Cherringham--A Fatal Fall (7 page)

Jack opened the door and went over to the van. He opened the double doors at the back.

Nothing — no timber, no tools, no dirt, nothing.

The cab was just the same. Not a sweet wrapper or a CD or an old coffee cup.

Empty. Clean.

Too clean
.

It took a moment for him to connect the dots.

Someone had been down here and had both vehicles professionally cleaned.

And Jack could guess it wasn’t out of respect for the poor, dead young labourer.

They were getting rid of evidence.

But what?

Had Dylan been keeping a log of safety breaches on the site — or maybe on other sites?

Or had he seen something — something else which Jack and Sarah didn’t know about — which was worth killing him for? If that’s what happened, was someone going to all this effort to cover tracks?

When Sarah had called him this morning he’d told her straight away about his feeling of being followed home from the Ploughman’s. And since her office had been broken into as well — then not only the Grey Goose but maybe also Ray could be next on the list.

What were he and Sarah getting into?

Somebody was clearly rattled.

He knew that Sarah had planned to meet Charlie Winters this morning. Seemed pretty decent, she had thought.

No matter — he’d send her a text, just to warn her to be on her guard.

Jack shut the doors on the van and went back to the caravan. He opened the door, stepped inside, and looked around.

He knew from experience that even professional cleaners didn’t get everything. Somewhere in this caravan could be a piece of evidence they’d missed.

Twenty years as an NYPD detective had taught him how to search a property.

Really search
— that is.

He took off his overcoat and laid it carefully on the table. Then he took out a small toolkit of screwdrivers, picks, and pliers.

And, starting with the highest cupboard, he began to search Dylan McCabe’s caravan.

*

In the end it only took him a couple of hours.

But he had a small evidence bag crammed with small objects. Most of it rubbish: coins, pins, can tops, a tiny wrap of weed, cigarette ends, receipts, an ear plug.

No cell phone.

But a photo.

A printed one; rarity in these days of mobile phone selfies.

Hardly anyone prints out photos any more,
he thought.
Except one place …

The passport photo booth.

And who can’t resist a bit of fun while you’re getting your ID photo done, especially, perhaps, if your girlfriend is standing outside waiting …

Jack stared at the small colour photo which he’d found when he’d unscrewed the chest of drawers by the bed.

A young couple stared out at him in the picture, both grinning, their faces pressed close together, the man’s arm tight around the girl.

He recognised Dylan McCabe from the file photo in Alan’s office.

He didn’t know the girl. She looked to be around twenty. Very pretty. Dark hair.

Both happy. So happy.

Jack turned the picture over. No date stamp.

Was this the girl that Viktor had seen? The girl Dylan was serious about?

If so — who was she?

And why hadn’t she come forward when Dylan had died?

He put the photo back in the evidence bag, then put the bag in a safety wallet that tagged to the inside of his belt. Then he put his overcoat on and buttoned it tight.

This investigation seemed to be getting risky and he had no intention of losing the evidence.

He opened the door of the caravan and after checking that the wharf was still empty, he stepped out, and locked the door behind him.

When he got back into the Sprite, he took out his phone and sent Sarah a text.

Any doubts that Dylan McCabe had been murdered were fading
…

And yet he still had no idea at all why.

Sarah pulled her car up to a stone column with an intercom on the right. The ten foot tall metal gate in front of her looked strong enough to stop a tank, and Charlie Winters’ house — no Cotswold cottage to be sure — could not even be seen.

She lowered her window down, and pressed the intercom button.

In a moment, she heard a voice.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Winters? Sarah Edwards.”

For a second she heard nothing.

Had Winters forgotten that he agreed to talk with her about Dylan McCabe?

She was about to remind him … when she heard him say:

“Yes. Come on up.”

Then a loud buzz, and the gate began to slowly open as if unlocking the way to the Emerald City.

And when it was fully open, she drove up the winding driveway, a snake-like path, all gravel, and lined on either side by tall poplars.

Not a common tree for the area,
she thought.

And she guessed the same would be true of the house.

*

From the driveway, Winters’ house looked deceptively modest. The façade not overly grand, even with two white columns flanking a double doorway

But she noticed as she got closer that the house extended well to the back, and other buildings sat to the left and right, one perhaps for the gardener, the other maybe a small guest house.

Very impressive,
she thought.

The construction business — for Winters at least — had to be going well.

She turned the engine off and, grabbing her notepad from the passenger seat, walked up to the double wooden doors.

Which opened as she hit the top step, as a smiling Winters waited there.

“Hi! Better hurry,” he said with a warm smile. “Nasty weather, this.”

She smiled at that. “It’s freezing,” she said … and as soon as she entered, she detected the rich smell of a fire.

“Got a nice fire going for our chat. Guaranteed to take the chill away.”

She followed Winters into the house, and as soon as she entered the sitting room she noticed something.

Something more than the thick Persian rug on the floor, or the dark leather furniture with wooden arms … or the floor-to-ceiling windows to the side where she could glimpse a garden, with small tress wrapped up with insulation to protect them from the frost.

No. She immediately looked at the wall and the mantelpiece, all filled with photos of children, babies, young kids, birthdays. A young family on a beach, a small ballerina on pointe, a boy holding a football with a winning smile that matched his dad’s.

Hardly a space without a photo of one of his kids.

All young.

“Quite a family,” she said, with genuine admiration.

Clearly here was a man who loved his children.

“Oh, you noticed the photos,” he said laughing.

And in that laugh she heard something.

A bit of roughness — a reminder of what Charlie Winters must’ve done to get here, having to be so determined and hard-working, building his business.

“Three girls, two boys,” he said proudly. “Though I can’t say I see much of them
…
”

“Kids these days — lead pretty busy lives,” said Sarah.

And then — as if on his cue, a woman who had to be Mrs. Winters entered. Dark hair, warm smile, and a tray with a teapot, cups and biscuits.

“Thought you’d like some tea,” she said. “For your chat.”

“My better half,” Charlie said going over to take the tray, and smiling warmly at his wife.

Their relationship immediately seeming very strong and close, their family the most important thing in the room.

“Tricia,” she said, introducing herself.

“Sarah Edwards,” she answered, shaking the woman’s hand.

Probably his school sweetheart.

“And — well, I’ll leave you two to talk.”

Sarah guessed that he had told her what they would be talking about.

But after she left, Charlie gestured to one of the leather armchairs while he handed her a cup of tea and then sat facing her.

It almost seemed wrong to open her notepad.

But she had questions that only he could answer.

So after a few sips — and bite of shortbread — she began …

*

“When did you find out that McCabe had a fake ID?”

The question seemed to startle Charlie Winters.

Both his hands went up, accompanied by a broad smile that didn’t seem to be one of amusement at all.

“Hold on, Sarah. You must think I run these operations by myself …”

“Well, I know you have a supervisor, like Gary Sparks …”

“Damn r—”

He caught himself.

“Hmm,
right
, about that. Men I pay good money to. To get the job done, keep the workers at it. On time,” he said, slapping his right fist into his left hand. “I worked hard to get where I am. Screw up a big job or two, and that — and this …” he waved around the grand room of photos and trophies, “could all vanish.”

Sarah felt she should pull back from questioning Winters too hard. Though affable, even warm — he clearly didn’t like this.

Still, her pad was open and she had written nothing in it.

Yet.

“So Gary Sparks may have known, but not you?”

A nod from Winters as if assessing the result of their last exchange.

“Tea okay?” he asked.

“Fine. Delicious.”

Another smile.

“Let me tell you a secret, Sarah. My job is to get these big jobs done, on budget, on
time
. That’s how I got to where I am. The people I hire, like Sparks, are all good men. But they know me. What I want out of my crew. What my values are, know what I mean? Full speed ahead …”

Sarah could see where this was going.

The suggestion that if there was anyone who had cut a corner or sidestepped the issue of a bogus ID, it would be Sparks.

Charlie Winters would be sure to keep his hands clean.

“Need overtime to do that? My bosses get the go-ahead to have crews work nights, weekends, whatever. And if some document or paperwork or ID doesn’t quite add up, and the supervisor … the on-site boss … thinks the worker is good, solid — like McCabe? Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of my men, a man like Sparks, would look the other way.”

Then he laughed.

“No crime in that now, is there?”

“And the site’s safety records?”

Another nod as Winters walked over to the tea tray …

“Top up?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Then he poured tea into his own cup.

And Sarah had the distinct impression that he was using this bit of teatime gallantry to think about his answer.

Clever move …

After all McCabe had died on his site, accident or not. The final responsibility could well lie with Charlie Winters.

He’d have to be very careful about what he said.

No matter what the truth actually was, there could be legal ramifications for Winters Construction.

He sat back down, took a sip, then …

“Safety records on my sites are spotless.”

He pointed a finger at Sarah.

“You can check that. This accident mars what was a near-perfect record. I can only assume that it was fluke, that maybe McCabe … I dunno, his type
…
? Maybe had a drink near quitting time? Little wobbly on an icy night?”

Sarah nodded. But she also thought:
he’s actually laying some of the blame for this on McCabe himself.

Cagey indeed.

“Still — however it happened, it was a terrible tragedy, don’t you think?”

Sarah nodded.

“The man had no family.” A small laugh. “Certainly no savings. My company is paying for the small funeral. Least I could do …”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.”

He smiled at that.

She was about to ask if Winters had heard of McCabe’s issues — with gambling, with women — when she heard voices coming from upstairs.

One she recognised — Winters’ wife, now yelling.

“You will
not
do that, you hear me, Nadine?”

Then a young woman’s voice — loud, shrill, even here in the sitting room, one flight down.

“You can …
not
… tell me what to do! Not you. Not …” the voice raised even more, “Dad!”

Winters stood up.

Sarah could sense his whole body tightening.

Teenage girls.

They could give you a run for your money
, as Sarah well knew.

“Sorry, seems like a bit of battle going on upstairs … I’d better see if I can calm things down.”

Sarah didn’t think that Winters, with his up-by-his-own bootstraps history, would be the one to calm things.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll wait.”

And Winters hurried out of the room, then up the stairs.

While Sarah tried not to listen to the argument still playing in the house above …

Sarah got up and walked to a window that faced the rear of the property.

Standing there, listening, she felt that she was spying — but in truth it was hard not to hear the yelling.

Now it was a three-way battle, Winters’ wife now pleading with the girl to “calm down, stop yelling …”

Then, a bullish voice — Winters — declaring in a matter-of-fact tone, his voice rough, edgy … “you
will
do as we say, Nadine. You understand?”

Then — that moment that most parents must dread.

Your child completely dismissing you, like being hit by a two-by-four.

“Screw you … both of you.”

Out of the window, Sarah saw that Winters’ land rolled up to some hills, beautiful grounds, and, to the side, she saw a paddock, horses standing in the cold.

Now she heard steps tumbling down the stairs, someone taking them two, three at a time.

Winters voice from upstairs, barking her name again.

But then — a blur — as Sarah turned and she saw from the back the teenager, wearing riding gear and hat, race to the front door, open it, a blast of cold air rushing in and to punctuate the whole scene — a slam.

And then silence.

I’d give anything to just disappear,
she thought.

She even toyed with the idea that she might just quietly back out of the room, hurry to her car …