No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  "Your father's not how I imagined," she says, glancing around the even more minimalist bedroom. "He's quite different from you."

  "I've never given it any thought."

  "It must be interesting being the son of an MP," she says, sitting on the bed.

  I sit in front of the PC and switch it on. "He's a dad like any other."

  "Rubbish! Uncle Frank's scared shitless of him. Danni too. That's why you can swan around leading a charmed life."

  "He would never interfere in internal matters." I pause, realising what I've said.

  She grabs more pizza. "Then why did he drop into the office to see Danni this afternoon? Nigel told me he didn't look best pleased."

  Why didn't my father say he'd popped into the office? It's obvious now, but at the time it would have helped. "Tommy Logan at the Tribune wanted a quote," I lie, "so dad popped in for an update first."

  "Why didn't he come to see you?"

  I type in my password, glad to have a moment to think about my response. "We were at Tombstone, weren't we? That's why he popped by this evening."

  She doesn't look convinced, but why should I care? She's hardly telling me everything, is she? Neither is my father. Maybe it's time I adopted this approach.

  What if I continue my investigation for another day? If I switch off my phone and stay away from Gemma and the office, no one can contact me. They don't know I'm meeting Carolyn Montague at Collins' house first thing tomorrow. From there, I could go to the Game Cock and see if I can uncover anything of interest about Collins. If I learn nothing of value, I can say I was thorough before closing the investigation.

  If I learn something useful, I'm on a collision course with everyone.

  I slip the memory stick into a USB port on the computer. I can't open the autobiography files, but I can check the emails. Gemma polishes off the remaining pizza while I launch Outlook and import the files.

  Collins deletes most of the emails without reading them. He has the standard folders and one named 'Adele', which contains ten messages. I'm about to double click on the oldest when I spot my father's email username, 'wilkenfish'. Twice.

  Why is he emailing Collins?

  Gemma leans closer when I double click the newer message, dated only a couple of weeks ago. It's brief.

  'Syd, the world has changed. You're on your own this time. William.'

  I scroll to the original message, which reads, 'Billy Boy, I could lose my driving licence. Do your stuff. Syd.'

  Billy Boy? What's going on here? It doesn't sound like a constituent, seeking help from his MP. Constituents send my father all manner of requests, as if he has some divine power, but this is different. He tells Collins he's on his own this time. That means there was a previous time. With a growing sense of dread, I open the older email from over nine years ago.

  'Syd, equilibrium restored. William.'

  That's Fisherspeak for problem sorted and no loose ends. I scroll to the original message. 'Billy Boy, cops on my back over assault, fix it!'

  Gemma whistles. "They're from you father, right?" While I don't know what the problem was or how it was resolved, my father intervened. He may even have perverted the course of justice. Now he's doing the same for Birchill.

  I pull the cheque out of my pocket and stare at it.

  Friday

  Twelve

  "I'm not worried about upsetting my father," I say, settling on the floor. "I have a degree in the subject. We come from the same gene pool, but we're worlds apart."

  It's Friday morning, I've had a good night's sleep, and I know what I have to do. I knew before I went to bed last night. I knew before I ate breakfast. So why am I hesitating? I'm concerned about Frances.

  "She was so excited when I showed her the banker's draft. What's she going to say when I turn down the money?"

  The Westie tilts his head from side to side as I talk, taking in every word. Like a good listener, he never interrupts or passes judgement, and if I've done something bad, he never condemns me.

  "She's already earmarked the money. And what about those ideas she told me over breakfast?" I lean forward and ruffle the dog's fur behind his ears. "I'll have to rob a bank to replace my father's money. No, I didn't think it was a good idea either."

  The Westie shifts a little, but remains seated before me, aware of the treats in my pocket. It's terrible, having to bribe someone to listen, but I'm afraid to talk to the people who really matter. I should confront my father. He's the one who's protecting a villain.

  I push my hand into my pocket and grip the chew. "So, we're agreed: I continue my investigation. If I turn up anything, I'll continue over the weekend. How does that sound?"

  The Westie barks and paws at my leg. I hold out the chew and he takes it gently. He trots to the back of the kennel, lies down and begins to attack it.

  "Were you talking to your dog again?"

  I look up and see Frances watching me. I scramble to my feet. "How long have you been there?"

  "Long enough."

  There's no disappointment or resentment in her eyes, no hostility lurking beneath the surface.

  "If I'm smart," I say, "I'll finish the job and keep the money."

  "Some things are more important than money." She looks down at the Westie. "You talk to him more than you talk to me, to anyone. He loves you to bits, so why won't you take him off the rehoming list?"

  "You know I'm out too much. It wouldn't be fair."

  "I'm here—unless you're planning to change that."

  I place my hands on her shoulders. "Without you, Frances, this place wouldn't exist. If we go down, we go down together."

  "No, we go down fighting."

  "We won't go down," I say. "Our little friend here would be homeless."

  "I can't believe you haven't given him a name, Kent. Or have you?"

  I look away, feeling a little self-conscious. "Columbo."

  "As in the scruffy detective you make me watch?" she asks, frowning.

  I nod. "Small, tenacious and determined."

  Frances drops to her knees. "Columbo," she calls. "Here!"

  The Westie swallows the last mouthful of chew. When she calls his name again, he rises and strolls over, managing a brief wag of his tail.

  "What if someone offers £500 for him?" she asks, stroking his back.

  "Like you, Frances, he's priceless."

  I leave her before her cheeks redden any further. Taking on Columbo when we have no money isn't one of my smarter moves, but it makes me feel good. I need to feel good if I'm going to make any progress today.

  Back in the flat, I shower and shave before ironing a white short-sleeved shirt that's seen better days. I text Danni to say the Coroner's Officer wants to meet me urgently at Tombstone. Then I turn off my phone. At 9.45, I approach Collins' cottage from the lane at the rear. I'm the first to arrive and pull in behind his Land Rover.

  Out in the lane, I try to work out how our visitor approached the cottage yesterday. Keeping the back bedroom window in view, I turn left and realise anyone could park unnoticed within ten yards of the drive. However, you can't see the house or the bedroom until you enter the drive. In the other direction, you have to park at least thirty yards away or your car would be visible. Walking to the drive you could be seen at least 50 per cent of the way.

  It doesn't explain why the visitor didn't pull into the rear garden. I'm guessing he approached from the direction of the Game Cock, looked up and saw Gemma at the window. He then pulled in beyond the drive and came back for a closer look.

  Had he come from the woods on the other side of the house, he would have used the front door. I hesitate to remind myself the visitor could be a woman, even though my money's on Birchill. He left the council offices with just enough time to get back here. He has plenty to lose if Collins' autobiography surfaces.

  At the front of the house, the key has gone from under the potted hosta. The visitor doesn't want me to return. Had I left my visit until this morning I might never have
found Collins' emails.

  I smile to myself. It will be interesting to see whether anything inside has changed or gone missing since yesterday.

  Carolyn arrives with ten minutes to spare, swinging her Peugeot alongside my Ford. She shrugs off her seatbelt and jumps out of the car the moment it stops. Smart in a black pinstripe jacket and trousers, she strides like an executive, flight bag in a firm grip. She's pulled her hair into a ponytail and replaced her cheap perfume with something more subtle.

  "Hi," she says. "Is Downland's most wanted here yet?"

  "Miles Birchill? Did you invite him?"

  "He insisted on helping and I couldn't think of a reason to refuse."

  "Apart from investigating a suspicious death?"

  "We're here to see if there are any family and friends. Birchill knew Collins better than anyone."

  "What if Birchill's responsible for Collins' death?" I ask.

  "Is he?"

  "I'm working on it."

  She laughs. "That makes two of us who can't touch him. I hate the scumbag more than you can imagine, Kent, but we have to play by the rules."

  "He doesn't," I reply. "We're letting him control our investigations."

  "Yes, I heard he paid you a visit yesterday." She unlocks the back door and the picks up her bag. "Before I forget, the post mortem yesterday afternoon showed Collins had cancer—lungs, secondary growths in his kidneys and colon. He was on borrowed time. It also looks like he drank heavily."

  That could explain the empty vodka bottle by the barn. "Was he drunk when he died?"

  "Possibly. We'll have to wait for the results. But the cirrhosis of his liver shows he drank heavily."

  I follow her into the kitchen, where she doesn't waste a moment in starting her search. She begins with a cursory sweep of the cupboards and drawers, occasionally pausing to look under some papers or a cutlery tray. She's quick and thorough, working her way round with nimble fingers.

  "I'm looking for bank statements, his national insurance card, passport," she says, squatting to look beneath the sink. "Then there are letters, Christmas cards, gifts that suggest a close friend or relative. Let me know if you find anything."

  "If Collins was drunk and in pain," I say, peering inside the bread bin, "he did well to walk to the clearing."

  "The alcohol probably numbed the pain." She's on her feet, smoothing her trousers over her knees. "Mind you, he could have doubled up in agony and caught his tie in the power takeoff."

  It doesn't explain why Collins was in the clearing at six in the morning.

  "Ah, here's our guest, come to watch over us." She points to the back garden before striding to the dining room in those short, determined steps.

  While she works through the dresser, I drop to my knees and look underneath.

  I imagine a scenario leading up to Collins' death. He drank vodka and had sex, but not necessarily in that order. Despite being a man who slept until ten in the morning, he rose at dawn, pulled on a shirt, and a tie he didn't normally wear, and went to the clearing. Or he never went to sleep. That's more likely. Tiredness could have contributed to his accident, though that won't explain the tie. I can think of no reason why he would start up the tractor, either.

  Maybe he wanted to show off to his lover.

  I crawl under the table. If he was trying to impress his lover, why did she run off? Why didn't she ring for an ambulance? Maybe Cheung disturbed her. If she's married and doesn't want her husband to know, she might run, even if it's heartless.

  It looks like a verdict of misadventure.

  "Is everything okay?" Carolyn asks, peering down at me. "You seem distracted."

  "I'm fine."

  I look behind me, wondering what's happened to Birchill, before following her into the living room. The Marilyn Monroe box set I left on the sofa yesterday has disappeared. I follow Carolyn around the cupboards to see if the box set is back on a shelf. I can't see the films anywhere.

  "How's your investigation going?" Her face glows as she hauls herself off her knees. "Collins was dying, so I'm not sure I'll find much here."

  "I think someone should pay for removing the guard."

  "Someone did," Birchill says.

  He's in the doorway, dressed in a black leather jacket, matching shirt and jeans. "Syd removed the guard and paid with his life."

  Carolyn marches over, causing the furniture to vibrate as she passes. "Thanks for coming, Mr Birchill. I know you're busy so I'll crack on. Any help you can give me will be great."

  "You won't find anything here," he says. "Syd was all veneer and no substance. What he has will be upstairs in his study."

  "I like to be thorough. People keep things in the strangest places.

  While she peers behind sofa cushions, I turn to Birchill, surprised he hasn't passed comment on my presence. "How was the meeting yesterday?"

  "Don't you and your manager communicate?"

  "It's something we need to discuss." When his expression remains neutral, I say, "She's busy."

  This seems to satisfy him. "I proved that Tombstone is not responsible for Syd or his machinery."

  "Did she agree with you?"

  "Do you?"

  If Danni didn't commit herself, the investigation is still open. "I'd like to check the barn before I draw any conclusions," I say. "Do you have a key?"

  "Why do you want to go into the barn?"

  "I might find a missing guard there."

  He pulls out his mobile phone and leaves the room. I join Carolyn as she stretches on tiptoes to look behind the wall-mounted TV. She taps the mantelpiece below and nods in appreciation. "This is real wood, you know."

  As opposed to unreal wood, I'm tempted to say. Birchill peers around the door. "Foley can meet you at one thirty. He's busy with an audit this morning."

  "If he's busy he could let me have the key."

  "You might have a right of entry, Fisher, but that doesn't mean you can wander round on your own."

  I stroll over to the window to look at the laurel bush I hid behind yesterday. Our visitor might have seen us hiding, but I doubt it. "Did Collins have any family?" I ask.

  Birchill strolls up beside me. "I think he was abandoned at birth and grew up in a home. He's never mentioned any brothers or sisters."

  "No wife or children?"

  "Collins liked fast women and his freedom."

  "So he could have an illegitimate child somewhere?"

  "He could have a football team, but I don't know who or where they are. Why are you so interested? Have you found something?"

  "Only an unprotected power takeoff," I reply with a smile.

  "Nothing here," Carolyn says. "Shall we move upstairs?"

  She marches out of the room, forcing Birchill to step aside. He extends his arm to let me go next, but I decline. His calm but smug confidence is a million miles from yesterday's agitated animosity. He's happy with the way things are going, which probably means bad news for me.

  While she searches the bathroom, I wait on the landing, staring out of the window. In the lane, a navy blue VW Golf slows down as it draws level with the garden, and then speeds away. I wonder if it's a reporter. The media is bound to descend sooner or later. I'd rather they waited until I'm out of sight.

  In the front bedroom, yesterday's visitor straightened the duvet so the bed looks unused. While Carolyn checks inside the wardrobe, I nip behind the door.

  "Whoops!" I say, knocking the bin over with my foot. I bend and peer inside. The condom packaging has gone. Collins' lover doesn't want us to know she was here. Having seen his horrendous death, she left him and maybe drove away. Was that the car Cheung thought he heard? Did she drive Collins to the barn in the first place?

  I have to stop myself nodding and put the bin down. She came back to the house in the afternoon to remove any traces of her presence. What kind of person could do that?

  "Looking for something?" Birchill asks, peering into the bin.

  "I thought there might be a scrap of notepape
r," I reply. "Or a discarded letter or postcard."

  Carolyn calls. "Can someone help me lift the mattress?"

  While Birchill and I manhandle the heavy mattress, I think about some of the other questions I've yet to answer. With his cancer and heavy drinking, could Collins manage sex?

  Inside the dressing table, she discovers a plain brown envelope. Her excitement is palpable as she tears it open. Birchill tries to mask his interest with indifference, but fails.

  "Aftercare for the mattress," she says, throwing the envelope down.

  Like Birchill, she pays no attention to the smell of cigarettes when she enters Collins' office. A laptop has replaced the PC and monitor on the desk, otherwise it looks the same as yesterday.

  "Do you think Collins wrote his autobiography here?" I ask.

  "Autobiography?" Birchill stares at me as if I'm bonkers. "Syd could just about write a shopping list. He used Skype mainly, and Facebook."

  "He was dying," I say. "Maybe he wanted to set the record straight."

  "What record? Look at the place," he says, making a grand sweep with his arm. "It's pirate DVDs and porn movies. He spoke, he watched, but he didn't write."

  "You have to type to use the Internet and send emails."

  Birchill sighs. "Basic stuff, but an autobiography?"

  Carolyn, who's had her head inside the cupboard over the stairs, turns to us. "Who told you he was writing an autobiography?"

  "There is no autobiography," Birchill says, his voice rising. "Don't believe anything Barry Stilton tells you. He's the landlord of the Game Cock, by the way. He has a tent flap for a mouth. That's why Syd wound him up."

  It sounds like I need to talk to Barry Stilton.

  Carolyn resumes her search, but she's going through the motions. Unlike films, where there's a loaded pistol in a drawer, Collins filled his with envelopes and stationery. While she looks through the desk, I sidle over to the cupboard. The cigarettes have gone.

  "Are you taking the laptop?" Birchill asks her.

  She considers the question. "Are you certain he's illiterate?"

  "Start the laptop and see for yourself," he replies, walking over to the window.