No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  The waiter shrugs. "Do you want to order food with your drinks?"

  "I'll have the chicken salad," Adele replies. "And a mineral water."

  "Same for me," I say. When he's out of earshot, I ask Adele if she has the food hygiene app on her phone. "You can download it and find out what the rating is."

  "I thought it was a 5?"

  "Humour me."

  "I might write a piece on this place," she says while the app downloads. "I'm a lifestyle reporter at the Croydon Guardian. Before you ask, I write the occasional restaurant review. 'Prickly waiter at the Cactus Grill', sounds good."

  Collins had contacted his daughter to promote his autobiography. If I'd checked the emails in the 'Adele' folder, I might have learned more about her. Instead, I'd let the emails between my father and Collins distract me. I still can't believe my father would do a favour for a lowlife like him. When I'm through with the investigation, I'll check it out.

  "You said you didn't know your father existed six months ago."

  She nods but doesn't elaborate.

  "Why did he get in touch?"

  "He was dying and he wanted to put things right," she says, not looking up. "Well, that's what he said in the email."

  "He told you he was your father in an email?"

  "Life's a bitch." There's no sign of anger or bitterness in her eyes or voice. "What do you want to know about him?"

  It's a good question. "Everything you know."

  "Why? You know how he died, don't you?"

  I nod. "The Coroner's Officer needs to establish state of mind. I said I'd help."

  "You think he committed suicide?"

  I say nothing, keen to see how she reacts. If she thinks her father killed himself, she might reveal more. She closes her eyes and says, “‘If you ever wondered who I was, today's your lucky day.' That was first line of his email," she says, opening her eyes. "He assumed I thought about him."

  "He assumed you'd be pleased."

  "That's why I didn't reply. I wanted to see if he would follow up."

  "Did he?"

  "He sent a second email with a document attached. It outlined my date of birth, all the major events in my life, and contained a couple of photos of my graduation. It was like he'd stalked me, except nothing he produced was that hard to find. Most of it's on Facebook. The app’s ready to go," she says, holding up her phone.

  "If he was dying, why didn't he ask to meet you?"

  "I don't know." She taps the screen of her phone a couple of times and then smiles. "I've got the rating. It's 2, not 5. 'Improvement necessary'."

  Just in time—the prickly waiter's arrived with our water.

  I get to my feet. "We're not staying. You're misleading customers and your rating is below legal standards."

  "We have a top rating," he says, pointing to the menu.

  Adele shows him her phone. "You don't. You should inform the owner."

  "I am the owner."

  "Then you need to reprint your menus." I pick one up and slip it into my pocket. "Evidence for Trading Standards."

  Out on the boardwalk, she turns to her phone. "I can search all the eateries around here."

  We settle for baguettes and bottled water from a sandwich bar and take them to the corral, where we grab the last free table in the small picnic area. We chat about hygiene ratings, dirty kitchens I've inspected, food business I've prosecuted, and anything other than Collins. After my last mouthful of baguette, it's time to correct that.

  "You didn't sound too upset by the email Collins sent."

  She finishes chewing. "I never thought he was my father. He had all the facts, but my mother didn't remember him. I told him that, and his next email contained details of an intimate birth mark she had." She pauses to take a mouthful of water. "That's when she admitted working at a casino in Brighton."

  "The Ace of Hearts?"

  "You know it?"

  It's where my father met Collins, I guess. "I've heard of it, that's all."

  "My mother wouldn't tell me much. She said she was young, taking drugs, and entertaining rich clients. Collins could be my father. So could lots of other men."

  Her sardonic laugh says everything. "I asked to meet him and he refused. Then, a few weeks later, he emails me again with another document."

  I settle back, waiting for her to continue after another mouthful of water.

  "I got his life story in bullet points. His life with Miles Birchill, to be more accurate. Secrets, deals, violence, bribes, and the people they screwed. Oh, it was all going to be there, ready to be serialised by the dailies, and he was giving it to his only daughter.

  "I remember a couple of incidents. One concerned a detective inspector they set up with a young prostitute. A honey trap, I think they call it. Another involved an Arab sheikh they fleeced. Collins talked about corruption, but when I asked for evidence, he would only say they had an MP in their pocket."

  "No name?"

  She shakes her head. "Then he went silent again, until last week. He asked me to visit him today. When I arrived, I found you and a woman in the house. I called in at the pub and the publican told me he was dead."

  "So why were you standing outside the front door?"

  "Someone took the key from under the plant pot." She smiles. "He told me it was there in case he was out when I called."

  I open a bag of prawn cocktail flavoured crisps while I consider what she's told me. It sounds plausible, but for one small detail.

  "What would you say if I told you Collins was illiterate?"

  Without missing a beat, she says, "Someone wrote them for him. A friend?"

  I shrug. "I haven't seen them."

  She seems disappointed. "Wasn't there a computer in the house?"

  "It's protected."

  She leans closer and looks straight into my eyes. "Did you find anything you're allowed to tell me about?"

  "Like a manuscript, for example?"

  "You found it?" She gasps and rubs her hands together.

  "We found nothing—no manuscript, no diary, no address book. Did he mention any friends?"

  Adele shakes her head. "I came here to prove he was a con man, but I'll never know now, will I?"

  That's two of us disappointed, but it makes no difference to my investigation. "Do you still want to see the accident scene, Adele?"

  We walk back to the car in silence. The only sound comes from her chewing gum as we head out of Tombstone. At the junction, I guide her right to the barn. It's nearly one twenty and Foley hasn't arrived yet.

  "It's around the corner," I say, stepping out into the heat. "I'd stick with barefoot, as it's grassy."

  She pulls on a pair of trainers she keeps in the boot and follows me around the corner. She stops when she sees the bench saw. To the side, patches of bare earth reveal where the tractor once stood. There seems to be much less blood on the grass than earlier, suggesting the crows have done their best to tidy up.

  "The saw had nothing to do with the accident," I say, leading her down the slope. From a couple of yards away, it's easy to see the blood. I go to the barn wall to shelter from the sun and let her wander around with her thoughts and questions. When I was a teenager, I often wondered about the father I didn't have—what he was like, what he did, where he would take me. The reality turned out to be less exciting than my imagination, but at least he was alive.

  "Are of any these new?" she asks, running her fingers over a fence post in the enclosure.

  I shake my head.

  "If he didn't make any posts, why's the ground covered with cigarette ends?"

  It's a good point. If Collins didn't use the tractor, why stand by the saw to smoke? Why not smoke in the cab or in the barn kitchen? If Collins didn't smoke here, then someone else, like Cheung, did. Or someone emptied an ashtray, but why would anyone do that here?

  "Beats me," I reply. Noticing movement out of the corner of my eye, I turn to see Foley.

  "I've opened the barn if you want to check it out
, Mr Fisher."

  When we join him by the open sliding doors, he nods to Adele. "Are you another of Mr Fisher's assistants?"

  "I'm a fresh pair of eyes," she says, strolling into the cavernous interior, which smells of petrol and dust.

  I should tell her to leave, but she's right. To me, it's a gloomy, cluttered barn, filled with machinery, tools and workbenches that look unused. Light forces its way through dirty skylights to highlight the dust and cobwebs that cover the surfaces and the corners. From the small JCB to the mowers and spreaders, the barn contains everything needed to maintain Tombstone Adventure Park. Shelves, crammed with containers of screws, nails, bolts and a range of hand tools, line the walls.

  "You've got too much petrol," I tell Foley, pointing to the Gerry cans. "One spark and this place would burn to the ground."

  "I've never been in here before," he says, stepping back. "This is Mr Collins' domain."

  I stroll over to a mower blade sharpener, wishing I had one. "With all this equipment and facilities, why contract maintenance to Tollingdon Agricultural Services?"

  "You should ask Mr B that."

  I wander around the barn, weaving in and out of the machinery, pausing to check under benches or inside cupboards. Wherever I look, everything is pristine. While I don't recognise many of the names, quality leaps out from every corner. Inside one metal cabinet I find protective clothing, including full body suits, gloves, wellingtons and face masks with air filters. One shelf contains orange hard hats with built in ear defenders. Unopened packets of neoprene gloves, dust masks and goggles fill the last shelf.

  Adele, who has taken the opposite direction to me, joins me and peers inside. "Everything looks new," she says, her brows dipping over her nose. "Am I missing something?"

  "Mr B expected Syd to do all the grounds maintenance, I heard, but Syd refused." Foley glances over his shoulder as if he expects Birchill to walk in at any moment. "They argued and Syd made fence posts for a while. Mr B refused to buy them for Tombstone. When the tractor packed up, that was that."

  "Miles Birchill did nothing?" Adele asks.

  Foley shrugs. He doesn't care. Why should he? He drifts back to the entrance for a cigarette while I wander a little more. While rummaging around a mobile tool rack, I spot the missing guard, tucked at the back of a cupboard. I reach in and retrieve it, turning the guard in my hands to look for any flaws or defects. It looks fine to me. I hold it up to show Adele, who realises what it is almost immediately.

  "Would that have prevented Syd's death?" Foley asks, strolling over.

  "Yes."

  "Then why did he take it off? He must have been mad."

  "We don't know that he did," I say.

  "Then who did?"

  "You need to take that outside," I say, pointing to the cigarette between his fingers. "Apart from breaking the law, you're surrounded by petrol and oils. And don't stub it out on the floor!"

  He heads back to the entrance and goes out of sight, thankfully.

  I put the guard on a bench and head for a door with a small viewing panel. It looks in on the kitchen I saw with Cheung yesterday. The door's locked, so I reach up and run my fingers along the dirty architrave, where I find a key. I unlock the door and push it open, pleased people are so predictable.

  "After you, Adele."

  The door opens into a kitchen area, fitted with domestic style cupboards, a sink and drainer, microwave oven, and fridge. The wooden table and chairs have a neglected quality that matches the stained and chipped mugs in the cupboard. Forgotten packets of tea bags and jars of solidified coffee suggest no one's used the kitchen for some time. The ashtray on the table, coated with a film of ash, but no cigarette butts, supports this. The milk in the fridge has separated.

  A corridor at the back of the kitchen leads to a small wet room and toilet. White tiles cover the walls from floor to ceiling, leaving space only for a small casement window. A bench runs along the far wall like the ones at school, and I imagine Birchill anticipated a small gang of ground staff waiting to shower.

  I try the pull cord and the light comes on, followed by the extract fan a second later. At the washbasin, I'm about to turn on the taps when I pause. I glance at the basin and then the bench. "Adele, run your finger along the bench, will you?"

  She does as I ask and holds up a finger. "Dusty."

  "Do the same along the top of the shower cubicle."

  More dust. The top of the cistern above the toilet is also dusty, yet the basin and taps are clean. So is the flush handle of the toilet, and the inside of the bowl. I look a little closer, spotting a lime scale watermark. The water level has dropped lower in the past, probably from evaporation. It means someone has used the toilet recently.

  "The shower screen's polished to a shine," Adele says, peering in. She bends to examine the plug. "There are a few hairs in the plughole."

  Water runs from the basin taps, confirming that everything works. I find myself smiling, aware that Cheung's assertions are meaningless. Having seen the state of his house, I wonder if he uses the facilities here to keep clean.

  "Who uses the place?" she asks. "My father?"

  It makes sense. Whatever my reservations, he's the most likely person to have removed the guard and put it in the barn. Had the kitchen reeked of cigarette smoke I would have felt happier.

  "Let's get out of here," I say.

  After returning the key to its hiding place above the door, we weave our way between the mowers and tractors until we reach the entrance. I shield my eyes against the sunlight that streams through the doorway and step outside.

  Then I spot Danni.

  Sixteen

  By the look of contempt frozen on Danni's face, she hasn't come to award me Accident Investigator of the Year. The buttons on her jacket strain, especially when she slides a white envelope into an inside pocket.

  "Danni," I say, knowing I have to take the offensive. "Just the person I wanted to see. You'll never guess what I found."

  "Unless it's a miracle, Kent, I'd stop right there."

  Her fingers tug at the hem of her jacket. It could be a nervous reaction, but I doubt it. Her appearance here is no accident. She knew where I would be. That narrows down the list of people who could have told her to Birchill or Foley. I'm relieved it's not Gemma, who's standing a few paces behind. She looks like she wants to be anywhere but here.

  "I found the missing guard," I say, aware of Adele joining me. "And this is Mr Collins' daughter, Adele Havelock. She came to meet her father, unaware of his tragic accident. Naturally, she's a little upset at the moment."

  It's a lame attempt at emotional blackmail, but it's all I can muster.

  My boss straightens her jacket and steps forward. "Daniella Frost, Head of Environmental Health and Waste. Please accept my sympathies on your loss." The handshake is brief and perfunctory. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but why were you in the barn just now?"

  "Kent kindly showed me where my father died. It's just around the back of the barn. Have you seen it?"

  "You haven't answered my question," Danni replies, walking into the barn. She stops just inside the door and prods the nearest jerry can with her toe. "With all this petrol and machinery, it's not the safest place to be."

  "I wanted to see where my father worked," Adele says. "Kent kindly offered to show me."

  Danni turns to face us, almost smiling now. "He's good at helping women in distress. I can't imagine how you feel at the moment. It must be quite overwhelming."

  "It's devastating."

  "Devastating enough to spoil your lunch in The Cactus Grill? That explains why you left so quickly."

  Credit where credit's due, Danni has well and truly stitched me up. "Believe it or not, we left because the restaurant had a poor hygiene rating," I say.

  Danni laughs. "You're full of surprises, Kent. You disobey instructions, ignore procedures and break the rules, but you won't eat in a poorly rated restaurant."

  "It depends on who sets the standards
."

  "Oh, I think it's more a case of who enforces them, don't you?" Danni's smug grin tells me I'll be lucky to keep my job. "Leave us, Miss Havelock. This is an official investigation and we have confidential matters to discuss."

  Adele crosses her arms. "Are you taking over the investigation, Miss Frost?"

  "Operational matters are not your concern."

  "You're a manager, not an inspector. I'd like to know what experience you have to ensure my father's accident is properly investigated. I'm sure my readers will want to know too. They expect me to hold public officials to account."

  Danni tugs at the base of her jacket. "Which newspaper do you work for?

  "The Croydon Guardian."

  "I doubt if your readers in Croydon have heard of Downland."

  "They've heard of Miles Birchill."

  "Then let your readers know the investigation has concluded."

  As usual, my mouth ignores my brain. "It's not your investigation to conclude. I'm the inspector."

  "Are you now?" Danni's eyes are as cold as her voice. She strides past, directing me to follow with her finger. "We'll consider that back at the office."

  "No, we'll discuss it now."

  She stops and turns, tugging her unruly jacket down once more. "You know we don't discuss confidential matters with or in the presence of reporters."

  If she's about to discipline me, I'd like a witness—one with a loyal readership, I hope. I take my ID out of my back pocket. "Is this what you want, boss?"

  "Are you resigning?"

  Gemma finally looks at me, her eyes pleading with me.

  "No," I reply. "I want to know if you're going to take my authority away."

  She starts walking. "Then we continue this discussion in the office."

  "If you wanted to talk in the office, why did you bring that letter with you? The one in your jacket pocket," I add when she pauses. "Are you going to suspend me?"

  She turns, clearly struggling to keep her calm. "Why would I suspend you when I can dismiss you?"

  Full marks again. I wasn't expecting that. Unable to come up with a suitable response, I have no choice but to go after her. I push past Gemma and catch my boss as she reaches her Vauxhall Tigra.