"Indeed. Nike trainers and combat trousers were all the rage in 1881."
Across the street, in a gap between the buildings, parents sit at picnic tables provided by the Hole in the Wall Tea Room. Their children will be in the soft play area beyond, hurling themselves around the bouncy fort until their ice creams make a return visit.
I turn towards the jail, sandwiched between two eateries. There's a narrow passageway to the right, leading to the service area behind, I imagine. Built of stone with a slate roof, the jail's barred windows are flanked with wooden shutters. Sepia 'Wanted' posters (only five pounds to have your face and name added) warn people of dangerous outlaws. A sign on the doors tells us the jail's closed.
"The manager's escaped for a cigarette," I say with a smile.
I raise the latch and the door creaks open into a small, dimly lit room, dominated by a large desk. The woman behind it must be a filing clerk, if her manicured fingernails are anything to go by. Like so many of her peers, she has thick black hair, false eyelashes, and a render of make-up that neutralises her expression. Her face is small and thin with a delicate nose and mouth. She rests her chin on her hands as she studies me with striking blue eyes that suggest interest beneath the indifference.
"You can't come in here," she says in a soft Scouse accent that has me in raptures. "We're not open to the public."
"We've spoken before," I say, striding in. "You rang to see if an accident had to be reported." I bend to check the name badge, pinned to her blue silk blouse. "Hi, Rebecca, you're much lovelier than I imagined."
Somewhere behind me, I hear a groan.
Recognition raises a smile. "You're Kent Fisher from Environmental Health. You wore that shirt when you came to our school to talk about your job. Must be about ten years ago."
"Did you enjoy the talk?"
"Not really. I wanted to be a singer."
I ignore Gemma's smirk. "What went wrong?"
She smiles, revealing even white teeth. "I can't sing."
The phone rings. Her tone is polite, but detached, suggesting previous employment in a call centre. I wander across the room and join Gemma by the rifle cabinet, where she's checking the padlock. Several posters detail the work and conditions of sheriffs in the frontier towns.
"I thought we were investigating a fatal accident, not chatting up the receptionists."
"Can I help it if her voice paints pictures in my mind?"
"You were picturing her tits. You know they're as false as her nails?"
Like that's going to put me off. "So?"
"You're so shallow, Kent. Maybe this will change your mind."
She hands me a leaflet on the Wild West weddings Tombstone offers. I resist a joke about shotguns, distracted by Rebecca's soft laughter. Why would I get married when the next day I could meet someone like her?
"You and Richard could get married here," I tell Gemma. "It would be awesome."
For some reason she ignores me. Then Rebecca cuts in. "Ben Foley, our Operations Manager, wants to know why you're here."
"One of your employees died a couple of hours ago."
She relays the details, nods as he responds, and then looks up. "If you mean Mr Collins, he's nothing to do with Tombstone."
"He lives in a house on the park." I haul a wooden chair across and straddle it, cowboy style. "Tell Mr Foley I'm here to interview him and check his health and safety systems and records."
"I can make you an appointment," she says
"No problem. Let's say five minutes." I wink and get to my feet. "We'll wait in his office."
"A boy's gone missing. I don't know how long he'll be."
"I'll wait, but I'm not known for my patience."
"His office is through the door," she says. "It's the first cell."
The door opens into a bare corridor that leads to two identical cells, constructed in concrete blocks. There are no bars across the front, only on the small windows in the rear walls. Each cell has a bunk bed, piled high with cardboard boxes. The first cell has a desk with an old PC and monitor on top, wedged between more boxes. I head inside and stop at the end of the bunk. "Gemma, there's an en suite toilet here."
She shuffles past me to look. "It's a bucket."
"What did you expect—a bidet?"
I cross to the desk and pick up a mug proclaiming 'World's Best Boss'. Inside, it has enough stains to hide undiscovered strains of bacteria. I notice an amplifier and microphone connected to the rear of the computer. Speaker cable runs up the wall and through the window to the outside.
Gemma calls from next door. "There's a coffee machine in this one."
The adjoining cell is crammed with spare furniture, including chairs and desks, bookcases, a couple of filing cabinets, and a vending machine that's not plugged in. The filing cabinets are locked, and there's no sign of any paperwork or folders that might contain the systems the business should have. Sensing they're on the computer, I return to the desk and tap the space bar on the keyboard. A blue crash screen appears. The sound of Rebecca's heels on the floorboards make me step back.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing—it's crashed."
"Not again." She brushes past me, leaving the subtle, musky scent of perfume in her wake. She taps the ESC key several times, and when nothing happens she depresses the power button. "Ben needs to make a public announcement.
Are you sure you can't come back later when he's not so busy?"
"Is the announcement about the missing child?"
She nods as she switches the PC on. "After our office burnt down, this was the only PC we could find. It works, but it can't read the memory stick where I keep the holiday calendar."
"I could pop round with my laptop."
"When you came to the school, you couldn't get the projector to work. Let me know when it's booted," she calls over her shoulder.
Gemma smirks. "She's got the measure of you."
I return to the bunk bed and nose through some of the boxes, finding masses of promotional leaflets. I want to explore the files on the PC or the locked filing cabinets next door. As a child, I couldn't resist closed cupboards and locked drawers. They held secrets. Sometimes I'd spend hours, trying paperclips and penknife blades to open the locks. Today, I'd look it up on Google.
The noise of people gathering outside draws me to the window. The trickle of people has swelled to a noisy throng, thudding along the boardwalks like cattle. Heads turn to look up the street as a cowboy on a horse rears into view. If this is Foley, it's one hell of an entrance.
"That's Gregor," Rebecca says, returning to the computer. "He a dead ringer for Clint Eastwood, if you don't get too close. He rides up and down before confronting the outlaws. It's much better if you watch from the street."
It's almost eleven and it's time I stopped waiting. "Stay here," I tell Gemma. Outside, I slip along the passageway to the back of the jail. The courtyard smells of rotten food, probably emanating from the thick black ooze that trickles through the drain hole under one of the wheeled bins.
I head into the shade and ring Tollingdon Agricultural Services. As expected, Tom Gibson picks up. He doesn't sound too pleased to hear from me.
"Miracles I perform on Friday," he says in his slightly peeved tone. "Your tractor hasn't arrived yet."
"I'm ringing about your maintenance contract with Tombstone. Does it include the Massey Ferguson you're collecting for me?"
"How would I know when I haven't seen it?"
"You keep records of what you service, Tom."
"Kent, I'm a low loader down. Don't push your luck."
"A man is dead thanks to that tractor. I want the date you serviced it."
"If we serviced it. The tractor won't be specified in the agreement. It only stipulates that we maintain their equipment."
Despite his prevarication, I can hear the click of his keyboard as he speaks. He'll have invoices, details of any repairs carried out on each machine that's serviced. How else can he justify his bill? Bu
t he's not going to give me the information, especially if it could harm his contract.
"Tom, that's not what Tombstone's records show."
His voice is sharp, tinged with suspicion. "What are you talking about?"
I learned how to lie like a pro from my mother. You need to sound credible, which means using just enough detail. Say too much and you can be caught out. Say too little and you might not fool anyone. Best of all, tell a half-truth that misleads people, and let them assume something different.
I've no idea what records Tombstone get from Tom, so I need to be careful. I lower my voice. "Tom, I think someone's altered your invoice."
"How? What have they altered?"
I try to remember what he puts on his invoices when he services my mowers. "I don't know. That's why I'm calling. Can we compare records?"
"I've pulled up the job sheet for the tractor you mentioned. We've only carried out the one service on the 5th June this year. Does that tally?"
"That's correct, Tom."
"The engine was knackered. We had to replace a lot of parts and it took us the best part of a day to get it going."
"What about the power takeoff?" I ask.
"Lubrication and a new guard."
"So, that's what it says," I say, sounding relieved. "Someone's tried to white it out. The guard was missing when I examined the takeoff."
His tone is forceful. "I assure you we fitted a new one."
"If it was the first time you'd worked on the tractor, was it added to the contract?"
"I doubt it. The request probably came by email. Have you got a copy?"
"Why don't you forward the email to me? I'll compare it to the ones on their computer. You might want to print some copies of your work sheets, because I think they're covering their backs."
I hang up, not sure he'll print the records for me. If he talks to Birchill about someone altering invoices, I could be in trouble, but at least I know someone wanted to get the tractor working after years of neglect.
And now Collins is dead.
Five
I take an instant dislike to Ben Foley. It's not because he uses the word 'dude', though that would be cause enough. It's not the way he swaggers about the office like he's being filmed. It's the way he blanks Rebecca to focus on Gemma.
He's lean, muscular, and tanned from working outdoors. His untamed hair makes him look more like a surfer than a sheriff, despite the black suit, frilled shirt, and bootlace tie. In his mid-twenties, with hazel eyes, a square jaw, and a mouth that's as loose as it is wide, he likes the sound of his own voice so much he slips into a Yankee drawl from time to time. Like his fingernails, which are bitten so far back they're almost non-existent, the effect is hardly flattering.
"There's nothing like the feel of all that muscle between your thighs," he says. "Do you ride, Gemma?"
I've heard enough. "Mr Foley, I'm Kent Fisher. Judging from your banter it sounds like you've found the missing boy."
"Indeed I have, dude. Wouldn't be here if he was still missing, would I?"
"Let's talk about Syd Collins. How long did he work for you?"
Foley drops into the chair and leans back, clasping his hands behind his head. "Syd never worked for Tombstone. He's nothing to do with me."
"Then why did you service his tractor?" I ask, trying not to look at the sweat stains below his armpits.
"I didn't."
"Are you sure?"
He rolls his eyes. "Dude, I'm the Operations Manager."
"Then why did Tollingdon Agricultural service it on 5th June this year? They got the tractor running and replaced the missing guard to the power takeoff."
He yawns and lets the chair drop back onto four legs. "Nothing to do with me, dude. Same with Collins."
"You have a record of the service on your computer."
He stares at me for a moment and shakes his head. In a slow, almost lazy way, he gets to his feet and saunters past me, winking at Gemma. "All our servers went up in smoke last weekend. We had a fire."
"Luckily, Tollingdon Agricultural didn't. They emailed the records." I pull out my BlackBerry to demonstrate. "Collins' tractor was serviced under your maintenance contract. That makes you liable."
He stops in the doorway. "No way."
"You emailed them to service the tractor."
He shakes his head once more, but without his earlier conviction. I suspect he's the kind of manager who has no idea what's going on. Fresh out of university, he's overworked and underpaid, lurching from one problem to the next. "You wait till I tell Mr Birchill about this," he says.
"Call him. I'll be happy to show him the email you sent."
Foley hesitates. Whatever his shortcomings, he knows what Birchill might do to him.
"I didn't send an email. I have nothing to do with maintenance."
"You're the Operations Manager. You said so."
His fingers go to his mouth, but he's got no nails left to chew. After a few seconds pacing, he looks up. "Rebecca must have sent it."
I watch with amusement, glad to see how loyal he is to his secretary. "Are you saying she added the tractor to the service list for the first time in five years?"
He manages a feeble shrug of the shoulders.
"Maybe we should ask her? Gemma, could you call her in?"
He raises a hand. "There's been a mistake, dude."
I walk across, forcing him back until his shoulders hit the bars. He crosses his hands as I step even closer. "Maybe she was following your instructions, Foley."
Though pressed against the bars, he manages to shake his head with plenty of vigour. "It had nothing to do with me, honest."
"If it wasn't you and it wasn't Rebecca, who could it be? Could someone else add the tractor to the maintenance list?"
He swallows and glances at Gemma, maybe hoping she'll take pity on him. "People wander in and out of here all day," he tells her, "but they know nothing about maintenance contracts."
"Someone did," I say. "Who knew about the tractor?"
"Syd Collins?" His hopeful expression melts as quickly as it formed. "We'll never prove it without a Ouija board."
I back away and raise a finger to my lips to tell Gemma to keep quiet. I'm hoping the silence will encourage Foley to redeem himself and give me some names. Only he doesn't. He just stands there, shoulders sagging, expression blank. He shows no desire to fill the silence. Outside, the cheering reaches a climax as Gregor gallops past.
"Was he friendly with anyone?" I ask. "The young kid, Cheung, maybe?"
"Syd was a loner. I think he drank in a pub up the road from his house."
"The Game Cock," Rebecca says, walking in. Her cheeky grin fades as she looks at Foley. "It didn't live up to its name, did it?"
"Was Syd friendly with anyone?" he asks her.
She turns to face me. "Artie Tompkins gave him a ride on the train sometimes. It passes close to Syd's house."
"Then I'll talk to Artie," I say, heading for the door. "I'll be back to take a written statement from you later, Mr Foley."
The crack of gunshots in the street makes him start. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and almost falls into his chair. "Artie doesn't break for lunch till one," he calls.
Outside, the boardwalk's packed with spectators. We follow the signs for the train and weave our way through till we reach the intersection with Terminus Street. The spectators thin out here, probably tempted to eat by the aroma of various fast foods, all served with a salad garnish and fries. I want a bacon sandwich, dripping with brown sauce.
"You're quiet," I remark to Gemma.
"It's difficult to get a word in when you're antagonising people."
"That was hardly antagonistic. Anyway, it worked, didn't it? We got a name."
"You got the name of a train driver. Awesome!"
Her sarcasm cuts deeper than I expect. "What if Collins confided in Artie? He might have said he removed the guard from the power takeoff."
"What if he didn't?"
The distinctive sound of Enrico Morricone spills out of speakers above the window of Tombstone Tacos, the last restaurant before the level crossing. The tables with their red check tablecloths and miniature cacti menu holders are empty. A couple of waiters with olive complexions and black hair chatter at the bar, pausing only to admire Gemma.
"Someone removed the guard," I tell her. "And I think I know where it is."
"The barn?"
"No one uses it, but Cheung slipped round the back. Why?"
Orange lights on either side of the crossing begin to flash. The barriers come down and people gather to watch the train come through. A couple of toots on the whistle direct my gaze to the station, where the train eases away from the platform.
The diesel locomotive rumbles past, pulling five open carriages packed with parents and children, all waving to us. Artie is sitting sideways, with his back to us. He toots the whistle again, encouraging more frantic waving. In a little over a minute the train has passed. The barriers rise and we cross the track towards Tombstone Central.
The timber clad building looks just like the ticket office at the entrance, but with a few additions to offer latte and cappuccino, and ice cream for children. They have plenty of time to enjoy their refreshments as the queue snakes through a rope maze until it finally reaches a barrier at the ticket office. Adjacent is a bright yellow exit gate and path. No snaking for them as they walk past all those frustrated and impatient parents waiting to ride the train.
Gemma stares at the queue. "You've got proof that Tombstone serviced the machinery. Why do we need to talk to Artie?"
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
"Why did someone suddenly decide to repair the tractor? Why didn't they do it years ago? Why three months ago? Why did Collins want fence posts today?"
"Who cares, Kent? We check compliance with the law, don't we?"
"Don't you want to know why a man went to a tractor he hadn't used for years?" I stop, realising people are listening. I draw her to one side. "Those questions cast doubt."
"Doubt on what?"
"All the arguments and lies Birchill will use against us. If Foley didn't arrange the service, then Collins is a good bet. So, why did he remove the guard he had fitted? I'd say that was a valid line of investigation, wouldn't you?"
No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1) Page 5
