A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8

by Dalgliesh, J M

  "True," Cassie said, "but let's not forget Fysh fulfils multiple contracts to provide food to local schools, care homes and the like. It'd be much easier to hide it there."

  Tamara shuddered. "That … leaves me with a queasy feeling. How could someone do that to children and the vulnerable?"

  Cassie laughed, flicking a hand towards Tom. "Those shoes he had on when we spoke to him would've cost at least three hundred pounds. The suit was pretty sharp, too. The money has to come from somewhere."

  Tom nodded, his face a picture of concentration. "So … Felgate figures it out and, rather than run a story on it, approaches Barnard and solicits – or is bribed with – money in exchange for his silence?"

  "That's what I'm thinking, yes," Cassie said. "The recording is insurance, just in case he either needs leverage to guarantee his safety at some point in the future."

  "Or more money?" Tamara said. She turned to Tom. "Do you remember Jane Felgate telling us he'd started paying her and the children more money recently?"

  "And that he'd stopped supporting them for a time prior to that. He also couldn't afford the hit to his finances if they divorced; didn't she say that he would lose the house?"

  Cassie smiled. "Maybe he found a way to pick up a little extra. Blackmail is a healthy motive for murder."

  "But why now?" Tom asked. "If we're looking at Barnard for this, why did he wait until now?"

  Cassie shrugged. "Maybe Felgate got greedy and asked for more? Barnard was unhappy about it and killed him. He is local, so he could have known about the Haverson suicide years ago … dressed the scene to tie it into a sketchy case from years ago and throw everyone off."

  Tamara shook her head. "Do you see Felgate going down so passively to a man like Peter Barnard? He doesn't strike me as the most intimidating of people."

  "Unless your daughter brought him home on a date," Cassie said. She shrugged. "But I take your point."

  "Whether it was Felgate who initiated the exchange, it stands to reason Fysh would be aware, though, wouldn't it?" Tom said. "Barnard would tell him."

  "Or Felgate would tap Fysh for the same deal and go for double bubble," Cassie said, nodding her approval. "He'd be daft not to, seeing as Fysh is bound to know anyway."

  "Which gives both of them the motivation to silence him," Tamara said. "And two people would make overpowering Felgate that much easier. Where did Fysh say he was at the time of the murder?"

  "At home, in bed," Cassie said.

  "Right, keep Barnard here for the full twenty-four hours while we search his premises and execute another search warrant on David Fysh and his businesses," Tamara said. "If we need more time, we can apply for an extension."

  Tom frowned. "We don't have anything to tie him to the murder. The footage on Felgate's laptop is damning, but even if we can prove what we think he's been up to, it still doesn't prove involvement in a murder."

  "No, right enough. But we can use it to apply pressure on him. If we bring in Fysh as well, maybe we can play them off against one another. You never know, one of them might feel threatened enough to throw the other under the bus." She looked at Cassie. "Get the warrants and gather as many bodies for the searches as you can."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tom Janssen stepped to one side, allowing an officer carrying another archive box to pass by. The handful of customers frequenting the restaurant this lunchtime soon finished their meals and left after Tom served the warrant; uniformed officers scouring the building destroyed the ambiance of dining out at a swanky establishment. The building was small with the majority of the space given over to the front-of-house operation and well laid-out kitchen facilities. Fysh had a small office to the rear but the first floor of the building was a self-contained flat which was let out to a private tenant and unrelated to the business. Once the last customer left, the shift manager, a woman called Sally, swiftly closed the restaurant, turning prospective customers away rather than have them witness the police presence. She stood behind the bar now with her arms folded, scowling at him.

  "Is this going to take long?" she asked for the fourth time.

  "As long as it takes, I'm afraid. When do you expect Mr Fysh to come in?"

  She shrugged.

  "Thought so," he said, turning to a constable approaching him.

  "That's the last of the files from the office, sir."

  Tom thanked him and crossed to the small bar where Sally seemed implacable.

  "Do you know what you've done by coming here like this?" she said, a flash of anger in her eyes. "You're ruining us before we've even got going! This is a small town and people talk."

  If she thought this was bad, then she'd be in for a shock when environmental health and trading standards turned up to investigate the source and quality of their meat products, if the investigation threw up links to Peter Barnard's pet food supply business as they suspected. Tom looked around at the empty space. "A soft opening, I think David said it was. When is the grand opening?"

  "Friday evening, if it goes ahead."

  Tom didn't respond. It wasn't his concern. "When did you last see him, David, I mean?”

  Her expression softened a little. As much as she was frustrated, she didn't seem to be taking the situation personally. "I've had the last couple of days off – seeing as it would be my last time off for a while – so I haven't been around. James would know."

  "James?"

  Sally nodded towards the kitchen. "The head chef. He's been here all week working on the menus and organising his team for the opening, ironing out the kinks," she rolled her eyes, "although we didn't expect you lot."

  "Can I speak to him please?"

  She scoffed. "Might as well, seeing as you've emptied the place anyway."

  She disappeared into the rear and a few moments later a man stepped out from the kitchen in a white chef's jacket and blue and white checked trousers, but Sally was nowhere to be seen. He looked around and met Tom's eye, walking over to him and removing his hat to reveal dark and wavy hair, shoulder length, but tied at the nape of his neck. Tom recognised him as the man who'd spoken to Fysh on Tom and Cassie's previous visit.

  "Detective Inspector Janssen," Tom said, smiling.

  "James Cook," he replied with a curt nod. He seemed nervous. Tom recalled the name from the list of staff Fysh had given them. "You were here the other day."

  "That's right, talking to David. Do you know where he is?"

  James shook his head. "Sorry. I half expected him to be here today, but he hasn't shown."

  "Why did you think that?"

  He shrugged. "Because he wasn't here yesterday, which surprised me. We've all been living and breathing this place," he looked around the restaurant, "for weeks, if not months and then he does a disappearing act this close to opening! It's not like him to duck out when the hard work is underway."

  "How did it go with the local dignitaries?" Tom asked, remembering they had a special evening planned to help raise the restaurant's profile before the big opening.

  "It went well. The kitchen was a bit hectic – new staff and all – but feedback was positive."

  "Sally tells me you're designing the menu?"

  "That's right." He half-smiled. "Mr Fysh has put a lot of faith in me with this place." Tom encouraged him to explain. "Previously I worked in his bistro, the one in Sheringham. I'm head chef here, though." He frowned. "I don't want to let him down."

  "You've worked for him for some time then?"

  James nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, quite a while. I started on an apprenticeship a few years back. Mr Fysh saw something in me when no one else did."

  Tom understood, and that went some way to explaining why he might be nervous. "He talked to me about his recruitment policy."

  "Gave me a shot," James said. "Not easy getting a second chance in a place like this … a town like this, you know? Everyone knows everyone else's business." He was pensive, running a tongue along the inside of his cheek. "I owe Mr Fysh a lot. I don't know wher
e I would've ended up if it wasn't for him; back in prison probably." He briefly met Tom's eye before looking away, shifting his weight between his feet.

  "Tell me, what do you know about Mr Fysh's business and how it operates?"

  James frowned, looking up at him. "How do you mean?"

  "How involved are you in the sourcing of ingredients, not just for here but for the bistro and his other enterprises? If you've worked for him for a while, you must know who he deals with on a regular basis?"

  James thought about it. "He gave me free rein with the menus, allowed me to show him what I could do, you know?" He shook his head, his eyebrows knitting. "We source local produce where possible, seafood in particular. We have longstanding ties with Cromer in that respect."

  "Any change recently?"

  He blew out his cheeks. "Not here, not really. I think things run a bit differently in his larger operation, the mass-produced meals for the schools, NHS and care homes and the like. But I don't really get involved in that side of things. Sorry," James said, gesturing with open hands. "Can I ask you something?" Tom nodded. "What's all this about?"

  Tom declined to answer. Until they got hold of David Fysh himself, he didn't want him getting wind of what they were investigating.

  "I'm glad you're here today," Tom said. Cook suddenly looked nervous again. "I understand you were interviewed by Gavin Felgate, a journalist writing a piece on your employer."

  "About Mr Fysh's community work and stuff? Yeah, yeah, I remember."

  "How did that go?"

  He shrugged. "Okay, I guess. I mean, it was all standard stuff … what do I like about working here, type of boss David is … that sort of thing? Why?"

  "Just trying to get an impression of what tone the article might have, that's all," Tom said. "I'm sure you're aware that the journalist was found dead earlier this week?"

  His mouth fell open. "No… really? I–I've been working here so much, I hadn't caught that. I mean, I heard a guy was found dead but not… wow! That's mental."

  "Mr Fysh didn't mention it to you after we left the other day?"

  He shook his head. "No, he didn't. But then again, why would he? We're not mates or anything."

  "I see. And Gavin Felgate – the journalist – was on good terms with your employer as far as you're aware?"

  "Yeah, I don't think there was any issue. Is that what this about; that guy's death?"

  "I'm sorry, I really can't say." Tom took out one of his contact cards and handed it to him. "If Mr Fysh appears, please let him know to call me straight away, would you? It would be in his best interests." James Cook scanned the card and nodded. Tom looked towards the rear as if he could see through to the kitchen beyond. "Is there anyone else here who Felgate spoke to?"

  James followed Tom's eye, thinking hard. "No, I don't think so. I think he was just going through the motions to be fair."

  "How so?"

  "Well, it was incredibly dull stuff. Why anyone would pay someone to write it, let alone get someone to pay to read it is beyond me."

  Cook returned to the kitchen. Tom was the last officer to leave the restaurant and the manager, Sally, hadn't reappeared as he stepped out. Once outside, he took out his phone seeing a text message from Eric asking him to call in. First off, he phoned Cassie, overseeing the search of David Fysh's head office. Tamara Greave was picking over Peter Barnard's business address at the same time. Although confident they were onto something with the relationship between the two of them, Tom wasn't sure how easy it would be to prove impropriety if Barnard was adept at hiding the origin of the products he was supplying.

  "Any sign of David Fysh?"

  "No," Cassie said. "No one here claims to have seen him for a couple of days. How about you?"

  "Same."

  "Do you think he's gone to ground?"

  Tom thought about it. "It does seem out of character for him not to be around. Go over to his house and see if he's there. He mentioned his wife when we spoke to him and, if he's not around, have a word with her. If anyone knows where he'll be, she should."

  "You'd hope so," Cassie said with a dry laugh. "Unless he's already taken off with her in tow."

  Tom looked back at the restaurant. "His entire life is here. Where would he go?"

  He hung up and immediately called Eric.

  "Hi, Tom. I've finally got hold of the data from Gavin Felgate's mobile phone service provider. Regarding his mystery woman, I think we might be getting somewhere."

  Tom reached the car and got in. "Can they put a name to the unregistered number?"

  "Not quite as good as that but I have the transcripts of text messages exchanged between the two of them and despite sometimes being a little cryptic for reasons you'll understand soon enough, there is a mention of someone called Leigh—"

  "That name rings a bell," Tom said, racking his brain to figure out why it stood out to him.

  "Yeah, I cross referenced the name with Felgate's list of colleagues and interviewees, those we're aware of anyway; drew a blank. But then I extended it to known friends and associates, which was a short list."

  "Any time today, Eric," Tom said.

  "Right, okay. Leigh Masters. She's listed as a social media friend of Jane Felgate's and the two interact quite reg—"

  "That's where I know her from!" Tom said, excitedly. "She came to Jane's house the day Tamara and I visited to notify the family of Gavin's death."

  "More than that, she and Jane Felgate go back a long way; she is tagged in multiple photographs in the Felgate's wedding album. She was one of the bridesmaids."

  "Now that is interesting."

  "Yes, I also went to her social media page – which is public – and from what she shares it appears she's happily married; lives in Old Hunstanton."

  "Great," Tom said, checking the time, "can you text me the address and I'll stop by on my way back to the station." His phone beeped.

  "Way ahead of you," Eric said. "And you might not want to go alone. I looked up her husband – Kenneth Masters – and he has two convictions: one for affray and a second for actual bodily harm. Nothing recent, but I'm looking at his picture on Leigh's profile page… and… he's a big guy."

  Tom smiled. "I'll be tactful, Eric. Good work."

  He hung up and opened the text message to check the address. Hamilton Road. He knew it well.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wiveton was a small village set back a mile or so from the coast, between the coastal villages of Blakeney and Cley. Having left the coast road, DS Cassie Knight turned left onto a narrow lane at the village boundary and kept her eyes open. Mature trees and overgrown vegetation lined the lane to either side of the road and anything beyond them, even in late November, was obscured from view. Even paying attention, she missed the house and had to pull in at the next passing place and make an awkward three-point-turn, all the while praying that an overconfident local wouldn't come flying around the corner at speed as they were prone to do in these parts. The narrow lanes didn't bother Cassie as much as they did others not familiar with the area – Tamara Greave for instance – because in her native North East, once out of the cities, you could easily find yourself on single track roads heavily used by agricultural vehicles in the blink of an eye.

  The entrance to the property was through a five-bar gate, located almost on the roadside, which she was grateful to find open. The house was of traditional brick and flint construction, two storeys high and Cassie thought she caught sight of skylights in the attic, suggesting a conversion. The house was set back from the road and secluded even with many of the trees stripped of their greenery. In the spring and summer, you could probably drive by without realising there was a house there at all. The driveway curved around to the rear and Cassie parked alongside a dark blue Audi saloon, barely a year old with run flat tyres on massive rims that Cassie figured would ensure the driver recognised every bump and depression in the road each time the car met it.

  She walked towards the house. A dog barked, aler
ted to her presence, but she didn't worry. It sounded like a yappy dog – a terrier or similar, one of those little things like Tom's that suffered from short-person syndrome, making up for its lack of stature with an exaggerated woof. There was no doorbell, just an old bell and clapper mounted to the right of the door. She rang it twice, the shrill sound making her wince as it reverberated. Moments later the door was opened by a flustered young woman. Cassie was surprised by her age, initially wondering if she was an au pair rather than David Fysh's wife, she couldn't be far into her twenties.

  "Mrs Fysh?" Cassie asked. She nodded, blocking a light-coloured border terrier from getting out of the house with her left foot. Cassie took in her measure. She was five two or three tall, slightly built with blonde hair hanging to her shoulders. Her make-up was fastidiously applied, hair styled and her fingernails were equally well presented. Her clothing was just as stylish. Cassie wondered if she was on her way out. "I'm sorry to bother you," she held up her warrant card, "but I'm Detective Sergeant Knight and I'm looking to speak with your husband. Is he around?" She looked past the woman into the interior. She could see a child playing in the background.

  "I'm sorry. David's not here," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Is there something I can help you with?"

  "Perhaps, yes. May I come in?"

  The door widened, allowing the dog to get past despite its owner’s best efforts. Cassie didn't mind. The dog lifted itself up on its haunches, front paws in the air, to sniff her. Finding nothing untoward about Cassie, it turned tail and ran ahead of them as they walked through into a large kitchen-dining room. The child Cassie saw was a boy, no older than three, and he seemed to have taken out every toy possible in order to fill the available space, Cassie tentatively picking a path through.

  "Do you know when your husband is likely to come home, Mrs Fysh?"

  "Anna, please," she said, raising her eyebrows and striking a thoughtful pose. "I'm not sure, to be honest. He's away on business."

  "Oh, right. Anywhere nice?" Cassie asked, looking around. The house was presented much as she might expect having met David Fysh. They'd managed a coherent blend of modern and traditional in the space. The kitchen was a Shaker style, white, with complementary marble worktops and copper fixtures and fittings. It made the space contemporary but blended well with the tradition of the envelope.