Cherringham--A Lesson in Murder (6 page)

As Jack pulled up he thought that, with the weather so dreadful, Tim might have closed up early.

But though the shop’s roll up garage doors were down, he saw a bright light inside, hanging from the garage ceiling.

Jack pulled the Sprite to the office door of the shop, and hurried in.

All quiet for a moment. But then he heard banging and clanging coming from one of the repair bays, and he walked into the garage.

“Hello? Tim?”

Then Tim Cooper slid out from under a black Mercedes, wheeling out to check on who had come in.

“Jack?”

“Tim, sorry to interrupt you.”

Tim rolled off the creeper, and wiping his hands on his already smeared overalls, he walked over to Jack.

“Good to see you, Jack. Now don’t tell me …”

Tim leaned close, eyes wide, big smile on his face, “You’re finally going to let me do some work on your precious Sprite? I can make her sing, Jack.”

He nodded to the car behind him that he had just been under.

“Not like this elephant here. German engineering? More like a German tank.”

Jack laughed. “Well, you know me. Kinda like to take care of the little beauty myself. But if anything serious ever pops up you will be the one I entrust her too.”

And Tim Cooper laughed at that. “Good man. So, if you’re not here for a repair, why the visit?”

Jack looked around the shop.

“You alone today?”

“Yeah, I let my lad go early. Quiet day, and no one’s going to be coming in for a quick tune up in this rain.”

Jack nodded.

“Okay, then. I have a question for you. Just between us, if that’s okay.”

Tim made a locking gesture with two fingers of his right hand across his lips.

Sealed tight.

“Good. It’s about the cars. The ones that were vandalised at Cherringham Hall.”

Jack watched Tim’s eyes narrow.

“Cars, Jack?”

And though he had told himself not to be surprised … since being a detective was all about
not
being surprised … he had hit — in this strange case — his first surprise.

He guessed it wouldn’t be his last.

*

They had moved into the small office of the repair shop. Tim sliding some unopened post to the floor to clear a seat for Jack, while he plopped down on an old swivel chair.

Tim opened a desk drawer and brought out a half-f bottle of supermarket Scotch.

“Wee nip, Jack? Take the chill off.”

“Um, no I think—”

But Tim already had two water glasses out, both sporting smears, and he poured a healthy splash into each.

“Just a splash. Hate to drink alone. Though in a pinch …”

Jack laughed at that, and reached out for a glass. As they clinked, Jack said, “To your health and this lovely weather.”

Tim took a sip. “Better than the bloody blizzards you Yanks get.”

“True fact.”

And after a moment of silence, after that first warning sip — something so soothing about a rainy day and a scotch — Jack came back to his question.

“You didn’t repair the slashed tyres from the teachers’ cars? The manager up at the school said—”

Tim leaned across his desk as if someone might be listening … even though the shop was empty.

“Listen, Jack. There
were
slashed tyres. Four of them. Nasty bit of work. Deep cuts. Of course, they called me, and I went and took care of it. But it was only one car.”

Another sip as he looked Jack right in the eye.

“And one teacher. Emily Braithwaite, her Range Rover. Brand new, I might add, and top spec.”

“On a teacher’s salary?”

“Well public school, and she’s also a — what do they call it, House Mistress? Still, not a cheap set of wheels, Jack.”

Jack nodded.

This was so strange. Why would Weiss tell him that three teachers got vandalised? Not just one.

He was also glad that he came here directly, without a mention of it to the headmaster.

“I assume you met this Emily Braithwaite?”

Tim nodded. “Sure. Really upset, she was. But then, who wouldn’t be?”

“Did she say who she thought might have done it?”

“No. I asked her straight up, like, and she, well, snapped at me. Like, ‘just get the damned tyres sorted’. So — that’s what I did.”

“Right.”

“Jack, something more happening there?”

“Now Tim, I think you know me better than that. Could be something. Could be … nothing. Can’t really say.”

“God — you are just like those real detectives on TV.”

And Jack laughed as he finished his glass and stood up.

“Another?”

“Love to. Save it for my next visit.”

Tim was already pouring is own refill.

“You’re always welcome.”

Jack headed to the door, the rain now — thankfully — just a drizzle.

“Oh Tim — next tune-up … it’s all yours.”

Then Tim Cooper tilted his glass to Jack as he went back out to the Sprite.

After a quick dinner for Daniel — a reheated chilli from the night before that drew no complaints — Sarah brought her laptop into the kitchen and began to learn as much about Cherringham Hall as possible.

Which so far, wasn’t much at all.

The school had press release articles in the local newspapers about each year’s graduation, always featuring a guest speaker of renown, as if the exclusive girls’ school was more of a university.

Last year, a research scientist with the NHS, the year before an award-winning poet. And always pictures of the departing Sixth Form, bright smiles, all hopeful, their brilliant futures fully assured.

Then there was the money.

Gushing reports of ‘generous donations’ from a dizzying variety of sources. Prince Said, Lady and Lord Burwell, the Sankano Energy Corporation. An endowment from George DeLong.

Hmm, Freya’s dad perhaps?
thought Sarah.

It had to take a lot to keep that country club up and running, but Karl Weiss and his fundraising team didn’t seem to have any problem getting the cash.

And Sarah guessed that the donors could be assured of the absolute best treatment when their daughters attended the exclusive school.

Interesting.

But on the surface, not at all suspicious.

She was beginning to doubt that she’d find anything disturbing about the school, at least in the public record online.

She took a sip of her mint tea, now turned lukewarm, and looked at the kitchen clock.

Just after eight.

Chloe had sent a text more than an hour ago.

‘On my way. Home by eight.’

She thought of what Jack said, how bringing up a teenage daughter could be quite a ride. Letting them do things … to be free, while you worried. She realised how much she not only loved Chloe but also how she could so easily worry about her.

Doing this alone,
she thought,
is going to be hard.

Another sip of tea, and back to her computer — so many web pages open that she struggled to pick up the meandering trail of her digging.

Now she expanded her search of ‘Cherringham Hall’ to newspapers from all over the UK. After all, the school population came from all over the country.

Never knew where she might hit something.

She’d also wanted to check out Gavin Ward and Karl Weiss. The Head had invited them to look into this, but what better cover for a hidden scandal?

But then — she heard the back doorknob rattle, twist, turn …

And in walked Chloe.

*

Her daughter looked as if she had caught the full brunt of the storm from hours ago; though now dry, her hair and clothes were pasted to her body.

Chloe quickly put a smile on her face.

“Hey,” Sarah said. “You’re home.”

Her daughter nodded. “Said eight. Close enough.”

Sarah nodded back. “Looks like you got a little wet, love?”

“Stupid storm,” Chloe said.

Guess all teenage girls took pretty much everything personally.

“Yes, it was pretty bad here too.”

Sarah restrained herself from reminding Chloe that she had been alerted to the possibility …
probability
of rain.

Got to tap into my inner teenage girl,
she thought.

And that kind of critical comment wouldn’t help at all.

“Like some dinner? I have—”

“No thanks. Grabbed some pizza with the girls. Just want to shower, get out of these things.”

“Sounds good.”

Chloe picked up a towel from the pile of dry washing that Sarah had just taken out of the tumble dryer.

“Can I use this?”

“Course.”

Sarah watched her daughter head for the stairs. But then she stopped and turned:

“Trains were really delayed, you know.”

“That right?” said Sarah, not sure why this sudden excuse.

“They made the announcement at Oxford station. Person under a train at Cherringham.”

“Oh gosh, Chloe, I didn’t know, hadn’t heard …”

“Dunno who it was. But Mum — what if it’s someone I know? God — someone from school?”

And Sarah could see straight away that Chloe was upset. Who wouldn’t be?

And she needed to talk about this.

“Chloe, love, that’s awful. I’m so sorry. It’s such a terrible thing when somebody—”

“They must have waited for the through train. You know, the fast one that doesn’t stop.”

Sarah waited for Chloe to keep talking. But then her daughter turned and went upstairs.

More than just upset.

“So that’s why I’m late. All right?” came Chloe’s angry voice from upstairs, like a challenge.

Conversation closed,
thought Sarah.
At least, for now …

She looked down at her teacup.

And thought of the poor soul up at the station earlier in the evening who must have felt they’d run out of choices and suddenly had no reason to live.

Time for a fresh cup … and she walked over to the electric kettle.

She knew that later in the evening, when Chloe was ready, they would talk again. If nothing else, just sit with her daughter.

Be there for her.

And just as suddenly the night seemed chillier, and being a parent … even harder.

Jack woke to the sound of Riley barking — an unusual phenomenon by itself — and a heavy knocking on Grey Goose’s door.

He squinted at the clock. Eight a.m.

Tad early for the morning post,
he thought, then remembered it was a Sunday — so this was no postman calling …

He slid out of bed, his left knee hitting him with its typical wake-up painful jolt. Back felt a bit creaky, too.

The weather, he wondered? All this English dampness? Or the result of too many chases and bang-ups with bad guys back on the streets of NYC?

More loud knocks, sounding very official.

“I’m coming … I’m coming … hang on there.”

He didn’t know who was at his door at what — he felt — was still an uncivilised and early hour … but he didn’t bother putting on trousers.

Wake me this early, and you get me in my boxers and — this morning — a faded blue T-shirt promoting ‘Coney Island’.

He climbed the steps up to the wheelhouse and opened the door to see Alan Rivers, his police hat and mac shining wet with rain.

“Alan … what’s up?”

Then before Alan could answer, Jack opened the door wider. “Come in. Had hoped the damn rain had ended.”

Alan followed him down the steps into the galley, dripping, nodding. “Maybe in a few weeks,” he dead-panned.

“Cup of coffee? I can brew one up …”

“Thanks. But it’s a busy morning.”

Alan took off his hat. “You’ve been helping up at Cherringham Hall?”

Jack laughed at that. “You heard? Not much help there yet, Alan. Though a lot of people with secrets …”

Alan didn’t smile. The police officer was in a serious mood, and Jack’s instincts also told him something was up.

“One of the teachers, lady called Emily Braithwaite. Apparently … she jumped in front of a fast train up at Cherringham station.”

Emily Braithwaite.

“God …”

Jack looked away, thinking, and Alan caught it.

“The name Braithwaite. Mean something to you?”

A nod. “Was planning on speaking to her tomorrow. Her car was vandalised a while back, and there were other incidents …”

Alan looked at Jack. “You know what? Maybe I’ll have that cup of coffee after all.”

“Good. And I can fill you in?”

“That’s the general idea, detective.”

And Jack headed through to the galley and set about making some coffee.

*

Jack had called Sarah with the news about Braithwaite … and then she told him that she had already heard.

And how she knew it.

So when she invited him to come over for a quick breakfast before they went back to Cherringham Hall, he quickly said yes.

A little support to Sarah, Chloe … this morning would be good.

She had the door open before he could knock.

He walked into the kitchen.

“Smells good. That bacon?”

She smiled. “And those pancakes you like. Fresh … well, fresh from the freezer.”

Jack laughed.

“Like being in Maine on a winter’s morning. Good stuff. And the kids … Chloe …?”

“Awake. But they haven’t surfaced yet.”

Jack had told her that Alan wanted them to carry on. But he thought he should give Sarah a different option.

He sat down at the table. “You know, I can deal with asking more questions today. If you want to stay—”

“Chloe and I had a good long chat. Some tears, mostly I think she’s just upset by the idea that someone could do that.”

“I can imagine.”

“But … as I said, a good long chat about life, the challenges, how people face things. Finally, that I would always be there for her.”

She poured coffee into his cup. He raised it, a slight tilt of a salute before the first sip.

“A good mom. She’s a lucky girl.”

A half-smile from Sarah. “Doing the best I can.”

“And that’s pretty darn good, I think.”