No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  "He said they hooked up during the property slump in the early 90s," Cheung says. "They converted old houses into flats, that kind of thing. He promised to do this place up."

  "What went wrong?" I ask.

  "He was either drunk or asleep."

  He makes the tea and suggests we go into the front room. "I've got chairs in there."

  They turn out to be deck chairs, taken from Eastbourne seafront. Three of them form an arc around one side of a small table. Another small table beneath the window provides a base for an old TV with an internal aerial on top. A mattress and quilt lay on the bare boards at the back of the room, suggesting he doesn't use upstairs, except for the bathroom maybe. I look up through missing plaster and floorboards to the roof. It must be freezing in winter, even with a coal fire in the grate.

  "My colleagues in Housing could get this place sorted for you," I say.

  "And Mr B will throw me out."

  "He can't do that."

  "Who's going to stop him? Anyway, I won't be here much longer." He lowers himself into a deck chair and settles. "Why do you need a statement? I've told you all I know."

  "It's a proper record, signed by you."

  "You can't make me give a statement. I know my rights."

  I lower myself into the deck chair at the other end of the arc, forcing Gemma to take the middle one. I almost spill my tea as I come to rest with my backside lower than my knees. There's no quick escape from these.

  "David, the accident could have been prevented."

  "I know. If Syd hadn't removed the power takeoff guard, he would be alive."

  "Tombstone has a legal duty to provide safe machinery. It wasn't safe. They're responsible for his death. Don't you think they should be punished?"

  "People die all the time and nobody cares," he says, his voice filled with bitterness. "That's how it is."

  "Did you lose someone close?" I ask, sensing an opportunity.

  "What do you care? You had a rich daddy to get you anything you wanted. I never knew who my dad was. I grew up in a basement flat with just my mum. We didn't have any money or friends. You should try living like that."

  I say nothing about my childhood.

  I struggle out of the deck chair and walk over to the window. "What about your father, David? Does your mother know who he is?"

  "She's dead." He cradles his mug of tea, lost in thought. "She said it was better if I didn't know."

  Gemma puts her hand on his arm. "You must have been devastated."

  He drains the rest of his tea. "Shit happens."

  I recall how I felt, believing my father was dead. It didn't affect me until I started senior school and mixed with the middle classes. Until then, poverty was a natural state. I didn't know it made me different until others judged me because I was poor. I learned to keep quiet about the free uniform and school meals. I learned not to invite other children home. I hated denying who I was. I hated school and the kids who wouldn't accept me for who I was. And I hated my father for dying and dumping all this on me.

  Now I hate my mother.

  "You're right," I say, placing the cup on the table. "Shit happens. I'm not going to bother about a statement, but I want you to answer me one question. Was there anything unusual about this morning? Some little detail you've remembered? You see, I don't understand why Collins went to the clearing this morning."

  Cheung shakes his head. "Me neither."

  He stares into his cup and I signal to Gemma. She extends a hand and I haul her out of the deck chair. As we're about to step into the lean to, Cheung calls out.

  "I heard a car."

  I head back to the front room. "What car? When?"

  "After I turned off the tractor. I thought I heard a car."

  "You were certain a moment ago."

  "Hey, I'd just found Syd. I freaked, man. I had to phone for an ambulance."

  "Okay, I understand. Where was the car?"

  "I'm not sure I heard one, but if I did, it could have been on the service road. It comes out near Syd's house."

  "Which way was the car going—towards the park or away from it?"

  "I don't know, man. My head's scrambled."

  "Do you believe him?" Gemma asks when we're clear of the house.

  "About the car? I don't know."

  "I think he wants to help, but he's afraid of Birchill."

  "Like everyone else."

  "But not you, Kent."

  I wish I could say he didn't frighten me, but he could have me thrown off the investigation or cost me my job.

  "We have laws to uphold, Gemma. If we let others intimidate us, we're useless. Now, let's find this service road."

  "Why?"

  "When we pass Collins' house we can check if our visitor's still around."

  "No way! I don't want to go anywhere near Collins' house."

  We return to the barn to collect my car. When we reach the road junction south of the barn, I head north. A few minutes later, we reach the farm gate I'd spotted from Collins' bedroom.

  "Is it locked at night?" I ask, rattling the huge padlock and thick chain hanging to the side of the gate. "Was it locked this morning?"

  I drive back to the park, pulling over by the burnt out office. We walk over to the jail. The noise and bustle from earlier has waned to leave the sounds of chairs being stacked, doors closing, and people dumping trash into bins. The smell of cigarette smoke is everywhere as half the caterers step outside for a quick smoke.

  "Look at the amount of litter," I say. "Cheung's got a lot of catching up to do."

  I knock on the door to the jail and go inside. Rebecca seems surprised to see us, probably because it's almost five-thirty. "I thought you'd left," she says in that irresistible Scouse accent.

  "I couldn't keep away," I say, giving her my best smile. "Is Foley in?"

  She fetches him from the cells. He stifles a yawn as he approaches. "How can I help?"

  "What can you tell me about the service road that exits the park close to Collins' house?"

  "Our deliveries come that way. It helps us keep them separate from the public—health and safety and all that."

  I perch on the edge of Rebecca's desk. "Take me through a typical day."

  "The first delivery arrives about half eight," he replies, glancing at Rebecca for confirmation.

  "Does every delivery driver have a key?"

  "We have the only key." He points to some hooks on the wall. "We lock the gate on our way home. Then, in the morning, we unlock it."

  "Is that what you did this morning?"

  He shakes his head. "I got a call from the police and went around the park to the front entrance to meet them. I've got it on CCTV if you want to look."

  "Did you unlock the service gate later?"

  He shifts from one foot to the other. "I never thought about it until I spotted the delivery vehicles. Someone else unlocked the gate."

  "Who?"

  "The keys are over there. Anyone could borrow them."

  "Anyone?"

  "You'd have to know they were here," he says, his voice rising. "Look, what are you suggesting?"

  I'm wondering if Cheung heard a car. If he did, was it leaving or entering Tombstone? And why? "Who locks and unlocks the gate when you're on holiday?"

  "My deputy, John."

  "Did he do it this morning?"

  "He's on holiday this week. Look, why are you suddenly interested in this gate? Have you been talking to Cheung? What's he been saying?"

  I'm interested to know why they suspect Cheung, so I say nothing, letting the silence invite him to say more. Rebecca cracks first. "A couple of weeks ago, the keys went missing."

  "They were returned the same afternoon," he says. "Cheung found them in a rubbish bin. He brought them here and spent the rest of the day cleaning them."

  I'm now starting to believe Cheung. It looks like someone could have made copies of the keys to unlock the service gate. The only question is, why would someone do that?


  "Who knows the keys are here?" I ask.

  "Most people," Rebecca replies. "The office is never locked."

  "Maybe it should be," I say.

  Gemma and I walk back to the car in silence. While I feel I've made some progress, she clearly doesn't share my optimism.

  "What was all that about?" she asks.

  "I wanted to test whether Cheung could have heard a car."

  "What's it got to do with Collins' accident?"

  I smile. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be asking questions, would I?"

  Ten

  I reach home shortly after six, desperate to swap my sweaty shirt and chinos for something casual. Home is an old barn in a remote corner of the Fisher ancestral estate. My father sold the manor house and grounds five years ago when he could no longer afford the upkeep. This means my 50 acres of low-grade pasture and woodland are all that remain of an estate occupied by the family since the Norman Conquest. While I've no interest in history, I want to safeguard this small plot and maintain the Fisher link to the area.

  The land nestles at the foot of the majestic South Downs, which always fill me with wonder, no matter what time of day or year. These gentle hills rise from the patchwork of fields in the valley below to flow across the skyline in waves of green. For thousands of years, mellow breezes from the sea have risen over the chalk cliffs of the Seven Sisters to mould the soft green curves of these hills. The stiffer winds from the west have combed back the trees and the shrubs, spreading seed to colonise the grasslands.

  The sun's setting now, stretching the shadows, contrasting the light with the dark. The light softens in the evening, giving the land a contented glow as the animals and birds of the night emerge.

  My animal sanctuary, known privately as Fisher's Folly because it devours money, occupies the land. Frances helps me run the place, and we take in donkeys, ponies, horses, goats, pigs and occasionally dogs, which we try to rehome. We rescue any animal that needs help but pass most to those who know how best to deal with them. In spring, we have an influx of orphaned fox cubs and badgers, which we put back into the wild as soon as we can.

  All my spare cash goes into this place to supplement the donations and sponsorship we generate. My father makes good the shortfall each month, even though we never meet his targets to reduce the deficit. I can't see how we will ever become self-sufficient unless we charge entry and open a café or restaurant. It means we will need to offer more than a few animals that are getting better or living out a deserved retirement in peace and comfort.

  I will also have to pay Frances a reasonable wage. She lives in a small caravan behind the barn. During the cold winter months, she moves into the flat I created across the first floor of the barn. Below are the dog kennels, an isolation room for sick animals, and a store full of second hand catering equipment. Mike and I buy equipment from pubs and restaurants that are closing down. We clean and refurbish the gear and sell it to new and existing businesses. All the profits go to the sanctuary.

  Before I change clothes I need to help Frances. With her long, dark dreadlocks, interwoven with beads and ribbons, it's easy to see why people imagine she's new age. Her combat fatigues and Doc Marten boots do little to shift that image, but she's softer than cotton wool if Bambi comes on TV. Her blunt attitude toward men, especially those who wear suits, suggests problems in her past, and the fact she prefers animals to people bonds us together. Like me, she loves lost causes, but she's far too serious for a girl of 20.

  "You shot off early this morning."

  "Someone died at Tombstone Adventure Park."

  "Miles Birchill?"

  The grin transforms her brooding features, revealing the beauty beneath the hard image. Her blue eyes, sublime beneath long lashes, gleam at the prospect of Birchill's demise.

  "No, one of his workers." I help her set out the stainless steel bowls for the dogs. The noise sets them off, whining and pawing at the walls of their kennels.

  "Is it his fault?"

  "Birchill? I hope so. It's time his lies caught up with him."

  "Just make sure yours don't."

  "Me?" I query, pretending to look hurt. "I'm whiter than white."

  "Unlike your shirt." She smirks, almost spilling the dried food as she pours it into a bowl. "You said you put it in the charity bag."

  "We've had some good times, me and this shirt."

  "I know," she says, wafting her hand in front of her nose.

  We portion out food for the Lurcher cross, the three mongrels, and the West Highland White Terrier. I found him in a small outhouse behind a pub that had closed. Thin and dehydrated, he was in an appalling state, but after treatment by the vet, a good bath and a groom, he made a remarkable recovery. We should have no trouble rehoming him, judging by the number of enquiries we've had.

  "I know he reminds you of you," Frances says, nudging me as I watch him devour his food, "but you can't keep him."

  She knows me too well—and she's right, of course.

  While the dogs eat, Frances and I chat about the works needed to improve the sanctuary. Like all our previous conversations, we reach the same point fairly quickly.

  "We can't do anything until you get the money your father owes you."

  I look away. I don't like taking his handouts, especially when I have to ask for them each month. It feels like begging, and they keep him in control of my destiny.

  "I'm working on it," I say, maybe a little too sharply. "He has got his hands full with this fracking protest at the moment."

  "He's missed two payments, and he's a week behind this month. We have bills to pay and we're running short on feed."

  "We'll manage," I say, hoping there's enough left on my credit card.

  "He made a fortune selling Downland Manor." She pushes the dog food into the store and slams the door, prompting the Westie to bark. "Yet he expects you to protect the woodland on a pittance. Tell me how that's fair."

  If he hadn't sold the estate, I wouldn't have a sanctuary and a home I love. She wouldn't have a job she loves. We couldn't save the animals and birds we rescue every year. "Frances, I'll phone him."

  As if our conversation conjured him up, my father swerves his Jaguar into the small space behind my Ford and lurches to a halt. He climbs out in his usual languid way. Tall and slim, he seems to flow rather than walk. Everything from his lopsided smile to the sweep of his sandy hair across his forehead looks effortless. His sharp blue eyes contrast his dull skin, which looks as dry and tough as leather. His boyish looks defy the punishment years of cigars and brandy have inflicted. For a man of 67, he looks in his 50s.

  "Will," he says, rolling an obese cigar between his fingers. "It appears we have a diplomatic incident."

  Diplomatic incident means I've been a naughty boy. Like all politicians, he likes the sound of his voice and the words he uses. Naturally, I refuse to play his games.

  Only one thing would make him steam down the A22 from Westminster. "You heard about my meeting with Birchill, right?"

  He raises his lighter to the cigar, looking about him. "Is Debbie Dreadlocks around, waiting to pounce if I light up?"

  "You know her name's Frances. And don't call me Will."

  "My father called me Junior. Imagine that!"

  The last six or seven generations have named the firstborn male William Kenneth Fisher. Apart from bulk buying gravestones, I can't think why. In Manchester, life was hard enough being a William Kenneth. Originally, I dropped the middle name, but that resulted in the kids calling me Willie Fisher. Naturally, I doubled with laughter at this. Kenny Fisher was hardly better, so I contracted Kenneth to Kent. I rather liked the loose association with Superman, and it gave me a neat explanation for the name.

  "It's where I was born," I tell people. They usually tell me I'm lucky my mother didn't go into labour in Bognor or Chipping Sodbury.

  "Her name doesn't matter," my father's saying. "It's her appearance. It puts off visitors who could become sponsors."

  "It's her way w
ith children that keeps them coming back."

  "Children don't pay," he says, jabbing his cigar at me.

  "No one pays. We ask for a donation."

  He pushes the lighter back into his pocket. "Why don't you show me around? I know you've taken in more horses. Ironic, considering you were scared stiff of them at the Manor."

  "In the beginning." I direct him towards the stores. "You might as well earn your keep. A stile needs repairing, so we can fix that along the way."

  I pull on my leather tool belt, grab some nails, and hand my father several pieces of timber I've fashioned for the repairs. We tuck the wood under our arms and walk along the path to the pond. The water has a silver sheen in the fading light, reflecting the trees and the Downs beyond. Another hour will pass before darkness swamps the land, but I can sense the insects and animals getting ready to explore.

  My father grew up on this land. He knows all its secrets, from the routes used by smugglers to the secret rooms in the Manor where they hid the contraband. I'd explored a few, revelling in the stories and the atmosphere of these dusty passages. One led to my father's study, overlooking the gardens. When he was in London, I couldn't resist snooping. Having perfected my skills in Manchester, his old desk and filing cabinets were no challenge. It felt strange, reading about people I knew, but I sensed the power he held in his folders. There's no substitute for knowledge and information.

  He lights his cigar on the way to the paddock, filling the air with a foul stench. Thankfully, it goes out again before we reach the damaged stile. He drops the wood in the long grass and I remove my claw hammer.

  "Someone wants to buy me out," I say, extracting the protruding nails. "The company that owns the Manor has made me a generous offer."

  "I'm not surprised," he says. "Without this land there's no access to the holiday village they want to build in the woods. Why do you think I gave you this land?"

  "You promised to support the sanctuary."

  "You promised to make it self-sufficient."