All eyes are on me. The Colonel and Rathbone I know, but the remainder are names on the internal directory. At least there’s one woman at the pinnacle of local politics. Geraldine Hammond, Portfolio Holder for Planning, has a benign expression, but piercing eyes that dare you to mess with her.
“Please accept our condolences on the death of your father,” she says. “We all knew William personally and feel his loss, as I’m sure you do. The shock and turmoil of his death may have caused a few misunderstandings, which we regret.”
Danni shifts in her chair, slapped down for trying to discipline me. No wonder she looks like she’s swallowed a wasp.
“If we can help or support you and Niamh through these difficult times, let us know,” Geraldine says.
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate your concern.”
“You must be wondering why we summoned you.” The Colonel straightens his papers and then looks up. “I know you disapprove of accolades, Kent, but you have become something of a local hero, if we’re to believe Tommy Logan at the Tollingdon Tribune.”
He pauses for polite laughter, allowing Geraldine to add to my discomfort. “You’re an inspiration to your colleagues in times of great turbulence.”
“Just like Hugo Carrington,” Rathbone says.
“Did he solve a murder?”
“The Hugo Carrington Award has only been presented three times since its namesake passed away,” the Colonel says. “By a happy coincidence, its first recipient was your father, so it seems rather fitting that we present the award to you.”
Their spontaneous applause catches me by surprise. Danni too, it seems, as she’s a couple of seconds behind and rather lukewarm with her clapping. The councillors rise and come round the table to shake my hand and add more congratulations.
“It’s a cheap and vulgar plaque,” the Colonel tells me when everyone has left, “but the cheque for £1,000 makes up for that. Now tell me how your investigation’s progressing.”
He’s delighted with my summary, even when I warn him not to build his hopes up about finding Colin Miller
“I’ve waited a year for someone to take me seriously. My expectations are already low.”
***
My expectations take an unexpected hit when news of the award appears on DownNet. On Wednesday morning, it takes Lucy seconds to hit her stride.
“The council’s cutting services and getting rid of people to save money, but they found £1000 for you. I hope you told them where to stick it.”
The money will pay a few veterinary and feed bills. “The cash comes from a trust, not the Council’s budget,” I reply.
“And what about Twinkle Toes?” she asks. “Where’s her award? You’re a man, so you get the credit. She’s a minion who gets shot and she’s overlooked. Doesn’t do much for your credibility, does it, Kent?”
Or Gemma’s morale, I suspect.
She rings me at 11.40, interrupting my hygiene inspection of Tollingdon Tearooms. The owner has already apologised for not having a body in the freezer. He has no idea he’s at least the third person to say that this week.
“I’ve found the company that printed the flyers,” she says.
“What are you doing in Eastbourne?”
“I checked Eastbourne yesterday afternoon. I’m at the Flintlock Industrial Estate near the bypass. I inspected Sweet Sensations, a confectionery wholesaler next door to Tollingdon Business Supplies. The owner remembers Colin Miller.”
“I’ll be with you in 25 minutes.”
It takes me 45 minutes to answer questions, write out a summary report of my inspection findings, and give the owner of Tollingdon Tearooms a new 5-rated hygiene sticker for his window. I needn’t have worried about being late as Gemma’s taking coffee with three mechanics at a motor repair unit. No wonder it takes so long to get a car repaired.
She walks over and hands me a sample pack of chocolate bars. “They give these to businesses as a taster.”
“Must bring my car here for a service,” I say, eyeing the 80% cocoa chocolate bar.
“No, they came from the wholesalers …”
She pulls a face and then laughs. Once the chocolate’s in the car, we walk over to Tollingdon Business Supplies, which has a dent in its roller shutter door. The small door to its side leads into a short, concrete block corridor and staircase to the first floor.
‘Stationery moves us’, proclaims a large banner on the wall.
It moves me straight up the stairs to a reception area, overwhelmed by a rampant Weeping Fig. Slotted in beside the plant is a receptionist with a tiny head mic to match the proportions of his insignificant desk. A young man of few words, he nods Gemma through into an open plan office crammed with desks and computers. A woman with a loose ponytail and baggy sweatshirt eats an egg mayonnaise sandwich as she listens to a caller on her headphones.
“The rest of the sales team must be out selling,” I say, stepping over some electric cables.
Multifunction devices that scan, email, copy and breakdown with monotonous regularity line the walls not occupied by old-fashioned filing cabinets. Desks, overflowing with papers and notes, contain computers with flat screens and phones that seem to have cornered the dust market. Heaven help anyone with asthma, especially the women with rather large lungs who adorn posters for all manner of stationery products and technology.
“The machines must generate a lot of heat,” I say, admiring a rather lovely brunette, bending over a printer. “I can’t think why else these women are scantily clad, can you?”
Gemma rolls her eyes. “You wait till you see the owner.”
“Is she in a bikini too?”
“He’s a relic from an old sitcom. When I walked in he was driving the forklift. He tried to pick me up.”
“I expect you raised his blood pressure.”
A short, balding man with a self-important chest emerges from an office in the corner. Dressed in trousers with no creases and a brown and white tank top over his shirt, he struts over, giving Gemma a huge smile.
“Miss Dean,” he says, addressing her boobs. “You’re a fast mover. I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. Maybe something took your fancy?”
His attempt at a self-conscious laugh fades quickly when he turns to me. “You must be Kent Fisher. Terry Ormerod, owner of this palace of paper products. No freezers here, you’ll be glad to know.”
His sticky hand feels like a slug. “Come into my sanctum, please. I’ll get Wendy to make us some coffee.”
While he gestures to the woman eating sandwiches, I follow Gemma into the small office. It smells like a locker room, so I open one of the windows, but the roar of traffic on the bypass puts paid to any hope of ventilation.
“Refreshments should be here in a minute,” Ormerod says, dropping into his vinyl executive chair. He looks at Gemma’s legs. “I should have asked if you take sugar, Miss Dean. Or maybe you’re sweet enough.”
“I understand you did some work for Colin Miller,” I say before he can talk to any more of her anatomy. “Grub on the Go?”
He looks at his computer screen. “We produced the artwork and printed 5,000 flyers for his business.”
A laser printer in the corner produces a copy of the flyer. Apart from the logo, the artwork consists of a list of products. No pictures or photographs. No address or email, just a mobile phone number. Grub on the Go supplied sandwiches and rolls, all freshly made, with fillings including prawn, pâté, cheese and chicken. The prices were cheap, which probably meant the sandwiches were as tasteless as the logo. In small print at the bottom of the page, Miller offered burgers, sausages and fresh meat at ‘prices your mother will remember’.
I pass the flyer to Gemma. “What was Miller like?”
Ormerod shrugs. “I only saw him once when he delivered sandwiches on the estate. He kept them in a tray in the back of his BMW. That’s not legal, is it?”
“If they’re wrapped and delivered within four hours of manufacture, they should be.”
Wendy comes in with our drinks, saving me an explanation. Once she’s left, I ask him to describe Miller.
“Total poser,” Ormerod says with a smirk. “Black BMW, metal briefcase and a wink for the ladies. But he was thinning on top. Bit like his suit. That had seen better days.” He pauses and frowns. “Say, isn’t it the law to wear a white coat when you deliver food?”
“The food’s packaged, so there’s no risk of contamination.” Gemma’s rewarded with a lingering look at her legs.
I take a sip of weak tea. “When did you produce the flyers?”
He looks at the screen. “Monday, 30th August last year. We printed them on the Friday and he collected them the following week.”
That’s about a week before Daphne Witherington disappeared. Yet Rathbone said the leaflets were delivered after Miller had left.
Ormerod leans forward. “Is he back? He never paid me, see.”
I put my cup on the windowsill and rise. “Thanks for your help.”
“Always happy to help,” he says, almost knocking his chair over as he scrambles to his feet. “Why don’t you leave me your card, Miss Dean? In case I remember anything else.”
She hands him a standard Downland District Council card. He looks at it and says, “If you ever want something with more class, give me a call.”
Outside, she bursts into giggles. “He won’t be printing my wedding invitations.”
“That’s quick. I hadn’t realised things were moving so fast.”
She studies the flyer, pretending not to hear me. “What now?” she asks.
“Try the mobile number at the bottom.”
“Miller won’t be using that, surely?” She punches it into her mobile and listens. “Unobtainable,” she says in a ‘told-you-so’ voice. “Looks like the end of the road.”
“Not quite. Someone supplied him with cheap meat.”
“And you know who.”
“No, but I know a man who will.”
***
We reach Mike’s Mighty Munch shortly after two thirty. Business tails off after lunch, but the dull skies and threat of rain have killed it for the day. With at least four laybys along the Uckfield bypass, competition is fierce, which may explain why Mike hasn’t gone home.
“I could go home and defrost the freezer,” he says, putting down his smart phone. “Or wash my white coat. If you ask me nicely, I might even copy some documents from the police investigation into Colin Miller.”
I smile, surprised and pleased at the same time. “Cheers, Mike. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Of course you were. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“What documents?” Gemma asks.
He reaches for a couple of large mugs. “If you’re not still averse to my refreshments, I might tell you.”
Last time we visited, she criticised his appearance, the state of the van, and his attitude to hygiene.
“I’ll have decaff tea,” she says.
While he makes the tea, Mike tells us what he’s learned. “I spoke to DI Briggs. He’s certain Daphne Witherington ran off with Colin Miller. There’s been no activity on her bank account or credit cards since the day she left, but Miller has form for fraud and deception, including cloning credit cards. They’re probably using new or faked cards and accounts.”
“Does that mean she’s changed her identity?”
Mike hands me a mug of lukewarm tea. “Briggs told me her husband had a short fuse. He thinks she’s escaped an abusive marriage and doesn’t want the Colonel to find her.”
“He beat her?” Gemma’s surprise is tinged with distaste.
He shrugs. “It could explain why she disappeared.”
While Colonel Witherington likes to be in control, I’m not sure he’d strike his wife. And if he did, would she leave her paints and paintings behind?
“What if she wasn’t abused?” I ask.
“What if she doesn’t want to be found?”
Mike clearly believes his former colleagues. “A dog walker noticed a black car in the lane on the morning she disappeared. Tuesday, 8th September, wasn’t it? Didn’t Rathbone say Miller drove a black BMW?”
“Lots of people have black cars.”
“With a Grub on the Go sticker in the rear windscreen?”
“Our printer friend never mentioned stickers,” I say, glancing at Gemma for confirmation.
“There’s more. Miller took Daphne for a meal in La Floret the evening before she disappeared. And guess who saw them? Your favourite undertaker.”
“Davenport?”
Mike picks up his smartphone. “I photographed his statement. I’ll email both pages to you. Interestingly, his description of Miller doesn’t tally with the one Rathbone gave us.”
I consider this new information, wondering why the Colonel never mentioned it. Why isn’t the statement in the file he gave me?
“Do you think Rathbone was spinning us a line?” I ask.
He laughs. “Who would you trust?”
Neither of them, but I keep it to myself. I finish my tea and put the mug on the counter. I’m about to leave when I remember why I called.
“If I wanted some cheap meat, Mike, and I wasn’t too fussy, where would I go?”
He gives me a suspicious look. “Why don’t I like the sound of this?”
“Miller sold cheap meat.”
He pushes his chest out. “Daphne Witherington ran away from an abusive husband.”
“That’s speculation.”
“Based on strong evidence.”
“Circumstantial evidence. The Colonel was out, so she had ample time to take clothes, her paints and paintings. Why didn’t she?”
“Now who’s speculating?”
He turns away, so I usher Gemma back to the car. As I’m about to climb in, Mike calls out. “Todd Walters.”
“Who’s Todd Walters?” Gemma asks when we’re on our way.
“An unsavoury butcher in Mayfield.”
Nine
I drop Gemma at her flat and decline a sandwich. It’s already 3.30 and I want to talk to Davenport before my final food inspection of the day. With a chunk of 80% cocoa chocolate in my mouth, I drive into the centre of Tollingdon and past the Town Hall. A left at the mini roundabout, followed by a right at the next, takes me down a lane that runs behind the shops. At the end of the lane, I pull up outside the rear of Tollingdon Funeral Services.
In the time it takes to eat another chunk of the dry, bitter chocolate, the photos of Davenport’s witness statement download to my phone. He’s factual and to the point, describing Miller as loud and offensive after too much champagne. He’s average height with thick brown hair and a moustache.
“Not quite the Miller described by Rathbone or Terry Ormerod,” I say, thinking aloud.
Witnesses often describe people differently because they’re not trained observers, Mike once told me. Rathbone and Ormerod’s descriptions are based on memories, embellished even. Davenport’s statement is a record from the time. I’m sure he’s a reliable witness, even if he spends more time observing the dead.
On the second page of his statement, he says Daphne Witherington looked embarrassed, especially when Miller told waiters he was leaving dreary Sussex for sunnier climes with the most beautiful woman in the world.
The Colonel must have seen this statement, so why didn’t he give me a copy? Was he afraid I would dismiss his suspicions or doesn’t he want to accept his wife went abroad with Miller? If she did, why didn’t she take her paints?
I grab the ring binder that contains my inspection forms and records and pop it in the carrier bag with my white coat. After I’ve spoken to Davenport, I’ll head around the corner to the High Street and inspect Tollingdon Kebabs, which opens at 4.30.
The wide iron gate
s, topped with spikes, are folded back against a brick perimeter wall about ten feet high, topped with razor wire. Security cameras, mounted on the wall of the main building, survey the large yard, which contains several outbuildings, including a garage for the limos. The digital locks on the doors make me wonder if there’s a roaring trade in stolen hearses.
A smart but old, red MGB with polished chrome bumpers catches my attention. It belongs to Yvonne Parris, according to the nameplate on the wall. Hopefully, she’s as sporty as her car, but not as old. Davenport’s Ford Mondeo has a tow bar and window stickers from his trips to the Cotswolds, Yorkshire Dales and the Lake District.
I can’t see Niamh on a caravan site, queuing for the showers while Davenport cooks bacon on a stove.
“You lost, guvnor?”
A stocky man in dusty blue overalls steps out of a timber building and slides his safety goggles to the top of his bald head. He skirts the rows of headstones, stacked like dominoes, and stops in front of me.
“Environmental Health,” I reply, holding up my ID. “I’m on a transport at work survey for European Health and Safety Week. You have a well-organised yard with plenty of space to segregate pedestrians and vehicles.” I point to the flapped doors in the main building. “Is that where the coffins are delivered?”
“We prepare them in there.”
“You should fit a barrier around your headstones,” I say, gesturing. “What if a truck reversed into them? Say, is that why the building at the end has a steel door?”
“That’s the embalming room.”
I give him my best shudder. “No wonder the windows are blacked out. I’ll give that a miss. And the cold store next to it. I guess that’s where the bodies are kept.”
“Is Mr Davenport expecting you?”
“Keep taking the tablets,” I reply, patting a headstone.
I make my way to a small rear door, wedged open with a fire extinguisher. I imagine it’s difficult to punch numbers into the digital security locks when you’re carrying cups of tea. Sure enough, inside the door there’s a small kitchen with sink, kettle and microwave. A long, dimly lit corridor leads past doors on either side. At the end, one of the two panelled doors hides the stairs to the first floor.
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