“Do you have any refuse bags?” Gemma asks.
He points to a louvre door in the corner.
In the kitchen, she opens the cupboard beneath the sink and ferrets around, pulling out washing powder, two buckets and a pack of unused cleaning cloths. When she reaches the refuse bags, she throws them to me. “Clear the table, Kent, and I’ll make some tea.”
Walters remains on the sofa while I gather up the takeaway trays. It appears he likes chicken korma with pilau rice and plain naan bread. It takes one bag to contain the waste and a second for the grubby, sticky tablecloth that’s soaked up curry for months. I transfer the bags onto the landing as Gemma emerges with a tray and three mugs of tea.
“Thanks for your help, Mr Walters,” she says. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
At the mention of his name, he stirs and struggles to his feet to take the ‘World’s best husband’ mug from her. He walks over to the cupboards beside the fireplace and opens the door to reveal a glass cabinet, containing trophies and shields. He takes out a large framed photograph of a slim woman in a black shirt, holding a trophy aloft. She has frizzy black hair, a small oval face with a wide mouth and unusually thick lips, and sexy dark eyes that can barely contain her delight.
“My Stacey,” he says with pride. “Club champion three years running.”
A set of gold personalised darts fan out from a black holder, embossed with the word ‘Stacey’. The pink flights also proclaim her name in the same stylised writing.
Gemma whispers in my ear. “No one that skinny can have boobs that big.”
I remember Nigel saying she was once a model. “Unusual sport for a woman,” I say.
Walters replaces the photograph in the cabinet. “My Stacey could do anything.”
“How did you meet her?” I ask.
“She worked for Colin Mellor. He managed a private club in Brighton. He fancied himself as a big promoter with his metal briefcase and shiny suit.” Walters takes a slug of tea. “If you wanted strippers, dancers or singers, he was the man. One of the lads in the rugby club had a 21st birthday so we hired a stripper. Someone knew Mellor and got in touch. He came over and offered to jazz things up on Saturday nights with a few of his girls.”
“Did that include Stacey?”
He glares at me. “She was a singer not a stripper. She had an amazing voice.”
He wrenches open a second cupboard door to reveal a small karaoke machine and microphone, along with a shelf filled with CDs. He pulls out a CD and hands it to me.
Stacey knew how to pose for the camera. Cocooned in a tight scarlet corset that pushed her breasts up to her chin, she leans forward, her dark, sexy eyes, peering through her tousled black hair.
He takes back the CD before I can flip it to read the track list.
“I met Stacey in Brighton,” he says, closing the cupboard. “Mellor had plans to take the club upmarket. He wanted dinner and cabaret, not leering hooligans. He wanted cheap steaks to sell at the highest prices. The margins were good, so I supplied him. One day, when I was delivering, I heard a woman singing and went to take a look.”
“Stacey,” I say.
He swallows and nods. A warm smile spreads over his face. “I was mesmerised. When she spotted me, she waved me over, but ... I was late for a delivery and had to leave.”
He drinks more tea to hide his flushed cheeks. “I went to watch her every Saturday, hoping she would notice me, but there were always plenty of men in suits in the way. Then, one night, three or four blokes kept shouting rude suggestions while she sang. When she came off stage, they crowded round her, touching her up.”
He runs a finger under the collar of his shirt. “I told them to lay off. One of the blokes told me to eff off, so I decked him. And his three yuppie mates,” he adds with a proud nod. “Next thing I know, Stacey’s dragging me out through a fire escape. Mellor’s not far behind. He grabs Stacey’s arm and pulls her inside. He tells her to get back to the customers, but she refuses. That’s when he slapped her.”
“And you decked him, right?”
“I bust his jaw and cracked several ribs. I never expected Stacey to come with me, but she chased after me, so I brought her here.”
“Did Mellor come after you?”
He shakes his head. “I expected him to show up with some of his bouncers to beat the shit out of me, but he never did. I thought Stacey would stay a few days and then go back, but she loved it here. She said I was her hero. And then last year …”
“He showed up, right?”
Walters’ brows dip with suspicion. “Why are you interested in my Stacey? I thought you came here to inspect the place.”
“I came to find out about Colin Miller. Or Mellor, as you know him.”
“Why?”
“He ran off with my fiancée.” I ignore the stunned look on Gemma’s face and say, “She owned a small delicatessen in Tollingdon.”
He turns to Gemma. “So why are you here?”
“She’s my mother,” she replies without hesitation.
“But you work with Mr Fisher.”
“That’s how he met my mother.”
He frowns. “Why didn’t you say when you walked in?”
“Mr Walters,” I say, stepping between them, “I need to find out if Colin Miller and Colin Mellor are the same person. Can you describe him?”
Walters walks over to the window. “Stacey didn’t tell me he was back until I spotted him from up here. As soon as I saw the shiny suit and metal briefcase, I knew it was him. He’d put on weight and lost a lot of hair, but he still drove a fancy black car.”
“Did you confront him?”
Walters nods. “He said he was starting a new business and wanted a reliable meat supplier. I didn’t believe a word,” he says, turning. “I knew he was interested in Stacey because I found some letters from him.”
He trudges across to the cupboard. “So, I supplied him with some meat and waited to see if he made a move. I asked Stacey if she missed singing in the clubs, but she said she loved being part of the village. She’d a rough childhood,” he says, opening the door. “She never talked about it so I knew it must be rough.”
“How long did you supply Mellor?” I ask.
“I never saw him again. I wondered if my Stacey told him to sling his hook. Then, she tells me about some new business in Brighton, looking for meat. I wondered if it was Mellor, so I drove over there, but I couldn’t find the place.”
He pulls out the framed photograph and stares at it. “When I got back, the shop was open, but she’d gone. No one saw her go. Someone in a flat across the road saw a black car driving away, but she also said she could see my aura, whatever that is.”
“Did Stacey contact you?” I ask.
He shakes a forlorn head. “Why would she? She was gorgeous and talented. What did she see in a lump like me?”
A little boy lost, by the look of things.
“Can you remember the date?” I ask.
“I’ll never forget it. 22nd September last year.”
That’s two weeks after Daphne Witherington disappeared.
Twelve
“What do you make of that?”
We’re in Mayfield Macchiato. I’m not sure why people think alliteration will make their business stand out, but it’s preferable to the proliferation of misspelt names, like Beanz or Koffee, that seem to be sweeping the country. MM, as its coasters and place mats proclaim, still needs to update the chintz tablecloths, wooden floorboards and oak dressers from its former incarnation as a tearoom. Maybe the owners had no money left after purchasing the beast of a coffee machine that dominates the counter. I prefer the chink of fine china cups to the industrial blast of steam, hissing through milk. Maybe the locals agree as we have the place to ourselves.
Across the street, Todd Walters has closed his shop, maybe permanently.
“If Miller and Mellor are one and the same,” I say, “why did he get involved with Daphne Witherington when his old flame
’s 20 miles up the road?”
“He needed money and conned the Colonel,” Gemma replies.
“Twenty grand doesn’t go far. And what happened to Daphne?”
“Maybe Miller was putting a girl band together.”
She grins and slides the last mouthful of a double chocolate muffin into her mouth.
That’s the problem. Are Miller and Mellor the same person? The man described by Rathbone and Walters bears little resemblance to the one Davenport saw.
Yet within two weeks of each other, Daphne and Stacey disappeared without warning, leaving valued possessions behind.
I consider this on the drive back to the office, looking for a link between the two women. Maybe they met by chance and became friends. Maybe both felt trapped in their marriages. When I start to wonder if Daphne is Stacey’s mother, I know I’ve lost the plot.
***
Back at my desk, I delete around three quarters of my emails without opening them. Most are invites to courses I can’t manage without. Ironic, considering I manage to live without them. I’m offered training, equipment and contract officers on a regular basis, even though I never respond to the emails. The Food Standards Agency, Health and Safety Executive, and Public Health England keep me occupied with alerts and updates, most of which are interesting but need no action. That leaves the EHCNet messages from environmental health officers around the country who want advice, information or help with problems. Danni keeps a tight control on these. We have to get her permission to send anything, and she filters incoming messages, only forwarding those she thinks we can respond to.
Apart from today.
“She’s on leave until Monday,” Kelly says. “You’re in charge, lover.”
“Does that mean you have to do anything I want?”
“Is it something Danni would never agree to?”
“Would I do that?” I ask, devastated by the slur on my character.
I dictate my message, asking for information on Colin Miller/Mellor and Grub on the Go and Kelly posts it on EHCNet.
“Why are you and Twinkle Toes so interested in him?” she asks. “What’s he done?”
“I want to find out if he’s traded anywhere else.”
“What are you up to?” she asks, not fooled by my half-truth. “Danni will want a full written explanation on Monday. And a worksheet on the database.”
I’d forgotten that detail. “Okay, I think he’s selling dodgy meat.”
“And you’ve been so busy catching up on overdue inspections, you haven’t had time to create a worksheet.” She looks up from the computer. “Shall I set one up for you, lover? I imagine you received an anonymous tip off, as usual.”
That avoids having to make up a name and address for a complainant that doesn’t exist. I lean over and kiss her cheek. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d get caught.”
***
When my phone rings at five to five, I hesitate before answering, keen to get home. Thankfully, it’s Gemma. “Do you still keep your running gear in the car?”
In the background, I can hear fast moving traffic. “Where are you?”
“Friston Church. I’m about to run to Colonel Witherington’s house and I thought you might want to join me.”
“Why?”
“I need your spare head torch. And I think Alice killed Daphne Witherington.”
Twenty minutes later and changed into my running gear, I pull up next to her Volvo. The light’s almost faded beneath a moody sky that’s mumbling with thunder. As intrigued as I am about Gemma’s assertion, I’m not sure why I agreed to run with her.
Then she emerges from the car in leggings and a running top that’s moulded over her sports bra and I know why. No matter how many times I remind myself she’s engaged, I come running when she calls, literally in this case. Self-awareness and logic don’t stand a chance.
“Why would Alice kill Daphne?” I ask.
Gemma zips up her high visibility jacket and follows me to collect the spare head torch.
“Can you imagine how Alice felt, after all those years of loyal service? The Colonel marries Daphne and brings her home, relegating Alice to a couple of rooms above the garage. Then she has to serve and clean up after the woman who took her place.”
I adjust my head torch and nod. “Jealousy’s a powerful motive. But that doesn’t explain Colin Miller.”
“He was only after money. Alice used him to divert attention. She knew he’d vanish once he had the money.” Gemma pauses to secure her head torch, taking care not to trap her ponytail. “Then all she had to do was make it look like he’d run off with Daphne. Motive, means and opportunity, I’d say.”
I nod, seeing the logic. “Now tell me why we’re going there in our running gear.”
She switches on her torch and grins, obviously pleased with herself. “Colonel Witherington’s at a meeting. Alice is home alone and won’t be expecting us.”
“Naturally, she won’t think we’re nuts, running in a thunderstorm in the dark.”
“She’ll be more concerned with the sprained ankle I’m going to have and want to help me. That’s when we ask some searching questions about the garden.”
“The garden?”
“All in good time, Holmes. First, I have to set the scene.”
Another rumble of thunder encourages us to get going. It takes a few minutes to cross the busy main road, but once over, we settle into a steady pace, running in single file to give oncoming traffic plenty of room to pass. We reach the turn into Old Willingdon Road within a few minutes and run side by side. A crack of thunder booms across the valley, driving away the electrified humidity with a blast of cold wind.
“So, Watson, how did she do it?” I ask.
“Alice became Daphne’s best friend and confidante. She pointed out all the Colonel’s little faults and petty jealousies so Daphne wouldn’t upset him. He’s the most wonderful and generous man, but he has a temper sometimes,” Gemma says in a Scottish accent. “Och, it soon blows over but it might seem a little frightening the first few times. He won’t be mad at you, but he likes to be in charge and do everything for you. It’s only because he loves you so much. Don’t worry. He’ll never strike you.”
I can see where she’s heading. “So, she starts to worry he’ll hit her. Meanwhile, Alice primes the Colonel, telling him to buy his wife clothes and lavish her with gifts because she wants to be spoiled. When she complains, he loses his temper and so on.”
“You’re smarter than you look,” Gemma says, oblivious to the latest crack of thunder, which explodes right above us. Any moment now, the rain’s going to pelt down. “The stage is now set and Alice calls in Colin Miller. Having secured him twenty grand, he has to take Daphne to La Floret that night so everyone will think they’re running away together. Then, when they both disappear … What do you think, Holmes?”
I’m impressed. “Where’s the body?”
“Under the conservatory. Now, let’s pretend I’ve sprained my ankle,” she says, stopping at the boundary of Belmont. Alice’s Micra sits in the drive and the lights are on in her flat. “You’ll have to carry me from here, Kent.”
“Why you think Daphne’s under the conservatory?”
“The Colonel had the rear garden landscaped and replaced the old conservatory about 12 months ago. Richard’s brother, Mark, supplied and built the conservatory. He said Alice watched them like a hawk. She never stopped wandering over, checking on them, asking questions about what they were doing and how long it would take. That’s what made me wonder if she’d killed Daphne.”
“If you’re right, she’s not going to confess.”
“We’ll see.”
Gemma groans in agony, hobbles over and slides an arm over my shoulder. “Come on,” she says when I don’t move. “Put your hand around my waist.”
Before she can demonstrate her limping skills, the clouds shower us with some of the biggest raindrops I’ve seen. An almighty crack of thunder shake
s the ground. Within seconds, we’re drenched, but laughing for some reason as we hurry to the garage. I ring the bell. Alice opens an upstairs window, peers down at us and then comes to the door. If she’s surprised to see us, she hides it well.
“Let’s go over to the house,” she says, opening a golf umbrella.
Once in the warm kitchen, she puts on the kettle and then goes upstairs, returning a few minutes later with luxurious bath towels. She recoils as the windows vibrate from more thunder. The rain sounds like it’s ready to beat its way through the glass.
“What on earth are you doing out in this weather?”
“We’re running for charity,” Gemma replies, wrapping the towel around her. “Every mile equals money, but we have to run so many miles each week. That’s why we go out in all weathers.”
Alice shakes her head as we drip on the floor. “I hope you’re not expecting me to sponsor you.”
While she makes tea, Gemma peers through the window. “Your conservatory’s taking a battering,” she says. “You might need to check for leaks once the storm passes.”
“It’s quite robust, I can assure you.”
“Are you sure?” Gemma manages to imbue her question with just enough doubt. “Only Kent spotted some hairline cracks the other night. He thought it might be settling.”
“I’m not a building inspector,” I say, “so I can’t be sure.”
“He’s too modest,” Gemma says, turning away from the window. “He’s got an amazing eye for things that are out of line. You wouldn’t want the conservatory to sink into the ground, would you?”
“I can assure you it’s built on very firm foundations. I watched them pour the concrete.”
“Must have made a mess of the garden,” Gemma says, taking a cup of tea. “Kent can take another look to put the Colonel’s mind at rest.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Alice says, her voice sharp. “The Colonel has more important things to worry about.”
“You said he looked frail, didn’t you, Kent? With all that stress and responsibility I’m surprised he doesn’t take it easy and stand down from the council. He could go any moment,” Gemma says, looking at Alice. “And then where would you be?”
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