No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  If Tara proves stubborn, the poor hygiene might give me leverage.

  The tanned kitchen porter with a snake tattoo on his forearm points me out to a young man in whites, nonchalantly breaking eggs into a large bowl. Like many chefs, he has a small, grubby towel, hanging from his waist.

  Chef discards the broom and lumbers up, muscles straining the seams of his whites. He's unshaven, apart from his head, and sports several studs in each ear. "Who are you?" he demands, blocking my path.

  I hold up my notebook. "Dale Wensley, freelance reporter and mystery shopper. Tara employs me to carry out undercover hygiene checks."

  "Then how come I ain't seen you before?"

  "There wouldn't be much mystery if you knew me."

  This seems to confuse him. "What do you want?"

  He's already granted my first wish by stopping his singing. "I'm here to make sure your guests get safe food," I reply, running my finger along the underside of a worktop. I hold up the greasy digit.

  "I don't prepare food under there, do I? I ain't poisoned no one, neither."

  "You're doing all the right things to change that," I say.

  He steps closer. "Are you trying to be funny?"

  His young colleague hurries over. The smell of testosterone overpowers the aroma of tomatoes and chillies on the stove. Unimpressed, I point to a pan, boiling over on the stove. "You might want to deal with that."

  Chef rushes across and grabs the metal handles, forgetting how hot they are. He curses and drops the pan, spilling more water. The gas flames hiss and struggle. Some of the boiling water cascades onto his trainers, making him jump back. Thankfully, the kitchen porter turns off the gas. Armed with a tea towel, he lifts the pan to an adjoining ring.

  I use the distraction to slip into the dining room, which has also seen better days. While clean and pleasant, the walls have faded to the colour of parchment. Silver adhesive tape repairs wounds to the carpet. Old salt and pepper pots prop up tired breakfast menus. I walk the length of the stainless steel server, littered with crispy bacon pieces and dried baked beans.

  A waitress with piercing East European eyes intercepts me. She has an athletic build, highlighted by the tightness of her skirt and a blouse stretched over a well-filled bra. Her small, delicate face would improve with a smile, but I'm guessing Olga's paid the minimum wage and bored senseless.

  "You want something?" she asks.

  "Decaffeinated coffee for two, please."

  "You have a friend?"

  "Miss McNamara," I reply, glancing up at the security camera. In her suite, Tara has a bank of monitors so she can watch every part of the hotel. She must have spotted me by now.

  While Olga's in the kitchen, I stroll over to a table by the window. I part the mouldy net curtains to look out at the half empty car park. A hotel that offers riding holidays for the disabled needs stables, horses, qualified trainers and helpers, and a high occupancy rate to make a profit.

  An older man in a suit enters the dining room. He pauses only to straighten his black jacket. "Miss McNamara will see you in her suite, Mr Fisher. She wishes to know if your visit is social or antisocial."

  "I'll tell her myself if you'll bring the coffee."

  "I'll have someone do that."

  I thought he might. Once he's in the kitchen, I nip down the corridor and take the service lift to the top floor, where the staff quarters nestle in the roof. Tara's suite occupies the southern wing. Like the woman herself, it's functional. White, unadorned walls, a brown, heavy-duty carpet, and industrial steel furniture create a practical but unwelcoming atmosphere. The desk that engulfs the centre of the room contains only a PC, printer and telephone to allow her an unhindered view of the security monitors.

  "Look what the cat dragged in."

  Tara propels her wheelchair into the room. She's piled on a few kilos since my last visit, but it hasn't softened her face. There's something cold and cynical in the way her pale blue eyes regard me. She's bleached her hair blonde and dragged it into a flimsy ponytail, secured with a red bulldog clip that's as garish as her hastily applied lipstick.

  "Do I get a kiss?" she asks. "I haven't seen you for years."

  I buzz her cheek and straighten up. She grabs my hand in a firm grip and pulls me back. "That's not a kiss."

  "This isn't a social call."

  "Is that why you were in my kitchen?"

  "Your chef needs singing lessons."

  "He needs cooking lessons too."

  The laughter's polite, considering how long we've known each other. The fun-loving, vitriolic Tara has given in to weariness and apathy.

  "You've let the place go," I say. "That's not like you."

  Her voice rises. "Everyone complains these days. The water in the therapy pool's too hot or too cold. The towels are too rough. The shower gel isn't for sensitive skin. The beds are too lumpy. The beds are too soft." She makes a frustrated growling sound. "What the hell do people want?"

  "High standards, excellent service, and an experience you'll remember for years to come."

  She sticks two fingers up at me as I quote her mission statement. "I'm sure you didn't come here to mock me, Kent. What do you want?"

  "As an EHO, I'm duty bound to deal with the contraventions I've witnessed." I stroll around the desk and over to the window to let her think about this. "How I deal with them depends on what you tell me. For instance," I say, turning to face her, "the hotel next door to me wants to buy my land."

  She shrugs. "What's that got to do with me?"

  "You dealt with them when you were estate manager."

  "I didn't."

  "What about when my father sold Downland?"

  "That was a private sale. Nothing to do with me. I lost my job, remember?"

  "That's how you bought this place. You got redundancy. Wow, that was some pay off."

  "Here's the coffee," she says, pointing to the monitor. In the corridor outside a young man with tousled black hair and stubble carries a silver tray. He struts into the room like a matador, winking at Tara as he makes a grand sweep through the air with the tray. He sets it on the desk without spilling a drop of coffee or cream.

  "Would sir like me to pour?" he asks in a Mediterranean accent.

  "I can manage, thank you."

  "Then I will pour for the lady," he says, eyeing her with lust. "She likes me to pamper her."

  She shakes her head. "Leave us, please."

  "Enjoy your coffee, sir," he says, as if he's put poison in it. "I will be back to collect the tray shortly."

  Tara grins as she watches him leave. "You're not the only one who can shag waiting staff, you know. He's hung like a donkey."

  "And you're making an ass of yourself."

  "Bitch!" she says, making a cat scratch in the air.

  I take her a black coffee, keen to get the conversation back on track. "So, we'll assume your redundancy payment didn't cover the asking price for the hotel. Who put the balance up?"

  "Why the sudden interest? You never cared before."

  "I'm wondering how long your backer will allow you to haemorrhage money."

  "I'm not losing money."

  "The hotel's half empty, Tara. You haven't spent a penny on maintenance for years. Someone's footing the bill. Miles Birchill, maybe?"

  She'd make a formidable poker player. Without a hint of emotion, she remains silent, sipping her coffee from time to time. "I didn't get redundancy," she says finally, "whatever your father told you. I had a legacy from my aunt."

  "And compensation from your accident, right?"

  "What compensation?" She bangs the cup down, sloshing coffee over the desk. "When I broke my back, I wanted to die. Your father promised to look after me. He said I was the daughter he'd never had. He would find the best doctors in the land to repair me. He would make sure I wanted for nothing.

  "When the NHS gave up on me, he told me to claim from his insurance company. They would settle out of court, he said. Like a fool, I believed him."

>   I recall my father going out of his way to help her. He got someone to drive her to physiotherapy twice a week. He employed a nurse in the early stages. Then as the realisation that she would never walk took root, he paid builders to adapt a bungalow near the Manor for wheelchair use.

  "The insurance company refused to accept liability, so I got a solicitor," she says, her voice barely containing her anger. "We had enough medical evidence to beat them on every count, but they fought dirty. They got people from the estate to say I was reckless, racing horses through the gardens, jumping them over fences and gates like I was riding the Grand National."

  "But you did," I say, remembering it well.

  "They didn't have to stitch me up though," she cries. "What difference did it make to them? I was the one whose life was shattered. I lost my mobility, my freedom and my marriage. What did they lose?"

  I don't answer. Nothing I can say will change her mind. She's stuck in the past, blaming everyone but herself. I feel saddened, knowing how full of life she had been.

  "The judge awarded a substantial sum in compensation," she says, her voice low. "Then he took most of it away for contributory negligence. Have you any idea how devastating that was?"

  "Why did you tell me you'd won?"

  "Come on, Kent! Why do you think? I told you I loved you once."

  "Yeah, the night before your wedding."

  "You're so straight, Kent. That's your trouble. If you'd suffered like me, you'd know morals don't pay bills. They don't set you on your feet when your back's broken. They don't buy you a hotel so you can help disabled children."

  "So, who did?"

  She wheels up to the desk and starts using her computer. After several mouse clicks, she beckons me over. The image on the screen shows her having sex with the waiter who'd just left.

  "I've got cameras everywhere," she says. "Miles installed them for me. Like me, he was set up by your father."

  I shake my head. "He stole from my father. His fingerprints were on everything. But my father made the police drop the charges."

  "Then how did Miles get a suspended sentence? I can show you, if you don't believe me. It's a matter of public record."

  "It would have been wiped years ago, Tara. He's misled you too."

  I turn away as she double clicks the image and starts playing the video, enlarging it to full screen. It's sad the way bitterness has corrupted her. I don't want to be in the same room with her now.

  "I don't have any videos of us," she calls as I head for the door. "Nor your father. He visited me regularly before I became a cripple."

  I should keep walking, but how can I? She's planted an unwanted image in my head. How can I look at my father again without seeing an image of him astride Tara?

  "Your father's a politician, Kent. Lying, deception and adultery come as standard. He hasn't told you the truth since you returned home."

  Her cynical, triumphant smile taunts me. She wants me to get angry and lash out. It takes all my will to resist.

  "If you're talking about Mandy Cheung," I say through gritted teeth, "I already know."

  "I wasn't," she says, "but he told me about her. Miles sorted it out, of course."

  "Like a regular good Samaritan. Then, with your help, he forced my father to sell Downland Manor."

  I'm half way down the corridor before she calls out. "Miles didn't buy Downland Manor—your father gave it to him."

  Twenty-Two

  She slams the door as I rush back. "Downland Manor was worth millions. Why would my father give it away?"

  "Why don't you ask him?"

  I pound the door with my fist. It takes me about five seconds to realise I'll need a battering ram to get through. Made of oak, with simple but elegant panels, the door will be there long after I've shuffled off. In the absence of an axe, I try my shoulder.

  "Stop, please!" The waiter steps closer. Though his hands are raised, his eyes tell me he's happy to take me on if I don't stop. "How will it look if you frighten a woman in a wheelchair? Come downstairs and I get you a drink."

  I brush past him, keen to speak to my father. If he was blackmailed, he should report it to the police. Birchill won't expect that.

  Blackmail? The significance of the word fails to register until I'm back in my car. I can't believe how stupid I've been. "You prize idiot! You let Tara wind you up and you lost all reason. You idiot, Fisher!"

  Fifteen to twenty years separate my father's assault on Mandy Cheung and Birchill acquiring Downland Manor. Would Birchill wait that long to claim his reward for hushing up the assault? I doubt it. So, why did my father give away his home?

  The answer still eludes me when I reach Tollingdon Community Centre at 12:35. Between ten and one, my father holds his monthly surgery for constituents here. Today, he's sharing the venue with an indoor market. After a frustrating 10 minutes looking for a parking space in the town centre, I find one near the cattle market and walk back.

  I push through the glass doors of the Community Centre into a melee of shoppers armed with bacon sandwiches and cups of tea. I take the stairs to the first floor and push through the fire doors. The seats outside the committee rooms are empty. Normally, there's a queue of people, waiting to see my father. Inside the anteroom I find my father's agent, Victor Lewis, browsing the Argos website.

  "Braziers burn secret documents much better than gas barbecues," I say, studying the screen. "You don't strike me as the outdoor catering type, Victor. I can't imagine you shopping for burgers and chicken drumsticks." I peer into the empty committee room. "Did my father wrap up early, or have you sent him to get the burgers?"

  "Your father rushed out of here like Lord Lucan on his way to catch a ferry," he replies, pouting like a drama queen. "I had to send everyone home, of course. Lead balloon barely describes the situation."

  "Why did he rush out, Victor?"

  "He received a text." He emphasises the last word as if it's the cause of all the world's evils. "Mrs Christie told me after he left. Her neighbour has a ghastly 30-foot-high Leylandii hedge, you know. Why isn't that a criminal offence?"

  "Did my father say anything before he left?"

  "It's over."

  "What's over?"

  "No, that's what he said—it's over. At first, I thought he meant his surgery was finished for the day. Well, it's a logical deduction, but he rushed out in the middle of Mrs Christie's story. Mind you, she tends to ramble."

  Outside, I look for my father's Jaguar and then ring his mobile—twice. On both occasions, the phone goes straight to voicemail. I leave an innocuous message for him to contact me. Back in the car, I ring Niamh.

  "Did you text my father earlier?" I ask when she picks up.

  "Good afternoon, Kent," she says in her soft Irish lilt. "Yes, I'm fine and dandy, thank you. And you?"

  "Niamh, he dashed out in the middle of his surgery after receiving a text."

  "What were you doing at William's surgery?"

  The question catches me off guard. I can hardly repeat Tara's poisonous views. "I called in to collect money for the sanctuary. We have some overdue bills, so can you ask him to ring me when he gets home?"

  "We're off to Glyndebourne this afternoon."

  "It's urgent, Niamh."

  "It always is."

  I put my phone down, puzzled by her abrupt tone. Nothing fazes or upsets her. She breezes through life with a smile and a cheery word, enchanting all who meet her. Today, she wasn't surprised or interested in my father's early departure.

  I drum my fingers on the dashboard, sensing I'm way off the pace. Everything's happened so fast. In the space of two days, my father has gone from loathing Miles Birchill to giving him Downland Manor. In the same period, Sydney Collins has gone from accident to murder victim.

  Are the two connected?

  Only Mike's bullshit detector can tell me if I've lost all reason.

  When he doesn't answer his phone, I decide to visit anyway. He could be in the pub, having lunch, or he could be dozi
ng on the sofa. I take the old A27 that runs north of Eastbourne and through Westham village. Usually, it's the quickest route, but road works at Pevensey Castle have generated a long, impatient queue. With windows down and my arm on the sill, I look at the crumbling stone walls that have stood since William the Conqueror invaded England in 1066. The Fishers were already at Downland and managed to retain their land by serving the new king and marrying his barons.

  With my small plot, I'm the last in the unbroken occupation of the land.

  The overwhelming responsibility sweeps over me, filling me with doubt and apprehension. I need to find my father, and fast.

  "The fat lady hasn't sung yet," I remind myself as the traffic inches forward.

  It takes another ten minutes of stopping and starting to clear Pevensey and head for the coast. In Pevensey Bay, I turn left and then swing right towards the beach. The Moorings stands high on the shingle, overlooking the sea. The full car park tells me the pub is busy, so I drive down the track towards Mike's. The smell of the sea, driven inland by a steady breeze, reminds me of holidays with my parents before I was taken to Manchester. I recall little from those early years, but they feel like happy times with memories of a burning sun, melting ice creams, and the surge of the waves.

  Despite the Indian summer, the beach is deserted. The sparkling sea has retreated to reveal a strip of sand, which stretches along the coast to Sovereign Harbour. I've run along the strip at low tide, hurdling the old wooden groynes that keep the shingle from migrating. The views of Eastbourne and Beachy Head, rising out of the sea to slumber in the sunshine, never fail to rouse me.

  I park up next to Mike's Mighty Munch and walk around the bungalow into the garden. Garden is perhaps an exaggeration, as the lawn is more weed than grass, and the flowers in the thin border of soil have long since shrivelled and died. By his own admission, he has brown fingers. The timber workshop, which looks like a rundown alpine ski lodge, is his domain, where he repairs the equipment we buy from failing food businesses.