Cherringham--Death on a Summer Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

said Jack, with a nod toward the approaching group whose numbers seemed to have swelled. She recognized some of Terry Hamblyn’s mates among them — and one or two older faces she’d seen around the village.
    Easy to raise a lynch mob these days with mobile phones, she thought.
    Sarah dragged the rusty gate open, headed to the front door, and knocked loudly.
    There was no response.
    She looked at Jack.
    He stepped forward and opened the letterbox.
    “Mr Bell, this is Jack Brennan. We er … met … last night down at the Ploughman’s.”
    Silence.
    Sarah shrugged and leaned in to the letterbox.
    “Tim, we want to help. We think we might be able to help you. We’re not here to cause trouble.”
    She waited, but still no response.
    Over Jack’s shoulder she could see one or two more people walking purposefully down the street.
    “Jack, I think we’d better go — now, before—”
    Behind her, she heard the door slowly open. She turned to see Bell’s face just visible, pressed against the frame, pale against the dark interior of the house.
    “Right. Come on then, if you’re coming,” he said.
    He opened the door wider and they went in.
    Then Sarah heard the door slam behind them.
    *
    Sarah and Jack sat in silence at the kitchen table, waiting for Tim to make their tea. Sarah felt she was in a time warp: the kitchen cabinets were seventies originals and all the appliances — cooker, fridge, even the toaster — looked even older.
    The whole house seemed tidy and clean. But threadbare and hardly furnished.
    “You been dealing with the locals all right?” she said.
    “Kids with spray paint? Do me a favour.”
    “Looks a bit more serious than that,” said Jack.
    “I can deal with it. Prison was no cake-walk.”
    She watched as Tim placed two old mugs on the table, followed by a bag of sugar, and a carton of milk, and a spoon.
    “You not having one?” said Jack.
    Tim shook his head and sat down opposite them.
    Like a police interview, she thought. Suspect there and us two playing cops.
    “Is this where you used to live before …?” said Sarah.
    “’s where I grew up,” said Tim, taking out a tin of tobacco and papers.
    Sarah watched him deftly roll a cigarette then light it. No question of whose house rules. His rules.
    “Parents still around?” said Jack.
    “Died when I was inside.”
    “That must have been difficult,” said Sarah.
    She watched him pick a shred of tobacco out of his teeth.
    “I didn’t like them that much. So I wasn’t bothered.”
    Sarah wondered if he genuinely felt like that or whether the words were just a defence.
    “Usually they let people come to the funerals …”
    Tim seemed to bristle. “I said I wasn’t bothered, didn’t I?”
    Flash of anger there …
    “So this is the first time you’ve been back since—”
    “Since I got put away for a murder I didn’t do? Yes.”
    “Why are you back, Tim?” said Jack.
    “It’s where I live, isn’t it?” He took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Lovely Cherringham.”
    “You got friends here still?”
    “Still? Turned out I never had any bloody friends.”
    Sarah watched Tim carefully. There was an air of compressed violence about him now, as if without warning he might suddenly explode and attack.
    Since they arrived, he hadn’t looked her in the eyes; and since he sat down he hadn’t taken his eyes away from Jack’s.
    “You … you said you wanted to help me. How’re you going to do that?”
    Sarah watched Jack — the question wasn’t addressed to her.
    “Sarah and I …” said Jack, “we work together sometimes on cases — ones that maybe the local police aren’t interested in, or—”
    “I know what you do,” said Tim. “They teach you how to Google. In prison.”
    “Okay,” said Jack. “So here’s the thing. I looked at your case. I read the reports. The trial transcripts. And I can’t see why they convicted you.”
    “Funny. That’s just what my lawyer said.”
    “Didn’t you