Well before the bumpy dirt and gravel road came to a stop in front of what looked like a ramshackle farmhouse, Sarah pulled off the road, tight against an ancient hedge, nicking her Rav-4 with a thick branch. The price of being an amateur detective, she thought.
Then she started up the road on foot, trying to sense if there was any activity ahead. But it seemed perfectly still out here, a lonely spot, with barren fields on each side.
No sign of Bruno’s van — perhaps Karin had taken that to see him in the hospital.
If — as Sarah hoped — that’s where she’d gone after dropping the watch at Lionel’s hotel.
And yet, that thought still didn’t perfectly calm her anxiety, walking up to the house. Knowing that if she was going to hunt for any clues about Tim Simpson, she’d have to go in.
Door open, she hoped.
And failing that, breaking in …
***
She knocked on the front door and waited. No answer. Not a sound from the house. Another knock, this time louder.
Then, with one final look behind her at the desolate gravel drive and scrappy lawn — and the empty lane in the distance — she gave the doorknob a twist.
But the door was locked. Splintery, and like the whole house, in need of a paint job. Still a solid piece of wood, though.
She guessed that the back door would be locked as well.
She had learned a lot from Jack: about asking really good questions; and putting bits and pieces of clues together …
And also how to break into a place.
She dug in her shoulder bag and fished around for her nail file.
Here goes, she thought.
And she wedged the tip between the frame and the door. Then she began fishing for a spot where she might press against the curved bit of metal that fitted into the lock mechanism.
That is, if it was that kind of lock.
A deadbolt would be a different story.
Something like that would require Jack’s lock-pick set, and his skill.
But then she felt something, and when she wedged the tip in a bit deeper, she also felt some “give”.
Then — like working a reluctant cork out of wine bottle — she twisted the nail file one way, the other, before she heard a pop.
And as though giving up a fight, the door slid open a few inches.
She was in.
She took a look at her watch. This had better be fast.
The place was deserted now … but when would Karin come back?
She walked inside.
***
First impression: the inside dotted with new, nice things that belied the house’s shabby exterior.
A smart-looking leather sofa and matching armchairs. Thick carpet, looking new as well.
And what had to be one of the biggest TV screens in Cherringham. She could imagine Bruno enjoying his beer, devoting his weekend days to this TV and football.
As if they could afford these new things but didn’t want anyone to know.
Into the kitchen — a mess here, dishes piled in the sink.
Big American fridge — but sparse on essentials inside. Lots of processed meals, a few rows of beer bottles.
And she continued exploring, moving to the upstairs, to the bedrooms.
The first a double — with a giant king bed that left almost no space to get out of it; bathroom with gleaming new fixtures …
But as Sarah moved around the bed, she quickly saw that this room was used only by Karin. No men’s clothes in the wardrobe or drawers. A magazine and bedside lamp on just one side of the bed.
Not a trace of Bruno.
Down the corridor, past two empty rooms full of stored boxes she found what she was looking for: Bruno’s bedroom.
Piles of clothes, more beer bottles, some with cigarette ends crammed in, an exercise machine, DVDs scattered on the floor and another massive TV.
Not much of a marriage, clearly.
She went downstairs again, made a quick tour of the other rooms.
For people who didn’t seem on the outside to have that much money, somehow Karin and Bruno had the cash for some pricey things here.
But she also noticed something else that was obvious.
No computer.
No. Bruno and Karin probably — like a lot of people these days — used their phones for everything.
That — was a disappointment. A computer could reveal so much.
And the other observation; nothing she could see pointed to Tim Simpson ever having been here.
Just evidence of Karin and Bruno’s recent — if well-appointed — life together.
Another few steps, and then her phone vibrated, causing her heart to miss a beat.
She took it out: a text message. From Alan.
Bruno out of coma. Not able to talk. Yet.
And that gave her goose bumps. When Bruno could talk, he might be able to say who pushed him off that balcony.
Some drunken pal he was arguing with?
Or …?
Whatever — wandering around here on her own in Bruno’s house was not the most sensible thing to be doing.
She looked at the time on her phone. What was Jack’s safety rule for breaking and entering — in and out in ten?
She moved quickly back to the front door. Took another look around, and walked out of the house.
She turned, seeing a couple of derelict barns and a small garage off to the side of the house.
Might as well take a look.
***
The barns were empty — just old farm machinery rotting under the smashed roofs.
But on the door of the garage, she saw a padlock, the garage doors chained: this building was in use.
Her nail file would be no match for the lock and chain.
The doors themselves, solid wood, without any small windows. No way to see inside.
Probably nothing to see anyway, she thought. And I’m running out of time …
Then she stopped for a moment.
Some noise.
The sound of a car engine.
She turned to look back at the gravel road.
A car engine’s roar in the distance.
Someone coming here? They’d pass her car, on the side of the road.
And Sarah realised that she didn’t have any idea how she’d explain what she was doing.
Always useful to have prepared a story to explain why one was snooping around.
She listened.
But the car sound grew fainter. Maybe on some other country road, leading to another secluded farmhouse.
Her breathing returned to normal, and she was about to march back to her car, when she thought:
Maybe a quick look around the back of the garage?
***
The left side of the garage, just a wall.
But a wheelbarrow stood there, upside down. Shovels.
Maybe Karin did a bit of gardening? Looking around the abandoned scrubland which made up the rear garden, that seemed unlikely.
She kept on walking — around to the back.
And when she got there — besides seeing the empty field that probably produced food at one time and now did absolutely nothing under Karin’s stewardship, she saw the back wall.
And a single window.
She walked up to it.
It was a “window” only by the loosest of definitions. Probably hadn’t been cleaned in decades. And even in the spots where it was actually transparent — the garage inside was dark.
She looked up at the sky. A beautiful day, but the big puffy clouds were blocking the sun.
A bit of sunlight would be useful.
And then — as if a hippo-shaped cloud could read her mind — the big white cloud parted a bit, sending rays of sunlight to hit the back of the garage, to hit that window.
And now when Sarah leaned close, cupping her eyes, light seeping in …
She could see something.
A car.
And not only that, the make of the car. A Ford Fiesta. A licence plate just visible in the gloom.
She stopped breathing for a moment — as if, with another breath, what she was seeing might vanish.
Tim Simpson’s car.
Right here.
He had followed Bruno. Driven here. And was never seen again.
She thought back to the wheelbarrow by the side.
Those shovels leaning against the garage …
She dug out her phone and took a series of pictures checking each, until she was sure she had captured the image of the car, and the licence plate.
Then she backed away from the garage, thinking: Well, Jack and I have finally had a breakthrough.
And one more thought:
Well done, Sarah Edwards.