No Remorse
© Copyright Robert Crouch 2017
One
The old man’s grip tightens on my forearm. “They’re killing me.”
“Who is?” I ask, leaning closer.
“They know who I am.”
His stale breath reeks from the rotting food trapped between his yellow teeth. His voice is weak, but his piercing blue eyes remain defiant. “When you come back next time, I won’t be here.”
His hand stops stroking Columbo, my West Highland terrier, and falls to his side. His eyes glaze over. Like a zombie, he stares across the lounge at the Christmas tree, glittering between the rows of upright armchairs, occupied by elderly women in their best frocks. Many have visited the in-house salon to have their hair set so they look their best for my Pets as Therapy visit with Columbo. Others don’t want him leaving his white fur on their expensive dresses and skirts as he enjoys the fuss and attention he gets at residential care homes.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Fisher?”
Miss Rudolf, the manager of Nightingales, has a smile her eyes can’t match. Something tells me she prefers spreadsheets to people, but she makes a passable attempt at rapport with her well-heeled clients.
“Mr. Trimble drifts in and out of this world,” she says, patting the shoulder of his velvet jacket as if it’s about to disintegrate. “Are you with us, Anthony?”
Her slow, emphasised words fail to penetrate his trance. When his head slumps forward, spittle runs down his chin, threatening to drip on Columbo. I lift my dog to safety and set him on the deep carpet, wondering if Mr. Trimble was reliving a memory. Before I can give it any thought, Columbo’s straining to meet the next resident, who’s managed to smear her teeth with scarlet lipstick.
“Hello, darling,” she says, on her knees to greet him. “Come and say hello to Gladys. I’m eighty-four and a half, you know.”
Columbo hesitates, sniffing at the halo of lavender that seems to emanate from her bouffant blue rinse. Her floral dress and the bracelets that slide over her bony wrists belong to a younger, fuller bodied woman. Gnarled fingers, tipped with scarlet, tilt Columbo’s head to hers. She ignores his low growl and pushes her face towards his, speaking in a simpering tone usually reserved for babies.
“Gladys wants to give you a kiss.”
“Gladys is going to get a bite on the nose,” I say, pulling my dog back just in time.
She glares at me, her sharp eyes confirming there’s plenty of life and fight in this resident. She struggles to her feet, ignoring my offer of help, and collapses into her chair.
“I know all about dogs, young man. I bred champion Standard Poodles.”
It explains her hairstyle, but not what she’s doing in a 5-star luxury care home. With a voice that’s pure East End and big toes poking through her carpet slippers, she looks out of place like Mr. Trimble, who’s now snoring.
Most of the women look younger than they are, thanks to cosmetic surgery, enhanced with cabin crew makeup. Their clothes are understated chic, tailored to fit bodies that benefit from daily exercise classes, a healthy diet, and the pampering only a large bank balance can bring. They glide across the carpet, well versed in air kissing and praising each other’s appearance in a manner that’s as artificial as their smiles.
On my first Pets as Therapy visit in November, none of them seemed interested in Columbo until one of their cliques took a shine to him. Now, on our third visit, everyone wants to say hello, even if means interrupting their conversations about aubergine smoothies. They ask me questions as if it’s their duty to make conversation, but hardly listen to the answers. Though they’re convivial and smiling, I can’t help thinking they’re lonely, trapped in a world where appearance matters more than friendship.
Maybe I’m being unkind, having grown up in a damp basement flat, which was almost as miserable as my mother. At school, I discovered the hard way that appearance and social status were essential if you wanted to belong. I didn’t, which meant the attitude of others only reinforced my sense of injustice at a world that had robbed me of my father at a young age.
Except he wasn’t dead. And he wasn’t my father, as it turned out.
“Miss Donavon won best of breed at Crufts.” Miss Rudolf straightens the white linen antimacassar, emblazoned with a gold nightingale motif. “Didn’t you, Gladys?”
“I’m eighty-four and half, you know.”
Miss Rudolf guides me across the lounge, past the conservatory that overlooks the village of East Dean, nestled within the slopes of the South Downs. We can just make out the village green through the tiled roofs and flint walls of the cottages below. Smoke spirals from the chimneys and flattens into a haze, trapped by the dense, cold air that creeps off the hills. The weak sun stays over the sea, unable to melt the frost that has accumulated since Boxing Day.
We pass through double doors into a wide corridor, lined with paintings and photographs of the coast and cliffs at nearby Birling Gap and the Seven Sisters.
“I’m told you once inspected our kitchens, Mr. Fisher.”
I nod, pausing to admire a photograph filled with angry clouds and turbulent waves crashing onto the shingle beach. “I used to inspect lots of kitchens.”
“So, you’ve hung up your white coat, have you?”
For the first time since I arrived, she seems interested. Smart and elegant in a black suit, trimmed with gold lapels, she’s difficult to age or fathom. Her flawless complexion, as smooth as her silky voice, gives nothing away. Only her dark eyes, vaguely Asian or even Oriental, hint at a more colourful life before Nightingales.
“Why do you say that?” I ask, equally determined to give nothing away.
Her minimal shrug elicits less movement than her smile. Efficiency personified. Two minutes allocated for small talk while she shows me out. She retrieves a pink flower that’s fallen from the Christmas cactus, spilling over the varnished stand beside the lift. She turns the flower in her long fingers and raises it to her nose.
“Didn’t you solve some murders recently? Environmental health must seem rather dull in comparison.”
“It has its moments.”
“But moments don’t last.” A whimsical smile flickers across her thin lips. She crushes the flower and drops it into a black waste bin, trimmed with gold. “Maybe nothing lasts.”
“Values do.”
“We have strong values at Nightingales,” she says, strolling on. “Our residents demand high standards of personal care and attention, but with the freedom to make their own choices.”
“I’m not sure Mr. Trimble can make many choices,” I say, catching up with her. “I’m no expert, but wouldn’t he be better off in a nursing home”
“I’m sure Dr Puncheon, our local GP, would say if Mr. Trimble needed more specialised care.”
The corridor widens into a reception area with sofas, a noticeboard of forthcoming events, and a polished oak counter. An alert receptionist with keen eyes and short auburn hair looks up from her computer as we approach. Miss Rudolf weaves around the counter, pausing to straighten the framed award for Best Managed Residential Facility 2012.
Like the residents, the home is living off past glories.
I rest my elbow on the counter. “What if Mr. Trimble has dementia?”
“Are you playing detective, Mr. Fisher?”
“No, I’m wondering why he thinks someone wants to kill him.”
She turns slowly, her expression the epitome of control. Unlike the receptionist, who’s lower jaw drops, revealing even white teeth.
“Mr. Trimble believes the whole world is against him,” Miss Rudolf says, heading into her office. “Dr Puncheon has the situation under control. Now, if you’d be kind enough to sign the visitors’ book before you leave, I need to make some important calls.”
The door closes before I can respond.
“Last time I visited, she offered me coffee,” I tell the receptionist.
She looks up and smiles. “I can order you co
ffee, if you’d like to take a seat.”
She rises, revealing a slim figure, snug inside the crisp Nightingale’s jacket and skirt. Long, elegant fingers stretch out and gesture to the black sofas, facing each other across a glass table. It’s smothered in brochures for Sherlock’s Homes, the company which owns Nightingales and four others in the south east.
Her black lapel badge, with her name etched in gold, makes me smile. With a name like Watson, she must have had an advantage at the interview. “Have you worked here long, Louise?”
“Long enough.”
Her response gives nothing away, like her hazel eyes, which regard me a little longer than necessary, as if she wants to tell me something. However, her friendly, but neutral expression suggests she’s not one for idle chit chat, making me wonder what lurks behind the calm and efficient corporate façade.
When Columbo whines and pulls on his lead, she steps around the counter and drops to one knee to fuss him. “Does Mr. Trimble really think someone’s trying to kill him?”
I shrug. “He probably watches too many episodes of Midsomer Murders.”
“He doesn’t have a TV,” she says, rising. “In his room, I mean.”
***
I’m sure Louise Watson would have told me more had several residents in faux fur coats and mittens not burst through the front door, chatting about the vicar’s flamboyant wife. Once inside, they continue their discussion in reception, slowly unveiling the secrets of the vicarage as they remove gloves, hats and coats.
Outside, I zip up my fleece and walk across the gravel to my car, parked by the gates. The moment I settle in my seat and close the door on the biting wind, I spot a piece of paper flapping under the windscreen wiper. While tempted to ignore what will be another offer of two pizzas for the price of one, or a free air freshener for the car with my next valet, the paper will continue to catch my eye as I drive home.
The paper turns out to be a note, printed on A5 paper and folded in half with a sharp crease only a ruler or thumbnail could produce. A note in large black print, probably Times New Roman, runs across the centre of the paper.
You think you’re so clever, don’t you?
Maybe it’s one of those marketing threads for evening classes at Sussex Downs College. The next note tells me my outlook on life could change with an expensive course in flower arranging or creative writing. Only there’s no phone number or website address for me to check.
No, either someone has a grudge or it’s linked to my exchange with Trimble. The hairs on my neck tingle and I glance back at Nightingales, certain the author of the note is watching me. Only a resident or employee could have left it on my windscreen. No one else would be up here, except for ramblers or dog walkers, passing on their way to the Downs.
After one final glance at the paper, I fold it back in half and slip it into the glove box.
“So what do you think Trimble meant?” I ask Columbo, watching him settle on the rear parcel shelf as I drive away. “They know who I am.”
He ignores me, more interested in a man in a Barbour coat and wellingtons, striding back from the Downs with his gundogs. I stop and call out to him.
“Have you seen anyone hanging around the car park, looking suspicious?”
The man hurries past, dragging his Springer Spaniels away as they spot Columbo and strain on their leads.
I laugh, realising how ridiculous my question was. The note could be a practical joke, or placed on the wrong car. My suspicions are based on a sad old man who’s losing his grip on reality. Am I looking for something that’s not there? It’s not the first time, and I doubt it will be the last, but I’m certain about one thing – Trimble should be in a nursing home.
And Louise Watson looks far too intelligent and competent to spend her time behind a reception desk.
I drive out of East Dean and turn left at the main road, pulling in behind a green Brighton bus that crawls up the steep hill, flanked with hawthorns and sycamores. Through the weave of bare branches, I glance at the grassy slopes of the Downs, heavy with frost. Columbo stares too, imagining the walks we’ll enjoy in spring, now that my stepmother, Niamh, has moved to Friston, which overlooks East Dean.
I could call in to see how she’s settled into Belmont. Two months ago, Colonel Witherington left me the huge house in his will after I solved the murder of his missing wife. The house should go to Alice, his loyal housekeeper for over forty years, but she’s happy with the money he left her and her flat adjoining the main house.
At the top of the hill, I swing right towards Jevington and speed past the lane that leads to Belmont. I want to return to Tollingdon and the animal sanctuary where I live. Now Niamh’s moved out of the spare bedroom, I can walk around my flat in my underwear and leave my clothes where they fall if I want to. Frances, who runs the sanctuary, has moved out of her draughty caravan and back into the spare bedroom during the cold snap. She joins me in the lounge for Inspector Morse evenings in front of the TV. Columbo settles between us on the sofa, eagerly awaiting the mid-session pause for tea and cake.
We’ve enjoyed this winter routine for five years, but this could be the last.
In Jevington, the road narrows and weaves past flint cottages that seem to rise out of the Downs. A brief glimpse of St Andrews Church makes me think of choirs and carols, though I’m not expecting to find King Wenceslas in the kitchens of the Eight Bells, a few hundred yards ahead.
Just Noel.
It’s only eleven o’clock, but the pub’s flashing Christmas lights are already repeating their monotonous routines. Columbo heads straight for the wall, relieving himself against the blackened weeds. The stench of dead cigarettes, spilling out of the ashtrays on the nearby table, drives me inside and into the bristling arms of the huge Christmas tree, bent over at the top where it meets the ceiling.
Like Doug, who has to duck between the ceiling beams. Tall, bearded, and with a voice that shakes the dust off the shelves, he towers over the polished wooden bar, crowded with last night’s empty glasses, reeking of stale alcohol.
“Morning, Kent. You’re a bit early for tonight’s party.”
The poster for the New Year’s Eve party looks as tired as Doug’s bloodshot eyes. Maybe he’s having sleepless nights, thinking about the five-course dinner, followed by live music from a rock ‘n’ roll band called The Delinquents.
“They don’t sound very rock ‘n’ roll to me, Doug.”
“That’s because you’re getting old, man.” He points to another poster, showing three young rockers with glossy quiffs and pierced ears, eyebrows and noses. “They’re local.”
By local, he means cheap.
“The atmosphere will be epic,” he says, frowning at the contents of one glass. “I still have a few tickets left.”
The stack of tickets on the bar suggests more than a few. “Have you sold any, Doug?”
“There’s always a rush at the last minute. You know that.”
Something tells me locals will call into the pub for a few drinks to see in the New Year and listen to the band for free.
“Is Noel in the kitchen?” I ask.
He casts me a nervous glance. “This isn’t official, is it?”
“I thought Noel might like to cook for me at home this evening as he won’t be doing much here.”
“You should do stand up, Kent. You’d fall flat on your face.”
“Keep an eye on Columbo, will you? I’ll only be a minute,”
The sound of Pink Floyd’s, Wish You Were Here, lulls me downs the short flight of steps into the kitchen. Noel’s dicing onions on a green chopping board, his eyes shut tight. It could be the pungent fumes, but as he’s miming to the song it must be emotion. Either way, he’s lost in his own world until I clear my throat.
“All right, Kent?” He mutes the sound with a remote. “Long time no see.”
“Well, if you will add salmonella to your dishes.” I stroll across to the bubbling pans on the gas range. “You won’t need that many potat
oes tonight.”
“You saw the poster then.” He laughs and puts down the knife. “He’ll drop the price mid-afternoon, word will spread, and enough people will turn up. They always do. So, what brings you here?”
“Didn’t you chef at Nightingales?”
“For a few months, sure. Why, you got a problem there?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“It’s nothing official. I take Columbo along to entertain the residents. My dog,” I say when he looks puzzled. “Pets help people in homes and hospitals feel better. It’s only our third visit, but management’s a bit lukewarm, so I thought I’d ask you about the place.”
“Me? I spent my time in the kitchen, working on my Jack for most of it.” He starts on another onion, clearly unhappy about his time at the home. “When I got help, it was mainly young East European women, who barely spoke any English, so they weren’t much use. Well, not in the kitchen,” he adds with a wink.
“Weren’t they trained?”
“Not that you’d notice. I was supposed to supervise and train them, but they never stayed that long.”
“And management tolerated that?”
“The Sherlocks? I only saw Mrs. Sherlock once. Oh, they had systems and spreadsheets, computerised stock control, that kind of thing, but never enough staff. They could tell you how many tissues there were on a roll of kitchen paper, but not much else.”
“What about the residents?”
He stops dicing. “What are you getting at?”
I wish I knew. “I just wondered how they treated the residents.”
“You think there’s something going on?” He sets the knife on the worktop and wipes his hands on the small, grubby towel, hanging from his belt. “You found another murder?”
No wonder people compliment me on my subtlety and discretion. At this rate, social media will be buzzing with rumours by the time I get home. “Of course not,” I say.
No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2) Page 30