“Mind if I join you?” Jack said, looking down at the digger driver.
He saw Tom put down his knife and fork and look slowly around the empty bar.
“Lots of free tables, mate,” Tom nodded, clearly not happy with the interruption. “But reckon you’re going to — even if I say I do mind.”
“Spot on,” said Jack, pulling out the chair opposite and sitting down.
“What’s this about?” said Tom.
Jack took a sip of his club soda then watched the digger driver carefully.
“A watch.”
The barest of flickers in one eye. A tell …
Jack continued.
“Went missing. Up at the dig. Where you’re working.”
He watched Tom pick up his knife and fork again and take a mouthful of pie.
“That right?” he said. “Guess you ought to go back up there and look for it. If that’s where you think you lost it.”
Jack smiled.
“Oh it’s not my watch.”
“That so?”
“Cut to the chase,” said Jack. “That day you and Ray Stroud found the body. The victim had a watch. Now Ray tells me that he didn’t hang around that day. In fact, in his words — he legged it. And Will Goodchild — in charge of the dig? I checked with him. He says when he got to the corpse there was definitely no watch.”
Tom chewed slowly. Then took a sip from his pint.
“So, Tom. Explain this to me. Since you’re the only person that never left the scene, is it not the logical conclusion that either you took the watch — or you know who did?”
“You’re not a bloody cop. Who the hell are you? What are you? Damn reporter?”
Jack ignored the question.
“Now you could deny you took it, of course. You could even say that some total stranger turned up, dug down into the earth, took the wrist from the corpse and made off with it. But you see — that would be a mistake.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“Well, here’s the thing. Will Goodchild told me you’ve been charging a hundred pounds a day for the added services provided by Ray. And apparently you have signed a form to say that you pay his tax and insurance. But Ray tells me you pay him just fifty pounds a day. Cash deal. No paperwork.”
“So?”
“I don’t know the law here all that well. But don’t need to be a native to see that’s about as illegal as it gets. So follow me now … if I call the taxman and tell him about your interesting deal — you know what? I don’t think he’ll be too happy. Fact, think he’ll want to find you, ask you some difficult questions.”
Jack watched this sink in. The driver had not touched his food for a couple of minutes. He sat back and put his hands in the air as if he was surrendering.
“Think — you may need a solicitor. But you know, Tom, even a great one can do only so much.”
Tom cleared his throat. Alert and attentive.
“Okay. I hear you. What do you want?”
“The truth.”
Jack watched him mull this over.
“And if I tell you — this all goes away, hmm?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Yes — I did take the damn watch. Reckoned it wasn’t any use to the bloke in that hole. Like — my reward for finding him.”
“Reward? Nice way of putting it. So where is it? See you’re not wearing it.”
“Sold it, didn’t I.”
Jack sighed. Was this going to be a dead end?
“Want to tell me where?”
“Fella in Swindon. Has a, er, second-hand watch shop.”
“Time Flies?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“What did he give you for it?”
“Few hundred. Bloody rip-off merchant he is.”
“You think it was worth more?”
“Rolex Oyster? You kidding me?”
Now Jack leaned forward.
Even second-hand, a Rolex was worth thousands.
“You sure it was a Rolex? Genuine?”
“Oh, I know the real thing when I see it. I used to wear a copy, didn’t I? But this was solid.”
Jack sat back.
One step forward two steps back.
He watched Tom return to his pie and chips. Then he stood.
“Thanks for your time, Tom.”
“Welcome,” said Tom, chewing, then pointing with a meaty finger. “You’d better stick to your bloody word.”
“And you’d better be telling me the truth,” said Jack. “Bon appetit.”
He turned, headed for the door and went out into the car park where his Sprite stood, top down.
He got in and paused before starting the engine.
The bad news — he was still no nearer the watch.
But the good news …
He knew from police investigations way back in NY: each Rolex carried a unique number on the case. And with that number, Rolex could tell you where and when it was first sold.
If he and Sarah could find the watch — they might just be closer to figuring the identity of the body in the woods.
And what happened to him.
***
On any normal day it would take only five minutes to drive from the Ploughman’s through the village up to the cricket ground.
But Jack had forgotten the traditional events of Carnival Week. As he hit the High Street, the village was crammed with trucks unloading the rides for tonight’s fair.
He remembered coming here a couple of years back: the High Street filled with spinning rides, a big wheel, ghost train, the works.
Amazing how they managed to fit it all in. Even now, traffic had slowed to a walking pace through the busy crowds of tourists, locals and workmen.
And if that wasn’t enough, as he drove past Sarah’s office into the square at the heart of the village, Jack saw the streets were filled with vintage cars.
Everywhere he looked stood cars from different eras, their drivers kitted out in period costumes: twenties open-top Rolls Royces, massive fifties cars with fins, a line of Mini Coopers straight out of that movie The Italian Job, a wartime Jeep, a vintage red London bus, and then …
A big old NYPD police car that looked like it came from a film prop store.
A blue and white Dodge Fury, just like his first squad car when he hit the streets as a rookie.
Where on earth did they get that from?
Some people were clearly taking the “Hands Across the Water” theme pretty seriously.
He saw a man in a white coat step forward and wave him to one side — the guy clearly thought that Jack’s old Sprite must be part of the show:
“Car Treasure Hunt this way!”
“Just passing through,” Jack said, and the man nodded, waving him on.
He had a cricket match to get to.
Though he’d much rather be driving round the countryside in the sunshine picking up clues than having a bunch of crazy English guys trying to teach him cricket.
***
He parked at the grounds and was glad he’d got here a good hour early. Already he could see players practising. Younger guys hurling the ball at terrifying speed at a helmeted guy with a flat bat who casually seemed to just pick it out of the air and swat it sideways into nets at the side.
That — I could probably do, he thought.
That is, if that’s what you’re supposed to do!
But God forbid he’d have to face that kind of pitch.
Did they call the throwing of the ball a “pitch”? Bowling, they called it.
Who knew why?
Taking a breath, he walked over to the pavilion where a cluster of players stood chatting, all dressed in white shirts and pants.
He recognised Josh’s son Todd, the electrician from the village.
“All right, Jack?” he said, coming forward and giving him a big handshake. “My dad said they had you lined up to play — we reckon you might be a big hitter, don’t we lads?”
Jack saw the other players crowd around, to shake his hand and he recognised more familiar faces from the village.
Already he felt a bit more comfortable about this.
“Think — long as nobody tries to explain the rules I’ll be okay,” he said.
“You’ll be fine mate,” came a voice from the crowd.
“Half the blokes here don’t know the rules either and they been playing donkey’s years!” came another.
Jack laughed. “Apparently somebody sent over, um, a uniform. All white — which I guess is what you’re all wearing?”
He thought he saw a few players laugh and nudge each other.
Not a uniform?
What do they call it then?
Todd pointed to a door in the pavilion marked “Changing Rooms”.
“Think some of your lot are in the visitors’ changing rooms,” he said. “If you’re short of any gear just give us a shout.”
“Plenty of old boxes at the bottom of our kit bag,” came a voice and everybody laughed.
“Boxes?” said Jack.
“Ignore that rabble,” said Todd, grinning. Then, his face serious — “But do wear a box mate if you’re batting.”
Box? Then, thinking it through, he understood exactly what kind of protective gear a “box” was.
Two peoples separated by a common language.
“Oh, I will,” said Jack. “Don’t you worry about that.”
He stepped up onto the deck of the pavilion and through the changing room door.
Ahead he saw a dingy corridor with scuffed walls and a bare floor. The place smelt just like locker rooms back home — and he was taken straight back to baseball games in his teens.
The smell of sweat, sport and fun.
And — in his case — youth.
At the end of the corridor — two doors facing each other. The one marked “Home Team” was closed. The other, marked “Visitors” was just ajar.
As Jack approached he expected to hear the kind of chatter that had been going on outside. Instead, he heard low voices. Insistent. Arguing.
And he recognised one of the voices: Harry Tyler.
Jack edged forward slowly, listening.
Whoever was in there — it didn’t sound like they were discussing cricket.
“Trust? Don’t you talk to me about bloody trust—”
“For God’s sake, calm down — there’s nothing you can do, just—”
“Don’t you bloody patronise me. And anyway, if you hadn’t screwed up … then we wouldn’t be in this effing mess …”
“Lost?” came a loud voice behind Jack and he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun round, fast.
A big burly guy, in his fifties, with a deep sun tan, in a bright red shirt and chinos stood grinning at him.
“Looking for the Toddlers’ dressing room,” said Jack, smiling back.
“Looks like you found it,” said the man. “You been roped in too?”
“Jack Brennan.”
“Aha! The American baseball star — least that’s how Harry described you,” said the man, his grin even wider. “Brian Larwood — a fellow Toddler. Reluctant one too!”
“Good to meet you, Brian.”
As they talked, Jack saw the dressing room door open — and a tall guy in T-shirt and jeans, whippet-thin, stood peering at both of them.
“Bruno,” said Brian, not smiling. “Long time no see.”
“Larwood,” said the man, his eyes flitting from Jack to the other.
“You playing for us?” said Brian. “Have standards slipped so low?”
Bruno paused. “Got the wrong room,” he said and Jack saw him push past and head down the corridor and out.
“Not a friend of yours, I’m guessing,” said Jack.
“Old acquaintance, you might say,” said Brian, pushing open the door and gesturing Jack to go in.
Inside, Jack saw Harry Tyler sitting alone on a rough bench, looking like he was half way through changing.
The man’s face was clouded, dark. Then — as if he were an actor stepping into a stage role — he stood up, shook their hands and grinned.
“Jack! Brian! My two favourite cops! And you’ve already met! Welcome to the Toddlers’ lair.”
Jack looked at Brian and nodded in recognition.
“Ex-cop,” said Jack.
“Snap,” said Brian.
They both laughed.
And Jack thought — how about that?
There’s another cop in town.