Cherringham--Follow the Money (2 page)

Currently away at Oxford — where it seemed the boy was always short of money and always having difficulty with his flatmates.

And when he came home?

Well, then Terry seemed to make himself scarce rather than deal with the son who spent the visits mainly watching telly, hanging with friends, and playing those noisy video games on the big screen.

Claire also tried not to be around much during those weeks.

How did he even get into Oxford?
Claire often wondered.

Could Terry have had something to do with that …? Surely you couldn’t
buy
your way into a place like Oxford?

Hard to tell with Terry.

“Money talks, doll,” he used to say when they were first married.

Doll.

Thank god he didn’t call her that now. She looked at her husband again.

Terry had been drinking, but he seemed steady behind the wheel of the big Porsche Cayenne, slowing as they came to Coutts Lane, the road that led down to the river, where their house was the last — and the largest — of the new places there.

So shiny and modern, but that was Terry’s taste. She would have preferred a proper Cotswold cottage; all honey stone and old-fashioned flowers.

Still, you couldn’t fault the setting, right by the river.

Set back from the others, hidden by a copse of trees in front, high shrubs on both sides.

Nice sense of privacy.

Would be good to slip into their giant bed, read for a bit.

Terry didn’t seem interested in pushing things there as well.

Which also suited her just fine.

And then, with a sharp turn, they came to the short gravel driveway to their home.

And immediately Claire saw that something was very wrong.

*

Terry pulled the 4WD right up to the front steps, braking hard.

“Bloody hell!” he said, popping open his door and bolting out.

The front door was open!

They had left a light on in the porch and one in the hallway. But now, lights were on all
over
the house, the whole place lit up like it was on display.

Claire hurried to follow her husband.

“Terry — what’s happened?”

He stood at the entrance.

And she had the same thought that she guessed he had. Whoever had done this …
might still be inside.

He turned to her.

His tone, his look, almost accusing. “Looks like someone broke into the house, Claire.”

“But what about the alarm system? How could—”

But she was left talking to the air as Terry, fists bunched up, barrelled into the house.

And Claire felt she had no choice but to follow.

*

So follow she did.

As Terry went first into the living room.

She looked at the upturned chairs, pricey items from Harrod’s ‘classic’ line, designed to look like genuine eighteenth century but instead brand new.

And the sofa, a claw-footed item that matched the chairs, had its cushions pulled off, tossed around the room.

The photos on the mantelpieces, wedding pictures, Oliver as a baby, and then other benchmarks … his gap year in Thailand with friends, pictures of him moving into his room at Oxford.

All had been bulldozed to the floor.

Why?
she thought.

Why would someone do that?

“The damn TV’s still here! Least they didn't get that.”

Terry spun around and started walking to a small study, which also served as his home office.

“God, damn it!” he said.

“What is it?”

Again he turned to her. “My bloody MacBook!
Gone
! You’d better check for yours.”

Claire nodded and started walking to the kitchen. A small room to the side provided a little office — her hideaway as she thought about it.

A place to write emails, shop online, do all that stuff — away from the noise of the massive TV and its speakers, the screams of the football fans.

It was her private place.

And luckily her MacBook — albeit a smaller one — was still there.

Terry appeared by her elbow.

“They must have missed that,” he said. “Though I don’t see how the hell they could.”

“Please, Terry. Language.”

“We’ve been burgled and all you can go on about is my ‘language’?”

She watched him shake his head.

”What an idiot!” And then he turned away from her.

“Where are you going?” she asked, as he raced past her.

“Upstairs. See what else they nicked; what else the bastards have trashed.”

And Claire — wondering the very same thing — hurried to catch up with him.

*

In the master bedroom, the mattress had been yanked off the bed base. The base itself had been upturned as if someone was checking under the bed, or even inside the base itself.

Claire took that in — but then quickly went over to her dresser. She opened the top right drawer that held her locked jewellery chest.

She pulled it open.

“My things, Terry. They’re gone.”

Claire didn’t have a lot of expensive jewellery. She just wasn’t someone who liked showy things; not like Terry and his Porsche.

But she had a gold necklace with diamonds encrusted in the neck. Earrings too, gold and silver, and an assortment of expensive rings and broaches.

All good jewellery — just not a lot of it.

Much of it obligatory gifts from Terry who — she felt — didn’t show any imagination when a big event had to be celebrated.

“Gone, hmm?” he said.

Then he turned and walked into their over-sized walk-in wardrobe that ran the full length of one wall.

There are things in there,
she thought.

And leaving the dresser drawer open, she followed.

“Looks like they left my gun,” he said, standing at the wardrobe’s entrance. “Maybe they missed it, maybe they were rushing.”

She watched him reach into his pocket for a key to unlock the grey gun cabinet that was mounted on a steel frame at the back of the wardrobe.

He flicked open the cabinet door.

Inside she could see the gun, with its polished wood and metal scrollwork.

So pretty — like the work of an Indian silversmith.

But she hated the gun. And hated the fact that Terry kept it here in the wardrobe.

At least it was on his side. The half devoted to his boring collection of grey and tan slacks, brightly coloured collared shirts, various shoes, brown, black, all smartly polished.

All looked untouched. Maybe the burglars hadn’t been in here …

Claire turned to her side of the wardrobe and pushed at the sliding doors.

Slowly
.

This was all so strange.

To see their home this way.

To think … people did this while they were sipping wine, eating Helen’s delicious food.

Terry turned and headed back downstairs. She waited until she heard him banging and clattering down in the kitchen, then turned to inspect the other side of the wardrobe.

*

It took Alan Rivers only minutes to drive to their house.

Claire always liked him — though she had heard grumblings that he wasn’t the sharpest policeman into the world.

Still, he seemed nice.

He looked properly concerned.

He had pulled out a pad to write down the details of what they had seen upon coming home.

“And you haven’t checked for other stolen items? Made an inventory?”

Terry answered for them both.

“No. I mean, we’ve seen enough. Figured you might want to get cracking on the case.”

Alan nodded.

“Computer. Jewellery. But they missed your laptop, right Mrs. Goodman?”

She nodded.

“And valuable silverware?”

“I haven’t checked that,” she said quietly.

“Right. We’ll need as compete a list as you can. So will your insurer. You have theft insurance, I assume?”

“Damn right we have!” Terry said.

Knowing Terry, Claire guessed that whatever list he generated would have more than a few non-existent items on it.

“So Alan, how did they do all this and not trigger my alarm?”

The officer didn’t immediately answer.

Instead he walked to the front door.

He opened the keypad just to the left as you entered the home.

“Operates by code, right?”

“Yup.”

Another nod from Alan.

“And you two … are you the only people who know that code?”

“Yes. Well, no,” Terry said. “Our son Olli — Oliver. He knows it, of course. And the people who put it in. Think they could know it?”

Alan turned away from the box.

“Not if you set your own code, secretly, after they installed it. Something to check on anyway.”

“So, how’d the robber do it?”

Terry might be confused, thought Claire.

But she could easily figure out what Alan Rivers was about to say.

“Someone got in, jimmying a door or a window somewhere. That’s something else we’ll need to check. Then they have a certain amount of time before the alarm goes off, the alert goes to the monitoring company … then to us.”

“That’s thirty seconds,” Terry said.

“Quite long,” Alan said taking a step closer to the both of them.

“Well,” Terry grinned, “if I’ve been out with my mates, having a few, I don’t want to screw things up by rushing.”

Alan turned and looked directly at Claire.

“On a night like that,” Alan said to her, “with your husband out, you’d go to bed? House all locked up, with Mr. Goodman out? Alarm on?”

Claire nodded.

“I’d worry if I didn’t,” she said, “We’re quite isolated down here. And Terry, well he always managed to get the code in.”

Alan seemed to consider this.

Terry pressed him. “So, what you think? Where does your investigation start?”

“It has started … Though the robber leaving your gun, even that TV, and missing the other computer. All seems very amateurish to me. Rushed.”

“And all the chairs being knocked over, like they just tore through the place.”

Alan nodded.

“It’s confusing. I’ll check on things, the door locks, the alarm. But I have to be honest with you. A lot of break-ins — even in Cherringham when they happen, which isn’t often — they go unsolved. People recover, claim on the insurance, get more security.”

“I’ll kill the bastard that did this.”

There he goes again,
Claire thought.
Always with his language.

“Hope not, Mr. Goodman. That would be one way to make things worse. Just let me do my job, sir.”

Terry nodded at that.

“Now you’d best lock up. Change that code, by the way. And I will keep you posted on things.”

Claire saw her husband nod.

Then the police officer turned, ready to walk away.

But he stopped.

“But I have to tell you. If the alarm was working — meaning that someone knew the code — well, that … I don’t know …”

He paused. Then said only, “Good night.”

She watched as the Cherringham police officer walked out of their house.

Her beautiful house that now felt cold and violated.

And Terry shut the door as Alan walked down the steps to his patrol car.

Sarah dashed out of the building, hurrying to Jack’s Sprite where he had … the top down!

“Sorry,” she said opening the door and getting in. “Had to make sure Grace was all set for a conference call on a new account.”

Jack started the engine. A throaty rumble that always signalled that this little sports car was no generic vehicle for picking up groceries and ferrying kids to school and football matches.

He started to back up out of the parking space. At this time of year, with no tourists, there was always space in the middle of Cherringham.

“Grace up to it?”

“Absolutely,” Sarah replied. “Well, to be honest, she
is
a bit nervous, but if we want to expand the business she will have to tackle things like this on her own.”

“Is it a test?”

“More like practice. Who knows — she might be better with the networking and people skills than I am.”

“Doubt that,” Jack said smiling.

He started down the main road out of the village that took them past the Ploughman’s and down to the toll bridge.

“And Jack — top down? It’s nearly winter.”

“Operative word there is ‘nearly
’
. I like to hang onto these days racing around in the open air as long as possible.”

He loved this car
, she thought.

Jack was someone who had lived a full life in NYC — then lost so much.

It was great that the bouncy little sports car gave him so much pleasure.

And after they’d gone through the toll, he turned to her.

“So, I’m very glad we’ve been invited for lunch at your mom’s. But any clue what it’s about?”

And Sarah had none.

“No. She just said she’d like us to come over. Lunch and all that, but she also had something ‘to discuss’.”

“Seems like mother and daughter both like mysteries …”

She turned to him. “To be honest, it’s very unusual. Mum’s usually pretty up front about what she’s thinking. This — well, it’s totally out of character.”

“Will be interesting then.”

“Yes, I think it will. And Jack … brrrr.”

“Too windy?”

She laughed.

“You might say that.”

He grinned. “Okay, okay. Top goes up for the ride back.”

“You’re a star.”

“Anything for my partner in crime.”

And hearing those words, Sarah felt that there was nothing better than driving around like this, top down, chilled, with such a good friend.

*

Sarah’s mum, Helen, led them into the sitting room, a tray of sandwiches and tea cups all set.

Music playing. Opera.

“Helen, ‘La Traviata’. Callas as Violetta?”

“Jack! You do know your opera.”

“Fantastic voice — and actress. Just wish I had seen her ‘live’.”

Sarah had even started listening more bravely to opera, guided by Jack’s recommendations.

And she could see its power, the overwhelming drama of the music, the stories.