She wrenches her hand away. “Maybe then you’ll know how I feel.”
She strides straight for the exit, head high, tears running down her pale cheeks. Her parents rush across, but she brushes them aside and hurries down the steps, almost colliding with the security officers. For a moment, the reporters and photographers have a dilemma. Do they follow her or turn on me?
As I’m rooted in the middle of the foyer, they press forward, hurling questions at me. But all I can hear are Chloe Burke’s words, pounding inside my head. ‘I hope someone you love dies’, she said. ‘Maybe then you’ll know how I feel.’
Peach’s voice breaks through the haze. “Mr Fisher, Have you anything to say about Miss Burke’s allegations?”
“Do you refute them?” Tommy asks.
I look up to the half landing. Danni shakes her head.
“Gentlemen, please,” I say, raising my hands to calm them. “Chloe Burke lost her daughter last night. She’s suffering more than you or I can ever know or imagine. Our thoughts should be with her and her family.”
“Yes, but do you refute her allegations?” Peach asks.
“Have your goats tested negative?” Tommy asks. “Or positive?”
I turn and head for the door, pursued by the pack.
Peach tries to push in front. “She’s accused you of killing her daughter,”
“While you were entertaining an attractive woman,” Tommy says, struggling to keep up.
Peach reaches the door first and blocks my escape. “What do you have to say about that, Mr Fisher?”
One of the security guys belatedly strides over, but I raise a hand to stop him.
“Mr Peach, you’ve just witnessed the devastation E. coli can cause.”
“Sure, spread by animals like goats,” Tommy says.
“What about undercooked meat and poultry, vegetables and salads contaminated by faecal matter?” I ask. “As an environmental health officer, I need to be sure of the facts before I make accusations.”
Tommy moves closer, sweating more than usual. “Are you saying your goats didn’t cause the infection?”
Suddenly, everyone’s closing in, waiting for my answer. I glance up at Danni and Gemma on the half landing.
“I’m asking you to wait until you have all the facts,” I reply.
Tommy smirks. “Yeah, like you do.”
Peach steps aside, realising I’m not going to say more, and I slip through the door.
The reporters drift away, but the TV crew remain. The presenter talks to her colleagues and then starts to talk to camera. In the surge a moment ago, I didn’t notice her or the cameraman, who must have been filming from the side. She’s already interviewed Chloe and her parents for her feature on this evening’s local news.
She has footage of Chloe Burke slapping me. What else does she need?
I return to the second floor. The atmosphere in the office chills to sub-zero when I walk in. Lucy and Nigel look away, clearly uncomfortable. Gemma ignores me, busy tapping away at her keyboard.
“Okay, what’s wrong?” I ask.
Silence.
“You clearly know what happened, so what’s your problem?”
Gemma’s chair tumbles to the floor as she springs to her feet. “Why didn’t you tell Mrs Burke about the manure?”
Nigel and Lucy nod their support.
“When we’ve sampled at the smallholding and have positive results, we will. And we’ll tell her in private, not with cameras rolling.”
“You bottled it, you mean.”
Normally, I’d expect Lucy to make such an accusation, but Gemma seems to have taken my actions personally.
“Gemma, you heard Danni,” I say.
“Since when did you listen to Danni?” She moves in between Lucy and Nigel’s desks. “The papers will say we’re incompetent. They’ll claim you’re protecting your sanctuary.”
“Is that what you think? All of you?” When no one answers, I sigh, more annoyed than disappointed. “Clearly you do.”
“You had a chance to show everyone we weren’t at fault,” Gemma says, arms folded.
“How would that have helped? Hasn’t Chloe Burke suffered enough? She was falling apart in front of me.”
“Yeah, especially when she slapped you.”
“What, you think I should have slapped her back?”
“The samples I took saved your sanctuary, Kent. Why couldn’t you save us?”
She brushes past me and storms out of the office. Nigel and Lucy look away, but I know they agree with Gemma. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should have defended my team. But if the Burkes find out how Gemma obtained the manure samples …
Outside the office, Kelly’s neutral smile and silence confirm I’m in the brown stuff.
As I reach the stairs, Gemma comes out of the toilets. She dabs her mouth with a tissue and strides past as if I don’t exist.
I can’t face returning to the sanctuary and a frosty reception from Sarah, so I drive to Mayfield. On the High Street, I stop and take a closer look at Walters’ shop. The closed sign is on the door and the drawn curtains upstairs suggest he’s still in bed. Further down the High Street, I peel off and follow a narrow road, peppered with parked cars. I squeeze into a parking space and walk between the old cottages and houses, turning left up a steep lane that leads back to the High Street.
My calves and quads feel tight when I reach the High Street and it takes a few seconds to catch my breath. I peer through the window of Walters’ shop. With no meat or food on display, he’s clearly closed, but he could still be around.
I walk back down the lane, stopping at the double wooden doors that access his rear yard. With a glance each way to make sure no one’s around, I turn the wrought iron handle and lift the latch. Again, I check each way before slowly pushing the gate open. Inside, I close the gate behind me, scan the yard, and head for cover between the red Nissan Qashqai and the wall. From here, I look around me, surprised by how many stainless steel units Walters has dumped. Tables, shelving and under-counter refrigerators teeter in stacks, ready to topple onto the white delivery van that looks like it screeched to a halt in the middle of the yard.
From the steel plated back door, which is locked, a narrow passage follows the back wall to the corrugated lean-to that covers the walk-in chillers. I negotiate several piles of cardboard, which are turning to mush as they absorb the grey, fatty pond around the gully that can no longer drain the sink waste. Once past the sludge, my route to the chiller remains clear. Like many older models, the door slides to one side. I will have to release the lever and heave the door towards me before I can slide it open.
Only the sound of traffic penetrates the yard. The compressors for the chiller are not running. Whether they’re between chill cycles or shut down, I won’t know until I go inside. The iron lever remains firm, defying my efforts to move it. I spread my legs, brace myself, and then pull again. With a creak and a groan, the lever moves towards me and the door seal breaks. I drag the door toward me and then across a few feet on warped and corroded runners.
Next time I’ll come armed with WD40 and a crowbar.
The air inside’s warm and smells rancid, which doesn’t bode well. I peer into the empty space, clad with plastic sheeting and a pressed steel floor. A rusted hanging rail weaves its way across the ceiling, finishing its journey adjacent to a braced steel shelf. The hole above, masked by cobwebs, heavy with dust, reveals where the compressor once sat. A glance to my left reveals two chest freezers, hiding in the shadows along the side wall. I reach up and flick the switch on the wall, but the light doesn’t come on.
I open the camera app on my phone and take a couple of shots, recoiling from the brightness of the flash. Then, I walk over to the chest freezers and I slide my fingers around the handle of the first. I take aim with my camera and lift. The lid resists for a moment and then lets out a long groan as the rusty hinges lose the battle.
Inside, it’s empty and clean, though the air smells stale
. Even the plastic seals are spotless. I look again and can’t help laughing. Like I’m going to find a body, right?
I move over to the second freezer. The moment the seal breaks, a putrid smell knocks me backwards. The lid thuds down. Coughing and choking, I stagger back.
Then I notice Todd Walters in the doorway, cleaver in hand.
Twenty-Nine
“I thought I saw a rat.”
It’s feeble, but better than a quip about chilling out.
Walters remains in the doorway, his face in shadows, his silence unnerving. Will he lock me inside and leave me to rot until I smell like the contents of the freezer?
Walk-in chiller doors have an internal release in case you get shut inside. During hygiene inspections, I never enter a walk-in unless I’ve checked the release works. Some need a little coaxing. A few are broken, damaged or missing, usually on older models.
It’s impossible to tell with this model from where I’m standing, back pressed against the wall. I’m trapped inside a small room with nothing to hide behind. I scan the hanging rail, hoping for a forgotten meat hook I could use to defend myself.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” I say, sliding my phone into my pocket. “My friend, Mike – he’s the burly Jamaican guy who runs Mike’s Mighty Munch on the Uckfield bypass – runs a second hand catering equipment business. I’m sure you’ve come across him on your travels. He’s parking the van down the lane and should be along at any moment.”
Walters remains silent and still.
“I knew you were having a clear out, so I thought I’d check to see if there was anything we could buy. These two units look fine. You’ll need to clean this one out,” I say, wishing I could get the stench out of my nostrils. “How about fifty quid for the pair?”
He lumbers inside, blocking out a lot of light. “Do you think my Stacey’s in there? Isn’t one body in a freezer enough for you?”
I sidle along the back wall as he strolls up to the freezers. He grips the handle and raises the lid, oblivious to the putrid stench that fills the room, clawing at my nose and lungs. He beckons me over with the cleaver.
“It won’t kill you,” he says. “I didn’t know the power had gone or I’d have moved the stuff inside. I paid good money for these plucks. Come and see for yourself.”
The cleaver makes a sloshing sound as he disturbs the contents, releasing another wave of nauseous fumes. Though I’m tempted to run, Walters is hardly acting like he’s about to chop me into little pieces.
I walk over and stretch my neck to peer inside. A tangle of bovine hearts, lungs and spleens swim in their putrid juices. As nausea turns my stomach, I rush outside.
“He joins me a few seconds later, closing the door with ease. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
For a moment in there I thought I’d become one.
“Thanks, but I need to go.”
“Not before you tell me why you’re sneaking around my yard. You think I’ve done my Stacey in, don’t you?”
He sounds intrigued rather than angry. Then again, he’s holding a cleaver, dripping rancid blood over the concrete. Wedged into a narrow passageway between old catering equipment and the back wall of his shop, I’m going nowhere fast.
“I don’t think you’ve told me everything,” I say, wondering if my theory’s in tatters. “You knew Daphne Witherington, right?”
He grins and rubs his thumb across the cleaver blade, checking how sharp it is. “Miller bragged about fleecing Witherington and setting up as a promoter. He had contacts at the Glastonbury Festival and was on the lookout for talent.”
Walters turns the cleaver in his hand. “He meant my Stacey. He knew she’d love to sing at Glastonbury. When I told him, he laughed. Said my Stacey should stick to pubs and clubs.”
He slams the back of the cleaver down on a stainless steel table. The noise reverberates through the enclosed yard, startling a couple of doves on the wall. Several fridges and units tremble and sway, ready to fall.
“That’s why I beat the shit out of him.” Walters’ grim smile is tempered with regret. “And then a month later, he takes off with my Stacey. He took her to get even, didn’t he?”
I wish I knew. “I have to go,” I say.
He pushes out his arm and blocks my escape with the cleaver. “What were you looking for in the freezer? You think I chopped someone up and made sausages?”
“Colonel Witherington was a magistrate. So was his wife, Daphne. You were prosecuted for assaulting –”
“A tax inspector. I know. I would have gone down but for that woman. So, why would I want to kill her?”
“I had to make sure, Todd.”
“Then why didn’t you ask instead of sneaking around?”
He lowers his arm and shuffles along the back wall, walking through the fat oozing out of his drains. When he reaches his Qashqai, he stops. “Would you be interested in this?” he asks, patting the bonnet. “Three years old, one careful driver.”
Though tempted, I’d prefer blue not red.
Then I realise what a fool I’ve been. When Daphne, Stacey and Marcie disappeared, a black car was spotted nearby, not a red one.
***
Trade remains brisk at Mike’s Mighty Munch from my arrival at midday until I leave a little after one. While Mike serves his large portions, I devour a bacon and egg roll, followed by a chocolate-coated flapjack, and three mugs of tea. We manage to squeeze in ten minutes together during two cigarette breaks.
He listens to my summary, making no comment other than a chuckle at my recent encounter with rotting tripe. Then, with a final pull on his cigarette, he homes in on the headless corpse and McGillicuddy.
“Doesn’t that strike you as a bit convenient?” he asks.
“What, the corpse or McGillicuddy?”
“You identify a third victim and almost immediately a body appears, just after McGillicuddy disappears.”
“You agree the three women are connected?”
“I didn’t say that, pal. I’m saying it seems too convenient.”
He returns to serve a couple of plumbers and three men from the Environment Agency. While the burgers are cooking, he hands me another mug of stewed, lukewarm tea.
“Are you saying someone knows I’ve linked Marcie’s disappearance to the others?” I ask when he joins me for a second cigarette break.
He rolls his shoulders. “Perhaps your killer’s closer than you think.”
That’s when I realise how many people know what I’m doing. Those around me, like Niamh, Davenport, Gemma and Richard, to Miller, Walters, even Baxendale. It has to be someone who knew Daphne, Stacey and Marcie – someone who drives a black car or cab.
Mike nods when I explain. “Now you’re starting to think like a detective, pal. Now focus on the motive. Why were these women abducted and killed?”
“No idea. I’ve only just established a connection.”
“Your caterer,” he says, pulling out another cigarette.
“No, they all left personal possessions behind. They left without warning but thought they’d be returning, which is why they didn’t take anything with them.”
He considers this for a moment. “They knew their abductor and went willingly, blindly even. Something connects them to the killer. Something in their history perhaps.”
I smile, impressed by his logic as much as I’m dismayed at how dense I’ve been.
“Or they all ran off with secret lovers,” he says with a grin.
“Don’t do that,” I say, making no effort to hide my irritation. “For a moment there, I thought you were talking revenge.”
“I’m trying to demonstrate how flimsy theories are without facts. Either the abductor is the connection or your three women have something in common.”
“They’re so different, Mike.”
“How do you know? They were all unhappily married, weren’t they? They share something in common. Or someone.” He pats me on the back and grins. “And that’s be
fore we even consider the fourth victim.”
“The headless corpse? You think it’s another missing woman?”
He flicks his cigarette into the gravel. “Why not?”
“Then why cut off her head? No, it has to be one of the three.”
He pats me on the back. “So, find out if McGillicuddy drove a black car.”
I stroll back to my Ford Fusion, eager to speak to Alice or the Colonel. I’m hardly back on the main road when Niamh calls. “Are you on hands-free?” she asks. “Only you sound like you’re in a tunnel. Pull over and ring me back.”
I stop in the next layby, occupied by one of Mike’s competitors, who has no customers at the moment. Mike will be delighted.
“Sarah’s tested the goats,” Niamh tells me. “She left five minutes ago and not a reporter in sight, so you can come back now.”
“I’m not hiding from Sarah.”
“Of course you are. Anyway, that’s not why I rang. I forgot to mention I’m off to Charleston this afternoon. You can update me on the headless body this evening.”
I settle back in the seat, realising how easy it is for someone to keep track of my investigation.
Too easy.
***
I reach the DGH in Eastbourne at around one thirty, parking up the hill as usual. With my telescopic umbrella in one hand, I set off, buttoning my jacket with the other. I want to know why neither the Colonel nor Alice mentioned McGillicuddy, but it seems I’ll have to wait a little longer. I duck into a bus shelter to take Gemma’s call.
“Have you seen the Tollingdon Tribune website?” she asks.
“No.”
“I don’t know what you said to Tommy Logan, but he’s going for the jugular. He’s got you having a night out with stunning blonde, Yvonne Parris, while poor, vulnerable Charlotte Burke perishes in hospital. There’s even a photo of you with your head under the table, looking up Yvonne’s skirt.”
“I dropped a bottle.”
“As opposed to your guard?”
“Someone’s trying to discredit me, Gemma.”
“Chloe Burke?”
“Why not?” I ask, sounding like Mike. “You saw her this morning.”
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