No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  "That's why we're here." She pauses, distracted by something behind me. "Is this your glamorous assistant?"

  Lucy would laugh all the way to the Doc Marten shop if anyone described her as glamorous. It can only mean Danni has sent Gemma, the Chief Executive's niece. She joined the team a few months ago to give her something worthwhile to do. Apparently, waiting tables and beauty therapy are not worthy career choices.

  She's dressed more for the beach than for work in a sleeveless white dress and matching sandals with diamante trims. Her glossy brown hair tumbles in thick waves around her slim face, half hidden by Audrey Hepburn sunglasses.

  Though petite, her muscles are toned and supple, giving her the strength to grapple with the Grab Bag. She hoists the strap over her shoulder and brushes past the young constable, who looks desperate to help her. Gravity and the weight of the bag threaten to overbalance her as she careers down the slope, stumbling to a halt in front of me.

  She looks back and gasps. "I nearly went ass over tit there. Just think, Kent, you nearly had the pleasure of me on the grass."

  Her cheeky brown eyes, sparkling with confidence and humour, dare me to cast caution aside, but I'm too sensible for that. Gemma might be the most attractive woman I've met, but I daren't think of her in that way.

  We met seven years ago when I called at La Floret, Tollingdon's most exclusive restaurant. Armed with my white coat, I went inside to carry out a food hygiene inspection. I wasn't expecting to find a young waitress on a chair, reaching up to change a light bulb. There's something about a white blouse, stretched to transparency over a well filled bra, which fires my imagination. Add a short black skirt, a mischievous smile, and remarks like, 'If anything takes your fancy, just ask,' and you'll understand my weakness for waitresses.

  "Be careful," I said, as she stretched on tiptoes. "You might fall."

  She looked down and smiled. "Then you'd better catch me."

  By the time she jumped down and stumbled into my arms, I was in love.

  The thud of the Grab Bag on the ground brings me back to the present. "I'm so pleased you chose me, Kent. I won't let you down."

  "Even though I asked for Lucy?"

  She pushes the hair from her eyes and looks up through long lashes. "Am I not good enough for you?"

  I introduce her to Carolyn. While she explains her role, I check the Grab Bag.

  "What do you want me to do?" Gemma asks.

  I point to the ground. "Watch where you put your feet."

  "Ugh, gross!" She places a hot hand on my shoulder and raises her foot to check the underside of her shoe. "You could have warned me."

  Her face is inches from mine, radiating heat from her lightly-toasted skin. The subtle scent of soap wafts towards me. "That was close," she says, checking the other shoe. "I paid a fortune for these."

  "An old pair of trainers would have been more sensible."

  "You know I don't do sensible."

  "Then it's time you did."

  I lead her to the tractor and set the bag down on the footplate. She pulls out the camera and points it at me. "Didn't you wear a shirt like that the day we met?"

  I can't tell her it's the same shirt. "You know blue's my favourite colour."

  The arrival of a text message distracts her. She puts down the camera and fishes her phone out of a small flap in the bag. "It's Uncle Frank, wishing me luck. He's delighted you asked me to help."

  "You called him? No wonder you took an eternity to get here."

  She folds her arms and stares at me. "And how else was I supposed to get the office key so I could collect the Grab Bag?"

  I should apologise, but she still took her time getting here. I take her round the machinery and tell her what I want photographed. I ask for scene setting shots of the clearing, the barn, the tractor and the fence post enclosure.

  "Take plenty at the back here, and zoom in on the power takeoff," I say. "Give each photograph a unique code—date, initials and consecutive reference numbers. Record them in your notebook so we can use them as evidence later. Can you manage that, Gemma?"

  "I can if you promise not to patronise me."

  I return to Carolyn, who's grinning. "I wish she looked at me the way she looks at you."

  "I wish she'd dress for an accident investigation. I mean, look at those shoes. No protection, no arch support."

  "I'm only saying she likes you, Kent. And she's very pretty."

  "She's engaged and I'm almost twice her age."

  She smirks. "And your father's much older than your mother."

  I bite back a retort, fed up with people comparing me to my father. "Actually, she's my stepmother."

  "And here's your favourite cowboy."

  I follow her gaze to the top of the clearing, where a black Mercedes glides to a halt. The last time I saw Miles Birchill, I'd just emptied the contents of a muck spreader into his convertible.

  Two

  Miles Birchill owns casinos, clubs and a Wild West theme park in Sussex, but none of them are household brands. He mixes with politicians, footballers and pop stars, all past their prime. Photographs of him with bleached blondes make the inside pages of the tabloids, but not the covers of the gossip magazines. He's Downland's richest resident, but every year the local golf club turns down his application to join.

  Close but no cigar, as my father would say.

  Too close for my liking. I was banking on a day, maybe two, before Birchill crossed my path. By then the investigation would be too advanced for him to interfere. No hope of that now. He's raced down from London to take charge, I suspect, and I'm his first challenge.

  Maybe his second if you count the young constable who intercepts him.

  Thanks to cosmetic surgery, Birchill can no longer smile or frown, leaving him with a frozen, almost startled expression. While the tucks have removed lines and wrinkles from his face, they can't erase the cold stare of contempt from his eyes. Gold rings glint like knuckledusters in the sun as he pushes his wiry black hair behind his ears.

  "I'll take it from here," I tell the constable.

  He steps back but continues to stare at Birchill, who unbuttons a designer jacket that costs more than I earn in a month. He hooks his thumbs behind the belt of his jeans. "I thought you'd rather die than set foot in my adventure park, Fisher."

  "I would, but someone beat me to it."

  He looks skywards and shakes his head. "Still trying to be the comedian instead of the joke, I see. Go on, amuse me. Tell me why you're here."

  I point to the tractor. "One of your employees lost a fight with an unguarded power takeoff. That makes it a work accident."

  He moves to one side to get a better view. "Nice try, but no one works here."

  "Apart from Sydney Collins, you mean?"

  "Syd never rises before ten." He pulls out his mobile phone. "I'll call him."

  "That won't be necessary." Carolyn steps up beside me. She holds up the evidence bag with his credit card and driving licence. "Syd Collins is the victim."

  Birchill takes a closer look. "And you are?"

  She introduces herself. "I believe the two of you go way back, Mr Birchill. If it's any consolation, he died instantly."

  Birchill puts his phone away. "He's been dying for years. That's why he didn't work. He could hardly lift a fence post, let alone sharpen it."

  "Then who made them?"

  "He did, years ago. He bought the machinery from the Maynards. They lived in the farmhouse that was here before I constructed the barn." He takes a cigarette from a gold case inside his jacket. He tamps the cigarette on the back of his hand. "The tractor broke down after a few months so he retired."

  "It was working this morning," Carolyn says.

  He lights the cigarette and exhales smoke through his nostrils. "Evidently, if it killed him."

  She ignores the sneer in his voice. "Did you have it repaired?"

  When he doesn't answer, I say, "Maybe Tombstone repaired it. You must have a maintenance contract."r />
  "The machinery belonged to Syd. He was too ill to work. Without any work activity, you have no authority to be here, Fisher, and even less to question me."

  I'm tempted to point out you can't get less than no activity, but resist. "If Tombstone serviced the tractor and bench saw that makes you liable. Do you want me to cordon off the area?"

  "Tombstone is out of bounds to you. Or have you forgotten the court order?"

  I wondered how long it would take him to mention that.

  Carolyn looks at me for an explanation. "Court order?"

  "It was only an injunction."

  "A restraining order," Birchill says. "Fisher and his cronies chained themselves to trees. They dug tunnels and trenches to stop my contractors clearing the site. I had no choice."

  I love the way developers play the injured party. They destroy habitats and wildlife to create hundreds of new jobs on zero hour contracts, and plead poverty. This time, I'm ready for him.

  "The order applied while you were building Tombstone," I say. "Now the park's open it no longer applies."

  "My lawyers will soon correct you on that."

  "Your lawyers will be too busy dealing with a health and safety prosecution to worry about an injunction."

  He extinguishes his cigarette between thumb and forefinger. "I'm sure my lawyers will be delighted to learn you've found me guilty of an offence before you've even started your investigation."

  "Then you've nothing to fear from my investigation," I say, ignoring the reprimand in Carolyn's eyes. She's right—I should be careful what I say. I should ignore his arrogance and goading, but I'll never beat him playing by the rules.

  Birchill stands there, arms folded as he considers his response. He knows he'll look bad if he tries to stop the investigation. His lawyers will soon advise him not to obstruct an official. Far better to claim persecution if things go against him. But if I prove he's broken the law, he's stuffed.

  Like me, he knows the risks, but will he take a chance?

  He puffs out his chest as he draws himself to his full height. "Have it your way, Fisher. Go where you like, talk to who you like, it won't make any difference. This is not a work accident."

  He saunters back to his car, already on his phone, instructing his managers, no doubt. They'll be friendly to my face, but the records I want to examine will be on a computer at head office. They won't have access to them because the server's not working. I'm assuming the people I want to talk will be available, of course. But I have a chance to build a case. If I fail, I'll be looking for a new job.

  Carolyn signals the constables over. "Do you want the lads to stay?"

  I shake my head, certain they're bored out of their heads. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll be fine."

  She lowers her voice. "You're taking a chance if he has a restraining order against you. Is there anything I can do to support you, Kent?"

  "Do you have somewhere free and safe where I can impound machinery?"

  "No, don't you?"

  Since Danni took over I'm not sure we have a budget. No doubt there's a policy and procedure somewhere in her matrix management system. Maybe I could develop a strategy to understand these changes. Maybe not.

  I thank Carolyn for her help and watch her stride away with her constables. When she turns the corner and disappears behind the barn, I'm on my own in charge of a fatal accident investigation. At least Gemma appreciates the enormity of the situation.

  "Miles look great for his age, doesn't he?"

  "Oh, come on, Gemma. Don't tell me you fancy him. He prefers bleached blondes with boobs bigger than their brains."

  "Then you have something in common." She stares at me for a few moments and then breaks into a smile. "Lighten up, Kent. You might hate him, but he is Downland's only celebrity."

  Now there's a word stretched beyond its intention. "I'll get you his autograph," I say as we make our way back to the tractor. "First, we need to impound the tractor. I'll need a Seizure Notice from the Grab Bag, which you can serve on our celebrity. Then you ask him to autograph your notebook to say he's accepted it."

  While she searches for the notice, I join Jogging Man. Of mixed European and oriental descent, he's trying to look cool and aloof, giving me the merest glance as I approach. Close up, he looks like a frightened teenager, his complexion pale, his eyes avoiding mine. His fingers tremble as they cling to a tobacco pouch. He looks surprisingly dry for someone who was running not that long ago.

  "Cool hair," I say, admiring his thick black hair, gelled into orange spikes that glisten in the sun. "Did you style it?"

  He makes a grunting noise that sounds like confirmation.

  "I know you've had a tough time, but I need to ask you a few questions."

  His dark eyes glare at me. "I told the woman I saw nothing. Why don't you people listen?"

  Normally, I wouldn't press someone in shock, but I can't afford to let Birchill intimidate Cheung. "I'll only take a few minutes."

  "Yeah, but I've been here hours, man. I got work to do."

  "You're going to work after what you saw?"

  He glances across the clearing at Birchill. "I don't work I don't get paid."

  "Okay, give me five minutes to clear the area while you collect your thoughts. Don't go away."

  I return to Gemma, who's sitting on the tractor's footplate. I point to the blank space on the notice she's holding. "We're impounding a Massey Ferguson tractor with a bench mounted rip saw and power takeoff shaft. When you're done, I'll sign and date both copies."

  "Don't you need Danni's permission?"

  "The inspector takes action under health and safety law, not the council."

  "I was thinking about the cost. The police charge, don't they?"

  I nod. Low loaders don't come cheap. Neither does storage in a secure compound, but I'll worry about that after I've checked and served the notice. It takes me a few seconds to skim through the details.

  "Let's serve your first notice," I say, heading for Birchill.

  He watches us approach, or more specifically he watches Gemma. She flicks back her thick chestnut hair and deliberately avoids meeting his eyes, but her slight smile tells me she's enjoying his interest. When we draw close, he slips his phone into his jacket and leans against his Mercedes.

  "I see we share an interest in beautiful women," he says, looking past me. "Delighted to meet you, Miss..."

  "Gemma Dean." Her cheeks flush a little as she steps forward, holding up the notice. "I have something to give you, I'm afraid."

  "Don't be afraid. I'm not an ogre. But let's set aside the formalities for a few moments, Gemma. Is this your first time at Tombstone?"

  She nods. "I haven't seen the main park yet."

  "I'd give you the guided tour, but I fancy Fisher would prefer to do that. Not that he'll pay much attention to you or the park while he thinks he can shut me down." He steps forward and holds out his hand. "Best give me that."

  "Sorry, but we've got to impound the tractor and machinery."

  "The notes on the reverse detail your rights," I say.

  "I have lawyers for that." His hand brushes hers as he takes the notice. "They will demonstrate it's not my machinery."

  "I'm still impounding it."

  "Where are you taking it?"

  "If it's not your machinery, what do you care?"

  His eyes grow dark with anger. "A loyal friend and associate, who worked with me for over 30 years, is dead. I want to know what happened."

  "Then let me do my job."

  He turns, opens the door to his Mercedes, and slides inside. The engine purrs into life and he's moving. As he draws level, he stops. "Okay, Fisher, do your job, but step out of line and it'll be your last."

  He accelerates away before I can say anything. Not that there's anything to say. "Still interested in our only celebrity?" I ask Gemma.

  "You're like two bulls, ready to lock horns. Honestly, Kent, they must have smelt the testosterone at the main gates." She puts a hand
on my arm. "Don't make this personal."

  I walk into the shade by the barn and ring Tollingdon Agricultural Services. The company maintained the equipment on my father's estate for decades. It also has the grounds maintenance contract for Downland District Council. About 18 months ago, it won the contract for maintaining the equipment at Tombstone Adventure Park.

  The owner, Tom Gibson, believes in old fashioned values like answering the phone himself, even though he has a receptionist and PA. His practised tone soon deteriorates after he hears my voice.

  "Tell me you don't want the shirt off my back. You've had everything else."

  He likes to exaggerate. "This is official, Tom. I need you to collect and store a tractor involved in a work accident."

  "Official? Then you have a purchase order number?"

  "The moment I return to the office. I can't leave the site until the machinery's safe. I'll ask an HSE expert to give it a thorough examination."

  "I'm not having the Health and Safety Executive crawling around my depot. Last time they were here it cost me thousands."

  "We're talking a tractor expert, not an inspector."

  "That means you're thinking about prosecution," he says. "My compound could be out of action for months. Will you reimburse me for that?"

  Not a hope. "Of course we will," I reply. "We can't win without your help."

  "Okay, where's the tractor?"

  "Tombstone. I'm just north of the park, by a barn."

  "Can't do it. Not for you, not for your father, not for anyone," he says, unable to mask the relief in his voice. "I service their machinery."

  "You're also a preferred contractor for Downland District Council."

  "Yes, and the contract's for three years. You can't squeeze me that way."

  I draw a breath. "I can. We've had complaints."

  "What complaints?"

  "You know how it is, Tom. Some people take photographs when parks and playing fields are cut. They don't understand the pressures your men are under or how small the margins are. They just email us photographs, demanding action. I can't keep ignoring them, Tom."

  "You're a bastard, Kent—just like your father. Only he has finesse."