Cherringham--Follow the Money (8 page)

He wanted to talk to this man. But how?

Then he had an idea.

*

Coming back up river, and against the wind, the little outboard had struggled for speed.

But soon enough the cottage came into view, the smoke still drifting low across the water. Jack now saw someone stoking the bonfire with a garden fork, and as he got closer he recognised it as the man he’d seen in the boat yesterday.

The man watched as he chugged by, but Jack pretended not to notice him.

Jack waited until he’d passed the cottage, then drew closer in to the bank and deftly squeezed the fuel supply pipe, just where it went into the outboard.

The motor spluttered noisily, then failed, then fired again …

Jack gave it another ten seconds tweaking the throttle — then turned the petrol feed to ‘off’.

Silence.

“Damn!”

He cursed loudly for show, then pulled on the starter cord. Once, twice, nice and slow — then a bit more frantically.

Meanwhile, as expected, he was drifting back down river towards the jetty and the black speedboat.

Perfect … As long as he didn’t actually hit the boat!

He stood up, as if suddenly becoming aware of the danger, and reached for the paddle that he kept in the dinghy.

He could see the man in the garden watching him carefully — and now clearly realising the danger to his own boat moored in the path of the drifting dinghy.

Jack watched him drop his garden fork and trot down to the jetty.

Everything going nicely to plan …

“I say! Are you okay? You need a hand?” the man called.

“Damned outboard” said Jack, still pulling on the cord. “Don’t want to hit your boat.”

Jack watched the man take a boat hook from the side of the jetty.

He kneeled down at the very edge and offered it to Jack as his dinghy drifted on a collision course with the black boat.

“Grab hold!”

Jack reached out and grabbed the pole, using it to swivel round the jetty, and fending off from the black boat with his hands.

Then he threw a rope to the man as he swung past the edge of the jetty.

He watched the man loop the rope round a cleat then pull Jack and the little boat in.

In a couple of seconds, Jack’s dinghy was tied up safely and he stepped up onto the jetty.

The first part of the plan had gone perfectly.

Now it was time to find out just who this mysterious guy was.

“Sorry about that,” said Jack, running his hand through his hair. “Damned outboard.”

“No problem old chap,” said the man with a grin. “Glad to help.”

“Appreciate it,” said Jack. “Thought I was going to get wet there!”

“Pete Lavender,” said the man, holding out a hand then inspecting it. “Oh dear — bit muddy I’m afraid.”

Jack shook the hand anyway. “Jack Brennan.”

Jack took in the man. He had an easy charm, an open face with a boyish fringe that flopped over his eyes and which he kept pushing away.

Tall, tanned — it was only the creases that gave away the fact he must be well into his forties.

“You’re a long way from home, Jack, from the sound of it.”

“You can take the boy out of Brooklyn, huh? But home’s here — I live in Cherringham now.”

“Aha, succumbed to the charm of the place, eh?”

“Something like that. How about you — you a local?”

“Good lord no. Just rent the cottage. Got it cheap for the winter.”

“Idyllic spot.”

“Isn’t it? I may well take another year. Love the place.”

Pete Lavender grinned again.

“So, can I help you? What’s up with the outboard?”

“Dodgy fuel, I think. My own fault — didn’t drain it out at the end of the summer.”

“Easy enough to forget,” said Lavender. “I can lend you a spot of fuel if you want. Enough to get back to the village anyway.”

“That’d be great.”

“Got a can in the car. Come on.”

So Jack followed him up through the garden.

“Bit isolated down here, no?” said Jack as they walked.

“Just how I like it.”

“You work locally?”

“Ha! You could say that. I’m a screenwriter — got a script to finish. Need the peace and quiet. Do a bit of teaching now and then.”

As they reached the side of the little cottage, they went in single file, Lavender in front, through a small wooden gate.

“Screenwriting?” said Jack. “You written anything I’d know?”

“Quite a lot probably,” said Lavender. “But you won’t see my name on it. They bring me in when they’ve got problems and I do the rewrites.”

“Aha,” said Jack. “And the big name writers get the credit?”

“Spot on.”

“But you get the money.”

“Also spot on. Sold my soul to Hollywood.”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Jack.

There was a door at the side of the house and a small window. Jack peered in through the window into what looked like a kitchen.

The place was pretty dark inside. Jack could just see on the kitchen table what looked like the remains of a meal.

“And living down here — you don’t miss the company? Bright lights?” said Jack.

“Oh, I get by. I also run a little writers’ workshop here every week.”

“I didn’t know we had writers in Cherringham?”

“These days, Jack — everyone’s a writer.”

They reached the front of the house, where Jack saw an Audi estate.

Late model, top spec.

Looks like writing does pay,
thought Jack.
Maybe I should dig out my NYPD memoirs …

He watched Lavender open the trunk and take out a green can and give it a shake.

“Should be enough in here.”

He handed Jack the can, and they both headed back round the side of the house.

Jack was beginning to think this was a waste of time. Though on the other hand, Lavender might be an interesting guy to share a few beers with.

Maybe I should ask him over to the Goose one evening?
he thought.

He stopped by the kitchen door. “Wonder if I could trouble you for a glass of water?”

Jack saw Lavender pause.

And for a second he knew there was some
calculation
going on there.

Something wrong in the reaction. A beat that wasn’t natural.

“Of course, old chap,” said Lavender. “You mind waiting out here? Muddy boots and all that?”

“No problem.”

Lavender grinned, opened the door into the kitchen — and then shut it behind him, leaving Jack alone outside.

Jack moved casually to the window and rested against it.

Lavender had more mud on him than Jack did.

So there had to be another reason he didn’t want Jack in the house.

Interesting.

Through the window Jack could just make out Lavender at the sink. He scanned the kitchen.

Someone had been cooking. There were pans, plates stacked.

And on the table a bottle of wine.

And two glasses.

Two.

Was there someone else in the house? Someone that Lavender didn’t want Jack to meet?

And if so — why not?

At the sink, he saw Lavender turn, so Jack quickly moved away from the window and looked blankly at the garden.

The door opened and Lavender emerged — not with a glass, but with a plastic bottle, which he handed to Jack.

“Bit easier than a glass. You can take it with you.”

“Kind of you,” said Jack, taking the bottle and swigging from it.

Thinking —
I know exactly why you gave me a bottle. So we don’t have to open that door again.

He watched Lavender shut the door. Then, smile firmly in place, he gestured to Jack to lead the way back down into the garden.

Jack walked ahead, his mind racing.

“And what do you do for a living, Mr. Brennan?” said Lavender, drawing level as they crossed the lawn.

“Oh, I’m retired,” said Jack. “Free spirit, that’s me. Watch TV, eat well, have a few beers. Go fishing.”

Jack waited for Lavender to take the bait. Now he really wanted to find out what the guy did on that little black speedboat.

But the screenwriter stayed silent.

They reached the jetty.

“You want me to get something to drain the old fuel into?” said Lavender.

“Oh there wasn’t much left in there,” said Jack. “I think it’ll top up okay.”

He climbed into the boat and unscrewed the filler cap, then started to pour the new fuel in.

Jack pointed to the speedboat.

“You fish?”

“Good lord, no,” said Lavender. “Can’t think of anything worse.”

“Looks like you use the boat quite a bit.”

“Oh sure. Came with the property. Grew up with boats, can’t keep me out of them. But fishing? Like watching paint dry — no offence.”

“None taken. Think I may have seen you,” said Jack. “Upriver?”

“Very likely,” said Lavender. “Good place to think. Get ideas. Solve story problems.”

“Kinda chilly this time of year?”

“Doesn’t bother me. Day or night, just hop in the boat, tootle along, fresh air, fresh thoughts.”

“Sounds like quite a life,” said Jack.

“The right life for each of us doesn’t just turn up by accident, Jack,” said Lavender, his voice suddenly animated. “You have to reach out and
grab
it. Make the choice. Make the change.
Carpe diem
!”

Jack watched Lavender. The man was intense — persuasive.

Then he saw him grin.

“Sorry,” he said. “I can talk complete bollocks sometimes — but that stuff, I do believe it. Worked for me.”

Jack smiled back at him.

“No problem,” he said, climbing into the boat. “I happen to agree with you.”

“You all set?” said Lavender, nodding to the outboard.

Jack flicked the choke.

“Fingers crossed,” he said.

Then he pulled the cord. The engine kicked and spluttered. He pulled it again — and it fired.

“Terrific,” said Jack. “Thanks to you.”

“No problem,” said Lavender, untying the rope. “Safe trip back to civilisation.”

“You got any spaces on your writing workshop? Maybe I can take your number?”

“Um, haven’t got any cards with me,” said Lavender. “Never can remember my number. Check out the village hall notice board — got my ad there.”

“I’ll do that,” said Jack, pushing off from the jetty. “Be seeing you.”

He gave Lavender a wave and watched the man standing there, smiling and waving back.

One very interesting guy
, he thought as he pulled away from the jetty and headed back up river.

Until Jack had asked for the water, he’d given nothing away. Lavender had been cool, affable — even charming. But now as Jack replayed the conversation line by line, he wondered if there was truth in
anything
that Lavender had said.

Or was it all lies?

Who was he? Was he a writer? What was he hiding?

Who was that second glass for?

And could he be involved in the robbery at the Goodmans’?

Jack reached into his coat pocket for his mobile phone and tapped the screen.

“Hey Jack. I was hoping you’d call. How did—”

“Sarah. Can we meet?”

“Sure. How about some lunch?”

“How about coffee — like in a half an hour?”

“Sounds urgent?”

“Think it is.”

“Okay. I’ll get a corner table at Huffington’s.”

“See you then. Oh and Sarah — if you get a minute, do a couple of checks for me, would you?”

And he explained about the cottage and the mysterious writer who lived in it.

“I’ll see what I can find, Jack. You got the car number too?”

Jack told her, then said goodbye and put his phone away.

Pete Lavender — if that was his real name — was good, very good.

Good enough and smart enough to probably know that Jack’s visit hadn’t been an accident.

Maybe smart enough to know that his cover had just been blown.

Which meant that — like as not — the guy wasn’t going to stay around for long.

And that in turn meant that if Jack and Sarah wanted to know what he was up to — they were going to have to do some digging — and fast.

Sarah had grabbed a corner table at Huffington’s, one that she and Jack often used when they wanted to talk about things out of earshot of anyone else in the café.

But Jack hadn’t shown up yet.

Not like him at all.

If he said a half hour, he meant it.

She took another sip of coffee and looked at her watch.

Getting near 40 minutes. She looked at the door and then watched Jack hurry in.

Each time the door opened, a gust of the now-wintry air blew in.

Another reason it was good to be sitting back here; cosy, sheltered, and not too far from the ovens that produced Huffington’s fabulous cakes and pastries.

Jack looked over and with a smile for Lucy at the till, and then to one of the waitresses, he hurried over.

They all knew Jack here.

And — Sarah suspected — most of them were more than a bit smitten.

And that was funny thought. Did she feel a twinge of something else with that awareness?

Something … green?

She pushed away the idea as Jack took his seat.

“Sorry. Was heading here and decided to check on something.”

“Something interesting?”

“Could be,” he said with a smile.

“Well I may have something interesting for you too …”

“Sounds good,” said Jack.

A waitress — a young, relatively new girl named Jennie — came over.

“Morning Jack!”

He turned to her with a big warm smile. “Morning Jennie. How about a cup of English Breakfast? And … I think …you have any of those croissants left?”

“I’m sure we do.”

“Great.”

And after the waitress sailed away.

“But first, Sarah,” he said, “I want to hear about your visit with Olli.”

So she did her best to describe the setting, and Olli, the collegiate stoner.

“Sounds charming,” Jack said.

“Creepy. And as I said, he owes money to this guy who didn’t seem too pleased.”