No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  "I'm Dale Wensley, a reporter," I whisper. "I know it's cheesy, but please play along. I'll explain later."

  She pulls back, her eyes defiant. "You sexually assaulted me."

  "You physically assaulted your manager."

  "Dale Wensley isn't my manager. He's a reporter."

  "He's a fictitious creation, so he can't have assaulted you."

  "So, that was an imaginary erection, was it?" She grins and straightens her powder blue blouse. In a loud voice, she says, "You owe me an explanation, Dale."

  Though I'm pleased she's playing along, she could take the conversation anywhere, landing me in even more trouble.

  "Darling, how many times do I have to tell you? I'm not having an affair with the barmaid. I'm interviewing these gentlemen about Syd Collins. That's what reporters do."

  "Dale," she says, making it sound like I've been naughty again, "we both know you can't keep Little Wensley in your pants." She strides over to the bar and peers behind. Hands on hips, she confronts Barry. "Okay, where have you hidden the little tart?"

  Barry glares at me. "Are you messing with my Amanda?"

  I'd forgotten about their Florida holiday. "Barry, this is the first time I've been to your pub. I don't know Amanda."

  "I've read the steamy texts they send each other," Gemma says. "They arranged to meet in Tombstone."

  Encouraged by her words, he emerges from behind the bar, looking for a fight. While I can easily defend myself against an overweight, out of shape publican, she's making me look like the bad guy.

  "She's right," I say, raising my hands to stop him. "There was someone else, but it's over. It wasn't your Amanda. It was a young waitress in a restaurant in Tollingdon. She was slim, elegant, and easily the most attractive woman I'd ever met. Despite the age difference, I fell for her the moment I saw her. I couldn't help myself."

  Gemma's eyes tell me she remembers the moment as clearly as I do. "Were you in love with her?" she asks.

  Of course I was in love with her. Only I was too scared to admit it. For a week, I came up with excuses. I was overreacting. I was infatuated. It was lust, plain and simple. Then I imagined how her parents would react if she brought home someone nearer their age then hers. Her friends would mock her for going out with an old fart like me. One morning she would wake up and see an old fart lying next to her.

  All I have to do is say I'm in love with her, but she's engaged now. She's in love with someone else. I'm not going to come between them. And even if she still holds some feelings for me, they have to be quashed now. But I can't look into her eyes as I answer.

  "She meant nothing to me."

  "And it took you a week to decide that?" Gemma turns and marches out of the room, her sensible shoes squeaking on the bare boards. The door swings shut behind her, the thud echoing through the room.

  Maybe now, I can move on.

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive." Old Ted reprimands me with a shake of his head. "You don't deserve her, Mr Dale Wensley."

  He knows I'm an imposter. I can see it in his eyes. He's not going to tell me anything more about Collins, so I head out of the door and up the steps to the beer garden that overlooks the road. Gemma's perched on the edge of a bench, hands clasped, head bowed, staring at the road below.

  "Barry Stilton assumed I was a reporter," I say. "I played along because I thought he would tell me about Collins."

  "It's just a game to you, isn't it?"

  "Are you referring to my investigation?"

  She looks at me with something akin to disgust. "At last I know why you disappeared without a word."

  "I never meant to hurt you."

  Her eyebrows rise. "What, you expected me to get back to normal and forget we spent a week together? I was sixteen, Kent! I didn't deserve that."

  There's nothing I can say to atone for my cowardly actions. The truth now would send the wrong signals, even if she was willing to believe me. I can't change the past, no matter how much I'd like to.

  "Why did you slap me, Gemma?"

  "Why did you kiss me?"

  "To stop you revealing my name, obviously. What are you doing here?"

  "I'm here because you couldn't be bothered to come to the meeting with Danni this morning. You knew they were going to close the case, so you stayed away, didn't you? You left me to face the questions. I had to lie for you, you bastard!"

  I slide my BlackBerry from its holster. "I sent a text to Danni first thing this morning to say I was meeting the Coroner's Officer at Collins' house."

  "Even though you arranged to meet her there yesterday? Don't you ever stop lying, Kent?"

  When my BlackBerry finishes booting, three text messages arrive. Two are from Mike Turner and the oldest is from Danni. It says, 'OK, will cancel.'

  I show Gemma. "Danni said the meeting would go ahead because I'd been with you all the time," she says. "Then she wanted to know all about yesterday afternoon."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "I could hardly tell her we were in Collins' house, could I? I said we were interviewing staff and checking policies at Tombstone. She didn't push the point, but I don't think she believed me. What's going on, Kent? Did Artie tell Birchill?"

  He might have.

  "She asked me what I'd learned," she says, "what I thought of their paperwork. I said I didn't understand half of it. Then she insisted on checking my notebook. I hadn't written anything for the afternoon, so I said you took the notes."

  I guess I deserved that.

  "She wants to check your notebook, Kent. I hope you've written something."

  While I can understand that she didn't like being questioned, does that explain her actions?

  "So, why did you slap me?" I ask.

  She walks to the parapet wall and stares down the lane as if she needs to gather her thoughts. "I'm sick of being treated like an intruder."

  I say nothing, sensing there's plenty more to come.

  "From the moment I joined your team, you made it clear you didn't want me around. Oh, you let me tag along from time to time, but you don't teach me anything. I've learned how to carry a heavy bag or collect a cockroach trap. I get to hang around like an idiot while you do the job."

  "Is that what you think?"

  "You wanted Lucy on this investigation, didn't you?"

  "She's an experienced officer."

  "She must have had a first time once. Why shouldn't I? Danni was happy to send me. She thought I would learn something."

  "You slapped me out of frustration, did you?"

  She shakes her head. "I heard you through the window, talking to the older man and Barry Stilton. I defended your actions to Danni, and you were playing games, telling lies for England, as you like to put it. You think you're immune to the rules the rest of us have to follow, don't you?" She sighs as if she's wasting her time. "That's why I slapped you."

  "I wasn't playing games. I was at Collins' house with Carolyn."

  "You lied about yesterday afternoon's appointment, didn't you?"

  "If I hadn't checked out the house yesterday, I would never have known what was missing this morning. That's right, our visitor yesterday cleaned out Collins' house. His computer's gone, the condom wrapper too."

  "Did you record it in your notebook?"

  Shit! I left my notebook behind. I race back to the bar, where Barry's polishing glasses. I spot my notebook next to an ice bucket.

  "You're not welcome," he says, without looking up.

  I slide the notebook off the bar and out of sight. "I wanted to tell you I've never met Amanda. I'm sure she wouldn't dream of cheating on you."

  "She doesn't know how I feel about her, does she?"

  "Then maybe you should tell her," I say, being an expert in these matters.

  As I leave, Ted shuffles out of the toilets, adjusting his crotch. Luckily, he's in no mood to shake my hand. He blocks my path. "You're no reporter, Mr Wensley. Who are you?"

  "I'm the only per
son who cares how Syd Collins died."

  "Then you'll want to know who Syd turned to for help. It was your father, William Fisher," he says with a sly glance at my notebook. "You don't seem surprised, Mr Fisher."

  I'm good at hiding my emotions. "What sort of help did Collins want?"

  "The kind that requires influence, I imagine." He shuffles around me and back to the bar.

  Outside, Gemma's waiting by her car. "Did Danni tell you anything about the meeting with Birchill?" I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  "Did you ask her?"

  Her eyes avert for a moment. "I just wanted to get away."

  I want to believe her, I really do. "There's a new pizzeria in town, if you fancy lunch," I say. "My treat."

  "I'm not in the mood."

  "Don't you want to know what I've uncovered?"

  "What's the point, if the case is closed?"

  "It isn't closed. I have to find out why my father helped Collins."

  She considers this and nods. "And why his house was cleaned out. You can tell me on the way to the pizzeria."

  "I'll get my car from Collins' house and meet you there. I have things to do this afternoon."

  As soon as she's on her way, I pull out my phone and ring Kelly.

  "Where were you?" she asks, her voice full of intrigue.

  "Did Danni go ahead with the meeting this morning?"

  "Yes."

  "Did Gemma attend?"

  "She was summoned after the Chief Executive left. She was only in there a few minutes and came out looking like she'd sucked a lemon." Kelly lowers her voice. "What's going on, Kent? There's an unpleasant whiff around here."

  "And here. Have you any idea how it went with Birchill yesterday?"

  "He left a wodge of documents for me to scan. I haven't read the detail, but it looks like Birchill had nothing to do with Collins. Do you want a copy?"

  "You're a star, Kelly. Say, do you know what time he left?"

  "Before three. He was here about fifty minutes, so definitely before three."

  Birchill could have made it to Collins' house. While the lover was the more likely, Birchill would want to make sure the autobiography never reached the papers.

  A familiar blue VW Golf flies past in the direction of Collins' house. I end the call and trot down the lane until I'm level with Collins' garden. The Golf's parked next to my car. I take a photograph in case I want to check the registration number later. She's locked the doors and taken the keys. I peer through the window at the sumptuous leather seats. An air freshener, shaped like a pine tree, dangles from the rear view mirror. A bottle of Lucozade energy drink sits erect in the driver door bucket. A navy jacket, with sunglasses peeping out of the front pocket, hangs in the back.

  Do they belong to the elusive lover?

  I try the kitchen door. It's locked. I walk around side of the house, past the Land Rover. It's also locked. When I reach the corner of the house, I pause and peer round. The woman I saw earlier stands with her back against the front door, her face tilted to the sun. She reminds me of Olive Oil in the Popeye cartoons—thin, with drumstick legs and spindly arms.

  I step out into the sunlight and clear my throat.

  She regards me with eyes as black as her hair. The cheek below her left eye looks a little puffy. There's something cold, almost insolent, about the way she watches my elegant footwork as I weave between the potted plants.

  "Is everything all right?" I ask.

  "I saw you earlier with the woman who cut me up. You don't look like a policeman."

  "You don't look like a double glazing salesman. Maybe you could tell me who you are and what you're doing on private property."

  She jerks to attention and salutes. "Adele Havelock. I came here to meet my father, Syd Collins."

  Fifteen

  "Your father's dead."

  "They must miss your tact and diplomacy at the United Nations," Adele Havelock says. She's not the emotional type. She might be thin and weigh about fifty kilos, but there's a fighter in her eyes. I can't help feeling she's scrapped for everything she has, challenging authority, the system, and anyone who tells her she can't.

  "I know he's dead," she says. "I didn't know that when I left Croydon this morning. That should answer your second question, but feel free to surprise me with your third."

  "Do you fancy a bite to eat?"

  "There's no such thing as a free lunch, is there?"

  "I'm not offering to pay for yours, but talk is free."

  "That assumes I have something to say." She raises a hand to shade the sun from her eyes as she looks at me. "My mother told me never to talk to strangers."

  "If you don't want to know how your father died," I say, turning, "that's fine with me."

  "He died from cancer."

  I keep walking, certain curiosity will get the better of her.

  I take my time, sauntering along the front and down the side of the house. In the back garden, I open the driver's door to let the heat out of the car. Minutes later, she walks up to her car and climbs inside. She slams the door. She waits thirty seconds before starting the engine. She reverses a yard or so. Then she stops, opening the passenger window.

  "Are you saying my father didn't die from cancer?"

  "He didn't."

  "So, you're a policeman."

  "I'm an environmental health officer."

  She seems confused. "Don't you guys inspect restaurants?"

  "That's why we know the best places for lunch."

  She leans across and opens the door. "Jump in, Mr Environmental Health Officer. I've sanitised the interior."

  With pine air freshener, it seems. Its intense but sickly scent overwhelms everything. When I climb into the passenger seat, I almost trample on her high heel shoes, discarded in the footwell. Her small feet, tainted by scarlet toenails, don't look strong enough to depress the pedals.

  "Nicotine chewing gum," she says, pushing a piece out of the blister pack. "I went smoke-free last week. I'm hoping it'll improve my chest."

  Either she's flirting or fishing for a compliment. I refuse the bait and settle back. "Turn left here and then next left about 100 yards down the road. It's a service road, approached through a farm gate."

  We reach the gate in seconds. I jump out and open it to let her through. I look around, but there's no CCTV. Back in the car, I settle in the seat as she speeds away. There's no tension in her face or her hands and no aggression in her driving as she speeds through the fields and paddocks.

  "Do you have a name?" she asks as we reach the service areas.

  "Kent Fisher."

  "Kent? Either you think you're Superman or it's where you were born."

  "How about you?" I ask.

  "My parents originally come from Cockermouth so I suppose I'm lucky." She giggles for a few seconds and then apologises. "Kent suits you. Now tell me how my father died, and why you're involved."

  "Work accident. I enforce health and safety at work. You're welcome to surprise me with a third question."

  She slows as we pass the burnt out portacabin. "I don't do surprises. Tell me what happened."

  "Your father cut fence posts, using a circular saw."

  The car lurches to a halt. "Is this going to be gory?"

  "I'm afraid so. He died instantly, if that's any comfort."

  "I don't do comfort or tears." She slumps back in her seat, nibbling at a fingernail. "Can I see where he died?"

  "There's nothing to see. I've impounded the tractor."

  She looks at me with those big eyes, now full of emotion. "Is it far?"

  "Why don't we eat first and you can tell me about him."

  "You'll be lucky," she says, pulling away from the kerb. "Until six months ago, I didn't know Sydney Collins existed."

  I direct her into one of the service yards at the rear of Main Street. She winces and wrinkles her nose at the smell from the overflowing bins.

  "Can't you make them keep it clean?" she asks.

&nb
sp; "Before the Government decided that local authorities were a drain on public finances, we had the officers and the time to look at bin areas. We have neither now."

  She follows me down the passageway to the front of the jail. I pause, hoping Rebecca might be close, but she's nowhere to be seen. Unlike yesterday, when the crowds gathered five deep to watch the gunfight, it's more sedate. That will change when the next gunfight starts in 45 minutes.

  Adele pulls out her phone and takes a couple of photos. "It's much better than I expected. You know it cost an absolute fortune to create."

  "I heard it was losing money."

  "Miles Birchill grew up watching John Wayne. He won't let this place go."

  "Then why did he join the outlaws?"

  "I don't think he saw it that way." She points across the street. "Mexican okay with you?"

  We cross the dusty street and head for The Cactus Grill. It's a modest cantina with small rectangular tables covered in red and white check plastic cloths. Large prints on the walls show scenes from Spaghetti westerns to accompany the soundtrack, blasted out from speakers. Adjacent the small bar, two doors lead in and out of the kitchen. A man in tight black trousers and a flamenco shirt bursts through like a matador.

  "If he cries, 'Ole', we're leaving," she says.

  We sit by the window, which offers a good view of the street. The laminated menu is wedged into a wooden holder that also contains the wine and spirit list, offers for children, and customer feedback cards that look like they've taken a dip in guacamole. I skim through the usual range of fajitas, enchiladas, burritos and nachos, along with a few dishes I don't recognise, looking for lighter choices. When I can't find any, I signal to the waiter.

  "Do you have a lunch menu?"

  "The children's menu has smaller portions," he replies in a broad Scottish accent. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

  He's middle aged, sloppy and unshaven. There are food stains on his shirt, and a greasy black residue lines his fingernails, as if he's been changing the oil in his car. His harassed, aggressive look suggests problems behind the scenes. I wonder if he's helping out in the kitchen as well as waiting tables.

  "I see you have the top food hygiene rating of 5," I say, pointing to the image on the menu. "Why aren't you displaying the sticker in the window to let customers know?"