No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

  No Accident

  by

  Robert Crouch

  Copyright © Robert Crouch 2017

  The right of Robert Crouch to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To Carol, my wife, best friend and inspiration.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  About the author

  Author’s note

  No Bodies

  Acknowledgements

  From the moment I watched Columbo unpick a perfect murder on TV, I wanted to write crime fiction. His dogged tenacity and ability to unravel the perfect murder were an inspiration. Agatha Christie’s, Miss Marple, and Colin Dexter’s, Morse, helped me along the way, but the turning point came when I read A is for Alibi, the first of Sue Grafton’s alphabet series, which feature feisty private detective, Kinsey Millhone. The first person narration, characterisation and blend of detection and personal story convinced me to create my own investigator.

  From here it was simply a matter of finding my voice and working out a complex plot.

  Not that I did this alone. Over the years, my friend and fellow author, Tamara McKinley has been an inspiration, offering help, support and invaluable criticism of my work over the years. Alaric Bond, another author who I first met during a food hygiene inspection, also encouraged me when I doubted my ability. And my grateful thanks go to Chris Wells, whose irreverent and infectious humour lightened the technical advice he offered me about tractors and power take offs.

  But my deepest gratitude is reserved for my wife and best friend, Carol, who put up with my years of struggle and the ups and downs of rejection by publishers and agents.

  And last, but by no means least, I couldn’t sign off without a smile and a nod to my adorable West Highland White Terrier, Harvey, who inspired Kent Fisher’s four-legged sidekick, Columbo.

  Thursday

  One

  I'm the best officer to investigate this accident, and probably the worst. But let's focus on the positive—Miles Birchill could be dead.

  It's a long shot, I admit. Downland's wealthiest resident is more likely to be entertaining celebrity friends in his London casino than dying in a remote corner of East Sussex. But you never know.

  Only 40 minutes ago, after a night in a hide with ten badger enthusiasts, I'd arrived home, longing for my bed. The phone call from my boss put paid to that. After a quick shower, I pulled on the only ironed shirt from the wardrobe. Electric blue may be more suited to clubbing than accident investigation, but I could soon be dancing on someone's grave.

  It feels strange to be back in the only stretch of woodland ignored by the bulldozers that plundered 500 acres of England's countryside to create Tombstone Adventure Park. Surrounded by oak, ash and sycamore, I listen to wood pigeons struggling to be heard above the coarse cries of crows that have overwhelmed the area. In the grass alongside the barn, a green woodpecker searches for insects.

  When it sees me climb out of my Ford Fusion, it laughs and flies away, obviously amused by my shirt.

  Despite the early hour, the air is hot and humid for the third week of September. A few shards of sunlight pierce the foliage and bounce off the windscreens of the patrol car and the silver Peugeot 206 convertible beside it. Ahead, a charcoal grey hearse waits with its hatch open, ready to swallow a coffin.

  My fingers skim along the black weatherboarding that cloaks the barn. It's low grade softwood, riddled with knots and blemishes, unlike the large sliding doors, clasped together by a hefty padlock. A healthy strip of grass and weeds runs along the base, telling me the doors have remained closed for some time. I stretch up to peer through a small glass panel, but a film of dust and bird droppings obscures the view inside.

  "Machinery, Mr Fisher. It's full of machinery."

  The reek of cigar smoke tells me it's Alasdair Davenport, long before his lazy drawl reaches my ears. Tollingdon's most successful independent undertaker—as he describes himself in his brochure—has a sympathetic, effortless manner that reassures grieving relatives. But I can't take to a man who's passionate about embalming.

  Everything about him is pale, from the thinning blond hair beneath his Stetson to a complexion the colour of bone. Eyes the colour of dirty washing-up water look me over.

  "The machines have never been used," he says, staring at my shirt. "I find that unusual, don't you?"

  Not as unusual as an undertaker in a lumberjack shirt tucked into old jeans. All he needs are spurs and he'd be at home in the Wild West theme park. Or maybe he listens to Dolly Parton while he pumps formaldehyde into corpses. Thankfully, he makes no effort to shake my hand.

  "Some say it's haunted." His colleague, who also looks ready for line dancing, strolls up, eyes wide with intrigue. "Trevor Maynard and his missus died here in a fire about five years ago. Some say their troubled souls remain."

  Davenport takes an impassive last draw on the stub of his cigar and blows the smoke into the air. "They're waiting for you in the clearing, Mr Fisher."

  "Is it as bad as it sounds?"

  He grinds the cigar into the dirt. "All violent deaths are bad."

  It could be a social comment or a criticism of anything that hampers embalming.

  "Not if you're an undertaker," I say, slipping past.

  The clearing seems unusually quiet and peaceful. After a steady diet of cop shows on TV, I suppose I'd expected to see crime scene officers in white coveralls, crawling over the grass. There's no barrier tape to cordon off the Massey Ferguson tractor and bench mounted circular saw. The two uniformed constables are in no position to stop me trotting down the slope to the fibreglass coffin, resting with its lid to one side.

  And who's in charge?

  The sound of retching disturbs the stillness. At the far edge of the clearing, a man in jogging pants is bent over some bushes. The nearest constable looks up briefly and then examines his fingernails once more. The second constable, who looks like he spends too much time in the staff canteen, calls out to me.

  "Stay where you are. This area's out of bounds."

  He hurries over, his cheeks reddening with each step. When he pulls up in front of me, I hold up my ID card. He takes a look and calls over his shoulder. "Miss Montague? Environmental health officer's arrived."

  A woman in a white
coverall emerges from the vinyl tractor cab and thuds to the ground. Short and stocky, she has a bullish face, dominated by a thick nose, flattened at the tip. I can't help wondering if she spent her youth with her face pressed against a window, wishing she were inside. She swings her arms as she powers up the slope, ploughing through the fan of blood and flesh on the grass. Her cheap perfume reaches me seconds before she does.

  "You come straight from a nightclub, Mr Fisher?" she asks, pointing a short finger at my shirt. "Is that why you're late?"

  "I'd demand a refund from the charm school, if I were you," I reply.

  Her steel grey eyes fix me with a piercing stare as she puffs out her chest. "You're not what I expected, Mr Fisher. You don't talk posh, and you're nothing like your father. So why do they call you Lord Snooty?"

  They don't. Seven years ago, during an interview, the Lifestyle Editor of the Tolling don Tribune asked me why I'd never married. "I prefer animals to people," I'd told her. "Animals never let you down."

  If I sounded aloof, it was unintentional, but it coloured the whole article. My father, the Conservative MP for Downland, owned a vast country estate, so she dubbed me Lord Snooty.

  "Maybe you should tell me who you are in case I misjudge you," I say.

  She takes a few moments to smile and then thrusts out her hand, still covered with a disposable glove. "I'm Carolyn Montague, the new Coroner's Officer. I think we'll get along fine."

  "You're not the inspector in charge?"

  "DI Briggs is probably on his second round of toast by now. Soon as he realised we had a work accident he left me in charge. I called your governor, Daniella Frost, over an hour ago."

  I say nothing, wondering why Danni took half an hour to ring me.

  "I have three fatalities back at the ranch, so I'd like to get on," she says. "You wanted to check the body."

  "I didn't want the scene disturbed."

  She turns toward the tractor and points. "You got any idea what a power takeoff can do? It's the shaft in the middle that powers the bench saw."

  "It spins at a lethal speed," I say, aware the guard is missing. "Catch a loose sleeve or cuff and it can rip your arm off."

  "Imagine what it can do if you're wearing a tie." She smacks a fist into the palm of her hand. "There wasn't much of his face left. Most of it's strewn across the grass, as you can see. We couldn't leave him like that."

  It's a fair point, well made. "Is DI Briggs coming back?"

  "For a simple work accident?"

  In my experience, nothing happens by accident. And few work accidents are simple. Companies are quick to blame employees for ignorance, breaking rules or horseplay, but employers can be negligent, either intentionally or by omission.

  "Don't the police take the lead in case it's corporate manslaughter?" I ask, wishing I could remember the protocol.

  "Corporate manslaughter? Come on! The guy got careless. End of." She heads over to the coffin. "I saw plenty when I was in uniform and Scenes of Crime. That's why DI Briggs left me in charge. You can ring him if you want."

  I ignore the phone she holds out. "I'm not questioning your competence. We've never had a fatal work accident in Downland."

  "I thought you were the council's most experienced officer."

  "That doesn't mean I've investigated a fatality. I'd appreciate your help."

  "I'll send you copies of my photographs," she says, bending to unzip the body bag. "I reckon he dropped his cigarette and bent to pick it up."

  I point to the man in jogging pants. "Did he see it happen?"

  "Mr Cheung was out running. He came past shortly after the incident." She wrinkles her nose when she pulls the body bag open. "You can have a copy of my interview notes too— unless you want to talk to him."

  Jogging Man, who looks about 19 or 20, seems to have had the life sucked out of him. Pale and shaken, he won't forget this morning in a hurry. Me neither, I suspect.

  "I hope you have a strong stomach, Mr Fisher."

  I've seen the suffering and injuries people inflict on animals. And as much as I want to hurt those people, I've learned to suspend my emotions, to work calmly and effectively to save the poor animals.

  After a deep breath to prepare myself, I look into the coffin.

  Ouch! I wasn't expecting that.

  The victim's face is a mess of red raw flesh and torn muscle, clinging to the bone beneath. Blood, congealed into dark syrup, leaks over the shirt and boiler suit he's wearing. The odour of death reminds me of a slaughterhouse.

  "Doesn't look like he could face the day," I hear myself saying.

  Carolyn nods. "Gallows humour. I like it."

  I take a closer look at the victim. He has grey hair, cut military style, and a deep scar that bisects his right eyebrow. That's all I can determine with any certainty.

  "You mentioned a tie, Carolyn."

  "I cut what was left away to release him. It's bagged if you want to look."

  I glance up the slope, wishing Lucy would hurry up with our Grab Bag. It contains everything we need for emergencies, including digital camera, blank notices and witness statement forms, tape measure, flashlight, and our emergency procedures. While I wait, I take some photographs with my BlackBerry. If the guard had not been removed from the takeoff the victim would be alive. Had he buttoned his boiler suit, or not worn a tie, I'd be asleep in bed.

  I step aside to let the undertakers remove the coffin. While I make some notes, Carolyn peels off her coverall and shoe protectors and balls them into a polythene bag. Her black blouse and jeans are a little too tight and her old trainers are practical rather than fashionable. After a mouthful of mineral water, she strides over.

  "The first one's always the worst. How do you feel?"

  "Puzzled," I reply, looking up. "Why was he wearing a tie?"

  "My dad wore a shirt and tie when he mowed the lawn."

  Mine too, but lawn mowers don't kill. "What time did the accident happen?"

  "Mr Cheung ran past around six twenty."

  "Two hours ago? That's a bit early to start work, isn't it?"

  She gestures at my shirt. "Or a bit late to go to bed."

  I glance at the machinery, set in an isolated clearing in the middle of woodland at least a mile from the main park. What's it doing here, adjacent a barn that's never used?

  "Have you identified him?" I ask.

  She reaches into a flight case and pulls out an evidence bag, containing credit cards and a driving licence. "Sydney Collins with two 'Y's. Why, I don't know." Her self-conscious laugh doesn't make the joke any better. "Have you heard of him?"

  "No."

  "You know Miles Birchill, though."

  He would be my specialist subject on Mastermind. He worked for my father in the stables for years and then tack, and valuables began to go missing. While he was never charged with theft, he disappeared from the scene. He emerged a few years later, buying rundown rented properties in Brighton and Hove during the 80s and 90s.

  "He evicted tenants from their flats and sold the properties with vacant possession," I say. "He made a killing."

  Carolyn nods. "Collins did the evicting. Men or women-he didn't discriminate. He threw them out of windows, dumped them naked on the South Downs in winter, you name it. People were too scared to complain," she says, sensing my question. "He knew their families, where their children went to school. Well, he can't intimidate anyone now, can he? Not that anyone's going to miss him."

  His family might. "I'll check the tractor now."

  Collins kept the Massey Ferguson clean and polished on the outside, repairing the splits in the vinyl cabin with clear waterproof tape. I step onto the footplate and peer inside. Everything is coated in dust, except the stack of Nuts magazines in the foot well. The few editions I check feature models with impossibly black hair, fake tans, and oversized boobs.

  Carolyn jumps up beside me. "They're in date order, in case you're interested."

  I step down and head to the rear of the tractor. Th
e power takeoff and three-point linkage that connects the bench saw to the tractor are splattered with blood and tissue. Even though the takeoff isn't spinning, I don't want to get too close. I'm more concerned with what brought Collins out here early. I walk over to a small enclosure crammed with fence posts. They're sharpened to points and stand in rows like giant pencils. The timber has greyed in the months, maybe years, since they were made. There's no timber waiting to be cut, so he didn't come out here to make fence posts.

  Back at the tractor, I drop to my knees. Cigarette butts, all filter tipped, pepper the ground. If the power takeoff hadn't killed him, lung cancer would have. I'm about to get to my feet when I spot a rollup cigarette, speckled with blood, directly below the takeoff.

  "Carolyn, do you have an evidence bag?"

  She retrieves one from her flight case. "What have you found?"

  "A rollup among the filter tips. Someone else was here."

  "Mr Cheung rolls his own. He could have dropped it when he found Collins."

  I glance across at Jogging Man. "Runners don't usually smoke."

  "He does. Maybe he dropped it after he spotted Collins."

  "Then it wouldn't be covered with blood."

  "Good point. Maybe it belonged to Collins and when he bent to retrieve it, his tie became entangled."

  A diet of Lieutenant Columbo films has made me curious about anything that's out of place or unusual. I doubt if the rollup will play any part in the investigation, but at least it looks like I know what I'm doing. I stretch my arms between the lower linkage and takeoff, careful to avoid any contact, and nudge the rollup into the evidence bag with my pen.

  "Why did Collins come here this morning?" I ask when I'm back on my feet. "He didn't need any fence posts."

  Carolyn shrugs. "I gave up trying to guess why people do what they do a long time ago. Stick to the facts, Kent. Collins wouldn't be the first worker to take a short cut, would he?"

  "Tombstone wouldn't be the first employer to default in its duty to provide and maintain safe equipment."