Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist Read Online Free

showing me the CCTV set-ups on these new coaches. Technology has come a long way since I last rode a bus …”
    “You mean the coach company will have the whole trip on camera?”
    “They should,” said Jack. “Question is whether they’re going to let me see it.”
    “So what are you waiting for?”
    “Babcock’s is in Oxford — thought you might fancy a drive over there this afternoon with the top down?”
    “Wouldn’t I just,” said Sarah. “But I’ve got a ton of pictures to edit for a site launch.”
    “Shame,” said Jack. “And I was going to buy you lunch.”
    “Hate to disappoint you — and me. Why don’t you pick up the tab for my coffee instead?” said Sarah, getting up.
    “You’re a cheap date, Sarah,” said Jack laughing.
    “So I’m told — but where does it ever get me?”
    She watched him prise himself out of the sofa, then drain his coffee.
    “You get to work. I’ll see you later.”
    “Let me know how you get on,” she said as she headed for the door. “And let’s meet when you’re back — I should be through by five.”
    Out in the street, the sun was shining and Sarah could see the tourists from the coaches bustling in and out of the shops.
    She was so used to their presence — like migrating birds arriving in May and leaving in September — that she realised she never really looked at them.
    Not as human beings.
    But now, having seen Jack’s photo — that smiling family in front of a New York cityscape with the Twin Towers still standing — she was suddenly aware of these tourists as individuals.
    Not a flock, or a herd. Not just irritating, or different, or noisy.
    But real people.
    People who’d maybe lost loved ones, who travelled alone, who travelled to forget.
    People who sometimes just … vanished.

5. Now You See Him …
    Jack swung his Austin Healey Sprite off the Oxford ring road and followed the signs for the City Centre.
    With the top down, the ride across the Cotswolds had been a real joy.
    Now, he was glad to get off the busy Oxford ring road, looking forward to being back in this beautiful city.
    He knew he wasn’t going to get much time to sightsee. But just to be amongst all the old buildings, the colleges, churches — and to walk on those buzzing pavements full of students and tourists was more than worth the drive.
    But as the GPS took him through run-down terraced streets and graffiti-covered estates, he realised — of course — that the headquarters of Babcock’s Coaches wasn’t going to be anywhere near the tourist areas it served.
    At last, after being stuck in grinding traffic for twenty minutes, he saw a patch of rough ground behind a shuttered factory and a sign on the gate: Babcock’s Coaches’ .
    He pulled off the road and drove through the gate.
    A couple of coaches were parked up next to a trailer: a portly man with lanky hair and a cigarette in his mouth stood on a chair cleaning the windshield of one of the coaches with a mop.
    Jack parked next to the trailer. Through the window, he could see a young guy head down at a computer. He walked over to the man on cleaning duty.
    “Hi,” he said.
    “Bookings in the trailer, mate,” said the man without looking round.
    “Thanks,” said Jack. “But I’m not here for a booking. Was hoping to have a chat with Mr. Babcock, the owner.”
    “You’re looking at him,” said Babcock, still swabbing the windshield with soapy water. “But you won’t be for long. I’m supposed to be in bloody Swindon twenty minutes ago.”
    “Well then, I won’t keep you,” said Jack. “I’m trying to get some information on a gentleman who took one of your tours and appears to have gone missing.”
    Jack watched as the man spun round, then climbed down off the chair, and propped the mop up against the front of the coach.
    Well, that got his attention , Jack thought.
    “And just who the hell are you?”
    “Name’s Brennan. Jack Brennan.”
    “You’re no cop.”
    “No.” Then, thinking it