No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  I'm glad to see him. He's cleaning the interior of a microwave oven propped on a flimsy Formica table, which wobbles as he scrubs. He looks up when I push through the squeaking gate and throws the cleaning cloth into a bucket of murky water.

  "Grab a Diet Coke," he says, nodding to a bucket of iced water. "I know it's not cranberry, but it's all I had. Then you can try shifting the grease from this oven."

  I peer inside the microwave, which is streaked with greasy marks. "Half fill a jug of water and add a few drops of lemon juice. Two to three minutes on full power and the steam will lift the grease. The oven will smell heavenly, too."

  He wipes his forehead on the sleeve of his denim shirt. "How many years have we been sprucing up equipment?"

  "About three?"

  "Nearer four, pal. So, why have you waited till now to pass on that tip?"

  "I normally clean the microwaves."

  "Fair point," he says, taking a Budweiser from the bucket. He drops onto an old sofa on the decking that runs across the back of the bungalow. "But you don't normally invite yourself round. What's the problem?"

  I pluck a can of Diet Coke from the water and take a few mouthfuls while I consider my words.

  "My father's missing," I say.

  "When did he go missing?"

  "Sometime in the last couple of hours."

  "Are you winding me up, pal? He's missing if he doesn't come home tonight."

  Mike takes several mouthfuls of beer from the bottle, watching me all the time. I don't know if my face registers surprise or disappointment, but it seems to temper his reaction. "Sorry, I wasn't having a go," he says. "You know how ratty cleaning makes me. Tell me what happened."

  "He got a text and rushed out of his surgery, leaving one of his constituents sitting there. He said, 'It's over' on his way out."

  He drains the remaining beer and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. "Have you rung him?"

  "His phone goes straight to voicemail. I've also rung Niamh."

  "What did she say?"

  "She didn't seem concerned."

  "Then why are you?"

  I don't want to explain about my father's sordid past. I would trust Mike with my life, but when he's out drinking with some of his old colleagues, his mouth can grow to the size of a tent flap.

  "Maybe I should wait in case he rings," I say. "Any news about Hetty?"

  "He died soon after we left." Mike stares into space, his expression sombre. "I'm collecting his files this afternoon, if you want to join me."

  "Sure. He may have something that will help."

  "I know what will help me," he says, easing himself off the sofa. "And it's not the love of a good woman. I hope you haven't eaten, because there's a steak and ale pie with mash and onion gravy calling my name."

  He gets to his feet and rubs his hands together. "Let's grab a bite to eat. And on the way over, you can tell me why you were suspended."

  "Who told you – Gemma?"

  "She's worried about you, pal."

  "What did she tell you?"

  "Nothing. That's why I'm asking you."

  I suspect he's being diplomatic to protect Gemma. He listens without comment as I give him a brief account of my misdemeanours and misfortunes.

  "And before you ask," I say, "I don't fancy Adele Havelock. I never mix business with pleasure."

  "Then how do you pick up all those waitresses?" He smirks and play-punches my arm. "Anyway, back to serious matters. I'm not surprised your boss suspended you. What were you thinking, pal? No, don't answer that. Let's just say I can see why you want to speak to your father. He's about the only thing keeping you from the dole queue."

  "He ordered me to give up the investigation."

  Mike stops and stares at me in disbelief. "Why?"

  I shift, wishing I'd kept my mouth shut. "He was trying to protect me from Birchill, but I have to fight fire with fire."

  "No," he says, shaking his head. "You fight fire with water and put it out. You have to defeat Birchill with the law."

  "Nobody's managed that so far, have they?"

  "Kent, you want justice, not revenge. Play the long game."

  I know he's right, but it's too late.

  Inside the Moorings, the lounge bustles with people, all talking loudly. Most are pensioners, in pairs or quartets, on their way to the conservatory dining area for their 'Three Courses for a Tenner' offer. The waiting staff look harassed as they weave through the tables with a never ending supply of food. I look to the family area on my right, where the tables are further apart to allow for high chairs.

  "Looks like we wait," Mike says, scooping a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar. "St. Clements?"

  "I wouldn't eat those if I were you," I say.

  He groans. "If it's another of your food stories, you told me all about the fungus that can kill you."

  "I wasn't going to mention aspergillosis, or aflatoxin."

  He stares at the peanuts. "Okay, what am I missing?"

  "It's not what you're missing, but what you're gaining," I say, moving closer. "When you last went to the loo, did you wash your hands?"

  "Of course I did. What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Studies show that you're among the 50% of men who wash their hands. As long as the other 50% don't push their hands in that bowl of nuts, tainting it with their urine, or worse, you're safe to eat them."

  He stares at the nuts as if they're radioactive. "You're a barrel of laughs with your food stories."

  "I'd avoid the crisps too," I say, pointing to another bowl.

  "Why don't you stop them putting food on the bar?" he asks, heading for the toilets. "It's your job to protect public health."

  The barman walks up. "Is your friend okay?"

  "He'll be fine after a pint of bitter. St. Clements for me. Oh, and I'd remove the nuts and crisps from the bar."

  "Why's that?"

  "My friend just sneezed over them."

  While I wait for the drinks, Niamh rings. I head outside where I can hear her.

  "I've rung everyone," she says. "No one's seen or heard from him. Where is he, Kent? What's going on?"

  "I'm sure he'll be in touch," I say with more confidence than I feel. "He seemed fine when he popped by on Thursday evening."

  "He wasn't fine when he got home. Honestly, Kent, I've never seen him so angry. What did you say to him?"

  Funny how it's my fault. "We talked about Birchill, Niamh, that's all. Do you want me to come over?"

  Fifteen minutes later, I'm driving north through the marshes towards Herstmonceux Castle. The reeds and rushes blur as I swing through the bends. As I bear down on Wartling, the trees block out the light. I don't see the pheasant until the last moment. I brake and swerve to avoid it, almost colliding with cars coming the opposite way. While my lip reading skills are a little rusty, there's no misunderstanding the gestures.

  A quick glance in the rear view mirror tells me the pheasant escaped unharmed.

  I pick up speed and catch a brief glimpse of the cold, grey dome that conceals a telescope from the former Royal Observatory. Mike once did an astronomy course there and was upset when they didn't award stars for good work. Any minute now, he'll ring me to find out why I left the Moorings.

  As I reach the junction with the main road at Windmill Hill, he calls. There's nothing behind me, so I pull over and pick up the call.

  "What happened to you, pal?"

  "Niamh rang."

  "Has your father come home?"

  "Not yet. I'll be in touch."

  I don't like cutting him off, but I want to get to Niamh. I look right and groan as a tractor-and-trailer of hay bales passes. Had I ignored Mike's call, I would be in front of the tractor, not waiting to join the long tail of traffic in its wake.

  When I reach the turn for Flowers Green, I'm still behind the tractor. After another half mile of crawling along, unable to overtake, it turns into a farmyard. I press on and speed to my parents' house, crunching to a
halt on the gravel. The place is hardly Downland Manor, but it's worth at least half a million. How could my father afford this house if he gave away the Manor?

  It looks like Tara lied to me.

  Not for the first time, I suspect.

  Niamh's standing in the doorway. She glances both ways before ushering me inside. She looks pale and drawn, the skin puffy around her reddened eyes. Without warning, she hugs me. The tears soon follow.

  "Come on," I say, stroking her hair. "He'll be fine. You'll see."

  "Something terrible has happened."

  She's always so strong and sure, supporting his career and organising him while running the house. She's campaigned by his side in the most atrocious weather and dealt with the most trivial of constituency complaints with a smile and a kind word. When she needs to be the perfect host, she excels. When she needs to be the quiet wife at his side, she can blend into the crowd.

  Not bad for a 'gold-digging marriage wrecker' as Tommy Logan painted her in a column for the Tollingdon Tribune.

  "He sent me a text." She peels away to retrieve her mobile phone from a nearby table. The text reads, 'Emergency at the ranch. Might be some time.'

  "The Prime Minister's probably summoned him," I say.

  She shakes her head. "William never texts. He rings if he's going to be late."

  I read the text again. "By ranch, he means the office, right?"

  "I guess so. I don't know." She directs me to the suitcase behind the door. "I just want to get out of here."

  "What if he rings you here?"

  "He'll call my mobile, won't he?"

  I hand back the phone, certain she would remain if she thought he would come home. "What aren't you telling me, Niamh?"

  She looks down. "Can we just go?"

  Had she not broken eye contact, I would have picked up the suitcase and followed her out. "Not until you tell me what's happened," I say, planting myself between her and the door.

  She fiddles with the collar of her jacket as she speaks in a low, hesitant voice. "He had an affair. Well, several affairs. None of them meant anything," she says, more to protect her image than his, I suspect. "This one was different. It lasted for over a year. I thought he was going to leave me."

  She swallows and closes her eyes, clearly trying to hold back her emotions. "A few weeks ago, she emailed him. She wanted to meet."

  "Who is she?" I ask, certain I know.

  "She claimed he was the father of her child."

  "Are you talking about Mandy Cheung?"

  Her head jerks up. "Don't tell me you know as well? Who told you, Kent? I need to know."

  I put my hands on her shoulders and look into her eyes. "Her name came up during my investigation into Collins' death."

  "What's she got to do with that?"

  "Her son, David Cheung, found Collins. He lives and works at Tombstone. I only discovered the connection yesterday evening." I pause, interrupted by an uninvited thought. "Is that why my father came round on Thursday evening?"

  "No. He had to stop your investigation."

  "In case I found out he had a son?"

  "You don't have a stepbrother. You never had and you never will."

  The pleading look in her eyes begs me to drop the subject, but I can't. "What makes you so sure?"

  She hangs her head. "William shoots blanks. That's the expression, isn't it? He's sterile. He can't have fathered Mandy Cheung's child."

  Or me.

  Twenty-Three

  I feel strange, subdued even. It's like I knew he wasn't my father, though I can't say why I suspected. It wasn't just the difference in politics or outlook, or my years of poverty in Manchester. The difference was more innate and fundamental.

  He didn't feel like my father.

  I'd put his distance down to a stuffy upbringing where tradition dictated his role. When he spoke to me in his vast study, he was like a headmaster, quick to expose my faults and weaknesses as if they were diseases he had to cure. But it was the lack of physical contact that set us apart. I had blamed my time in Manchester, mixing with boys who didn't show emotion. But the sight of me, each day, was a reminder that he couldn't have children.

  My thoughts turn to the sanctuary. Will I lose it, as I'm not a Fisher?

  If I lose my job on Monday, I'll probably lose the place anyway, but that's not the point. I should be the last in a long line of Fishers, but I'm not. William Kenneth Fisher carries that burden. The Fisher name will die with him. Maybe that's why he gave Downland Manor away.

  So... whose son am I?

  I pull into a layby near Hellingly village and turn to Niamh. "Who is my father?"

  "You need to ask your mother."

  I haven't spoken to my mother since I returned to Sussex. That's not going to change. "Is that why she took off to Manchester?"

  "William loves you so much," Niamh says. "I know he finds it difficult to show his emotions, but that's his upbringing. He's a fine man. If I can live with his condition almost all our married life, then you...."

  Her voice fails, swamped by tears. I hug her, realising how tough it must be for her, knowing she can never have children with the man she loves. I wonder if she's ever come to terms with that, no matter how well she hides it.

  "I want you to make an effort, Kent." She stares into my eyes, piling on the pressure. "Is that too much to ask?"

  "I won't live a lie, Niamh. He could have told me when he brought me back, but he pretended to be my father. He chose to be an impostor and a fraud."

  "He treated you like a son, you ungrateful eejit. He found you a job. He embraced you as his own. That wasn't easy, you know, with you protesting about everything and getting into trouble."

  "Why are you blaming me? What did I do wrong?"

  The anger in my voice silences her. She looks helpless, exhausted even, as if the strain of the lies has caught up with her. "I knew this would happen," she says quietly. "I knew you wouldn't understand."

  "Then stop blaming me!"

  "He came for you, didn't he? Isn't that enough?"

  "I was stuck in a strange city, dependent on a spiteful mother who told me he was dead. I hated school because I was an outsider, but I hated her even more for robbing me of my father. She never had a good word to say about him, about anything. Where was he then?"

  Niamh shrinks back in the seat, her eyes wide with fear. "He couldn't come for you. Ingrid's solicitor wrote a letter, accusing William of the vilest physical and psychological abuse. It was all lies," she says with a shudder, "but she threatened to go to the newspapers if he came anywhere near you."

  My mother never missed a chance to accuse my father of beating her, especially when he came home drunk. She was never good enough for his upper class friends, who laughed at her accent and made rude remarks because she didn't understand English humour. Being German, she couldn't read or write English, though she understood social security benefits. At the age of ten, I wrote to the Inland Revenue, challenging their tax assessment, demanding a rebate. I wrote sick notes to my PE teacher to excuse me from swimming because I'd almost drowned as a child. I even wrote letters to companies, complaining about bad service or damaged clothes so she could claim compensation.

  "She would have destroyed his political career," Niamh says.

  "That's all right then," I say, making no effort to hide the sarcasm and bitterness. "I'm glad he put his career first."

  Niamh glares at me, her eyes wild with rage. "You've no idea how he felt. He couldn't father children. A light inside him went out. Then, when he realised Ingrid had slept with someone else, he was a broken man. The life went out of him."

  Yeah, he was so broken he had to sleep around to cope with his troubles.

  Though I keep this to myself, I'm sure she can read my thoughts. "He's given you a good life in Downland," she says. "You've never wanted for anything."

  Apart from the truth, a few words of encouragement and a little intimacy.

  I sigh, realising I'm in danger of b
eing like my mother. With a determined effort, I try to draw up a mental list of all the things William Kenneth Fisher gave me. His wisdom and wit inspired me. He allowed me the freedom to be who I wanted to be, even if it embarrassed him. He found me a good job with prospects, where I had to work hard to earn the respect of colleagues.

  His status allows me to get away with far more than I should.

  Well, it did until yesterday.

  I start driving again, wondering what will happen to me. Two days ago I had a routine job that paid well and an exciting sanctuary that didn't. Now I could lose both. I'll add them to my other losses, like my judgement, my warrant card, and Gemma's respect. All I need to do is lose hope and I'll have nothing. I'll never prove Collins was murdered and Birchill will own everything that once belonged to the Fishers.

  At the Boship Roundabout I weave into the traffic heading south towards Eastbourne. Angry with myself, I accelerate down the dual carriageway as if it will somehow prove I'm not a complete loss. I don't register the turn for Tollingdon Agricultural Services until it's almost too late. I slam on the brakes and swerve across two lanes of traffic, overshooting the turn by a couple of yards. Niamh's face is white and frozen with fear as she stares ahead.

  I start the car, check the mirror, and reverse off the central reservation onto the road. Then I turn across the other carriageway and drive down Dogwood Lane, wondering why I risked our lives with such a reckless manoeuvre.

  "I want a quick word with Tom Gibson," I say, answering the question in her eyes. I'm hoping he can give me the evidence and paperwork to show Tombstone ordered the tractor service. I'm also hoping to find something that will prove Collins was murdered.

  We pass old bungalows and houses set back from the road and a farm, ironically called 'World's End'. From here the road becomes a track for half a mile before entering a farm, now converted into industrial units. Tollingdon Agricultural Services occupies the furthest, and biggest, unit, overlooking fields and woodland, hemmed in by the River Cuckmere.