“You can’t expect us to deal with hordes of reporters, baying for blood.”
“You and Alice won’t be here,” I repeat, wishing she would listen. “We put the phones on voicemail.”
“How’s that going to help if there’s an emergency call?”
“It’ll last for a couple of days. Someone in the royal family will catch a cold or stub a toe and we’ll be history.”
“That eejit, Logan, won’t let it go.”
“Tell him I’ve gone to a wedding.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” she says, going pale.
“Gemma’s history.”
“Until she reads the papers and rings you.”
I haven’t considered Gemma. “She’s too busy with the wedding. Now, go and feed the masses.”
Frances has dismissed the headline with her usual indifference. When I explain that reporters may turn up at the gates, she suggests I spend some time with Freya.
“I run the place while you’re at work,” Frances says. “I’ll tell them you’ve gone away. Might even polish my DMs,” she says, looking down at her boots. “In case they want a photo or two.”
I kiss her on the cheek, enjoying her customary blush, and go to my room to pack a few necessities. While I’m packing, the scurry of paws tells me Columbo’s back.
“I’d love to take you with me,” I say as he smothers my face with kisses, “but I don’t want to leave you alone in a strange flat.”
He sits on the bed, tail wagging as I shove my extensive wardrobe of one pair of chinos and two polo shirts into the holdall. Once my toiletries and underwear are packed, I turn to the PC and retrieve the memory stick with my investigation notes and files. While the PC shuts down, I slip Columbo a couple of treats.
He follows me down the hall, bounding around in excitement, certain he’s going too. When Frances scoops him up, he wriggles to escape.
“I never thought you’d move in with a woman,” she says as I descend the steps.
Me neither.
“Make sure you don’t drive her away,” she calls. “I like Freya.”
“Don’t tell Niamh where I am.” I reach up and ruffle Columbo’s fur. “I’m going to miss you, little mate. Look after Frances and no biting reporters this time.”
He barks a couple of times and then whines when I walk away. As I head down the path, my gut tightens as I wonder what the next few days will bring.
Freya’s delighted with my plans. “Come over to the salon for the key,” she says. “I won’t be finished until three.”
Moments later she texts me.
Can’t wait to have you to myself. Freya xxx
I’m not sure what scares me the most – failing to solve the murder or moving in with her.
As I pull up outside Pristine Pooches, a phone call from William Rodgers puts everything into perspective.
“The police have found a second body, Kent, buried in the grounds of Downland Manor Hotel.”
Fifty-Six
“DI Goodman cancelled this morning’s interview,” William tells me. “She’s on site with the usual crowd.”
“How’s my father?”
“Miles took it badly. He knows someone’s set him up, but he’s helpless to do anything about it. Have you made any progress?”
“Nothing significant,” I reply, not wanting to raise my father’s hopes in case I’m wrong. “What time did the call about the body come in?”
“The interview was scheduled for ten o’clock. We were notified eight minutes before. Is it important?”
“Everything’s important,” I say and end the call.
I check my phone log. Charlie rang me at 9.18, about thirty minutes before the interview was cancelled.
“Charlie, can you do me a favour?” I ask when she picks up. “Can you ask your colleague if my name was mentioned when he spoke to Bob Glover?”
“I’m on it,” she says. “Danni told us about your father and what’s happening. It sounds like the local newspaper’s making a fuss about nothing. I’m sure you’ll work it out.”
“Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate that.”
“Enough to get us free tickets for Tombstone Adventure Park?”
I shove the phone in my jacket pocket and head into Pristine Pooches. Freya’s got her hands full with a Miniature Schnauzer called Maximillian. Pleased to see me, she puts down her scissors and hurries over.
“I’ve missed you,” she says.
“I’ve missed you,” I say, enjoying the excitement in her eyes. “But I can’t stop. Remember what you said about the fire officer who did the inspections.”
“You’ve found him? Who is it?”
“Bob Glover,” I say, finding her excitement infectious. “He’s the guy who investigated the fire at Station Diner. He also inspected Sunshine View Caravan Park on three occasions. The first visit was before the site officially opened. That was a couple of weeks before Jonathan went missing. Scroll forward five years and he called again a couple of weeks before the body was discovered. It could be coincidence, of course. I mean, refuse collectors visit every week.”
“Have you told the police?”
“I need to link Glover to Jonathan. Why would he kill Jonathan? Why would he try to pin the murders on my father?”
Maximillian barks to attract her attention, straining on the leash that keeps him on the grooming table.
“You’ll work it out,” she says, fishing her keys out of her pocket. She hands them to me. “It’s the gold coloured one.”
“Can you ring Connie?” I ask, separating the key. “See if Bob Glover’s name rings any bells. If not, I’ll try to get a photograph.”
“I’ll ring when I’ve finished Max. I’ve got another two appointments this afternoon, but I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Shall we eat out or order a takeaway?”
“I’m going to cook,” she says, a touch of defiance in her voice. “If I don’t poison you or frighten you off then I’ll know you’re crazy about me. Actually, you’d better allow me half an hour to nip to Sainsbury’s.”
After a lingering kiss, she wriggles free. “Don’t go solving the murder without me. Hang on,” she says, pulling me back. “Did you say murders earlier?”
“The police have discovered a second body at Downland Manor Hotel.”
“Your father owned the hotel, didn’t he?” Her hand goes to her mouth. “Do they know who it is?”
“Not yet.”
“How’s he taking the news?”
“Badly, I imagine. Stay positive and don’t forget Connie.”
“Don’t take up too much space in the wardrobe.”
“I’d rather sleep in the bed, if that’s all right with you.”
She pushes me away and points to the door. “Out!” she cries, making Maximillian cower.
***
Charlie rings back as I’m driving into Tollingdon. I pull over to take the call.
“My friend at Brighton told Bob Glover that Environmental Health from Downland wanted the information. Bob Glover asked if it was you, Kent.”
“And your friend confirmed it.”
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
“I’m fine, Charlie. And I appreciate your support and help. Maybe you could do me one last favour.”
“I’ll try,” she says, a little hesitantly.
“I don’t know what to buy someone as a sort of housewarming gift.”
“Is it for a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Would this be for your dog groomer?”
“Please don’t suggest clippers or chews.”
“I was about to suggest flowers. Nothing flash or showy though.”
I sit back and do the maths. Within fifteen minutes of Brighton Environmental Health phoning Bob Glover, the police receive a call about a body at Downland Manor Hotel.
Coincidence or is the killer raising the stakes?
The killer’s meticulous in his planning and execution. Not only has he c
overed his tracks for ten years, he’s given the police a plausible suspect. He buried a body on my father’s land to incriminate him. Now the killer’s produced a second victim, tucked away on more of my father’s land as a sort of insurance policy.
So what’s the killer’s connection to Jonathan Wright?
Will there be a connection with the second victim?
If not, everything points to my father.
Fifty-Seven
I need to make sure Glover’s not sitting in his office, nothing more than a weary, frustrated fire officer approaching the end of his career and a lonely retirement with no one to share it with.
A woman answers the phone, asking if she can help.
“Can I speak to Bob Glover?”
“He’s not in the office at the moment. Can I take a message?”
“That’s strange,” I say, thinking fast. “He asked me to ring him in the office.”
“He had to go out unexpectedly,” she says. “I’m not sure when he’s due back, but if you give me your details, I’ll make sure he rings you.”
“I’ll call later.”
I start the car and drive straight to Downland Manor Hotel to see if Bob Glover’s there. Mike once told me that killers often return to the scene of the crime to observe the police investigation. They must get a kick out of watching, I guess.
A large white sign partially obscures one of the grand brick pillars that flank each side of the road that leads to the hotel. Prestige Premier Hotels, in larger letters than the name of the hotel, welcome me to a new kind of luxury experience.
There’s nothing luxurious about the symbols that flag up the facilities at the hotel. Golf, restaurant, swimming pool and Wi-Fi, I can understand, but the remaining symbols mean little to me. One could be a hot tub or a cake tin, it’s hard to tell. Another suggests weddings. At least the bottom line makes the place irresistible.
Luxury guaranteed.
The road winds through the trees, eventually opening out into ornamental gardens with clipped hedges, fountains and borders filled with gaudy annuals and more signs, pointing people in various directions. I take a left and head for the back of the hotel and the car park that serves the gym and swimming pool.
There’s less chance of Glover spotting me here.
And little chance of a parking space as the police have cordoned off most of the car park. A small crowd has gathered at the side of the pool building, suggesting the body’s buried beyond in the woodland. A uniformed officer flags me down.
“Can I ask you to use the customer car park?” He points to the main car park.
I pull out my ID card. “Can you inform DI Goodman I may have information that could help her? This used to be my home.”
“Did it, sir? And I thought it was a hotel.” He studies my card and passes it back. “As you used to live here, sir, you should be familiar with the car parks. When you return, one of my colleagues will take your details.”
“You could always radio her – see if she wants to talk to me.”
“I could, sir, but she’s delegated the talking to people like me. I’ll have my notebook ready when you return.”
I park in the corner of the main car park, taking advantage of the cover provided by the hedges and shrubs that subdivide the area. I can’t see an East Sussex Fire and Rescue car, but I take no chances and cross the grass verge into the woodland. Hidden from view, I weave through the trees where I played as a child, pretending to be Robin Hood or Dick Turpin. It only takes a couple of minutes to draw level with the gym.
I stop and shelter behind an ash tree. Crime scene tape blocks my progress, running through the trees before emerging to surround a grassy area at the back of the hotel. A couple of white vans occupy the small road that runs alongside the hotel towards the front. The large white tent in the far corner identifies the location of the body. Several officers in coveralls are searching the ground around the tent. Uniformed colleagues and the local Police Community Support Officer stand guard along the perimeter to protect the integrity of the scene.
Unable to get a good view of the people who’ve gathered to watch, I retrace my steps and emerge at the back of the gym. I follow the perimeter, wondering how I can get a closer look at the people without being spotted. As I turn the corner, I spot a familiar figure striding towards the car park. I duck back around the corner and out of sight. After a few seconds, I peer around the building and spot him in the distance.
When I reach the car park, he’s nowhere to be seen.
A few seconds later, a silver Lexus SUV emerges from one the hedged bays and accelerates to the exit. I’m already running to my car. While he has half a minute start, I’m close enough to see him turn right towards Tollingdon at the junction with the A27. When I reach the junction, the relentless traffic speeds past in both directions. By the time I emerge onto the main road, he’s long gone.
***
Once unpacked and settled in Freya’s flat, I make a cup of tea and sit at the table with my laptop. She hasn’t rung with any news from Connie, but I resist calling. Freya will ring when she has something to tell me. I text Frances to make sure she’s okay. She texts back to say everything’s peaceful, no sign of any reporters.
They’re probably on their way to Downland Manor Hotel.
Once settled, I consider the information I have to link Glover to the murders. He’s inspected the caravan site, looking for a suitable place where he could bury Jonathan Wright after killing him. Presumably, he made a similar trip to Downland Manor Hotel, disguising it as a fire safety inspection.
I ring William Rodgers to find out.
“I’ll ask Miles,” he says. “He’s with me at the moment.”
A few seconds later, my father’s on the phone. He sounds different, anxious, and short tempered. “Someone’s framing me and you’re checking fire inspections? What’s wrong with you?”
William’s back on the phone a moment later. “I know Miles keeps records of everything on backup discs and memory sticks.”
“Would they be at Georgina’s?”
I hear William asking. “Yes, he took a box filled with backup drives. They’re with the rest of his belongings in a room at the back of the house.”
“I’m on my way,” I say.
“Hang on. Gina’s in London today. She won’t be back until late. Can it wait till the morning? I’ll let her know you’re coming over.”
“No problem,” I say, pushing aside my frustration. “Tell my father I’m doing everything I can.”
But I’m going nowhere fast. Even if Glover carried out a fire safety inspection at Downland Manor Hotel, it proves nothing.
An hour passes as I plumb the depths of Google for an image of Bob Glover. Finally, I find one on a pdf newsletter from twelve years ago, identifying him as the new inspector for the Eastbourne and Downland areas. While he has more hair and fewer lines on his face, he’s changed little. I email a copy of the image to Freya.
I find enough in the fridge and breadbin to make a cheese sandwich and sit down to catch the local news on the TV. It picks up the Dallas DVD, which I eject. As I return the box set to the cabinet below the TV, I remember something Glover said about his wife liking American soaps and wanting to go to the USA.
Now what was her name? Monica?
What else did he say?
You’ll need to do better than a barmaid if you want to go to Las Vegas.
Was his wife the barmaid at the Ace of Hearts, the one Terry caught having sex with Jonathan?
Did that explain Glover’s visit to Wright Choice Foods, where he and Jonathan took an instant dislike to each other?
Terry said the barmaid was afraid of losing her job, her chance to escape from her husband for a few hours.
I ring Terry. “How’s it going?” I ask.
“I’m trying another recovery programme,” he replies. “You want an image of Gill Kaine, don’t you?”
“And another woman, if you can find her.”
“C
herchez la femme,” he says, with a passable accent. “You got a name?”
“Monica, I think, but I’m not sure. She could be the barmaid you caught with Jonathan Wright. The one who said she was scared of losing her job.”
“She was scared of her husband, if you ask me. Said he had a temper. I wanted to tell her to dump him because she was an attractive woman, but being Muslim, I don’t suppose she would have listened.”
“Muslim? Working behind a bar?”
“Well, Middle Eastern, you know. Mixed race, I’d say. I’ll recognise her if her photo comes up. Monica, you say?”
“Monica Glover. It might be easier to search under Glover. Can you email me a photo if you find her?”
“I’ll do my best, but the quality’s not always good when you recover files.”
I settle back and smile, enjoying the familiar tingle of optimism when I’m on the right track. If Glover found out his wife was having an affair with Jonathan Wright, I have motive.
Now all I have to do is prove it.
Fifty-Eight
Freya arrives home around four, looking beat. She falls into my arms and tells me only some serious sex will revive her. It seems a shame to spoil it by asking if Connie recognised Bob Glover.
She saves me the trouble an hour or so later. We’re lying in bed, enjoying the silence of each other’s company. My fingers trace patterns along her warm skin. I push my face into her hair.
She sighs. “I could get used to this, but you’re dying to know about Connie.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You were excited when I came through the door.”
“Can I help it if you excite me, Freya?”
“Not that kind of excitement, silly, though it’s good to see.” She sits up to evade my lips. “Connie recognised Bob Glover. She said she’d know his piggy eyes anywhere. Does that mean Glover’s our killer?”
No More Lies Page 24