Photographs of Morgana, the cocker spaniel, trace her life from cute puppy to adult. I wish people wouldn’t dress dogs in silly knitted coats and hats to make them look like ballerinas or cowgirls, but Marcie must have spent a fortune on her dog.
“I’ll bet she caused problems at school,” Gemma remarks.
Marcie’s a brash, in-your-face type with bold makeup, big, spiky hair and a chunky steel necklace that looks more like a watch bracelet. As Baxendale said, she’s curvy, squeezing herself into leather skirts and pink tops that are much too tight. Though she wears enough eyeliner to make Alice Cooper jealous, there’s something self-conscious about her bovine eyes that echoes in her hesitant smile.
“It’s all front,” I say, aware of the loneliness and isolation that not conforming can bring.
“I might have guessed you’d be looking at her front.”
“Marcie liked to shock.” Baxendale walks through, carrying a red tray with three black mugs. “She liked to rebel, but underneath she was a lonely girl, afraid she would never fit in or be loved.”
He places the tray on a small glass table between the sofa and chairs. “Her mother walked out when she was a child, leaving her to look after her disabled, alcoholic father in a remote farm cottage near Heathfield.”
“She must have had help from social services,” Gemma says.
“I wish,” he says with a sigh. “She came to school when she felt like it, which was most of the time, thankfully. She was a punk with attitude, keeping you at arm’s length. Though she lacked social skills, she had a worldliness and allure that fascinated me.”
I look at the photos, trying to see what Baxendale saw.
He hands me an empty black plastic bag from the sofa. “All the films and music are going to a mate of mine who runs a market stall. We’re splitting the proceeds.”
While he transfers the DVDs and CDs into the bag, he tells us about Marcie.
“Her father treated her like a slave, practically chaining her to the house with his needs and demands. Yet he introduced her to literature and art when he was sober. She blushed bright red when I spotted Tess of the d’Ubervilles in her schoolbag. Turns out she had a passion for Hardy, D H Lawrence and Graham Greene. When she asked for extra tuition in English Literature, I couldn’t stop myself. Tongues started wagging, of course, but I had no idea she’d told everyone we were having sex. We weren’t, of course.”
That makes me wonder if they were.
“I don’t think the Head believed me, but without evidence, he couldn’t do anything. Kids like to shock. I was instructed to stop the extra tuition and distance myself from Marcie. I asked her why she’d spread rumours about us and she said I’d never screw her unless she encouraged me. I didn’t know what to say.”
He sweeps another clutch of films from the shelf and places them in the bag. “I cancelled the extra tuition and did my best to avoid her. Then her father died.”
He pauses, clutching the remaining films to his chest. “That’s when I discovered she’d looked after him from the age of seven. He was in a wheelchair after he broke his back in a work accident. Her mother walked out, unable to cope. He took to the bottle and pissed away the compensation on booze, cigarettes and drugs. She even bought cannabis for him.”
“Couldn’t have been much of a life,” Gemma says.
He drops the films in the sack. “She grew up quickly, I know that. She dealt drugs, drank vodka, and entertained his drunken pals to make ends meet. Can you believe that?”
I look him straight in the eyes. “When did she tell you this?”
“After the funeral. She begged me to go with her, so what could I do? She was fifteen and alone in the world. We sat in the farmhouse, drinking vodka, talking about books and out it came – her whole, sorry life.” Tears fill his eyes. “She said she survived by thinking of me and how I would save her. When she asked me to stay the night …”
He lights a cigarette and takes a long draw. “Not my finest hour, was it? Next morning, I told her it was over.”
“How did she take it?” Gemma asks.
“How do you think?” He grabs the plastic sack and dumps it on the patio. “She missed school, got into trouble with the police. Social Services intervened, but after a few months of behaving herself, she lost control again. Eventually, the police lost patience and prosecuted her. That’s when I knew I had to do something. So I married her.”
Of all the solutions that flashed through my thoughts, this wasn’t one of them.
“It made perfect sense,” he says, staring into my eyes. “The court had adjourned the case for three months, which meant she’d be sixteen. We arranged the ceremony for first thing on the morning of the hearing, determined to show the magistrates she’d reformed.”
He walks to the dresser and picks up a photo of them on their wedding day. She’d lost weight and looked self-conscious, but happy.
“From the registry office we went straight around the corner to the Magistrates Court, Marcie in her wedding dress, me in a hired suit. We thought the magistrates would be lenient, but some pompous old colonel with a big moustache accused us of playing to the gallery.”
A light goes on in my mind. “Colonel Witherington?”
Baxendale nods. “He wanted to send Marcie to a young offenders’ institute, but the woman on the bench – Daphne Featherstone – persuaded her colleagues to impose a suspended sentence and give us a chance to prove we could make a life together. She gave us the names of people and organisations that could help.”
“What was she like?” I ask.
“She understood what Marcie had been through, having lost a soulmate herself. That’s why I couldn’t believe it when she went on and married that colonel.”
“It takes all sorts,” I say, suddenly an expert. At least I know how the Colonel met Daphne.
“Marcie and I were like chalk and cheese, but we did all right. She got a job in a nail bar and I sold double glazing. We started with a bedsit, moved up to a flat and three years ago, I got the job at Tollingdon Primary. That’s when it started to go wrong.”
A long tube of ash falls to the floor, but he’s staring at the photograph. “We bought this place and maxed out our credit cards. We lost a holiday we really needed and Marcie became withdrawn. She started taking drugs again. She denied it, of course, but I knew the signs. I’ve no idea where she got the money until I realised there was someone else. She ran off with him on 18th March this year.”
He goes to the door and throws the cigarette into the garden. “I came home from school and found Morgana out here with an empty bowl of water. Marcie never left her outside, so I knew something was wrong. When she didn’t come home, I rang round, but no one had seen her. When she didn’t come home the following day, I wondered if she’d overdosed. Then a letter arrived, saying I was better off without her, that she’d always held me back. She said she was safe and not to worry.”
“Was it typed?” I ask.
He looks up, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “No, she wrote it.”
“Did anyone around here see her leave?”
“You’re joking, right? They’re either elderly or drugged to the eyeballs. The lady opposite said Marcie left in a taxi, but she has dementia, so who knows?”
“Black cab or private hire?”
“How should I know? What’s it to you?”
“She went off without any warning,” I reply. “Isn’t that unusual?”
“I’ll tell you what’s unusual,” he says, ready to light another cigarette. “Marcie left everything behind.”
“Including Morgana.”
He stops and stares at me. “You didn’t come here to talk about Marcie, did you?”
“No, Charlotte Burke.”
“Of course.” His smirk soon fades. “How is she?”
“Fighting for her life, I imagine.”
“It can’t be easy for her family,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Look, I’m leaving for Scotland next week. I’ve
got lots to do.”
He strides into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
Back in the car, I turn to Gemma. “Another wife who’s vanished without warning, leaving her most treasured possession behind.”
“You think Marcie’s connected to Stacey and Daphne? No way. She wrote to Kirk.”
“She knew Daphne.”
“They met in court.”
“You heard Baxendale – Daphne helped them. What if Marcie stayed in touch with her over the years? What if Daphne confided her problems or told her about the Colonel?”
“Where does that leave Stacey? She didn’t know Colonel Witherington or Daphne.”
I smile, enjoying the pleasure of a solution falling into place. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Who attacked a VAT inspector?”
“Todd Walters.” She stares at me for a moment and sighs. “He went to court for assault, right?”
“Stacey would attend with her husband. If Daphne was on the bench, she might have struck up a friendship with Stacey. When Daphne wanted to start catering, Stacey could have supplied her with meat or introduced her to Miller.”
“You know what this means,” Gemma says, starting the car. “You’re pointing the finger at the Colonel again.”
Twenty-Three
On our way back to the office, Niamh rings. “Your vet can’t test the goats till Saturday, but I rang Sarah and she can fit us in tomorrow.”
“You rang Sarah?”
“Someone has to sort things out.”
Gemma’s listening, aware that we’re discussing her mother.
“Sarah’s independent,” Niamh continues, “which means she’s more credible than a man already in your pay.”
I can’t believe Sarah agreed.
“Anyway, you don’t have a choice,” she says. “Tommy Logan’s hanging around with a photographer.”
“What’s he got to do with it?” I ask, a little slow on the uptake. “You’ve spoken to Tommy, haven’t you? What have you said to him?”
“I had to make them a cup of tea, Kent. It’s miserable out there and he wrote a lovely obituary for William. I told Tommy you had a vet coming to do the tests. He assumed it was Sarah as you two go way back, so I rang her and asked her to do it.”
I can tell she’s waiting for the backlash, but what’s the point? The damage is done. I still can’t believe Sarah agreed, but if Niamh’s worried about what I’ll say, maybe I can turn it to my advantage.
“While you’re on a roll, Niamh, can you do some digging for me? Todd Walters assaulted a VAT inspector about 18 months ago. I’m guessing he was prosecuted in the magistrates’ court. Can you check the records, find out what happened, who was on the bench?”
“I could ask Tommy Logan. He must have reported the case.”
“No, I don’t want him sniffing around.”
“Why don’t you ask Colonel Witherington? He may even have presided on the day.”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, but I don’t want him to know.”
“Why not?” she asks. Then she gasps. “You think he has something to do with Stacey Walters going missing?”
“I don’t know, so don’t say anything, especially to Tommy Logan.”
“As if I would, Kent.”
I end the call, wondering what else she’s told Tommy about my investigation.
Gemma doesn’t look pleased. “Has my mother agreed to test your goats?
“Niamh arranged it.”
“My mother said hell would freeze over before she set foot in your sanctuary. Why’s she changed her mind?”
“Why are you asking me? I still don’t know why she fell out with me.”
One day we were shoulder to shoulder, resisting Birchill’s bulldozers, the next she didn’t show. Or the next. When I rang, she didn’t answer. When I went round to her surgery, she refused to see me. I assumed Gemma had confessed to our brief liaison.
“I never told her about us,” she says, “so stop fishing. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone. What was I thinking, getting mixed up with someone twice my age?”
I stare at the Downs, subdued by the leaden skies. Thinking never came into it, I recall. Or age. “Well, you’ve got someone your own age now.”
I settle back, hoping the rain will deter the media and send Tommy Logan back to his office. I dread to think what he’ll say in tomorrow’s Tollingdon Tribune, especially when he learns I gave a reporter from the Argus a tour of my sanctuary.
“I’ll take this afternoon and tomorrow as leave,” I say. “I should be there when the goats are tested. I can’t keep leaving Niamh and Frances to cope.”
“But you don’t mind leaving us to cope.” Gemma’s sharp tone matches her glare. “We’re your team, Kent. You’re supposed to look after us. You’re not the only one affected by Charlotte Burke’s illness.”
She takes a deep breath and eases back on the accelerator. “There, I said I would raise it with you.”
“The team put you up to this?”
“It’s not a conspiracy, Kent. It’s difficult for us too. We’re trapped in the fallout.”
“I can’t be in two places at once, Gemma.”
“No, but you could try talking to us.”
“I’m trying to protect you from the fallout,” I say, a little belatedly.
She accelerates up the hill, punishing the engine in third gear. “You haven’t even asked me how my interview went with the Head of Audit.”
I groan, realising why she’s annoyed.
“How did it go?” I ask.
“It was horrible. He was after anything he could use against you. They’ve decided you’re guilty and expect us to give them the evidence.”
One moment I’m the proud recipient of the Hugo Carrington Award, now I’m the scourge of Downland District Council. “They want a scapegoat, that’s all.”
“Then why did he tell me my loyalty was to the council that employed me not an ex-lover who was using me to cover his indiscretions?”
For a moment I’m speechless. “How does he know about us?”
She slams on the brakes and swerves over to the side of the road, bouncing off the kerb as we lurch to a halt. “I didn’t tell anyone,” she says, wrenching up the handbrake. “Did you enjoy telling everyone how you seduced a naïve young waitress?”
I shake my head. “I would never do that.”
“Well, I haven’t told a soul, so one of us must be lying.”
***
On my way to the second floor, I wonder how the Head of Audit found out about Gemma and me. Mike knows, but he’d never tell anyone. Gemma must have let something slip because we were discreet, shut away for a week together. Unless someone spotted us walking along the Seven Sisters and Birling Gap.
In the office I drop into my chair, aware of the overwhelming silence. I miss the sound of Nigel, snorting his way through a Cornish pasty. I miss the smell akin to scorched rubber that fills the room when Lucy devours rice cakes. Most of all, I miss the laughter when we speculate about what crazy idea management will dream up next.
While my computer boots, I check my voicemail and In Tray, surprised to find no messages. After a quick glance at Facebook to see how the Council has responded to the E. coli allegations, I ring Geoff Lamb. But like everyone else, he’s unavailable. No doubt he’s ensconced with SMUT, working on another strategy.
“Have you seen the Council’s response on Facebook?” I ask Kelly when she strolls in, shaking her umbrella. She parks it in my waste bin to drain and moves closer to look at my monitor, her head inches from mine.
‘The Council would like to make it clear that it has no interest or involvement in Downland Animal Sanctuary and can’t comment on any allegations made against it or its proprietor, Kent Fisher.
‘Downland District Council would also like to assure people that it takes allegations against its officers seriously and will be conducting a full and thorough investigation to determine if there’s been any unprofessional behaviou
r or malpractice.’
“What did you expect?” she asks, stepping away.
“You think they’d at least offer some sympathy to the family. There’s a young girl in hospital, fighting for her life. If she dies –”
Kelly’s finger presses to my lips. “She’s not dead, Kent. Take a walk and get some fresh air. You’ll need a clear head when you meet Danni at four.”
“There’s nothing in my diary.”
“That’s why I’m telling you.” She hands her umbrella to me and smiles. “She intends to spring it on you so you don’t have time to prepare.”
I kiss Kelly on the cheek. “Can you contact the Guinness Book of Records? There can’t be many people who’ve returned from suspension to be suspended again within two weeks.”
“If suspension was an Olympic sport, lover, you’d be world champion.”
Outside the rain’s eased, leaving a dull sheen on the pavements. Armed with a supermarket sandwich deal, I find a dry bench inside the shelter at the Princess Diana Memorial Garden. Fascinated by the way the raindrops bead into small spheres and roll off the leaves of the Lady’s Mantle, I don’t notice Yvonne Parris until she sits beside me.
“Pretty flowers,” she says, nodding at the geraniums. She pulls a tissue from the pocket of her red raincoat and then removes her glasses to dry them. “No need to look so glum.”
“I don’t see you smiling.”
“Bantering with the bereaved always energises me.” She grins, enjoying her sarcasm. “So, I left Alasdair on the front desk. You know how he likes to be one of the troops.”
I nod, remembering his awful coffee. I offer up my remaining low fat turkey salad on malted bread. “Would you like a sandwich? Or some crisps?”
“I’d prefer a latte.” She slides her glasses over the bridge of her small, but cute nose and settles back, unbuttoning her coat to reveal a white blouse and tight black skirt. “You interested?”
A blouse stretched almost to transparency over a well-filled bra never fails to interest me, as many waitresses in Tollingdon have discovered.
“When I’m through with this,” I say, raising my sandwich, “I’ll treat you.”
“Is that before or after my latte?”
No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2) Page 21