A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8

by Dalgliesh, J M

  "That's close to where Felgate's family live," Tom said. "That places him almost a half -hour drive away from Roydon Common a couple of hours prior to his death."

  Tamara came forward, hovering in front of the white board. "What about this takeaway order?" she asked.

  "I spoke to them," Cassie said. "Felgate's order was phoned in by a man. Felgate's name was given and payment was made over the phone and the food was delivered three quarters of an hour later. Only one person was seen by the delivery driver; matches Felgate's description."

  Tamara scanned the information once more before turning to Tom. "What are your plans regarding the Haverson suicide?"

  Tom splayed his hands wide in an open gesture. "I think we've no choice but to review the original findings and try to work out Felgate's interest."

  "I agree," Tamara said, "but do bear in mind this will attract a lot of attention. It already has done."

  "Really? We haven't released Felgate's name to the press yet or described the manner in which he was found. Who's asking?"

  Tamara glanced over her shoulder, seeing Cassie and Eric paying attention. She inclined her head. "We're stepping onto old ground; a closed case deemed a suicide by the initial investigators. That's all."

  Tom held her eye for a moment and something unsaid passed between them. She was confident he understood when he didn't turn his attention back to the boards and didn't make further comment.

  "Eric," Tom said, "where are you with gathering all the information on the Haverson case?"

  "I've got the headlines here," he said, tapping a folder on his desk, "and the rest have been archived but I've requested them."

  "Good. I thought Cassie and I should go and speak with David Fysh seeing as he was Felgate's current assignment. Then we have an author to speak to," Tom said, glancing at his watch.

  Tamara was lost in thought. She realised Tom was watching her.

  "Sorry, Tom, what did you say?"

  "Cassie and I will go and speak with Felgate's last two interviewees, unless you have an alternative approach you'd rather we take?"

  "No, you go ahead," she said. "Let me know how you get on."

  Chapter Twelve

  Calling in at the registered office of David Fysh's catering business saw Tom and Cassie redirected to a restaurant located on Hunstanton High Street. The business must have been undergoing a refurbishment because they had to squeeze past a painting and decorating team packing up their gear as they arrived. Tom identified themselves to a member of staff who politely disappeared from view towards the rear, returning a couple of minutes later with a man in tow.

  Tom took his measure. He was younger than expected for someone with numerous successful businesses to his name, in his early to mid-thirties and athletic. Dressed in a slim-cut light-grey suit, a pristine white shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a hint of a necklace beneath, Tom wondered if it was summertime on the Algarve rather than progressing through a bitter Norfolk winter as they currently were.

  "Hello," Fysh said, offering his hand and shaking both of theirs in turn with an accompanying warm smile. "My office called to say the police had been round but," his eyes darted between them, "I thought it must be a wind up. What can I do for you?"

  Tom returned the smile. "We would like to talk to you about an interview you gave recently."

  "The one with Gavin?"

  "You remember?"

  "Of course," he said. "Believe me, I don't get interviewed very often and it was a cracking piece of free advertising for the opening of this place."

  "It's new?" Tom asked, looking around. "Not a redecoration?"

  "Just the exterior signage to go up," Fysh said. A clatter came from out of sight, presumably in the kitchen. Fysh frowned. "And some teething problems with the chef." Tom raised his eyebrows in query but the comment was dismissed. "Gearing up for a soft opening later tonight; last minute jitters."

  "Soft opening?" Cassie asked.

  "Yes, we open officially this coming weekend but we have a few chosen guests coming for dinner tonight, to test the menus, build up a head of steam and so on. Call it a trial run."

  "So, if anything goes wrong, it doesn't matter," Cassie said.

  "I wouldn't say that. Some of those coming tonight will be leaving reviews or recommending us to their circles of influence. There's still a lot riding on it."

  He gestured for them to take a seat at one of the tables, offering them a coffee but both declined.

  "Shame, the machine is brand new. It produces a lovely espresso."

  "How many restaurants do you have, Mr Fysh?" Tom asked.

  "This will be our third," he said, beaming. "Up until fairly recently, we've been focussing on supplying to the trade. My father used to be a greengrocer, doing a little bit to supply local restaurants but when he handed me the reins, I really pushed it." He sat back, flexing his arms in a way to loosen his shoulders. He was evidently proud of his success. And why shouldn't he be? "Once the business expanded, I picked up several government contracts to supply care homes, local schools and council premises. Then I saw there was room in the market for us to do more; bring it all in house so to speak, from the supply to production and finally hospitality itself. The first restaurant was more of an upmarket cafe-cum-brasserie and it did well, so we moved to a restaurant and now here. I have to say we have been very fortunate."

  Tom cast an eye around the interior. "It's looking good, I must say. May I ask what the thrust of this article was going to be?"

  "Gavin's?" he asked, nodding. "Sure. He was keen to look at our approach to employment." Another round of clattering sounded and Fysh glanced back over his shoulder, shouting emanated from somewhere. Fysh shook his head. "Sorry about that. I hope they get their game faces on later!" He shook his head. "Lost my train of thought…"

  "Staffing," Tom said.

  "Right, yeah. Well, we see ourselves as a core element of the community. This is a small town and although we get seasonal workers from all over, we need to operate all year round and not just in peak season. Things invariably slow down in the winter, so we just have to tick over with the locals but people need jobs, have families to feed and so on. You hear it all the time, right; coastal communities losing their youth to the draw of the bigger cities with their opportunities? We think you need to create jobs for local people from all walks of life and give them opportunities."

  "Do you find a lot of young people want to work in catering?" Cassie asked. Fysh met her eye, seemingly assessing whether her question was genuine. Cassie noticed. "I just mean the hours aren't exactly sociable, are they? And hospitality hasn't got the best reputation for meeting the living wage, has it? Besides that, it's damned hard work."

  Fysh inclined his head to one side, rolling his tongue across the inside of his cheek. "Fair comment, but we pay above the market rate to our staff, wherever possible. But," he wagged a pointed finger in Cassie's direction, "we don't only offer opportunities to the local youth. We have partnership links with a number of organisations and charities who help people back into the workforce."

  "What type of people are you referring to?" Tom asked.

  "We offer paid work experience, internships and apprenticeships to all manner of people from children with disadvantaged backgrounds, those recovering from substance abuse or addictions … and some of those who you have crossed paths with, in your line of work."

  "Some people would consider that to be a brave policy?" Cassie asked.

  Fysh shrugged. "Some might say that but let's face it, we can all use a bit of help from time to time and show me someone who has never made a mistake in their life and I'll show you a liar!"

  Cassie tilted her head to one side thoughtfully. "Admirable … but still a gamble."

  He laughed. "That's fair comment, but remember, we didn't do this all-in-one hit, it was a gradual process. I approached a local charity to see if there was anything we could do to work with them and it went from there. Last year I was shortlisted for a De
veloper of People Award."

  "Has Gavin Felgate provided you with the draft of his article?" Tom asked. "And do you retain any editorial control over what gets published?"

  Fysh sat back in his seat, focussing on Tom. Lifting his hands from the table he turned them palms up, his lips parting slightly. "Why on earth would I need …" He looked between them. "What's all this about?"

  "Gavin Felgate has been found dead and the circumstances leading up to it require investigation. As we understand it, you were the last person, professionally speaking, who he came into contact with.

  "Wow!" Fysh said, shocked. "I–I … just, wow." He shook his head, then raised a closed fist to his mouth and absently bit the end of his thumbnail. "I don't see how that could be related to me." He met Tom's eye. "Gavin spoke with me for an hour or so and then spent a bit of time talking to the staff, hearing their thoughts about what we do around here."

  "And was it here that you met with him, here in the restaurant?" Tom asked, looking around.

  Fysh nodded. "This place has dominated my time recently. I've barely been anywhere else, to be honest."

  "It must be hard," Cassie said, "managing multiple separate enterprises, even if they broadly operate in and around the same field? Stressful. Spinning a lot of plates."

  Fysh sniffed hard, angling his head to one side. "Yes and no," he said quietly. "I have a terrific team working with me. And I have learnt to delegate."

  "Whose business is it?" Tom asked. "You said you took over from your father."

  "Yes, I did. He is in semi-retirement now; although," he laughed nervously, "he was supposed to be in retirement but maybe I won't care to step away when the time comes and my son is champing at the bit."

  "And how does he feel about your radical approach to expanding his life's work?"

  "People don't like change," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Sometimes I think he would have been happier if I was still knocking out fruit and veg from single premises but," he shook his head, "times have changed and people don't shop like that anymore. You either adapt and evolve or you go under. As long as his dividends keep coming, I'm sure he'll be fine."

  "How old is your son?" Cassie asked.

  Fysh smiled. "My son? He'll be two in three weeks."

  "That'll be tough for him growing up." Fysh looked at her quizzically. "Having a birthday so close to Christmas. That happened to someone I knew, born around Christmas and I think he felt pretty hard done by over the years."

  Fysh smiled but it struck Tom as artificial. The pride and confidence were less visible now, but Tom couldn't fathom why?

  "We will need a list of all those employees Gavin Felgate spoke to," Tom said. Fysh frowned but then he accepted the request with a curt nod. "We need to know what was said. And we would like that before we leave."

  "Really? I mean, I am very busy."

  "One more question before you get that for us," Tom said. "Can you tell me where you were between eleven o'clock and one in the morning this past Monday night into Tuesday morning?"

  His mouth fell open, lips moving slightly but making no sound. "I–I beg your pardon."

  "Where were you?"

  "At home … in bed." Fysh smiled, incredulous. You can't think I—"

  "We have to ask," Tom said. "And where do you live?"

  "Wiveton," he said, scoffing. "Ask my wife, if you must."

  "Thank you," Tom said. "We may well do that in the coming days." Tom held the man's gaze until Fysh looked away. A member of the kitchen staff hovered in the background, seemingly nervous about coming over and interrupting. The restaurateur drummed his fingers on the table, glancing up at Tom.

  "Is there anything else," he said, looking over his shoulder, "or can I—"

  "Just that list of staff members," Tom said.

  "Right, yes." He patted the flat of one hand on the table. "Of course." He stood up and Tom caught his eye.

  "As well as their contact details, address and telephone numbers, please."

  Fysh rolled his tongue along the edge of his lower lip. "Yes, of course."

  He walked into the rear of the restaurant, the member of staff falling into step alongside him and asking questions as they went. Tom watched them go, mulling over the conversation. Cassie blew out her cheeks.

  "That article never seeing the light of day may be a blessed relief."

  David Fysh disappeared from view and Tom glanced at her. "How do you mean?"

  "Not exactly interesting, is it? Maybe use it as a sedative."

  "Cynic!"

  "Oh, come on!" she said. "Guy goes from selling fruit and veg to selling more fruit and veg, along with a few restaurants – selling fruit and veg alongside hot food. A fascinating read."

  "Creating opportunities for those who might otherwise be overlooked, though," Tom said. "Commendable."

  "Did you catch the we pay the living wage where possible bit? Ten-to-one he exploits people who can't find work anywhere else."

  Tom looked at her with a sideways smile. "You're making bets lavishly at the moment. Am I paying you too much?"

  "No danger of that, is there?" Cassie said, grinning.

  "The person you mentioned – the one born around Christmas – is that true?" Tom asked as he caught sight of David Fysh stepping out from the kitchen, a sheet of paper in his hands. He met Tom's eye, glanced at the paper in his hand and hesitated.

  "Sort of," Cassie said.

  "Sort of?" Tom watched as Fysh started towards them. He said under his breath, glancing at Cassie, "It was Jesus, wasn't it?"

  "Yep," Cassie whispered before Fysh came within earshot. They both rose from their seats and David Fysh passed Tom the piece of paper. He nodded towards it as Tom scanned the names. The list was short, only four names on it and only two with further contact information.

  "That's all I have at the moment, but I'll get the other telephone numbers and addresses and send them over. I don't keep personnel records here. They're in the office. If that's okay?"

  Tom thanked him and they made to leave the restaurant. Cassie stopped at the entrance, looking back at Fysh.

  "Did you win?" she asked. He looked at her blankly. "The award for developing people; did you win it?"

  Fysh shook his head. "No. No, I didn't."

  Cassie tilted her head, adopting a conciliatory expression. "Maybe next year, hey?"

  Outside, the sign makers were hanging the new name plate from the front of the building. David Fysh lingered near the front window keeping an eye on them but trying hard to appear casual as they walked away.

  "He's nervous," Cassie said, focussing straight ahead.

  "Yes, he is but what about? Maybe you're right, and his staff can't stand him."

  She shrugged. "Could be. He's come a long way in a short time, so maybe he has something to hide."

  "Similar age to you, isn't he?"

  "Yeah, I'd say so. Why?"

  "I just wondered if he made you contemplate your life choices, that's all."

  Cassie laughed. "I'm not rising to that. Besides, there's something about him that's wrong."

  "Such as?" Tom asked as they walked.

  She shook her head. "I don't know exactly, but there's something about him that I don't like." She looked to their left and eyed the traffic on the narrow high street, crossing in between cars. "He's too good to be true. No one's that squeaky clean and philanthropic."

  Tom shrugged. "Maybe you've been in the job too long and your cynicism is clouding your positivity?"

  She laughed again. "Yeah, maybe. We'll see."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tom Janssen knocked on the door for a second time, stepping back and taking a peek through the window adjacent to the front porch but there was no movement from inside. The wind drove at them in the way you could only appreciate if you spent time on the north Norfolk coast, gusting in off the sea and battering you much as the waves did the cliffs. The veranda, stretching the full width of the property’s frontage, offered them shelter from the
rain that had come in on the stiff easterly early afternoon. Cassie, hands thrust into her coat pockets looked around.

  "Car's in the drive," she said.

  "And you're sure he lives alone?" She nodded. "But he knew we were coming this afternoon?"

  Cassie didn't get a chance to answer, the front door creaking open. A man greeted them, standing awkwardly with two crutches supporting his weight. He was tall, not quite as tall as Tom but still comfortably over six foot, dressed in joggers and a loose-fitting hooded jumper.

  "Sorry to keep you," he said, smiling and revealing stained yellow teeth and shrinking gums. "But I'm not as quick on my feet these days," he said, nodding towards the crutches.

  "No problem," Tom said, offering him his warrant card. "DI Janssen and DS Knight, Norfolk Police."

  "Yes, yes, I was expecting you," he said, shuffling backwards to give them room to enter and keeping the door open with his back. "Greg Beaty," he said, offering his hand, now off balance and putting all his weight on one crutch. He was breathing hard, trying to maintain his composure as Tom shook his hand and entered. "You'd think I'd be used to these by now, but I swear they have a mind of their own some days."

  Cassie entered, offering to close the door. An offer Beaty accepted with an appreciative smile.

  "Do come through," Beaty said, setting off in loping bounds with an abnormal gait which must be down to more than merely using the crutches.

  "Have you had an accident?" Tom asked, entering the living room and noting the fantastic view of the coastline and the sea. The rain clouds were driving in from the north-east, dark swathes moving like huge flocks of migrating birds dipping and swerving on the wind, but further along the coast the skies were a lot brighter and Tom could make out the turbines of an offshore wind farm in the distance. "If you don't mind my asking, of course?"

  "No, not at all." Beaty levered himself into an armchair next to the large picture window Tom had been looking out of with a pained expression, sweat beading on his brow, his cheeks burning. The house was detached and situated towards the end of Cliff Parade in Hunstanton, barely a stone's throw from the Old Lighthouse. The room not only had a large picture window but there was a door out to a covered balcony offering further impressive views due to their elevated position on the edge of the town. Beaty grimaced, stretching out his right leg and sucking in a sharp intake of breath as he rubbed furiously at his thigh. Tom glanced at Cassie who was casually looking at an array of framed photographs on the wall of the room. The entire wall was a collage of photographs seemingly depicting a lifetime's experiences. "Ah … sorry," Beaty said. "Just give me a moment, would you?"