No More Lies Page 4

  “Mike wouldn’t tell me anything,” I say.

  “He referred me to the case file. He doesn’t like me. What progress have you made?” she asks, pulling wet wipes from her bag.

  I take the remaining flapjack. “I’m checking the archives this afternoon.”

  “Copy everything. The fire may have been an accident, but I open a cold case and everything hots up.”

  “You think it was arson?”

  She shrugs. “Did Hossain start a fire to kill Leila while she slept upstairs? Or did he tell her to get out so he could start a fire?”

  “You think it’s a fraudulent insurance claim?”

  “He bought a dodgy deep fat fryer from a guy with a van, didn’t he?” She dabs her lips with the wipe and grins. “What if Hossain started the fire to divert attention from Leila’s disappearance?”

  “You think he carried out his death threat?”

  “Leila withdrew her allegation the next day, said she’d drunk too much wine.” Ashley drops the wipe into the paper bag and compresses it into a ball. “He came back later with flowers and made love to her.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  She rams the paper ball into her empty coffee cup. “He’s married with two children. Leila could have given him plenty of grief. I’ll let you know what I think after I’ve interviewed him on Wednesday.”

  “I’ve arranged to meet him then. Why don’t we ...?”

  The chill in her eyes cuts me off. “This is a police investigation, Kent. It’s not your concern.”

  “I need to examine the deep fat fryer,” I say, getting to my feet. “If it was faulty, there’s a health and safety issue.”

  “If Hossain killed Leila, it’s a murder inquiry.”

  Eight

  Early in the afternoon, I head for the labyrinthine basement of the town hall, where Downland District Council keeps its archives. Brian Peake, caretaker and custodian of the basement, arranges and organises the archives, along with a system for recording what’s stored. Only he understands the system, bringing him into conflict with the Head of IT, who introduced document scanning as part of the paperless office.

  “The bigwigs produced a forty-page report on the paperless office,” Brian tells me, searching for a key in one of the many wall-mounted boxes in his tiny, windowless office. It’s filled with his grand desk and ornate chair, stacks of archive boxes and a shelf lined with pigeon holes. “If you want something from an electronic archive, you have to print it. How’s that saving paper?”

  “I hope you sent them a memo, Brian.”

  “Joke all you like, but there’s something satisfying about composing a carefully worded memo. People take notice of memos.” He plucks a key from one of the hooks. “You can’t delete memos with a click of a mouse.”

  He compares the number on the key with a colour-coded list on the wall. He ticks a box on a form pinned to his clipboard and slaps it shut. He clasps the clipboard to his chest and leads me out of his office into the corridor that looks out on the waste and recycling bays at the rear.

  “Environmental Health share storage with Planning, Building Control, Benefit Fraud and Licensing in the Enforcement Room,” he tells me as we walk. “You’re the last on the list for scanning. If you want anything after that, you’ll need a printer.”

  He chuckles to himself and leads me through a fire door and down the brick steps to the basement. Another fire door opens into a long, cool corridor, lit by strip lights. Brian bends his head to avoid the cobwebs on the low ceiling as he strides past panelled doors with gold numbers. At the end, we turn left, walking past another fire door and staircase. At the end of this corridor, he inserts the key and opens the sturdy door. The stale, musty smell hits me moments before the flickering overhead lights reveal the layer of dust coating everything.

  He points past the rows of filing cabinets and metal cupboards to some racking at the end of the narrow room. “Your files are on the furthest shelves, second level,” he says, leading me down a narrow aisle. He stops when we reach the half empty shelves. “Looks like some of your files have already gone. Why wasn’t I informed?”

  I imagine Danni sent him an email, probably the day after scanning started. “Don’t you let the scanning people in to collect the boxes?”

  He shakes his head. “They use the stairs we passed to avoid me. Human Resources have a master key, which they hand out willy nilly to contractors, leaving them unsupervised. There could be hundreds of illegal keys in circulation.”

  “Aren’t most of the rooms empty?”

  “That’s hardly the point.” He points to the photocopier in the corner. “Someone damaged the sheet feeder so you can only scan one copy at a time.”

  I waste no time checking the cardboard boxes, labelled in Brain’s precise block capitals. While many files have gone for scanning, documents related to enforcement and legal action will be retained, especially witness statements, formal notices, exhibits and samples.

  The Rosy Lee Café case occupies two boxes. One contains sealed polythene bags, filled with scrapings, droppings and food debris found during my initial visit in response to an anonymous complaint of a mouse infestation. The other box contains all the paperwork relating to the closure of the business and my visit to the Magistrates’ Court for a Hygiene Emergency Prohibition Order a couple of days later.

  When I remove the dusty lid, something looks wrong.

  Though only half full, the manila folder on top has paper protruding beyond the edges. The metal clips that keep everything in place have gone. I examine the contents, which contains correspondence and details of the actions taken after my visit to court. While everything appears to be in date order, several sheets of paper have creases as if they’ve been folded.

  The next three manila folders have no displaced pages. The folder at the bottom of the box resembles the top one, with papers out of line and no fasteners. I also find two small sheaves where the staples were removed and replaced later, but not carefully enough. This final folder contains details of my initial visit, including staff interviews, details of the problems found, notes of all actions taken and records of calls and correspondence prior to the court appearance.

  It looks like someone’s interested in my investigation.

  Student EHOs often want case studies for dissertations. They’re not so good at putting things back as they found them.

  Neither was Gemma.

  Pushing the thought to one side, I check the top page. It contains the names and contact details of the people I interviewed at the café.

  Leila King’s not on the list.

  Neither is Peter Stone.

  I flick through the pages, wondering how much I should scan. Most of the pages contain my inspection forms and notes, which won’t be of any interest to Ashley. Then again, without reading every single page, I won’t know whether I’ve missed anything significant.

  I walk over to the photocopier to scan everything, one sheet at a time.

  Had the sheet feeder been working, I may never have noticed that a couple of pages were missing.

  Nine

  Brian’s expression tells me he’s got other work to attend to. “How do you know you didn’t get the pages out of order?”

  “You log everyone who visits the archive.”

  “You’re the first person from Environmental Health to visit this year. Who else would want to look at your files?”

  “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

  “The contractor scanning your records probably.” He leans forward and jabs the spacebar with his index finger to bring his PC back to life. “Maybe you should talk to him before you accuse anyone of tampering with your files.”

  “I’m not accusing anyone, Brian. I only want to know who’s visited the archives recently. I know you keep a record, so can I have a look?”

  His sigh registers on the Richter Scale. Taking his time, he hauls himself from his chair and strolls across the room to retrieve an exercise book, s
uspended by string beside the door. He opens it and takes a long, slow look, his lips pursed in defiance.

  “The Information Officers from Planning are the most frequent visitors.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “On 30th July, Human Resources carried out a health and safety inspection with the Fire Officer. There’s no record of your scanning contractor, but there wouldn’t be if he uses the other stairs.”

  He puffs out his chest. “Perhaps you could raise this with your manager, Mr Fisher, citing the alleged disturbance to your files. You might also let her know that Human Resources issued keys to every Head of Service three months ago without consulting me.”

  I thank him for his time and head upstairs, aware that anyone in the council, any of its contractors, could access the archive room at any time without anyone knowing.

  ***

  Back at my desk, I check through the scanned copies, emailed from the photocopier. The paperwork details my investigation from the initial anonymous complaint about mice at the Rosy Lee Café on Friday morning. I’ve also copied the notes from my inspection, my interview under caution with the owner, Henry Potter, and the Hygiene Emergency Prohibition Notice I served to close the premises. The final document covers the early morning visit I made to the café prior to the hearing at the Magistrates’ Court the following Tuesday.

  The café was shut. Henry Potter didn’t come to court.

  He had disappeared.

  Did that make him a candidate for the body at the caravan site?

  There’s no mention of Leila King in any of the documents or the witness statements taken from staff. She’s cited as the manager of Station Diner in Nigel’s inspection records for the last five years, but I need to access the inspections before that. Those records have been digitised and archived by the scanning contractor. Once Danni’s authorised my request, I can access them.

  If she authorises my request.

  I don’t find out until 4.15 when she summons me to her office. Her motivational pinboard, plastered with nuggets of wisdom from Facebook, Twitter and her desk calendar, has become a mess, contradicting her normal precision and neatness. Maybe she can’t find the energy to spruce it up, even though she’ll never get a second chance to make a first impression.

  She’s sitting at her meeting table, a cup of coffee on her right, a manila folder on her left. Her light blue jacket lies across the back of an adjoining chair, keeping her handbag company. She’s pushed her short blonde hair behind her ears and looks relaxed and contented, the trace of a smile on her lips. When she rises to pour me a cup of filter coffee, I notice she’s kicked off her shoes.

  Her relationship with Bernard Doolittle must be going well.

  “I’m intrigued by your sudden interest in our archives.” She places the coffee before me, treating me to a waft of a new perfume. “I thought you preferred to look forward, not back.”

  Her gentle, mocking tone tells me she’s ahead of me again.

  She helps herself to a wine gum from a bowl in the centre of the table. “What’s your interest in the fire at Station Diner? This morning, you rummage around the basement, ruffling Brian’s perfectly preened feathers. Now, you want access to the scanned inspection files.”

  “I can request them under the Freedom of Information Act, if you prefer.”

  “Why not tell me why you’re interested in Station Diner and its predecessors?”

  “The fire concerns me,” I say. “Nigel says the owner’s in financial difficulties.”

  “Then talk to the police.” She slides the manila folder across the desk. “Copies of the inspection reports – two for Easy Burger and two for Easy Pizza. Nigel also discussed his concerns with me.”

  That’s why she’s ahead of me.

  “Your priority is the faulty fryer,” she says. “If someone’s supplying dangerous catering equipment, we need to find them. Maybe the police could help. Have you come across Detective Inspector Goodman? She transferred from Brighton after ruffling some feathers. You two should get on famously.”

  I nod and head for the door.

  “She might even take your mind off Gemma.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, more sharply than intended.

  Danni pops another wine gum into her mouth. “Richard moves to Chipping Campden four months ago. Then I hear you’re no longer his best man. A few weeks later, Gemma walks in on Friday afternoon and tells me she won’t be back. Naturally, she wants to join her fiancé, but the timing’s interesting.”

  “It is?”

  “If you’re pregnant it is.”

  Ten

  At five thirty, I’m still at my desk, staring at the computer screen, unable to concentrate. Every few seconds, I look down at my phone, wanting to ring Gemma, but not sure what to say. Too late, I found out she’d continued her relationship with Richard. Now, if Danni’s correct, she’s expecting his child.

  Or is it mine?

  No, she ran to Richard. She didn’t say a word or leave a note to repay me for walking out on her without warning eight years ago. Her resentment explains some of the difficulties we had, but why claim she loved me when she didn’t? Was I no more than a distraction?

  Maybe she thought I would never marry her or want children.

  Kelly slides into the chair at the side of my desk, looking concerned. “What’s wrong, lover? You look stressed.”

  Smart, efficient and always cheerful, Kelly organises Danni’s life and keeps the department ticking over. Kelly knows all the gossip, all the council’s plans, and much more, thanks to her flirtatious nature and popularity with senior male managers. With her short blonde hair, cheeky smile and big blue eyes, she has them revealing their innermost secrets within minutes. They preferred her when she dressed like a blousy barmaid from the rugby club, but even in a business suit, she cuts a striking figure in her red stilettoes as she breezes around the building.

  I slide the phone into my pocket. “You look great. Someone new in your life?”

  “You’re useless at small talk, lover. Has Danni wound you up again?”

  “No, I’m struggling to write a reference for Gemma.”

  “Do you want some help?”

  “I’ll manage,” I reply, switch off the computer. “What about you? Looking forward to being Maid of Honour?”

  She looks at me with troubled eyes. “Why did Gemma leave like that?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “You were in love with her, weren’t you?”

  Has Gemma confided in Kelly? Or is she fishing?

  “We were close,” I reply. “When you save someone’s life, you see the real person, the one that’s kept hidden most of the time.”

  “Sex has the same effect. Alcohol too. But you don’t drink.”

  An uneasy silence settles between us. The computer closes down. I reach for my pen, sliding it into the inner pocket of my jacket. I brush some fluff from the sleeve and make a show of checking my watch.

  “Animals to feed,” I say, rising. “Pass on my best wishes to Gemma.”

  She stands. “I visited them last weekend. Not once were you mentioned. No, that’s not strictly true. Gemma told me not to say anything about you. Richard’s still furious because you won’t be his best man.”

  “Did you ask her why she left suddenly?”

  “I asked, but as far as she’s concerned Downland never existed.” Kelly gives me a helpless shrug. “She’s changed, Kent. She’s short with Richard, cutting sometimes, but he’s too besotted to notice. The spark’s gone from her eyes, even though she laughs and jokes like she always did. Maybe it’s wedding nerves. Richard’s family are kicking off because they’re marrying in a registry office.”

  “It’s a big change, moving away, looking for a new job.”

  “She seemed so happy, so full of life after you solved Mr Trimble’s murder. She told me everything was finally coming together.”

  “Maybe it is. Danni thinks Gemma’s pregnant.”

  “Then
why did she seem so ... lost?”

  Before I can answer, the phone rings. When I gesture to ignore the phone, Kelly picks it up and gives the official greeting. She nods and hands it to me.

  “Bob Glover from East Sussex Fire and Rescue, returning your call.”

  Bob has a deep voice with a West Country burr that makes him sound like a friendly, salt of the earth chap that would help anyone.

  “I thought you guys in environmental health knocked off early,” he says, sounding disappointed. “Anyway, it’s good to talk to another maligned public sector worker, manacled to a hot desk, burning the midnight oil. I’ve no one to go home to since the wife packed in her job and me,” he says. “Are you married, Mr Fisher?”

  I’m still considering the health and safety implications of fire officers burning oil at night. “No, Mr Glover.”

  “Call me, Bob. Everyone does, especially when they want something.” His laugh sounds a little resentful. “You’re interested in the fire at Station Diner. Well, there’s nothing to worry about. The heat incinerated all the food poisoning bugs.”

  I ferret out a pen, hoping he’s not going to crack a joke every times he speaks. “I understand a deep fat fryer’s to blame,” I say.

  “Have you spoken to Lizzy Wong?”

  “Who’s Lizzy Wong?”

  “The most persistent insurance assessor you’ll ever meet. If she wasn’t so pretty, none of us would talk to her.”

  “DI Goodman told me about the fire,” I say, making a note of Lizzy Wong’s name.

  “She’s another,” he says, as if she pesters him too. “Wants everything yesterday. Must be a woman thing, trying to prove they’re better than us even though we gave them equality.”

  I’m beginning to understand why Bob Glover’s wife left him. “Was the fire caused by a faulty fryer?”

  “Why are you interested, Mr Fisher? It’s hardly a food hygiene issue.”