nothing.
The cab was just the same. Not a sweet wrapper or a CD or an old coffee cup.
Empty. Clean.
Too clean .
It took a moment for him to connect the dots.
Someone had been down here and had both vehicles professionally cleaned.
And Jack could guess it wasn’t out of respect for the poor, dead young labourer.
They were getting rid of evidence.
But what?
Had Dylan been keeping a log of safety breaches on the site — or maybe on other sites?
Or had he seen something — something else which Jack and Sarah didn’t know about — which was worth killing him for? If that’s what happened, was someone going to all this effort to cover tracks?
When Sarah had called him this morning he’d told her straight away about his feeling of being followed home from the Ploughman’s. And since her office had been broken into as well — then not only the Grey Goose but maybe also Ray could be next on the list.
What were he and Sarah getting into?
Somebody was clearly rattled.
He knew that Sarah had planned to meet Charlie Winters this morning. Seemed pretty decent, she had thought.
No matter — he’d send her a text, just to warn her to be on her guard.
Jack shut the doors on the van and went back to the caravan. He opened the door, stepped inside, and looked around.
He knew from experience that even professional cleaners didn’t get everything. Somewhere in this caravan could be a piece of evidence they’d missed.
Twenty years as an NYPD detective had taught him how to search a property.
Really search — that is.
He took off his overcoat and laid it carefully on the table. Then he took out a small toolkit of screwdrivers, picks, and pliers.
And, starting with the highest cupboard, he began to search Dylan McCabe’s caravan.
*
In the end it only took him a couple of hours.
But he had a small evidence bag crammed with small objects. Most of it rubbish: coins, pins, can tops, a tiny wrap of weed, cigarette ends, receipts, an ear plug.
No cell phone.
But a photo.
A printed one; rarity in these days of mobile phone selfies.
Hardly anyone prints out photos any more, he thought. Except one place …
The passport photo booth.
And who can’t resist a bit of fun while you’re getting your ID photo done, especially, perhaps, if your girlfriend is standing outside waiting …
Jack stared at the small colour photo which he’d found when he’d unscrewed the chest of drawers by the bed.
A young couple stared out at him in the picture, both grinning, their faces pressed close together, the man’s arm tight around the girl.
He recognised Dylan McCabe from the file photo in Alan’s office.
He didn’t know the girl. She looked to be around twenty. Very pretty. Dark hair.
Both happy. So happy.
Jack turned the picture over. No date stamp.
Was this the girl that Viktor had seen? The girl Dylan was serious about?
If so — who was she?
And why hadn’t she come forward when Dylan had died?
He put the photo back in the evidence bag, then put the bag in a safety wallet that tagged to the inside of his belt. Then he put his overcoat on and buttoned it tight.
This investigation seemed to be getting risky and he had no intention of losing the evidence.
He opened the door of the caravan and after checking that the wharf was still empty, he stepped out, and locked the door behind him.
When he got back into the Sprite, he took out his phone and sent Sarah a text.
Any doubts that Dylan McCabe had been murdered were fading …
And yet he still had no idea at all why.
10. A Family Man
Sarah pulled her car up to a stone column with an intercom on the right. The ten foot tall metal gate in front of her looked strong enough to stop a tank, and Charlie Winters’ house — no Cotswold cottage to be sure — could not even be seen.
She lowered her window down, and pressed the intercom button.
In a moment, she heard a voice.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Winters? Sarah Edwards.”
For a second she heard nothing.
Had
The cab was just the same. Not a sweet wrapper or a CD or an old coffee cup.
Empty. Clean.
Too clean .
It took a moment for him to connect the dots.
Someone had been down here and had both vehicles professionally cleaned.
And Jack could guess it wasn’t out of respect for the poor, dead young labourer.
They were getting rid of evidence.
But what?
Had Dylan been keeping a log of safety breaches on the site — or maybe on other sites?
Or had he seen something — something else which Jack and Sarah didn’t know about — which was worth killing him for? If that’s what happened, was someone going to all this effort to cover tracks?
When Sarah had called him this morning he’d told her straight away about his feeling of being followed home from the Ploughman’s. And since her office had been broken into as well — then not only the Grey Goose but maybe also Ray could be next on the list.
What were he and Sarah getting into?
Somebody was clearly rattled.
He knew that Sarah had planned to meet Charlie Winters this morning. Seemed pretty decent, she had thought.
No matter — he’d send her a text, just to warn her to be on her guard.
Jack shut the doors on the van and went back to the caravan. He opened the door, stepped inside, and looked around.
He knew from experience that even professional cleaners didn’t get everything. Somewhere in this caravan could be a piece of evidence they’d missed.
Twenty years as an NYPD detective had taught him how to search a property.
Really search — that is.
He took off his overcoat and laid it carefully on the table. Then he took out a small toolkit of screwdrivers, picks, and pliers.
And, starting with the highest cupboard, he began to search Dylan McCabe’s caravan.
*
In the end it only took him a couple of hours.
But he had a small evidence bag crammed with small objects. Most of it rubbish: coins, pins, can tops, a tiny wrap of weed, cigarette ends, receipts, an ear plug.
No cell phone.
But a photo.
A printed one; rarity in these days of mobile phone selfies.
Hardly anyone prints out photos any more, he thought. Except one place …
The passport photo booth.
And who can’t resist a bit of fun while you’re getting your ID photo done, especially, perhaps, if your girlfriend is standing outside waiting …
Jack stared at the small colour photo which he’d found when he’d unscrewed the chest of drawers by the bed.
A young couple stared out at him in the picture, both grinning, their faces pressed close together, the man’s arm tight around the girl.
He recognised Dylan McCabe from the file photo in Alan’s office.
He didn’t know the girl. She looked to be around twenty. Very pretty. Dark hair.
Both happy. So happy.
Jack turned the picture over. No date stamp.
Was this the girl that Viktor had seen? The girl Dylan was serious about?
If so — who was she?
And why hadn’t she come forward when Dylan had died?
He put the photo back in the evidence bag, then put the bag in a safety wallet that tagged to the inside of his belt. Then he put his overcoat on and buttoned it tight.
This investigation seemed to be getting risky and he had no intention of losing the evidence.
He opened the door of the caravan and after checking that the wharf was still empty, he stepped out, and locked the door behind him.
When he got back into the Sprite, he took out his phone and sent Sarah a text.
Any doubts that Dylan McCabe had been murdered were fading …
And yet he still had no idea at all why.
10. A Family Man
Sarah pulled her car up to a stone column with an intercom on the right. The ten foot tall metal gate in front of her looked strong enough to stop a tank, and Charlie Winters’ house — no Cotswold cottage to be sure — could not even be seen.
She lowered her window down, and pressed the intercom button.
In a moment, she heard a voice.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Winters? Sarah Edwards.”
For a second she heard nothing.
Had
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