Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist (3 page)

“I
told
them that Patrick wouldn't do anything like that, not without telling me. We're very, very close. He …” she shook her head as if the very idea was impossible, “he wouldn’t ever just disappear.”

Jack nodded.

Mary O'Connor may believe that, but Jack knew that sometimes people acted in a way that even those closest to them would have thought impossible.

“So why did you come here, Mary? To Cherringham?”

“With the police doing, well, nothing really, I tried to retrace Patrick’s steps. I found the hotel in London where he had been staying. Then they told me that he had signed up for a bus tour to the Cotswolds. And Cherringham was on that tour.”

Jack had seen the weekly tourist coaches pull into the village square, like invaders from a different planet.

The tourists, though, were certainly good for local business.

“And anything else?”

“The people at the hotel said he never came back. His room was exactly the way he had left it, clothes, luggage, everything all there. I mean, if he was going away somewhere, he'd have taken his bag, right?”

“It would make sense,” Jack said.

For a moment Mary O’Connor said nothing, looking down at the floor of the boat.

“I think something has happened to him, Mr., um, Jack. I think something
bad
has happened.”

Jack nodded. While any number of things could have happened to her brother — including nothing — Jack now felt for this woman.

The fact that she came from Brooklyn as well didn't hurt either.

“And, just curious now, what made you come to me?”

“When I stopped at the police station here, pretty much hearing the same thing as I did in London, they’d put Patrick’s name on a list, bus company said everyone came back, not much they could do about it. But I’m afraid I broke down then. I’ve been so tired –— and worried.”

“I bet …”

She raised her eyes to Jack.

“One of the policeman there, an Officer Rivers, mentioned your name. That you were an American. And –” big breath –“that you had been with the New York police and that you’ve helped people here.”

“Sometimes,” Jack said.

The woman nodded at this.

“Can you … I mean,
would
you help me, Jack?”

“Okay, Mary. How about I look into things,” Jack smiled back, knowing though there could be nothing harder than a missing person case — especially if someone wanted to go missing. “But I’m not making any promises …”

And though Jack expected what happened next, he was still incredibly moved when the woman started crying as she reached out with one hand and touched Jack’s folded hands, barely able to whisper “Thank you …”

“So what do you think? Worth our time?” Jack said.

Sarah sipped at her coffee and watched Jack while she considered his question. The little sofa in the corner window of Huffington's had clearly not been designed for the tall, bulky frame of the American sitting opposite her.

Every time they came here together, Sarah had to restrain a laugh as Jack tugged at the cushions and piled them up out of the way to one side.

“Missing person?” she said. “Sounds like a wild goose chase to me.”

“Oh, could be worse than one of those,” said Jack. “I tried to catch many such a goose back in New York.”

“And this month, well … It’s June, you know, Jack?”

“Yes, it is,” he said.

“School exams. Sports days. Plays. Fetes. Daniel’s got cricket three times a week. Chloe’s doing a French exchange.”

“Uh-huh. I hear you. Mom on duty.”

“Absolutely. Then there’s work. We’ve got more than we can cope with. Which is a good thing! Grace is doing weekends and we still can’t keep up.”

“Well, that is good to hear,” said Jack, leaning forward to sip his coffee.

Sarah realised that Jack seemed disappointed that she wasn't ready to jump into this case, which — honestly — didn’t even seem like much of a ‘case’.

Not compared to most of them they’d been doing lately.

“And we don’t even know the guy really went missing here, Jack. I mean — he could be in London. Or anywhere.”

“True. His sister sounded pretty convincing to me though. Not sure why but there was something about her …”

Sarah sat back.

Now that was interesting.

In spite of everything she’d said, now she actually felt intrigued.

Sarah and Jack had now worked on quite a few cases, but they’d never had to track somebody down.

This would be different.

And if this guy really had come to Cherringham how could he just … vanish?

“Show me the picture again.”

Jack reached into his pocket, took out the small photo and handed it over.

She stared at it. It looked quite a few years old and the colour had faded. A tall guy — maybe in his forties — with a big grin and a Yankees cap. He had his arms around a dark haired woman and a tall teenage boy.

In the background, she recognised the skyscrapers of Manhattan.

“Patrick’s the one in the middle. Taken in the Battery, I guess. Some time before 9/11 of course,” he said. And then as if to explain: “Have a look at the background, and you’ll know what I mean.”

Sarah nodded — the context, the smiling faces, the soft colour, now taking on an extra poignancy.

That quick ripple of amazement … of horror.

The thought:
how could those buildings just vanish?

“Happier days, huh?” said Jack.

Sarah suddenly realised the emotional connection Jack had made with this missing New Yorker. He once said to her, late at night, that on that day, every New Yorker changed forever.

A city of strangers, famed for their brusque ways.

Now united.

She knew that she had to take the case. That she wanted to take the case.

“That the sister?”

“No, it’s his wife.”

“Pretty,” said Sarah. “I guess that’s his son?”

Jack nodded. “Both passed away, according to Mary.”

Sarah’s eyes lingered on the photo. That smiling, sunny New York day not really so long ago.

“I’ll scan it and blow up Patrick’s face,” said Sarah putting the photo in her handbag. “Be useful when we’re talking to people. Might want to hand them out.”

She watched Jack nod.

“What makes you think he really disappeared here?”

“Well, Mary said she managed to speak to someone who was on the same tour. Said he definitely remembered helping Patrick off the bus in Cherringham.”

“Helping him?”

“Wasn’t in the best of health apparently,” said Jack. “Looked older than he was.”

“So this tourist — the witness — he didn’t notice the guy had gone missing when they got back on the coach?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then he could have disappeared later in the day. Where else did they go?”

“Usual suspects. Great Tew. Bourton-on-the-Water. Burford …”

“Then back to London?”

She saw Jack nod.

“He could have disappeared in any of those places. Not a lot to go on, Jack,” she said. “What does Alan say?”

Sarah knew that her one-time school friend Alan Rivers, the local cop, might not be the sharpest detective in the region, but he was pretty solid when it came to common sense advice.

“He says what you’d expect him to say: no foul play, no crime, missing person. Thousands of them every year.”

“What about those guys?” said Sarah, nodding through the window to the car park where two tourist coaches were lined up side by side. “Think they might be able to help?”

“Ah, the brotherhood of the road,” said Jack. “I talked to them on my way here.”

“Any use?”

“Saw nothing, heard nothing, know nothing.”

“Can’t blame them,” said Sarah. “Losing tourists is bad for business.”

Jack nodded, taking a sip of his tea. “I did find out one useful thing though.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense, Jack.”

“The coach Patrick came in that day is the pride of the Babcock fleet. State of the art.”

“So?”

“Guys across the road there were showing me the CCTV set-ups on these new coaches. Technology has come a long way since I last rode a bus …”

“You mean the coach company will have the whole trip on camera?”

“They should,” said Jack. “Question is whether they’re going to let me see it.”

“So what are you waiting for?”

“Babcock’s is in Oxford — thought you might fancy a drive over there this afternoon with the top down?”

“Wouldn’t I just,” said Sarah. “But I’ve got a ton of pictures to edit for a site launch.”

“Shame,” said Jack. “And I was going to buy you lunch.”

“Hate to disappoint you — and me. Why don’t you pick up the tab for my coffee instead?” said Sarah, getting up.

“You’re a cheap date, Sarah,” said Jack laughing.

“So I’m told — but where does it ever get me?”

She watched him prise himself out of the sofa, then drain his coffee.

“You get to work. I’ll see you later.”

“Let me know how you get on,” she said as she headed for the door. “And let’s meet when you’re back — I should be through by five.”

Out in the street, the sun was shining and Sarah could see the tourists from the coaches bustling in and out of the shops.

She was so used to their presence — like migrating birds arriving in May and leaving in September — that she realised she never really looked at them.

Not as human beings.

But now, having seen Jack’s photo — that smiling family in front of a New York cityscape with the Twin Towers still standing — she was suddenly aware of these tourists as individuals.

Not a flock, or a herd. Not just irritating, or different, or noisy.

But real people.

People who’d maybe lost loved ones, who travelled alone, who travelled to forget.

People who sometimes just … vanished.

Jack swung his Austin Healey Sprite off the Oxford ring road and followed the signs for the City Centre.

With the top down, the ride across the Cotswolds had been a real joy.

Now, he was glad to get off the busy Oxford ring road, looking forward to being back in this beautiful city.

He knew he wasn’t going to get much time to sightsee. But just to be amongst all the old buildings, the colleges, churches — and to walk on those buzzing pavements full of students and tourists was more than worth the drive.

But as the GPS took him through run-down terraced streets and graffiti-covered estates, he realised — of course — that the headquarters of Babcock’s Coaches wasn’t going to be anywhere near the tourist areas it served.

At last, after being stuck in grinding traffic for twenty minutes, he saw a patch of rough ground behind a shuttered factory and a sign on the gate:
Babcock’s Coaches’
.

He pulled off the road and drove through the gate.

A couple of coaches were parked up next to a trailer: a portly man with lanky hair and a cigarette in his mouth stood on a chair cleaning the windshield of one of the coaches with a mop.

Jack parked next to the trailer. Through the window, he could see a young guy head down at a computer. He walked over to the man on cleaning duty.

“Hi,” he said.

“Bookings in the trailer, mate,” said the man without looking round.

“Thanks,” said Jack. “But I’m not here for a booking. Was hoping to have a chat with Mr. Babcock, the owner.”

“You’re looking at him,” said Babcock, still swabbing the windshield with soapy water. “But you won’t be for long. I’m supposed to be in bloody Swindon twenty minutes ago.”

“Well then, I won’t keep you,” said Jack. “I’m trying to get some information on a gentleman who took one of your tours and appears to have gone missing.”

Jack watched as the man spun round, then climbed down off the chair, and propped the mop up against the front of the coach.

Well, that got his attention
, Jack thought.

“And just who the hell are you?”

“Name’s Brennan. Jack Brennan.”

“You’re no cop.”

“No.” Then, thinking it useful: “Not anymore.”

“So what are you?”

“Friend of the missing man’s sister.”

“That bloody woman, eh?” said Babcock. “With all her questions? Well, I can’t tell you anything I didn’t tell her already on the phone.”

Jack sensed this was a sensitive subject.

Which usually meant he was onto something.

“Could be. Still — if you don’t mind — she believes her brother got off the coach in Cherringham and didn’t get back on.”

“She believes
wrong
. We picked up the tour group that day in London and we took the whole tour group back to London. Every single one of them.”

“Not what she says,” said Jack adding a bit of edge to his voice.

“She’s upset, confused. She’s not thinking straight. Americans, you know.” Then the man squinted, grinning at his own dig. “Oops …”

Jack didn’t react. “Maybe,” he said, as if he didn’t believe a word of it. “How about I talk to the driver that day?”

“You’re lucky day. You’re talking to him. I was at the wheel that day. Can’t get enough drivers. People don’t like hard work any more.”

“Okay — so you counted the tourists on and off at each stop?”

“Always do,” said Babcock. “Golden rule.”

“And the numbers added up?”

“If they didn’t I wouldn’t have left, now would I?”

“Suppose not,” said Jack. “You keep some kind of a log?”

“Don’t need one,” said Babcock, tapping the side of his head. “It’s all up here mate.”

Jack nodded.

He knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this guy. The shutters were down and the man's guard was up for some reason — so he was going to have to find a way around them.

“I guess that answers it,” he said, smiling. “Had to ask you know? Sorry I’ve held you up.”

He watched Babcock break into a toothy grin and wipe his hair back.

“No problem,” said the driver. “Customer care — it’s what we’re about.”

“Sure,” said Jack. “I’d better be off. Oh — anywhere round here I can grab a sandwich?”

“Yeah,” said Babcock, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. “Tesco’s — down the Cowley Road there.”