Cherringham--Follow the Money (7 page)

Good time to leave him to stew.

“Oh, I’m late for my train.”

She stood up and started for the door.

Olli — ever the gentleman — remained sprawled in the easy chair, his dressing gown …

There was a word
…

Right.

Akimbo.

A quick turn to him. “Thanks for talking, Ollie.”

“Right. Whatever.”

“And good luck with your money troubles …”

And with that, she hurried out of the house where she imagined — for the students in residence — studying was in reality
way
down on their list of priorities.

And she walked briskly back down the Cowley Road towards the city and the railway station.

She should just make it …

She thought:
Need to call Jack.

Because it sure seemed like something was rotten in Oxford.

Jack parked outside Tesco’s — a place he rarely frequented.

Too much like America, he thought — it definitely didn’t feel very much like the Cotswolds.

Still, when you had certain necessities to buy, the big store could be useful.

Just as he popped open the car door, his phone rang.

Sarah.

“
Hey, was going call you in a bit. Didn’t want to interrupt you if you were in mid-interrogation with Olli.”

Sarah laughed. “More like an intervention.”

“That bad?”

“What a stoner. And get this, not only did he lie about going home a few weeks back — but Jack — he has money problems.”

Jack looked out at the sea of cars in the floodlit carpark — Tesco doing a bustling business. He even spotted Christmas decorations in the windows.

Yes, that time was coming close.

And for Jack —
it was
always a tough time.

Sarah and his friends here helped … but still his thoughts would often drift back to Christmas time at home.

Home. Brooklyn.

And the life he had there.

“Now that
is
interesting,” he said. “How bad does he need the money?”

“Can’t tell. But the guy who showed up looking for it seemed none too pleased. Oh, hang on — have to show my ticket …”

Jack waited.

“There. I’ll be in Cherringham soon. And had a thought.”

“Yup?”

“I could look into Olli Goodman’s history online. Any traffic offences, legal problems. See if he’s stirred up anything in the hallowed halls of Oxford. Because I can tell you … he didn’t look terribly studious.”

“Great — work your magic.”

“That and get a quick supper on the table for the kids. Want to pop over?”

“Love to … but I had an idea as well, so I’ll have to take a rain check on that.”

He then told her how things went with Terry Goodman, and what he noticed there.

“The receptionist hmm?” she said. “You think maybe there’s some hanky-panky going on there?”

“Not sure. And though Terry claimed business is booming, it was mighty quiet. Maybe look into anything you can find out about Lux-4 … his dealership?”

“Will do. Might be late. Daniel’s been struggling with his maths lately.”

“Not my favorite subject in school either.”

“And your idea?”

“Right. Well, I am outside of Tesco’s, and about to pick up a nice six pack of IPA …”

“IPA?”

“India Pale Ale, which I will bring by my friend Ray’s boat. Just a hunch. But have a couple of things to ask him about.”

“Ply him with — what do you Americans call them? — ‘brewskis’.”

“That’s the plan!” Jack said, laughing.

“Report later?”

“You bet. Soon as I am back on the Goose. You know … one quick observation … sounds like no one we’ve talked to so far is telling us the whole truth.”

“Yes. They all have secrets …”

“Right.” Jack took a breath.

Getting chilly and he had resisted bringing out his winter jacket.

But it was getting time for that.

“Okay. Best do my shopping … and talk later?”

“And I’ll get digging soon as I can.”

“Great. Bye.”

And Jack ended the call and headed into the big supermarket.

*

Despite the fact it was dark and cold, Ray sat outside, on the deck of his ramshackle boat, in the bare electric light from his wheelhouse, smoking …

Well — smoking
something
.

He saw Jack walking over.

“Jack! Wow! Haven’t seen you in yonks!”

“How you doing, Ray?”

“Never better! You know me,” he said with a grin.

Jack held up the six-pack.

“Care to share some of these with me?”

“Do you even have to ask? I’ll pipe you aboard!”

Jack walked up the rickety gangplank to the boat’s deck.

Ray made no move to get up so Jack imagined they’d be sharing the beer out in the cold.

With Ray probably having smoked or drunk enough insulation not to mind the chill.

Jack sat down on the metal chair next to Ray’s — a lawn chair, but with its red paint chipped, peeling away.

One of Ray’s ‘finds’ from the dump.

The way he probably outfitted most of his floating domicile.

Ray had lived on his barge for more than forty years and locals had told Jack they’d never seen him hold down a job for longer than a couple of weeks.

An advantage for Jack — because it meant that Ray had plenty of time to keep an eye on not just this stretch of river …

…but most of Cherringham too.

Least when Ray could see clearly.

As Jack handed him a bottle, Ray deftly produced an opener popped the top off then passed the opener to jack.

After a hefty swig, Ray clinked his bottle against Jack’s.

“Good stuff this, Jack. Cut above my usual, I’d say.”

“Knew you’d like it, Ray.”

Ray took another swig.

But Jack guessed that he was also savvy enough to know that this visit had another agenda.

So after the swig — and the bottle already half killed …

“So, this a social call, Jack? Or—”

Jack laughed.

“’fraid you now me too well, Ray. Had a few things I wanted to pass by you. Thought you might help with …”

Ray laughed. “Knew it! And as long as these last—” he waved the bottle back and forth, “you can ask all the questions you want.”

Jack took a swig.

Ray was a character.

Now Jack was about to find out — if in this particular strange case of the Goodmans and the robbery — Ray might actually be helpful.

*

“Planter’s Croft, eh?” said Ray, picking a bit of tobacco out from his yellow front teeth.

“You know it?”

“Oh, yes.”

Jack waited.

“Used to be all orchards down there back in the day. Used to go scrumping apples.”

“Scrumping? Picking?”

“Nicking!”

“Ha! Not much chance of that now, Ray,” said Jack.

“Tell me about it. Whole bloody river bank’s going to be covered in houses, all the way to bloody London, if they don’t stop building.”

“Money talks.”

“Mine don’t!” said Ray, laughing.

Jack laughed with him and opened another beer.

“So this robbery … they nick a lot did they?”

“Reasonable amount.”

“And you’re helping the rich bastards who live there?

Jack nodded.

“Disappointing that is, Jack.”

“Why’s that then, Ray?”

“You’re playing for the
wrong
team. You’re not one of them. You’re one of us, mate!”

“You think so?”

“I know so. The downtrodden masses. The workers. The oppressed!”

“Never took you for a revolutionary, Ray?”

Jack watched Ray swig from the newly opened bottle.

“Nah, you’re right,” he said. “I’m not really. But I ain’t a big fan of helping the rich
bastids
. They got their insurance — stuff ’em.”

So Jack explained the delicate situation of Claire’s secret money.

Then watched Ray mulling this over, clearly weighing his moral position on this interesting development.

“So you’re saying that she’s
not
a toff then?” he finally said.

“Wrong side of the tracks, I reckon,” said Jack.

“My side, eh?”

“And mine,” said Jack, laughing.

“And that’s her own money, like?”

“Yep. And she won’t get it back. Not unless Sarah and me find out who did this.”

“Hmm.”

Jack waited while Ray took out his little tin of tobacco and rolled himself another cigarette.

He watched Ray flick the lid on his old petrol lighter, light the roll-up, draw deeply, then blow out.

That smell. It took Jack back years to a memory of his Irish grandpa, smoking a pipe in his tiny kitchen back in Brooklyn.

Okay, tobacco is bad for you … but such a great smell.

Jack waited. Then Ray spoke.

“Well — tell ya, Jack — here’s what I heard down the Ploughman’s the other night. Now it might be useful. And it might not. But it’s gospel, Jack.”

Jack doubted that anything that was said down at the Ploughman’s was gospel, but he listened carefully.

And what he heard moved the case just little closer to being solved.

As Jack went under Cherringham Toll Bridge, he pulled up the collar of his winter jacket and hunched down into the boat to get out of the bitter wind.

In the grey early morning light, it felt even colder on this stretch of the river.

Jack wondered if they were going to get snow soon.

Nothing like the snow he used to get back in NYC, but sometimes worse to deal with here in the Cotswolds because the Brits seemed to totally forget every year how to deal with it.

He tweaked the choke on the engine and got a reluctant extra bit of speed.

He rarely used the little dinghy, with its tiny outboard motor, in the winter. But what Ray had said convinced him that this was the only way to find out what he needed.

The Ploughman’s grapevine could always be relied upon to turn up something, reliable or not, and this had been gold dust …

It seemed that since the summer there’d been a spate of burglaries up and down the river.

Nothing major — almost as if the person responsible was deliberately keeping under the radar.

So no heavy police involvement. No official response.

And as Ray said, sometimes the items stolen had already been …
‘
liberated’ from some of the nicer addresses in Cherringham.

Whoever was doing it — knew exactly what they were doing.

And it certainly wasn’t any of the local ‘light-fingered fraternity’, as Ray called them.

“When all’s said and done, Jack — you don’t rob yer mates, know what I mean?”

It was what Ray said next that really intrigued Jack.

“So there’s this bloke who’s moved in to one of them old cottages down towards Elston Creek. Not a local. Keeps himself to himself. But he’s got a boat, goes up and down the river at night. Know what I mean, Jack?”

Jack nodded.

“At night. Not like he’s going fishing at that time, is it? So what the hell is he out doing? Robbing? Robbing the good folk on the river?”

In Jack’s experience, Ray’s definition of the ‘good folk on the river’ didn’t quite match his own.

But intrigued, he asked what else they knew up at the Ploughman’s.

“Not much,” Ray said. “’cept the boat’s black. Bit sinister that — don’t you think? I mean — who has a black boat, Jack, unless they’re up to no good?”

Jack thought it was sinister — not because of the colour.

But because it sounded just like the boat he’d seen yesterday morning down at the Goodmans’ jetty.

The one that circled slowly then slipped away.

So now he was on his way down river to see if he could find said black boat.

And its mysterious owner.

*

It took about twenty minutes to reach Planter’s Croft.

Jack realised how well he now knew the river — or at least the section nearest Cherringham.

Past Iron Wharf, then Sarah’s parents’ house, past the meadows where every year the summer fair was held, and the stretch where the regatta took place.

All now familiar places with so many memories attached.

But as he passed the Goodmans’, and went on, beyond the long curve of the river, he entered
terra incognita
.

The outboard puttered away, every now and then startling waterfowl that he watched scatter and land again in rushes and creeks at the side of the river.

A couple of motor cruisers chugged past: retired couples in thick coats and hats, having a wintry holiday.

They waved. He waved back.

Hope they packed their thermals too,
thought Jack, knowing too well how cold it got living on the river.

Finally he reached what he guessed was Elston Creek, marked — as Ray had mentioned — by the ancient carcass of an old coal barge.

“’bout a hundred yard further on, there’s a couple of farm cottages. This bloke lives in one of ’em, so they reckon.”

Jack kept a steady pace and chugged on.

Sure enough, the two cottages came into view on the right hand side. Pretty little things, he thought, taking in the narrow lawns that rolled to the river’s edge.

One of the cottages had a small jetty, and sure enough — Jack could see a little black speedboat moored.

The same one he’d seen the day before.

Next to it was a pile of garden rubbish, and a small bonfire burned, the smoke billowing in the wind.

Jack could hear music too, drifting from within the cottage. Classical, something he knew well, but the title evaded him.

As he passed, out of the corner of his eye Jack caught a movement by the side of the cottage.

Through the smoke of the bonfire he could just make out a figure pushing a wheelbarrow down towards the end of the garden.

He kept his eyes fixed on the river, and carried on until he’d rounded a curve and was out of sight.

Then he pulled into the bank and wondered what to do.