No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2) Page 4

  “Mrs Witherington was an art teacher once.” Alice straightens one of the paintings on the wall. “Colonel Witherington organised an exhibition at the Towner Art Gallery in Eastbourne for her.”

  I wonder what else he organised.

  “She saw beauty in everything,” Gemma says, pointing to a picture of the Long Man of Wilmington. The chalk outline of a man holding two staffs looks benign as it stands guard on the hills above the village.

  I’ve run across the hills many times and the slopes are brutal.

  “Indeed.” Alice straightens the teddy bears on the double bed. She runs a finger along the delicate ironwork of the bedstead, checking for dust. “She believed in fairies and magic and the eternity of the soul.”

  I only believe in what I can hold in my hands.

  I slip past the trunk at the end of the bed and open the louvered doors to reveal a walk-in closet. Floral dresses line one side. Most are cotton and delicate. All have price tags attached.

  Gemma squeezes in beside me and pulls open a drawer filled with lingerie. “I’m surprised you didn’t spot these.”

  “Please don’t disturb anything,” Alice says, a worried look on her face. “I really shouldn’t have let you in here. Colonel Witherington doesn’t want anything disturbed.”

  “Did Daphne wear any of these dresses?” I ask.

  “No, she preferred those leggings women seem so fond of these days. She wore them with old jumpers and blouses, telling Colonel Witherington that no one wore gowns and dresses for dinner.”

  “So, who bought the dresses?” I ask, knowing the answer.

  She slides back a door on the opposite side of the closet to reveal sumptuous evening gowns, protected by clear plastic wrappers. “The Colonel gave her everything she could want.”

  It looks and sounds like he treated her as one of his hunting trophies. Only she refused to comply, wearing what she liked, leaving him in the house while she painted and played bridge. She slept in a separate room, refused to wear the dresses he bought, and took his money to start a catering business – or not, as the case may be.

  “Were they happy?” I ask.

  “Are you asking me if I think she ran away with another man?”

  “Did she?” Gemma asks.

  “Colonel Witherington can be demanding,” Alice replies, beckoning us out of the closet, “but he’s generous to a fault.”

  I step out of the closet and glance around the room, not sure what I’m missing. The Colonel’s preserved the room as it was on the day she left. Maybe he hopes she’ll return to finish her painting. But why would she if he wanted her to be something she wasn’t? Apart from the teddy bears and paintings there’s nothing personal in the room. Even the clothes in the closet are not really hers. Where are the photographs of her family and friends?

  “Thank you, Alice,” I say, heading for the door. “We’ve taken enough of your time. Let the Colonel know we’ll be in touch.”

  She hesitates, as if she wants to say something, and then escorts us to the front door. When we reach the car, Gemma says, “I don’t think there’s a catering business, do you?”

  “I want to know why she didn’t clean and dry her brushes before she left.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “She loved painting, Gemma. Why did she leave her brushes and an unfinished painting behind?”

  Four

  On Saturday afternoon, I’m distracted by the cries and laughter of the children returning from their ramble in the woodland and foothills of the Downs. Frances leads them home, her beaded dreadlocks swinging in time with her arms as her Doc Martens pound the flinty path. She’s surrounded by boys, all talking at once as they jostle and prod each other with sticks. Niamh, in designer leggings and running jacket, follows at the back with the girls, who are more orderly, though still talking over each other. During the morning, they had a couple of hours exploring the sanctuary. They learned about the dogs we rehome, the injured badgers, foxes and small mammals we nurse back to health, and the horses, donkeys and goats we rescue from either the slaughterhouse or a slow death from neglect.

  It’s a little after one and the children will be hungry.

  Columbo, who’s asleep on the bed, jumps to his feet and barks in one brisk movement. After a glance at me, he barks once more, rising on his hind legs to look out of the window. I lift him up and he settles in my arms to watch the children, the growling noise in his throat becoming a whine as he starts to wriggle and struggle, eager to join the party.

  “You want to go outside?”

  I set him down and follow the sound of scampering paws to the kitchen. After letting him out, I switch on the oven and fetch the sausage rolls from the fridge. Moments later, Columbo flies back through the door. He stops at the table, rising on his hind legs to sniff the food.

  Frances follows him in, her cheeks glistening. She grins and says, “I hope you’ve washed your hands. Niamh will be checking your fingernails.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s strict with the children, but every one of them washed and sanitised their hands after petting the goats and donkeys. You trained her well.”

  If I know Niamh, she’ll take over the sanctuary the way she’s taken over my wardrobes. “How are you getting on?”

  “Fine. She’s a big help. She’s even …” Frances pauses and looks down, her voice almost a whisper. “She’s taking me shopping this afternoon.”

  She picks at some fluff on a khaki-coloured top that’s almost faded to a dusky white. Combined with combat trousers, this is what she wears, whether working or off duty. Not that she goes out much, unless you count buying animal feed and bedding or delivering animals and birds to more specialised rescue centres.

  Then I recall the Downland Ranger who flirted with her earlier in the week. “Have you met someone?”

  She raises her head and looks at me, unable to stop a self-conscious smile.

  “You’ll want a rise next to pay for the clothes.”

  I say it as a joke, but she works for virtually nothing as a volunteer. She lives in a caravan on site and sleeps in my spare room during the cold winter months. She has no family, having grown up in care, and like me, prefers animals to people. Her whole life revolves around the sanctuary, but sooner or later she had to take an interest in someone. She’s far too serious for a 20 year old.

  “I got a bonus,” she says, fiddling with her braids. “From Miles. I mean, Mr Birchill. I didn’t ask for it or nothing. I thought if you’d accepted a bonus, why shouldn’t I?” She stares at me and then sighs. “He hasn’t given you a bonus, has he?”

  Birchill gave me money to cover the sanctuary’s running costs for a few months. At the end of October, he wants to discuss the future. He means a proper access road that extends beyond the sanctuary to the woodland where he plans to build a holiday village. I’ve opposed the idea for the last five years, refusing ridiculous sums of money to sell my land.

  Turns out he owned my land all along.

  Once again, William Fisher deceived me. He didn’t parcel off my land from Downland Manor next door. He put up everything as security against a loan he would never pay back, handing Birchill a country estate to add to his casinos.

  “Go and buy some clothes,” I say, placing a tray of sausage rolls into the oven. “I’ll look after things. Nothing happens on Saturday afternoons.”

  “I’ll be back in time to feed and walk the dogs.”

  ***

  The last of the children leave about two thirty. Minutes later, Niamh and Frances head out of the door, leaving me to clear the disposable plates, cups and cutlery. Columbo sticks to my heels, nudging the backs of my legs from time to time, hoping for leftovers. He looks at me as if he hasn’t eaten for a month, even though Niamh feeds him enough treats to double his body weight. I dread to think how much she’ll feed him when I’m back at work next week.

  That’s on the basis I thwart attempts to dismiss me for gross m
isconduct and insubordination. While my investigation into Syd Collins’ work accident was flawed, everything hinges on whether my boss, Danni, wants to get rid of me. Though I’m not a member of Unison, our union rep, Lucy, has offered to defend me, but I don’t want her, or anyone else in the council, knowing too much about my escapades.

  “Gemma won’t talk,” I tell Columbo, more to convince myself than anything. “That’s the trouble. Neither of us want to talk about what matters, do we?”

  He tilts his head from side to side, listening to every word. If only he could give me an opinion.

  By the time I’ve washed up and cleared everything away, it’s gone three. Columbo dozes on my bed while I sit at the computer, reading my presentation for Monday. I’m so impressed I print a copy and stride around the bedroom, doing my best Perry Mason. Columbo watches and listens for a short while before jumping down from the bed, unimpressed by my American accent.

  “You’re right,” I tell him. “Human Remains won’t be moved by passionate pleas.”

  Bernard Doolittle, the aptly named Head of Human Resources, is an expert on policies and procedures. It makes no difference to him whether the media brand me a super sleuth, whether my father died, or whether I’m too good an officer to lose. He’ll concentrate on whether I breached council policy and rules.

  That’s what I’m hoping anyway.

  A noise outside draws me to the window. In the yard below, two young children are running around. The boy is chasing a girl, trying to beat her with a stick. Then he spots a wood pigeon on the fence and tries to decapitate it as it flies off. Close to the entrance, a young woman with jet black hair, dressed in leather trousers and jacket, locks an old BMW with pink alloy wheels. She takes a thoughtful draw on a cigarette, tosses it to the ground, and then spits into the bushes.

  Columbo races down the steps, pausing only to pee on the corner of the barn before running towards the children. He stops when the boy brandishes the stick like a sword.

  “Here, doggy,” the boy calls, tucking the stick behind his back. He stretches out a hand. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “You should never taunt dogs,” I call, rushing down the stairs. “They could bite you.”

  The boy looks up at me with the malevolent, brooding stare of a teenager, even though he looks about eight or nine. Chocolate smears embellish his chin and a Star Wars t-shirt that’s seen better days.

  “He’s friendly though,” I say as the girl approaches. “His name’s Columbo.”

  The boy wrinkles his nose. “Why?”

  “He likes the name. Do you like your name?”

  He thinks for a moment, shrugs and turns away.

  My natural rapport with children never fails. Thankfully, the mother, who looks just as bored as her children, wanders up. She has dark, insolent eyes and an expression that says, ‘what are you going to do about it?’ Her fingers, tipped with black fingernails, adjust the piercing above her left eye.

  “Where’s the party then?” she asks in a voice that could curdle milk.

  “It finished over an hour ago.”

  She fixes me with a stare. “What d’ya mean, finished?”

  “Finished as in ended, stopped, all over.”

  “Don’t get smart with me. That’s smart as in superior, patronising and condescending.” She smirks, obviously pleased with her riposte. “I paid good money to come to the party.”

  We both know that’s rubbish. The parents make regular donations to the sanctuary throughout the year, more than covering the cost of a party.

  “In that case you’ll have a ticket.”

  “What ticket?”

  “The one that says the party runs from ten in the morning until two.”

  “I promised Sam and Charlie they could stroke the animals. Sam was ill and missed the school visit this week.”

  I should tell her to come back during the week, but her daughter looks up at me with angelic blue eyes.

  “Would you like the special tour?” I ask her.

  She nods. Sam whoops and swooshes the stick through the air, startling Columbo. He growls and the girl rushes behind her mother.

  “You need to keep that dog under control,” the mother says.

  I could say the same about her son. “Sam, you need to take care around animals. If you startle them, they can kick or bite.”

  “Whatever. You got any snakes?”

  I’m saved by the phone, ringing in the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I say, scooping up Columbo. “Wait here for me.”

  Once in the kitchen, I close the door so Columbo can’t escape and pick up the phone. Gemma wants to know if I’ve looked at Daphne Witherington’s folder.

  “I haven’t had a chance.”

  “Do you want me to pop over and take a look?”

  Again, her curiosity intrigues me. “Are you after my super sleuth crown?”

  “I thought we could get a head start.”

  “It’s not a priority.”

  “Not for you, but I can check the files Monday morning while you … you’re busy.”

  “That reminds me,” I say. “Cast your mind back to the day we snuck into Collins’ house. I know you didn’t tell Danni, but did she question you about it?”

  “No, she never asked.”

  “Did she ask anything else about that afternoon?”

  “No,” she replies after a pause. “She said nothing was my fault as you were lead officer. Are you still trying to find out who told her?”

  “Just covering all bases. Look, I’ve got a tour to do. Frances and Niamh are out buying clothes.”

  “Frances never goes shopping. Unless she’s taken a shine to you now you’re a hero.”

  Below, the mother’s also on her phone. I can’t see her children.

  “See you Monday, Gemma.”

  I shut Columbo in the kitchen and hurry down the stairs. “Where are your children?”

  The mother blows cigarette smoke down her nostrils and turns her back. Hearing Sam whoop, I hurry around the back of the barn and spot him in the paddock, swishing his stick at a retreating goat. He ignores my call and sets off after the goat. I vault the gate and intercept him within a few strides. As he raises the stick, I wrench it from his hand.

  “Didn’t I tell you to be careful with animals? Now, let’s get you out of here.”

  He kicks me in the shin. It hurts far more than expected, allowing him to land a second kick. As he takes aim once more, I sidestep and sweep him off the ground. He’s heavier than I expected, especially when he kicks and struggles. His flailing arms and legs catch me a couple of times as I carry him to the gate. His sister, who’s stroking one of the older goats, runs over.

  “Let him go,” she cries, wrapping her arms around my thigh.

  I drag her with me and manage to open the gate, losing my grip on Sam, who stumbles out and falls to the ground.

  “Get your hands off my effing kids!”

  The mother flings her cigarette to one side and rushes over. Charlie rushes to her, hiding behind her legs. When the mother looks at Sam, he clutches his arm and bursts into tears, setting off Charlie.

  “No one assaults my kids,” the mother says, pointing an accusing finger.

  I take my time closing the gate, determined to keep my anger in check. “If one of the goats had turned on Sam, you’d be calling an ambulance right now. And don’t let Charlie put her thumb in her mouth. She needs to wash her hands. She stroked the goats.”

  As if to spite me, Charlie slides most of her fist into her mouth. The mother drags Charlie’s hand away. “If my kids are ill, mister, I’ll have you.”

  “Just wash her hands,” I say. “Sam’s too. There’s a basin by the barn.”

  Sam cries out. “Mum, he hit me. You saw him.”

  Before the mother can shoot more vitriol, Columbo bounds around the corner. Charlie screams and clings to her mother. Sam stumbles to his feet as Columbo homes in, growling and baring his teeth. I manage to grab him
as the mother aims a kick.

  “You should wash your hands and go,” I say, struggling to restrain Columbo as he growls and wriggles to break free.

  “You’ll pay for this.” The mother ushers her children away. Sam turns and gives me a malicious grin that makes me shudder. This child attacks animals for pleasure.

  “Don’t forget to wash your hands,” I call as they reach the basin.

  She acknowledges with her middle digit, almost colliding with Birchill, who steps out from behind the barn. At least I know how Columbo got out.

  “Was it something you said?” Birchill asks when I reach him.

  He’s dressed in his standard black jeans and shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His polished shoes reflect the sun and his mirrored sunglasses hide his eyes. Since he dumped the knuckleduster of gold rings and cut his dyed hair short, he looks more businessman than cowboy. But he still wanders in as if he owns the place – which he does, of course.

  If it wasn’t for the fact I need his money to run the place, I’d …

  I don’t know what I’d do.

  He ruffles Columbo’s fur. “He shot out of the kitchen like a bullet. What’s going on?”

  We watch the mother bundle her children into the back of her BMW, slamming the door behind them. She’s texting as she climbs in behind the wheel. With an angry roar of the engine, she spins the wheels and squeals away, missing Birchill’s Mercedes by inches.

  “What were you doing, going into my flat?”

  “Columbo was barking and scratching at the door. I couldn’t see anyone around so I let him out. Where are Frances and Niamh?”

  “Why did you give Frances a bonus?”

  He gestures towards the kitchen. “She’s got some great ideas for this place.”

  At the top of the steps, he goes straight into the kitchen and pulls a bone-shaped biscuit from his pocket. He’s on a charm offensive. Bonus for Frances, treat for Columbo. I can’t wait to find out what he’s going to give me. Grief, I imagine.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  He checks the kettle for water. “Tea?”

  While he makes tea, he runs through his plans for a carbon neutral holiday village. His architect is sourcing the latest green innovations and technologies, including earth source heat pumps, sheep wool thermal insulation, and reed bed sewerage systems. He wants to power the site using solar panels and wind turbines, discreetly located, of course.