semi-detached houses, all neat and tidy in a row — kind of thing they called a starter home, or maybe where a retired couple might downsize to.
Identical front doors, patch of grass out front, a little fence and a side gate to — he guessed — a tiny backyard.
But parked in front of Tim Simpson’s house, a sleek, black Lexus.
Based on the office Simpson worked in, Jack really doubted that could be Tim’s car.
He got out of his Sprite and walked to the front door. Rang the bell. Turned casually to see if any curtains were twitching.
Nothing there that he could see, but this open space, late afternoon, sunny day — not a good idea to go breaking and entering.
Which was always an option — he never left his little pouch of lock picks at home if he was out on a case.
And right now he definitely felt he was out on a case.
He turned back to the house.
No answer to his ring on the bell of course — Tim Simpson was away. Morocco, supposedly.
Maybe.
He crouched down and peered through the letterbox.
On the bare wooden floor in the hallway he could see scattered mail — three or four days’ worth. That made sense. He saw that the internal doors to the other rooms were all closed.
He stood up and walked over to stand in front of the downstairs window. Took out his cell phone, pretended to make a call in case someone found him prowling.
Oh, I must have the wrong address.
And as he did, he turned this way and that, taking in the interior of that front room as he did so.
Nothing unusual that he could see — a sofa, TV, bookcases. No pictures. No ornaments. Bland, really. Bare. Almost like a rental property.
Then he heard a voice from round the back of the house.
A man’s voice — swearing.
God. Was Tim Simpson home? Or had he let the place?
Or had somebody dropped by to pick up that fifty grand?
Jack slowly walked to the side of the house and the tall, wooden, slatted fence and gate that gave onto the backyard.
Amidst the cursing — whoever this guy was he was really unhappy about something — there was an incessant, high-pitched chirping.
Kinda like birds.
But no.
Definitely not birds.
He tried to find a gap in the fence to peer through but the thing was solid.
He heard more shuffling and cursing.
Breaking in maybe? If so, he needed to act now, while this person was in the open, not in the confines of the house.
He took a deep breath and put his hand on the handle of the gate.
Options: try and creep in, or use surprise?
Had to be surprise …
He wished he’d put his old nightstick in the car — NYPD issue. Old-school, but sure helped stack the odds in your favour going into a situation like this.
Then he clicked the latch and opened the gate …
***
The man standing in the small backyard spun around quickly.
He made for a totally incongruous sight.
A sharp, blue pin-striped suit, with matching vest. Robin’s-egg shirt, bright, red-striped tie. Over-dressed for the setting and the warm summer’s day.
Even from feet away, Jack noted the gleaming, pointy dress-shoes; the quality leather dotted with bits of dirt and grass.
The man’s moustache was dark and neatly trimmed. A clearly expensive haircut, and trendy but serious eyeglasses. For projecting the air of a successful, powerful businessman, it was perfect.
“Hello,” Jack said.
“Um, yes, er, hello.”
The man didn’t move — suddenly stock still — something that Jack often noticed startled people did. The man stayed planted as if not sure whether to dash away fast, or slink to the nearest door and out.
Jack also saw something next to the man. A small cage, wood-framed, covered in chicken wire.
And animals inside …
Making lots of noise.
Since the man didn’t say anything, Jack stuck out his hand.
“Jack Brennan. This is Tim Simpson’s place — isn’t it?”
The wide-eyed man nodded, then seemed to flinch as if he shouldn’t even have done that.
But he didn’t offer his name in return.
With such an edgy prey lurking in Simpson’s backyard, Jack pressed on.
“And you are?”
The man didn’t start to question as to why Jack was asking questions. But he also didn’t offer much in the way of information.
“Er, Tim. Right. Yeah, I’m a friend of Tim’s. Just stopped by — but as you see …” The man looked around as if the empty garden area explained the missing part of the sentence.
But Jack didn’t see anything. Apart from the cage, and the animals who were now quite visible as being guinea pigs.
The frantic chirping noises they made continued.
Funny thing. Jack had a fifth-grade teacher who had a lot of animals in the classroom. A lizard. Some fish. And a guinea pig that made exactly that noise.
When it was hungry.
If this was Tim Simpson’s garden, he’d been gone for a while now and — from the sound of things — had left the guinea pigs unfed and untended.
“A friend? Good. You see, Mister—”
Again, the man didn’t take the bait.
“I came here hoping to catch Tim,” said Jack. “Make sure everything was okay.”
The man’s owl eyes widened again.
He didn’t like hearing that.
“You think, what? Something has happened?”
Jack smiled. The dapper businessman with the perfectly trimmed moustache wasn’t saying much but his reaction spoke volumes.
“Apparently, he decided to go away. Guess I missed him.”
The businessman stared.
“Yep,” said Jack. “Looks like he already left — for Morocco.”
The man in the suit rolled his eyes.
“God, no.”
“Morocco — that bad a place? Never been.”
The humour was lost on the man standing in front of the guinea pig cage.
Jack walked over. The poor things — five or six of them — seemed to be starved.
And now Jack stood right next to the man.
“Guessing you didn’t know that he left, hmm?”
As Jack watched, the man remained frozen, eyebrows furrowed, mouth half open. Then he seemed to recover his balance — as if only now realising what he looked like.
He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and crouched down to wipe his shoes. Then he stood, neatly stuffed the handkerchief back in his trouser pocket — and smiled.
His face now charming, relaxed.
“Actually, old chap, I knew he was going to be away for a few days. Thought he was off to the South of France, catch some of that Mediterranean sun. Morocco? Well, there’s a turn up.”
He put a hand gently on Jack’s arm.
“Good old Tim,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Full of surprises — eh?”
“Seems that way,” said Jack.
“No wonder he asked me to drop by, feed these little fellas.”
“That was nice of you.”
“Always happy to help Tim out.”
Jack nodded. “What friends are for. You known Tim long?”
“Ha! Since forever! Go way back, me and Tim.”
“You in insurance too then?”
“Insurance?”
“Tim’s line?”
“Ah yes, of course. Umm, no, not insurance. City. You know?”
“Gotcha.”
The man seemed to realise he was being interrogated. Frowned.
“Jack — Brennan — was it?”
Jack nodded again.
“Umm, Jack, if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly did you want with Tim? I mean, this is his back garden. Chap’s away on holiday. And you just stepped through the gate. I mean, if I were the suspicious type — not that I am, mind—”
“Oh right,” said Jack. “Very rude of me. Here’s the thing. Tim and I are on the Carnival Committee together. Had some last-minute plans to talk through — just needed Tim to sign off on them.”
He saw the man breathe a sigh of relief — didn’t even attempt to disguise it.
“Carnival! Of course! It’s carnival time! Bunting. Posters everywhere.”
Jack felt he’d been approved in some mysterious way: as membership of the Carnival Committee somehow made him …
… a decent chap.
Jack saw him laugh, and laughed along too. Then: “Didn’t quite catch your name, Mr …?”
“I’m so sorry — how dreadfully rude of me,” said the man, putting out his hand for Jack to shake. “Lionel. Lionel Townes.”
“Nice to meet you, Lionel.”
“And you, Jack.”
The man grinned again, his fringe falling across his forehead. He swept it away, then awkwardly faked looking at his watch as if in white rabbit mode, racing to tea.
“God! Is that the time? So late!”
He started for the gate.
“You’ll have to forgive me, dear chap. Love to chew the fat but must go. Meetings.” Then, as if it answered everything: “Important stuff.”
Jack watched as Lionel fiddled with the gate. His haste making the operation of the latch a tad tricky.
“Toodle-pip!” he called over his shoulder.
Then, with the quickest of charming smiles, he headed to the front of the house and, Jack guessed, the black Lexus parked in front.
And before the gate closed behind him, Jack casually followed, giving the man a few paces’ lead.
***
Jack watched the Lexus fly away.
Doubt the Bourton police would approve of the speed, if they happened to be near.
Jack looked down at his notepad.
He had the licence plate number. Could be, as he said, just a rather quirky friend of Tim’s.
But Tim Simpson seemed — well — not the type to have such a successful and wealthy friend.
Albeit, a pretty nervous one.
So, if not Tim’s friend, who the hell was he?
But as Jack stood there, car vanishing, he could hear the poor little guinea pigs — still unfed — squeaking for food.
And he went back to the yard.
***
Near the cage, he saw a wooden garden cabinet with a padlock. Fortunately, Jack had his lock-pick set, and the padlock popped open in seconds.
Inside, the usual array of garden tools — and a twenty-pound bag of “Benson’s Best Rabbit and Guinea Pig Food”.
Jack took a nearby scoop, grabbed a big shovel-full, and walked back to the starving furballs. He knelt down, opening the small door to the cage, and poured the green nuggets into a large bowl.
Bit of mayhem as he watched the little animals jockey for position around the bowl. But there were plenty of yummy green nuggets for everyone, not to worry.
Squatting there, Jack had a chance to think about what he had discovered in this visit to Tim’s house.
Love to get a look inside. But not in broad daylight.
That would have to wait.
Now — it was time to head back to Cherringham.
Barbecue and a catch-up with Sarah awaited.
He peered in at the little creatures. From what Miriam had said, it seemed unlikely that anybody was going to come round and feed them.
Certainly not Lionel Townes.
Lionel Townes — if that was even his real name — was lying through his teeth.
Something happening here.
That’s for sure …
He stood up.
And made a decision …