No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  "They're all constituents."

  "But he hates Birchill."

  "Miles is an influential person and a generous donor. He owns property and employs lots of people. William has to deal with him."

  "He didn't have to sell Downland Manor to him, did he?"

  The uneasy silence stretches out until the kettle boils. Niamh stares at the floor, winding a tea towel tight around her finger, like she's staunching a bleed. Finally, she looks up.

  "He didn't tell you, did he?"

  I shake my head.

  "And you never guessed, obviously." She forces some rebellious hair behind her ear. The tension in her face transfers to her voice. "What can I say? We needed a quick sale."

  She looks at me and sighs. "Don't be angry. We owed so much money."

  I'm not sure if I'm angry with my father for what he did, or for not telling me. He gave me the land for a sanctuary and made it a noble cause. While I occupy the only Fisher land left, the woodlands beyond are safe.

  "I owe money, Niamh."

  She wraps her hands around mine. "We'll support you. You know that."

  "Only if I drop the accident investigation. Or didn't he tell you that?"

  "You shouldn't have started it, Kent."

  I pull my hand away, sensing I'm not going to get any sympathy. As far as she's concerned, I got some land while she lost everything. If I make a loss, she has to cover it. If that makes me an ungrateful, selfish stepson, there's not much I can do about it.

  I pour water into the mugs and mash the tea bags. "Had I known Birchill was my next door neighbour, maybe I would have left it alone."

  "Would you?" Niamh brings some milk from the fridge. Her hands tremble as she slops too much milk into the tea, splashing it over the worktop. Cursing, she grabs the tea towel. "You have to drop the investigation," she says, dabbing the spill. "For all our sakes."

  "Too late. He's already complained about me."

  Niamh tosses the tea towel aside and stares at me as if I'm the world's most difficult teenager. With a shake of the head, she takes the milk and thuds the bottle back into the fridge. "Your father will sort it out," she says, but her voice lacks conviction. "He still has influence."

  I take one of the mugs and select the biggest muffin on the cake rack. It's still warm and soft, like the buttered toast on the day my father told me about the land he'd given me. I had so many dreams, so many plans, I barely heard him when he said he'd sold Downland Manor.

  "Why didn't he tell me he'd sold to Birchill?" I ask.

  "The estate thrived under previous generations and he'd let them down. All that history, all those lives and struggles, all for nothing." She pauses as I bite into the muffin, waiting to see my reaction before continuing. "He was also selling your inheritance. He felt embarrassed."

  I don't believe her, but it's my father I need to confront. That means I need information. I need to go into his study and find out what kind of relationship he had with Birchill and Collins. As the last mouthful of muffin disappears down my throat, I have an idea.

  "I've been less than honest about why I called," I say. "Birchill's claiming he bought my land with the rest of the estate. He says he was misled and intends to challenge the contract."

  "Our solicitors excluded your land, Kent. If Miles and his solicitors forgot to check, that's his outlook."

  "I'd feel happier if I could take a quick look at the deeds and contract. Dad keeps them in his study."

  "We'll both look," she says to my dismay. "It'll be quicker, for sure."

  I find a smile from somewhere when what I really need is an excuse to search alone. As if by magic, the phone rings in the hall. It's her mother in Northern Ireland. That should mean lots of gossip. Her accent grows stronger by the second, especially when she learns one of her nieces has given birth to a baby girl.

  The study is nothing like the one in Downland Manor, which had oak panels, ornate cornices and a fresco ceiling. Everything was handmade, including the floor to ceiling bookcases that hid a secret passage. The smell of wood and beeswax, the unbroken rows of old books, and the reverential atmosphere suggested a place of great knowledge and understanding. It was a place where people made decisions of great importance and effect. Cabinet ministers, lords and military figures had all gathered there at various times throughout history.

  I can't quite imagine such a gathering in this room of self-assembly furniture.

  The old volumes and tomes that smelt of antiquity have given way to paperback collections of Dick Francis and box sets of series like The West Wing. I leave the door open an inch before heading to the beech laminate desk. Though tempted to boot up the PC, I don't want Niamh to catch me checking his emails. I shouldn't know his password, of course, but the prints of Winston Churchill that line the walls mean anyone could hazard a reasonable guess. Only my father's favourite photograph with Margaret Thatcher could tempt someone to guess the wrong password.

  I drop into the leather swivel chair and check the three drawer pedestal to my right. The top one contains the usual chaos of stationery—scissors, envelopes, staples, pens and rulers, business cards, and notebooks. The cheque book tells me he's changed banks, and the loyalty card for Costa Coffee speaks for itself. The middle drawer contains screen wipes, bubble jet inks for the printer, a box of staples, paper clips and plenty of those clear plastic wallets that people buy and seldom use.

  The creak of a floorboard in the hall has me padding to the door. It's silent and empty in the hall. Straining, I hear Niamh giggle. She's retreated to the kitchen. Relieved, I return to the desk. The bottom drawer contains various telephone directories.

  Wondering where he keeps personal belongings, I head over to the bookcases. While I like Dick Francis and Ruth Rendell, I wish he'd brought the books from Downland— especially the Sherlock Holmes collection that started my interest in detective fiction and crime stories. I remove a Shakespeare or two, a Thomas Hardy, and several box sets, hoping to find a letter tucked away, but there's nothing. Back in the leather chair, I stare out of the window, wondering if I've missed something. Where has he put the filing cabinets that contained family papers and heirlooms, historical diaries and documents?

  More out of boredom than desperation, I open the top drawer once more. I remove most of the stationery and check the corners of the drawer. As I return a cellophane pack of envelopes, they spill out and cascade to the floor. With a sigh, I drop to my knees. As I scoop them up, a faded business card falls out. It belongs to Mandy Cheung, Hospitality Manager at the Ace of Hearts Club in Brighton. The font and typeface suggest the card is old. The lack of an email address confirms this. The big red heart behind the address is more singles club than casino.

  Did the card snag between envelopes or was it hidden there?

  I turn the card. The handwriting's feminine and confident, neat and flowing, with flamboyant loops and swirls.

  'Take a chance with me,' it says. 'I'm worth the risk.'

  Eighteen

  I drive straight home, my thoughts going round in circles.

  I keep returning to the same question. Would my father have an affair when he had a beautiful young wife who doted on him? For all I know, Mandy Cheung could have given her card to another man, who slid it inside some envelopes that were later given to my father.

  But I know I'm making excuses. The envelopes are his. That's the most likely conclusion. It means Mandy Cheung gave him her card. He kept it because she meant something to him. What other conclusion is there?

  On the rare occasions my mother spoke about him, she claimed he had several affairs after she became pregnant with me. Normally, I would dismiss anything she told me as a malicious lie, but what if she was right on this occasion? What if my father had an affair with Mandy? What if there's a link between the affair and the sale of Downland Manor?

  There's certainly a link between my father and Collins. Their emails show they were more than MP and constituent. From Collins it's only a step to Birchill, who owned
the Ace of Hearts. Before long, he could own my sanctuary too.

  No wonder Mike teases me about conspiracy theories.

  I keep running through this loop, determined to find the flaws in the logic, but all I do is strengthen the feeling in my gut that I don't know my father at all.

  When I arrive home a little before four, I stop in the lane to take stock of what I could lose. The merciless sun may be pounding the roof of the barn and desiccating the timber in the paddock fences, but they remain defiant. The gentle South Downs are still cloaked in grass despite the lack of moisture. They have withstood the worst of nature for millions of years, buckling only to the sea that undermines the cliffs.

  I have to save my sanctuary and the animals it shelters. Where would Frances go if I close the place? Where would I find someone who cares so much but asks for so little?

  As I draw to a halt, she emerges from the kennels with Columbo at her heels. He pauses for a moment, tilts his head, and then wags his tail so fast he could generate electricity for the national grid. He bounds over to me and paws my legs, demanding attention. I sink to my knees to fuss him.

  "Has he been with you all day?"

  She nods. "You're early."

  Most days I'm not home until at least six, thanks to the backlog of work I never seem to clear. Frances is still working. It bothers me, but not enough to make me come home earlier, I'm ashamed to say.

  "We made good progress," I say.

  "You and Gemma."

  There's no emotion in her face or her voice, but I sense friction. "And my boss."

  "Has Birchill broken the law?" Frances asks after an awkward silence.

  "He pulled out his usual box of tricks to convince Danni he wasn't responsible. Has my father phoned?"

  She shakes her head.

  He hasn't heard about my suspension yet. "Is everything okay here?"

  "The same as when you left this morning."

  Though she smiles to temper her sarcasm, I can't help feeling she doesn't believe me. When did I last return home early? What if my father has called and told her what happened? She'll know I'm lying, making my situation worse.

  My flat's the same as it was this morning. A week's worth of dust covers everything. For someone who spends his working life advising businesses to be clean and hygienic, this is embarrassing. But I've more important things to do than clean. Who's going to notice anyway? Who comes here other than Frances?

  Gemma visited the previous evening. Mike will be along later.

  With a sigh, I retrieve the cereal bowls and cups that poke through the murky water and place them in the dishwasher. Then I attack every visible surface with antibacterial cleaner. Columbo, who follows me everywhere, pounces on the cloth when it falls to the floor. Then he tastes the cleaner and spits it out in disgust, but it doesn't dampen his enthusiasm. He tails me to the bathroom, where I spend half an hour removing lime scale and smears from the shower cubicle. I won't say what I cleared out of the plug hole.

  I had hoped cleaning would distract me, but I can't stop thinking about my father's deceptions and the troubles I'm facing. I need to clear my mind. The best way to find a solution is to stop thinking about the problem. Let the subconscious work on it in the background and release the answer when it's ready.

  I need a long run over the Downs to start the process.

  Once I put the cloth and cleaning fluids away, I change into shorts and vest. Though it's hot, I pull on compression socks before slipping into my Mizuno trainers. While I fill a bottle with chilled water from the fridge, my BlackBerry rings.

  "Good afternoon, Mr Fisher. How are we today?"

  The unmistakable drawl of Thomas Hardy Logan, editor of the Tollingdon Tribune, masks his excitement at the prospect of some meaty news. In his late fifties, he's a frustrated hack, sensationalising local news. His rambling style and dry wit are more suited to a parish magazine, but he seems to find at least one scandal a week to interest people. Birchill and my father often feature, but the son of the local MP offers far more possibilities.

  "A little bird tells me you have more free time on your hands than usual."

  "I thought you ran a newspaper, not an aviary," I say.

  "You missed your true vocation, Mr Fisher. You could have had them rolling in the aisles with your wit. Instead, you claim to protect our residents by closing down food businesses that lack paperwork."

  He's never forgiven me for downgrading his favourite takeaway and restaurant. When spotted dining there, a rival reporter vilified him as a hypocrite. From that day, he changed his tune about the hygiene ratings and claimed it was an unfair burden on business.

  "Had you closed down Tombstone, you would have saved Sydney Collins."

  "It's down to Birchill to comply with the law," I say.

  "Can I quote you on that, Mr Fisher, Environmental Health Manager?"

  "I'm simply telling you the employer is responsible for complying with the law, not the inspector. You could quote that, but I can't comment at the moment."

  "Is that because you're no longer investigating the death?"

  "No, Tommy, it's because my manager, Danni, deals with the media."

  "Daniella Frost, the Ice Maiden," he says in a tone that suggests he'd like to melt her. "As she won't return my calls, I could resort to the reporter's stock in trade response of speculating. However, you could ensure I don't misrepresent you in the town's favourite read."

  "You'll write whatever you want whether I speak to you or not."

  His laugh lacks humour, but he's enjoying himself. "Then permit me to speculate, Mr Fisher. If you are investigating a work death that involves our favourite entrepreneur, why are you at home?" When I don't respond, he says, "The normally charming Kelly was unusually offhand earlier. My nose is twitching."

  "You mean your beak, surely, with all the little birds you mix with."

  He sighs as though he's done his best to save me. "My next call will be to Ben Foley at Tombstone. He has no qualms about talking to me, bless him."

  For all I know, he spoke to Foley before he rang me. "Tommy, what if I said there might be a better story next week?"

  "I'm all ears, dear boy."

  I clear my throat to give me a few more seconds to put my thoughts in order. "You know Birchill owns Downland Manor Hotel. Have you ever wondered how he could afford to buy my father's estate, renovate the manor and build Tombstone in the same year? We're talking millions."

  Tommy purrs like a contented cat. "Are you going to tell me?"

  "I'm asking you how he did it."

  "I'm surprised you haven't spoken to your old flame, Tara McNamara. She was running the estate at the time. And," he says, his voice drooling, "she opened her own hotel, didn't she?"

  I can't believe I never thought of Tara. What's wrong with me?

  "You'll be the first to know, Tommy. Early next week, I promise."

  "Don't leave me waiting," he says. "I want to know why you were suspended."

  He ends the call, leaving me with a smile. As much as I want to dislike the man, I enjoy bantering with him. To be fair, he's treated me well over the years, taking my side when Birchill won his injunction against me. That was a few months after he started Tombstone. He helped Tara buy her hotel, if I'm reading Tommy's hints correctly. Does that mean she helped him buy Downland Manor?

  Columbo nudges my leg the moment I put the phone down. I lift him so he can look through the windows. His ears prick as he studies the scene below. After a minute, I put him down and make a cup of tea before ringing Kelly. Her voice changes to a whisper when I introduce myself.

  "She's hovering. Can you ring back?"

  Among the background chatter, Danni's voice is clear and confident as she directs the team.

  "Kelly, I need the name of the food business operator, and the phone number for the Brigadier public house near Mayfield."

  I can hear the tap of her keyboard and the click of her mouse as she speaks. "Yes, you'll need to register the business,
" she says. "You can download the form from our website and... oh, you don't have the internet, Mr Townsend. Okay, I'll call you Peter. You're the new owner of the Brigadier Public House, Mayfield."

  She rattles off the postcode and, most importantly, the phone number, and says, "I'll post the registration form to you."

  "Thanks, Kelly, you're a star."

  "You know where I am if you need me," she whispers.

  A few moments later, I'm talking to Peter Townsend. He's one of those people who know everything because he's run so many businesses over the years. Most of them failed, disputing the adage that you learn from your mistakes.

  "I don't know if you remember, Mr Townsend, but I visited you at the White Horse Hotel near Alfriston before it closed down. Kent Fisher."

  He clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Yeah, I remember you. You came barging in when we had that food poisoning outbreak at a wedding reception. No one proved it was my fault, but the bastards tried to sue me, you know. They ruined my reputation so they could screw me for every penny I had." He laughs. "Well, I had the last laugh, didn't I? I closed the business down."

  My recollection of events doesn't quite tally with his, but it's irrelevant. "That's right," I say, remembering how it took him two years to sell the place. "You waited a couple of years to sell so they wouldn't find out."

  "There's not many health inspectors understand how to run a successful business," he says. "You had another complaint about me?"

  "No, I need to get in touch with the woman who bought the place from you. She liked horses, and had a name that rhymed."

  "Tara McNamara, wasn't it? Good looking woman, as I recall. Shame she was in a wheelchair or I could have gone for her. Mind you, she was as hard as nails. She haggled me down to just under a million and paid cash."

  "Cash?"

  "Compensation for her accident, she said, but I didn't care about that, did I? All I wanted was a fair price for a hotel in prime condition and location, but how do you argue with a woman in a wheelchair? It's hardly fair, is it?"

  I bite back a response and draw breath. "Isn't it unusual to pay cash in these days of money laundering?"