No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  This image should be on a jigsaw box.

  The small front garden is smothered with drifts of marigolds, petunias and geraniums, their bright colours at odds with the mellow bricks of the Victorian building. Alpines scramble over the gravel path, scampering up the rope edge tiles to the garden beyond. Chunky earthenware pots spill over with herbs and hostas, forcing their purple spikes of flowers through the deeply veined leaves.

  I'd like to lift the pot with the variegated hosta and find a front door key beneath, but I pound the door with the brass knocker, shaped like a fist.

  "Are the curtains drawn upstairs?"

  Gemma steps back to look up. She shakes her head.

  I peer through the letterbox into a spotless hall with a cream carpet, and a hat stand and dresser. Moving across to the adjacent window, I notice the same carpet and cream Art Deco furniture in the living room. The monster flat screen TV on the wall makes up for the lack of photographs, paintings, ornaments and trinkets.

  The gravel path leads around the corner into a homemade carport, which covers a dull green Land Rover, coated with a lingering smear of dust and dirt. It has four flat tyres, locked doors, and an interior littered with empty sandwich cartons and crisp packets. Cigarette stubs overflow from the ashtray.

  "Collins preferred his Land Rover to the living room," I say.

  A single-storey kitchen extension eats into the small rear garden. A lifeless concrete drive connects the carport with the lane beyond, leaving half the garden for vegetables. Not a weed in sight.

  Gemma heads straight for the glazed back door, trying the handle. She raps delicate knuckles on the glass before peering through the kitchen window. Like the first floor, the curtains are open but the windows are closed, despite the heat. I'm more interested in the oil stains on the concrete. Another car regularly parks here.

  I glance at my watch. "Tollingdon Agricultural should be here soon. Once they've finished we can visit the main park and interview management."

  Back at the clearing, Gemma sits in the shade. She draws up her slender legs and rests her notebook on her knees to write up her notes. I sit on the footplate of the tractor, watching her when I should be making sense of what happened this morning. Every few minutes I have to stop my thoughts drifting back seven years to the week we shared a cramped bedsit.

  At 10:23, the low loader rumbles into view at the top of the clearing. The driver, a short man with a shiny bald head and a neck like a bull, jumps down from the cab. He's wearing the standard issue Tollingdon Agricultural Services black tee shirt and shorts, which look comical above his steel toe cap boots. He saunters down the slope, hands in pockets, studying the machinery.

  "Can't move the saw without a forklift," he says, staring at me as if I've wasted his time. "Can't use a forklift on this surface."

  "So tell me what you can do."

  He examines the power takeoff, glances at the spray of blood, and tuts. "Mate of mine had an arm ripped off when his sleeve got caught. Only takes a second, you know." He clambers onto the footplate and peers inside the cab. "Can't move this without a key."

  I can't believe I didn't notice the key was missing. Cheung switched off the engine, but why remove the key? Carolyn must have taken it.

  "As I said, tell me what you can do."

  "I can take the magazines," he replies, eyes glinting as he spots Gemma strolling over. "How would you like to help me turn this old girl on?" he asks her.

  "This old girl just killed a man," she replies.

  "Now that could be a country and western song." He sings the line as he walks back to his truck. He returns with an assortment of keys on rings. He selects one of the rings and chuckles. "I'll have to take off the takeoff."

  I retreat back to the log and watch. Moments later, the rumble of the diesel engine echoes off the barn wall. "There's no way Cheung didn't hear that," I say in a loud voice. With the Grab Bag hoisted over my shoulder, I call out as we pass by the tractor. "Can you ask Tom to ring me when you get back?"

  The driver nods, but he's busy staring at a Nuts magazine.

  Back at the barn, Gemma and I reach her mother's battered old Volvo Estate. An angry ram crumpled the rear driver's side door, which has refused to open since, not that there's any room in the back with the dog cages. Like the car, they've seen better days, but they're good at keeping shopping bags upright.

  "No point taking both cars," I say, heading for my Fusion.

  "I'm not going with you if you're still listening to that dreary music."

  We've had this discussion before, but I can't help feeling defensive. "Barclay James Harvest is the best band this country produced. Their songs have depth, drama and emotion."

  "But nobody's heard of them. Haven't you got something cheerful like Kylie Minogue?"

  "Kylie Minogue?"

  "Sure," she replies, opening the Estate's driver's door. "You'd like her in your car, wouldn't you?"

  "I should be so lucky."

  I wrench open the passenger door. The stale odour of dog permeates the interior, clinging to the worn upholstery. The smell brings back memories of the cats, injured badgers, fox cubs, and occasional lambs we used to rescue, and the hours it took to clean up after them. Most of them recuperated at my animal sanctuary.

  I scoop the copies of Veterinary Practice magazine from the seat and slide them onto the parcel shelf. It takes me several wrenches to pull out enough seatbelt to click it home. Gemma has no such problems, sliding it across her slim waist with ease.

  "To the park?" she asks, starting the car.

  "We'll track down the general manager. I doubt if he'll tell us anything. Birchill will see to that." I wind down the window to let the breeze blow over my face. "Not that it matters. There's always someone who will talk. All we have to do is find that person."

  "How? There must be hundreds of people working here. We can't interview them all."

  "No, but we can antagonise a few."

  Four

  The road back to the park takes us through fields and pastures, partitioned by ranch style fencing for that authentic Wild West look. Thankfully, small clusters of trees escaped the pillage, providing sanctuary for some local wildlife and shade for the horses and cattle. Most of the hedgerows that provided arteries for insects and small mammals are gone, torn out to allow buffalo, ostrich, and horses to roam unhindered. Fodder crops for the winter, like sugar beet, grow in some of the smaller fields.

  "I'd love to ride on the railway," Gemma says as we cross the tracks. "They have an authentic Western train—like the one in Back to the Future."

  Not on a narrow gauge line they don't.

  The main park is laid out like a Wild West town with a mixture of timber and brick buildings, corrals and boardwalks. There's no doubting the quality of the reproduction, but I can't help feeling it's diminished by names like, Billy the Kid's Kebabs and OK Corral Cream Teas, which probably serves Earp Grey. At the back of these buildings, concrete dominates. It covers the service areas where industrial scale refuse bins and compactors huddle together at the side of loading bays. It amplifies the hum of compressors, working overtime to keep refrigerators cool. It provides a flat, impervious surface that allows pigeons and gulls to pick through the food waste that spills from the bins. The concrete absorbs the sun like a storage heater, fermenting much of the rotten food.

  Gemma screws her face and closes the window, but she's too late to stop the stench permeating the car. "Haven't they heard of disinfectant?"

  The workers and catering staff on the slip road seem oblivious to the smell as they make their way from a staff car park adjacent the substation. Many of them smoke, even more have tattoos, and nearly all are engrossed in their mobile phones. I wonder how they'd react if I texted the word 'smell' to them.

  "Pull over, Gemma," I say, pointing to a burnt out portacabin on the left. The roof has collapsed and the windows have gone, leaving gaping holes in the charred walls. The blackened remains of desks, cupboards and chairs are stre
wn about, abandoned on the grass verge. Computers and monitors, distorted by melting plastic cases, are piled in a small heap, enclosed by emergency tape. The smell of burnt portacabin suggests the fire was recent.

  I signal to a cowboy in chaps and spurred boots. He looks hot in his waistcoat, and the sweat stains on the brim of his hat confirm it. He places a hand on his gun as if he expects trouble. As long as he doesn't say, 'Howdy', we'll be okay.

  "Can I help?" he asks in finest middle class English. He notices Gemma and taps the brim of his hat with a forefinger.

  "Environmental Health," I say. "What day was the fire?"

  He pushes the hat back to reveal damp hair, flattened against his scalp. "Sunday night through Monday morning. It had burnt out by the time we arrived for work. The guys salvaged what they could, but there wasn't much."

  "Did the fire officer say what caused the fire?"

  He gives me a blank look. "It happened overnight. Ben Foley might know. He's the Operations Manager. That was his office."

  "Where can I find him?"

  "He's moved to the jail on Main Street."

  "That's one way to get a captive audience," I say, unable to stop myself. At least I didn't offer to call his cell phone.

  "Wait a minute," the cowboy says, turning. "I heard someone say he went to the front gate to sort out a tricky customer."

  I climb back into the Volvo. "They like fires here. First the farmhouse burns down, now the manager's office. When we get to the car park, keep going out through the main gate. I didn't get a proper look at the entrance earlier," I say in response to her puzzled look. "I want to see what all the fuss is about."

  "Why?"

  "We spent two years trying to stop Tombstone getting planning approval. When that failed, we spent the best part of another year chaining ourselves to trees, lying in front of bulldozers, doing our best to stop the development."

  "Who's we?"

  "People who think the environment is as important as profit. You can develop in harmony with the environment, if you try. It's not impossible."

  "You sound like my mother."

  "She was one of us."

  She flashes me a look of surprise. "My mother chained herself to trees? She never told me that."

  "You were in London at the time."

  "And I never rang home, I know." She makes the last two words sound like a bored yawn. Then she accelerates out of the park onto the long slip road, flanked by lime trees. About 100 yards from the gates I spot a layby and farm gate.

  "Turn here."

  Gemma swings into the bumpy layby and stops. With a nifty piece of reversing into the farm entrance, we're facing the park. The sun pierces the front windscreen, almost blinding me as we dip in and out of a hollow. We lurch onto the road and head back.

  "Slow down," I say.

  An arched sign, riddled with bullet holes, straddles the opening between two log watch towers. Beneath the words Tombstone Adventure Park the slogan says, 'We'll bring out the cowboy in you.'

  Does it refer to Birchill or his builders, I wonder.

  "Awesome!" Gemma says, stopping behind a people carrier.

  "Niagara Falls is awesome. The Grand Canyon is awesome. This is timber cladding, pretending to look like a fort."

  "It's still awesome."

  Once through the gates, we return to the prairie of a car park. It's divided into themed sections, bounded by billboards with murals of locomotives, American Indians on horseback, and Monument Valley, interspersed with hoardings from local companies, eager to use anything western to promote their products. I can 'beat the stampede to Billy's Burger Bar', or get an insurance quote from the company that likes to 'shoot from the hip'. It's a shame I can't join a posse to lynch the slogan writers.

  Ranch-style fencing divides each section into zones, flanked by footpaths. Litter bins, hidden inside yellow fibreglass cacti, mark every intersection. On a busy summer weekend over 2000 cars can be accommodated, according to a fact board. On a Thursday morning in September about 100 cars are herded close to the ticket office.

  "Awesome!"

  Breath-taking would be more apt—like the decision by the government inspector to overrule the council and grant planning permission. "Have you any idea how many hedgerows and trees Birchill ripped out to create this?"

  "What about the jobs he created?"

  "Short term contracts on the minimum wage? Casual staff on zero rated hours?"

  "You're such a cynic, Kent. Lots of people are happy with that. Lots of locals work here. Don't you read the economic development reports? Tombstone's the largest employer in Downland."

  As all the shops are independent small businesses, that's rubbish, but I keep that to myself.

  We follow yellow hoof prints to the ticket office, shunted into a small timber railway station. Tombstone Halt has a platform with trolleys, a water hopper on wooden stilts, staff in period costume, and an ice cream freezer by the turnstile. A young girl is throwing a tantrum, which won't stop until her mother buys her an ice cream.

  Gemma raises a finger. "Don't you dare say a word."

  "I was only going to say the girl's performance is awesome."

  We soon reach the counter, where a teenager with pierced eyebrows and a spider's web neck tattoo examines my ID card. "Is Mr Foley about?" I ask. "I heard he was here."

  "No, he's in jail." The teenager grins and hands me a leaflet with a plan of the park. "It's on Main Street. I can radio through and tell him you're coming."

  "It's all right. He's expecting us."

  I push through the turnstile and walk into a room lined with stills from Hollywood's finest Wild West films. Actors like John Wayne, James Stewart, Alan Ladd, Gary Cooper, Burt Lancaster, Henry Fonda, and Audie Murphy cover the first wall, which details the zenith of the Western in the forties and fifties. Further along, the sixties are represented by Paul Newman and Robert Redford, along with the Spaghetti Westerns that starred Lee Van Cleef, James Coburn, and my personal favourite, Clint Eastwood as the 'man with no name'.

  "I love the idea that one man can make a difference," I tell Gemma as we stop at the huge photograph of Eastwood. "Think how much better the world would be if every person made one small difference."

  "These two made a big difference to me." Her shoes slap on the wooden floor as she saunters over to Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer as Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday.

  "What about Kevin Costner?" I ask, pushing open the saloon doors to exit. "Isn't Dances with Wolves a great western?"

  "Don't know," she replies. "I fell asleep halfway through."

  A path of authentic concrete paving weaves between flowerbeds of geraniums, petunias and begonias, native to Arizona, I imagine. On either side long murals depict a cattle drive across dusty plains. The murals change to arid desert and rocky outcrops as we pass islands of cacti. At the end, two wooden doors proclaim Tombstone. It's Wednesday, 26th of October, 1881. There's going to be a gunfight at the OK Corral, on the hour every hour.

  We push through the doors and step into the past.

  "Awesome!"

  It's not quite the Wild West, but the timber buildings that flank either side of the street look impressive. I count two saloons, a hardware store, and enough fast food outlets to induce a heart attack. Raised timber boardwalks run on either side, ending in the disabled ramps the Building Inspectors demanded. In the distance there are brick buildings, housing a bank and a hotel. While there are quite a number of people milling around, the whole scene is slightly muted.

  "What do you think?" Gemma asks, her eyes wide with excitement. "Go on, admit it. You're impressed."

  "I want to smell and hear horses," I say, looking about me. "I'd like to hear the sound of a piano, drowned out by the raucous laughter from the saloon. A gunshot or two would be nice."

  The waft of fried onions, chilli and greasy extract vents doesn't quite do it for me.

  There's no escaping the quality of detail and workmanship that's gone into recreating Tombstone. It
must have cost some serious money. That's why the place is full of shops and food outlets, all paying a premium for the crowds that flock here during the summer and at weekends. But it's those shops that trivialise the experience, exchanging history for amusement arcades, trinket shops, and an-all-you-can-eat-for-a-tenner Chinese restaurant. The side streets are full of arcades emitting brash electronic music.

  At the end of Main Street, the town gives way to barns and corrals, houses and log cabins. I point to a sign and cringe. "You can spend all your silver and pan for gold."

  "Maybe I'll come back with Richard," she says. "He won't walk round criticising everything."

  "In case you'd forgotten, Gemma, we're investigating a fatal accident."

  Her sour look suggests I was a little harsh, but it won't hurt her to remember she's not my first choice for assistant.

  "You need a second mortgage to spend a day here," I remark, raising my hand to deter the employee in traditional costume. I don't want my face on a 'Wanted' poster. I don't want to ride in a buggy. And I most certainly don't want a second pizza at half price. "The only thing that's free is the weather."

  "And the stunt show." Gemma points to the sign. The twice-daily stunt show in the corral allows unlucky visitors to be roped into lasso demonstrations before experiencing shooting displays, bucking broncos and stunt riding. Every hour, on the hour, a gunfight starts in the saloon and spills into the street. Visitors can become deputies and join the sheriff's posse, while the less energetic can dress up as cowboys and cowgirls for the day.

  "This is how they should teach history," she says, dodging a party of oriental visitors, who are experiencing the Wild West through mobile phones and tablet PCs. "Tombstone brings it to life."