No More Lies Read online

“Mr Hossain’s responsible for the health, safety and welfare of his staff. If he’s operating faulty equipment, I want to know about it.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. “I haven’t finalised my report, but based on my examination, the evidence suggests the fryer had a faulty thermostat.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “There’s no evidence of tampering, or an accelerant being used to start the fire, so I’m as sure as I can be, given the damage caused by the heat.”

  “Can I take a look?”

  “You’ll need to arrange that with Mr Hossain.”

  “You didn’t take the fryer away for testing?”

  “I concluded my investigation on site. I’m happy to show you the photographs and walk you through my findings. It might give you a better understanding when you look at the fryer.”

  “The fryer’s not at the premises, Mr Glover.”

  “Lizzy Wong must have arranged her own examination. I’ll dig out her contact details.”

  “Why not email them over with a copy of your report and the photographs?”

  “I would, but protocol demands a formal request in triplicate.” He sighs as if it’s a burden he has to endure. “We could meet, if you like. I’m rather partial to a latte and a Snegl around ten in the morning. It’s a Danish pastry, as I’m sure you know, being an environmental health officer.”

  Most people assume my job makes me an expert on everything to do with food. They soon revise their opinions when I tell them my favourite food is chips.

  “It means snail,” he says, which sounds rather appropriate. “Best eaten slowly.”

  We arrange to meet at Simply Danish, his favourite confectioner in Eastbourne, and I put the receiver down, keen to get home.

  Another call halts me.

  “Mr Fisher? It’s Tariq Hossain. Why do you want to meet me? I’m closed for business.”

  “Have you spoken to Detective Inspector Goodman?”

  “She also wants to meet with me on Wednesday morning. I’ve given a statement to the police. The fire started after I closed and went home. I was not there, Mr Fisher. I don’t know what happened.”

  He’s protesting too much. “What time are you meeting DI Goodman?” I ask.

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “I’ll see you at nine thirty.”

  “My business is closed, Mr Fisher. If I do not hear from the insurance company soon, it will not reopen.”

  “Would that be Lizzy Wong?”

  “She asks questions, always more questions. I tell her to talk to the fire officer because I wasn’t there when the fire started.”

  “Did she take the deep fat fryer, Mr Hossain?”

  “I got rid of it, Mr Fisher. And it’s still causing me trouble.”

  Eleven

  When I spot the sign for Sunshine View Caravan Park, I understand why the locals objected. Bright, a gaudy orange in colour, and tall, the sign thrusts out of the foliage, pushing aside branches to beckon holiday makers along a narrow lane that peels off the Alfriston to Seaford road.

  Ashley swings her Audi into the lane, missing the flint wall by inches. Her automatic headlamps come on as she speeds through a canopy of sycamore and ash trees. A few seconds later, the lane curves left and we burst out of the trees to views across the caravan park, the Cuckmere Valley and Litlington village. We come to an abrupt halt in a small parking area, bounded by a white ranch style fence and another huge sign, in case we’ve forgotten where we are.

  Below us, the regimented rows of angular mobile homes look so unnatural among the sweeping curves and undulations of the Downs. Ornamental trees, shrubs and flowerbeds filled with bright annuals, designed to break up the straight lines, look as artificial as the pristine lawns and kidney shaped pond at the centre of the site.

  Ashley stares at the giant orange sun, painted on the front of the mobile home that doubles as a shop and reception. “I don’t know why the locals get so uptight. You can hardly see their houses and gardens.”

  She might revise her opinion when we reach the bottom of the site. In line with Government edicts to diversify, the farm opened a caravan site after a long battle with the planners. Five years later, the site expanded into a second, lower field, which runs alongside the road. While mainly filled with static homes, laid out in a grid, the park has a small area for touring caravans and tents. They’re only a road’s width away from a cluster of substantial houses, nestled among native vegetation and trees in the hillside below.

  Some of the owners continue to fight for compensation for loss of amenity and the damage caused by low loaders that squeeze along the road to deliver mobile homes. During the summer, barely a week passes without a complaint from local residents about noisy parties or the smell and smoke from barbecues. In return, the caravan site owner complains about the disturbance caused by locals mowing their vast lawns at the crack of dawn on Sundays.

  A man in his twenties, dressed in frayed denim shorts and a vest top, removes his headphones and ambles over. He wipes the mop of streaked hair from his forehead with a lazy sweep of his hand and peers into the car. He looks Ashley over and gives her his best smile. She holds up her warrant card.

  “You need to speak to my father,” he says, unperturbed. “It’s his site.”

  “Five years ago, a body was unearthed in the bottom field. Were you here then?”

  “We’d just bought the place. My father was digging a trench with the Bobcat and nearly dismembered the body. Do you want me to get him?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Daniel Harper. I’m Elvis.”

  She nods her approval. “He was my parents’ favourite singer too. They have all his films on DVD.”

  “I didn’t know Elvis Costello made films. I’ll tell my father you’re a fan.”

  “Don’t bother,” she says, embarrassment sharpening her voice. “We only want a quick look at where the body was found.”

  He points to a drive heading down the slope. “When you get to the bottom, turn right. When you reach the communal bin area, you’re there.”

  “You covered the area with bins?”

  “Would you site a home where a body was found?”

  She pulls away, complaining about the first of many speed humps. I lean back and relax, enjoying the views now they’re not flashing past in a blur. Even on foot, she’s in a rush, her stride fuelled by urgency, like her handshake.

  A few minutes after six, she strode into the sanctuary, having come straight from her seminar. She had treats for Columbo, an order for cakes and savouries for Niamh and a dinner invite for me. Ashley waited for me to change, her toe tapping on the flagstones while she made phone calls. When I asked her where we were dining, she said we had to attend to a matter of grave concern first.

  Her pun was only marginally better than her driving.

  She slows as we approach the communal bin area. “I want to know why the killer chose this location. You can’t pass a body through the hedgerow. It’s too dense and overgrown, though it might have been more open ten years ago.”

  “Would you park on a main road to dispose of a body?” I ask. “Anyone could drive past, even in the early hours.”

  “And why risk disturbing the locals?”

  We park beside the close boarded fence that surrounds the waste and recycling bins. It’s located near the hedgerow at the bottom of the field, well away from the parade of homogeneous homes. The access road continues into the area set aside for camper vans and tents, which cluster close to what looks like a laundry and shower block. The smell of refuse and rotting vegetables fills my nostrils as I climb out of the car, squinting against the low sun.

  I try to picture a killer hauling a body across a rough, uneven field to this remote spot.

  “If the killer buried the body at night, he would have needed a torch or lantern,” I say, thinking aloud. “You’d need a tractor, or a quad bike with trailer to move a body this far. You’d have to drive past the original site, disturbing
the residents.”

  She photographs the compound. “The site closed from November to March,”

  “Did any of the local residents notice or report anything?”

  She shakes her head. “Five years had elapsed since the body was buried.”

  “Hang on,” I say, following her around the perimeter. “How do you know the body was buried when the site was closed?”

  “When did you close the Rosy Lee Café?”

  “Early November. So, the victim’s connected to the café.”

  She gazes across the valley. “Why bury a body here when there are thousands of acres of Downland to choose from?”

  “I can think of several more accessible sites.”

  “Me too, but none of them are owned by Miles Birchill.”

  Twelve

  “What if you’re wrong about Birchill?” I ask.

  We’re sitting in the free car park in Alfriston village, following another white knuckle drive along the country roads. She checks her appearance in the mirror, flicking her hair into shape.

  “I’m right. You’ll see.”

  She drops her phone into her bag and climbs out of the car. I remain in my seat, wondering how much she’s not telling me.

  What if she’s right?

  What if my father was involved in murder?

  In the 1970s and 80s, he thought nothing of intimidating tenants to clear the flats and houses he wanted to sell with vacant possession. He invested the proceeds into legitimate businesses like casinos and had no qualms about corrupting politicians and people of influence. When they ran up gambling debts, he demanded favours, payment in kind.

  Would he stretch to murder?

  A cold blast of air jerks me from my thoughts. Ashley leans into the car, her head inches from mine. “Nodding off, Kent? I’m not going too fast for you, am I?”

  “Only when you’re behind the wheel.”

  I drag myself out of the car, stumbling as my foot dips into a pothole. She grabs my flailing arm to steady me and ends up in a bear hug, her face pressed against mine. Her cheek is hot, her perfume subtle, her hair soft against my face.

  “You need to shave,” she says, making no effort to pull away.

  “So do you,” I say, enjoying the warmth of her cheek against mine.

  “Might be difficult when you’re standing on my toes.”

  I step back. “Now you know why I declined Strictly Come Dancing.”

  She looks appalled. “You don’t watch that, do you?”

  She gives me a nudge in the back to get me moving. Moments later, she grabs my arm. “I hope your mind’s quicker than your legs,” she says, pulling me forward.

  “Maybe you should learn to enjoy the journey.”

  “I’d rather spend more time at the destination.”

  We swing left into West Street and walk towards Ye Olde Smugglers Inne, where a small group of smokers congregate around the entrance. Built in the 14th Century, the pub has a sturdy facade of weatherboarding and hanging tiles, black on the ground floor, white on the first. We turn left into the main lounge with its uneven brick floor, enormous inglenook fireplace and long polished bar. Sturdy oak posts interlock with thick black joists that support the ceiling and floors above, reinforcing the impression of strength and solidity. Conversation and laughter fill the air, while the tantalising odour of onions lightens the smell of wine and beer.

  I weave through the clusters of people to a table in the corner, looking out across Waterloo Square. Ashley orders food and drinks at the bar, flicking her hair, smiling and laughing while the bartender looks her over with hungry eyes. The swing of her hips increases as she saunters back with the drinks. She’s lucky not to bowl over a romantic couple, oblivious to everything around them.

  “Love this place.” She places my St Clements on the table. She sits opposite and sips from her pint of bitter, nodding in approval. “Everyone’s so friendly.”

  “Especially the bar staff. You should check his ID, make sure he’s old enough to work behind a bar.”

  “Says the man with a passion for young waitresses.”

  “You’re well informed.”

  “I’m a detective.”

  “You mean Mike Turner told you.”

  She raises her glass and chinks it against mine. “Touché.”

  “What brought you down here?” I ask, settling back. “I thought you Northerners couldn’t stand the beer.”

  “I could ask you the same. You spent your youth in Manchester.”

  “Ashley, it’s going to be a boring evening if you keep avoiding questions.”

  She pauses for several mouthfuls of bitter. “Have you any idea how much paper and evidence you have to process with a murder enquiry? Can you imagine working past midnight every night, chasing leads that go nowhere, desperate for the break that will get you a killer before he strikes again? Do you know how exhausting it is, running on adrenaline and coffee?”

  I remain silent, hoping she’s about to tell me.

  “I’ve cleared so many villains from the streets, but the moment I forgot to disclose a few texts that had no bearing on the case ...”

  She drains her pint and thuds the empty glass on the table. “Now you tell me why a man who took out a restraining order against you would make a massive donation to your animal sanctuary.”

  “It was my money.”

  “Tommy Logan called you a morally bereft hypocrite.”

  I recall the editorial in the Tollingdon Tribune. “He printed a front page apology and retraction the following week.”

  “After Birchill turned his Rottweiler solicitor, William Rodgers, on Logan. The same solicitor advised you when you gave a statement to DI Briggs last year.”

  She has done her homework. I’m not sure if I’m flattered or nervous.

  “You could have used your own solicitor, Kent. You could have used an estate agent to sell your sanctuary.”

  “I wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but financially it made sense.”

  “Just business then.”

  “Exactly,” I say before engaging my brain.

  “Then why let Birchill organise a celebrity opening for your new sanctuary?”

  My smile hides the groan. When I opened the letter with the DNA results, I knew the truth would become public one day. I hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

  “Birchill likes supporting causes,” I reply. “It’s good for his image.”

  “When Tommy Logan learns some stick insect glamour model with inflated boobs is opening your sanctuary, what’s he going to print?”

  “Photos of her topless, I guess. Look, I know nothing about this.”

  “Come on, Kent! Birchill’s been posting on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram for weeks. Selfies with glamour models, who all love animals, naturally. He’s running a poll to see which model people want for the opening.”

  “It’s not going to happen. As soon as he returns from the Seychelles, I’ll put a stop to it.”

  Ashley looks thoughtful. “You could invite him to your sanctuary. Invite the media. Pamper his ego. Let him think you need his input, his business acumen.”

  The penny drops. “Then ask him about Sunshine View Caravan Park, right?”

  She grins. “You licence caravan sites. Tell him you’ve had a complaint and discovered he once owned the place.”

  “You’re running a murder inquiry and you want me to interview a suspect?”

  “Keep your voice down,” she says, glaring at me. “It’s not a murder inquiry. Not yet anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “I no longer have the approval or authority to investigate murder.”

  Thirteen

  Ashley catches up with me by the entrance to the car park. She grabs my arm and swings me round, forcing me back against the wall. She pushes in close, her eyes filled with fury. But words desert her, lost in her ragged breaths. She steps back and places her hands above her knees, bending to catch her breath. A few expletives later, she straigh
tens, sweeping back her tousled hair.

  “Don’t ever walk off like that again, Kent.”

  “Then stop playing games.”

  “I grabbed a sausage for you.”

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a soggy napkin, soaked in onion gravy. The aroma reminds me I almost knocked over the waitress when I strode away from the table.

  “You got any mash in the other pocket?” I ask.

  “It slipped through my fingers.” She wipes her fingers with a tissue “If my guvnor finds out I’m investigating a murder, I’ll be helping old ladies across the road. If I can crack a tough case they might put me back on the Major Crimes Team.”

  “You should have told me, Ashley.”

  “Yeah, like you would have helped me.”

  I break the sausage in two and offer her half. “I’m a sucker for lost causes.”

  “Okay, no more games, no more lies.”

  Apart from the two she’s just told me. Next, she’ll be telling me I’m the only person who can help her.

  “You’re the only person I trust, Kent.” She stares into my eyes as she slides the sausage into her mouth. She licks the gravy from her lips before devouring the sausage. “If only sex was this good.”

  The sausage tastes good, but not that good.

  “I’ve always been impetuous and impossible,” she says as we walk back to her Audi. “I, I, I, my father used to say. Like me, me, me, only grander. I always had big ideas.”

  I nod, getting it the first time.

  She reaches into her bag for her keys. “That’s what comes of being the youngest of three sisters. I was always the last in line, making do with leftovers and hand-me-downs. I wanted to be first for a change.”

  “Why join the police?”

  She rips the flyer from beneath the rear windscreen wiper. “Do I look like I need slimming classes?” She screws the flyer into a ball. “Say, did you ever find out who sent you those cryptic notes?”

  “No.”

  “Did they stop after you solved Trimble’s murder? Only there’s no record of you receiving any more.”

  “I received one more about a week later. Old sins cast long shadows.”