Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist (7 page)

Then he listened, ready to hear what may or may not be the truth from someone who might have been the last person to see Patrick O’Connor alive.

“Okay, so that day … I’m sitting having a nice quiet pint down the Ploughman’s, when Terry gives me a bell, says there’s a coach full of punters come into town. So I chucks back me pint, then I heads up to the car park, have a look for meself.”

“You interested in tourists, Rob?”

Jack watched him give a toothy grin.

“Ha, you could say that,” he said. “Fact, I’m a bit of an expert, I am …”

“Let me guess,” said Jack. “Where they keep their cash, which ones have the best phones, which ones fight back?”

The grin widened.

“So you went up into the square. What happened then?”

“Big coach was in and the tourists was all piling out. So I went over, casual like, sat on that bench by the stocks. Listened. Watched.”

“And you liked what you saw?”

“Nah, they was old mostly. Mixed bunch — Americans I reckoned. Not ideal.”

“Oh?”

“Japanese is best. Young ones — phones, cameras, they got all the best kit.”

“But you reckoned this coach would do?”

“Beginning of the season. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Jack nodded. Like a lot of small time street criminals, Ferris seemed proud of his abilities — saw his little scams as hard work, a skilled trade.

“What then?”

“I looked for a mark, obviously.”

“Patrick O’Connor.”

“Yeah. Bloke with the white hair.”

“Why him?”

Jack watched Ferris shrug.

“He was on his own … know what I mean? No mates to deal with. And he had one of those handbags. Man-bags, that what they call ‘em?”

Ferris laughed. “Wouldn’t catch me dead with one of those. But I reckoned he might have a bit of dosh in there. And he had a neat little camera. Very smart.”

“So what did you do then?”

“This just between me and you, right?”

Jack nodded. “As long as you tell me the truth.”

“Right. That posh bloke with the stupid voice — he took ‘em off on his tour. So I just hung about behind them. It’s the same every time — you know?”

Jack nodded.

“Anyways, I waited till the punters went in the church, then I stayed back in the alley — that one with the dog-leg — you know? I reckoned if they took the alley, then our friend whitey might be at the tail end.”

“And the alley’s a good place to pick them off, eh?”

“Oh yeah. Grab the gear, push ‘em over — by the time they know what’s hit ‘em, I’m out of there and they can’t see me coz of the dog-leg.”

“Very clever,” said Jack.

Ferris grinned and Jack could see he liked the praise and missed the sarcasm.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to put pressure on this guy at all.

“Tricks of the trade,” said Ferris. “But it doesn’t always go like you plan.”

“No?”

“I hung about by one of the graves and watched ‘em come out of the church. But no whitey. So I’m thinking — perfect. He’s got distracted, he’ll deffo be on his own. And sure enough — out he comes. But here’s the weird bit …”

Jack waited, nodded.

“He stands in the porch, looks around, like he’s checking that nobody’s following him. Then he heads right across the church yard and into the village.”

“He didn’t follow the others?”

“Nope — totally opposite direction. I mean, what was that about?”

Jack leaned forward.
What was O’Connor doing striking off on his own.

“How was he walking? Casual?”

“No way. He went off like a rocket. Straight through the alleys with the shops, then down the main road.”

“Like he knew where he was going?”

“Oh yeah. Like he was late for a bloody meeting or something.”

“And you followed?”

“Yeah — but on the other side of the road. Hung back a bit — you know?”

“Then what?”

“Well, he’s off, isn’t he — like he’s on the flat with just half a mile to the finish. He’s got this stick and he’s striding off down the hill.”

“Past the Ploughman’s?”

“Yeah. Ha … I could have had another pint and waited there for him!”

Jack smiled, but he didn’t feel like smiling.

He would have loved nothing more than to push this punk up against the nearest wall.

Still — he was talking …

“And now he’s out of the village.”

“’s right. Heading down to the toll bridge.”

“The Catholic church is down there — did he stop?”

“No, didn’t pause. Didn’t miss a beat.”

“Again — like he knew where he was going?”

“Definitely.”

Jack watched Rob take another gulp of coffee.

“Then what?”

“Well, he’s nearly at the bridge — and I’m thinking ‘can I be bothered?” — when he suddenly just disappears! Vanishes! Boof! Like he can do magic!”

“But he hadn’t disappeared. He’d gone down Barrows Lane.”

“How did you know that?”

“Like I said — there’s a video.”

“Oh yeah. And I’m on it …”

“You certainly are. And so is he.”

The light bulbs took their time coming on inside the petty crook’s head.

“Hmm.”

“Okay Rob, let’s get back to it. You ran down the hill, then followed him into Barrows Lane.”

“Yeah. Thing is — when I turned the corner, he’d only bloody gone a couple of yards! I ran right into him!”

“Wait a second — he was just standing there?”

“Yeah. He had a bit of paper, he was staring at it.”

“And what did you do?”

“Bloody surprised me, he did. I said sorry. Then, in a flash, I grabbed his bag. But the old bastard wouldn’t let go! So I pushed him. Just a bit. Then he fell over.”

“And accidently knocked his head, right?”

“No.”

“You saying he didn’t get hurt?”

“Bloody hurt me more than I hurt him. He had this stick — when I leaned down, he started hitting me on the head with it. Fact he went mad. Stark raving bonkers. And stronger than he looked!”

“Then you ran?”

“Too right,” said Ferris. “But not before I got his bag. Ha ha.”

“Brave guy.”

“Idiot more like. He was well out of order. All he had to do was hand it over, nice and polite. People like him cause trouble, they do …”

“So … you’re saying that when you left him — he was ok?”

“Nothing wrong with him. Me — I got a bruise!”

“You didn’t see what he did next?”

“I was half way back to Cherringham, mate, not my problem.”

Jack nodded.

A few minutes ago, he’d thought they were about to crack this missing person case.

But now it seemed more mysterious than ever. Ferris might have been the last person to see Patrick — but this wasn’t the end of the trail.

“What about the bag?”

“Got rid of it.”

“Sold it?”

“Took the cash. Few quid. Chucked the rest in the river.”

“And the camera?”

Jack watched Ferris shrug.

What a bad liar
…

“I can get the cops here in minutes, Rob. What you’ve told me — you could even be on a murder charge, I reckon. Missing person and all. Last one to see him was you.”

“All right, all right,” said Ferris, getting up and going over to a small fridge that stood in the corner.

Jack watched him open the door then pull out the salad drawer at the bottom and rummage around.

When Ferris stood up — he had a small plastic bag in his hand: Jack could see it contained a compact camera.

“Bloody good model, it is,” said Ferris handing it to Jack. “You’ll get a few bob for that.”

“I’m not going to sell it, Rob.”

“Crying waste, that is.”

Jack took the camera out of the bag, flicked it on and hit the play button.

“There’s a few shots of me and Terry. Muckin’ about,” said Ferris. “You can delete them if you want.”

Jack scrolled back through the photos until he reached shots of Cherringham — and then the coach.

One picture was of Patrick with a couple of other tourists either side of him. The tourists were smiling. Patrick looked grim.

Somebody on the coach must have persuaded him into a group shot. Jack imagined the moment.
Now you make sure you email this to us the minute you get home, Mr. O’Connor …

But Patrick O’Connor was never going home.

Jack sighed and turned the camera off, put it in his pocket.

“One last thing, Rob,” he said.

“Sure.”

“You got any idea what he was doing down there — on Barrows Lane?”

Jack watched him think for a while.

“No,” said Ferris. “But he was up to something all right. And wherever it was he wanted to get to — he couldn’t get there fast enough.”

Jack doubted he’d get anything more out of Rob Ferris. Despite promises made, he wondered if he should just hand him over to the police.

But then he figured that Rob wasn’t going anywhere. And he had no reason not to believe the young punk’s story.

“You’ve been a big help, Rob,” said Jack, getting up.

“No problem,” said Ferris, standing.

Then: “You think I’ll get a reward?” he said eagerly. “I mean — without me you wouldn’t have a clue, would you? I’m like helping you solve the case.”

For a second Jack considered hitting him — a quick one to the gut — then decided that, though it would be entirely justified, it wouldn’t be helpful.

He might have more questions.

“I’ll make sure everyone knows your role in the disappearance, Rob, don’t you worry,” he said as he headed for the door.

Let him figure that one out …

“Appreciate it,” said Rob as Jack left.

He couldn’t get away from the guy fast enough.

Out in the sunshine Jack took a deep breath of clean summer air.

Then he walked up the high street to Sarah’s office.

The door onto the street was always open during the day, and he went up the two flights of now familiar stairs in the tiny terraced building. Jack knocked on the door marked ‘Edwards Design’ and walked in.

Sarah was on the phone, and he waited while she finished. Her assistant, Grace, was in the little kitchen at the back of the cramped office and gave Jack a wave.

“Coffee, Jack?” she said. “I’m making some.”

“Not stopping Grace, but thanks anyway.”

He watched her come through and put a mug down on Sarah’s desk.

Then Sarah finished her call.

“God. Not enough hours in the day, here, Jack,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Soon as we deliver one project, another two come in.”

“I won’t hold you up,” said Jack, handing over the camera. “But I thought I’d leave this with you.”

“What is it?”

“Patrick O’Connor’s camera. Courtesy of Rob Ferris.”

“What? So Ferris
stole
it from him?”

Jack took a few minutes to bring Sarah up to speed on Ferris’s encounter with the missing tourist.

“You believe him?” she said.

“He’s not the sharpest knife in the box,” said Jack. “But I think he told me pretty much everything that happened.”

He watched her flick the camera on.

“Very neat. Expensive. Full memory card too.”

“Stroke of luck that Rob Ferris didn’t get to sell it yet.”

“So we’re none the wiser,” said Sarah. “We know that Patrick went down Barrows Lane — but we don’t know why.”

“Or whether he went somewhere else after.”

“Jack — maybe we should bring in the police now? Get them to start searching the road, the fields down there …”

“I had thought that,” said Jack. “But here’s what would happen. They’d arrest Ferris on a suspected murder charge, for sure. Though not any real evidence of that. Then they’d close off the whole area for days. And shut us out of the case.”

He watched Sarah as she realised the implications of what he’d said.

“You don’t think we’re going to find Patrick alive, do you?”

“I think it’s unlikely,” he said.

“What do we do with this?” said Sarah, holding up the camera.

“We should let his sister Mary have it,” said Jack. “But you might want to copy the pictures first. It proves he was on the coach, and that he ended up here in Cherringham.”

“I’ll take a look tonight. Haven’t had time to do anything else this afternoon though.”

“No worries.”

“What’s the plan now?”

Jack shrugged. “Head back to the boat, I guess. Need a bit of space and quiet to think.”

“Let’s talk tonight,” said Sarah. “I’ll give you a call when I’ve fed the kids.”

“Sure,” said Jack. “See you later.”

And he headed out of the office and walked up to the car park, where he’d left his Austin Healey Sprite.

When he reached it, he folded the top down, then climbed in, and started up the engine.

Then he had an idea.

He knew the perfect spot to do some thinking.

Even better than on The Grey Goose.

He spun the wheel and headed out of the village.

And took the road to Mabb’s Hill.

*

Jack crossed the ring of standing stones, their shadows long in the late afternoon sun.

Thousands of years ago Druids had held ceremonies here on this ridge that looked down upon Cherringham and the flat plain beyond.

Jack had been up here many a time for picnics with Sarah and her kids, for walks with Riley, and — a few times — even to close a case.

Today the place had two virtues.

It was somewhere quiet — apart from the ever-present Cotswolds breeze — and it also gave a perfect view of Cherringham Road, the toll bridge, the Thames — and Barrows Lane.

The crime scene itself
, thought Jack.
All laid out for me
.

Somewhere down there, something bad had happened to Patrick O’Connor.

And Jack had an instinct it had happened on that pretty little country lane.

He took off his rucksack, found himself an old tree stump just below the ridge, sat down against it — and breathed deep.

This view — how he loved it.

He looked down at the stretch of the river below the village, where the Grey Goose was moored. From there the thick line of silver water looped its way across the plain to Oxford, which he knew lay twenty miles away, beyond the far line of hills.