No More Lies Read online

  “A fashion model?” His interest picks up, as she predicted.

  “Ashley was more glamour than fashion,” I say.

  “I’ve dated more than my fair share of glamour models,” he says with typical modesty. “I may have come across her.”

  “I’m not sure she was known outside Manchester. It was a long time ago.”

  “I look forward to meeting her. I’m guessing you haven’t told her about us.”

  “No, and I’d like to keep it that way.” The thought of how Ashley will react to the news makes me shudder. “We’re celebrating your news. Let’s not spoil it for your fiancée.”

  “Gina won’t mind. She can’t wait to meet you.”

  Gina doesn’t sound like a mail order bride from the Seychelles.

  “I’ll tell Gina you’re still getting used to being my son,” he says. “Have you told Ashley why we’re having lunch?”

  “I told her you were organising a celebrity opening at Meadow Farm. That’s why she’s interested. She’s hoping you’ll support PETA.”

  “Does this mean you’re in favour of a celebrity opening?”

  “Ashley has a few ideas. She’s opened a few supermarkets in her time.”

  I can’t believe I let Ashley talk me into this. She created a character and past for herself like an actor slipping into a role. Undercover work, she said, promising to reveal more this evening.

  “I’m always open to ideas,” he says. “Is there anything else?”

  I consider tackling Sunshine View Caravan Park now to avoid any subterfuge later. But if Ashley’s right I could tip him off about our interest.

  “See you later,” I say, spotting a shadow by the door.

  Nigel knocks and bursts through the door. “Charlie’s found a cockroach infestation at a restaurant. Do you mind if I come with you?”

  Twenty-Five

  When she steps into the reception area at Hammonds Drive Police Station in Eastbourne, Ashley has the swagger and look of a successful businesswoman. She’s achieved the effect with high heels, a silk blouse beneath her grey suit and the subtle use of makeup to highlight her eyes, lips and cheeks. Aware of the effect she has on the young lads in ripped jeans and t-shirts nearby, she strolls over.

  “You can arrest me anytime,” I say, looking her over.

  “I keep some spare cuffs at home.” She grins and links my arm, guiding me towards the exit. “When you rang, I thought you were going to cancel.”

  I should have gone to assist Charlie. As a contractor, she’s not authorised to serve notices or close food businesses. Danni won’t be pleased I sent Nigel.

  Neither was Nigel.

  The lad with a shaven head and tattoos on his muscular arms and shoulders winks at Ashley. “If you’d rather have someone young and athletic, darling, I’m available.”

  “I’m tempted,” she says, “but I need someone with stamina, not a sprinter.”

  Outside the sunshine takes the edge off the easterly wind. It does nothing to ease my doubts about Nigel. He’s a competent officer with plenty of experience, but the prospect of legal action makes him nervous, doubting his abilities.

  “Charlie knows what to do,” I told him, handing over the Grab Bag we use for emergencies. “She’ll help you, but you sign the notices and do the legal stuff.”

  “Like going to court,” he said, looking glum.

  “Imagine how impressed Charlie will be when you take control.”

  If only I felt in control.

  While Ashley runs through the cover story of how and where we met, I’m wondering how to broach the real reason for lunch with Birchill.

  “Then you ripped off my clothes and made passionate love to me all night,” she says in a loud, frustrated voice.

  “I don’t remember that,” I say, joining the slow-moving traffic, heading for the seafront. “Are you confusing me with someone else?”

  “I’m trying to get your attention. We need to be pitch perfect.”

  “As in singing from the same hymn sheet?”

  “Don’t go cliché on me, Kent. We can’t afford a cock up. Don’t you dare,” she says, glaring at me. “I know nothing about the new girlfriend, which isn’t helping.”

  “She’s bound to be young,” I say. “Probably a model, actress or some minor celebrity. I imagine he wants her to open Meadow Farm.”

  “That’s okay. We can get him talking about ideas, see where it goes. If you charm her, I’ll work my magic on him.”

  “I wouldn’t bother,” I say.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I spent hours in front of the mirror.”

  “Birchill intends to marry this woman. That’s what I meant.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Ashley asks, her tone dismissive. “He’s not planning to marry her at your sanctuary, is he? Say, you’re not going to offer weddings, are you? Say your vows among the cute llamas and donkeys.”

  “Of course not,” I reply, irritated by her sarcasm.

  “Then why’s he celebrating with you?”

  The traffic begins to edge along. I wish my brain would move faster. Knowing I need to fill the silence before it condemns me, I say, “He wants his bride to open the sanctuary.”

  “You mean he can’t wait to show off some leggy bimbo with inflated tits. Niamh will go mental if this bimbo opens your sanctuary.”

  The traffic crawls along the seafront, past the hotels and houses that overlook the shingle beaches, divided by wooden groynes. Apart from the occasional modern block of flats, there’s little to distract from the elegance of the Victorian terraces. Unlike Brighton and Hastings, Eastbourne has resisted the amusement arcades and slot machines on its seafront.

  As we grind to a halt once more, I watch waves crash against the shingle, throwing up plumes of spray that catch on the wind. The pebbles, flung around by the sea, are all that protect the town from flooding. At high tide, with the wind blowing onshore, that protection looks so fragile.

  “Talking of weddings,” Ashley says, “I heard your sidekick’s getting married soon. Gemma, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re best man.”

  “Not anymore,” I say, braking as the traffic comes to a halt.

  Ashley swivels to face me, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Why, what happened?”

  When she said I was best man, why didn’t I agree with her? She’s hardly going to check it out, is she? Even if she does, I can make up something about it being too painful to talk about.

  No, I don’t do self-pity. I move on and play the hand I’m dealt.

  But isn’t that an excuse, playing the hand I’m dealt? It’s saying someone else is dealing the cards. It’s saying someone else is in control of my life, my destiny.

  Kent Fisher, who doesn’t believe in anything he can’t hold in his hands, lets fate decide.

  We stop by the pier. Sheikh’s Pier, as the new owner calls it. He’s given the Victorian buildings a facelift by painting the grey roofs gold, which has divided opinion. Gemma loved it. She thought it gave the pier a more modern, brighter look. I said nothing, not sure it was worth arguing about.

  No wonder Gemma left me.

  “Gemma and I were having an affair,” I say, aware I haven’t replied to Ashley’s question. “We finished work one Friday, planning to go somewhere over the weekend. I can’t remember where,” I say, inching forward with the traffic. “When I called to collect her on Saturday morning, her flat was empty. She’d gone. No warning, no explanation, nothing.”

  Ashley whistles. “Wow, you must have pissed her off.”

  “It was payback.”

  “For what?”

  I shift in the seat, not sure I should have started this.

  “Eight years ago, I came across Gemma in a restaurant. She was working there and the moment I saw her, I wanted her. We spent an amazing week together. On the Sunday,” I say, running my finger under my collar, “I left her without saying goodbye, without leavi
ng a note. She didn’t deserve that.”

  “Why did you walk out?”

  “I panicked, I guess. She was younger than me. Not my finest moment.”

  “Was she taking it too seriously?”

  The sound of a horn behind prompts me to drive forward. Within seconds we’ve stopped again.

  “I’ve always regretted what I did,” I say, still not sure why I panicked. “Sometimes I think how different life could have been, but that’s a mug’s game, isn’t it? You can’t go back.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you’ve moved on either. Eight years is a long time, Kent.”

  Maybe I should have talked to someone years ago instead of pushing the pain into that dark corner of my mind reserved for regrets.

  “If you loved her, you wouldn’t have run.” The certainty in Ashley’s voice, and the unexpected warmth in her eyes, makes me feel better. “People don’t run when they want to be with someone, Kent.”

  She gives my forearm an encouraging squeeze.

  “To be young and carefree,” she says, shaking her head at the swirl of foreign students that spills off the pavement beside the Carpet Gardens. The students push, shove and jostle before finally crushing together for selfies. They’re young and too wrapped up in themselves to worry about traffic, or queuing for buses or service at the many kiosks and cafes. That’s why many locals think these young people lack manners.

  I never complained about the female Swedish students, who bathed topless in the sea. Then again, I rarely complained about anything when I was seventeen.

  Once past the crossings, we make good progress along the seafront, passing the bandstand and Wish Tower, a historic Martello Tower built to defend the coast against Napoleon. The occasional concrete monstrosity spoils the elegance and grandeur of the Victorian hotels, but we’re soon on our way up South Cliff, leaving the seafront behind.

  “If we’re confessing to shortcomings,” Ashley says, “I shouldn’t have doubted you about Birchill. When you spend your time investigating murder, listening to the lies killers tell you, it’s easy to become cynical and suspicious. You give people the benefit of the doubt, Kent. You don’t assume guilt. That’s why I admire you. That’s why I’m glad you’re on my team.”

  While her words sound genuine, I sense a warning.

  I remain silent, pulling into an empty parking space opposite to the entrance of the Hydro Hotel.

  The four-storey building, coated with white render, dominates the slope. Long lawns, often used for croquet, stretch out towards an open air pool and views across the seafront and out to sea. I’m more interested in the Art Deco styling of the entrance porch with its flat roof, curved windows and rotating entrance door. Inside, the big and bright foyer has walls divided by Art Deco columns and panels that stretch up to a high ceiling. The antique chairs and furniture suggest tradition, good taste, a place of comfort and quality.

  And it’s pet friendly.

  While I admire the décor, Ashley hurries up the stairs to the lounge. I follow her through one of the two pointed arches, which look like they belong in a church. From the high, panelled ceiling, chandeliers dangle like diamond earrings, casting an even, cosy light over the sturdy tables and chairs that fill the centre of the room. One or two older men, dressed in smart suits and ties, read broadsheet newspapers. A young waiter collects the empty cups and coffee pots left behind when the residents migrated to the dining room.

  The sound of polite chatter greets us as we approach. The Maître D’, a young man in striped trousers and waistcoat, steps forward. With short, black hair, gelled to his scalp, a prominent nose and grey eyes, he looks East European, but his accent is barely noticeable.

  “Good day, Mr Fisher. Mr Birchill awaits you both in the conservatory.”

  I nod, though I don’t remember him.

  Ashley looks impressed. “Are you a regular?”

  “I gave a talk about my experiences as an environmental health sleuth.”

  “I’d like to hear that.”

  I’m not sure if she’s serious or sarcastic. While police officers want help from the public, they don’t want people like me investigating crimes.

  We walk through another arch into the busy bar area. The hum of conversation rises as we step into the bright conservatory with its Terrazzo tiled floor and views across the lawns to the sea. Though most of the windows are open, and the ceiling fans spinning, there’s no escaping the heat.

  Birchill rises from his wicker chair at the corner table to wave us over. His deep, even tan makes him look more Mediterranean than English, especially now he’s dyed his hair black once more. Unfortunately, like many men who dress and style their hair to look half their age, his efforts only accentuate his age and vanity. But there’s no mistaking the quality of his tailored, coffee-coloured Italian suit, cream silk shirt and tan loafers.

  “We’re underdressed,” Ashley whispers.

  His fiancée sits with her back to us. Her white sleeveless dress highlights the depth of her even tan and her toned arms. A delicate gold chain adorns her long, slim neck, skimmed by platinum blonde hair, cut to a sharp bob. She stands and turns.

  “Allow me to introduce you to Gina,” he says, his voice filled with pride.

  Lady Georgina Rhys-Jones grins as our eyes meet.

  “It’s been a long time, Kent,” she says in her cultured voice. “This must be the first time I’m not looking down at that handsome face of yours.”

  Twenty-Six

  Birchill rubs his hands in delight. “Excellent. You know each other.”

  “Barely,” she replies, anatomically accurate if nothing else. “Kent and his saboteurs harassed our hunt meetings with monotonous regularity. I used to look down at him from my horse, wondering how much damage I could inflict with my crop.”

  She didn’t show such restraint when she rode me to an energetic climax that could have woken the nearest neighbours, a quarter of a mile away. She used her crop once or twice, as she did on many of my fellow protestors, I discovered later.

  “You must be Ashley,” she says, holding out an elegant hand. “I understand you once modelled. So did I until Lord Justice Rhys-Jones whisked me off the catwalk for a life of luxury and decadence.”

  “It suits you,” Ashley says. “You look sensational.”

  “Let’s give credit to a strong gene pool and a first class plastic surgeon. If you ever feel the need to enhance those gorgeous eyes of yours, give me a call.”

  Her smile barely leaves a crease in her smooth skin, stretched tight around her oval face with its high cheekbones and full lips. Her deep blue eyes sparkle with wit, intelligence and the kind of self-confidence that beauty and money bring. Yet in the six months before she tired of me, I learned more about her horses than her.

  “Let’s order,” Birchill says, signalling to a waiter.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t choose the Mirabelle,” Ashley remarks once we have drinks. Like me, she’s sticking to mineral water.

  “My fault,” he says. “The Grand Hotel didn’t like me turning Downland Manor into a luxury hotel. And like Kent, I prefer simple, honest food.”

  “I love everything you’re not supposed to eat,” Georgina says. “Like burgers, served with fries, onion rings and thick, creamy mayonnaise.”

  “Chunky fries,” he says, watching her in awe.

  I don’t blame him. She’s in her early sixties, but she looks twenty years younger, with a spirit, vitality and metabolism to match. Apart from riding, she played a lot of tennis, I recall, and had a gym, complete with a personal trainer, sauna, and indoor swimming pool.

  She looks at ease in Birchill’s company, though there’s no closeness, none of the looks and touches of people in love. From the way he watches her, hanging on her words, he’s clearly besotted. She’s definitely in control, probably enjoying her power over him the way she enjoyed screwing me into submission.

  Not that I ever complained.

  The conversation moves onto their holiday
in the Seychelles and lasts throughout the starter and main courses. She goes to the islands every year and seems to be treated like royalty. She has friends there, who are tirelessly mundane and trivial, constantly complaining about the heat. Miles, it seems, was a breath of fresh air with his theme park and casino.

  “Not that I frequent casinos.” She pauses to glug more red wine, as if it’s going out of season. “Teddy, my late husband, left me well-provided for, but I’m as hopeless with money as I am with relationships. A couple of bad marriages and some frankly ridiculous investments left me in need of a white knight.”

  She casts him a dazzling smile and pats his hand the way you reward a loyal spaniel. He must know he’s entering a business arrangement. Then again, with her energy and appetite, he’ll be well rewarded.

  She settles back in her chair. “Tell me, Ashley, was it your love of animals that drew you to Kent?”

  Ashley launches into the story of how we met. She embellishes the version we threw together earlier, making it sound like she’s in awe of me and my work. She invites me to chip in here and there, mainly to confirm what she says. This allows me to observe Georgina and my father. She listens with a casual, almost detached interest, but picks up on every detail. He watches Ashley closely, saying nothing, taking in her words and gestures, the looks she throws my way.

  When finally she lets go of my hand, I realise how much she’s perspiring.

  “You make a gorgeous couple,” Georgina says, rising. “Perhaps you could order coffee, Miles. We’ll retire to the lounge before my filler melts in the heat.”

  On our way to the lounge, Ashley takes my arm and presses up closer. “He hasn’t mentioned the opening yet. Do you think he wants Gina to do the honours? She’s not a celebrity, but she’s a Lady and she looks amazing. I want to look that good when I’m her age. Even her tits look natural.”

  “You need to marry a plastic surgeon.”

  “Thanks,” she says, looking genuinely hurt. “You’re supposed to say I won’t need plastic surgery. Quick, kiss me,” she says, sliding an arm around my neck. “We need to convince Birchill we’re in love.”