No Bodies

by Robert Crouch

  Yvonne puts her knife and fork down after eating only half the food. “If you two are getting married,” she says, looking at Richard, “how come you haven’t fixed a date?”

  “We had to find out when Herstmonceux Castle was available,” Gemma replies. “It’s so popular.”

  “You’re getting married in a castle?” Yvonne grins, mischief in her eyes. “Perfect for someone to gallop in on a white steed, I’d say.”

  “Or a horse drawn carriage,” Richard says, thankfully missing the point. “Can you imagine arriving in a gold carriage with glass doors, darling?”

  “We haven’t planned the details yet,” Gemma says, pushing her half empty plate away. “Richard only bought the ring three weeks ago.”

  “After Kent saved your life,” he says. “It made me realise how precious you are to me.”

  Yvonne gives me a wicked smile. “Do you save many women?”

  “He prefers animals to people,” Gemma says.

  “Yet he saved you,” Yvonne says with an air of intrigue.

  Davenport doesn’t allow the silence to settle. “You’re looking for a missing woman at the moment, aren’t you, Kent? Daphne Witherington disappeared about a year ago, didn’t she?”

  I nod and fork vegetables into my mouth.

  Richard looks impressed. “How do you find the time, Kent?”

  “He’s using his work contacts to find a caterer who worked with Daphne,” Niamh says. She looks relieved that Davenport’s changed the subject. “Did you find him in Glastonbury?”

  “Glastonbury?” Gemma looks at me as if I’ve betrayed her. “You never told me Miller was in Glastonbury.”

  Richard looks from me to Gemma. “Who’s Miller?”

  Niamh takes over. “Daphne ran away with a caterer called Colin Miller. Kent tracked him down to Glastonbury.” She turns to me. “Was Daphne there?”

  I shake my head. “Miller didn’t tell me anything useful. Then, as I hurried back to the car in the rain, I slipped on some steps.”

  This seems to satisfy everyone except Gemma, who mentions our visit to Todd Walters and his missing wife.

  Richard frowns. “Two missing women? Are they connected?”

  “Miller knew them both,” she replies.

  Yvonne swirls the wine in her glass. “Sounds like an intriguing ménage a trois.”

  “I saw Miller and Daphne in a restaurant.” Davenport undoes his bow tie as he speaks. “They were running away together. So, where does Mrs Walters fit in?”

  “Maybe Mr Miller saves fallen women,” Yvonne says, still swirling.

  “He was bragging about it in the restaurant,” Davenport says. “Everyone heard him.”

  “He admitted he knew Stacey,” I say, aware that everyone’s looking at me.

  “And she’s missing too,” Richard says. “What a puzzle. This is like one of those murder mystery parties where everyone dresses up to play the parts.”

  “Who said anything about murder?” I ask.

  “You travelled halfway across the country to interview this chap, Miller,” he says. “That seems a bit much for a man who ran off with someone’s wife. He must have told you something useful?”

  Their expressions may be expectant, but I’m saying as little as possible. “It’s difficult to talk when you’re cooking burgers and serving customers.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to him when he wasn’t working?” Niamh asks.

  “He probably doesn’t pack up till well past midnight.”

  “So, you didn’t interview him today.”

  “No, last night.”

  “So, it was dark when you slipped.”

  I nod, not liking the tone of her voice.

  “Then what kept you in Glastonbury for most of today?”

  “And why weren’t you answering your mobile?” Gemma asks.

  I feel like the accused in the dock, the way everyone is looking at me. “My phone was damaged when I fell.”

  “Haven’t you heard of phone boxes?” Niamh asks.

  “Okay, I overslept. I didn’t sleep much because of the pain from the fall. After breakfast, I drifted off. You can check with Ann Summers at the guesthouse, if you like.”

  “Ann Summers!” Gemma can’t stop herself giggling, setting off Yvonne.

  Niamh’s far from pleased. “You went all that way for nothing then.”

  “Discounting the awesome shiner,” Yvonne says.

  “Does that mean your investigation’s over?” Davenport asks.

  “But two women are missing,” Richard says, looking around the table for support. “You can’t leave it there.”

  “Why not?” Yvonne’s sharp tone silences everyone. “What if they don’t want to be found?”

  Richard looks puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Lots of women have abusive relationships. Way too many make excuses and put up with the beatings and mind games, but some find the courage to escape.”

  Gemma nods. “Walters has a violent temper.”

  “Colonel Witherington too,” Niamh says, gathering the plates. “Wasn’t he accused of bullying council staff?”

  Davenport helps with the plates. “The Colonel has a short fuse when he can’t get his way.”

  “Case solved,” Yvonne says, daring me to disagree. “Do you really think they’re gonna thank you for finding them?”

  Sixteen

  On Monday morning, my popularity soars when I walk into the office. While I like to think it’s my natural charisma, easy-going style and super sleuth reputation, not to mention an understated modesty, it turns out Danni hasn’t shown yet. With Kelly on leave for a couple of days, officers turn to me for guidance – after they ask who thumped me.

  Danni’s decision to take time off at the end of last week has left a number of unsigned invoices and orders that Finance can’t process. When I remind them they won’t let me authorise expenditure over £500, my popularity wanes. It plummets when I delegate all other financial decisions back to my manager and put the phone down.

  “Did Gemma’s fiancé do that?” Lucy studies my face and then casts a glance at Gemma, who looks subdued.

  “You can believe what you like, but I slipped on some steps.”

  She laughs and saunters back to her desk, leaving me to sift through the problems reported to our call-out service over the weekend. As usual, residents sound off about loud music from their neighbours, out of control parties, people shouting and swearing when they leave pubs, and dogs howling all night. These will go to the Pollution Team for standard response letters, as will the complaint about Japanese Knotweed rampaging across a garden and breaking through a concrete patio. Apparently, we can deal with it under antisocial behaviour legislation, according to the complainant. It's comforting to realise the public know our job better than we do.

  “The war on weeds has started,” I tell Ruth Jordan, Pollution Control Officer. “Mr Angry from Alfriston wants immediate action.”

  Ruth’s a dizzy blonde with a loud, excitable voice, children that are always ill, and an enthusiasm that no amount of mistakes can quash. To be fair, her enthusiasm causes most of the mistakes, especially when it teams up with her unerring ability to tell people what she thinks of them. But what she lacks in diplomacy, she makes up for in effort. Since Trevor Harmer, her manager, went off sick with stress, she’s taken on his district work, including several complex noise assessments linked to planning appeals. Her colleagues believe she’s the cause of her manager’s stress, leading to more than a little tension in the team.

  Ruth takes the messages. “Some woman from Public Health England got her knickers in a twist yesterday. Some kid’s got E. coli O157 and she wanted me to rush out with poo pots and exclude him from school or something. I told her kids don’t go to school on Sunday. I don’t think she has children – or a sense of a humour.”

  She gives me a toothy grin and slides me a scribbled note from her pad. “She said she phoned you and Danni several times and left messages, but nei
ther of you called back.” Her expression changes to one of horror, tinged with distaste. “Tell me you weren’t with Danni this weekend.”

  “You think my boss whisked me off to a hotel in Brighton for some bonding?”

  “Bondage more like. Anyway, we all saw her kiss you.”

  “Because I saved her job. Anyway, that was months ago.”

  I wonder when people will start to believe me. Not for some time, if Ruth’s expression’s anything to go by.

  “But you always answer your phone at the weekend, Kent. That’s why I ring you.”

  I point to my cheek. “I fell and broke my phone.”

  She squints over her glasses. “Your phone did that? Were you talking to someone when you fell?”

  I nod, knowing any other response will lead to more questions.

  Back at my desk, I ring Barbara Hussain at Public Health England. Once we get past my broken phone and the unhelpful attitude of my assistant, Ms Jordan, Barbara tells me about the investigation into Charlotte Burke’s illness.

  “It’s definitely E. coli O157 and probable Haemolytic Uraemic Syndrome.”

  “Poor girl,” I say, knowing that doesn’t begin to cover it.

  “She’s critically ill with renal failure. Even if she pulls through, there's a risk of kidney damage, poor mite. We need to test her brother, Liam. He's eight and attends Tollingdon Primary School.”

  “Isn’t he in London with his mother?”

  “He went home with his grandfather last night.” She gives me an address for one of the smarter districts in Tollingdon. “As far as we can ascertain, he hasn't displayed any symptoms, but we can’t be sure. The mother became hostile when my colleagues tried to interview her. The nurses calmed things down and offered to complete the questionnaire.

  “We got the feedback yesterday afternoon,” she says, her voice dropping. “Chloe Burke, the mother, is convinced she’ll lose the children if the father finds out. He's filed for custody, claiming she’s an unfit mother because she has a history of substance abuse. That’s why she won’t answer any questions.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find out from the brother and grandfather,” I say.

  “Mrs Burke did tell the nurses she took the children for a meal in Eastbourne, Saturday teatime, nine days ago. Your colleagues in Eastbourne are following up on that. We're not aware of any other cases at the moment, but that could change. If you exclude Liam from school and pot him, we’ll keep trying with Mrs Burke. I’ll forward the few details we have.”

  “Can you copy everything to my manager, Danielle Frost?”

  “Of course.”

  “Copy me into what?” Danni asks as I put the phone down. She’s leaning against the door frame, a dreamy smile on her lips. “Walk this way,” she says, exaggerating the wiggle of her hips on the way to her office.

  I’m hoping she’s won the lottery because if she’s in love … I stop, realising I don’t want to go there. I’ve never thought about her having a man, or woman, in her life. It looks like I’m about to find out, judging by the way she flops into her chair.

  “Looks like you lost a fight, Kent. Want to tell me about it?”

  I take a seat. “I’d rather tell you about Charlotte Burke. She’s four and half, confirmed E. coli O157, and in hospital with renal failure.”

  She switches on her computer. “Eastbourne District General?”

  “No, the Evelina in London. Her condition’s critical.”

  “Then she’s in good hands.”

  That’s management speak for not our problem. “The family live in Tollingdon, so we’ll do the legwork.”

  “Gemma can run round with poo pots,” Danni says, typing in her password. “I’ve got something far more important tasks for you. I’ve just spent the last four days devising a new, more effective and efficient way of working.”

  At least she’s not in love. That’s small comfort compared to the systems, forms and records she’ll create. There’s bound to be at least one matrix, supported by several decision trees and a forest of evaluation reports, all bundled within the ultimate measure of management success – a proliferation of acronyms.

  “I’ll email you my new PHIS so you can get up to speed PDQ. OK? Public Health Improvement System,” she says, responding to my blank look.

  I’m loath to spoil her moment, but I force myself. “Charlotte Burke has a brother at Tollingdon Primary School. We need to exclude him and test for E. coli.”

  She frowns at me as if I need constant spoon feeding. “Gemma can manage that too. Honestly, Kent, why do I pay you to be a manager when I make all the decisions? Let your team do the work. Just make sure they deliver. That’s all I ask.”

  “This could turn into an outbreak, Danni.”

  “If it does, I’ll expect you to run the investigation, not deliver poo pots. That’s why PHIS will be such a help. Make sure you study the documents because we’re meeting with Bernard at two.”

  “Bernard Doolittle from HR?”

  “He has to agree any restructure.”

  Restructure is management speak for staff cuts. That means more uncertainty, people worrying whether they’ll have a job or not. Not that I’m immune. Danni has left the E. coli investigation to me, so I take the flak if anything goes wrong. Past outbreaks in Scotland and Wales, where environmental health staff became overwhelmed by the explosive increase in cases, suggest we won’t cope.

  I’ll become the first casualty of her restructure - which might be exactly what Danni wants.

  “Grab some poo pots,” I tell Gemma. “We need to get the shit before it hits the fan.”

  While she collects the pots and forms from the tiny room we laughingly call ‘The Lab’, I print the PHIS document Danni’s emailed me and stuff it into a folder. No Kinsey Millhone for me this lunchtime.

  “I’m no expert on Haemolytic Uraemic Syndrome,” I say on the drive to Tollingdon Primary School, “but I thought you got it after you’d recovered from E. coli.”

  “Like a secondary infection?”

  “No, more like a delayed reaction. You get better then it hits you. If Charlotte was ill and then recovered, we’re looking at a long incubation period. If she went to preschool, who knows how many kids she could have infected?”

  “But there haven’t been any other cases, have there?”

  That’s what puzzles me. There should be other cases. “We’ll get a better idea when we talk to the brother and grandfather,” I say. “The mother’s not very helpful.”

  “Give her a chance. Her child could be dying.”

  “I know, I know. But she wouldn’t want other children to suffer, surely?”

  Gemma’s voice rises. “You can’t imagine how she’s feeling,”

  I’m not sure why she’s so prickly, but it could be linked to the dinner party. Most of the time she seemed subdued, as if she didn’t want to be there, which makes me wonder why she accepted the invitation.

  When we reach Tollingdon Primary School, I park outside the shops on the opposite side of the road, a few yards from where we found the cocker spaniel in the car. Gosh, ten days have elapsed since the funeral.

  We cross the road and push through the bright red gates of a school built less than 20 years ago. The bright panels below the windows add colour to an otherwise drab single storey building. We approach along a path that cuts through flower borders made to look like miniature meadows and through double doors into a small foyer, plastered with notices and drawings. The reception window on the right reveals a small office that’s used as a dumping ground for coats, toner cartridges and old computer monitors.

  After signing in and getting our visitor badges, we’re taken next door to see the Head. Connie Warburton’s in her 30s, with a rounded, smiling face and a fondness for bright colours, if her glasses and office are anything to go by. Her royal blue suit, buttoned over a yellow blouse, matches her glasses and complements her intense eyes. Her small office walls hosts a collage of pictures the children have pain
ted, while a table that runs along one wall is crammed with boxes, containing old mobile phones. By contrast, her desk is relatively tidy. Several photographs show a smartly dressed son and daughter, both sporting the same short, precise hairstyle their mother favours.

  It’s a far cry from the forbidding headmaster’s office of my childhood.

  I pick up a Nokia from one of the boxes. “Do any of them work?”

  “We send them to a charity in Africa. If you have any phones you no longer need …”

  “I have the opposite problem. I keep breaking mine.”

  “We might still be able to use them,” she says, gesturing us to sit. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “You’ve heard of E. coli O157, I imagine.”

  She pushes her glasses up her nose and leans back, waiting for me to continue. It makes a change to have someone calm and unhurried to talk to. Like the word ‘asbestos’, E. coli often alarms people.

  “One of your pupils, Liam Burke, has a sister who’s picked up the bug.”

  “Charlotte Burke?” Connie’s expression suggests I’ve answered several questions. “That’s why we haven’t seen her for the last two weeks. Her mother never answers the phone or our emails.”

  “I thought Charlotte was at preschool.”

  Connie taps away at her keyboard and studies the monitor. “She started last month. She was with us for two weeks and we haven’t seen her since. Her mother’s a nurse, so you’d think she’d let us know, wouldn’t you?”

  I force myself not to think of all the vulnerable patients Chloe Burke could infect. “Does she work at the hospital?”

  “No, she works at a nursing home in Pevensey Bay. I think it’s the Beach View.”

  That’s even worse. Between them, the Burke family could have infected vulnerable young children at one end and frail, elderly adults at the other.

  “At least she’ll know about personal hygiene,” Gemma says. “Have you had any children off with food poisoning or tummy upsets?”