The remaining bullet points relate to the investigation carried out by DI Briggs. He visited the café, which had long since changed hands. He learned little about the Rosy Lee Café or the previous owners, despite door to door enquiries and searches through old telephone directories.
No mention of an interview with Miles Birchill.
No reference to his ownership of Sunshine View Caravan Park.
No mention of the Ace of Hearts.
No reference to Peter Stone working for the Ace of Hearts.
Maybe they came later – months or years later.
I stretch my arms and turn to Columbo, who’s resting but keeping a watchful eye on me. I ruffle his fur and slip him another treat, wondering what Gemma would make of it all.
She’d ask about the suspects and their motives.
On a piece of scrap paper I write down a list of names – Jonathan Wright, Freya Wright, Peter Stone, Syd Collins and Miles Birchill. Then I remember Gill Kaine, who worked in accounts and left without warning.
Hopefully, I’ll learn more about her over the next couple of days.
That leaves the fire at Station Diner, which looks like an insurance fraud, perpetrated by Leila King in several different businesses over the years. Ashley connected it on the basis the Rosy Lee Café once occupied the same building.
Talk about tenuous.
Then I see the connection.
I write Leila King next to Gill Kaine.
One is an anagram of the other.
Forty-Two
When I stroll into the office on Tuesday morning, I’m determined to track down Leila King. It’s not that I believe she’s Gill Kaine, but regardless of how tenuous and laughable my anagram connection sounds, I need to check it out. If Leila’s defrauding insurance companies, she needs to be stopped.
If Gill Kaine hacked into my father’s computer to make it look like he’s involved in murder, I need to find out.
If they turn out to be the same woman, I’ll offer thanks to Inspector Morse and his cryptic crosswords for the anagram connection.
I may even solve the murder, which felt about as likely as Ashley giving me information after our last encounter. Or telling the truth, whatever it is. She’s not only made me doubt my father, but driven a wedge between Freya and me.
“Easy, lover,” Kelly says, as the pencil snaps in my fingers. “I’ve got a stress doll you can rip apart. Or you could buy me a Macchiato and tell me all about it. But you’ll have to be quick. Tomorrow’s my last day before I go to Chipping ... oh, FIG!”
“What?”
“FIG. Foot in gob. I was trying not to mention the wedding.”
“No worries. I emailed Gemma, wishing her and Richard all the best.”
I wrote the email, but I won’t send it.
“How’s Freya?” Kelly asks, showing no sign of moving on.
Charlie pretends not to notice. Nigel appears to be interested too.
“Kelly, what have you been telling everyone?”
“I said she groomed dogs. I said you were looking at her Facebook profile.”
“And?”
“I showed them her Facebook page.”
“She’s pretty,” Charlie says.
“Very pretty,” Nigel says.
“Naturally pretty,” Kelly says. “I hope you’re going to introduce us to her.”
“Why, are you after a discount for your Afghan?”
“Wouldn’t say no,” she says, heading back to her desk.
“Me neither,” Nigel says, louder than intended. A sharp look from Charlie makes him blush. “I meant she looks lovely.”
I push Freya from my thoughts and deal with the mundane and the unnecessary. The first are mainly reports, the latter mainly meetings. If I could eliminate both, I’d have time to manage my team, do some inspections on the district, and meet all my targets.
Instead, I have to rely on contractors like Charlie to plug the gaps and fight fires.
That reminds me to contact Lizzy Wong. I ring once officers have gone out on district. She picks up on the first ring. Her clipped greeting suggests she’s busy. She hasn’t spoken to Leila King and would like contact details when I have them.
Bob Glover, who’s still not produced the fire investigation report for Station Diner, tells me how the public sector cuts are destroying the service. He lists the people who are on sick leave, suffering from stress. It’s caused by unreasonable demands and staff shortages caused by officers taking early retirement.
“Why don’t you go early?” I ask when he finally pauses.
“Can’t afford to,” he replies, as if it’s an incurable disease. “I’ll still be here when I’m 70, holding the fort while these young managers destroy everything. They want to put risk inspections on tablets now. Moses had tablets, I said, and look what happened to them.”
“About Mr Hossain’s Brighton fire,” I say. “Have you tracked down the report?”
“I’ve been busy fire-fighting.” He laughs, enjoying a joke he must have used many times. “The thin red line’s stretched to breaking at the moment, but I’ll do my best. Want to remind me why you’re interested?”
“I want to talk to Leila King.”
“Of course. She works for Hossain, doesn’t she? Do you really think they’re up to no good? Hossain’s not the sharpest pencil in the box, if you ask me.”
“What about Leila King?”
“She can’t be that bright if she’s working for Hossain. Maybe we could ask her when we find her. Any joy there?”
“No. I’m thinking of visiting Hossain again. He must be in contact with her.”
“Keep me in the loop, as my manager likes to say. You’ve got a female boss, haven’t you? Does yours tell you how to do the job? Mine’s got a degree and thinks she knows it all. Don’t get me wrong, she’s pleasant enough, but you have to live and breathe the job to understand how it works. You can’t simply push out reports to make the statistics look better, can you? I wouldn’t tell her how to have a baby.”
“Let me know if Leila contacts you,” I say.
I put down the phone, reminding myself he’s a good investigator, struggling to move with the times.
I grab my annual leave form and join Danni for my monthly one to one meeting, which we have every six weeks or so. She’s delighted with the team’s performance, singling out Charlie for special praise as a shining example of how public bodies can work with private contractors to save money and improve performance.
“Anything else?” she asks, leaning back in her chair.
I hand her my request for leave tomorrow afternoon. “It’s short notice, I know, but I need to go to Brighton.”
She signs my form with a flourish. “I’m taking Friday. The Chief Executive persuaded me to attend Gemma’s wedding. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Why ask me after you’ve decided to go?”
“I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. I meant to talk to you, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react. I saw how hurt you were when Gemma left, but ...” She stops. “I’m not going. It’s not like I’m family.”
“What were you going to say, Danni?”
She shifts, curling and uncurling her fingers. “Gemma told me why she couldn’t stay.”
“Did she tell you in confidence?”
Danni shakes her head. “You had a woman who loved you more than you’ll ever know, Kent. All you had to do was find somewhere to live away from your mother-in-law and your animal sanctuary.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“Gemma never said a bad word about you. She never complained, though it was breaking her heart. She kept hoping you’d ... No,” she says, grabbing my hand, “don’t you dare mess it up for her!”
“If I meant so much to her, why did she go back to Richard?”
Danni shrugs. “Kids? Someone who’s got time to spend with her? I don’t know. You never stop, Kent. You can’t work, run your animal sanctuary, investigate crimes and expect your wife to
wait for five minutes of your time at the end of your day.”
“I guess not,” I say, getting to my feet. “Look, you and Bernard enjoy the wedding. I really don’t mind.”
“I’m the Chief Executive’s plus one.” She looks awkward for a moment and then shrugs. “Bernard’s a lovely man, but he’s obsessed with opera. He likens me to characters I’ve never heard of. When I told him I preferred Take That, he whisked me off to Glyndebourne, telling me to absorb the atmosphere and drama, to let it flow through my arteries like oxygen, enriching my mind.” She sighs as if she had no choice. “I had to tell him the fat lady was singing.”
I try hard not to chuckle, but I can’t stop myself.
Danni giggles. I’ve only heard her false laughs before. I’ve only seen her in manager mode. Now, looking across the desk, I see a smart, intelligent, self-conscious woman, desperate to do a good job. Maybe she’s become a management robot, holding meetings, drawing up strategies and procedures that achieve little, if anything. It’s what managers do. And as for the textbooks and mantras she quotes, maybe they’re a crutch, propping up her lack of experience.
“Can I make a suggestion?” I ask.
She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a copy of Opera for Dummies. “I tried, Kent, but I’d rather bop to Abba any day.”
I walk over to her Motivational Pinboard, which looks neglected and untidy. “You don’t need this, Danni. Listen to your heart not a management CD. Be you.”
“Is that what you do – listen to your heart?”
“Of course not or this would be my office.”
“It should be,” she says, joining me. She removes the post about one door closing and another one opening. “Your team respects you. I know they moan and complain, but they follow you. They won’t follow me.”
“Good job I’m following you then.” I kiss her on the cheek and make a speedy exit, almost colliding with Kelly.
“What’s your hurry?” she asks, blocking my escape.
“I kissed Danni.”
“You kissed Danni,” she mouths. “OMG.”
“It’s over with Bernard,” I say, pleased to know the latest gossip before her.
Ten minutes later, Kelly strides up to my desk. “Danni’s asked Brian to remove her pinboard. What did you say to her? She’s done with aspirational goals like the ones in our service plans. She said they were drier than stale crackers. She wants something that connects with people on an emotional level.”
“Which didn’t happen with Bernard Doolittle,” I say. “Danni’s in a better place now.”
“Shit, you need to be somewhere too.” Kelly looks horrified as she glances at the clock. “While you were with Danni, Leila King rang. She apologised for not contacting you sooner. She wants to meet you at Station Diner in ...” Kelly winces. “Ten minutes ago.”
Forty-Three
I grab my notebook and phone and head for the stairs. Outside, the clouds smother the sky with a monotonous grey veneer. With no wind to hurry them along, it looks like another drab day in Tollingdon. At least it’s warmer than yesterday. Maybe it’s my brisk pace that’s making me feel hot. Or maybe my brain’s overheating with all the questions I want to ask.
At the junction with Station Road, I spot Hossain’s silver Mercedes in front of Station Diner. Maybe I should stop at a bench, jot down my questions. Then again, as Leila King asked to meet me, she can talk.
As I approach, he exits the car, exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke. “I’m so pleased you could make it, Mr Fisher. My apologies for the short notice, but we are busy, looking for new premises.”
“You’ve resolved your insurance claim.”
“I’m losing customers while these people push paper around. I’m selling this place. When I find somewhere new, perhaps you will come and give me your expert advice.”
I nod. “Has Leila’s mother recovered?”
“Leila’s mother?”
“When I spoke to her recently she said her daughter was dead.”
“Leila’s alive and well as you will see,” he says, gesturing to the car. “I persuaded her to speak with you, Mr Fisher, if only to put your mind at rest. She’s nervous. She remembers you from the Rosy Lee Café, when you closed it down.”
I only remember Henry Potter and his wife.
“Shall we talk in the car?” he asks, gesturing.
“No offence, Mr Hossain, but I’d prefer not to breathe in your cigarette smoke.”
He raises his hands in apology and flicks the cigarette into the gutter. “We could go inside my diner.”
I point to the junction. “There are some benches.”
While he opens the door for Leila, I open the camera on my phone.
Leila tosses the remains of her cigarette to the ground. A scarlet headscarf appears first. It wraps around her head and drapes down over a white sweater, enclosed by a stylish denim jacket with embroidered cuffs. Black leggings emphasise her slim build as she stands and looks about her. With a rhythmic twist of her foot, she extinguishes the cigarette with her flat black shoe.
She looks younger than I expected, sporting the lazy, insolent sneer of a teenager. The headscarf frames a smooth, pleasant face with a complexion so pale it almost washes out her Middle Eastern origins. Her pouting, aggressive lips, also tinted scarlet, seem determined to distract me from her prominent, but sleek nose. Her eyes, as black as anthracite, are shaded by the bristles of false lashes.
As Mike often remarks, ‘You could shelter from the rain under those.’
She thrusts her hands into her jacket pockets. Her self-satisfied sneer betrays an arrogance that comes from being the centre of attention – though what she sees in a married man like Hossain escapes me.
I pretend to check my phone, managing three photos before she gets too close.
“Why do you disapprove?” she asks, stepping into my personal space.
It’s a tactic I sometimes use to intimidate people.
“Why do you make snap judgements?” I reply, admiring the delicate diamond stud in the side of her nose. She might be full of herself, but she has taste.
“For a man who rescues animals I expected more compassion.”
I hold her steady gaze. “You’re not a helpless animal.”
“You think I’m a predator?” Her smile, followed by soft laughter, seems more natural. “Maybe you should treat me with more respect, Mr Fisher.”
“I will when you earn it.”
She strolls beside me on the pavement, forcing Hossain to follow. She reminds me of Ashley, when she first sauntered up to Meadow Farm. Only this one has no inclination to talk.
When we reach the benches Hossain breaks the silence. “We cannot stay long,” he says, sitting next to Leila. “Please, tell us what you want.”
“You asked to meet me.”
“You wanted to speak to me,” she says, treating me to her unblinking gaze.
As the benches are in a line, I settle on the railway sleeper wall of a raised flower bed opposite. I pull out my notebook, taking my time to write the date, time and location of the meeting and those present.
“Mr Hossain told me you worked at the Rosy Lee Café.”
She folds her arms. “Work experience. Mr and Mrs Potter offered me a Saturday job. I had to give it up to go to Brighton University. I have a degree in hospitality management. I travelled around the world, worked in London for a year and came back here. I rang Mr Potter and he welcomed me back. Then you came along and closed the place.”
She talks like most young people – her voice rising at the end of every phrase and sentence. It’s staccato and rhythmic, devoid of emotion. No wonder young people use acronyms like LOL and OMG.
“You remember me?” I ask.
“Had she known about the rats, Mr Fisher, she would never have taken the job,” Hossain says, looking at her for confirmation.
“It was mice,” I say. “I don’t remember seeing you, Leila. I’m sure I would have noticed.”
“When
you arrived, Mrs Potter ushered me out of the building. I don’t think she wanted me to know how bad it was. Like I couldn’t see mice poo everywhere? She said Henry spilt chocolate drops and hadn’t found time to clean them up.”
“What did you do after the place closed?” I ask.
“Henry and his wife went to Spain, where his brother runs a bar. He sold the café and it opened as an Easy Burger the following summer.”
“Did you work there?”
“I needed a change from bar work and waitressing in hotels. No prospects.”
“What were the prospects at Easy Burger?”
Hossain glances at his watch. “I thought you wanted to know about the fire.”
“I think Mr Fisher would like to know more about me.” She gives him a killer smile before turning it on me. “To answer your question, Mr Fisher, I was cheap, the right colour, and a hard worker. I wanted the flat above the shop. Tariq was happy to continue the arrangement.”
“Did you work for him at his Brighton restaurant?”
She casts him a worried glance.
“I only owned the restaurant for a short time,” he says.
“Was that because of the fire?”
“Old buildings,” he replies, not looking at me.
“Once, I can understand. Twice seems a little careless, wouldn’t you say?”
He looks at Leila. “It was a difficult time for all of us.”
“I wasn’t there,” she tells him in a cold voice.
“Of course,” he says, sweat glistening on his forehead. “The thought of the fire still makes me nervous. I have no wish to relive the experience. I don’t understand why you ask me questions about Brighton. It is not your area.”
“I was asking Leila.”
She rises and looks down at me. “I had nothing to do with a restaurant in Brighton. I had nothing to do with the fire here because I was in Crawley with my sick mother. I am so lucky,” she says, her voice wavering. “I’m a heavy sleeper, you see, especially after a few glasses of wine.”
He stands. “Sometimes when I arrive in the morning, she still sleeps. Sometimes the delivery drivers ring me to tell me no one’s opening the doors.”
No More Lies Page 18