Cherringham--Death on a Summer Night (2 page)

He liked thinking about those things as he drove around the roads that girded Cherringham and nearby villages.

Once he had been stopped by the police. Apparently there had been an accident, a hit-and-run driver who banged into someone’s Land Rover parked on the side of the road.

The police quickly saw that his own Vauxhall was pristine.

“Not a mark on her,” the man said. Then, as if an explanation was needed for the young cop who didn’t seem particularly interested … “Just out for a night drive, officer. Trouble sleeping,” the man had said with a smile.

That was all that was needed.

And he was on his way, back to his strange night odyssey as if his circling the village, the river, navigating the roads surrounding it all … were ropes ready to be tightened.

Because, in his mind, that’s certainly what it felt like.

It’s why he found this so exciting. As if expecting things to happen.

That some night … something would happen.

It was …

such a powerful word …

…
inevitable
.

*

Dinah kept her eyes locked on the path she had taken, the area below, the car in the distance still sitting there at the side of the road.

Every now and then she heard Tim scrambling about in the bushes and the gorse, shouting … “Dinah! Dinah — where the hell are you?”

That only made her heart race more. He could easily storm up here, find her.

Was he angry enough to actually hurt her?

He never seemed that type before.

But out here, so late, so dark … she didn’t know what to think.

Which is when she turned around.

On the other side of this hill, the footpath continued down, meandering its way through some woods and a field.

And beyond that field she saw a black strip — a road — where just now a pair of lights snaked their way … a car which seemed to be heading to Cherringham.

Not the road she and Tim had been on.

But maybe she could go there, make her way back on foot, or even, possibly …

…
get a ride.

She could hear an echo of her father’s warnings. About rides.

But all her friends took rides. After all, this was the sleepy Cotswolds.

Just about as safe a place as there could be.

And in a few minutes she’d be back in the village, not so late that her parents would be angry — or suspicious. She’d want to keep from them what had happened this evening with Tim.

Who knows?

She might not want to cross him off her list.

Maybe if he apologized. If he promised not to do it again.

And if no car came, she could walk as fast as she could, back to the village, back home.

Safe and sound.

*

The man drove so slowly — no rush, no place to race to.

And as he took a curve, he happened to look left, to the hill, the very top of the hill just visible above the line of hedges.

And as his car rolled slowly past in the dead of night — moonless, so dark — he saw someone walking down.

With the practised eyes of somebody who was often out at night, often looking down dark streets, at dark houses, he could tell it was a woman.

So when he came to a junction in the road he slowed, and …

… as if simply performing a quick turn-around, as if it was time to get back to the village, done for the night …

The man turned the car around.

And his car now headed slowly back to the hill, perfectly timed to meet the figure making its way down.

*

Dinah saw the car.

It was coming down the road, heading her way, back to Cherringham!

It would be so good if she could get a ride instead of doing that long walk back, making her so late.

She even had the thought that maybe she had been too hasty in leaving Tim. Maybe he would have stopped grabbing at her, driven her back home. Perhaps running away like that had been silly.

But — she could still feel that terrible feeling of being trapped in his car, stranded out in the dark, pulled off the main road.

She hurried now so she could get to the side of the road as the car, moving slowly, came close.

And of course — she reminded herself — she’d have to be careful.

Just can’t take a ride with
anyone
.

Have to get a look at them. That is, if they did stop.

In her hurrying, Dinah lost her balance on the bumpy, rocky trail, and fell hard against a gorse-covered rock.

She staggered to her feet, tried to ignore the pain from her knee, and found the path again.

All that hurrying had made her sweat. She felt the beads on her brow, her upper lip. No coolness in the night air, and sweat also built up on her swinging bare arms as she raced down.

Racing to get to the side of the road, to face the twin headlights of the oncoming car.

Funny.
It was going so slowly. She raised a hand, waved.

The car slowed even more.

Then — right beside her — stopped.

*

The man had his eyes on the young girl — for that’s what she was — standing at the side of the road, waving.

Out here, all alone, so late.

How do such things happen?

And as he brought the car to a stop, his hands gripping tightly on the steering wheel, he realized he knew her.

He put a smile on his face, freed one hand from its lock on the steering wheel, and rolled down the window.

*

Cautious,
Dinah thought
.

Again she reminded herself: you don’t just take a ride from anyone.

But with the window being rolled down, and seeing the man’s face catching the glare of the headlights bouncing off her dress, she realized she
knew
him, recognised him from the village.

Didn’t actually know him by name; but someone she saw in the shops, or at church on the big holidays.

She began to breathe easier.

“Hey,” he said, his voice gentle … even sounding concerned, she thought … “Are you lost? Out here on your own?”

Dinah looked back at the trail that she had taken.

“No, I, er, was with someone. Some stupid boy.”

“You’ve cut yourself,” said the man, nodding to her leg. She looked down, and saw that her dress was torn and her knee was bleeding from her fall.

Then hoping it would be enough explanation, she added: “We had a bit of an argument.”

The man reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and handed it to her.

“Here,” he said, smiling.

She took the handkerchief and dabbed her knee, the blood bright on the white material.

“Thanks,” she said and half offered it back to him, but he laughed gently as if to say — no, keep it …

Some instinct made her look over her shoulder. Up at the top of the hill, by the big tree, she could see a figure moving.

It was Tim. He was too far away for her to tell if he’d seen her down here by the car.

She looked back at the driver, knowing she was safe now.

“Heading back to the village?” he said, still smiling.

She nodded. “Yes, maybe—”

Then, as if anticipating what she’d say …

“Need a ride?”

“Could you? Such a long walk.”

The man made a small laugh.

“That it is. Hop in. Get you back in minutes.”

Another deep breath. “Oh — thank you,” she said as she raced around to the other side of the car to get into the passenger seat.

She popped open the door and slid in fast.

“You certainly don’t want to be out here on these roads so late at night,” the man said as Dinah closed the door … and the car began moving.

“And buckle up. Safety first.”

She nodded, searching for the latch of the buckle.

But then her hands found the seatbelt latch and brought it around to the buckle, and with a
snap
she was safe and secure.

As the car drove off, she caught a glimpse through the back window of Tim running, stumbling down the path towards the road — then he disappeared in the darkness.

Jack put the two pints of lager on the small table that sat to the right of the Ploughman’s U-shaped bar.

“Big crowd tonight,” he said to Sarah. “They’ve got Ellie and Billy working those taps non-stop.”

Sarah grabbed her glass and took a sip. “It’s this heat. Nice and cool in here though with the air conditioning.”

“Still can’t quite believe this is the only place in Cherringham with AC,” said Jack.

“Bit of a luxury in England, Jack.”

“Like power showers, huh?”

“My mother used to say showers are for washing, not enjoying,” said Sarah. “Though I think this weather’s made her change her mind.”

“Yup,” Jack said, taking a deep sip of the lager, “even on the Goose, on the water, it’s stifling. Kinda strange for England, hmm?”

“I can’t ever remember it being this hot.”

“Let’s hope it holds for the big concert next weekend. You going?”

“Never miss it. And this year sounds special: Handel by the river …”

“And then the
1812
with real cannons to wrap it up? That should be something.”

“You’d better warn Riley.”

“Ha, you know what — that dog loves fireworks,” he said. “Every July fourth, sitting outside on our stoop. Fireworks exploding overhead …”

For a minute Jack seemed lost in reverie. Days gone by, and people too …

“Kids coming?” he finally asked.

“Oh — Daniel will. If I can drag him away from the pool — and now the fair. And Chloe …” Sarah looked away. “At her dad’s flat in London.”

“Oh.”

Whenever the kids were with their dad, Sarah always felt uneasy. As if the bad thing he did to their marriage — the cheating that ended it — could somehow affect them if they stayed with him.

If she had her way, they’d never see him.

But she knew that wouldn’t be right. Good or bad, he was their father.

“Thanks for coming out,” Jack said. “Been a while.”

“We should get together more anyway — case or no case.”

Jack smiled. “Maybe there’s no need of our services anymore.”

Sarah laughed at that. “Not so sure about that. Either way, I hope not!”

Jack nodded. “It is fun, isn’t it? I must admit, I kind of like getting back to it, even in an unofficial way. What do they call it?”

“Busman’s holiday?”

“Right. And you? Business at the shop good?”

“It’s gone a bit quiet. Summer, you know. Those who can afford it are off to Andalucía or the hills of Provence. Things will pick up.”

“I’m sure they will. But you got a bit of buffer … I mean …?”

“Oh yes. Can’t run a freelance business like mine and not do some financial planning. I’ve got a little put by. And this has been a good few weeks for Grace to be on holiday.”

“And where did she go?”

“Majorca with three of her pals from school.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

Sarah grinned. “There will be fun — but Grace is pretty level-headed. I told her — holiday or not — keep me posted with Facebook updates and Instagram pics.”

“Postcards … so passé …”

“What’s a postcard?” Sarah said with a straight face.

Jack laughed and took a sip of his beer.

It felt good to just sit, catch up with him. They had become real friends, and Sarah knew — that with Jack — that really meant something.

She was about to ask about his plans for a trip back to the States — something he had mentioned that he’d like to do in the autumn, when someone walked into the pub.

And in that way she sometimes could tell that something was
wrong
, without even seeing what it was, simply by feeling it, Sarah turned to the door.

As so did a good number of the people at the bar and tables on this full night at the Ploughman’s.

From the sudden silence, clearly some of the people knew who the man was that just walked in.

And they weren’t happy.

Jack leaned closer to Sarah.

“What’s up? Know him?”

Sarah looked at the man, standing by the pub door. In his forties, razored hair, denim jacket, his eyes cold, scanning the room. She didn’t know him. She turned back to Jack and shook her head slowly.

Now, after his conversation-stopping entrance, the man walked to the bar.

To the very centre of the bar where Billy Leeper, the barman, stood. Billy moved away to the side, grabbing some glasses and plunging them into a sink of soapy water.

Ignoring the man.

“That’s interesting,” Jack said quietly.

And when Ellie began to go to the man, Sarah saw Billy wave her off, a quick shake of his head — a nod to stay down at the other end of the bar.

Leaving the man standing, waiting.

Sarah noted that while some people had begun to mutter, many just kept their eyes locked on the man, as if waiting to see what would happen next.

Something about it made her stomach tighten.

There was something wrong here.

To Jack it must feel like one of those classic westerns,
she thought.

A stranger walks in … except he isn’t a stranger.

Then the man spoke, the voice loud, clear, shattering the silence:

“I’d like a pint of Stella.”

Sarah watched Billy fiddling with the soapy glasses.

Then he turned and went to the far end of the bar, away from the man completely, and quickly refilled the two glasses of Phil Nailor and Pete Bull, standing together.

Neither of them had asked for a refill.

And when Billy didn’t turn back left, didn’t walk back to the centre of the bar and serve the man, the newcomer repeated the words.

“I said … I’d like a pint of Stella.”

Still nothing, and the air felt even more frigid.

“Jack,” she whispered, “this isn’t good.”

Then, from a table by the bay window to the left, Ploughman’s regulars, one stood up.

The always well-lubricated Terry Hamblyn.

The sound of his chair being pushed back.

Sarah turned back to Jack.