Free Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist by Neil Richards

She had never bothered to register to vote. Newly married perhaps?
    Time to dig deeper. Births, deaths, and marriages …
    Suddenly, she was intrigued.
    *
    Half an hour later she had some answers — of a kind.
    Peter Taylor was indeed Karen’s husband. He had died just over a year ago. Only months before the baby Marie was born.
    How awful, Sarah thought. That poor woman …
    But it was worse. Peter had died in Afghanistan on military service — just twenty-three years old.
    Sarah could hardly imagine what that must have been like for Karen — to be pregnant, living in that tiny cottage, hearing that your husband has died, a husband who would never see his baby daughter.
    No wonder she had never registered to vote.
    Too many other things to think about.
    But what about Richard Latchmore? The neighbour living in the little cottage just up the lane. Who was he?
    She googled the name — not expecting to find much.
    And there weren’t many hits — but what did come up was puzzling.
    Latchmore too had an army background. A major in the Parachute Regiment — he had been honourably discharged just a few years back, aged forty-five.
    After some kind of secret enquiry.
    Sarah kept digging. There were brief mentions of Latchmore in the national press. He had been a rising star, veteran of numerous engagements going back to the Gulf War and beyond. He had a string of decorations and by all accounts was heading for high rank.
    Then, after a tour of duty in 2011 there was a two-year gap while an enquiry was launched into an action he had been involved in Helmand Province.
    Afghanistan.
    There was no information in any public record of the exact nature of the enquiry. The details, the documents said, were deemed ‘too sensitive’ to be released.
    But just a year later, Latchmore was pensioned out.
    Sarah sat back. Two neighbours — connected by war.
    Was there something here? Or was it just coincidence?
    And what could possibly connect the frail figure of the American tourist with these Cherringham residents?
    She reached across to her handbag, which hung from one of the kitchen chairs. Inside the bag was Patrick O’Connor’s camera.
    She took it out and ejected the SIM card, then inserted the card into her laptop.
    The pictures grouped into albums on her player — going back, it seemed, some years.
    Many were shots of New York — friends, maybe family in happier times.
    They were good pictures.
    But when she opened up the most recent folders, photos taken in the Cotswolds, she could hardly believe they’d been taken by the same hand.
    Some were so badly framed it was hard to imagine that O’Connor had even been looking at the screen when he took them.
    What had happened? Had he suddenly become ill? Was that the answer — that Patrick O’Connor had some terrible ailment that had somehow overcome him while he was on this last holiday?
    It didn’t make sense. Surely his sister would have known?
    Sarah took another sip of wine, and scrolled back through the photos of New York.
    She opened each picture carefully, viewing it full screen.
    Dated just a couple of years ago — was a whole set for a Thanksgiving Dinner. The pictures all taken in a small sitting room — half a dozen people, probably family members, around a table.
    Smiling faces. Laughter. Patrick, a brooding presence in some of the pictures. At other times, a small smile — sharing in the Thanksgiving spirit.
    Was this his apartment? Sarah wondered.
    On one wall behind the dining table, she could see line upon line of family photos. One she recognised as the photo Jack had shown her: Patrick O’Connor and his wife and son.
    She ran her eyes along the line of pictures.
    The teenage boy growing up. The mother now absent. In the final picture on the wall: the boy looking like a young man — now in uniform.
    In uniform.
    A US Army uniform.
    Sarah felt the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly rise.
    She checked the date of the Thanksgiving photo: 2010.
    The boy