Cherringham--Thick as Thieves (8 page)

“The plate, worth a fortune, was
stolen
. Or did you not read your own pithy description of the event in that
thing
you publish.”

“I know, Lady Repton. But did you notice anything else? Did anyone seem suspicious? Anyone there you think might have wanted to steal the plate?”

At that Lady Repton produced a loud ’ha’. “Maybe that dotty professor. I mean, it was his safe after all.”

“But the police saw signs of the break-in. Other valuable things were stolen.”

“Pish-posh. Right. And I have had it explained to me that the item is impossible to sell. Tremendous value, but if you are not dealing with the British Museum, virtually worthless.”

“I’ve been told that as well.”

And in that moment with Lady Repton’s clear eyes locked on hers, Sarah realised that they both had the same thought.

Everyone is saying that it is impossible to sell. Nobody could buy it.

But was that true?

“Everyone there could have used that money so why steal it?”

Sarah took a deep breath before the next question.

A long pause, as she braced herself.

“And you too?”

Lady Repton had long perfected the art of the long, slow and deeply uncomfortable burn.

“Of course. Of course, I could have used that money.” She looked around the room, avoiding eye contact. “No secret there. No end of things needed for the old estate. Lists a mile long. Hence,” she looked back to Sarah. “I’m
not
pleased.”

“I’m sure.”

Sarah looked over to Standish who had forced a sheepish smile into place, his eyes seemingly suggesting that this little interview was over.

Sarah leaned forward and extended a hand.

“Thank you, Lady Repton, for coming here. Answering my questions. We will do what we can.”

Lady Repton put her tea, half drunk, on the corner of Tony’s deep mahogany desk.

Then the old battle-axe used the leverage of her cane to rise out of the classic wooden chair.

“I doubt that doing ’what you can’ will mean anything. Still, I suppose I must wish you luck.”

She took Sarah’s hand in a surprisingly firm handshake.

“Now, Standish — a taxi, if you will?”

And like a prehistoric three-legged raptor, not to be underestimated, Lady Repton walked out the door.

Jack watched carefully from the forward deck of the Grey Goose as Daniel loosened the rope, pulled it back into the little rowing boat and took hold of the oars. Riley the dog sat patiently in the stern, unperturbed as the tiny craft bobbed from side to side, next to the barge.

“Don’t forget now, Daniel — take a good look up and down river.”

Daniel checked like he was crossing the road for the first time.

Which in a sense he is,
thought Jack.

“Tell me this gets easier,” said Sarah standing next to Jack, anxiously watching her eleven-year old son row solo for the first time.

“Nope,” said Jack. “I can guarantee you that when Daniel is twenty-one you will still be peering over his shoulder ready to pick him up when he falls. Or at the very least, pick up his rent bill when he phones home to say he’s broke.”

“All clear!” said Daniel.

“Well then … off you go, kid,” said Jack.

Daniel dipped both oars in the water, pulled, and headed away across the river with Riley to the far bank. The water was flat calm and Jack noticed the insects skimming over the surface.

Maybe get the rods out later, catch myself some supper.

“Nearly there, Dan,” called Sarah, a warning tone in her voice.

“He knows what he’s doing,” said Jack.

And sure enough, Jack could see Daniel check his distance from the bank, ship his oars and gently float to a perfect rest up against the little jetty. The boy looped his rope round the post, tied it off then jumped up onto the opposite bank. Riley leaped after him.

“Nice work Daniel,” called Jack. “Give us a shout when you’re ready to come back.”

Daniel gave a big grin and a thumbs-up.

“Come on Riley!” he shouted, and raced off into the meadows. Riley tore after him.

Jack turned to Sarah.

“Kid’s a natural,” he said. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

“I seem to remember you use the outboard these days Jack.”

“Gotta watch I don’t put my back out.”

“Hmm. A likely story …”

Jack winked at her then pulled out one of the canvas chairs that leaned against the table and sat down, facing the river. Daniel and Riley were already halfway across the meadows. Jack had a sudden and surprising pang of memory of being that age, his dog at his side, walking through waist-high grass.

Funny how an image like that can ambush you
, he thought.

Sarah pulled out another chair and sat next to him.

“So you think there’s nothing more we can do,” she said, not taking her eyes off her son, fast becoming a dot in the distance.

Jack knew it was the case she was talking about.

They’d already spent the morning going round in circles — all the while planning for Jack’s little party in a week’s time. And though that was pretty organised, the investigation was going nowhere fast.

“Short of a surprise confession — nope,” said Jack.

But he could see she still wasn’t going to settle for that.

“I remember you told me once that when you get a breakthrough, it’s often something that you knew already, but you just hadn’t realised the importance.”

“True,” said Jack. “It’s usually some fact or piece of information you’ve kind of … misfiled. You know what I mean?”

“Exactly,” said Sarah. “So maybe you’ve got one of those now?”

Jack considered this.

“Well …”

“Go on.”

“One thing I do not get,” said Jack. “The break-in. They tried the front door, then they smashed the back door. Now from what you told me about this art gang from that crime report — they’re pros. And anyone who can open one of those Canon safes — well they can slip a door lock easy.”

“Plus — would they really smash the glass in and leave it there?”

“Exactly,” said Jack.

Jack watched as a group of swans flew past, just level with the deck of the Grey Goose and landed downstream.

“On the other hand,” he said. “The way Cartwright left the combination out, it might be an amateur who just got lucky.”

“Like Jerry?”

“Not impossible. My money’s on Lady Repton.”

Sarah laughed.

“Can’t be her. You’d have heard her cane tapping from here. What about young Baz?”

“Not on his own — he was too drunk. If local reports are to be believed.”

“Pete the Farmer?”

“Possible — though I’d hate it to be true.”

“Which leaves the professor,” said Sarah.

“And with him, like we said before — where’s the motive?”

“You’re right,” said Sarah. “Everybody says it would be impossible to sell the plate anyway. So whoever stole it might have just thrown it away.”

“Or melted it down.”

“But I wonder if that’s really true?” said Sarah. “What about those people you hear about who have incredible works of art all hidden away? They exist, don’t they? It’s possible to buy these things on the black market.”

“True,” said Jack. “In fact, I remember, a year or two back there was a guy in the States bought a T-Rex skull for a small fortune. Texan oil millionaire. Had it installed in his study. Just to look at all on his lonesome.”

“So the Cherringham Plate could still be out there.”

“It could. But you know what? Right now, I don’t think we’re going to find it.”

Across the river, Riley jumped up onto the bank and barked a greeting. Jack could see Daniel, stick in hand, heading back too.

“Not unless we get lucky,” he said with a shrug. But from the determined look on Sarah’s face, he could see she wasn’t going to let it go that easily.

Sarah had just finished editing a blood-curdling scream into the Victorian Hangman Feature on the Penton Prison website when there was a knock at the office door.

She looked over at Grace.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

Grace shook her head and walked over to the door. Pete Butterworth entered quickly. He nodded a hurried greeting to Sarah and went straight to the little window that looked down onto the village square.

Sarah looked at Grace.

“What the …?” she mouthed.

Grace shrugged again.

“Mr Butterworth — is there a problem?” she said, standing up from her chair.

“No, not a problem,” he said, not taking his eyes from the street two storeys below.

Sarah joined him at the window.

“You look worried.”

“Worried? No.”

For a second his eyes flicked away from the street to hers — then he pressed his face to the glass again.

“You see the BMW — by the entrance to the village hall?”

Sarah looked down.

“The blue one — yes?”

“That’s it,” he said. “By the way — you can call me Pete.”

“Nice to see you again, Pete.”

“Hmm. Now don’t take your eyes off the car — all right?”

“Absolutely. But are you going to tell me why?”

She saw Pete look over at Grace.

“Don’t worry. Anything you were going to say to me, you can say in front of Grace.”

He seemed to consider this for a few seconds, then relaxed.

“If you say so.”

Sarah waited patiently.

“Go on then.”

“Right. Well it’s about the plate of course. The robbery.”

Without taking his eyes off the street he launched into his story. And Sarah knew she and Jack were about to get lucky.

“Your friend — the American — when he came to the farm and spoke to me and Becky, well … I’m afraid we lied.”

Pete looked away at this.

“He asked us what we did the night the robbery happened and we said we stayed in, went to bed early. But we didn’t. Well — we did. At first. But I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about the plate, you see. Worried that it wasn’t safe at old Cartwright’s place. So I got in the Land Rover and drove into the village. Parked out of the streetlights, just up from Cartwright’s house. So I could keep an eye out, case anyone got ideas, know what I mean?”

Sarah knew exactly what he meant.

“In case Jerry and Baz decided to get the plate back?”

“Well. Yeah. Them — or worse still, some of their mates. I got a call from Billy down the Ploughman — he told me they were in there shooting their mouths off, all but giving Cartwright’s address away. So naturally — I got worried. We need that money, see. We need it so badly.”

Sarah knew she also needed to keep the momentum going.

“So what time was that?”

“When I got there? I don’t know, about one-ish. Two maybe. Anyway, I’d only been there half an hour when Jerry himself turns up. Half pissed I reckon. He did a kind of walk-by outside Cartwright’s house, all inconspicuous — then he fell in the hedge.”

“But he couldn’t see you?”

“No, I was tucked down in the car. Anyway he opens the gate, goes to Cartwright’s front door and tries to open it — with a credit card first. Then a screwdriver. Then he gives up, comes down the path, kicks the gate and heads off.”

“So he didn’t go round the back?”

“No. Definitely not. Anyway, soon as he’s gone I’m thinking — I’d better get in there myself, get the plate, look after it, it’s not safe … So I creep over and head up the path.”

“You were going to steal it yourself?”

“No! Not steal it! Look after it. Stop them beggars from stealing it–”

“That’s not the way the police would see it.”

“Too right. Which is why I’m talking to you — okay? Anyway, that’s not the important thing. It’s what happened next. See, I’m halfway up the path when a light goes on round the back and there’s a shadow, then I see somebody coming round the side of the house to the path.”

“You got a proper look at them?”

“That’s what I’m telling you. It was a bloke, thin scrawny bloke. And he was carrying a bag — like a sports bag — but heavy, like it had metal in it. Like it had the plate in it. He walks right past me down the path — I mean, I’m almost under his feet I’m so close, but I’m in the dark under a shrub, see — and as he goes I can see his face in the street light, dead clear. So, soon as he’s out into the square I get up so I can follow him — but he’s jumped in a car and he’s gone. Gone with my plate.”

“But you got a good look at him?”

“Oh yes.”

“And you’d recognise him again?”

“Well I just did, didn’t I? Why do you think I came up here? Why do you think we’re looking at the BMW?”

Pete gestured with his head down to the car in the square.

Sarah realised — and followed his gaze, just as a man approached and from a distance unlocked the car with his keyfob.

“See —
that’s
the bloke I saw coming out of Cartwright’s house. That’s the thief. I recognised him just now in the shop. I took his number — then came up here. You can trace him, find out who he is …”

As the man opened the car door, some instinct made him look up at the windows of Sarah’s tiny office. She drew back, and felt Pete Butterworth pull back too, out of the light.

And in that moment Sarah knew she wouldn’t need to trace the car.

She’d seen the man before.

It was Lawrence Sitwell, one-time Professor of European Archaeology at the University of Oxford.

Jack poured another cup of tea from his metal flask and handed it to Sarah.

“That’s the end of the tea,” he said, draining the flask into his own mug. “And we had the last cookie an hour ago.”

He leaned back into the front passenger seat of Sarah’s Rav-4, yawned and looked around. The smart, tree-lined Oxford street was quiet. The first floor of number 23 — Professor Sitwell’s apartment– was dark, the curtains half-closed.

Late afternoon. What did academics do on spring afternoons?

Drink sherry and snooze till dinner,
he thought.

“All we got left now is two dog biscuits I found in my pocket.”

“Well, with luck we won’t need those,” said Sarah. “Because if the good professor doesn’t emerge soon — we’re going to have to head home so I can pick up Chloe from Drama Club.”