She strokes Columbo, who’s sitting at her feet. “Dad went crazy when we got back. Though he had cash in his pocket, Jonathan wanted one of the units for free as he was family. Dad refused. Two days later, Jonathan went to the bookies after breakfast and never came back. A few weeks later, two goons in suits turned up, demanding I settle his debts.”
“Who did he owe money to?”
“The Ace of Hearts in Brighton. Have you heard of it?”
A man owes money to Miles Birchill. A body’s discovered on land he owns.
No wonder Ashley’s after my father.
“How much did he owe?” I ask.
“I sold my house – the one Dad bought and renovated for me. I didn’t tell him why because Mum was dying from cancer at the time.” She reaches into the back pocket of her jeans. A shimmy and a wriggle later, she produces a crumpled sheet of notepaper.
“Jonathan’s mother, Connie, lives in Herstmonceux. I’ll ask her if she’ll talk to you. I don’t know whether she’ll agree. She may not answer the door on the day.”
I nod, not recognising the address.
“Can you walk me back to my van?” Freya asks.
“I’d rather give you tiffin.”
“So would I, but I daren’t.”
She exits the kennels, Columbo at her heels. Neither of us speaks on the walk back to the main gate. A curtain twitches in the farmhouse when we pass, but it could be my imagination. It’s already overworked, wondering why Jonathan Wright still has a hold over Freya after all these years.
“I’ll text you when I’ve spoken to Connie,” Freya says, opening the driver’s door. She bends to hand Columbo one final treat. “I’ll miss you,” she says. “You and Molly would get on so well, but we don’t always get what we want.”
“Or deserve,” I say.
She climbs into the van. “You have this amazing sanctuary, an exciting life, people who care about you, this gorgeous little dog who loves you to bits. What else do you need?”
“Take me to Connie,” I call as she closes the door.
She lowers the window. “What about your police friend?”
“She’s got bigger fish to fry.”
“You’re not going to tell her, are you?”
“Did I glance to the left?” When she nods, I raise my hands in apology. “Okay, no more lies.”
“That’s the first one,” she says, starting the van.
Thirty-Two
A little over three months have passed since I left Downland Manor, but my old animal sanctuary looks overgrown and neglected. The hedges need trimming. Grass and weeds have overrun the verges and weaved through the fences and gate that lead to the yard. The old entrance sign has faded, squeaking on its hinges with a half-hearted sway. Only the heavy duty padlock and chain look untarnished.
For almost six years, this was my home, my escape, my dream. William Kenneth Fisher gave it to me when he sold Downland Manor. Only it wasn’t his land to give. He didn’t sell Downland Manor either, having used it as security against the gambling debts he’d accumulated. It seems crazy, risking the ancestral home on the turn of a card, but he didn’t care for the place. He was the last in a long line of Fishers and sterile. As he was unable to produce an heir, the house and its history simply crystallised his failures as a man and a Fisher.
I should feel sorry for him, but almost everything about him was false or a lie.
That pretty much sums up my childhood. I was stuck with a mother who told me my father was dead while pocketing the alimony he sent her each month. I’ve no idea what she did with the money, other than spend it on gin. She used poverty and alcoholism to bind me to her. Though I considered running away many times, I never mustered the courage.
“What was my mother like?” I ask, resting my elbows on the gate.
Birchill stares at the clutter of barns and outbuildings. “Demanding, frightened, selfish, vulnerable. She was lonely, an outsider overwhelmed by the manor and the heritage. She thought everyone was watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake. She said she couldn’t breathe in the house. That’s why she came out here to the stables.”
“I thought the stables were on the other side of the manor.”
“The hunt stables were. The stables here were for the family. William hated riding, but Ingrid wanted to learn. I found her a pony and we kept it here, out of sight of the main house and grounds.”
He smiles, a faraway look in his eyes. “Ingrid was beguiling, especially when she wanted something. If you denied her, she became ugly. I was seventeen, a groom at the stables, destined to muck out and wipe the boots of the rich. The moment she kissed me, I knew I would do anything she asked.”
He points to the old stable next to the barn. “We met in there. As the weeks went by, she became more demanding, wanting to meet me when I was working. When I couldn’t, she threatened to tell William I’d raped her. It was about the time the hunt leader and his cronies started to make my life a misery. When I was sacked, it was a relief,” he says, straightening. “I was free.”
“Did you ever suspect you were my father?”
“No. When I heard she’d left William, I knew she wanted to hurt him by taking his heir away. She never loved him. She wanted the status, the lifestyle, the attention, but he was obsessed with politics.”
“Is that why you wanted to meet here?” I ask. “To reminisce?”
“I’ve gone over the past many times, Kent, wondering what I could have done differently. Coming back here today, I don’t feel any loss or sadness for what might have been. We are who we are. We’re a product of our experiences and decisions. If we change the past, we become different people. You’re part of my life now. That’s all the matters.”
“And Georgina?”
He shakes the gate to test its strength. “She makes me feel reckless.”
I’m not sure his tight faded jeans will withstand the strain as he scrambles up and straddles the gate. He surveys the area before swinging his leg over and leaping to the concrete below. His Seychelles hoodie, like his multi-coloured trainers, looks comical. He must know he’s too old for the fashion. Maybe he wants to impress Georgina. Maybe she wants to see how much he’ll bend to her wishes. That’s the trouble with love – it makes you behave irrationally.
“Come on,” he says, hands on hips.
My father has neither the face nor demeanour for casual. He’s Mr Intense, full of restless energy. He’s worried he’ll lose or miss out if he stops or relaxes. He never puts down his mobile phone, tweeting and texting beneath the table in restaurants, using the gap between courses for emailing. He eats even faster than me, which takes some doing, always declining dessert.
I join him a few moments later and follow him into the main yard.
“The new owners have sold this place to the developers who want to build houses next door.” He stops outside the caravan Frances used to live in. “All the talk about a corporate outdoor activity centre was an attempt to devalue the land.”
“Why didn’t you sell it to the developers and make more money?”
“You’d never have forgiven me.”
“We could have put more money into Meadow Farm.”
“You have enough, Kent. Enjoy it, appreciate it. Make friends not enemies.”
“Are you referring to Ashley?”
“DI Goodman intends to hang a murder charge around my neck.” He wrenches the caravan door open, releasing a musty smell of decay. “She wants you to tighten the noose.”
The caravan creaks and sways as we climb the steps and go inside. Mould has taken root in the corners and ceiling junctions. The rubber seals around the windows and the roof vent are smeared green with algae. Frances squeezed her possessions into two large holdalls when she moved out, leaving a few mugs, plates, cutlery and her Green Day poster, now peeling away from the wall.
“You make it sound like Ashley already has a case against you.”
“I owned the land so I must have killed the guy. Has he b
een identified yet?”
“No, he’s still unidentified, as far as I know.”
I could mention Jonathan Wright, if only to see if the name means anything to him. While thousands of people have passed through his casino, not all of them would have racked up debts that needed a house sale to repay them. I want to know if he authorised the heavies who frightened Freya.
But I can wait.
“How much has DI Goodman told you?” he asks.
“Only the details released to the media.”
“Did she tell you she was a police officer when she approached you?”
“She said I was a lead that pointed to you. She read about your donation on Facebook and became curious because of our past animosities.”
“The woman’s less trusting than me.” He grins and places his phone on the table. “She thinks I killed the man, but does she have any evidence?”
I shrug, reminding myself he could be a cold-blooded killer, out to undermine the case against him. Not that I’m happy about the way Ashley’s misled me.
I won’t know who to trust until I’ve spoken to Connie Wright.
I pause to watch several pigs fly past the window.
“Do you think I killed this man?” he asks.
“If you did, why bury him on land you planned to develop?”
“William would have been proud of your diplomacy, Kent. Okay,” he says, checking his phone, “do you want to know about Sunshine View?”
I nod.
“Then take a seat because you’re making my neck ache.”
I do as he asks and wait for him to continue.
“I acquired Sunshine Farm from Geoff Rawlings about twelve years ago. His son, Pete, worked for me and was worried his father would go bankrupt and lose everything. I took a few soundings and realised the site had potential as a caravan park. Lots of farmers had diversified to bring in money. Geoff applied for planning permission and was turned down because of local objections, poor access and whatever else the council could think of. We appealed and won.”
“Thanks to William Fisher, no doubt.”
“Never judge a man till you’ve walked in his shoes, Kent. Whatever his faults, William was a loyal and trusted friend, no matter what Niamh thinks. He begged me to take Downland Manor off his hands. It was crushing him.”
“You didn’t have to get him fixing planning permission for you.”
“That was his idea, his middle digit to the system. He wanted to kick back, to do something positive with his life like you.”
“Me?”
“He admired your conviction, your energy. He loved the way you protested against hunting and developers, even if you cost me a fortune in the process. You inspired him to break free.”
I’m struggling to accommodate this alternative character of a man who lied and betrayed everything he believed in. He made Niamh homeless, gave up centuries of tradition and broke the precious laws he always banged on about in Parliament.
Maybe he revelled in the irony of it all.
My father glances at his watch and rises. “I’m moving in with Gina so I’d best get going.”
“It’s the real thing then,” I remark as we head outside.
“She’s broke, Kent. She’s not madly in love with me, though there’s no lack of passion. She’s exciting, pleasing on the eye and well-connected. It’s a fair trade.”
“Sounds like another of your business deals.”
“She was married to a High Court judge. She knows the Chief Constable, the Crime Commissioner.”
“Is that how you know about Ashley?”
“Gina has influence, not a pipeline to the incident room. DI Goodman wants me to know she’s on my case. She wants to intimidate and frighten me, thinking I’ll make mistakes. That only works when you have the right person in your sights.”
I scan the horizon, not sure I like the idea of being in the crosshair.
He explains how he used one of his many companies to buy and develop Sunshine Farm. He put in Daniel and Jacqui Harper and their son, Elvis, to run the place. It was so successful, my father submitted plans to expand the site into neighbouring fields and improve the facilities.
“Tombstone Adventure Park and Downland Manor devoured so much money I couldn’t go ahead with Sunshine View. I leased it to Daniel and gave him a low interest loan to develop the second phase. Being a builder, he did the work himself to save money. That’s how he discovered the body.”
I follow him over the gate. “How come the police didn’t work out you owned the site?”
“Is that what DI Goodman told you?”
“She said she only found out when she reviewed the case.”
“Then either she mislaid my interview with DI Briggs or she lied to you.”
I don’t know what to say.
“William Rodgers has a transcript. Why would DI Goodman pretend it never happened?”
I consider the possibilities as we walk over to his Mercedes. If I confront Ashley, she’ll know I’ve spoken to Birchill. She might draw the wrong conclusion, especially if she finds out he’s my father.
Maybe she withheld the information to test me out, to make sure she could trust me. If I don’t tell her what I’ve discovered, she’ll think I’m withholding information.
What if she already knows he’s my father?
He and I were enemies for years. The restraining order he took out against me is a public record. Police files will show I emptied the contents of a slurry tanker into his Mercedes Convertible, along with numerous misdemeanours to stop him building Tombstone Adventure Park.
Now we’re having lunch together like old friends.
“Do you think she knows you’re my father?” I ask. “She’s curious about the sale of this place, your donation to Meadow Farm.”
“She’s fishing,” he replies, as if it’s no big deal. “Tommy Logan’s the same, desperate to print a speculative piece about us in that rag of his.”
“Your posts on Facebook don’t help. All this speculation about a celebrity opening only fans the flames.”
He leans against the car, folding his arms as he thinks. “Okay, I’ll stop posting.”
“You can’t suddenly stop. If you say Georgina’s doing the official opening then there’s no need to post as much.”
“Why do you call her Georgina? She prefers Gina?”
She insisted on Lady Georgina. “Ashley prefers Ash, but I prefer her full name.”
“Can you refer to her as DI Goodman? Ashley makes it sound like you’re friends when in reality she’s using you.” He shakes his head and kicks at a tuft of grass. “Cynics would say I made a donation to Meadow Farm to boost my public image.”
I can’t help a sly smile, certain that contributed to his actions.
“Am I missing something?” he asks.
Should I tell him about the Rosy Lee Café? My actions and the recent fire are hardly confidential – unlike the menu found on the victim.
“Your donation isn’t the only reason Ash ... DI Goodman approached me. I closed down the Rosy Lee Café, which is now Station Diner in Tollingdon.”
“The one that had the fire? How’s it connected to the murder?”
“DI Goodman doesn’t go into details.”
“Police officers never do. What do you suspect?”
I shrug, not sure I should reveal any more. “She thinks someone connects the two cafés.”
“The guy who was murdered,” he says, fishing the keys from his pocket. “You could have met him, Kent. Has she shown you a photo?”
I shake my head, wondering why she hasn’t.
“I have no connection to either café,” he says, climbing into his car, “but you do. You connect to me, which makes you a legitimate target.”
I can’t helping feeling he’s right.
Then again, if he’s involved in the killing he’d want to deflect attention away from himself.
Who do I believe?
Who do I trust?
As I reach my car, a text from Ashley arrives.
Who’s a silly boy?
I turn full circle, scanning the fields and hills, wondering where she’s hiding.
Thirty-Three
At seven that evening, clutching pizza, wedges and garlic bread, I wait outside the front door of Ashley’s cottage. Bees scramble over the purple lavender heads, eager to drain the last drops of nectar before dusk. More bees explore the long arms of flowers on a giant fuchsia that reaches out from its sheltered spot beside the flint wall of the house. Another fuchsia sprays out from the picket fence along the boundary. A few swallows, maybe swifts, dart between roofs, cheered on by a chorus of cooing wood pigeons. Soon, everything will settle down, allowing the night shift to take over.
I wish I could settle.
The door opens to reveal Ashley, looking sexy in a grey blouse, unbuttoned to reveal a hint of cleavage. Black leggings and heels complete the effect. She’s swept her thick hair to one side, holding it in place with a large silver clasp. She’s even painted her nails and wrapped a chunky silver bracelet around her wrist.
“Divine aroma,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “Pizza smells good too.”
She brushes her lips against my cheek, treating me to a subtle perfume that smells expensive. Unfortunately, it can’t mask the musty odour of a house left empty for too long. She leads me past the stairs, along a narrow hall with faded magnolia walls and a flat brown carpet which was probably cream-coloured twenty years ago. She’s hung framed prints of the Terminator and Back to the Future films to break up the monotony of the bare walls.
Maybe she’s hiding the cracks.
Inside the compact, well-organised kitchen, she removes the pizza from its box. Once on the baking tray, she slides the pizza into the oven of an electric cooker, yellowing with age. Determined not to slip into food hygiene mode, I ignore the greasy smears that run down the sides of the cooker and the stained grouting between the wall tiles.
“Why didn’t you get the pizza delivered?” she asks, opening a small fridge. “Cranberry’s the only non-alcoholic drink I have, apart from milk, of course. You’ll prefer coloured water to full fat, won’t you?”
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