“She has her moments.”
Yvonne nods, a vague smile wandering across her lips. “What’s the score with you and Gemma?”
“We work together, that’s all.” I push the last of the sandwich into my mouth and flatten the packaging, ready for the recycling bin nearby.
“You must see a lot of each other, I imagine.”
“At work, you mean?”
She stares deep into my eyes. “Sure, that’s why I couldn’t understand why you spent all evening looking at her, even when I was talking to you.”
She rises, fastens her coat, and starts to walk. I push my waste in the recycling bin and catch up with her. Neither of us speaks as we stroll along the High Street. She turns into Kaff, a coffee shop with trendy décor and seating, aimed at people much younger than me. White leather sofas and armchairs mingle easily with low, stainless steel and glass tables. Along the back wall at the far end of the bar, the seats slot into booths with large photographs of coffee plantations on the wall.
The noise of grinding coffee beans mingles with the murmur of muted conversation. Inhaling the sharp, slightly burnt aroma, I glance around, my eyes adjusting to the harsh LED spotlights that pick out the tables and cast shadows on the floor. Most of the customers have hung up their raincoats and parked their golf umbrellas, large enough to shelter a family of four. The customers who brought their children seem unaware that a chocolate muffin does not stop kids getting restless, especially when their parents are glued to their smartphones.
“Decaffeinated skinny latte,” Yvonne tells the young barista. “And a cup of tea.”
She saunters through the tables, nodding to one or two people as she passes. She removes her coat and places it on the arm of a sofa by the window. After placing the dirty cups on a tray, she sets it down on an adjacent table for the waiter to collect.
“Gemma kept looking at you too,” she says, when I’m seated next to her. “Do you two have unfinished business?”
“We got into a bit of a scrape recently. That’s all.”
“I know, but that’s not what I meant,” she says, watching me closely. “After two failed marriages, I can spot the signs. I’m not looking for a third, Kent, but neither will I become invisible when Gemma walks into the room.”
“Maybe I’m not interested in you.”
She grins. “Oh, I think we both know you are.”
The barista arrives and places a tray on the table. He smiles at Yvonne before retreating back to the counter.
While I move the small pot of tea and giant cup closer, she tips a tube of sugar into her latte, stirring it in with the long spoon. When she’s finished, she settles back in the sofa and gives me a wry smile.
“Would you talk more if we went somewhere more conducive, like La Neapolitan? It scores five on your hygiene rating scheme and they do wholemeal pasta.”
I should be flattered. “Another time, Yvonne.”
“Are you too busy chasing killers? Or regrets?”
She laughs and takes a few sips of her latte, clearly enjoying herself. I take one look at the weak tea in the pot and get to my feet.
“All work and no play make Kent a dull boy,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at La Neapolitan from eight this evening.”
Before I can tell her I have other plans, her mobile rings with a blast of Taylor Swift. “Alasdair,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What gives?”
She listens and nods a couple of times, raising a finger to ask me to wait a moment. “Yes, he’s with me,” she says, nodding once more. “I’m sure he won’t mind. He’d like a word,” she says, offering me her phone.
“Kent, you’re not going to believe this,” he says, his voice animated. “There’s a body in a freezer. Déjà vu or what?”
“Where?”
“Meadow Farm, Jevington. I’ve just arrived to collect it for the mortuary. I can’t do anything till the crime scene people have finished, but I gleaned a few details from one of the uniforms. Though the body’s covered in ice, they’re sure it’s a woman.”
From the noise in the background it sounds like the police are there in force.
“The guy living here moved out over the weekend without telling anyone. The managing agents only found out this morning and sent someone to check the place. The poor woman spotted the freezer in the barn and got the shock of her life. Hang on a moment.”
I listen to the voices and noises in the background while Davenport talks to someone with a deep, officious voice. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but he’s doing all the talking.
“Sorry about that,” Davenport says. “Looks like I’ll be kicking my heels a little longer. Anyway, do you know who owns Meadow Farm?”
“No idea.”
“Colonel Witherington. That’s why I called you.”
“You think Daphne Witherington’s in the freezer?”
He pauses. “It’s hard to tell when someone’s hacked the head off.”
Twenty-Four
“Sounds like she got the cold shoulder,” I say.
Thanks to Mike and his graphic scenes of crime photos, I’ve developed a dark humour that reveals itself in moments like these. Then again, what do you say when someone tells you there’s a headless corpse in a freezer?
I ask Davenport to let me know if he learns anything more and end the call. Yvonne, who’s picked up the gist, wants all the details as we walk towards her office.
“Do you think the caterer dumped her there?” she asks.
My money’s on the Colonel.
“We don’t know who she is yet,” I say.
“Oh, come on. Who else can it be?”
Maybe that’s what troubles me – her certainty. There’s no doubt, no room for concession or compromise.
“I’m heading this way,” I say, turning at the junction with Furnace Lane.
“See you this evening,” she calls over her shoulder.
With over an hour to go to my meeting with Danni, I have time for a trip to Friston.
When I arrive at Belmont, there’s a patrol car on the drive. I pull up alongside Alice’s Nissan and walk across to the porch, stepping over tyre tracks in the gravel that suggest a heavy van or small lorry was here. She opens the door before I can knock.
“Oh, Mr Fisher, he’s had a heart attack.” Her face looks pale and drained, her eyes swollen with tears. “The ambulance left a few minutes ago. She’s dead, isn’t she? Mrs Witherington. That’s why the police called.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I remain silent.
She straightens her sweater. “They’re in the study, if you want to talk to them, Mr Fisher. I was going to make tea, but Colonel Witherington …” She bursts into tears again. “Is it her?”
“I don’t know.”
I escort her back to her warm kitchen, where she was making a fruit cake. I sit her down and let her talk while I make tea.
“I’ve been expecting something like this for weeks,” she says. “He gets so frustrated and worked up when things don’t go the way he wants. He resigned from the Council the other day,” she says, looking up. “I won’t repeat what he said about your manager.”
“I didn’t know,” I say, wondering why the Chief Executive hasn’t made an announcement.
“He’s dying, Mr Fisher, and you finding Mrs Witherington is the only thing keeping him going. That’s why he’s furious with the way the Council’s treating you.”
“Is there someone I can call to keep you company, Alice?”
“This place and Colonel Witherington are all I need. He’s made provision for me when he … passes. I shan’t want for anything.”
Apart from some company maybe.
“Oh, I know you must think me foolish,” she says, “but I’ve had a wonderful life. You wouldn’t believe the people I’ve met and the places I’ve been with him. I was his personal assistant before I became his housekeeper. We travelled all over the world.”
It’s clear
she loves the Colonel and this house. Did Daphne Witherington spoil things? It’s not the time to ask, but I may never get a better chance.
“What happened when Mrs Witherington came along?”
Alice looks up. “Colonel Witherington had stopped travelling by then. He became a councillor and then a JP. That’s where he met Mrs Witherington – at the court. I was pleased he’d finally found someone. Men should never be alone.”
“He had you.”
“Och, it was never like that. He became besotted with Mrs Witherington. Like chalk and cheese they were, always arguing about things – in a good way, I mean. He believed in punishment, she favoured rehabilitation.”
Alice’s expression makes it clear which view she favours. “I enjoyed looking after them. It made a change to have a woman in the house.”
“You got on well,” I say, pouring tea from the pot.
She pauses and then smiles wanly. “They’ve found Mrs Witherington, haven’t they? The police, I mean. That’s why they’re here.”
“A woman’s body was found earlier at Meadow Farm in Jevington.”
Alice closes her eyes. “Mrs Witherington spent a lot of time there with Mr McGillicuddy. He rented the place.”
I grab my notebook. “McGillicuddy as in The 4.50 from Paddington? Miss Marple?”
She gives me a blank look. “Ross McGillicuddy was a gamekeeper in Argyle before he won the lottery. Not the jackpot, but enough to travel around the country. He loved it here and stayed longer than he intended. He got on well with Colonel Witherington and even butchered meat and venison for us.”
“Did the Colonel know his wife spent time at Meadow Farm?”
“Of course,” she replies, her tone a little frosty. “He encouraged her. Ross McGillicuddy could be a forgetful man, always late with the rent. He was a big, strapping man with a bushy beard and hands like bear paws. I think he frightened the Colonel, but Mrs Witherington soon charmed the money from Mr McGillicuddy’s wallet.”
“They became friends, you mean?”
“Aye, but not the way you mean it,” she says. “He was more interested in his hog roast.”
Am I too cynical or is Alice naïve? If Daphne visited Meadow Farm, why are there no paintings of the place or the land around it in her room? And even if McGillicuddy operated a hog roast, it wouldn’t take up that much of his time during the working week. In my experience, people with hog roasts attend country fayres, events and private parties, usually at weekends.
“Did he run the hog roast as a business?” I ask, certain he never registered it with the council.
“I wouldn’t know.”
If he ran a business, he would need freezers. But if he killed Daphne Witherington, why keep the body? And if it is her in the freezer, there’s nothing to connect her to Stacey Walters and Marcie Baxendale. Even if McGillicuddy sold meat to Colin Miller, it’s a tenuous link at best.
“How did McGillicuddy react when Daphne went missing?” I ask.
Alice shrugs. “I hardly saw him. Colonel Witherington visited the farm once a month to check on things.”
“But he had managing agents to look after the place.”
“Mrs Witherington collected the rent and dealt with any repairs. When she went missing, he didn’t have the time, so he employed managing agents. He visited every month to make sure they were doing what he paid them to do.”
Or the Colonel wanted to make sure his wife was safely tucked away in the freezer.
He could have killed McGillicuddy too for having an affair with her. Visiting monthly would have kept up the pretence that he was alive.
A tap on the door interrupts us. A young man in his 20s, with bright eyes and thick hair swept back from his forehead, strides in. He has the build of a rugby player under his suit, and a crooked nose to match.
“We’ll be on our way now, Mrs Hewitt,” he says, looking me over. “Are you a relative?”
“Kent Fisher, environmental health. The Colonel’s an old family friend. And you?”
“DC Coyne, Sussex Police. Can I ask what the purpose of your visit is?”
“The same as yours, I imagine.”
He gestures to the door. “Perhaps you’d come with me.”
I follow him down the corridor. In the large reception area, we meet DS Fowler, another stocky detective who looks like he’d rather be breaking up fights on a Saturday night than dealing with dead bodies. He’s clutching several manila folders to his chest.
“What brings you here, Mr Fisher?”
“Like you, I’d like to know who’s lying in the freezer at Meadow Farm.”
A flash of surprise, maybe anger, interrupt his neutral expression. “How do you know about that?”
“You can’t discover a body in a village like Jevington and keep it quiet.”
“Clearly, you have friends there,” he says, eyeing me with suspicion. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about this body?”
“Have you spoken to Alice, the housekeeper?”
“All in good time, Mr Fisher. We’re not all expert detectives like you.”
“Then you won’t know that Ross McGillicuddy, the tenant of Meadow Farm, and Daphne Witherington saw a lot of each other.” Now I have their attention. “She was a regular visitor to the farm before she went missing.”
Fowler glances at his colleague and smirks. “I think we’d better ask the governor to hand the case over to Mr Fisher.”
“Then maybe you should give me the manila folders,” I say. “They belong to the Colonel, right?”
“Coyne, let the housekeeper know we’re taking these.”
Once we’re alone, Fowler turns to me. While his voice remains polite, his eyes warn me to watch myself. “We appreciate all the assistance we can get, Mr Fisher, so we’ll be sure to contact you if we feel you can help us.”
Outside, I realise I should have kept my mouth shut. The detectives would have interviewed Alice as part of their investigation. They’d already spoken to the managing agent who discovered the body, so they already knew about Ross McGillicuddy.
As I reach my car, my phone rings. “Call me psychic, Kelly, but you’re going to ask me where I am.”
“Where are you?” Danni demands in a voice that could rattle bin lids.
“Getting my goats tested,” I reply. “It’s taking longer than expected, but I should be with you shortly.”
“You might want to stop off and buy a copy of The Argus.”
She ends the call, leaving me to wonder what Adrian Peach has written about the sanctuary. Before I can drive off, my phone rings again, showing Kelly’s number once more.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “Danni knew you’d ignore the call if she used her own phone.”
“Have you seen The Argus?”
“Only what’s online. There’s a photo of you and a reporter scuffling.”
“Not one of my finest moments. Well, at least I’m getting the goats tested.”
“That’s why I rang you. Before she spoke to you just now, Danni rang your sanctuary. Your stepmother said she hadn’t seen you since this morning.”
Twenty-Five
In Danni’s office, I decline a seat at the meeting table, forcing her to stand to deliver what sounds like a well-rehearsed critique of my shortcomings. It’s my last act of protest, which is probably pointless, considering how easy I’ve made it for her. I’m insubordinate, disrespectful, gung-ho, a loose cannon, and obdurate.
I refute the last one.
“Frankly, Kent, you’re an embarrassment to the council,” she says, winding up her speech. “Have you any idea how this is affecting your team and colleagues? No, I don’t suppose you have,” she says, not giving me a chance to answer. “Well, unless you pull your socks up, keep your head down, and make sure your back’s covered before moving forward, you’re going nowhere. Do I make myself clear?”
I’ve no idea what she means, but I look suitably chastised as I leave her office.
Kelly looks up.
“Are you okay, lover?”
“Am I causing problems for the team?”
She gives me a hesitant nod. “It looks like you don’t care about their problems because yours are more important.”
“More urgent, Kelly, that’s all.”
“Don’t you end up in the same place?”
I consider what she says, knowing she’s right.
For too long, I’ve bent the rules and taken chances, protected by William Fisher, MP. His death means I’m vulnerable. Either I curb my behaviour or turn to Birchill for protection. It means accepting he’s my biological father, working with him on a holiday village that will destroy even more wildlife, no matter how green he tries to make it.
I can’t do that.
The time has come to stop hiding behind others and set an example to my colleagues and my team. With local government facing austere times, struggling to survive in a world where all the good we do is undone by unfair, and often untrue, reports in the media, people will lose their jobs. People I know and care about. People I need on my side.
I lean across and kiss Kelly on the cheek. “Thank you,” I say before pushing open the door to Danni’s office.
Startled, Danni ends the phone call and thrusts the receiver back on the phone. Her cheeks redden even further when the receiver tumbles off and clatters onto her desk.
“Danni, I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused,” I say, looking into her flustered eyes. “I know I’m not the easiest person to manage, and I appreciate it be must difficult for you at times.”
Her surprise melts and for a split second I sense a glimmer of a connection between us. Then she rises, straightens her jacket, and says, “I thrive on challenges.”
She grabs her trolley bag on the way to the door and forces Kelly to step out of the way. The trolley bag crashes against the door frame, but fails to slow Danni, who strides down the corridor to the stairs.
“You apologised to Danni.” Kelly looks at me in disbelief. “Hey, Gemma, Kent just apologised to Danni. A genuine apology.”
“A real apology?” Gemma asks, staring at me. “Are you ill?”
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