Cherringham--Death on a Summer Night (8 page)

Sarah gestured to the room: “So how …?”

Another laugh. “—did I afford this?”

“Yes,” Sarah laughed. “Hard work and talent?”

“Ha, no — that’s for fairy tales, I am afraid. Pure luck if I’m honest,” he said laughing again.

He certainly found things amusing.

Sarah watched him run his hand through his thick hair and sweep it away from his forehead.

If he’d still been at Cherringham School when I was doing GCSEs I definitely would have taken music,
she thought.

“Mid-nineties, I packed up teaching and got into composing my own stuff. Club scene was massive — and I wrote a couple of tunes that turned into hits. I’m still big in Estonia by the way. You can dance the night away in Tallinn to one of my tracks!”

“I feel ashamed I haven’t heard of you — Cherringham’s own rock star hmm?”

“Oh, no — not anymore,” he said. “Made a shedload of money. Then started composing properly. Got a studio in the basement.”

“Anything I’d know?”

“Not unless you listen to contemporary classical.”

“Ah, no,” she said. “I’m more Mumford and Sons …”

“Nothing wrong with that. I just like to push at the edges a bit.”

She watched him smile then put his coffee down on the table and lean forward.

“So,” he said, his eyes direct. “Your assistant said you wanted to ask me about something that happened back when I was working at Cherringham School?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, this is going to be a real change of subject.”

“That’s cool; no worries.”

Sarah told him about Tim Bell’s reappearance in Cherringham, the hostile reaction, and the possibility that perhaps Tim wasn’t guilty of Dinah’s murder.

She also explained how she and Jack had decided to reinvestigate the case. Rik listened closely and nodded sympathetically.

“Hmm. You really think he’s innocent?”

Sarah shrugged: “Right now I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

“To be honest, I can’t say I liked the boy at the time.”

“You knew him?”

“I played a few acoustic sets down the Ploughman’s in those days — he was always first in the queue to ruin the evening.”

“I doubt he’s changed much.”

Rik got up, went to the window and looked out into the garden.

“I don’t really connect with this village anymore — so I had no idea this was going on. How awful.”

“Nobody’s talked to you about it recently?”

“I haven’t heard that Dinah’s name mentioned for … over twenty years.”

“Couple of her friends said she was pretty keen on you.”

“Really?” Another laugh. Quick, fast. “I used to get that quite a lot — sorry, that sounds arrogant, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all,” said Sarah. “Teaching teenage girls — it’s going to happen. Especially if you’re young.”

“Cherringham was my first teaching post,” said Rik. “I must have been — what … twenty-two? Just a kid myself.”

“So you don’t remember Dinah any more than the other girls?”

He turned back from the window and sat down again: then, amazingly, Sarah could see his dark eyes glistening, wet.

“Oh, but I do.” He sniffed.
Strange.
“She was an amazing musician. Breathtaking. She already had a place waiting at the Royal Academy.”

“God — you must have been upset when she disappeared.”

“
Devastated
. I didn’t really talk about it to anyone at the time — but I think, you know, I became depressed. Clinically depressed — for quite some time.”

“Is that why you stopped teaching?”

Sarah watched him as he nodded and swallowed. She waited for him to answer. The room was silent.

He took a deep breath: “I stayed only another few years at the school. Then I gave it up for good. I just couldn’t … invest in any of the kids any more. Lost my way a bit, to be honest.”

“But you found it again,” said Sarah. “If you hadn’t left teaching—”

“Clouds and silver linings, huh?”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” said Sarah quickly.

“It’s all right. You know, I left Cherringham completely. When I came back a few years ago it was as if Dinah Taylor had never existed.”

Sarah could see him drifting off into his memories. She waited, then: “Did you think Tim Bell was guilty, at the time?”

“Who knows? There was evidence.”

“You never suspected anyone else?”

“I was just a young teacher at the school — what did I know?”

Sarah nodded. This felt like another dead end. She put her coffee cup down.

“I’d better be off,” she said. “Rik … I’m sorry I’ve had to drag up all those memories.”

“No problem. Some ‘memory lanes’ are darker than others. I’ll show you out.”

As she got up to leave, she passed the wall of photos. In some, Rik was much younger, in his twenties. So many students — but she couldn’t see Dinah Taylor in any of them.

Maybe just too upsetting
, she thought.

She let him lead her back down the corridor. As he opened the front door she noticed a flyer for the concert at the weekend, sitting on the hall table.

“Are you going to the concert?” she said.

“Going? I’m conducting it.”

“Wow — that’s amazing!”

“Isn’t it? I’m this year’s guest conductor. Local boy makes good, I guess.”

“Have you conducted these pieces before?”

“Oh, yes. Couple of times, in the States. Though — gotta say — never with live cannons for the
1812
. That will be something.”

“Sounds like I’d better bring earplugs.”

“Oh, I’m not that bad—”

“God, I’m sorry. For the cannons I meant! I’ve put my foot in it again—”

“Hey — I’m teasing,” he said smiling.

She laughed and held out her hand to shake his. He took it and leaned forward, kissed her goodbye on both cheeks.

Dashing indeed.

And maybe, also haunted by a student that got away … or was taken away?

She turned and went down the steps to the street. He called from behind her: “I should have asked — if you need a lift? Great fun with the top down.”

She turned: he pointed to a little blue sports car which was parked just in front of her.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Maybe some other time.”

“See you at the concert.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, and then, as if on a whim: “Oh — just one thing, Rik — I completely forgot to ask you …”

“Fire away.”

“Where were you that night? The night Dinah Taylor disappeared?”

She saw him falter.

That’s the first time he’s been lost for words since I got here,
she thought.

“Are you serious?” he said.

“Sorry — just occurred to me,” she said smiling. “You know how it is.”

“Um, God, Sarah. I can hardly remember,” he said. “Such a long time ago.”

“But the police must have asked you?”

“Er, yes, sure, everyone was asked about that night.”

Sarah waited, smiling sympathetically, nodding her understanding.

“Um — I think I had something to eat and then went to the fair. Everybody went to the fair. Yes. I’m sure now.”

Sarah wasn’t …

“Fine,” she said. “Great. See you at the concert Rik, lovely to meet you.”

And she turned and walked away down the street. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was still watching her.

Jack’s technique of throwing a “curved ball” at the end of the interview had worked.

Whatever he was up to that night — he doesn’t want to talk about it,
she thought.

And she headed back to the office — to so many looming deadlines.

Jack picked up a stick of candyfloss and made his way through the funfair. Midday and most of the rides hadn’t set up yet. The only ones he could see open were the small joints selling cheap candy or hot dogs, or offering games for the little kids.

Those games.

Looked so easy, but always with a gimmick that made them impossible to win.

The big rides with the thumping music and gut-twisting spinning seats were closed. Aimed at the teen crowd who wouldn’t be hitting the fair until dark.

The floss took him back thirty years to fairs back home — always did.

Watching his own daughter’s face as she took that first sticky bite.

He looked around and tried to imagine this fair twenty-five years ago, when Dinah was her with her two pals. Flashing lights, pop music blaring from every ride, kids laughing and screaming — and somewhere in the crowds …

A killer waiting for the right moment.

Tim Bell, maybe.

But Jack now doubted that very much.

He rounded the Super Waltzer and there ahead of him — right in the centre of the fair, the prized location — was the Ghost Train.

The spooky ride wasn’t lit yet — but the bright painted sign that ran thirty feet across the front in lurid, blood-dripping letters, made the theme clear: Ghost Train — the only way out of Dodge City …

Every Ghost ride had a theme, Jack guessed — and this one was westerns.

Jack scanned the front of the ride: shotguns poked from phony windows; a skeleton in full cowboy outfit stood outside the gaol; vampire saloon dancing girls lined up, fangs protruding, their legs kicking high, bullet-holed coffins leaned against the entrance.

Jack walked closer — and saw a guy with a cigarette dangling from his mouth lying under one of the cars, hitting a wheel with a hammer and cursing.

“Hi,” said Jack.

“We’re not open,” said the guy, not looking up.

“I’m looking for Charlie Kite.”

“Your lucky day, mate. You found him.”

The ticket seller at the entrance knew just where to send Jack.

“Hi Charlie. My name’s Jack Brennan. And I’ve been told you might be able to help me.”

Jack watched as the guy kept hammering.

“It’s about Dinah Taylor.”

The hammering stopped.

Jack watched as the man put the hammer down and sat up slowly.

In his mid-forties, Charlie was thin, with long, stringy hair and hollow cheekbones. His leather jacket and jeans hung loose from his wiry frame.

Jack had seen this haggard look many times before and usually it told of a lifetime’s relationship with drink — or drugs.

“What do you want … Jack Brennan?”

“Friendly chat, that’s all,” said Jack.

He watched as the man looked around at the other stalls, as if checking who was watching this meeting.

“All right,” he said. “But not here.”

He turned and opened a small door set into the Dodge City Gaol: Jack followed him and ducked into the darkness of the Ghost Ride.

*

Jack looked around the dark, cramped room, embedded in the heart of the Ghost Ride.

Spooky place for an interrogation, that’s for sure.

“Quite a little hidey-hole,” he said, leaning back against a timber support. From here he looked down on Charlie Kite, who sat, arms folded, at a dirty table.

“It’s the office.”

“And you’re the boss now?”

“Of this creepy ride? Yeah — all mine.”

“And back in eighty-nine — you were what — the ride boy?”

“Ran it for my dad.”

“Family business.”

“Something like that.”

Jack nodded at a gap in the boards that made up the office wall: “Guess you get a good view of all the punters from here Charlie. See ’em screaming, girls holding tight to their boyfriends in the dark …”

Charlie shook his head.

“Look man, I thought you wanted to talk about Dinah Taylor?”

“Just making conversation,” said Jack.

“I’ve got a ride to fix. Say what you got to say — then I can get back to work — okay?”

Jack smiled.

“Sure,” he said. “You know Tim Bell’s back in town?”

“Yeah. And I hear you’re trying to prove he didn’t kill the girl.”

“You think he did?”

Charlie’s eyes went wide.

“The truth? No.”

“Really? You sound pretty sure. That what you told the cops at the time?”

“Yeah — but they weren’t going to believe me, were they? Carny …”

“Dealer …”

Charlie shrugged. “Had to make a livin’, hmm?”

“Did you sell Tim drugs that night?”

“Probably.”

“Any idea what?”

“Coke. Weed. Who knows?”

“And you saw him go off with Dinah?”

“Yeah.”

“And they never came back?”

“No. Not together.”

Jack paused.

There’d been no reference in any of the witness reports he’d read in the papers to any sighting of either Tim or Dinah later that night.

“What do you mean — not together?”

“I told one of the coppers. When we were packing up, I saw a girl by the entrance. Thought it was Dinah. But you know, it was dark, I’d had a few, um … you know …”

“Were there other people around?”

“Handful. Drunk most of them. Or stoned.”

“You didn’t mention it at the trial.”

“Cops persuaded me I was wrong, didn’t they? They had their ‘story.’ And I’d been smoking all day — how would that look in court … they said.”

“Ah. And nobody else saw her?”

“Seems not.”

Not the first time an inconvenient piece of evidence is left out of the picture,
thought Jack.

“So the cops went easy on you?” he said.

“Let’s say I didn’t get busted,” said Charlie. “They gave me a hard time about the car though.”

“What car?”

“They were tracking Astras. Had a list of local owners. I had an old one, off the road. They gave it a right going over.”

“But they didn’t find anything?” said Jack.

“They came up trumps on Tim’s car same day — so they didn’t bother me no more.”

Jack nodded. Charlie was hardly the most reliable witness — and neither defence nor prosecution would welcome him to the stand.

“We done?” said Charlie.

“Guess so,” said Jack. “And Charlie — thanks. The cops may not have wanted to listen …”

Jack took a breath.

“But I do …”

And Charlie got up and showed him out of the office.

*

Back in the bright sunlight of the funfair, Jack bought an ice pop … they called them “lollies” apparently. Then went and sat for five minutes on the steps of the Dodgems to take stock.