“Then, on my way back to the office from my vigil, I see Kent Fisher, having fun with a comely young lady. He can’t have heard the news, I thought or he’d never be out enjoying himself, would he?” A sly smile sidles across his mouth. “Then I realised you would have heard the news long before me.”
“What news?” I ask, getting to my feet. “Has Colonel Witherington died?”
“No, but sweet little Charlotte Burke passed away at 6.27 today.”
Twenty-Six
I go numb. It feels like someone has placed a fish bowl over my head. I can see the photographer taking photos, but it doesn’t register. I can see Tommy’s lips moving, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. My mind swims with images of Charlotte Burke, surrounded by doctors and nurses, desperate to keep her alive. I can imagine her mother’s frantic cries as she watches, helpless to save her daughter.
I can almost feel her suffocating fear and panic when she realises her daughter’s gone.
“So young. So pretty. So helpless. Such a tragic waste, wouldn’t you say?”
Tommy’s voice brings me back from paralysis. The photographer at his side continues to shoot, despite the best efforts of the maître d’ to intervene. Everyone in the restaurant watches, waiting for me to respond.
But what can I say?
“I’ll assume that’s no comment,” Tommy says in a loud voice, addressing his audience. “After all, you hardly knew the girl, did you? You only met her at your animal sanctuary when she was left unsupervised with your goats.”
A hand on my arm restrains me. Yvonne whispers in my ear and pushes me towards the door. She drops some banknotes on the table and thanks the maître d’.
“It’s not like Kent Fisher to run away,” Tommy says as I pass.
I spin around. “But it’s just like Tommy Logan to capitalise on the death of a poor young girl. Can you imagine how her mother must be feeling?”
“I’m sure she’ll tell me in the morning when I interview her. In the meantime, perhaps you could tell me if you’ve tested your animals yet.”
Yvonne drags me away, forcing the photographer to step back.
Tommy calls after us, unable to hide the glee in his voice. “I’ll take that as a no, shall I?”
Outside, the damp air feels cool and fresh. Not that it makes any difference. My mind seems to be operating in a different world to the one around me. I’m aware of Yvonne, clutching my hand, leading me through the fine mist of rain, visible in the headlights of passing cars. I can’t hear the cars though. The only sound comes from the noise in my head.
“Why didn’t your boss tell you the kid had died?” Yvonne asks, cutting through the noise.
“Her name’s Charlotte. Charlotte Burke.”
She releases my hand and steps back. “Hey, I’m not the enemy here. Chill out.”
“Chill out?”
“It’s not like you know her, is it?” She shivers, her flimsy jacket offering little protection from the cold rain. “You’re angry about how this will look when word gets out.”
“I’m angry because a young girl should never have died. It’s my job to protect vulnerable people. That’s what I do.”
“You think you’re Mother Theresa?” She stares at me, shaking her head. “What about the kid’s mother? Isn’t she supposed to protect her children?”
I feel my fingernails digging into my palms. I want to hit someone or something – anything to release the pressure inside. “What if my goats infected Charlotte?”
“What if they didn’t?”
“I need to ring my boss,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “Damn, my phone’s in the restaurant.”
Yvonne pulls my phone from her bag. “Maybe she left a message.”
We duck under an awning and I check for calls, messages, texts or emails from Danni. But there’s nothing. She must know. Public Health England would notify her first and then me. So, why haven’t I heard anything?
How did Tommy know? Who told him?
I spot him with his photographer on the opposite side of the street, heads bent against the rain. The younger man bounds up the steps, two at a time, to the first floor office of the Tollingdon Tribune. He unlocks the door and strides into the illuminated room, not waiting for Tommy, who struggles up the steps. As he stands on the landing, sucking in air, our eyes meet. With a sly smile, he turns and heads inside.
Thankfully, he’s too late to get the story into tomorrow’s edition, but that still leaves the website and social media.
Yvonne, who’s also watching, takes my arm and snuggles up. “My flat’s around the corner.”
“When I walked past earlier, the lights were off,” I say.
“What?”
“Tommy said he was on his way back from Jevington when he spotted us in the restaurant. Who turned on the lights in his office?”
“The cleaners? Another reporter? Who cares?”
“He returned to the office,” I reply, thinking it through. “That’s why the lights are on. Then he came across to La Neapolitan. He knew we were there. Someone tipped him off.”
“We had a window seat. He spotted us.”
“Not from his office. He would have to walk past and the only person who did that was a wino.”
“He spotted you earlier, walking to the restaurant.”
I shake my head. “The offices were closed when I walked past. No, he knew I was in the restaurant with you.”
She steps back, her eyes cold and angry. “Are you saying I tipped him off?”
“Why was the photographer dry if they’d been out in the rain for four hours?”
“Maybe he was in the office.”
“No, Tommy had a photographer lined up,” I say, watching her closely. “All he had to do was get me out somewhere convenient, in full view of the street.”
“You think I set you up?”
I ignore her incredulity. “Who else knew where I would be?”
“I didn’t know if you were coming to the restaurant. I didn’t know the kid was going to die, so how could I set you up?”
“The story was about me out enjoying myself while Charlotte fought for her life in hospital. When she died, Tommy must have …”
Yvonne stares at me, shaking her head. “You think I played up to you in there, knowing that kid was dead? What do you think I am?”
When I don’t answer, she spins away, her heels pounding on the paving slabs. She pulls her jacket tight, dislodging her bag, which slides off her shoulder. For a moment she wobbles on those precarious heels before striding out of sight around the corner.
I look up and see Tommy at his office window, towelling his grey hair.
Back in my car, I switch the fan on full blast to clear the condensation. Maybe the rush of air will clear my head too. I don’t know why Yvonne set me up, but who else could it be? I suppose Tommy could have spotted me on my way to the restaurant, rang his photographer and caught me in the act.
I shake my head. Yvonne chose La Neapolitan, only yards from Tommy’s office.
Why didn’t I go home after my wasted journey to Belmont?
I look at my phone, ready to tell Danni the worst, but wanting to know why she didn’t ring me with the news. She can’t have rung the sanctuary or Niamh would have contacted me.
Either Danni didn’t know, like me, or she didn’t tell me.
No, she’d tell me. She wouldn’t want me doing anything that could harm me or the council, surely?
Of course not, I tell myself, staring at the photo of the dismissal letter she produced and signed ahead of the formal hearing.
***
At home, I can’t sleep. Neither can Niamh. It’s 2.15 and she’s wrapped in her dressing gown, staring at a mug of cold tea in the kitchen. Her reddened eyes fill with more tears as I hug her, wishing I knew what to say. But what can I say? I screwed up.
“If only I hadn’t taken Frances shopping,” she says, scooping up Columbo, who immediately licks her face and tears. “It wasn’t a
s if she wanted to go. We walked from shop to shop, me getting her to try on something different, and she bought more combat trousers.”
“We could all do with some of those when the media arrive tomorrow.”
Niamh shudders. “Don’t. I should have made you test the goats sooner.”
“It’s not your fault. We’ll get through this.”
“Not if we have to close. Where will the animals go? What about Frances?”
“It won’t come to that,” I say with more conviction than I feel.
“But our reputation will be damaged. People won’t trust us.”
She’s right. Not only do I need the goats to test negative, I have to prove Charlotte’s infection came from somewhere else. That’s not going to be easy. With an outbreak affecting lots of people, it’s easier to identify common foods or sources of infection.
I make tea, not sure what to say to fill the silence. Columbo’s back on the floor, asleep under the table, but I won’t sleep a wink, so I might as well make plans for tomorrow. It should be simple as I know exactly what I’m going to do and say – nothing. The goats will be tested, the media will drift away when they realise no one’s talking, and I’ll go for a long run to allow plenty of time to beat myself up.
“Go to bed.” Niamh puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder and gives me a grim smile. “We’ll survive. We’re Fishers, remember.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh yes you are.” She kisses me on the forehead and squeezes my shoulder before returning to her room. I remain at the table for a little while, thinking about alternate futures where I design eco villages or set up my own detective agency.
“Maybe not,” I say, aware that Columbo’s awake and looking up at me. “Daphne Witherington was lying three miles from her husband as the crow flies and I went to Glastonbury. What kind of detective does that make me?”
Back in my room, with Columbo curled up by my feet, I spend some quality time with Kinsey Millhone, wondering how she would have investigated the missing wives. Would she have rushed to Glastonbury to confront Miller? Of course she would. What about the letter from Stacey Walters, arriving a few days after? Would Kinsey have believed it? I doubt it. Would she have looked for a connection between Marcie Baxendale and Miller? Kinsey would record the details on index cards, using them later to review her progress. She would never trust to memory like me.
I turn off my Kindle and search through the storage boxes on top of the wardrobe for my old clipboard and pad. Inside the bedside cabinet, I unearth an old fountain pen and a pack of cartridges. In the bathroom, I rinse the nib under the tap, insert the cartridge, and eventually coax the ink to flow.
Columbo gives me his full attention, placing his paw on the clipboard to tell me he’s ready to share my thoughts and deductions. As he can’t read my scrawl, he soon goes to sleep beside my legs while I record everything I can remember about Daphne Witherington. I repeat the process for Stacey Walters, stopping only to visit the bathroom and then make another mug of tea. Finally, I write down everything about Kirk and Marcie Baxendale. With the help of another mug of tea, and a treat for Columbo, I review my notes.
“Well, matey,” I say, ruffling the fur behind his ears, “do you think Daphne Witherington’s the body in the freezer?”
He takes another treat and reserves judgement.
“She disappeared on a day when her husband and Alice were out. As she didn’t take her paints, she knew the killer and thought nothing of going out with him. The tenant, McGillicuddy, knew her, maybe had an affair with her. But,” I say, having Columbo’s full attention now, “why would he kill her and keep her in his freezer for 12 months? Wouldn’t he get rid of the body and move on?”
Columbo paws my arm and I slip him a final treat, until the next one, of course.
“Agreed, the Colonel’s the more likely suspect.”
But if the Colonel killed his wife, why did he ask me to investigate? Was he hoping I’d blame McGillicuddy? Or Miller, who took £20,000 to dump Daphne. If his story is true, of course. Miller also had a history with Stacey Walters, who disappeared while her husband was off on a hoax delivery.
The Colonel knew Marcie Baxendale, who deserted her beloved spaniel. All the wives are connected, but only with the killer, it seems.
“I wish you could talk,” I tell Columbo. “I wish your namesake was here because I’m missing something. Something obvious.”
I flick back through the pages of scrawl, looking for the killer detail. I’m almost back at the beginning when I remember something.
Councillor Rathbone and the man at the printers gave a different description of Miller to Davenport.
I tap the pen against my lip, trying to coax more from my weary thoughts. Miller said he reneged on the deal with Colonel Witherington because someone threatened to kill him. While Miller’s a compulsive liar, what if he told me the truth? What if he fled and someone else took his place? That could account for the different descriptions.
It also rules out Miller.
So, who killed Stacey? Who killed Marcie?
I’m back to the Colonel again. Or am I? McGillicuddy left a couple of days before the body in the freezer was discovered.
Eager to share my breakthrough, I ring Gemma. The phone rings and rings. I’m about to hang up when her bleary voice answers.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“6.19,” I reply, glancing at the clock. “Someone put the body in the freezer after McGillicuddy left.”
It sounds like she’s shuffling about, trying to get comfortable. When she giggles and says, “Not now,” I almost end the call.
“Who did?” she asks. “Why?”
“Someone’s tracking our investigation,” I reply. “Someone with a freezer. Someone who produced a letter from Miller a couple of days after my trip to Glastonbury.”
“Todd Walters? Are you sure?”
“He’s been clearing out his shop and freezers, hasn’t he? He could easily move a body from his freezer to the one at Meadow Farm.”
“To make it look like McGillicuddy killed her,” she says, moving about again. When I hear the sound of running water, I hope she’s not in the bathroom.
“They would have known each other,” I say. “McGillicuddy supplied him with game, told him how Daphne Witherington visited Meadow Farm, eager for company and love. Walters has an affair with her and makes it look like she’s sleeping with his old enemy, Miller, who’s sniffing around Stacey. Walters can’t believe his luck.”
“But why would he kill Daphne and Stacey?” she asks.
“Maybe Daphne wanted to end the affair. Maybe they argued, he lost his temper, and hit her. He didn’t mean to kill her, but … Then Stacey finds out or tells him she’s seeing Miller and Walters kills her.”
Gemma’s silence lasts for half a minute. “So, who’s in the freezer – Daphne or Stacey?”
“Don’t forget Marcie.”
“How did Walters know her?”
“Didn’t Baxendale say she lived with her father outside Mayfield? Walters probably delivered sausages to them.”
“Todd Walters,” she says, still sounding surprised. “Are you sure?”
“You’ve seen his temper. And who better than a butcher to remove someone’s head?”
“That’s not funny, Kent. You should tell the police. Walters might run.”
“No, he thinks he’s safe. He’s kept one, two, maybe three bodies in his freezer for a year and carried on as normal.”
“If you can call keeping bodies in a freezer normal. Why didn’t he get rid of them?”
“Chop them up, you mean? He could have run them through the mincer, I guess. But if he had there wouldn’t be a body at Meadow Farm. Unless he couldn’t bring himself to mince Stacey, which means it’s her in the freezer.”
Gemma groans. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Not as sick as Walters when he discovers I’m onto him.”
Twenty-Seven
It’s amazing how quickly everything falls into place once you solve the puzzle.
“Poor Colin Miller,” I say, ruffling Columbo’s fur. “He was trying to make money selling dodgy sandwiches and ended up running for his life when Walters threatened to kill him. Walters then disguises himself, meets Daphne, his former lover, and spins some tale to make it look like they’re running away together. Once he’s killed her, he can deal with Stacey, who’s been seeing Miller on the sly.
“I’m still working on why he killed Marcie,” I add, watching Columbo trot over to the door where Niamh’s standing.
“So, Todd Walters did it,” she says, picking up Columbo. “Why would he put his wife in McGillicudy’s freezer? When the police identify her they’ll go straight back to Walters.”
“He’ll claim McGillicuddy had an affair with his wife. Or Walters points a finger at the Colonel.”
“At which point, you stroll in and solve the case,” she says, as if I make a habit of this. “I hope you’re right.”
I follow her to the kitchen. “What do you mean, you hope I’m right.”
“I don’t know Walters, but from what you’ve told me, he’s more likely to punch someone than plan an elaborate set of murders.”
Frances rushes in. Charlotte Burke’s death has made the local news. “There’s worse on the internet,” she says, thrusting her tablet at me.
Thomas Hardy Logan has posted a damning story on the Tollingdon Tribune website. Below the sensational headline, the photos show Yvonne and me chatting, smiling and looking intimate while a poor, helpless child dies in a London hospital.
“So that’s where you were last night,” Niamh says, shaking her head. “I thought you went to see the Colonel.”
“I didn’t know the daughter was about to die,” I say.
“All the same, Kent, was it wise to be out enjoying yourself with all this going on?”
“It’s just bad timing,” Frances says, coming to my defence.
“No,” I say, “it wasn’t one of my better ideas.”
I hand the tablet back, not wanting to read Logan’s gloating narrative. No doubt he’s sent it to every editor he can think of, hoping one of the nationals will come rushing down. If they do, I hope it’s not when Sarah arrives to test the goats.
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