No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2) Page 7

“Does she work here because she likes people?” he asks. “Or is it some form of penance?”

  We settle in a small booth with padded seats and a table that’s stickier than an unwashed frying pan. “Have you come across Colonel Witherington?” I ask.

  “I know he chaired one of the joint working groups with the police.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “What about her?”

  I give him a brief overview of her disappearance and the link to Colin Miller. He drinks his lager while I explain, only letting his gaze drift once as the barmaid collects some glasses from an adjoining table.

  “So,” he says, putting his empty glass down, “you reckon the Colonel’s wife did a runner with the money and Colin Miller, who might have kept his van here. Why don’t we wander round the back and see if it’s still here?”

  “They ran off about a year ago. The van won’t be here.”

  “So, why do you need me?”

  “I want your help with Councillor Gregory Rathbone,” I say, gesturing to the man who strolls into the bar as if he’s about to receive a standing ovation. He has shiny black hair, slicked back and combed behind his ears. His narrow face seems to come to a point, thanks to a long, sharp nose and protruding chin, tipped with a goatee.

  “Isn’t he behind every new scheme the council launches?”

  “Only the ones that fail,” I reply.

  To win ‘Downland Pub of the Year’, Rathbone designed voting cards that looked almost identical to his customer services cards. Then he got his cronies to fill in hundreds of them with different coloured biros. Unfortunately, an EHO who shall remain nameless voted using the customer services cards. Rathbone was rumbled and disqualified.

  “The competition hasn’t run since,” I say, concluding the story. “And I won’t mention the rules and laws he breaks. Let’s just say he never sends me a Christmas card.”

  “Like most people,” Mike says, play punching my arm. “So, you want me to be a witness in case he gets difficult, is that it?”

  “I want you to intimidate him.”

  “Me? You’re the one with the food horror stories.”

  “I’m not allowed to have any official dealings with him. Don’t ask,” I say, remembering the pressure Rathbone heaped on me after closing one of his cafés. “Colin Miller owes you twenty grand and you’ve called to collect. If Rathbone plays dumb, show him your nasty side. You always said you’d make a great villain.”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t got my violin case, have I?”

  “You can’t act either, but that’s never held you back.”

  He wags a warning finger at me. “Do you want my help or not?”

  We return to the bar, where Rathbone gives me his best cloying smile. If he could get his eyes to join in, sincerity would be within his grasp.

  “May I offer my sincere commiserations over the death of your father, Mr Fisher? William was an inspiration to us all, serving the community for … well, until he died, obviously. What a shock.” He shakes his head as if he’s lost a dear friend. “And poor Niamh. Please send her my condolences and best wishes. She must miss him terribly. As I’m sure you do,” he adds quickly. “Let me offer you a drink on the house to toast his memory.”

  I decline, having drunk only half of my St Clement’s. “This is Mr Brown,” I say when Mike pushes his glass forward.

  “Gregory Rathbone, owner of this establishment.” He fills Mike’s glass with the cheapest lager. “Have you started evening hygiene inspections to keep us on our toes?”

  “I’m here to ask a favour.”

  “Always happy to help our colleagues in enforcement, you know that.”

  “Mr Brown’s an entrepreneur like you. He invested in a mobile catering business about a year ago.”

  “Grub on the Go,” Mike says, right on cue. “You might have heard of it.”

  Rathbone shakes his head. “Good name for a business. How can I help?”

  “It’s not his business,” I reply. “It’s owned by Colin Miller, who kept the vehicle here.”

  “Are you sure?” Rathbone asks.

  “His food registration says he kept the vehicle here.”

  Rathbone laughs. “People say all kinds of things on forms, don’t they?”

  “When they bother to register,” I say.

  His smile vanishes. “An innocent mistake, Mr Fisher. One anyone could make.”

  Mike leans forward. “Miller owes me twenty grand, pal. So, if you know where he is, or anything about the van, I’d like to know.”

  “Since when did EHOs become debt collectors?” Rathbone leans closer, giving me a hint of what his garlic bread might taste like. His voice is low and menacing. “If you’ve revealed confidential information about my business to a third party …”

  “Food registration details are public, as you know. Mr Brown’s owed money and I thought you’d be happy to help a fellow entrepreneur.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, gents, but I have no recollection of the man.”

  Mike drains half his beer. “If he stayed here, you’ll have a record of his home address, credit card.”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “But you can check to see if he stayed here.” Mike’s evil smile scares me as he pulls himself to his full height. “Or I might start to wonder whether you’re hiding something. And if you’re hiding something from me, who knows what you’re not telling the tax inspector.”

  Rathbone’s perspiring. “How dare you question my integrity?”

  “Would you rather I helped myself? I mean, you must make twenty grand plus on a Saturday night, pal. You’d hardly miss it, would you?”

  “Hang on,” I say in my best horrified voice. “I didn’t bring you here to threaten people.”

  Mike stares at Rathbone. “Colin Miller has convictions for deception and fraud. If you’re helping him, that makes you an accessory. I can talk to my friends in the force if you prefer.”

  “There’s no food van here. Never has been. Take a look if you don’t believe me.”

  I put a hand on Mike’s arm, worried he’s taking his role too seriously. “I told you Miller was unlikely to be here.”

  “But he was here, wasn’t he?” Mike leans forward as if he’s about to grab Rathbone by the lapels and haul him over the bar. As much as I’d like to see that, I have to calm things down.

  “Mr Rathbone, if you recall anything about Colin Miller, please tell us,” I say.

  Rathbone looks up at a security camera and then at me. A slow, sly smile smothers his lips, suggesting I’ve blundered. Still smiling, he helps himself to vodka and returns, looking smug once more.

  “A year ago, someone wanted to make and sell sandwiches,” he says. “I let him use the kitchen. He left early and came back late, so I hardly saw him.”

  “What about his van?” Mike asks. “You let him park it here.”

  Rathbone takes a slug of vodka. “He drove a black BMW. An unusual choice of delivery vehicle, don’t you think? I mean, would you transport knocked-off meat in the boot of your car? Not that I ever took any,” he adds quickly. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

  Mike finishes his lager. “How long was he here?”

  “A month, maybe two?”

  “What was he like?”

  “He was a middle-aged bloke with a comb over, strutting around with one of those aluminium briefcases. He never carried anything it. Not even the leaflets he had printed.”

  “What leaflets?” I ask.

  “For Grub on the Go. Someone came round with five boxes of them, but he’d already scarpered.”

  Mike plants both elbows on the counter. “Where did he go?”

  “How would I know? He took off without paying his bill.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  Rathbone takes his time, stroking his goatee. “Miller had a thing for some woman he used to know. A real looker, he said. A singer or dancer, I think. She worked for him until she met some deadbeat fro
m around here.”

  “And Miller tracked her down?”

  Rathbone nods. “Her husband came round and scared my receptionist into giving him the room number. He left a right mess, I can tell you. Took me days to clean it up.”

  “Did you report this to the police?” I ask. “You have CCTV, right?”

  When Rathbone doesn’t answer, Mike leans forward. “Does this deadbeat have a name?”

  “I never met him. I think he ran a shop, if that’s any help.”

  “What kind of shop?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Where?”

  Rathbone shrugs. “I wasn’t here at the time.”

  Mike stares at him for a moment and nods towards the door.

  “I’ll catch up with you in a moment, Mr Brown.”

  Once Mike’s gone, I thank Rathbone for his help, aware he could still complain to Danni. “If I knew Mr Brown was going to lose his temper, I’d never have brought him here.”

  Rathbone laughs. “I’ve no idea why you’re interested in this man, Miller, but why the charade with your friend? Why didn’t you ask me?”

  “I didn’t think you’d tell me.”

  “You’re probably right,” he says, collecting the empty glasses from the bar. “The bastard stitched me up. He had the full use of my kitchen and my stock and never paid a penny. He paid for the room for a month, but nothing after that. Then he cleaned the room out when he left.” Rathbone bangs the glasses down. “If you find him, let me know where he is.”

  “He’s long gone and I’m not going to look for him.”

  “And I’m not going to say anything about tonight,” he says, looking smug. “Now you owe me a favour, Mr Fisher.”

  I can’t believe I walked into that.

  Back in the car, I congratulate Mike on his performance. “You should take up amateur dramatics. You’re a natural heavy.”

  “Do you have to keep going on about my weight?” He pulls on the seatbelt and sighs. “I’m not sure we got much from your oily friend, mind. Someone who runs a shop with a woman doesn’t give us much to go on.”

  “You’re forgetting the printer.”

  “What printer?”

  “Someone printed the leaflets. He had five boxes, remember? It’s bound to be someone local, a company on one of the industrial estates.”

  “Or someone in Eastbourne or Lewes. Please don’t ask me to give you a hand.”

  I start the car and pull away. “I’ll start with the cheapest. That’s what Miller would have done. And if he didn’t pay for the leaflets, someone might remember him.”

  “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”

  Yeah, just like this evening.

  Eight

  On Tuesday morning, Niamh wanders into the kitchen in her dressing gown and slippers. Her tousled hair, lack of makeup and weary expression can’t disguise the dreamy smile on her lips or the glint in her eyes. Columbo, who’s resting beneath the table, scrambles to his feet. She bends to fuss him, resting a hand on my chair to steady herself.

  “Why are you up so early?” she asks, glancing at the laptop screen. “Not working, I hope.”

  “Sorry, if I disturbed you. I know you got in late.”

  “Keeping tabs on me, are you now?” She laughs and heads for the kettle, filling it from the filter jug. “I know you don’t approve of Alasdair, but it’s really none of your business, is it?”

  “I don’t want you rushing into anything.”

  She seeks out new mugs from the cupboard. “That implies I’m looking for something. For someone as fickle as you, that’s ironic. Or should I draw any conclusions from that?”

  “Of course not,” I reply, surprised at how defensive I sound.

  I bundle up the notes scattered across the table and shut down the laptop while she makes tea. When she joins me at the table, my efforts to identify local printing companies are tucked inside the folder the Colonel gave me.

  She slips Columbo a treat. “Did you learn anything from Gregory Rathbone?”

  I give her a sanitised overview. “Now I need to find the company that printed the flyers.”

  “How will that help?”

  Like many of my investigations at work, I follow a trail. “I’m trying to get a handle on Colin Miller. Did he seduce Daphne Witherington or rip off her old man?”

  “Or both,” Niamh says with a smile. “Be careful you don’t get too involved, Kent. Daniella Frost hasn’t thawed yet.”

  As Danni will be watching everything I do, I’m planning some overdue food hygiene inspections in businesses close to printing companies.

  By half seven, I’m in the office, studying the team’s inspection programme. As we start on 1st April, we’re just over halfway through the year and almost 20 per cent behind our target. While we always catch up in the last quarter, we’ll struggle to close the current gap.

  And I’ll be held responsible if we fail.

  Maybe I should drop the Daphne Witherington inquiry. People disappear all the time. Some go abroad. Many don’t want to be found. Some are never found.

  “I’m glad to see you in bright and early,” Danni says, peering around the door. “Let’s slot your performance appraisal review in before Cabinet meets. Shall we say 15 minutes?”

  She’s gone before I can reply. The new, efficient Danni has cut everything from her dowdy hair to the length of her skirts. Conversations have become bullet points while she trims the budget with a chainsaw. ‘New Approaches for New Challenges’ proclaims the lengthy briefing note. Roughly translated, it means get rid of expensive managers and buildings. As I escaped sacrifice on the altar of efficiency, someone else will have to take my place.

  Fifteen minutes later, my appraisal review rewards me with a list of new projects I can’t possibly deliver. If she’s setting me up to fail, she’s succeeding.

  “Remember,” she says, pointing to her Motivational Pinboard. “There’s no room for slackers on the Efficiency Express.”

  “Shouldn’t it be slow coaches?” I ask, glad she still knows how to motivate her staff.

  Back in the Public Protection Team office, Gemma’s arrived. The change in the weather has prompted her to ditch beachwear in favour of a sensible but stylish blue jumper and matching skirt that just about reaches her knees. Brown suede boots have replaced her trademark diamante sandals.

  She gestures at the bundle in the crook of my arm. “Got your assignments?”

  “The first station for the Efficiency Express is Agile Central,” I reply, dumping the papers on my desk. Aware that Lucy and Nigel are listening from behind their screens, I hold up the briefing note. “In a hotly contested battle, our team lost, which means we’re leading on Agile Working again.”

  “I thought Facilities said it was impossible,” Gemma says.

  Lucy comes out of hiding. “They said hot desking wasn’t feasible. This is about working from home.”

  “For those who can be trusted,” Danni says.

  When I look round she’s gone. Maybe I should communicate with her on the new Enterprise Social Network we’re piloting for the council. Instead of talking to each other, we will converse on the office equivalent of Facebook, but without the cute animal photographs. That project also receives hearty support from the team, especially Lucy, who photocopies the briefing notes so she can share them with her Unison colleagues.

  “So much for consulting with the union,” she mutters, returning my notes.

  I signal to Gemma and we head for the vending machine at the end of the corridor. There’s no tea or coffee due to a hot water malfunction, so I settle for fizzy orange.

  “Danni’s agreed to let you take on more food inspections,” I tell her as we look down at the High Street. “You’ll take on the lower risk businesses to free us up for the higher risk.”

  “When can I do some real work?”

  I understand her frustration, but I can’t bend the Food Standards Agency’s competency standards. “You know th
e rules, Gemma. Once you’ve done the Higher Certificate in Food Premises Inspection –”

  “If I do it.” She sighs and looks away. “Danni promised to enrol me months ago. Now, when I mention it, she fobs me off.”

  She’s unaware that two businesses complained about her aggressive and inflexible attitude. Like many officers who come from outside environmental health, she struggles to accept the law is a minimum standard that’s not as high as most people imagine.

  “I’ll help you,” I say. “But right now, concentrate on easing yourself in gently while you recover from your injuries.”

  “My mind wasn’t injured.”

  “You were shot, Gemma.”

  “Grazed,” she says, her voice rising. “I’m not going to burst into tears or go off with stress, if that’s what you think. I’m sick of moping around the house every afternoon when I could be doing something useful.”

  “Maybe I can help with that.”

  I explain about the flyers Colin Miller ordered and give her a list of print firms to check in Eastbourne. “If you find someone who remembers him, we’ll check it out.”

  “You just don’t want to let go of my hand, do you? How sweet.”

  Not as sweet as the news Kelly delivers when I’m on my way out of the door an hour later. “You’ve been summoned to Cabinet, lover. Gregory Rathbone has requested your presence at midday when the meeting finishes.”

  I should have known he would never keep quiet about last night.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “How long do you think I can stay out of trouble, Kelly?”

  “Long enough to jump on board the Efficiency Express?”

  We both shake our heads and laugh.

  ***

  The aroma of polished oak panels and self-importance fill my nostrils as I stride across the sumptuous carpet in the Leader’s Office. Portraits of the Queen, Winston Churchill, and Isambard Kingdom Brunel watch me from the walls. The aldermen, mayors and leaders, who served Downland District Council and its predecessors have their names etched in gold letters on several oak boards. They provide an unbroken chain to a grand and imposing past, when working for the council meant something.

  The Leader and Deputy Leader of the council, along with four Portfolio Holders, make up the Cabinet. They’re seated on one side of a large oval table. Danni sits at one end, next to Gregory Rathbone. The Chief Executive and his PA, who should be at the other end of the table, have left. Colonel Witherington gestures to the gold-coloured chair with deep green velvet upholstery that faces him.