No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  "How can you be sure Foley didn't arrange the service?"

  "You saw his face. He didn't know about the email. That's why we talk to Artie about Collins." I head down the exit path towards the platform. "I'm not waiting till lunchtime. What's the point of having powers if you don't use them?"

  "What's your game, mate?" A man with a shaven head and biceps the size of my thighs leans over the rope to stop me. "I've been waiting nearly an hour."

  I hold up my ID card. "Someone said the train wasn't safe. I'll be as quick as I can."

  He pulls back and we continue to the gate, which opens towards me, triggered by a sensor on the other side. I vault over, activating the sensor as I land. The gate swings open. The platform is short and clean, spoilt only by the sandwich board which promotes refreshments. Discarded cans and bottles, confectionery wrappers, and various juice cartons fill the gaps between the sleepers. I check the notice board, which tells me the next trip starts in fifteen minutes. Allowing for passengers to disembark and the next ones to get on board, I should have five minutes to question Artie.

  In the meantime, there's a lanky teenager with a spotty complexion and gelled hair to deal with. His ticket collector's shirt, which is soaking up sweat like blotting paper, looks three sizes too big. His trousers seem to be held up by willpower, hanging low on his hips. Thanks to a lack of punctuation, his badge identifies him as Tommy Ticket Supervisor. With a name like that, he's a natural.

  "Someone's complained about the train. I need to speak to Artie." I show him my ID and stroll into the shade before he can ask any questions.

  Gemma follows. "Why did you lie and say we'd had a complaint?"

  "It doesn't matter to Tommy why we're here."

  "You mean it doesn't matter to you."

  I pull her close to the wall so Tommy can't hear or see us. "I'm not going to discover anything by pursuing Birchill or his company," I say, a little too sharply. "Don't you understand that? He's too smart. He can use our quarrels against me. How do you think Danni will react when she finds out about the injunction?"

  "She'll want to know why you didn't tell her." Gemma's tone remains defiant, reminding me why I'm the worst officer for the investigation. "If you carry on like this, Kent, she'll suspend you. She won't have a choice."

  There are always choices. Danni could sack me.

  Six

  The Tombstone Express judders to a halt. There's a moment of calm before excited children fling open the carriage doors with a crescendo of bangs. Like a tidal wave the children spill onto the platform and swarm past, shouting at the tops of their voices while their parents scoop up toys and fizzy drinks.

  I'm on my feet, eager to use those minutes to talk to Artie Tomkins.

  He's short, stout, and well past retirement age if the creases in his ruddy face are anything to go by. With his silky white hair and beard, he looks like a favourite grandfather, ready to hand out toffees. Only there's no jolly smile, just a weariness that drags down the corners of his mouth and his hooded eyelids. In fact, his whole posture makes him look like he's wilting, accentuating the sag of his shoulders.

  He stares at my shirt and frowns. "Who are you?"

  "Kent Fisher, Environmental Health. This is Gemma Dean."

  He waves away my ID card. "You tried to stop this place being built. Lucky you failed, or I wouldn't have a job." He looks in the mood for another fight, despite the weariness in his eyes. "What do you want?"

  "You knew Syd Collins," I say. "He died this morning."

  He walks past me. "I heard. Look, I have five minutes to clean the carriages and check everything's safe before the next circuit of fun and adventure."

  "You can talk while you work, can't you?"

  "Who says I want to talk?"

  He climbs into the first carriage and works his way down the side of five rows of slatted wooden seats, varnished to a shine, picking up potato crisp packets and Coke cans, which he drops into a black plastic bag. As he turns to exit, I block his escape.

  "Tell me about Syd Collins."

  He stares at me for a few moments and then holds out the bag. "If I'm going to talk then you can help me clean up."

  I take the bag and step aside. We reach the second carriage before he speaks. "It's no secret. The doctors gave him six months to live two years ago. I'm surprised it took him so long to shuffle off this mortal coil."

  "It's more of a bludgeon than a shuffle."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "He didn't die of natural causes. He had a tussle with an unguarded power takeoff, which pulverised his skull."

  Artie shrugs and then bends to retrieve more litter. "He only got the tractor working again a few months ago. Why are you interested?"

  "It's a work accident."

  "Syd never did a day's work in his life." He laughs, sounding like a donkey. "I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, I know, but he was the most miserable sod on God's earth, especially after a couple of pints."

  "You drank at the Game Cock, right?"

  He sits on a bench and strokes his beard as he speaks. "Syd drank too much. He smoked too much. He gambled too much. He fed more money into the machines in a night than I earned in a month."

  "Where did he get the money if he didn't work?" Gemma asks.

  "Birchill has deep pockets. He and Syd go back a long way."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Syd never stopped talking about the old days. Birchill and him were like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the way he told it. They evicted scum, cleaning up the housing market. They had politicians who did their bidding. Not to mention the celebrities they rubbed shoulders with."

  He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. "It was all rubbish, of course, so I asked him to name a few. He gave me a look that sent a chill through me, I can tell you. Then he tells me I can read it in his autobiography."

  "He wrote an autobiography?"

  Artie laughs. "He could hardly sign his name, let alone write. He said he'd sold it to a newspaper, but he wouldn't say which one."

  "You didn't believe him?"

  "You think Birchill's going to let him spill the beans? No, it was the beer talking. Syd liked to feel important because he was only the hired help. I told him so. Then, a couple of weeks later, he hands me an email from a journalist."

  "Can you remember which newspaper?"

  Artie shrugs. "Anyone could have sent the email. Syd was an old man, dying from cancer. He looked like a tramp, dressed like one and smelt like one."

  "Not one for shirts and ties then?"

  "What do you think?" He glances at his watch and then over to the platform. "Actually, he did wear a suit and tie once. It was a Wednesday evening back in March. European Cup football on the telly, I remember. He came in smelling of cheap aftershave. He'd met a woman on the Internet or something and wanted a bottle of wine. We never saw him again on Wednesdays."

  "Including last night?"

  "I thought he'd stop by."

  "Why?"

  "He was in court for driving while over the limit." Artie shakes his head ruefully. "Said he had friends in high places who would see him right, but he knew he was going to lose his licence. That was going to dent his love life on Wednesdays."

  "Is that what he told you?" I ask.

  "He told me about the court case when I gave him a ride into Tombstone last week."

  "You don't start till ten o'clock, do you?"

  "That's right. What of it?"

  "Someone told me Collins didn't rise till ten," I reply, wondering what else Artie might know. "Would you give me a lift to his house?"

  "Don't you have a car?"

  "Gemma's always wanted to ride on the train."

  When he glances at her she nods, though I get the feeling she's not happy.

  "I'm only supposed to take people who've paid the entrance fee." He gets to his feet and joins us on the platform. "But, if you're going to his house, you could pick up a Marilyn Monroe box set I lent Syd. He never gave
it back to me."

  "I would if I had a key, Artie."

  He takes the black bag from me and says, "There's one under a plant pot by the front door."

  While he checks the remaining carriages I consider the idea of an autobiography. It sounds far-fetched, but what if it contains secrets Birchill would rather keep quiet? If he tries to have me thrown off the case, I could do with something to bargain with.

  "We need to find the girlfriend," I tell Gemma.

  "If he only saw her on Wednesdays she could be married," she says. "She might not go to the inquest."

  I pull her back as a surge of children flood across the platform. For a moment, I'm distracted by her perfume. "I think she visited him last night."

  "Why?" she asks. Then she snaps her fingers. "The flat tyres on the land Rover?"

  I nod, pleased she's on my wavelength.

  Parents and children pile into the carriages, fighting for the best places. Artie checks the carriage doors are secure. In a moment he'll be on his way.

  "Look, there's no need for both of us to check Collins' house," I say. "I'll go with Artie, which gives you time to collect the paperwork for the tractor service from Tollingdon Agricultural. You could also check with the magistrates about the drink driving appearance and meet me back here."

  "While I'm at the Magistrates Court, why don't I get you a warrant to enter the house?"

  "I don't need one," I reply, ignoring her sarcasm. "My powers under the Health and Safety at Work Act allow me to do what I need to do as part of the investigation. There may be valuable evidence in the house."

  "Of course. In his autobiography, Collins explains how he removed the guard so he could have a fatal accident."

  There are times when I could slap Gemma, but Artie's climbing into his cab. "What if we find the missing guard?" I ask.

  "You think he took it home? You'll have to do better than that, Kent."

  "Gemma, I really need the maintenance records."

  "Sure, but what do I tell Danni when she asks me about today?"

  I stop and glance at Artie, who taps his watch. "Do what I do and tell her only what she needs to know."

  "And when she asks what you did, Kent?"

  I edge towards the train. "Tell her we split up for an hour."

  She shakes her head. "You know Danni has to sign off everything for my learning and development portfolio. I'm not going to lie."

  When Artie toots the whistle, I just have time to dash across and jump on board. "You won't have to if we split up."

  "I'm sure if you talk to Danni—"

  "For God's sake, Gemma, I don't need her permission!"

  "Then why are you standing here? Why aren't you on the train?"

  I watch Artie pull away, wondering if I've missed my chance to find vital evidence before Birchill removes it. I thought Gemma would understand that. Obviously, I was wrong.

  "Lucy would never have questioned my judgement," I tell her.

  "In case you hadn't noticed, Kent, I'm not Lucy."

  "No, and you're not a team player either."

  She smirks. "I'm just following your example, Kent."

  I set off for the exit before I say something I'll regret. I wonder if Danni sent Gemma to report on me. Even if this isn't the case, I'm not sure how I can work with someone who won't trust me.

  Neither of us speaks as we walk back to Main Street, where the cooking aromas remind me I missed breakfast. My friend, Mike Turner, who makes the best bacon sandwiches in the county, has a mobile café in a layby about a mile away. Before I can suggest this, Danni rings, skipping the formalities as usual.

  "How's Gemma doing?" she asks.

  "She's fine."

  "Excellent. Are you making progress?"

  "We are."

  "Excellent. I look forward to hearing your full report when we brief the Chief Executive and Councillor Rathbone at one o'clock."

  "You want me to leave Tombstone in the middle of the investigation?"

  "You can return later," she replies as if I'm a spoilt child. "When Mr Birchill visits the office at two with his solicitor, we interview him and turn it to our advantage."

  So, Birchill intends to take control by offering to help our investigation. No doubt he'll arrive with documents that lay the blame for the accident with Collins. Birchill will have a written statement to show what a model employer he is.

  That's what I intend to tell my boss, but it doesn't quite come out that way. "I'll interview Birchill when I'm ready. Not when you say."

  "You'll interview Mr Birchill today. Be here at one."

  She ends the call, leaving me to congratulate myself on how well I handled it. At least Birchill can't nose around Collins' house while he's in the council offices. If I can find someone else to interview him, I'll be free to snoop.

  Gemma looks at me. "What was that about?"

  "We've been recalled to the office. Let's grab something to eat on the way."

  "You can eat after what you've seen this morning?"

  A bacon sandwich always stimulates my creative juices. "My friend, Mike, runs a mobile café on the bypass."

  "Mike's Mighty Munch? Mike Turner's your friend?"

  I nod. "Is there a problem?"

  "I visited him on Monday to investigate a complaint about poor hygiene." She sighs and looks down. "I'm sorry, Kent, but the place is a mess. You can't let him get away with poor standards."

  The van's an old ambulance Mike gutted and refitted for catering a couple of years ago. It's cluttered and untidy, but that doesn't make it unhygienic. Difficult to keep clean, I accept, but not impossible. He's not the neatest caterer I've met, but he passed his food hygiene training, and he has the best management system in the district, thanks to my knowledge and experience.

  "It's not fair on other food businesses," she says, growing in confidence. "Imagine what the papers would say if they found out."

  She thinks I inspect Mike's food business. "Are you saying you should carry out the hygiene inspections?"

  "I wasn't, but... yes, I could do them."

  "In that case, I'll clear it with Nigel when we get back to the office."

  "Why do you need to clear it with Nigel?"

  "He inspects Mike, not me. Didn't you check the file before you visited?"

  It was mean of me to lead her on. I should apologise, but I won't. After all, she assumed I'd let a friend break the law. She also needs to learn to check the file before visiting a business.

  "Mike can't wait to see you again," I say. "You left quite an impression."

  "You knew I visited him?" For a moment it looks like she's going to slap me. "You bastard! You set me up."

  "You'll live," I say, leading the way. "You can even show Mike your charming side."

  Her cheeks flush. "Why can't we eat here?"

  "Mike was a Scenes of Crime Officer before he took up catering. I want to tap into his forensic mind."

  "You can't discuss a case with an outsider."

  "There you go again, making assumptions, challenging what I do. I'd trust Mike with my life, Gemma, which is more than I can say for you at the moment."

  "I've experienced your trust, Kent. Never again, thanks."

  Her sneer cuts me down. I deserved that, but I can't change the mistakes I made. I have to look forward, and that means dodging the interview with Birchill. It won't be easy, but I'll think of something. I'm still looking for inspiration when we reach Mike a little after midday. From the number of vans and cars in the layby business looks brisk.

  Like most mobile caterers, Mike's customers are mainly plumbers, electricians, builders, plasterers and delivery drivers, topped up by many of his former colleagues in Sussex Police. Mike gives me a nod as I climb out of the Volvo and then serves a mighty burger to a man in a boiler suit. He tips four spoons of sugar into a mug of tea and passes it across.

  "Gross," Gemma says. "He's wearing the same white coat as last time."

  At a little over six feet, Mike fills the
converted ambulance, looking down on customers like a giant. His white coat, smeared with grease and ketchup, gapes to reveal a string vest, stretched like an onion bag over his stomach.

  His face is just as rounded, sagging into a double chin and fleshy neck that give his voice a booming quality. Everything about him is large, especially his generosity and sense of humour. He needed those as one of the few black coppers in the local force during the 70s.

  He gives Gemma a grin that reveals teeth tarnished by too many cigarettes. "Well, if it isn't the Ice Queen. She leaves me cold," he says with a wink.

  "I see you haven't done anything about your white coat. It's gross."

  He gives it a tug to close the gape. "It shrunk in last night's boil wash."

  "I meant it's filthy."

  "I know what you meant. In my defence, Your Honour, I've been here since six, cooking hearty meals for hungry travellers." He points to a sign on the wall. "That's one of my slogans, by the way. It's been full on. Try one of my Mighty Burgers and you'll understand why."

  "Don't you have a spare coat?"

  He turns the burgers on the griddle. "Not since I put it on this morning."

  "That's enough," I say. "I came here for lunch and a word with my friend."

  "How about the word 'hygiene'?" she asks.

  "You should concentrate on the positives like Kent," he says. "He works with people to improve their business, getting them on his side."

  "I didn't notice that at Tombstone," she says, giving me a smile.

  "Kent hates Birchill." Mike places a couple of mugs on the counter. "I have decaffeinated tea or coffee, as Kent treats his body like a temple. Mine's more of a ruin, so I drink the real thing. Are you planning to refuse a drink again?"

  "Unless you can give me a smaller cup."

  "Small would take the Mighty out Mike's Mighty Munch. I'm larger than life—portion size, menu choices, the mugs and plates. I'm big on value, big on taste—"

  "Big on modesty?"

  "I like that. So, what's with the shirt, Kent? Are you wearing it for a bet?" He pulls a pack of bacon from the fridge beneath the counter and turns to Gemma. "Tea or coffee?"