No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2)

by Robert Crouch

“Someone’s trying to discredit me, Gemma.”

  “Chloe Burke?”

  “Why not?” I ask, sounding like Mike. “You saw her this morning.”

  “How would she know you were going out in the evening?”

  One day I’ll stop jumping to conclusions. “Yeah, you’re right. Are you feeling better?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? No one’s calling me a heartless, self-centred rat.”

  I end the call, wondering if there’s something she’s not telling me. Then with a smile, I stop speculating. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.

  No, she’ll tell Richard, of course.

  I push the thought from my mind and ring Tommy Logan. He picks up straight away, announcing his full name in his pompous drawl.

  “It’s the heartless, self-centred rat here, Tommy. Let’s talk about last night.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to discuss your less than admirable behaviour, dear boy, but I gave you an opportunity to comment last night and you didn’t take it.”

  “Who told you I’d be in La Neapolitan? And don’t say a little bird.”

  “You were sitting by the window. How could I possibly miss you when you were with such a ravishing young lady?”

  “Come on, Tommy. Charlotte Burke dies and you just happen to be passing the restaurant where I’m eating?”

  “You’re starting to sound paranoid, dear boy.”

  “Who told you Charlotte Burke had died?”

  “You know a reporter’s sources are as sacrosanct as the confessional. You should be asking your people why they didn’t tell you. Then again, you were removed from the investigation.”

  I cut him off before I say something I’ll regret. Someone tipped him off and as only Yvonne knew where I’d be, the choices are limited. So are mine when I reach the Michelham Unit. Alice has returned to Friston.

  “Does that mean he’s better?” I ask the nurse.

  “He’s stable at the moment.”

  That means he could go downhill at any time.

  I head uphill to my car, pursued by a howling wind that turns my umbrella inside out. Drenched, and in need of new umbrella, I slide into the car. When a little life returns to my fingers, courtesy of the heating system, I ring Alice, but there’s no answer. Twenty minutes later, after crawling behind the bus along the winding road to Jevington and Friston, I reach Belmont. She’s coming out of the door, but beckons me inside.

  “How’s the Colonel?” I ask, wiping my shoes on the thick mat.

  She looks as tired as her crumpled blue slacks and white blouse. Dull eyes peer through strands of hair that have escaped her tight bun.

  “I don’t think he’ll last the night,” she says, her voice filled with resignation. “He’s clinging on for news about Mrs Witherington. Is she the woman they found?”

  “It’s too early to tell. Shall I make us a cup of tea?”

  She shakes her head and fetches her raincoat from the back of an oak chair. “I must return to the hospital.”

  “Before you do, would you tell me about McGillicuddy?”

  “Ross? You don’t think he has anything to do Mrs Witherington’s disappearance, surely?”

  “I’m asking you, Alice.”

  She laughs as if my suggestion’s ridiculous. “They liked to walk on the Downs and along the coast, but who doesn’t? He taught her to use his fancy camera so she could take photographs to help her with her paintings.”

  “How did the Colonel feel about that?”

  Her back straightens. “Are you asking if he was jealous?”

  “Was he?”

  She shrugs the coat over her shoulders as she talks.

  “Colonel Witherington worshipped his wife, Mr Fisher. He fell in love with her the first time he saw her, even though she was married to Spencer Ellis. He was a renowned author and a magistrate like Daphne. They’d moved to Sussex from London and joined the local bench. That’s where Colonel Witherington first met her.”

  “Did they have an affair?”

  She laughs. “My, you do have a suspicious mind. Be careful it doesn’t bite you.”

  “Too late for that, Alice. So, tell me about them.”

  “Mrs Ellis – Daphne – was devoted to her husband. He had motor neurone disease, which eventually reduced him to an invalid. He died about eight years ago and the whole of Pevensey came out to watch the procession. She took him to the cemetery in a horse drawn carriage. It was so beautiful and dignified.”

  “I assume the Colonel attended.”

  She nods. “We were both there. Colonel Witherington wanted to help, but I rather got the impression someone else was looking after her.”

  “Who?”

  She leads me into the main reception room, decorated with Regency red and yellow wallpaper above the low level oak panelling. Enormous leather sofas congregate around a sturdy oak table that sits a few feet from a huge brick fireplace. Alice’s shoes squeak on the polished boards as she navigates to a dresser in the far corner. She points out two gold framed photographs among the porcelain figurines.

  “Colonel Witherington married her about nine months after Spencer’s death. They held the reception at Birling Manor in East Dean.”

  The first photograph shows Daphne in an elegant cream dress, trimmed with lace, while the Colonel’s in full uniform, medals gleaming. She’s certainly an attractive woman with a distracted smile and big blue eyes that seem focused on a dream. The second photograph shows the happy couple with Alice and Davenport, who’s standing next to Daphne.

  “Davenport was looking after her,” I say, impressed by his tailored suit, straining over a stocky chest. “He’s lost some weight since.”

  “Alasdair gave her away,” Alice says, taking the photograph from me. “Her parents died when she was young. When Spencer died, Alasdair became a great comfort. “That’s why he’s so good at his job.”

  “Didn’t his wife die recently?”

  “So sad,” she says, straightening the photographs. “Angelina was a lot younger, something of a wild child, I’m told. Some say she married Alasdair to escape her domineering father, but on the occasions I saw them, they were so in love it made me feel uncomfortable.”

  I’ve met couples who can’t keep their hands to themselves in public.

  “Her parents are hot blooded Italians. That didn’t help,” she says, shaking her head. “They never took to Alasdair, especially when they married in the registry office. When Angelina became ill, they blamed him, of course. There was a terrible argument and she refused to see them again. Mind you,” she says with a wry shake of the head, “that pales in comparison to the kerfuffle over the funeral.”

  “What happened?” I asked, following her out of the room.

  “The family wanted a big church ceremony, as you can imagine. She’d asked to be cremated, so Alasdair went ahead, despite threats from the family.”

  “Threats?”

  “Abusive calls, solicitor letters. Alasdair had a breakdown and Colonel Witherington stepped in to keep the business ticking over.”

  “I didn’t realise they knew each other so well.”

  “They’ve been friends for years. Colonel Witherington advised Alasdair when Angelina’s family continued to hound him. Ghastly people,” she says with a shudder. “They live near Sovereign Harbour in Eastbourne in a house that looks like a castle. It has turrets and towers at each end. Colonel Witherington would never have permitted that in Downland.”

  “No,” I say, wondering why he never opposed Birchill’s planning application to build Tombstone Adventure Park. “The Colonel was vigorous in defending our landscape.”

  “He’s vigorous about everything. That’s the trouble.” Alice picks up a hessian bag and walks to the front door. “Mrs Witherington thought the strain would be too much for him, what with his council work and commitments, but he told her to stop fussing. Then she went missing, as you know.”

  “Presumably Davenport had returned to work by then?”

 
“Of course,” she replies, opening the door. “They discussed her disappearance at length when the police couldn’t find her. He suggested Colonel Witherington ask you for help.”

  “Davenport recommended me? He never said.”

  “Oh, he’s far too modest,” she replies, waiting until I’ve followed her outside before slamming the door.

  I’m still parked in the drive ten minutes after she drives away, wondering what else the Colonel kept from me – like a copy of Davenport’s police statement. Had Mike not uncovered it, I would never have known about it.

  Eyes closed, I think back to the conversation in Davenport’s antiquated office, trying to recall what’s bugging me. What did he say? That’s right. He said he didn’t understand how I could help Colonel Witherington.

  Then why recommend me?

  Davenport’s mobile goes straight to voicemail.

  “Hi, Alasdair, I understand you recommended my services to Colonel Witherington. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  More to the point, why didn’t the Colonel tell me?

  ***

  Shortly after three, I pull up outside Tollingdon Funeral Services. The blinds on the front windows and door are down, but there’s no CLOSED sign. I jump out and take the stone steps two at a time. The front door’s locked. After rattling it a couple of times I retreat down the steps, pausing when I spot light escaping through a gap in the wooden cellar flaps.

  Maybe someone’s working after all.

  I drive around the block and down the narrow lane to the rear entrance, pleased to find the gates open. Yvonne’s red MGB almost collides with mine as I drive in. She reverses back into her parking space, while I take Davenport’s.

  She winds down the window. “Have you come to apologise?”

  I let my window down, squinting as the drizzle hits my face. “I’m looking for Davenport. Do you know where he is, when he’s due back?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you after the way you treated me last night.”

  “The way I treated you? Have you any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?”

  “Me? You’re the one who accused me of setting you up.”

  “You booked the table,” I retort, starting the car.

  “I didn’t book the table, Alasdair did.”

  Finally, I ram the gearstick into reverse. “What, he’s your social secretary now?”

  She screeches her car forward and across mine to cut off my escape. She hauls herself out of the car, slams the door, and strides over, her expression darker than the clouds overhead.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” she says, bending till her face is inches from mine, “but I didn’t think you’d show, so I never booked a table. Then Alasdair offered to join me if you didn’t show and said he could get us a good table, okay?”

  She gives me an angry glare and returns to her MGB. As she screeches off down the lane, I don’t move, barely aware of the rain that’s hitting against my face.

  “When Charlotte died, her mother didn’t ring Tommy,” I say, thinking aloud.

  Chloe Burke rang Davenport. Or her father did, probably to arrange for the body to be collected.

  Then Davenport tipped off Tommy.

  Thirty

  Sometimes my mind works so fast it’s frightening. It’s not inspiration. There’s no such thing. It’s the culmination of a subconscious process that takes pieces of information over a period of time and works out how they all fit together. And when it does, the mind serves up the answer with a triumphant shout.

  When Todd Walters doesn’t answer his phone, I drive to Mayfield, wishing the rain would clear. It’s only four o’clock and it looks like dusk. The High Street’s deserted and many businesses have closed early, leaving me a choice of parking spaces. Walters lumbers up to the front door within seconds of my knocking.

  “You had second thoughts about the Qashqai?” he asks, letting me in. “Only someone in the village took her out for a drive earlier.”

  “I’m here about Stacey. Did she lose anyone close in the last couple of years?”

  “Dead, you mean?”

  I nod. “Someone in her family, a close friend.”

  “No, she didn’t have much family. There was the bloke she shacked up with before we met. The drugs got him,” he says, miming an injection into the arm.

  “When was this?”

  He scratches his head. “Eight, maybe nine years ago. He lived in Brighton, but his family came from near here. Cross in Hand, I think. Stacey said they bought a load of sausage rolls and savouries for the wake and we used to laugh about it because we could have met a couple of years before we did.”

  “Do you know who did the service?”

  “The funeral? Sure, Tollingdon Funeral Services. When my mother died a couple of years ago, Stacey recommended them. She said Alasdair Davenport was a great help when her bloke died. He even popped round a couple of times to check on her, make sure she was all right and that. Now, that’s what I call service.”

  I’d call it something else, but Walters doesn’t need to know that.

  “So, what’s this got to do with my Stacey?” he asks, looking expectant.

  “Loose ends,” I say, with a nod to Lieutenant Columbo.

  As I turn to leave, he grabs my arm. “Is she dead?”

  I don’t know what to say, which tells Walters all he needs to know. I feel awful, watching the hope drain from his face, but I can’t lie to him. Neither can I prove she’s dead.

  Not yet.

  In the car, I make some notes. I’m about to drive off when Gemma phones.

  “The E.coli in the manure matches the strain that infected the family,” she says. “Nigel and I have just come back from the smallholding. He won’t be selling any more manure.”

  “Serve a notice on him,” I say, “just to be sure.”

  “Kent, he’s absolutely gutted. He’s infected his niece. Once the family find out, he’s … He wasn’t to know his manure would infect Charlotte, was he?”

  A small light flickers in my mind and then goes out.

  “Anyway, you’re off the hook, Kent. Why don’t I come over with a curry to celebrate?”

  “Sure,” I say without thinking.

  When I reach Tollingdon and join the rush hour traffic, I’m still going over what Gemma said, trying to figure out what sparked off something in my head. I’m still searching when I reach Baxendale’s house at a quarter past five. He’s in the bedroom, wandering about in his underwear, holding a shirt against himself as he sways his hips in time to the music that spills out of the small casement window.

  I ring the doorbell and step back, head bowed against the rain. My damp trousers stick to my knees and thighs, while my fleece has lost the battle. Wrapped in a bathrobe, Baxendale opens the door and looks at me in surprise, clearly expecting someone else.

  “I thought my taxi was early,” he says, stepping aside. He glances down the road before closing the door. “I’m off out with some mates.”

  “Bit early, isn’t it?”

  “We’re off to Brighton.”

  “By taxi?”

  “No, only to the train station.” He pulls a blue and white striped scarf from a coat hook and holds it above his head with both hands. “Seagulls!”

  “You’re off to watch Brighton,” I say, calling on my miniscule knowledge of football. “In which case, I’ll get to the point. You told me Marcie’s father died.”

  “Yes, about seven years ago.”

  “Do you know who organised the funeral?”

  “Your council. Marcie’s dad had nothing, just the rags he lounged around in. And Marcie was a kid. She couldn’t afford to pay for it.”

  When someone dies without money, or relatives who can arrange the funeral, the council steps in. Tollingdon Funeral Services have held the contract for welfare burials for as long as I can remember.

  “Why are you interested in Marcie’s dad?” Baxendale asks.

  “I’m interested in the undertaker,
Alasdair Davenport.”

  “I remember him. He steered Marcie through the worst, arranging everything, popping round to see her and that. At first I thought he was a letch, but –”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Marcie may have been fifteen and a bit overweight, but she was as sexy as hell. She dressed like a punk, but that only seemed to exaggerate her appeal. She had a gleam in her eyes when she looked at you and …”

  “You thought Davenport couldn’t resist.”

  “I should know. I lost count of how many times I got aroused in class.” He blushes and drifts into an uncomfortable silence.

  “Enjoy your football,” I say, moving towards the door.

  “Hang on,” Baxendale calls. “I’m not saying he did anything.”

  No, but he’s thinking it.

  ***

  I’m still thinking when Baxendale’s taxi comes and goes. His neighbour arrives home, glaring at me to let me know I’ve parked in her space. And the rain continues to fall, drumming on the roof of the car like frustrated fingers.

  Davenport met the three missing women at funerals seven or eight years ago. His concern for them may have extended beyond the professional. Nothing came of this because he later married Angelina, whom he adored. Now she’s dead and three women are missing.

  What am I missing?

  Then there’s the headless body at Meadow Farm. If it’s a fourth missing woman, why remove her head?

  Maybe the police will find more bodies on the farm and arrest McGillicuddy – when they find him, of course. He must have realised his days were numbered when I made the connection with Marcie.

  So, who told him?

  I’m back to my list of people who know more than they should about my investigation.

  I stare at the misted windscreen and turn the fan to full blast. Maybe it’ll clear more than the windscreen.

  So who’s the woman in the freezer? She can’t be the only body, but the killer wanted to disguise her identity, presumably to delay the trail to his doorstep. It’s as calculated as the abductions, as the fake letter from Stacey Walters that was meant to throw me off the trail.

  Then I start laughing.

  The headless body has nothing to do with Daphne, Stacey or Marcie. It’s meant to throw me off the trail, but it’s identified the killer instead.