Free Cherringham--Thick as Thieves by Neil Richards Page A

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.

16. Undercover
    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.”
    “Sure wasn’t like this in the old days,” said Jack.
    “In the old days you would have kicked the door down, dragged the suspect into the street and cuffed him.”
    “And you wouldn’t?”
    “Are you kidding?” said Sarah. “I can’t imagine anything more fun.”
    Jack laughed.
    “Even if he’s not guilty?”
    “Oh he’s guilty all right.”
    “No need for a trial?” said Jack, smiling.
    “Members of the jury — the accused was seen creeping out of the house in the middle of the night carrying a heavy bag …”
    As she was talking, the heavy oak door of number 23 opened, and Sitwell emerged carrying a briefcase. The door slammed and he walked briskly towards them.
    “Oh shoot,” said Jack, spilling his tea and pulling out a map — any map — to read. Sarah pretended to lose something under the steering wheel and dropped her head out of sight.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Sitwell approach the car … and then stride past, heading towards the Banbury Road.
    “Phew,” he said, sitting up. “I thought he’d spotted us.”
    Sarah didn’t answer — and then he realised it was because she was laughing too much.
    “What’s funny, huh? Look at my trousers. I got tea all over them.”
    Sarah wiped her eyes.
    “Very professional, Jack. I can see I’ve got a lot to learn about surveillance.”
    Jack grunted. He didn’t like looking stupid. But — he had to admit — he’d been too casual.
    Need to sharpen up a bit if I’m going to do this kind of thing.
    “Come on,” he said. “We’ve still got an hour’s parking left on the ticket. Let’s see where he goes.”
    And, grabbing his coat from the back seat, he climbed out of the car, his eyes on the now distant figure of Lawrence Sitwell.
    With Sarah tracking him on the other side of the road, the professor had been easy to follow.
    Scurrying along, head down, Jack saw that Sitwell had the determined look of someone with an appointment to make — and he felt confident they wouldn’t be spotted.
    Jack had been to Oxford a couple of times before — once years ago with his wife Katherine, just before she’d died — but they’d only visited the centre, the colleges, the parks. These wide avenues, criss-crossed by tiny terraced streets, were a maze — but a fascinating one.
    Sitwell clearly knew the area well, taking little short cuts, avoiding the students on bikes who flew by, a silent hazard. Jack and Sarah stayed a hundred yards behind, occasionally looking in shop windows, using other walkers as cover.
    Eventually they hit a little street full of shops and bars — and a smart cafe into which Sitwell disappeared.
    Jack waited in the doorway of a newsagents until Sarah joined him.
    She had a