No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  It doesn’t look like Hollywood’s going to beat down my door any time soon.

  “Does Danni know?” I ask.

  “She was the first to suspect.”

  “She didn’t approve, did she?”

  “She’s not a fan of relationships at work.”

  “Ironic, considering she’s shacked up with Bernard Doolittle.”

  “It’s platonic, Kent. She wants a mentor, he enjoys spending time with someone half his age. They were both relieved when Gemma left.”

  “Did she tell you why she left?”

  Kelly rises. “Freya looks lovely – nothing at all like Gemma.”

  I waste another few minutes, comparing and contrasting Freya with Gemma. Apart from the obvious age difference, they share the same colour hair and eyes. They both have slim faces and figures, long necks, strong noses and smooth white teeth. Apart from those few similarities, they’re worlds apart.

  I close Facebook and bin my pasta, annoyed that everyone knew about Gemma and me. We were so careful, leaving the office at separate times, never arriving together. I never parked near her flat, stayed away during the day, due to its proximity to the town hall, and at her request didn’t accompany her on visits.

  We weren’t careful enough.

  No doubt the rest of the team enjoyed a good laugh at our feeble efforts to keep the affair secret.

  Well, there’s nothing to laugh at now. Gemma’s made her choice.

  I’ve gone through what I did, what I didn’t do and what I could have done so many times, it’s become a festering sore. No more, I decide, picking up my phone.

  Pristine Pooches goes straight to voicemail.

  “Freya, I’ll be at Birling Gap with my Westie, Columbo, from half twelve tomorrow lunchtime. Why not bring Molly and we can go for a walk, have a bite to eat. Don’t let Jonathan Wright come between us.”

  I pause, wondering whether I should have said the last bit.

  I block out two hours in my diary for tomorrow in case she calls back.

  The afternoon drags along with more management briefings to read, an almost endless supply of emails, and the usual phone calls from companies offering me training, consultancy and the latest noise monitoring equipment at an introductory discount. Each time the phone rings, I hope it’s Freya. It’s the reason I return to my desk as I leave for home at five thirty.

  Insurance assessor, Lizzy Wong, has a succinct and professional manner. She talks fast, delivering sentences like bullet points.

  “I’m still waiting for Mr Hossain. I’ve asked him to provide a receipt for the purchase of the deep fat fryer. I want to talk to Ms King too. Do you have contact details?”

  “Hossain said she’d gone to stay with her mother.”

  “Do you have the address?”

  “I’ll let you know if I find out. Will you do the same?”

  “Of course,” she says, before ending the call. Like Ashley, she’s not one for sharing, I suspect.

  At least Charlie’s on my side. She phones to tell me she’s safe and well and about to go home. She also has details about the blaze at Hossain’s restaurant in Brighton.

  “Fire away,” I say, picking up a pen.

  “It was an accident, caused by an old upright refrigerator in the storeroom. I don’t have a copy of the report, but the summary looks pretty conclusive. The insurers appointed their own assessor, as you would expect with the amount of damage.”

  “Maybe Hossain has a track record, Charlie. Two food businesses, two fires?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she says. “But he likes to buy second rate equipment from men in vans.”

  “Any mention of Leila King?” I ask, keen to move the subject away from second hand catering equipment.

  “She ran the restaurant. Knowledgeable and competent, according to the last inspection report. She also disposed of the fridge before EHOs visited.”

  Twenty-Two

  Back at Meadow Farm, I help Frances with a few chores around the sanctuary, checking my phone like a lovesick adolescent. When frustration gets the better of me, I pull on my shorts, hi-vis running jacket and Nike trainers. Armed with my head torch and phone, I stroll towards the main gate, waving to Niamh and Alice as I pass. Since moving to Jevington, I’ve only managed a couple of runs a week, half of what I usually do. With Birchill not due back from the Seychelles until the weekend, and Ashley moving home, there’s nothing to stop me adding an extra run this evening.

  Apart from the obvious health benefits, running gives me time to mull over problems, get my head in order. Many of the runs since Gemma left became personal bests, powered by anger, aggression and frustration. I don’t know if I felt any better, or wiser, but exhaustion made sleeping easier.

  Tonight, with thoughts of Freya to keep me going, I activate my Garmin watch and run down into the village. I hesitate at the Eight Bells, not sure whether to head east and take the steep climb to Butts Brow at the northern end of Eastbourne, or go west past St Andrew’s Church and up onto the South Downs Way. Undecided, I stick to the road and head down the slope to the former Hungry Monk restaurant. Still undecided, I race past Willingdon Lane, my muscles relaxing into the brisk pace. Before I know it, I’ve passed the tea rooms and missed the next turning on the left.

  A few yards down the road I swing right along the lane that leads to a small car park. From here, I can run up the hill onto the South Downs and follow the edge of the forest south towards Friston as I’ve done many times before. It looks like someone’s moved into the flint cottage on the corner, which has been empty for months. Light bursts out of the windows and conservatory, illuminating a familiar Audi on the hardstanding at the end of the garden. The gaping hatch reveals several cardboard boxes crammed inside.

  When Ashley strolls out of the conservatory, dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, her thick hair bundled into a ponytail, I duck behind the wheeled bins in the car park. Dousing my head torch, I watch her carry boxes back to the cottage until she’s emptied the car.

  Why has she moved to Jevington?

  She slams the hatch shut and turns to face the car park. “Love the hi-vis trainers, Kent, but like the jacket, they don’t blend into the shadows.”

  I step out and walk over to her, feeling foolish. “How did you know it was me?”

  “I saw you run past. Why didn’t you stop?”

  “Why have you moved to Jevington?”

  “I came across this place last Friday on my way to see you. I needed somewhere urgently. A phone call, a couple of references and some haggling, and here I am. It’s only for six months while I look for somewhere more permanent. I’d show you round, but the agent said you’d already viewed the place.”

  “I’m hedging my bets in case I don’t get planning permission to convert a barn into a flat.”

  “It’s good to know we have the same taste in property,” she says. “And handy too, now we’re a team.”

  I glance at my Garmin. “I need to get going.”

  “Then why hide behind the bins?”

  It’s a fair point and one I’m struggling to answer. “I was curious, I guess.”

  “About my nick knacks, what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

  “Can I look forward to a progress report on Miles Birchill?”

  “He’s not back from holiday till the weekend.”

  “He flew into Heathrow yesterday, looking tanned and rather pleased with himself.”

  “Is he under surveillance?”

  “No, a little bird told me.”

  “Tommy Logan at the Tollingdon Tribune?”

  “No, Twitter, of course. You’d be surprised what people reveal in their tweets.”

  At least I know where Tommy Logan gets his catchphrase. But that’s all I know. As usual, Ashley’s a few steps ahead of me. Then again, she has a police network to help her. I have to mooch around remote industrial estates.

  “Does Leila King use Twitter?” I ask.


  “No one’s reported her missing, so we’re not looking. Hossain claims he doesn’t know where she is, but I don’t believe him.”

  “You shouldn’t. He had a fire at a restaurant he ran in Brighton.”

  “Six or seven years ago, wasn’t it? Faulty refrigerator, wasn’t it?”

  “Leila King removed it before EHOs could examine it. Sound familiar?”

  “I’d turn up the heat on Birchill, if I were you, not Leila King.”

  ***

  I jog back to Meadow Farm, unhappy about Ashley’s move to Jevington. I don’t want her looking over my shoulder, checking on me while I do her bidding.

  Once I’ve fussed Columbo and explained my early return to Frances, I shower while she reheats the leftovers from yesterday’s chilli sans carne. While we’re eating, Columbo drooling by my feet, I tell her about Ashley.

  “She’s taken the cottage you were interested in? Don’t you think it’s creepy?”

  “It only needs a lick of paint to brighten it up,” I reply.

  “No, Ashley moving to Jevington.” Frances throws a chunk of garlic bread at me when she realises I’m teasing. It bounces off me and lands on the floor, before disappearing into Columbo’s mouth. “She could have rented for less in Eastbourne or Tollingdon.”

  “Maybe she likes old buildings.”

  Frances chuckles. “What if she’s a bunny boiler?”

  “Not funny. Anyway, she’s not my type.”

  “Niamh thinks you’re a good match.”

  “Niamh thinks anyone who isn’t Gemma is a good match.”

  Frances sighs. “I miss Gemma. She loved it here. She wanted to be part of this place, part of your life.”

  “So why wouldn’t she move in with me?” I ask, unable to control my frustration.

  Columbo growls at my outburst.

  Frances glances in the direction of the farmhouse. I cringe, realising I offered it to Niamh without any discussion or thought for how Gemma would feel. Maybe she wanted us to live there.

  Before I can become lost in my stupidity, the phone rings. I snatch up the mobile, hoping Freya’s returning my call, but it’s my father. He sounds full of energy after four weeks of sun and sand in the Seychelles.

  “I thought you were back at the weekend,” I say, after he’s told me why I should see the world before the oceans rise and swallow everything.

  “Can you make lunch tomorrow?”

  “I’d prefer dinner.”

  “We have to be somewhere in the evening.”

  “We?”

  “The future Mrs Birchill and me,” he replies. “She can’t wait to meet you, Kent. I’ve booked a table at the Hydro Hotel for one o’clock. We can push the boat out at the weekend. What do you think?”

  I’m thinking mail order bride at least half his age. But there’s a more immediate problem. “Have you told her we’re related?”

  “The truth will come out sooner or later, Kent. Would you rather wait until everyone wonders why you’re best man at my wedding?”

  I’m wondering what his fiancée will think when I ask him about an unidentified corpse on his land.

  Twenty-Three

  Ashley’s waiting in the lane when I exit Meadow Farm on Friday morning. Dressed in a different grey suit and sensible shoes, she’s leaning against her Audi, head bent, checking her phone.

  I hope she doesn’t turn into Philippa, the girl who used to walk to school with me. She was passing the flat one day and struck up a conversation. From that day on, no matter what time I left, she was outside, waiting for me. Sometimes we shared sweets, most times we simply talked. She never said or did anything to make me uncomfortable, but she was always there.

  I also realised, instinctively, I guess, that any attempt to deal with this would make things worse.

  “Have you spoken to Birchill?” Ashley doesn’t look up from her phone as I pull up alongside.

  “He’s invited me to lunch. To discuss the celebrity opening,” I add quickly.

  Now she looks up. “Today? With his girlfriend?”

  “You know about her?”

  She sighs. “He’s been leaving cryptic comments on Twitter all week. You really should embrace social media, Kent. When you pop over tonight, I’ll show you some of the conversations villains have on Facebook. You won’t believe how much useful information and intelligence they give us.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Where are you dining?”

  “The Hydro.”

  “That’s a relief. I thought I’d have to buy an expensive frock.” Before I can say anything, she’s on her way round to the passenger seat. “What time are we dining?”

  “You’re not invited.”

  “I’ll be your significant other,” she says. “We’ll need a convincing backstory, of course, but that should be straightforward. It’s not like he knows you, is it?”

  “You can’t come, Ashley. He’ll never fall for it.”

  “If you don’t bring me along, I’ll gate crash. Then you’ll have to explain who I am and why you didn’t invite me when we’re sooooo in love.” She laughs, enjoying my discomfort. “Come on, it’ll be fun. He wants to show off his new woman and impress her. We encourage him to brag and who knows what he’ll let slip.”

  “Like he’s going to admit he murdered someone.”

  She frowns at me. “I’ll say my mother and I stayed at Sunshine View Caravan Park when they found a body.”

  “You don’t think he’ll be suspicious?”

  “Finding a body’s exciting. I’ll act like a dumb blonde, pretending it was one of the highlights of my life. Was it an ancient burial site or was it a murder?” she says, trying to sound like one of those enthusiastic American reporters. “Was the killer staying on the site?”

  “You think he’s that gullible?”

  “He’s vain, Kent. He’s had facelifts. No one has hair that black, not even you.”

  She’ll be surprised to discover he no longer dyes out the grey.

  “Don’t you want to solve the murder?” she asks. “Don’t you think the family deserve closure?”

  “Of course I do, but this isn’t the way to do it.”

  “Don’t go all frosty on me, Kent. You’re the only person with the imagination and balls to help me crack this case.”

  When I asked Philippa if she had any friends, she said, “You’re the only friend I need.”

  That’s when I knew there was no escape.

  “What happens if you need to formally interview Birchill at a later date?” I ask. “How’s it going to look when he discovers we misled him?”

  “If he committed murder, who cares?”

  “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

  “I never said he pulled the trigger. But if he ordered the killing then –”

  “The victim was executed? I thought ...” I stop, realising she can’t know I’ve read Mike’s notes. “If Birchill ordered the killing, why would he bury the body on his own land?”

  “You know nothing about him, Kent.” Ashley stares ahead, fingers tapping on her thighs. “You’ve never sat in an interview room, staring into the eyes of a cold blooded killer while he concocts a fairy tale Hans Christian Anderson would die for.”

  I remain silent, not sure what she’s trying to tell me.

  “It’s a classic double bluff, Kent. Birchill wants us to think he buried the victim on his own land so we’ll haul him in. He gives us an unbreakable alibi and walks free, making us look stupid. We then go searching for someone else when all the time it’s him, hiding in plain sight.”

  Her fingers ball into fists. “DI Briggs screwed up. He didn’t even identify who owned the land, for God’s sake. But I’ve got you to help me, Kent.”

  Each year I received a Valentine card, always in the same handwriting. When I asked Philippa if she’d sent them, she became upset and angry, demanding to know who’d sent them, demanding to know why I kept them.

  To pacify her,
I offered to destroy every card.

  The following morning, she brought a pair of scissors.

  Twenty-Four

  When Danni heads off to a meeting at eleven, I borrow her office. I need to escape the phones and stream of emails that seem so trivial compared to my father arranging a murder.

  I don’t want to believe it, but I need to be sure.

  Whatever my misgivings about his past, he was a legitimate businessman when we entered the new millennium. Ten years ago, he owned a run of the mill caravan site where a body was discovered. It looks like the murder is linked to the Rosy Lee café. Was the proprietor, Henry Potter, laundering money for Birchill? Did my action bring this to a halt, resulting in murder?

  Ashley’s right. I know nothing about Birchill’s activities. Now she’s handed me a loaded gun and wants me to use it against him.

  If she’s wrong, the damage will be impossible to repair.

  If she’s right, I don’t want to consider the consequences.

  But I need to know the truth.

  After a mouthful of cold tea, I settle back and call Birchill. He picks up on the second ring, sounding more excited and enthusiastic than yesterday.

  “Do you mind if I bring someone?” I ask when the conversation moves onto lunch. “A woman.”

  He laughs. “I didn’t think you meant a tax inspector – unless you’d found a gorgeous one to raise your personal allowance.”

  I do my best to laugh.

  “Okay, not one of my best,” he says. “Of course you can bring a guest. Tell me about her.”

  “She works for PETA,” I reply, adopting Ashley’s suggestion. “They campaign against animal testing, real fur in fashion, that kind of thing.”

  “The People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals,” he says. “They contacted me at Tombstone, concerned about the way I’d be keeping and using animals. Someone claimed I was going to hold stampedes and have a circus.”

  I have a feeling I started the rumour. “Ashley campaigns against the use of fur in fashion. She used to be a model.”