Then I spot the second thread, which accuses me of visiting the school to blame the food for the outbreak and pass the buck. (Some people think a buck is a male goat, which prompts plenty of LOLs and Likes.) Most prefer to like a different thread – the one that says I’m as corrupt as my lying and cheating father.
“What are you looking at?” Niamh yawns and then pushes her hands through her tousled hair. “You don’t normally bother with Facebook.”
“Work,” I say, closing the lid of the laptop.
“Wasn’t that a photo of this place?” she asks, taking my cup of cold tea from the table. “You want another?”
I shake my head. I need to warn Geoff Lamb, so he can take control of the Council’s Facebook page and stop the lies and unfounded accusations. I grab my phone and head into the lounge so Niamh won’t hear. When his phone goes straight to voicemail, I leave a brief message and return to the kitchen.
“I thought it was a photograph of the sanctuary,” Niamh says, her face close to the laptop screen. “It was only taken a minute ago.”
“What?”
I rush over, almost falling over Columbo. The post is a couple of minutes old. From the window, I spot Frances remonstrating with a man in trainers and a bomber jacket, while a woman in a hoodie fires off shots with a camera.
Columbo races past me down the stairs, barking as he makes a beeline for the intruders. The man jumps back. The woman shrieks and loses her footing as she turns. Columbo’s on her, his teeth clamping over her arm as she crashes to the ground. Though Frances and I both shout at him, he’s not letting go as the woman flails and tries to swat him.
“No, you don’t,” I cry, grabbing the man as he swings a boot at Columbo. He misses by inches and falls to the ground as he loses his balance. Frances grabs Columbo and pulls him off. The photographer, her face white and her breathing heavy, scrambles back to their Ford Fiesta.
“Get off my land,” I say, facing the man, who’s back on his feet, checking his bomber jacket for damage. “And you can stop taking photographs.”
The man looks across to his colleague. “Did you get all that?”
“Some of it,” she replies, examining the tear to her sleeve.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
She nods. “Tough little guy, isn’t he? My mum has one.”
Columbo growls as she approaches.
“Take him to the caravan, Frances. I’ll deal with these two.”
“Adrian Peach from The Argus,” the man says, holding up a card. He’s young, with unruly blond hair and piercings to both ears. The uneven prickle of stubble on his hollow cheeks can’t hide the fiery traces of eczema. “And this is my colleague, Wendy Birch.”
She’s also young, with military hair, coloured a shade of blue that matches her devil-may-care eyes. She has a long, narrow face that’s attractive in an unconventional way, despite the nose ring.
“You’re trespassing,” I say, my breathing and adrenaline back to normal.
“You let the public in.”
“We invite them in.”
“This is going round Facebook.” He swipes the screen of his phone a couple of times and holds up an image of me, taken shortly after I left hospital three weeks ago. “It’s not the best image for someone who’s supposed to protect public health, is it?”
“You’re still trespassing.”
“And you look like you’ve had another fight,” he says, talking with a confidence that worries me. Meanwhile, his colleague takes more photos. “And Wendy has photos of you attacking me and pushing me to the ground.”
“I think you’ll find I was defending my dog.”
“Which attacked my colleague.” He smiles, looking like someone about to propose a deal. “I could add the story to the one where you assaulted a child in one of your pens. Didn’t your dog also attack the child?”
He’s got me and he knows it.
“Anything you want to say about that, Mr Fisher?”
I can think of several responses – none of them printable – but I’m not sure what to do for the best. While I hesitate, Niamh calls from the kitchen door.
“Would anyone like a bacon sandwich? You look cold and hungry, so why don’t you come up? There’s plenty to go round.”
Peach glances at Birch, who nods. “Who’s that?” he asks, clearly taken with Niamh.
“My stepmother.”
He smiles to himself. “You’re living with your rather attractive stepmother?”
“Yes, I’ve even let her have her own room until she can find somewhere to live. It’s not pleasant being made homeless when your husband dies, but don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story, will you?”
“Are you always this prickly, Mr Fisher? Or can I call you Kent. Unusual name that.”
I could give him the usual lie about being born in Kent. “Do you want breakfast?”
I signal to Frances, who’s watching from the caravan. She opens the door and Columbo bounds down the steps, barking as he approaches. Then Niamh calls from the kitchen, holding his bowl aloft, and he races up the stairs. We follow.
Peach gets more than a story about the sanctuary and E. coli as he munches through several bacon sandwiches, doused in brown sauce. Though fresh out of university, he’s sharp enough to realise there’s another story about William Kenneth Fisher ready to unfold. Niamh, whose opinion of the media is marginally more caustic than mine, has taken to Peach. She thinks anyone with piercings needs rehabilitating.
“I’ve never seen you so friendly with a reporter,” I tell her while Frances gives Peach and Birch the guided tour.
“He needs fattening up,” she says, washing the plates even though we have a dishwasher. “Fast food is ruining his complexion.”
“Unlike bacon sandwiches,” I say, dodging a play slap. “But seriously, do you really want to talk to him about what happened?”
“We need a favourable report after the reception you gave him,” she says, ruffling Columbo’s fur.
“All the scandal and secrets?”
She laughs. “Of course not.”
***
The reporters leave around nine. I ring Kelly to say I’ll be late, but she suggests I work from home while Danni’s in meltdown.
“You’ve never seen so many headless chickens,” Kelly says. “SMUT came in early and they’re locked away in the Committee Room, discussing strategy. No guesses for who’s top of the agenda.”
Senior Management (USELESS) Team, as she calls them, meet weekly to make sure the council’s running smoothly, to deal with any problems and to plan for the future. In reality, they talk, eat Jaffa cakes and doughnuts, and do whatever the Head of Finance tells them they can afford. Occasionally, they have some real problems to tackle, like where to have lunch.
“Why’s Danni in such a flap?” I ask.
“SMUT wants to know why she let you investigate a case where you had a conflict of interests.”
As blame’s normally delegated in local government, I can expect a summons before the morning is out. “No need to guess what she’ll say then.”
“Good job you wrote that note,” she says, “because you have a serious problem on Facebook.”
“I know. Someone’s stirring them up.”
“Chloe Burke?”
“Someone at the school,” I reply, certain it’s Kirk Baxendale. “I’ll ring Public Health England to update them. Ring me if you need me.”
“Stay at home, lover. Tommy Logan’s camped out in Reception, so the rest of his reporter friends won’t be far. But if you do have to show yourself, remember Danni’s advice.”
“You never get a second chance to make a first impression,” we say together. Once the laughter abates, she says, “Watch your back, lover. People are sharpening knives.”
***
Barbara Hussein at Public Health England takes control of the Facebook revolt. “We have letters and posts for this kind of situation. We’ll calm it down. Just make sure your Communications
Officer, Geoff Lamb, liaises with us before putting out any media releases. We need to be consistent.”
“Of course,” I say, relieved there’s one less task to deal with. “Any news on Charlotte?”
“No change, I’m afraid. Mum’s still refusing to discuss the case with us.”
“She’s happily pointing the finger at me,” I say.
“You, Kent? Why?”
I draw a breath. “Her children visited my animal sanctuary ten days ago. She didn’t supervise them and they came into contact with my goats.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she says, her tone cold. “A little sooner might have helped.”
“I stopped investigating the moment I realised who the Burkes were. I also cancelled all school visits and I’m getting the goats tested.”
“Good,” she says, her tone still cold. “We should have an indication late this afternoon or first thing tomorrow from the family’s samples. Fingers crossed.”
I settle back, grateful for the mug of tea Niamh slides in front of me. She sets another three on the table, dismissing my quizzical look with a smile. Then Frances and Gemma enter.
“Does Danni know you’re here?” I ask Gemma.
“She will when she checks her emails.”
“Right,” Niamh says, placing a pad of paper in front of her. “We need some plans to protect the sanctuary because we’re out of bacon.”
“Tommy Logan’s on his way,” Gemma says. “He wants to beat the stampede.”
“When you’ve finished your tea I want you out of here,” Niamh tells me, her tone firm. “If you’re not here, the reporters will eventually lose interest.”
“Or wait for me to return.”
“You need to fight your corner at work, Kent. Frances and I can handle things here.”
Columbo barks.
“You too,” Frances says, ruffling his fur. “Just don’t bite anyone.”
He barks again, clearly taking no notice like a good Fisher.
“Why did you send for me?” Gemma asks. “You seem to have everything under control.”
“Not quite. I need you to keep my stepson out of trouble.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“I’m sure you have inspections you need help with.”
***
On the road into Tollingdon, I ask Gemma to detour to the primary School. “We need to deal with Baxendale,” I say. “If he’s stirring up trouble on Facebook –”
“Didn’t you hear what Niamh said?”
“The head needs to know how much unnecessary panic he’s caused on Facebook.”
“You don’t know it’s him, Kent.”
“Who else could it be? If we can persuade the head to take action against him…”
“And convince everyone you’re trying to protect yourself.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Gemma. And I need your support.”
“Don’t make me regret this,” she says, swinging left.
At the school, we’re shown into Connie’s office. Unlike our previous visit, she looks harassed and drawn. “Please tell me it’s good news,” she says, massaging her temples. “I’m afraid to look at Facebook.”
“That’s why we’re here. We want to talk to Kirk Baxendale.”
“He didn’t start the furore,” she says, picking up a couple of aspirins from her desk. “We have Stephen Burke to thank for that. He’s already threatening to sue the school for taking children to your animal sanctuary.”
She washes down the aspirins with some cold-looking tea and then mutters something about another migraine.
“Kirk’s gone,” she says, rising. “I don’t know what you said, but he resigned straight after your visit.”
Twenty-Two
Connie refuses to tell me where Baxendale lives, even when I assure her that Chloe Burke brought her children to my sanctuary, not the school.
“So why is Stephen Burke persecuting us?” Connie asks.
After Chloe complained to the council and the police, her father should be attacking me not the school. And Baxendale’s sudden departure can’t be coincidence.
“That’s why I need to speak to Kirk,” I say. “Liam might have said something to him that could help with the investigation.”
“Then why didn’t he tell me?”
Connie looks lost, caught between her duty to protect her staff’s confidentiality and a desire to defend the school’s reputation.
“I can require you to release Kirk’s address,” Gemma says. “One call to the office and –”
“I’m not being obstructive.”
“What if Charlotte dies?” I ask. “What if Kirk knows something that might have helped?”
“That’s not fair,” she mutters, turning to her computer. A couple of mouse clicks delivers Baxendale’s address to the screen.
He lives on Chalvington Road, named after a small village about five miles west of Tollingdon. Unfortunately, the less tolerant of the town’s residents have renamed it and the surrounding estate, Chavington to reflect the social housing tenants who live there. While many of the houses have satellite dishes and customised BMWs parked in front, not all the residents are young single parents on benefits. Some have partners. Some have jobs. More than a few have gardens filled with shrubs and annuals rather than old cars and furniture.
While the compact and unexciting brick houses are modern, they look weary, thanks to their surroundings. The wide grass verges, mown by a contractor in a hurry, are strewn with dog poo and the contents of refuse bags, torn open by foxes and seagulls. The regimented cherry and mountain ash trees add some colour, but sadly, I don’t see any birds in the branches, which is good news for car owners, I guess.
We park behind Baxendale’s Vauxhall Astra. A quick survey suggests he’s valeted the interior, removing all traces of cigarettes, ash and exercise books. A pine freshener hangs from the rear view mirror to battle any residual odours.
From the road, we walk down the path between the rows of terraced houses that face each other across a grassed area. Baxendale lives at the end, overlooking fields and marshes. We approach through a garden the size of a postage stamp, dodging lavender and box hedging that’s in desperate need of a trim. Weeds and wild grass have smothered the rest of the garden, leaving only a solitary fuchsia to flower its heart out by the wall.
“The curtains are drawn.”
Like an estate agent on a viewing, I’m stating the blatantly obvious.
The doorbell chimes, ‘There’s no place like home’. When no one answers, I walk around the side and follow the narrow concrete path. The garden waste bin reeks of dead and rotting houseplants, dumped on a bed of desiccated weeds. The adjacent recycling bin is overflowing with cardboard, and plastic and foil takeaway trays.
“Baxendale gets his five a day from chocolate orange and fruit gums,” I remark as Gemma peers inside.
“He’s not home,” she says. “This must be over a week old.”
“He’s here,” I say, pushing open the gate into the back garden. “He’s having a clear out.”
The gate opens into a small paved garden, littered with dried dog poo. A collection of earthenware pots hold the limp and faded remains of herbs, annuals and patio roses that died, waiting for water. Once around a rusting patio table and chairs, I’m greeted by a gathering of charity bags next to the open patio doors. The bags contain the contents of a wardrobe and a couple of dressers, it seems. Pink and black leggings, brightly coloured tops, blouses and jackets fill at least two bags. Another contains shoes and trainers, while the fourth holds underwear and lingerie.
Inside the patio door, a wedding dress, folded inside shrink wrapping, waits on the floor.
“What the…” Baxendale stops, almost dropping another full bag on me. “Oh, it’s you,” he says, pulling out the earphones from the MP3 player in his shirt pocket. He removes the remains of the cigarette from his mouth and flicks the stub over my head.
“If anything ta
kes your fancy, help yourself,” he tells Gemma.
She holds up a bright pink blouse a few sizes too big for her.
“Marcie was all curves,” he says, dropping the bag on the patio. “Unlike me.”
His curry and chocolate diet has left him stick thin. Despite the shave and haircut, his hollow cheeks and sunken chest suggest he’s had the life sucked out of him. Disposing of Marcie’s possessions can’t be easy, triggering memories that must make him doubt his decision to move on.
“Where’s your spaniel?” I ask.
“I took Morgana back to the breeder for rehoming. She was Marcie’s dog.” He scoops the wedding dress from the floor and sighs. “Seven years of marriage condensed into six bags.”
“All crammed with memories,” I remark.
He steps outside and lays the dress on top of the closest bag. “Got time for a cuppa? Unlike the rest of my life, the milk hasn’t gone sour.”
Gemma shakes her head, but I accept. I’m curious to learn why Marcie left so much behind, especially her beloved spaniel.
Inside, the lounge diner extends to the front of the house. The pale pink walls, dark grey carpet tiles and black ash furniture add a 1980s ambience I rather like. While the cerise coloured radiators, skirting boards and architraves shout rather than welcome, the steel framed black leather sofa and chairs look stylish and comfortable.
“We’re intruding,” Gemma says in a hushed voice, joining me to watch the Jeremy Kyle Show without sound. “It can’t be easy, clearing out all the memories. Not that you’d know much about that.”
“You don’t think I have a sensitive side?”
“If you have, only your animals get to see it.”
I stroll across to the bookcase, filled with DVDs and CDs. Though tempted to arrange them in alphabetical order, I focus on the content, not sure what the mixture of punk, rock and 80s classics like Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet tell me about Baxendale, Marcie or their relationship.
Photographs of Morgana, the cocker spaniel, trace her life from cute puppy to adult. I wish people wouldn’t dress dogs in silly knitted coats and hats to make them look like ballerinas or cowgirls, but Marcie must have spent a fortune on her dog.
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