No Bodies

by Robert Crouch

  Who am I kidding?

  “He wants the four of us to go out for a meal,” Gemma says, taking a left at the traffic lights. “You and Yvonne, I mean. He loved the banter between you. So, what do you say?”

  “She’s not my type.”

  “Because she gives as good as she gets, if not better?” Gemma shakes her head in disbelief. “She’s exactly your type, Kent. She’s gorgeous, stylish, quick-witted and fun. Okay, she’s American, but otherwise she’s perfect.”

  “Alasdair invited her to make up the numbers.”

  She laughs. “You said Alasdair, not Davenport. Are you ill?”

  “Maybe I’m moving on.”

  “Can I have it in writing?”

  “Talking of writing, what about this letter?”

  “Stacey Walters is alive and well in Glastonbury with Colin Miller,” she replies.

  ***

  Walters has replaced the display cabinet he smashed, cleared the mess, and bleached the shop to within an inch of its life. The fresh smell can’t quite disguise the years of neglect, but I can see the gaps between the floorboards now the grease and muck have gone. A newer chopping block has replaced the worn and bloody one, the white wall tiles are gleaming, and there’s a new set of scales on the counter. While he hasn’t quite managed to add sparkle to his personality, his mood’s brighter.

  “Mr Fisher, Miss Dean, thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure you’d be interested.”

  His drab coat’s gone, replaced by a crisp blue pinstripe shirt with white collar and cuffs. His black trousers, bunched at the waist by a hefty belt, have turn-ups, suggesting hibernation at the back of the wardrobe for a couple of decades. With his hair slicked back, and a smile to lift his jowls, he looks ready for a night out.

  We follow him into the corridor, which looks wider without the clutter. “Are you going out?”

  He scoops up a cardboard box from the stairs, which have also been swept and cleaned. “No. Why do you say that?”

  “No reason.” We follow him into his flat, which still looks like a crash pad for university students.

  “I cleared so much stuff, I ran out of room in the yard,” he says, setting the box on the table. “A mate’s shifting it tomorrow. Stacey won’t recognise the place.”

  I glance at Gemma, who looks equally surprised. “She’s coming home?”

  He nods and grins, plucking an envelope from the table. “See for yourself.”

  It’s a standard supermarket brand envelope, bearing a first class stamp and Walters’ address on a printed label. From the ragged tear, it looks like he opened the envelope with a chainsaw, almost obliterating the Bristol postmark, dated yesterday. Inside, a sheet of A4 paper has been folded into quarters. There’s no address or date on the letter, which comprises one paragraph in Times New Roman, followed by a large, flamboyant signature that’s unreadable.

  Gemma nudges up close to read it with me.

  “Dear Mr Walters,

  A year has passed since Stacey and I moved to Glastonbury. We’re deliriously happy and she has no intention of returning to you, so don’t send anyone else to try and find us. Stacey’s singing once more and I’ve grown my catering business. By rights, she’s entitled to half your home and business, but she don’t want nothing – just a divorce.’

  “It doesn’t sound like Stacey’s coming home,” I say.

  “It’s a fake.” He laughs and takes the letter back. “And I thought you were the clever one, Mr Fisher. He tells me they’re in Glastonbury and then says don’t try to find us. Stupid or what?”

  It appears my trip to Glastonbury prompted Miller to write. Is he worried Walters will follow? If he is, then the letter’s an open invitation.

  Yet Walters has declined the invite.

  “It’s a printed signature,” he tells Gemma, running his finger over the back of the paper. “There’s no indent from a pen. If he’d written it, he would have signed it. I think my Stacey wrote this. She wants me to come and get her.”

  And I thought I had a vivid imagination.

  “Then why didn’t she phone?” Gemma asks. “Or text?”

  “I don’t have a mobile phone.”

  “You have a phone in the shop.”

  I’m enjoying Gemma’s tenacity, matched only by Walters’ conviction.

  “What if he overheard her?” he asks. “Or checked the last number she phoned?”

  It doesn’t follow that she wrote the letter, but I don’t care what Walters believes. “If she wrote the letter, why does she want a divorce?” I ask.

  “She wants to talk to me, obviously.”

  “I hate to break this to you, Todd, but her solicitor will talk to yours.”

  He shakes his head so hard, I’m surprised he doesn’t wrench his bullish neck. “She didn’t take her stuff, did she?” He points to her darts and then wrenches open the cupboard that contains her karaoke equipment. “Why not? Did you ever think about that, Mr Fisher?”

  Before I can answer, he says, “No, because you don’t know my Stacey. She’s always had a restless spirit. She needed to get away, now she’s ready to come back. That’s why she wrote a coded letter to me.”

  “Todd, Stacey’s not in Glastonbury. Neither is Miller, I suspect.”

  He laughs. “How do you know?”

  “I was there last Friday night.”

  “You met Miller?” His face is now inches from mine, overpowering me with his aftershave. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did you see Stacey?”

  “I don’t think she’s with him.”

  “Then how do you explain this?” He pushes the letter into my face. “First thing tomorrow, I’m going to Glastonbury. Tell me where he lives.”

  “He attacked me,” I say, pushing the letter away. I lift my polo shirt to reveal the huge swollen bruise of blue, yellow and purple on my side. “Then he ran off. He’s gone, Todd.”

  Walters shakes his head.

  “For all he knows, I called the police,” I say, determined to make him see sense.

  “Did you?” he asks.

  “Of course he didn’t,” Gemma replies. “He’s a bloke.”

  He jabs the letter with his finger. “It says they’re in Glastonbury,.”

  “Because he’s already left,” she says, making no effort to hide her frustration.

  Walters paces across the room, staring at the letter. He slumps onto the sofa with a thud that probably dislodges plaster from the ceiling below. Then he rips the letter into small pieces and tosses them in the air.

  “You must think I’m a right mug.”

  I beckon Gemma to leave. As we reach the door, he calls us back. He hurries into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of champagne. “That’s why I asked you over,” he says, holding the bottle out. “I wanted to say thank you for helping me.”

  Part of me wonders if I’ve made things worse. “Put it on ice,” I say. “You never know what tomorrow will bring.”

  Outside, Gemma’s straight to the point. “Did you just tell Walters you were going to keep looking for Stacey?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You can’t give him false hope, Kent. It’s worse than no hope.”

  I know how he feels.

  ***

  On Wednesday morning, I find a note to call Colonel Witherington.

  “You need to take the rest of the week off,” he says, his tone conciliatory but firm. “In military parlance, you need to remove yourself from the crossfire.”

  “And let the world think I’m guilty?”

  “This isn’t about you, Kent.”

  “My sanctuary’s in the frame.”

  “What about the reputation of the council and your colleagues? Can you imagine the editorial Thomas Bloody Logan will write?”

  “And have everyone think I’m running away?”

  “This is a time for discretion not valour, Kent. Get your animals tested and pray to God they come back negative.”

  “And if they’re positive, I’m screwed.”<
br />
  “So put your house in order,” he says. “They want the blame to fall on you and they’ll do everything they can to discredit you. That includes your pretty assistant. Can you trust her?”

  “Of course,” I reply.

  A few minutes later she beckons me to the lab. “Has someone complained about me?” she asks. “Only the Head of Audit has summoned me for a formal interview. He doesn’t say why, but it must be something to do with the E. coli, right?”

  “It’s not about you,” I reply. “Chloe Burke claims my goats made her daughter ill, but she didn’t keep Charlotte and Liam under control when they visited the sanctuary.”

  Gemma looks at me in surprise, which quickly turns to anger. “Hang on. Liam and Charlotte visited your sanctuary?”

  I nod. “The day after the funeral.”

  “And you started the investigation knowing this?”

  Her voice is almost ultrasonic. She stares at me, mouth open, anger and disbelief burning in her eyes. It’s like I’ve betrayed her and everything I believe in.

  “I didn’t know who they were until I saw Liam in the garden yesterday.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me right away?”

  “That’s why I left you to finish the interview.”

  “You could have told me in the car.” She heads for the door, clearly hurt and betrayed. “Why don’t you trust me?”

  “Do you think I would have visited Stephen Burke if I’d known who his daughter and grandchildren were?”

  “That’s not what this is about,” she replies, slamming the door behind her.

  I lean back against the wall. I want to trust her, but I’m worried what she’ll think when she finds out how I feel about her. What if she doesn’t like what she sees? What if she pushes me away?

  It’s better not to know.

  Moments later, Kelly enters, looking concerned. She takes one look at my face and opens her arms to hug me. “You never know what’s around the corner,” she says.

  For a moment, I wonder why I’m hung up on Gemma when Kelly never fails to put a smile on my face. “Why don’t we go somewhere exotic?”

  She pulls back and looks into my eyes. “Are we talking about a caravan at Camber Sands?”

  “How do you know about that?” I ask, intrigued.

  “You’d be surprised how many waitresses I know.”

  “That was years ago,” I say. “I’m grown up now.”

  “Yeah, grown-ups often hide in cupboards when the shit hits the fan. What’s going on, Kent? What have you done this time?”

  “A girl’s in hospital with renal failure, fighting for her life, and it could be my fault.”

  She listens to my precis and makes sympathetic noises in all the right places. Then she kisses me on the cheek and tells me to keep a low profile, as Colonel Witherington suggested.

  But I can’t sit around and do nothing. Frances believes we’re finished. No matter what I say, she’s convinced the E. coli poisoning is her fault because she went shopping with Niamh that Saturday.

  When I talk to Niamh, she wants to bring in the family solicitor in case there’s a lawsuit even though I’ve notified my insurance company of a possible claim. When she insists, I explain what I’ve done. Unfortunately, I mention my discussion with Birchill and she lets rip.

  “That bastard took everything we have! He blackmailed your father to do his bidding.”

  “He wasn’t my father.”

  “He may not have fertilised the egg, but he treated you like his own, you ungrateful eejit. I can’t believe you’re even talking to that man, that scum who’s ruined our lives. You should be ashamed!”

  I want to remind her that William Fisher gambled away the family estate. He lied and betrayed us, but she’ll never see it that way, even though she knows he was unfaithful to her.

  “Birchill owns the land we’re living on,” I say, my hands on her shoulders. “He could evict us tomorrow. I have to work with him.”

  “You don’t have to go running to him, do you?” Tears fill her eyes as she says, “You could ask me for help.”

  I pull her close, wondering what to do about Miles Birchill. While I don’t like the man, or condone his actions, he went from a disgraced groom on the Fisher estate to multimillionaire, returning to Downland Manor to claim his prize. And he didn’t lose it all gambling.

  But that’s not Niamh’s fault either.

  ***

  The next morning, I ring the office to say I’m working from home. But I can’t concentrate. After a couple of hours pushing emails around, I drive to the Belle Tout lighthouse and walk along the cliffs to Birling Gap to clear my head. With the wind howling off the sea, and the waves battering the cliffs, it’s wild and raw, just how I like it. The soft, rolling slopes of the South Downs mask the ferocity of nature, as it chips away at the chalk and scrapes through the bushes and trees that fight to get a foothold on the thin layer of soil.

  The noise deafens my doubts and fears. In the distance, the rise and fall of the Seven Sisters, majestic above the foaming sea, draws me towards Birling Gap and the National Trust café. I could have driven to the car park, but I wanted to walk along the cliffs and clear my head. Instead, I’m reminded of Gemma.

  When I left her bedsit seven years ago, I came here. I walked for hours, wrestling with my feelings as I strolled over the Seven Sisters and back, finally stopping at the café. I looked out across the water, sparkling in the late morning sunshine, recalling the evening before when the sun streaked the sky on its descent behind the hills.

  We’d made love on the grass in a sheltered nook behind the café after it closed. She looked up at me with dreamy eyes. “I’m hopelessly in love with you, Kent Fisher,” she said. “I can’t imagine life without you.”

  And I gave her Birling Gap café to inspect. How thoughtful of me.

  I skirt around the remaining coastguard cottages, now ominously close to the receding cliffs, and into the car park, packed with cars despite the weather. The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I stride across to the stairs that lead down to the beach. Even on a gloomy October morning, there are still dog walkers, students and tourists strolling over the shingle to the water’s edge. At low tide, the rocks beneath the chalk emerge, trapping seawater into small pools.

  I rest my arms on the rail, looking along the coast, recalling Columbo’s first visit a few weeks ago. He hated the shingle beach, but it didn’t stop him slowly picking his way over the pebbles to the water’s edge, only to jump back from the waves. Then, after testing the water was safe with his paws, he went in further, a little at a time.

  Maybe I could learn a thing or two from him.

  The café’s busy, despite the weather. The queue shuffles towards the counter, where assistants produce mugs of foaming coffee and pots of tea for the regular customers, who present their loyalty cards for another stamp. Mine’s at home, along with my thoughts.

  “Good to see you, Kent.”

  I snap out of my daze and spot Debbi waving and heading for me. She’s one of those outdoor types with no-nonsense hair, a weather-beaten complexion and rough hands from building walls and paths. Her smoker’s laugh reminds me of Muttley, Dick Dastardly’s faithful dog. She treats me to this every time we meet, before repeating the dodgy joke I told her the first time we met.

  “What do you call a man with a sharp drop?” she says, shaking my hand.

  “Cliff Edge,” I reply.

  And she’s off, laughing like it’s the first time she’s heard it, much to the amusement of the customers either side of me. The women behind the counter smile politely.

  “Never fails,” she says, straightening her shirt. “Never fails. Oh Kent, where have you been? I thought you’d emigrated.”

  “I’ll be here when the place topples to the beach below,” I say. “I can’t believe how much the cliff’s eroded in the last couple of years.”

  She looks out of the window as if she expects to see the rocks falling away. “It’s frigh
tening how close it is. So, what brings you here? It can’t be another inspection as your assistant, Gemma, was here recently. Pretty young thing, isn’t she?”

  I shuffle along, aware we’re holding up the queue. “I only popped in for a cup of tea and a scone.”

  “Then you must meet our new chef. His scones are to die for.”

  She’s tugging my sleeve, easing me away from the queue. “I’ll treat you to a cream tea while we chew the fat. I hear you’re a famous detective these days.”

  She leads me through to the back and into the kitchen, talking about her new puppies and how much paperwork she has these days. The kitchen looks as spotless and well-equipped as it did the last time I inspected it. The stainless steel gleams, the floor sparkles, and the two young women preparing sandwiches use the correct coloured chopping boards.

  “I can’t come in without a white coat,” I say, when she beckons me to join her.

  Her hand goes to her mouth and she scuttles back to join me in the doorway. “I’ll get them to bring the cream teas through to the office,” she says, leading me down the corridor.

  The office smells of walking boots, waxed jackets and Danish pastries as we weave between the three desks. Each one sags beneath a mess of paperwork, walkie talkies and stained mugs, filling the spaces between the PCs and the letter trays. I’m about to sit in a plastic chair beside Debbie’s desk, when I spot a watercolour painting of Birling Gap and the Seven Sisters on the wall next to the standard health and safety poster.

  “Daphne Witherington,” I say, checking the signature.

  Debbie nods. “Such a talented artist. Look at the way she captures the light and shade of the cliffs. It’s always changing, always shifting.”

  Indeed. I have enough photographs to fill several memory sticks. “You knew her?”

  “She was a regular visitor with her easel and paints. We were organising an exhibition,” she says, joining me to admire the painting. “Nothing elaborate, but we spent the best part of six months planning the details. Then, a couple of weeks before the event, she vanished. I still have her paintings in a storeroom.”

  “Didn’t the Colonel want them back?”