No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2)

by Robert Crouch

  “Oi, you! Stop!”

  A thin man with greasy hair, and at least two days of stubble, charges down the steps. From the shadows beneath his eyes, to the remains of curry on his crumpled shirt, it looks like he spent the night on the sofa and woke late. The whiff of stale lager, cigarettes and body odour greet me as he stumbles to a halt. His hand grabs the waist of his jeans, which look ready to fall around his ankles.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I keep the jack raised. “Your dog’s cooking in there.”

  “I’ve been gone a few minutes, no more.” He struts to the rear of the car and looks inside. “Now get lost.”

  I would pull out my ID card and tell him I’m an environmental health officer, but as I’m suspended from duty, I need to appeal to his better side.

  “Just open the hatch and give the dog some air, will you?”

  Nicotine fingers extricate some keys from his jeans. He opens the hatch, averting his face from the rush of heat. The dog raises its head slowly, staring at him with pained eyes. I can’t believe someone so unkempt could have such a well-groomed dog.

  “She’s fine, see.”

  “She needs to cool off,” I say, moving closer. “Let’s take her over to the shade.”

  “Get lost!” he says, reaching up to close the hatch.

  As I raise my hand to stop the hatch closing, the bottle jack slips through my fingers and glances off his foot. He cries out in pain and staggers back, catching his heel on the kerb. As he tumbles over with a chorus of expletives, I nudge the jack under the car with my foot. Then I scoop the spaniel in my arms and carry her to a shaded area beneath a cherry tree.

  I set the spaniel down and run my hands along her flank, feeling the heat beneath the fur. Her heart’s hammering against her ribs and she can’t seem to pant fast enough.

  “Hang on, Morgana,” I say, checking the name tag.

  Her owner’s on his feet now, phone pressed to his ear. “He attacked me and stole my dog. He broke my foot, that’s what. And it looks like he’s going to attack me again, so get here fast. Turners Parade, opposite the primary school.”

  He ends the call and gives me a self-satisfied smile as he limps over to a bench and sits with a thud. He raises his injured foot onto the slats, wiggles his toes inside his Nike trainers, and pulls out his cigarettes. When Gemma arrives a few moments later with bottles of water in a carrier bag, he winks and takes aim with his phone.

  “How about a smile, darling?”

  Niamh makes a snatch for the phone, but she’s too slow.

  “He’s not worth it,” I call, wishing bottle caps were easier to unscrew. I tell Gemma to trickle water over the dog, making sure it penetrates the fur. “Do you have your ID card?”

  “I’m on sick leave, remember?”

  While we wet the dog, Niamh stands in front of the owner so he can’t film us. He continues to smoke and enjoy the sunshine until a patrol car pulls up. He rises and puts on his best limp as he staggers towards the police officers.

  “Did you call them?” Gemma asks.

  I shake my head.

  She’s on her feet in an instant. “Why don’t men ever tidy up?” she asks Niamh as she strides past.

  After a brief chat with the owner, the police constable walks up and towers over me. He’s in his forties, with silver hair at the temples and eager blue eyes. He straightens his stab vest with pride and beckons me to stand so his body camera can get a better view of me.

  Police Community Support Officer, Avril Gardner, who was Downland District Council’s animal welfare officer before they made her redundant, steps up beside him.

  “I might have known it would be you.” She sighs and then bends to greet the dog. “And you must be Morgana. You’re a little underweight, but I think you’ll make it.”

  While the owner looks relieved, his voice remains indignant. “There was nothing wrong with her to start with. He’s the one with a problem. He assaulted me.”

  “Leave this to us, Mr Baxendale,” the constable says before turning to me. “Could you confirm your name, sir?”

  “Kent Fisher.”

  “The super sleuth environmental health officer?” His tone is mocking, but good natured. “I didn’t notice any bodies.”

  I get the feeling I could be hearing comments like this for some time.

  “Another few minutes and you might have had one,” I say, nodding at Morgana.

  “The owner left her while he was in the betting shop,” Niamh says, stepping forward. “You have plenty of witnesses to confirm this. Maybe you should be speaking to them.”

  “I was only gone a couple of minutes,” Baxendale says, searching for something in his pocket. “I placed one bet. When I came out, he’s breaking into my car. When I tried to stop him, he drops something heavy on my foot.”

  “Is this true, Mr Fisher?”

  Niamh places a hand on my arm. “Kent’s only concern was the welfare of the dog.”

  “It must be under the car,” Baxendale says, turning. “I’ll show you.”

  The constable follows him back to his car, leaving Avril with me. “You could find trouble in an empty paper bag,” she says.

  The moment her colleague finds the bottle jack, I’m in trouble. Niamh realises too, judging by her anxious glance. Baxendale’s on his knees, looking under his car. His angry voice and body language suggests he can’t find the bottle jack. When he gets to his feet and jabs a finger at Blazer Man, the constable intervenes.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Baxendale calls, pointing at me.

  “Calm down,” Avril says, stepping in front of him. “You should be more concerned about Morgana. Your vet needs to examine her.”

  “I’ll take her off your hands,” I say.

  He ignores me and attaches a lead to Morgana.

  “You can’t leave him in charge of the poor dog,” Niamh says, watching as he tugs Morgana to her feet. “Look at him.”

  The constable makes calming gestures with his hands. “We could investigate further, Mrs Fisher, but then we’d have to interview witnesses and you never know what they might say.”

  She nods and steps back, allowing Baxendale to pass. She helps me flatten the empty water bottles and push them into a carrier bag, keeping an eye on Baxendale. When he drives past, he wishes me well with a middle finger before speeding off.

  “I can’t believe he’s a teacher,” Gemma says, waiting by the open doors of the Volvo.

  I can’t believe the bottle jack vanished. I want to thank Blazer Man, but he’s gone. Once settled in the back of the car, I offer to buy Gemma a new jack.

  “Forget it,” she says, starting the car. “I didn’t know I had one.”

  “You don’t,” Niamh says with more than a hint of irony. “Thank goodness someone’s looking after you, Kent, or you’d be facing an assault charge.”

  I settle back and stretch my legs. My feet collide with something solid beneath Gemma’s seat and I reach down. My fingers encounter something oily and metallic in a cloth.

  “Must be my guardian angel,” I say with a smile.

  Two

  Back at my animal sanctuary, I breathe in the familiar smells and shield my eyes against the dipping sun as it casts long shadows over the land. My small slice of nature nestles at the foot of the South Downs, about half a mile down a bumpy track that leads to the busy A27. The village of Wilmington lies a mile to the west. Knots of woodland and bustling hedgerows shield me from the traffic noise and the encroaching housing estates of Tollingdon to the east.

  It takes several trips up the stairs from the car to my flat above the barn to transfer the leftover food from the wake to the kitchen.

  “Why did you bring so much back?” Niamh asks, catching her breath.

  I slide the final tray of sandwiches into the fridge. “Why did you order so much?”

  She picks up the kettle. “We’re never going to eat all this.”

  “It’s not for us.”

&n
bsp; She casts me a worried look. “You’re not going to feed it to the animals, surely?”

  “I won’t if you stop slipping cocktail sausages to Columbo.” I reach under the table to ruffle the fur of my West Highland White Terrier, who’s still licking his lips. “Mike and I are going to sell the food at the farmers’ market tomorrow.”

  It takes her a few seconds to realise I’m joking. While I may be suspended, I’m hardly going to breach the hygiene laws I enforce. “We have some children coming over tomorrow, so we’ll treat them to a party.”

  She stares out of the window as she fills the kettle. She looks lost, caught between the funeral and an uncertain future. While she’s only seven years older than me, the laughter lines that radiate from her eyes and mouth seem deeper now. A frown’s embedded itself in her forehead, giving her an aggressive, almost threatening air. Even her Irish lilt has gone flat, depressed by deep sighs and melancholy silences.

  The water floods over the top of the kettle. As she pulls the kettle away, water splashes over her skirt and shoes. She stares down, tears gathering in her eyes. I can only imagine the tangle of mixed emotions, threatening to burst out, but she manages to capture them all in one angry, but weary word.

  “Damn!”

  For two weeks she’s faced friends, well-wishers and the media with a stoic resolve and dignity that’s bordered on insensitivity. She’s busied herself, helping Frances with the animals, cleaning and disinfecting my home to within an inch of its life, and making lists of all the unfinished business she needs to resolve. William Kenneth Fisher died without a will, life insurance, or any tangible assets, thanks to the Blackjack tables. I keep hoping we’ll uncover a secret stash of money or a lottery ticket for an unclaimed jackpot.

  I’m dreaming, of course, like he did when he played cards.

  I turn off the tap, place the kettle on the drainer and slide my arms around Niamh.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t give all the cake to the children. I’ll save some Victoria sponge for you.”

  After a few minutes of sobbing, the tears fade. She retrieves a tissue from under her sleeve and dabs the corners of her eyes, smearing mascara that’s already run.

  “I know I’m a burden,” she says, “but I’ll keep out of your way.”

  She’s referring to Rebecca, who I met while solving the murder of Sydney Collins at Tombstone Adventure Park. She’s young, attractive, has a terrific sense of humour and the sexiest Scouse accent.

  So, why do I feel bored already?

  “Don’t worry,” I say, taking control of the kettle. “She has a flat of her own.”

  “Will you be seeing her this evening?”

  Rebecca’s going to a hen party in Brighton. “No, I’m here to take care of you.”

  She kisses my cheek. “They breed us tough in Dungannon. I can easily lose myself in a pile of washing and ironing. You sure you want to be helping me with that?”

  If I stick around, I might get some idea where she puts things. She’s reorganised my wardrobes, linen cupboards and drawers, blitzed the bathroom and filled my freezers with meals. I dread to think what will happen if she starts on the sanctuary.

  “Not that I can do much with your clothes,” she says, handing me a couple of mugs. “They ought to go to the charity shop, but an antique dealer might be more appropriate.”

  She’s referring to my electric blue shirt, which I refuse to part with.

  “Why don’t we go for some retail therapy tomorrow?” She laughs as my expression says more than my mouth could ever manage. “Seriously, Kent, you should make yourself scarce in case Colonel Witherington pops round. He pestered William at least three times before he got the message.”

  Once I’ve made the tea, she takes her mug to her room, trailed by Columbo. About half an hour later, she emerges in jeans and a sweatshirt and announces she’s off to walk the dogs with Frances. In the kennels beneath my flat, we have four dogs for rehoming. Until recently, Columbo was the fifth. Though he lives with me now, he still enjoys his afternoon walks with the other dogs.

  Alone in the kitchen with a fresh mug of tea, I sit at the table. The cakes remind me of Colonel Witherington’s comment about catering. If he turns up, I’ll ask him what he meant – not that I want him on my doorstep. Our politics are light years apart and I can’t ignore how, as Leader of Downland District Council, he’s implementing government spending cuts with such vigour. No doubt, my impending demise will contribute to the savings.

  Or he could quash my suspension if I do his bidding.

  While I consider the possibilities, I drift off, woken by the phone half an hour later.

  “We need to talk,” Gemma says in a stern tone. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

  My stomach tightens as I recall the crazy moment in Tombstone Adventure Park. In the split second before I left to rescue William Fisher, I wondered whether I would return. As I stared into her dark brown eyes, wondering if I would ever look into them again, I told her I was hopelessly in love with her.

  Then I almost got her killed.

  I drag myself to the shower, remembering how I hovered outside her room at the hospital. Each time I went to see her, Richard was there. I couldn’t face seeing them, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. When she was discharged, I drove over to her flat and found his car outside. No matter which day or time I called, he was there. One week became two and then it was the funeral.

  Now she wants to talk.

  I take a long shower, working out possible excuses, determined to explain away my foolish outburst as a moment of stress and panic. But within seconds my thoughts have drifted back seven years to the crazy week we spent together. While we showered together, Gemma told me she loved me.

  The following morning I ran. I want to run again.

  ***

  When she pulls into the yard at six, the sun’s burning fiery streaks into the sky as it plunges behind the South Downs. Clouds will soon gather, determined to end the long, dry spell that stretches back into August. With any luck, we’ll get enough rain to fill the water butts and replenish the underground storage tanks.

  When I’m nervous, I think about practical things like this.

  Niamh pulls away from the lounge window. “You never said Gemma was coming over.”

  “We’re going out.”

  “Dressed like that?” She follows me to the kitchen. “We’re definitely going shopping in Brighton tomorrow. You need to make a good impression on Monday.”

  “Niamh, it’s a disciplinary hearing, not a job interview.”

  She shakes her head as if I’m a hopeless case. “Where are you going with Gemma, in case I need to contact you?”

  In the pocket of my fleece, I find a treat and toss it to Columbo. “You have my number.”

  She puts on her frail voice. “But what if I have an accident while I’m on my own?”

  “Then you’d be better ringing an ambulance.”

  I head down the stairs to the yard below. Gemma’s waiting, enveloped in lengthening shadows. She’s dressed in tight jeans and a pastel blouse, with a stylish crochet cardigan to mask the scarring to her upper arm. As usual, she’s wearing diamanté sandals with no arch support.

  I should tell her how lovely she looks, especially as she’s swept her hair back on one side to reveal her slender neck and an ear pierced with a diamond stud. That’s new. A present from her fiancé, no doubt. Her dark eyes seem to glow beneath long lashes as the majesty of the Downs weaves its spell on her.

  “I love it here,” she murmurs.

  “Not seeing Richard this evening?”

  “Boys’ club,” she replies.

  “I didn’t know the Lodge met on Friday.”

  “Let’s not discuss your prejudices,” she says, getting into the car. “I know that doesn’t leave much to talk about, so maybe you could listen for once.”

  She grimaces as she reaches for the seatbelt. She pauses, grits her teeth, and then stretches again. Once she h
as the buckle in her fingers, she slides the belt across her slim waist.

  “Arm still sore?”

  “What do you think?” She starts the car and pulls away. “No Rebecca tonight?”

  “You heard then.”

  “I heard her proposition you at the hospital. The door was open.”

  She accelerates down the lane that winds its way to the A27. The Volvo creaks and groans as it swings through the bends, scuffing the verges at least twice. I’m not sure why she’s transformed into Lewis Hamilton, but I have to admit to a moment of concern when she brakes late at the junction with the A27. We lurch to a stop inches from the stream of traffic pelting towards Brighton.

  I pull on the handbrake. “Something bothering you?”

  She turns and glares. “Why didn’t you visit me in hospital?”

  “I didn’t want to intrude on you and Richard. He was always there.”

  “Not all the time.”

  “He was during visiting hours.”

  She sighs. “You could have rung or sent me a text.”

  She rams the gear lever into first and revs the engine. She looks both ways, releases the handbrake and swings across the road and right towards Tollingdon.

  “In case you’re wondering, my arm looks like someone’s run a cheese grater over it, but the charity shops are queuing up for my vest tops.”

  The traffic lights turn green as we approach and she takes a right onto the road that leads to Eastbourne, five miles away. At the next lights, she takes the right hand lane for Jevington and the Eight Bells, I’m guessing. I often meet my friend, Mike Turner, there. He likes to chat up the young barmaids. They like to make him think he’s in with a chance.

  It’s difficult to appreciate the flint cottages as we speed along the narrow road. We fly past the pub and head out of the village into the dark, where the sky blends into the land in an impenetrable black, punctuated only by the headlights of distant cars.