No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  "If you're going to dismiss me, then do it now, Danni. I'm not returning to the office."

  She brushes my hand off her forearm. If looks could kill, I'd be joining Collins. At least I could ask him what really happened yesterday morning.

  "Do you want to add insubordination to your list of misdemeanours?" she asks, her voice even and restrained.

  "You mean it isn't already included?"

  "Have it your way." She plucks the letter from inside her jacket and slaps it into my palm. "Kent Fisher, you're suspended from duty with immediate effect. You withheld crucial information about your dealings with Miles Birchill. These cast doubt on your impartiality and suitability to investigate the accident."

  She holds up a second finger. "You ignored departmental procedures for impounding machinery, making your own private arrangements. You bullied staff at Tombstone Adventure Park to obtain information, which led to your final misdemeanour." She extends a fourth finger. "You entered the victim's house illegally."

  Even Gemma seems surprised by this final point. With only the slightest shake of her head, she indicates she did not tell Danni. That means either Artie or Ben Foley informed Birchill. No wonder he was keen for me to inspect the barn. He was setting me up. He must have enjoyed telling Danni about my activities.

  "Now I find you co-opting members of the press into your investigation. No, don't say anything," she says, raising a hand. "Save it for the meeting on Monday morning. As it's part of the formal disciplinary procedure, you can bring someone with you.

  "I'd strongly advise you not to say anything to her," she says, glancing at Adele, "but you've never taken my advice before, so ...." Her voice fades. She seems tired, or is she relieved the formalities are over? "Can I have your ID?"

  I hand her the card. "Take good care of it, because I intend to get it back."

  "Please stop the macho posturing, Kent. This isn't an adventure story. You've put us both in an impossible situation. Just give me your written authority, your notebook, and any documents you have relating to the investigation."

  "They're in my car."

  She looks about her. "And where is it?"

  "At Collins' house."

  "Gemma, go with Kent and collect everything. And forget the charm, Kent. I'm sure Gemma can now see you for what you are."

  "And what's that?"

  She doesn't rise to the provocation. "You will stay away from Tombstone Adventure Park and any of its employees. Is that clear?"

  She slides into her car, fires up the engine, and leaves an angry cloud of dust in her wake. Foley locks the barn doors and slides away.

  I push the letter into my pocket. "Come on, Gemma. Let's get this over with. I'm sure you'd rather be anywhere but here."

  "This isn't just about you, Kent. I've had a warning too."

  I raise a hand in apology.

  "I'm not allowed to talk to you," I tell Adele as she falls in beside me, "but could you confirm whether you overheard me being suspended from duty and banned from Tombstone?"

  She nods. "Of course you mustn't talk to the media. They might confuse things by putting their own slant on events. If they believe Miles Birchill is flaunting health and safety laws in the name of profit, who knows what they might infer?"

  While I need all the friends I can muster, I have to deal with Birchill on my own.

  We fall into silence on the walk across the clearing. Adele walks beside me, lost in her own thoughts, while Gemma hangs back a few paces. In some ways it might have been easier if she had betrayed me. Maybe then I could put aside my feelings and move on. But one look into those dark brown eyes and my resistance wavers. I don't want to lose my job, but it would help me put some distance between us.

  We soon emerge from the woods at Cheung's hovel. "A bit of care and attention and this could be a great place," Adele says, looking it over.

  "David Cheung, the man who found your father, lives here," I say.

  "I'd like to thank him, if you don't mind. It couldn't have been pleasant."

  I head down the front path and rap on the door. "He's probably working, but you never know. We can check around the back."

  "I'll leave a card," she says, following.

  The glass lean-to looks cool in the shade at the rear. The door slides open with a shudder and we step inside. The whiff of mould and decay is obvious. I rap on the door and peer through the window, but there's no sign of life.

  Adele reaches into her bag for a card and a pen. She rests the card on the lid of the chest freezer and scribbles a few words. "What's Cheung like?"

  "Disillusioned," I reply. "No, that's unfair. I'm sure the accident upset him more than he admits. He's like a lot of teenagers—he's no idea how to get what he wants."

  "You don't have to be a teenager to suffer from that," Gemma remarks.

  "Simply a man," Adele says. "Are we far from my father's?"

  "About five minutes," Gemma replies.

  "Then Cheung knew him."

  "Your father spent a lot of time in the pub," I say. "You'll learn more about him there."

  "Then we should go there."

  I ignore Gemma's smirk as we leave. My BlackBerry rings, giving me a few more moments to think of a good reason to avoid returning to the Game Cock. Maybe my friend, Mike, will give me that reason.

  "Everything's set for tonight," he says after the pleasantries. "Once we've delivered the equipment we can visit Hetty at the nursing home. He's going to search his archives for us and see what he can find."

  I should tell Mike I'm suspended, but I agree to meet him at seven. As we reach Collins' house, I wonder if DI Wainthropp can identify Collins' lover. If he can, I might discover the whereabouts of the autobiography.

  I'm tempted to hand the case to Dale Wensley now that Kent Fisher's suspended. "I've always fancied journalism," I tell Adele as we head down the side of the house to the rear. "I reckon I have an eye for a good story."

  "Or a nose," she says with a smile.

  She opens her Golf and sits inside while I collect my notebook and written authority from my car. I hand them to Gemma, who still looks troubled.

  "Is there something else?" I ask.

  "I had no idea Danni was going to suspend you. She rang and told me to meet her at the barn. As you didn't show for lunch, I guessed you might be there." Her voice drops to a whisper and she gestures at Adele. "I wasn't expecting you to be with her."

  "The moment Birchill found me on site, my days were numbered."

  "That's not what I meant, Kent."

  "Gemma, I knew the risks when I entered Tombstone. What's happened since makes no difference to the outcome. I took a chance and got found out. I'm only sorry you got dragged into this. I'll tell Danni you were following my instructions."

  She sighs. "I want to know who told her about yesterday afternoon."

  "What exactly does she know?"

  "She knows we took the train. She knows we were there without permission or a warrant. The person who interrupted us at the house must have told her."

  While I still think Birchill tipped off Danni, I'm confident Collins' lover was the one who interrupted Gemma and me. The lover removed the computer and all evidence of her presence in the house. Why would she draw attention to herself by ringing the Council to say we'd been nosing about the house? Why not contact Birchill so he could do the job for her?

  "We'll never know for sure," I say.

  "Doesn't that depend on what we find on the memory stick? Danni doesn't know about that because I told her nothing."

  There's something smug and triumphal in Gemma's expression as she turns away. With her nose in the air and a smile on her lips, she saunters away. Adele watches her go. "Is there something going on with you two?" she asks.

  I shake my head. "She'll make a good officer if she listens to her heart."

  "She might wind up suspended like you. The head has to prevail, Kent." She regards me as if she expects me to argue, or maybe agree. "And mine wants to know abou
t this memory stick."

  "Do you have a laptop?"

  "I never leave home without it."

  "Does it contain the emails your father sent you?"

  "Do you have the password for the chapters?"

  "No, I was hoping you did."

  She folds her arms, looking thoughtful. "What's on the memory stick?"

  "I'll let you know when I check it."

  Her chuckle confirms she doesn't believe me. "Well, if you happen to come across some emails with attachments that aren't blocked by passwords, maybe you'll let me know."

  "I might want to sell the story myself."

  "So, your attachments are password blocked. I thought so." She laughs and slips a business card into my hand. "Credit me with some intelligence, Kent. If you had my father's story, you wouldn't be asking if I had a laptop. With my intelligence and your determination, we might crack this one. What do you say? There could be a fat pay cheque if Birchill's laundry is really dirty."

  It's a tempting offer, especially if I lose my job, but I want Birchill to go to trial if he's responsible for Collins' death. "I don't do trial by media," I say.

  "Think about it," she says. "I'm not going back to Croydon till tomorrow. I'm booked into Birchill's swanky hotel. I'm hoping he'll tell me about my father. So, if you have a change of heart, come on over and have a drink."

  "Thanks, but I don't fancy driving over to Brighton."

  "Brighton? What are you talking about? You must have inspected Downland Manor Hotel near Tollingdon."

  Seventeen

  I feel sick. How could my father sell Downland Manor to Birchill? Why would he sell it to a man he hated? Was I asleep when all this happened?

  The questions run on a loop in my mind while I drive to Smugglers' Rest, my father's new home near Herstmonceux. He loathes Birchill and everything he represents. My father condemned the development of Tombstone Adventure Park. He opposed the relaxation of gambling laws that allowed Birchill's casinos to lead people into debt and despair. My father accused Birchill of 'getting rich on the debts of the poor.'

  Yet I can't dispel the doubts raised by the emails Collins exchanged with my father.

  I think back to the sale of Downland Manor, five years ago. One minute we lived there, the next we didn't. Even my stepmother, Niamh, seemed surprised when he announced the deal over breakfast. No warnings, no estate agents, no delays. While the house was crumbling and derelict in many places, it had stood for centuries, the last in a long line of settlements that dated back to the Magna Carta. Downland Manor and the Fishers were as much a part of the land as the South Downs.

  I didn't care at the time. The sale gave me fifty acres of meagre pasture on the eastern edge of the estate. The overgrown fields stretched from the A27 to woodland at the foot of the South Downs. I cleared the land, added paddocks, and upgraded the barn to create a home and my animal sanctuary. I didn't appreciate the importance of the narrow dirt track that connected the sanctuary to the main road until the hotel owners sought planning permission to build a holiday village in the woods that adjoin mine. The woods couldn't be accessed from the hotel. The development needed my track and land for access.

  I've turned down ridiculous amounts of money for my land. Had I known Miles Birchill was the man offering the money, I might not have rushed into Tombstone. The prospect of prosecuting him blinded me. Now I know why he offered only a token resistance to my investigation. When he let me inspect the barn, I should have known he was softening me up.

  If I lose my job, I lose my sanctuary.

  When I arrive at Smugglers' Rest, I'm relieved my father's Jaguar isn't on the drive. I don't need him telling me how stupid I've been.

  The house overlooks the mist-covered marshes, once crossed by smugglers heading inland from the south coast. When the wind whips up in autumn and winter, it's wonderfully bleak. I can almost hear the calls of ghostly smugglers as they tread a careful path between life and death, their lanterns flickering in the mist.

  Though designed to look like a timber framed Tudor mansion, the house was built long after the smugglers faded into history. It's a faithful homage to the period, built with second hand bricks and tiles, but it's let down by double glazed leaded windows and decorative oak beams across the ceilings. The rooms are too square and the floors too even. The chimneys that bookend the roof lack the ornate brickwork and pots of the period.

  It's the kind of deception Birchill approves of.

  As Frances likes to remind me, my father made millions out of the sale of Downland Manor and bought a modest replacement. I don't fancy moving here if I lose the sanctuary, but at least it has central heating.

  I stride past a sprawling bed of lazy fuchsias, across an unkempt lawn pretending to be a wild flower garden, and slip around to the back of the house. In the doorway, Niamh waits, an apron tied around her slender waist and flour dusting her cheeks. She smells of hot scones, smothered in melting butter, when I embrace her. Her thick black hair, carelessly gathered into a loose knot, comes loose as I kiss her cheek. She sweeps it back with white fingers, leaving streaks of flour.

  "I've forgotten what you look like," she says, looking me over with blue-green eyes that glint with humour and mischief. "Why didn't you ring to say you were paying a surprise visit?"

  "It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, would it?"

  "Oh, it would be a surprise to be told." She pulls back and notices the flour on my shirt. When she tries to brush it off with her hands, my shirt grows whiter. "For here am I, wondering whether it's me you're interested in or my buns."

  I sniff the aroma that's wafting down the hall. "I crave your muffins, but it's your wheaten bread that makes me go weak."

  Her father ran a small confectionery shop in Moy, near Dungannon in Northern Ireland. He taught his only daughter to bake cakes and bread at an early age. At seventeen, she came to London to work in a patisserie. When the company supplied cakes and pastries for a tea party in Downing Street, she met my father. It was love at first bite, by all accounts.

  "Walk this way," she says, swinging her hips as she heads down the hall in her leggings and slipper socks. She leads me past her watercolour paintings of the Seven Sisters, Beachy Head and Alfriston High Street, but her studies of Downland Manor are not on display. To my left, the utility and laundry rooms overlook the back garden. To my right, the doors lead to the living and dining rooms, filled with antique furniture from Downland Manor. None of it looks comfortable with the fake beams, but then again, neither does my father.

  She veers left into the kitchen. "William won't be home until late."

  "No problem. I came to see you."

  The vast kitchen combines contemporary beech fronted cupboards and cabinets, topped with black composite worktops, with a traditional farmhouse table and chairs. A chaos of food mixers, bowls, oven trays and bags of flour and sugar form a procession to the deep Belfast sink. Despite the AA rated dishwasher in the adjoining utility room, there's no substitute for washing up by hand.

  "And why would you be wanting to see me?" she asks, pressing a finger gently on a dark fruit cake.

  "Your muffins look wonderful," I remark, nodding to the wire racks on the table. She's baked muffins, scones and shortbread. The wheaten bread is in the Aga by the smell of things.

  Her hands go to her hips. "If you're going to prevaricate, I might as well freshen up. Call me when you're ready."

  "No, wait."

  I pick up a tea towel and go to the draining board to dry a couple of mugs. I'm not sure what to say about the sale of Downland Manor. Does she know Birchill bought the place? My father never told me, so, did he lie to her? If I blurt out what I know, she might react badly.

  "Did my father mention I was investigating a work accident at Tombstone Adventure Park?"

  "In passing," she replies. She stretches to take a Japanese-looking tea caddy from a wall cupboard. When she puts the caddy down on the worktop, her blouse gapes where a button has come undone, revealing a fl
ash of lilac bra. She notices where I'm looking and sighs. "You looked at me like that when you first arrived at Downland," she says, fastening the button. "You were seventeen. You don't seem to have matured in the intervening years."

  She's seven years older than me, but she looks much younger. We get on well, sharing similar tastes in music and books, though our politics are miles apart. We can laugh and joke in a way I can never manage with my father.

  I point to the cuddly toy on the windowsill. "Scooby Doo's mature, isn't he?"

  "You're only jealous," she says in a singsong voice. "So, what brings you here?"

  I fill the kettle with water while I consider my response. "A man named Syd Collins died yesterday morning in the accident." I pause, studying her reaction. Her eyes widen for a moment at the mention of the name. "He worked for Miles Birchill. He also knew my father."

  She squeezes past me and opens the Aga to check the bread. The smell is amazing. "Your father knows more people than the Pope," she says. "It's his job to represent the people of Downland."

  "Collins asked my father for help."

  "That's what they do—all of them. Sometimes at the strangest hours."

  "Why would a handyman, working for Birchill, want my father's help?"

  She places the tray on top of the Aga. "Are you asking because he's a handyman, or because he works for Miles Birchill?"

  "Both. He's not the type to seek help."

  "We all need help, even you, Kent Fisher. What kind of help was Collins wanting?"

  "He wanted my father to use his influence."

  She bends and studies the loaves. "And did he?"

  "No, he refused."

  "Then why are you here?"

  The smile and the humour in her eyes do little to dull the sharpness in her voice. For someone who likes to appear a little naïve, she'd make a better politician than my father.

  I drop a tea bag into each mug while I wait for the kettle to boil. "I didn't expect my father to deal with Birchill's hired muscle," I say.