Cherringham--The Vanishing Tourist by Neil Richards Page A

does it mean?”
    He shook his head. “I’m not sure. Definitely a connection … O’Connor and Latchmore. We have to go to him now.”
    She nodded. “But what is it about? That connection — what could it be?”
    He had no answer to that.
    And — like a ray of light that would suddenly make everything sharp and clear — Sarah's phone trilled, the piercing ring loud, startling.
    She dug the phone out of her jeans.
    A glance, then to Jack.
    “It’s dad.”
    Sarah answered the call.
    “Dad. Hi …”
    Nothing then. Jack watched Sarah nod … then she made the gesture of writing to Jack, who dug out a small spiral notebook and a pen from his shirt pocket.
    Sarah turned to the nearby wall of the hotel and — phone nestled in her shoulder — she started taking notes.
    “Yes. What year? Right. And the end of the enquiry?”
    As she listened and took the notes, she looked at Jack.
    Then: “I understand, dad. No one who doesn't know about this will hear about it. Got it.”
    “Dad — thank you.”
    Then her father must have said something that made Sarah laugh and she closed the call, “I love you, too.”
    She lowered the phone and turned to Jack.
    “It all fits, Jack. What dad found out.”
    She started walking to her Rav 4. “I’ll tell you on the way to Latchmore’s place. I think for that chat I ought to pass the ball to you.”
    Jack nodded walking beside her.
    “And to think that I thought this wasn't much of case at all.”
    “It's more than that,” Sarah said walking briskly. “It’s a story. Sad, but true. And I think we may finally learn what happened to Patrick O’Connor.”
    She pressed the button to unlock her car doors.
    And as she got into the driver's seat. “This may not be easy, Jack. Based on what you told me about Latchmore.”
    “It’s never easy to get those last secrets out …”
    Though the day was warm, the sun brilliant, Jack felt chilled.
    Going back to that makeshift cottage, the tall trees encircling it — guarding it almost.
    The shade from the trees cool. Latchmore chilly as well.
    And dangerous?
    Could well be, thought Jack.
    Sarah had his small notebook on the left armrest, standing in a cup holder.
    But she didn't need to refer to it as she brought Jack up to speed.
    “The enquiry …” she began. “There was an incident in Helmand … Americans, British, a cry for help and a rescue that didn't happen. Richard Latchmore was there. And so was O’Connor's son.”
    “Lieutenant Eddie O’Connor.”
    She nodded. “He’s named in the enquiry. The lieutenant in charge of the American soldiers …”
    As Sarah drove — a bit fast, Jack thought — he guessed what everything they had learned meant.
    “And that’s why his father Patrick came here?”
    Sarah's answer, simple, now suddenly obvious: “Yes.”
    *
    Jack knocked at the door of the simple shack. Quiet.
    Perhaps Latchmore was out, walking the wild woods nearby.
    But then from inside, steps. Slow.
    He looked at Sarah.
    “Maybe you should wait in the car, Sarah. I mean—”
    She quickly shook her head. “This is where I belong. The two of us, here.”
    Jack knew better than to argue.
    The door slowly opening. Latchmore in the open crack. A look at Jack, then to Sarah.
    “Thought you’d be back … detective. And with your friend?”
    Jack scanned Latchmore's face. Was this veteran potentially dangerous?
    He and Sarah had done some risky things. But this somehow felt more dangerous.
    Unpredictable.
    “Yes,” Jack said. “Can we come in? Few more questions.”
    A small smile creased Latchmore's face.
    Too savvy not to know they had found something out.
    Maybe he had even had been warned by someone after Michael's questions about the enquiry?
    “Well, let’s see …” said Latchmore. “Do I have a choice?”
    He put on exaggerated American accent. “You don't happen to have what they call a search warrant, do you pal?”
    Then, beside him, Sarah spoke.
    “We just want to help,” Sarah said. “To