No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2)

by Robert Crouch

  There’s no mistaking the coldness in Alice’s eyes as she sips her tea. “I’m not sure we should be talking like this.”

  “I’m just saying how fragile life can be. I mean, look at Mrs Witherington. Here one day, gone the next.”

  Alice goes over to the window and pulls back the net curtain. “Looks like the rain’s easing,” she says, though it sounds as violent as before. “I could offer you an umbrella, Mr Fisher, but I doubt whether you could run with it in this wind. I’m not trying to get rid of you, but I do have my supper in the oven.”

  “Do you mind if I say hello to Monty?” I ask. “Is he in the conservatory?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t traipse about the place in your wet trainers,” she says. “I’ll take the towels, if you’ve finished with them, and put them in the wash. I’m sure Colonel Witherington will be disappointed he missed you.”

  “We only dashed in to dodge the rain,” I say. “There’s no news about Daphne.”

  “But we’re on Colin Miller’s tail,” Gemma says, a little too enthusiastically. “I can’t wait to hear his version of events.”

  Alice holds out a hand for the towel. “I’m sure the Colonel will be pleased with your progress. There, it sounds like it’s stopped raining.”

  Gemma hands over her towel. “I love the way a storm clears the air and lets you see things as they should be.”

  Alice takes the towels and follows us to the front door. Outside, there’s a faint veil of rain, but the ground smells clean and fresh. The door closes sharply behind us and Gemma punches the air.

  “Guilty! How prickly was she when we suggested the conservatory was subsiding?”

  “You were hardly subtle.”

  “That’s what you like about me. Now, let’s get running because I’m cold.”

  We set off into the dark, damp clothes clinging to cold muscles. Neither of us speaks until we’re back at the church.

  “How much do you reckon the Colonel’s leaving Alice in his will?” she asks, peeling off the head torch.

  “If everything goes to Daphne, Alice won’t get a penny.”

  “But if the Colonel thought Daphne ran off with Miller, he might have updated his will.”

  Thirteen

  On Friday morning, Columbo and I have a serious talk. He never breaks eye contact while he listens, tilting his head from side to side, occasionally barking, especially when I tell him my plans. He’s quick to nudge me if I stop stroking him.

  Once we’ve agreed terms, I tell Niamh about my idea for a dinner party tomorrow evening.

  “You know Alasdair’s allergic to dogs,” she says, giving Columbo an apologetic look.

  “Frances will spoil him rotten, leaving me free to get to know Dav … Alasdair better. I’m assuming he’s going to be around a bit longer.”

  She wags her finger. “You’re fishing again. Do I ask you about Rebecca?”

  She thinks I can do better than a softly spoken Scouser with hair extensions. Turns out Rebecca can do better than an environmental health officer with pretentions. She’s discovered a super sleuth’s life isn’t that exciting when there are no cases to investigate.

  “Rebecca’s moved on,” I say, “but I’m inviting Gemma and Richard.”

  Niamh sighs. “If you’re on your own, we need to invite someone else.”

  “That narrows it down,” I say with more sarcasm than intended.

  “How about Alasdair’s receptionist, Yvonne Parris? She’s charming, witty, sophisticated, and much closer to your age.”

  Everything Rebecca’s not, she means. “She’s bound to have something far more interesting planned for Saturday evening,” I say. “Or someone.”

  “Not at the moment,” Niamh says with a grin. “Are you sure you don’t want to book a table at La Floret and save on the washing up?”

  She means my flat doesn’t have the character or ambience for a sophisticated dinner party. And unlike Downland Manor, where a contract catering and service company used to handle the arrangements, we’ll struggle to accommodate six people and the dirty dishes we’ll create. Luckily, downstairs in the barn, I have a dining table and six chairs that Mike and I bought from a failing hotel several months ago.

  “You concentrate on the menu,” I say, “and leave the arrangements to me.”

  “I’m doing the cooking, am I?”

  “You’re the best, Niamh.”

  I’m out of the door before she can argue. If Yvonne Parris accepts the invitation, it will show Gemma I’ve moved on. That’s if she and Richard can make it. When I get to work, I call her into Danni’s office.

  Gemma seems surprised. “Richard and me?”

  “Alasdair will be there too.”

  Gemma reaches out a hand to test the temperature of my forehead. “Do you intend to snipe at him all evening?”

  “Niamh and I had a heart to heart and I’m pleased he’s helping her move on. I thought it was time I did too.”

  From the way she’s studying me, she either thinks I’m nuts or plotting something sinister. “Is Rebecca part of this moving on?”

  “She’s already moved on. She’s more raves and dance music than Barclay James Harvest.”

  Gemma’s brief smile could mean anything. “Are you inviting anyone to make up the numbers? I only ask because if Richard can’t make it, I’ll be on my own too.”

  “Then you’d better make sure he can.”

  “So, you are inviting someone.”

  “Indeed,” I say, enjoying her curiosity.

  ***

  With Gemma at home for the afternoon, Nigel playing a round on the golf course, Lucy on district and Danni on leave, Kelly and I are the thin green line of the Public Protection Team. The quiet allows me to catch up with reports and gather my ideas for some of the projects Danni wants me to take on. The only distractions are the trickle of emails that will build to a torrent as five o’clock approaches. As usual, everyone has something they need to complete before the weekend.

  At 3.50, Brian Slade rings. An EHO with a strong West Country accent, he speaks slowly, as if there’s nothing to be gained by rushing, telling me he works for Mendip District Council in Somerset. His warm voice has the reassuring quality of someone who’s in control and happy with his work.

  “I may have found the man you’re looking for, Mr Fisher.” He pauses to slurp a drink. “We came across him on the fringes of the Glastonbury Festival in June, selling sandwiches and soft drinks from a cool box. We had a couple of complaints, alleging he’d put his own labels on out of date supermarket sandwiches. No one thought to keep the cartons, of course, so we had nothing to follow up.”

  He takes another long slurp. “Then, a few weeks ago, a new burger van appears in Glastonbury. One of our admin officers makes a couple of phone calls and finds out it’s owned by a guy called Colin Mellor, who keeps it at one of the less salubrious pubs in the district. He’s calling the business, Grub on the Go.”

  I’m making notes as he speaks. “Have you checked him out?”

  “Yes, we sit around doing nothing all day,” he replies in a good-natured tone. “Mellor only trades Friday and Saturday nights, but the police tell me he’s moved to a car park in the town centre. So, before I visit him tonight, is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “We had similar complaints about relabelling sandwiches, but he only traded briefly in our district. He vanished about twelve months ago.”

  “So, why did you send the EHC Net message?”

  “His name cropped up in connection with another matter.”

  “Anything you want to share with me?”

  I can’t tell Slade I’m looking for a missing woman. “We’re not sure it’s the same man,” I say, playing for time.

  “Well, according to his Facebook page, Colin Mellor has converted a Volkswagen Camper into a burger van. There are photos of it, and him, if that helps.”

  Why didn’t I think of looking on Facebook?

  I type in the address Slade
gives me and bring up the Grub on the Go page. I ignore the good luck posts and open the photo gallery. The camper looks like ‘The Mystery Machine’ from Scooby Doo with a serving hatch and canopy.

  The final photo shows a man in a baseball cap and white coat, standing beside the hatch. He’s average height, slim, and in his 50s, I’d say. While there’s no way of telling whether he’s bald on top, I can just make out silver hair below the baseball cap. The shadow from the peak of the cap hides his eyes, leaving me with a broad smile and teeth below a thin nose that was broken once.

  “It could be our man,” I say. “Would you mind if I joined you tonight to confirm it? I could be with you by ten thirty, say.”

  Another slurp of tea. “What exactly has this chap done to make you scoot across country at the drop of a hat? Did he take a shine to your wife or something?”

  I keep my tone light. “We’re talking dodgy meat. That’s why I want to talk to him.”

  “I’m quite happy to visit with the police and interview him, Mr Fisher. Once we know where he operates from, we can inspect that too.”

  “I know, but I’m worried he might do a runner again.”

  “And you’re going to stop him?” His good natured laugh just about covers the suspicion and disbelief in his voice. “Well, if you’re set, be my guest.”

  It takes a few minutes to agree where to meet and swap mobile phone numbers. He suggests I book a room at the Four Seasons guest house, just outside the town centre, gives me the postcode and wishes me a safe journey.

  I book a night in the Four Seasons and then email the Facebook image of Mellor to the Colonel. Though eager to get going, it’s only four thirty and I have to wait for Lucy to return or ring to make sure she’s safe. Moments later, she walks in, looking weary. She doesn’t mind me finishing early and waves me out when my phone rings. “I’ll deal with it,” she says.

  I’m halfway down the stairs when she calls me back. “Kent, we have an E. coli O157. A four year old girl’s in hospital with renal failure.”

  “Do you want me to ring Danni?” Kelly asks as I rush past.

  “Let me get some details first.”

  I drop into my chair, panting a little. On the pad, Lucy’s written ‘Charlotte Burke, four and a half years old, E. coli, possible renal failure.’ After a deep breath, I pick up the phone.

  “Hi, it’s Barbara Hussain, Health Protection Practitioner at Public Health England.” Her voice is cool and efficient. “Has your colleague explained the purpose of my call?”

  I make notes as she tells me about Charlotte Emily Burke, who lives in Tollingdon. She’s four years eleven months old and a probable E. coli O157 based on DNA typing. She has suspected Haemolytic Uraemic Syndrome and is on her way to the Evelina Hospital in London for specialist treatment with her mother, Chloe, and grandfather, Steven Burke.

  “We’ll get confirmation of E coli from the culture in the next 24 hours,” Barbara says. “In the meantime, we’ll organise the interview and questionnaire with the hospital and let you know if we need anything followed up. Details are a little sketchy at the moment, but she may have started at Tollingdon Primary School last month.”

  I can’t stop the groan as I think about E. coli spreading through the school. With only a few bacteria needed to cause infection, and Under Fives being particularly vulnerable, this could be our worst nightmare. Previous outbreaks have stretched local authority and public resources to the limit as the number of cases accelerates out of control before peaking.

  “The school’s closed for the weekend,” I say. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Leave that to us. Like I said, details are sketchy, but it looks like her mother kept Charlotte home from school last week because she was unwell. I don’t know if she went back this week, but I doubt it, given her condition.”

  “Let’s hope not,” I say. “What about spread within the family?”

  “We’ll get all the family details and contacts when we conduct the interview. Do you have enough sample pots and forms?”

  They won’t last long if we have to test a whole school. “Sure. Any other cases?”

  “Nothing reported by GPs or the lab so far, but that could change over the weekend. We have an out-of-hours number for your department, Mr Fisher, but it’s generic. Could I have your mobile number?”

  I pause, my trip to Glastonbury in the balance. “You have numbers for Lucy and Nigel, don’t you?”

  “Yes, and Dannielle Frost, but her phone’s on voicemail, asking me to contact you.”

  I give Barbara my personal mobile number. “How bad is Charlotte?”

  “She’s in the best place, Mr Fisher. The minute we have more information, we’ll be in touch. In the meantime, Charlotte’s the only case we’re aware of. If anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

  She wishes me well and ends the call. I ring Danni and leave a message, asking her to ring me urgently. Then I turn to Lucy, who’s sitting with Kelly. Both look anxious.

  “Isolated case at the moment. We’ll remain on alert over the weekend, just in case, but hopefully the girl will be okay. On Monday, we’ll get straight to the school.”

  “I’ll keep trying Danni,” Kelly says.

  “And I’m around all weekend if you need me,” Lucy says. “Chaz too, so don’t let this spoil your plans, Kent. You’re only down the road if we need you.”

  A mere 200 miles down the road.

  On my way to the car, I ring Brian Slade, but his phone diverts to an out-of-hours message. I should remain in Tollingdon, but nothing’s going to happen overnight, is it? And I’ll be back by lunchtime tomorrow. Despite my justification, my gut tells me I have to put work, and the illness of a young girl, first.

  Then, as I’m about to leave a message and cancel my trip, I realise Brian Slade will visit Colin Mellor whether I join him or not. If Slade mentions my name, Mellor could disappear again.

  Fourteen

  “Welcome to the Isle of Avalon.”

  Slade’s lazy handshake suggests he ambles through life at a steady pace, enjoying the journey. Middle-aged, overweight and reeking of cigarettes, he has the look of a man who doesn’t take himself or life too seriously. With a grin as wide as his girth, he looks me up and down, his deep blue eyes tiny behind the thick lenses of his steel-framed spectacles.

  “It means the island of apples,” he says, thrusting his paws into the pockets of his crumpled beige jacket. “That’s why cider’s so popular around these parts.”

  Maybe my quest will be fruitful, after all.

  He pulls out a packet of cigarettes as he speaks. His hands perform a familiar ritual, tapping a cigarette out of the packet, rolling it between his fingers before lifting it to his nose for a quick sniff before he lights up.

  “This used to be one of seven islands on an inland sea, a place of myths and legends. In the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey behind us, we have King Arthur’s resting place.” He lights the cigarette, inhales and blows the smoke skywards. “Or do we?”

  He laughs as I step back a couple of paces. “I know I’m not a picture of public health,” he says, “but it’s a job, not a vocation with me. My life’s my family. I got a steady job with a good pension at the end and I get to meet lots of interesting people.” He pauses to inhale more smoke. “But I never met one who comes halfway across the country for a burger vendor. What did this guy do?”

  During my rush across country, I had plenty of time to consider what I wanted to do and ask when I met Mellor. I considered his possible responses, what I would do if he refused to talk, and whether I could believe him if he cooperated. Not once did it occur to me that my actions might seem unusual.

  “I’m interested in what he knows,” I reply. “He’s already run once, so would you mind if I approach him alone? Two of us might spook him.”

  “If he runs, you can do the chasing.” Slade might be joking about his weight, but there’s no humour in his eyes. He doesn’t trust me, and why should he?
r />   As we stroll past some colourful shops, trading in magic, gemstones and the occult, I wonder if they saw the recession in their tarot cards. Not that the kebab shop opposite is short of customers. Slade tells me about the town as we walk towards the Market Cross, a tiered Gothic tower as tall as the surrounding buildings. It seems to be a focal point for the locals, drawing them over from all directions.

  They’re an intriguing mix. The New Age set, dressed in combat fatigues or flowing, gypsy-style clothes, sport more piercings than a dartboard, along with a colourful palette of tattoos. One or two lead bull terriers by thick ropes as they stroll among the younger people in jeans and hoodies, glued to their mobile phones. The more conventional residents seem to take no notice, enjoying the diversity that’s reflected in the shops and restaurants. You can eat anything from Vegan to Vietnamese here.

  “Ever heard of Joseph of Arimathea?” Slade asks, stopping to extinguish his cigarette on the top of a waste bin. “I think he was the Virgin Mary’s uncle. Anyway, he was a merchant, or something like that, and he may have brought a young Jesus with him on a trip to Avalon.”

  While I have no views on religion, the thought of stepping on land once walked by Christ sends a tingle down my back. King Arthur produces a similar reaction.

  My reaction draws a smile from Slade. “There’s more to Glastonbury than the music festival,” he says, setting off once more. “Not that I’m complaining. I’ve seen some great bands over the years. Coldplay in 2011 was my favourite.”

  We pass the Crown pub and some old stone buildings of various ages, including the George and Pilgrims Hotel, built circa 1452. The Glastonbury Tribunal, built from big, solid stones, looks even older. The oak door looks like it would withstand an army, making me wonder if it was a prison in the past. It’s a tourist information centre now, holding visitors captive with its displays of bright leaflets and posters.

  We stop at the corner of a blue rendered shop that sells crystals. “What do you make of this new age idea?” I ask.