No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2) Page 6

  “B… b… b… but we can turn our hands to anything,” he says.

  “Then redundancy should be a breeze.” She gives him a playful slap and returns to her desk. “I’m glad you kept your job, Kent. It means we don’t have to do your work as well as our own now.”

  She carries a stack of folders from her desk and thuds them onto mine. “I’ve got a pile for Twinkle Toes too. Where is she?”

  “Gemma’s on a job,” Kelly replies, adding another folder.

  “Buying cakes to thank us for covering her work, I hope.”

  While Lucy returns to her desk, Nigel slides into the chair beside mine and leans closer. He can barely contain his excitement or the hairs that thrust out of his nostrils like bristles on a broom. He must notice them when he shaves, surely. Maybe he doesn’t care. Like me, he’s not worried about appearance.

  In his fifties, widowed, with two daughters who have children of their own, he’s financially secure and loyal. Part of the furniture, some would say, Nigel Long is sometimes called Chaz, corrupted from chaise. Danni thinks he’s more of a Lazy Boy, preferring the line of least resistance to confronting wrong-doers. He can become agitated and nervous when things get difficult, analysing every angle. But if he seeks reassurance from me, it’s because he wants to get things right.

  “So,” he says, rubbing his hands together, “what’s it like to solve a murder?”

  “I can’t say too much because the police are still making enquiries,” I reply. It’s the same answer I gave Tommy Logan, even though I promised him an exclusive for the Tollingdon Tribune. “I’m the main prosecution witness.”

  “When did you realise it was murder? I mean, it’s not like y… y… you get out of bed and think, maybe I’ll find a body in a freezer today.”

  It still seems surreal. One minute it’s a work accident, the next a murder. Someone should turn it into a novel or film.

  “Do you ever watch Columbo?” I ask.

  “The scruffy detective with the cigar? Haven’t seen it in years.”

  “He was always intrigued by details that didn’t quite fit or make sense. That’s how it was. One detail led to another until …”

  “You worked it out,” he says, sounding a little disappointed. He gets to his feet and then lowers his voice. “I never thought Danni would sack you, whatever Lucy says.”

  “Thanks,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket. I take another look at the photo of my dismissal letter and email it to my personal account for safe keeping.

  The folder Kelly left contains a food registration for Grub on the Go. The mobile catering business was registered 18 months ago to Colin Miller, who gave his address as the Travellers public house at Boreham St, where he kept the vehicle overnight. An attached note from Nigel says the business intended to sell sandwiches and savouries around Tollingdon’s industrial estates, but there’s no indication whether it started trading.

  “Nigel, do you remember Grub on the Go?”

  He shakes his head. “Sounds like a mobile trader. Is the inspection overdue?”

  “Leave it with me,” I reply, wondering if Gemma’s already beaten me to it.

  If she has, I hope she checked the file for the Travellers first.

  ***

  Gemma seems subdued when she returns at 12.30. Nigel and Lucy are on district, driven out by the endless stream of people who want to welcome me back – or find out how I kept my job. Geoff Lamb offered to set up a video interview that could be made available on DownNet, Downland’s unpredictable staff intranet. When he started talking podcasts on Twitter, I glazed over.

  “How did it go with Danni?” Gemma asks when I stroll over.

  “I’ll tell you over lunch.”

  “I’m not in the mood.” Her gaze returns to the monitor and the list of emails that await her.

  “Where were you this morning?” I ask.

  “Out.”

  “At the Travellers?”

  She frowns. “Why would I go there?”

  “You asked Kelly for information on Grub on the Go.”

  “I haven’t looked at it yet. How does the Travellers fit it?”

  “I’ll tell you after you tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “I’m fine,” she says, staring at the monitor.

  “I only want to help.”

  She shoves the mouse away in frustration. “Well you can’t.”

  “There’s no such thing as can’t.”

  She stares at me, her angry eyes filling with tears. “Are you a plastic surgeon?”

  I back off, wanting to tell her the wounds will heal, but she blames me for the injury. Not as much as I blame myself.

  Her hand goes to her injured arm. “I’ll have to pay for cosmetic surgery as the wound’s superficial. That’s pretty much what they told me at the hospital.”

  I persuade her to come to lunch and we leave the town hall in silence.

  For a small provincial town, Tollingdon manages to pack in more eateries, antique shops, pubs and hairdressers than the national average. While it’s managed to avoid concrete for the most part, the town centre’s ornate brick buildings look dull and tired beneath the leaden sky. A stiff wind whips the desiccated brown and yellow leaves from the cherry and mountain ash trees that line the pavements. Litter sprawls in the gutters. Weeds fill the cracks between the flagstones, which are more uneven than ever. The predicted downpour for this afternoon won’t wash away the neglect of a town that’s not as exclusive or prosperous as it thinks.

  Nor the cuts in public spending that have hit Downland hard.

  The proliferation of SALE signs contradicts the high price tags in the antique shops and galleries. Young mothers with their buggies march straight past, heading for the cut-price stores in the precinct, while the wealthier residents congregate in mutinous groups in the tearooms and restaurants to discuss the drop in standards. The Vietnamese nail bar, due to open in a couple of weeks, gets top billing. Complaint letters have doubled since the Tollingdon Tribune ran a full page advertisement for the place. Disgruntled residents would normally write to their MP, but he died recently and the by-election is months away.

  Gemma turns into ‘Tasse de Tollingdon’, a local coffee shop that’s trying to compete with the national chains. There’s nothing remotely French about the bold brown lettering above the shop or the large coffee beans stickers that smother the window. But as the owner thinks the name means ‘A Taste of Tollingdon’, that’s hardly surprising. Once past the smell of coffee beans and the noise of milk being foamed, we weave through the low sofas to the counter and watch the baristas autograph the froth on their cappuccinos.

  “Two teas,” I tell the young woman with the false smile. “Do you fancy a treble chocolate muffin, Gemma? A six-mile run later will burn off the calories.”

  While I wait for the tea, Gemma sits at a small table at the back. It’s dark, cramped and in need of a wipe with one of those magic cloths that never seem to get washed. She remains silent while I pour, only perking up when I tell her about Colin Miller.

  “I could go straight to the Travellers from here,” she says.

  “You’re on a phased return. Mornings only.”

  “I wasn’t working this morning. I was in Outpatients.”

  “Nice try, but you’re going home this afternoon.”

  She shakes her head. “This isn’t work, is it?”

  “If there’s a mobile catering business on the premises, it is.”

  “But you’re barred from the Travellers.”

  I smile, realising she doesn’t know. “So are you.”

  Councillor Gregory Rathbone, Portfolio Holder for Environment, Waste and Communities, dislikes both of us, but especially me. I stop most of the businesses he starts because he ignores safety and hygiene rules. He’s bound to be ecstatic when he hears I kept my job.

  “Mike and I are visiting this evening,” I say, aware she’s having dinner with Richard.

  Mike won’t be happy about it, but he’
ll help. On an unofficial visit, we’ll have more chance of getting information from Rathbone. If I visit with Gemma, he’ll complain to Danni.

  “Does that mean you’re taking Colonel Witherington seriously?”

  “The trail may lead nowhere.”

  “What if it leads somewhere? What do we do then?”

  “We can’t do anything during work’s time, obviously.”

  “I’m not working afternoons, am I?” She leans closer, her voice low. “I’m bored stupid at home. I need to get out and do something. Let me do the legwork.”

  “You’re on a phased return,” I say, aware of her frustration. “If HR find out, you’ll be in the brown stuff.”

  “I’m not an invalid, Kent.”

  “You were shot, Gemma. That’s got to play on your mind.”

  “But not yours, clearly.” She glares at me with cold eyes, but the tears still run down her cheeks. “Then again, you’re not the one permanently disfigured.”

  I don’t know what to say. I think back to that night, wondering if I could have done things differently.

  “It’s my fault. I should never have taken you with me, Gemma.”

  She looks up. “I don’t blame you,” she says, grabbing my hand. “You saved my life.”

  “But you said …”

  She shakes her head. “Ignore me. I’m all over the place. The consultant said the scars will fade and I can move on.”

  A hollow feeling fills my stomach. “Move on?”

  Her grip on my hand tightens. “I thought I was going to die. I thought …” She takes a deep breath. “I’ll be fine, honest. But what about you? What happened at the hearing?”

  “Danni dropped the charges.”

  She looks surprised, yet relieved. “That’s great. No really, it’s great,” she adds, dabbing the corner of her eyes. “Now you can move on.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I meant with your life. You’ve got Rebecca now. Birchill will help you develop the sanctuary. Niamh can use her contacts and influence to raise your profile with the people who count. It’s everything you wanted, Kent.”

  If only.

  Seven

  I’m in my underwear when Niamh breezes into my bedroom.

  “Isn’t it time you stopped taking advantage of Frances?” She sits on the end of my bed to fuss Columbo. “And you shouldn’t allow dogs on the bed. They start thinking they’re human and as important as you.”

  I’m not sure what’s encouraged her critical review of my lifestyle, but she’s more like her old self, looking elegant in a pastel green blouse and black skirt. Her trip to the hairdresser and beautician seems to have restored her self-confidence ahead of Davenport’s visit this evening.

  That’s why I’m off to the Travellers with Mike.

  “Maybe you’d like to advise me on which clothes to wear,” I say, opening the wardrobe.

  “Don’t be so childish. I’m simply suggesting you take more responsibility around here. Take your dog,” she says, tickling Columbo behind the ears. “Frances looks after him while you work. Then, you expect her to carry on in the evening while you go out with …”

  I slide a pair of stone-coloured chinos from a hanger. “Rebecca, as you well know.”

  Niamh shakes her head when I pull on the chinos. “Do you want to look like a vagrant when you meet Rebecca?”

  She makes the name sound like an unpleasant medical condition. “Black’s much more forgiving,” she says, reaching into my wardrobe. “I’ll press them for you.”

  “I don’t have time. Mike and I have business to attend to.”

  “Oh, you’re out selling catering equipment,” she says, sounding even more critical. “Is that wise with all the trouble at work?”

  Danni would go ape if she found out about my second hand catering equipment sideline, but it helps to fund the sanctuary. It started by accident when Mike took early retirement and wanted to start a mobile catering business. He couldn’t afford a new van or equipment, so I used my contacts and local knowledge to source cheap alternatives. I always knew when a business was struggling or about to close.

  “It’s Mike’s business, not mine,” I say.

  Niamh sneers. “And your manager’s going to believe that? You don’t need me to tell you what she’ll do.”

  “Oh, I don’t see why not,” I say, stepping out of the stone chinos. “You’re already running my life.”

  She hands me the black trousers. “Like you listen to anything I say.”

  “I always listen,” I say, pulling on the chinos.

  “And ignore my advice,” she says, giving me the hurt look she does so well.

  “If it makes you feel better, Mike and I are not selling equipment. We’re checking out someone linked to Daphne Witherington.”

  “I thought you’d refused to help the Colonel?” She sighs and looks at Columbo. “No one tells me anything around here.”

  Columbo barks, his tail wagging as if he expects a treat.

  “You’re not wearing that,” she says, looking aghast.

  I have no intention of wearing my electric blue shirt even though we’ve had some great times together. With a grin, I put it back in the wardrobe and pull on the white shirt I’ve worn all day. “We’re off to see Gregory Rathbone.”

  “How’s he involved? He and the Colonel don’t exactly see eye to eye, now do they?”

  “The Colonel invested in a mobile catering business for his wife before she vanished. Her business partner kept the vehicle at Rathbone’s pub.”

  Niamh looks thoughtful as she strokes Columbo. “What changed your mind about Daphne?”

  “I haven’t changed my mind. It’s a catering business and it’s easy to check out. Not that I expect to get anything from Rathbone.”

  “Why didn’t you check this caterer out while you were at work?”

  “I thought you’d want me out of the way when Davenport came over.”

  “Alasdair’s allergic to dogs, I’m afraid.” She ruffles Columbo’s fur once more, looking into his big, dark eyes. “I’m sure he’d love you, but his eyes start streaming and he can’t breathe. A few strands of fur set him off.”

  I can’t help smiling at this unexpected bonus. “So, you’re going out too,” I say. “Now who’s taking advantage of Frances?”

  ***

  As the name suggests, the Travellers is more hotel than public house. The accommodation takes up one side of the site. At the back, where the land slopes away, the guest rooms overlook the nightclub, which opens onto a terrace and ornamental gardens. The views across the marshes to the coast make the Travellers a popular wedding venue, in spite of the wide screen TVs and sports channels. Fortunately, these occupy one of the bars at the front of the building, well away from reception and the visitors’ lounge.

  Window boxes and hanging baskets, spilling over with colourful annuals, brighten up the black Tudor beams that suggest great age and character, but only at night. During the day, it’s clear the beams are plastic, despite all efforts to disguise them with flowers, banners and bunting. And that’s the problem. The tasteful gold letters that spell out Travellers suggest class, but the menu board offers an extensive range of burger and chip meals, ‘two for one’ offers on steaks and free bottles of wine for group bookings.

  “How do kids afford BMWs?” Mike asks, extending his long legs out of my Ford Fusion. He lights a cigarette and walks around the cars, appraising the wide tyres, chrome exhaust extensions and spoilers like aircraft wings.

  “They must cost a fortune to tart up and run,” he says, shaking his head. “My ex-wife claimed I was high maintenance. I thought she meant tall, as I explained to her solicitor. When you’re as tall as I am, you look down on everyone.”

  He laughs at his joke, but he’s never recovered from the day his wife ran off with the kitchen fitter. “He could have plumbed in the appliances,” was all Mike said at the time.

  Inside the Travellers, we’re treated to a world of b
lack that covers the walls, ceiling and bare floorboards. Within minimal soft furnishings, the music from the jukebox bounces around, making conversation difficult. The lighting is furtive, relying on the bright screens of gaming machines and plasma TVs to boost illumination. I doubt if it’s enough to spot whether you’ve been short-changed. Then again, people who like to pay double to have their beer in long thin glasses probably don’t mind.

  We walk through to the saloon bar, where regulars shoot pool and try their hand on the quiz machines. The décor remains predominantly black, but the wear and tear exposes plenty of light pine to offer some contrast.

  “Why have you brought me to this fleapit?” Mike asks.

  “Over 50s disco night.” I automatically peer over the bar at the shelves and floor behind, which look clean enough. “They limit the numbers to give you more space on the dancefloor.”

  “Are you saying I’m overweight?”

  He pats the large girth that epitomises Mike’s Mighty Munch, the roadside burger van he runs. For someone who spent his working life in Sussex Police, he’s not a bad cook, blending his Caribbean culture into the hearty fast food he serves. He’s a bit spicy for some people, but I love his plain speaking and no-nonsense attitude. His zest for life is incredible for someone who spent most of his time poking around crime scenes for evidence.

  “I’m saying you could pull if you’re lucky, Mike.”

  He smirks. “You know me. If I fell in a barrel of boobs …”

  “You’d come out sucking your thumb,” we say in unison.

  Our laughter attracts a young barmaid with a pale complexion and startled black hair. No wonder. The tight top she’s squeezed into must be cutting off her circulation. She trots up with short staccato steps, thanks to high heels and skin tight leggings. Her gothic makeup does nothing to lift her sullen expression and bored eyes.

  With banter at a premium, Mike concentrates on her chest until she places his beer on the counter. “So, what time does the action start?” he asks.

  “What action?” She takes the money, deposits it in the till, and returns to the far end of the bar to watch the pool players.