No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

I should feel bad, forcing Tom to do my bidding, but his compound's big enough for five or six tractors. His company grew thanks to my father. "You can't afford to lose the Council contract," I say.

  "I can't afford to lose the Tombstone contract either. Miles Birchill won't be pleased when he finds out."

  "Then don't tell him."

  "Sorry, I had to duck to avoid the pigs that flew past. Someone will be with you inside the hour."

  I lean back against the wall, relieved Tom gave way. Had he held his ground I wouldn't have a refuge for the tractor. Now all I have to do is convince Danni. She picks up on the third ring. "How's it going, Kent?"

  My brief overview omits Birchill's visit. "I'll be happier when the tractor and bench saw are impounded," I say.

  "Aren't our partners in the police letting us use their compound?"

  "Only if we pay," I reply, sounding suitably unenthusiastic. "As custodians of the public purse, we must use our money wisely, you said. So, I engaged a local company at a fraction of the cost."

  "You obtained three quotes, did you?"

  Three quotes? Is she on another planet? "We need to impound the tractor now, not in three days, Danni. I don't want anyone tampering with it."

  "Read the expedited procedure in the Grab Bag," she says, as if we're conducting different conversations. "Three verbal estimates, confirmed in writing within 48 hours will do."

  I push a hand through my hair, trying to remain calm. "When did this come in?"

  "I brought the procedure from Surrey."

  Obviously she hasn't had time in the four months since she took over to update us. "Someone's already on their way," I say.

  "Then stop them until Gemma can ring round and get more quotes. You may even knock their price down if they know there's competition. That's value for money." I can almost hear her ticking another box on her procedure. "While she takes care of that, you're free to concentrate on the investigation."

  I'm pacing now, wondering how I can prevent my boss from turning the investigation into a paper trail. My response is so feeble, I'm almost embarrassed. "How can I do that when I have to check quotes?"

  "I think Gemma can work out which is the most competitive quote, don't you? And she's so enthusiastic and willing. Does that sound like Lucy? Can you imagine her striking a deal?"

  Striking a deal? Who the hell does she think we are-double glazing sales people?

  "Tollingdon Agricultural Services won't charge to impound the machinery," I say, turning away from Gemma. "They have capacity in their compound."

  "But Tom Gibson is a family friend," Danni says. "That sounds like nepotism. Even a lame barrister will see through that."

  "Then give me an order number and I'll pay." I dread to think what else she knows about me and my family. "Tom will be the cheapest quote, I'm sure. Fortunately, the HSE expert won't charge for his report."

  "Why do we need an expert? You took photos, didn't you?"

  "We need an expert because they'll employ one. We have to fight like with like in court."

  "Shouldn't you finish the investigation before you decide we're off to court?"

  "Danni, someone removed a guard which would have prevented the accident."

  The silence lasts for almost ten seconds, which allows me to cool off a little.

  "If we're prosecuting," Danni says, "then the last thing you need are accusations of nepotism. Tollingdon Agricultural Services must not be used, even if they provide the cheapest quote. Is that clear?"

  She ends the call before I can protest. It looks like justice is now in the hands of the accountants.

  Gemma strolls over, an amused smile on her lips. "From the number of faces you pulled, I'm guessing you didn't get what you wanted."

  "No, I got you." I push the BlackBerry back into its holster and head towards the clearing. "Let's interview Cheung while we wait for Tollingdon Agricultural Services."

  The moment we turn the corner, I spot the empty log where Cheung was sitting a few minutes ago. He's gone.

  Three

  Gemma breaks into a run. "Cheung can't have gone far."

  "Agreed," I call. "The Grab Bag will slow him down."

  Fortunately, she finds the Grab Bag behind the log. "Everything's here," she says, plunging inside the bag.

  "Is Cheung in there by any chance?"

  "There's no room, the bag's full."

  Her humour softens my sarcasm, but not my mood. We shouldn't have left him alone. He could have walked off with the camera and our photographs. I dread to think what Danni would have said if that happened. "You'll need to get three quotes for a new camera," no doubt.

  I walk around the log and head for a path that leads into the trees. The undergrowth's trampled flat, suggesting regular use.

  "Let's try this way," I say, waiting while Gemma zips up the Grab Bag and hoists it over her shoulder.

  "I bet Lucy never carries this," she says.

  "No, she's never carried it."

  Gemma looks at me in disbelief. "So, why are you making me carry it—because you wanted Lucy on the case, not me?"

  "No, we only got the Grab Bag a month ago. You're the first person to use it."

  The path heads through stinging nettles, bramble and bindweed, all wrestling for supremacy. The white flowers of the bindweed trumpet a narrow victory. A few yards into the tangle the path divides. The left branch turns back towards the barn. The right disappears into the woods. Like the detectives in TV dramas, I search for a snag of jogging pants on a bramble to give me a clue which way Cheung went. I'm about to give up when something in the undergrowth catches the light. I slide a cautious hand between the brambles and extract an empty vodka bottle. I recognise the label from a recent Food Standards Agency alert.

  "It's illicit," I say, handing it to Gemma. "Trading Standards caught one of the local off licences selling the stuff. What do you think?"

  She turns the bottle in her hands. "The label isn't faded or wrinkled, so it's not been there long. Who dropped it there? Teenagers?"

  "In the middle of nowhere? I doubt it. My money's on Collins."

  "Do you think it has something to do with the accident?"

  I shrug. "If he was drunk this morning, it might explain the accident. Bag it until we know more."

  She drops the bottle into an evidence bag, seals it with a tag and labels it. While she does this, I rummage through the brambles, looking for the bottle cap. It should be close by, but Collins could have discarded it half a mile away.

  "What makes you think he was drunk?"

  I think about this as I straighten. "Don't you think it's an odd place to find an empty bottle? Who comes here, apart from Collins and Cheung?"

  "Are you always this suspicious?"

  My best friend, Mike Turner, calls me Konspiracy Kent. I'm intrigued by things that are out of place or unexplained. I love unsolved mysteries. If I could go on a cruise, it would be aboard the Mary Celeste. I don't care if conspiracy theories are true or false. They allow me to speculate.

  "I think Cheung went right into the woods," I say. "If he was running, he must have come from that direction."

  We're about to set off when I hear a man clear his throat and noisily dispatch phlegm into the bushes. Cheung ambles into view from the opposite direction, hoisting his jogging pants over his faded Nirvana tee shirt. Something tells me he's unlikely to have a sunny outlook.

  He stops and stares at me, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants. "I needed a piss, alright? I don't know nothing," he adds when I remain silent. "Syd was dead when I found him. Lying there. Blood everywhere."

  His hand covers his mouth for a few moments as the horror plays in his eyes.

  "Why did you come this way?" I ask, keen to distract him.

  "For a piss, like I told you."

  I can't help wondering why he's not wearing shorts, which would make much more sense in the hot weather. I step closer, hoping to smell the odour of exertion, or alcohol, but I detect neither.

/>   "Does the path lead to the barn?" I ask.

  He mutters something unintelligible and turns. There are no sweat stains on his back, though his neck glistens. He saunters along the meandering path, taking his time, until we reach the barn. The bushes and undergrowth recede a couple of yards to reveal a concrete block extension with a flat roof. The door and adjacent window are locked, but inside I can make out kitchen cupboards, sink, refrigerator, and a wooden table and chairs. An empty ashtray lies abandoned on the window sill.

  "Do you use this place?" I ask.

  "I don't have a key."

  The scuff marks around the keyhole tell a different story. He has no keys on him, as far as I can tell. I can make out the shape of his lighter and tobacco pouch in his pockets, but nothing else. I'd like to feel along the top of the doorframe for a key, as he must use the toilet at the rear of the kitchen. It looks like there might also be a shower, judging by the waste pipes feeding into the soil stack. In such a remote location the facilities would make sense.

  "Did Collins have a key?"

  "Don't know. He surfaced long after I went to work."

  "But not today."

  He swallows and looks down. Trembling fingers pull out the tobacco pouch from his pocket. He extracts a thread of tobacco and trickles it into a cigarette paper, pinched between thumb and forefinger.

  "How can you smoke and run?" I ask, unable to stop myself.

  He struggles to roll the cigarette, almost dropping it as I speak. Gemma steps forward and takes the paper and tobacco from him. With a couple of neat movements, she rolls a cigarette that's not much thicker than a match. A dreamy smile spreads over his face as he watches her, his eyes full of wonder. I think he's in love.

  I can understand that.

  "You have it," he says when she offers it to him. "I'll roll another."

  "I don't smoke. It's not good for my chest."

  He glances down, eyes on stalks. "No, you mustn't smoke," he says. "Do you run? There are so many lovely trails round here."

  "I prefer the gym," she says before he can suggest they run together.

  "Me too. The nearest one's in Uckfield. Syd used to go there, but he stopped about a year ago. I don't know why; he was in good shape for his age."

  I gesture to Gemma to start walking. Talk to him, I mouth.

  "What was Syd like?" she asks.

  "Scary. He had eyes like a shark. Dark and empty, they were."

  "I thought you said you didn't see him because he overslept," I say.

  He snatches a nervous lungful of smoke. "I never thought I'd see him like that. Man, I've never seen so much blood. And his face. I can't shift it from my head."

  He closes his eyes and turns away.

  "Take it easy," I say gently. "You've had a shock."

  I'll never forget seeing a fox torn apart by hounds in a frenzy of bloody muzzles. It was the way the fox, exhausted and trapped, just relented to its fate. One moment it ran for its life. The next it stopped, a look of resignation in its eyes. It took all my willpower to keep filming when I wanted to maim the hunt people, who got such enjoyment from the suffering of a defenceless animal. I've never watched the film. I don't need to—it's lodged in my head.

  While we walk, Gemma talks and asks questions, coaxing answers from him. I can't decide whether he's in shock or simply defensive. His answers are short, usually loaded with accusations. Every few seconds, his cigarette goes out, interrupting the flow, but she's more patient than me. I'd probably pin him to a tree.

  "David, you should talk to someone about what you saw." She stops and looks straight into his eyes. "You need help."

  "Like therapy? Mr B won't give me time off for that."

  I don't often agree with Birchill, but talking about problems rarely solves them. You end up sharing your misery and baring your soul. It's not long before everyone knows your secrets. No, books are much better at solving life's mysteries. Conan Doyle's master detective, Sherlock Holmes, solved puzzles that baffled others with cunning and reason. He taught me to embrace being different. In To Kill A Mocking Bird, Atticus Finch stood firm against ignorance and prejudice. He gave me values and idealism. Ian Fleming gave me a role model.

  "It's a shit job," Cheung's saying as I tune back in to the conversation. "But it's better than doing nothing."

  "What do you do?" I ask.

  "I have the most important job in the park, according to Mr B."

  "You mean, you clean the toilets, right?"

  "And I pick litter and empty bins. I'm so important I get a special spade for horse poo."

  "Were you running when you discovered Collins?" I ask, trying to move things along.

  "Sure."

  "Do you always run that early?"

  "Yeah, before work."

  "Do you follow the same route?"

  "Varies, but this one's the easiest to follow."

  "So, you must have known Collins was working this morning."

  "No." He throws the remains of his cigarette into the bushes. "I told you, I saw nothing. You make it sound like I had something to do with it."

  Gemma sighs when he marches off. "I was getting somewhere then."

  "He was telling you nothing. Look, if I started the tractor you'd hear it from here. So would Cheung. Why's he lying?"

  She adjusts the Grab Bag. "I see what you mean. We'd better go after him."

  In less than a minute the trees thin and the path dissolves into a grassed area with wild flowers. A tired brick cottage with dormer windows like sleepy eyes lies beyond, weighed down by a wisteria drape. It can't quite hide the blistered paint, peeling away from the rotten wood beneath. Even the chimneys, like bookends on either side of the cottage, can't stop the roof from sagging with neglect. Cheung sits on the flint garden wall, his shoulders slumped in sympathy.

  "Welcome to my hovel," he says, pushing another cigarette between his lips. "In summer it's cold and miserable. In winter it sweats."

  I can't make out whether he wants to talk to us or not. "Let's go inside and chat over a cup of tea," I say.

  He shakes his head. "I'd rather not. You might catch something."

  So much for getting a drink to ease my thirst. I point to a path to my left that leads back into the woods. "Where does that go?"

  "Syd's house. It's warm and dry all year round."

  "Did you see him go past this morning?"

  "I was in the kitchen at the back, eating breakfast."

  In my experience, runners don't eat just before a run. Though tempted to perch on the flint wall beside him, I keep my distance. "You must have been surprised to hear the tractor when you left this morning."

  "I never heard the tractor."

  "Really?"

  "I listen to music while I run."

  "Then where are your headphones? Where's your music player?"

  "I keep my music on my phone."

  "Where's your phone?"

  He taps his pocket as if he expects it to be there. "No, I left it on the kitchen table."

  "Really?"

  He shifts on the wall, avoiding eye contact. "What do you mean?"

  Gemma glances at me. She's realised that if he left his phone in the kitchen he must have heard the tractor.

  "I thought you took your phone with you when you went running."

  He nods. "I did."

  "Then why's it not in your pocket?"

  "I came back here."

  I want to snatch the unlit cigarette that wags in his mouth as he speaks. "When?"

  "After I rang for an ambulance. I needed a piss so I came back here. I left the phone on the table."

  I'm wondering if he has a weak bladder. "Then you went back to the barn, right?"

  He stares at me as if I'm nuts. "You wouldn't have found me there if I hadn't."

  My fingers grip my notebook a little tighter. "Did you return to the barn straight away?"

  "The police came quickly."

  I open my notebook and glance at my notes. "Did you speak to Dete
ctive Inspector Briggs?"

  "Was that the woman in charge, the one you spoke to?"

  "That was the Coroner's Officer."

  Finally, he lights the cigarette. "She was definitely in charge, man, bossing everyone around. Everything was kicking off, with ambulances and coppers everywhere. And Syd was just lying there, wrapped around that shaft."

  He swallows and looks down, his face turning pale. He's had a tough morning. The shock's affecting his recollection. Either that or I'm missing something. I could be looking for something that isn't there. It wouldn't be the first time.

  "Thanks for your help," I say. "I'll take a statement from you when you're feeling better, maybe tomorrow."

  He jumps to the ground and pushes through the rusty gate, leaving it open in his determination to get away. He's halfway down the path when I call out. "David, do you like vodka?"

  "Doesn't everyone?" he calls, heading out of sight around the corner.

  "What do you make of that?" I ask Gemma. "He didn't ask me why I wanted to know about vodka."

  "Maybe he didn't care."

  In my youth I was fed too many lies to take anything at face value. "Being inquisitive is good," I say, checking my watch. It's nearly ten, so the low loader should be on its way. I hoist the Grab Bag over my shoulder. "Let's make sure Collins isn't asleep in his bed."

  Once in the woodland we pass through a chestnut grove where the trees are planted in regimented rows. The branches swoop down with leaves that look like hands with large extended fingers. I run my hand over the rough bark, soft yet strong, as I peer up through the ripening chestnut clusters, searching for a scampering squirrel.

  "Why didn't you ask David when the guard went missing?"

  I should admit it never occurred to me. "Do you think he'd notice?"

  "He might. I'm no expert, but if Tombstone provides the machinery then they're to blame. If Collins provides the machinery, he's to blame."

  She's right, of course, but I don't understand why Collins was out here. "He hadn't used the tractor in years. He didn't need any fence posts. What was he doing here at six in the morning?"

  She sighs. "If the guard had been fitted he would be alive."

  "If he'd stayed in bed he would be alive."

  We continue in silence through the trees, reaching Collins' house five minutes later. Though similar to Cheung's hovel in build and style, this cottage is pristine, wearing its Sussex hanging tiles with pride. The straight roof holds the chimneys erect, allowing the sun to illuminate the intricate corbelling. But even the chimneys have to pay homage to the oak framed porch, garlanded with the most stunning pink roses I've seen. Their fragrance tempts me into the garden when I open the wooden gate.