No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  She lifts the lid and switches it on. We wait until a password screen appears. "Do you know his password, Mr Birchill?"

  He glances at the photo of Winston Churchill for a split second. "No idea. Looks like we need his personal documents, national insurance number, that kind of thing."

  "If they're here, they're well hidden," she says. "You must have some idea where he kept them."

  "I've been here twice, maybe three times. I gave this house to Syd, along with the land, when I built Tombstone. I'm away most of the time, so I hardly saw him."

  "What's going to happen to the place now he's dead?" I ask.

  "It reverts back to Tombstone."

  Carolyn smirks. "To you, you mean."

  "Do you have a problem with that?"

  She seems to enjoy his flash of temper. "I don't care, Mr Birchill. I'm looking for next of kin and they seem to be in short supply."

  Yeah, just like the truth.

  Thirteen

  I'm not sure what intrigues me most—the absence of anything personal in Collins' house, or Carolyn and Birchill's indifference to this. Collins seems to have lived his life without a bank account, a passport, or any insurance policies. Not easy to do in the modern world. Where are the photographs, the personal possessions we all keep? Why was there no food in the fridge? All we have are the driving licence and credit card in the wallet recovered from his body.

  Am I the only person who finds this odd?

  "Don't forget your meeting with Ben Foley at one-thirty," Birchill says as he walks to his Mercedes.

  His helpful manner troubles me. Yesterday, he did his best to remove me from the site and the investigation. Now, he's encouraging me. Either I've woken in a parallel universe or he has a nasty surprise waiting for me.

  "He's up to something." Carolyn stops beside me, her bag thudding against the back of my leg. "Be careful, Kent."

  I rub my calf, wishing she would follow her own advice. "What did you make of the house?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "What did it tell you about Collins?" I ask.

  She taps her fingers against her chin while she considers her answer. "Apart from his office, the place was about as characterless as a show home. He was obsessive about cleanliness, I'd say. What did it tell you?"

  "Much the same. Should we check his Land Rover?"

  "Why?"

  "We don't want to miss anything."

  Her frown almost connects her eyebrows. "What are you looking for?"

  "Answers."

  "That's right—fence posts and the cigarette that didn't match the others." She leans closer as if she's going to reveal a secret. "Tell me, how will the answers to those questions move your investigation forward?"

  Her tone becomes maternal, as if she's giving me a lesson about life. "Let the facts and evidence guide you, Kent. I'm no EHO, but the missing takeoff guard is central to your investigation, isn't it?"

  She's right, but I can't let the questions go.

  "Without a witness, Kent, we'll never know what Collins intended. We're left with the facts we report to the Coroner. I don't suppose you've had to write a report like this before."

  "I'm sure I'll manage."

  She raises her hands. "I'm only asking you to keep it factual. The Coroner establishes the cause of death, not who's to blame, so we avoid speculation. Collins was at work early and he died because he was careless. Those are the facts, plain and simple."

  "Saying he was careless is an opinion," I point out. "You said he was drunk. He might have collapsed."

  "That's speculation," she says with a grin.

  She's still grinning when she drives away, cutting across a blue VW Golf in the lane. The squeal of brakes pierces the air. The Golf lurches to a stop and the driver falls back into her seat. I rush over to make sure she's all right.

  She has a thin face with prominent cheeks and nose, a complexion that suggests at least one Asian parent, and short black hair that makes her look younger than I suspect she is. I base this on the sharpness of her blouse and business jacket, which suggest designer labels. Her dark eyes regard me for a moment, and then she accelerates away, almost running over my toes.

  Despite the shade, the heat inside my car could roast potatoes. Without air conditioning that works, I'm going to slow cook in the car, so I walk to the Game Cock. This gives me time to think about who obliterated Collins' presence from the house. A married lover would want to keep their affair secret, but why take his possessions too?

  I turn my attentions to the leafy surroundings where large, expensive houses shelter out of sight, protected by security gates and high walls. Every resident objected to the planning application to build Tombstone. Assisted by an environmental consultant, they had enough firepower to sink a battleship.

  Yet Birchill won.

  We protested, chaining ourselves to trees, digging tunnels, and generally disrupting everything we could. Then a gang of hooligans gate-crashed the protest, losing us public support. The media filmed their clashes with the police and made claims about anarchy in England's green and pleasant land. We tried to prove that Birchill hired them, but we failed. Within months, the protest ran out of steam as people drifted away to fight the building of a nuclear power station.

  Before I know it, I've reached the Game Cock. At some point in the past, someone had knocked together two brick cottages. From the state of the peeling paintwork on the sash windows, and the perished and missing gutters, I doubt if anyone's spent any money on the place since. Even the spritely cockerel on the creaking sign has faded. The sign promoting sports on a wide screen TV tells me all I need to know.

  Will the landlord help a council official? He might, with a bit of persuasion.

  I switch on my BlackBerry to check the pub's National Food Hygiene Rating on the Internet. A low hygiene rating might give me some leverage. Before I check, I glance at the messages left for me. Mike reminds me we have catering equipment to deliver at seven this evening. A text message from Danni says she'll meet with me later to review progress.

  The Game Cock has a national food hygiene rating of 2, meaning the standard of hygiene was below the legal minimum when it was last inspected. Unable to suppress a smile, I stroll in.

  On first glance, the polished floorboards, low beams, and brick fireplace with horse brasses make the Game Cock look like many other country pubs. The real attraction goes over my head, where customers have plastered the ceiling with bank notes from around the world. Postcards on a large notice board near the pool table reveal the holiday destinations favoured by the locals. Majorca, Venice, America, Thailand, the Caribbean, and Australia seem to be the most popular, with South Africa on the periphery.

  "You interested in joining our holiday club?"

  The London accent belongs to an overweight forty-something with comb-over hair, a deep tan, and teeth that would look good in a horse's mouth. He's tall, wears tight jeans and an open-necked shirt. He takes a glass from the shelf and helps himself to a whisky.

  "I'm Barry Stilton, the owner of this establishment," he says, resting his elbows on the bar. He gestures to my notebook. "Are you a reporter?"

  Now there's a thought. Mr Stilton might want to see his name in the paper. "Dale Wensley," I say, holding out my hand. "Has someone beaten me to the story?"

  His sweaty hand grips mine. "If you're talking about Syd Collins, someone was in here looking for him not half an hour ago. Can I get you a drink?"

  "Still mineral water. Was it a reporter?"

  "Search me, Dale. She marches in like she owns the place and wants to know if I've seen Mr Collins. I tell her I don't think I'll be seeing him again unless he comes back to haunt me."

  He groans as he drops to his knees to rattle around in the refrigerated display cabinet. "She says, 'Are you trying to be funny?'— all self-important like. I tell her I'm not laughing because he owes me £300. I won't repeat what she said."

  Back on his feet, he plants a bottle of mineral water on the bar
and removes the cap. "She marches off, slamming the door behind her, and that's that. I've no idea who she was or what she wanted. How do you like it, Dale?"

  For a moment, I'm not sure what he's talking about. Then he holds up the bottle. "Neat," I reply, taking it from him. "This woman who called in, did she have short black hair, a thin face with a foreign complexion?"

  "She had nice boobs."

  "That narrows it down."

  "You'll get used to Barry Stilton's cheesy sense of humour. Yes, that could be her. You know her?"

  "It's a small world," I reply.

  He nods. "I thought she were a reporter. Bit fond of herself, you know? Liked to sweep her hair back in a dramatic way and pout like those stick insect models you see on TV. I got the feeling she'd arranged to meet him. She didn't know he was dead, that much I can tell you. She wasn't best pleased about that."

  "You're very astute, Mr Stilton."

  "That's what they say. And call me Baz. Everyone else does. Who do you work for, Dale? One of the dailies?"

  "The one that pays me the most," I reply without hesitation. "Remember the sports physiotherapist who slept with half the England football team?"

  He pretends to doff his cap in respect. "You wrote that? Blimey, I should have offered you something stronger."

  "I'm fine," I say, settling on the nearest stool and placing my notebook in a space between the beer towels and copper trays for catching spilt beer. The pumps gleam despite the dim lighting, and the shelves behind boast a colourful array of spirits and liqueurs. The local parish newsletter, produced on someone's home computer, catches my eye.

  "Is Tombstone losing money?" I ask.

  Barry shakes his head. "Miles Birchill knows what he's doing."

  That contradicts the opinion of the chairman of the parish council. Like most elected officials, he believes his opinion counts. I push the newsletter aside. "Tell me about Syd Collins. You must have known him better than most."

  "Indeed," he says, pushing out his chest. "He dropped enough money in my gaming machines to take me, Amanda and her kid to Florida in March. She's my barmaid, see, and her kid loves Mickey Mouse."

  "Syd liked to gamble, did he?"

  "He dropped a couple of hundred every week. Sometimes Lady Luck gave him a jackpot, but it went straight back. He'd buy a pint and head straight to the machines. He only stopped when he ran out of money or beer."

  "Did he have any family? I might want to talk to them."

  "We were his family, until he met some woman in an Internet chat room." He leans closer. "The lads wound him up, saying he'd been watching too much porn on TV. Then, the next Wednesday evening, he turns up in a suit, smelling like an aftershave factory. He buys a bottle of red wine and we never see him again on Wednesday evenings. The lads snuck round to his house, thinking he was watching porn, but he was always out in his Land Rover."

  "He doesn't sound like the type to wear a suit."

  "It was one of those cheap, shiny suits from the charity shop."

  "Did he wear a tie?"

  Barry frowns. "Are you a fashion reporter or something?"

  "I'm trying to build a picture. Has anyone seen this woman?"

  He shakes his head. "We don't know if she exists, to tell you the truth. Old Ted Johnson reckons she's a fantasy. I mean, Syd comes in here every night and hardly says two words to anyone. Then he spends half the night chatting to strangers on the Internet? Don't make sense, do it?"

  I consider it for a moment. He only lived in one room. "Maybe he was lonely."

  "When he came in here every evening?" Barry drains his whisky and helps himself to another. "The lads kept pushing him to give us a name or show us a photo, but he wouldn't. Then, a few months ago, he promised to reveal everything when his book was published."

  "He wrote a book?"

  "He said he'd written his life story, warts and all. He was going to reveal secrets about Miles Birchill and the people he'd corrupted over the years. Syd said some influential people would be quaking in their boots when his story came out."

  It's obvious from Barry's tone and expression what he thinks about the autobiography. I'm sure most people would think the same, but I've seen the chapters. Well, I've seen the files. If I could work out the password to access them, Dale Wensley could burst onto the tabloid scene with a scoop.

  "Did he mention any of these people?"

  "What do you think? Old Ted Johnson might know if you buy him a pint."

  "Is he due in later?"

  "No, he's right behind you."

  An older man shuffles between the tables on his way to the bar. His purple corduroy jacket hangs loose over his gaunt and frail body. A lavender shirt and mauve tie, brown corduroy trousers and Hush Puppies complete the ensemble. At the bar, he removes his flat cap to reveal thin white hair, swept forward to hide the receding areas on his crown. His laboured breathing suggests a heavy smoker before the reek of pipe tobacco confirms it. While his face and chins can no longer defy gravity, there's something proud and stoical in his demeanour.

  He looks me over with the piercing eyes of a wolf. "I was once a sprinter," he says in a cultured voice that would grace any TV documentary. Warm, confident and knowledgeable, his voice commands attention. Slowly and painfully, he lifts himself onto a barstool. "Now I pace myself. Are you friend or foe?" he asks, glancing at my notebook.

  "He's a reporter, Ted. Dale Wensley. He's interested in Syd Collins."

  "Never met a reporter who drank water," Ted says. "You want to buy us both a pint of best? Then you can tell me why you're interested in Collins."

  Barry's already filling a pint glass with Harvey's Best Bitter.

  "He worked for Miles Birchill," I say.

  "So do lots of people."

  "They didn't die yesterday."

  Ted takes his pint, studies it with relish, and then drinks half of it. He licks his lips for a good ten seconds before speaking. "I won't speak ill of the dead, but he was the most miserable, antisocial person on God's earth. He thought he was something special because he worked for Miles Birchill."

  Barry offers me a pint, but I decline and hand over a fiver.

  Ted glares at me. "You going to write anything down or am I wasting my time?"

  "I will when you tell me something I don't know," I reply.

  He stares at me for a moment and then laughs. "With the cost of ale these days, you deserve more than hearsay. Are you aware of Syd's gambling? Without it this fleapit would have closed years ago."

  Barry's head jerks up at the insult, but he doesn't complain.

  "Collins didn't work, so where did he get his money?" I ask.

  "He sold cigarettes and tobacco, smuggled from abroad," Ted replies, pulling out a pipe.

  Barry wags a warning finger. "Smoking's banned, Ted, as you well know."

  The old man grimaces and pushes the pipe back inside his jacket. "It won't be long before we'll need a permit to fart indoors."

  Before the conversation veers into the Nanny State, I ask about Collins' autobiography. "Apparently, he intended to reveal all Birchill's dark secrets."

  "You don't bite the hand that feeds you," Ted replies after another few mouthfuls of beer. "Without Miles Birchill, Syd was nothing. Why would he rise up against his benefactor?"

  "He didn't have long to live."

  "Clear his conscience with a deathbed confession?" Ted drains the glass and smacks his lips together. "How do you know he didn't have long to live?"

  "He told you, didn't he?" I reply, taking a chance.

  Ted nods. "I bought a lot of cheap tobacco. What did you do?"

  This man is good. He knows how to manipulate a conversation. He also knows more about Collins, I'm sure, but he doesn't trust me. Why would he?

  "He offered me a couple of chapters. He wanted me to serialise it."

  "You work for a newspaper with a big circulation, Mr Wensley?"

  "I'm freelance. I've written about Miles Birchill in the past. That's how Collins foun
d me."

  "Well, Mr Wensley, I hate to rain on your parade, but you've overlooked one small detail. Syd Collins was illiterate. He could write the names of horses on betting slips and leave notes for the milkman, but he couldn't write a sentence, let alone a chapter."

  "He didn't need to. His girlfriend did."

  It's a punt in the dark, but logical. It winds up Barry, who glares at me. "You knew about this internet woman all along."

  Ted looks impressed and suspicious at the same time. "Maybe you'd like to share her identity with us, Mr Wensley. None of us believe she exists."

  "You don't expect me to reveal my sources, surely?"

  "Then this fishing trip is at an end."

  I notice a photograph of Prince Charles on the wall. "I've never met her," I say, "but she calls herself Camilla. I don't know if that's her real name, but she emailed me the chapters. Two I can read, the rest are protected by password and now Collins is dead."

  Ted's smile evolves into a laugh that degenerates into a fit of coughing. Barry rushes over to help, but is waved away with a flailing arm. Ted brings the cough under control eventually and then turns to me. "You're not interested in Syd Collins," he says, pointing at me. "You came here to discover his password."

  "Did Collins have a friend or confidant he turned to for help?"

  "He might have."

  While I'm wondering what Ted's price will be for the information, the door bursts open. In strides Gemma, angry eyes scanning the room until she spots me. I've clearly upset her, so I need to act fast. I step past Ted and intercept her in the middle of the room.

  "Gemma, before you say anything, let me explain."

  Her mouth narrows to a cold line. Her hands go to her hips. Then she smiles and slaps my face.

  Fourteen

  I can think of only one way to stop Gemma exposing my true identity. Well two, but I've never slapped a woman in my life. Or I could...

  The kiss catches her off guard. It's less aggressive than propelling her out of the building and much more exciting.

  Her soft, moist lips, and the swell of her breasts against my chest, send my brain plummeting into my trousers. Sensing the start of a struggle, I break the kiss.