"Mineral water."
"Fresh from the tap every morning. And to eat?"
"It's too early, thanks."
He washes his hands in a small basin, making a show of his antibacterial soap, and then places some rashers on the griddle using tongs. He's not a bad cook for a Scenes of Crime Officer. When he retired three years ago his cooking was as dire as his DIY skills. For someone who could piece together a crime scene from fragments and minute traces, he couldn't assemble a cupboard from a flat pack. The fitter he employed took a shine to his wife and ran off with her.
He took it philosophically. "If I fell into a barrel of boobs I'd come out sucking my thumb."
His marital troubles, coupled with staff shortages and long hours, led him to quit the job. I helped him finish the kitchen in time to sell the house as part of the divorce settlement. He combined his share with the lump sum from his retirement and bought a bungalow on the beach at Pevensey Bay. In the garage he found an old ambulance beneath a tarpaulin. A week in the workshop, a coat of paint, and some second hand catering equipment, and Mike's Mighty Munch was born.
"Stop sniping at Mike," I tell Gemma. "He's on our side."
She watches every move he makes. Like many people new to the job, she expects perfection. In time she'll learn the law's a minimum standard, not a maximum. Most businesses go beyond the minimum, but Mike's broke.
"Honest grub for honest customers," he says with pride.
He wipes his temperature probe and checks the cooking temperature of a sausage. The probe reads 90°C, enough to kill bugs almost instantly. "Are you happy with that?" he asks her.
"You didn't sterilise the probe."
"He leaves it dipped in antibacterial washing up liquid and wipes it with a paper towel before use," I say, aware of the chill in the air. "Check his records and you'll see he also calibrates the probe weekly so it's accurate. Didn't you check all this on Monday?"
Her sigh suggests not. "But it all looks such a mess."
"You don't catch food poisoning from clutter."
Mike serves another customer with a sausage and egg roll before making my bacon sandwich. The aroma's almost unbearable as he takes his time smearing brown sauce over buttered granary bread.
"Are you sure I can't tempt you, Miss Dean?"
When she shakes her head, he turns to me. "On the basis you're not after fashion tips, do I assume you've just come from Tombstone?"
"Bad news travels fast."
He layers three rashers of bacon before encasing them with another slice of granary. "Detective Inspector Briggs stopped by for breakfast. He left it to the Coroner's Officer."
"That's right," I say. "Carolyn Montague. You must have met her."
He shakes his head. "The only Carolyn Montague I remember was fast tracked to a detective inspector in Brighton some years ago. I don't know how she wound up a Coroner's Officer—if it's the same person, of course."
He slices my sandwich diagonally and puts the halves on a paper plate. "I'm guessing it's your case as it's a work accident. I hope you remember what I taught you about examining a crime scene."
I nod, too busy savouring the sweet taste of bacon to talk.
"Miles Birchill turned up," Gemma says, filling the silence.
Mike fills two mugs from a large metal teapot. "So, Collins bought it, did he? There's a happy ending."
"No one deserves to die like that, Mike. It was horrific."
"Collins got what he deserved, if you ask me." He hands me a mug of tea. "You can start your own Sanity Gallery now."
"What's that?" Gemma asks.
"We pinned photographs from our investigations on a wall in the office," he replies. "Then we added captions like 'Norman has no head for business.' That went to a shopkeeper who blew his brains out with a shotgun."
"The humour was blacker than pitch," I say.
"Sounds sick to me," she says.
"It helped us cope." He takes the second mug of tea and heads down the steps at the back of his van. "What do you want to know, pal?"
"Everything you can tell me about Collins."
He taps his fingers on his lips as he thinks.
"We need Hetty. That's former Detective Inspector Harold Wainthropp." He turns to Gemma. "We called him Hetty after the TV series."
She gives him a blank look, too young to remember the pensioner turned detective.
"Hetty spent most of his career trying to nick Collins and Birchill," Mike continues. "He's in a nursing home now. I'll give him a call, if you like."
"Thanks, I need all the help I can get."
"Why are you so interested in Collins?" Gemma asks, sounding frustrated. "You're supposed to be investigating his death, not his life."
"Kent's big on conspiracy," Mike replies, raising a finger to his lips. "He's certain the Royal Family plotted to kill Lady Diana. And don't mention the moon landings; they were mocked up in a warehouse."
"I like the idea there may be alternative explanations and different ways of looking at things," I say. "It's good to speculate and challenge."
"You spent too much time reading books instead of playing football," he says. "How can you grow up in Manchester and not like football?"
Gemma looks surprised. "You grew up in Manchester?"
"Listen to his accent. It's half northern, half southern and half German."
I drain my tea and push the mug into his hand. "Let me know about Hetty."
"We could have a bite to eat down at the Bells. Or are you running?"
"I'll let you know."
We're well on the way to Tollingdon before Gemma asks, "What did he mean—you're half German?"
When my mother left Germany she worked in a hospital in Manchester. She never told me how she met my father or came to be in Sussex, and I never thought to ask. We didn't have that kind of relationship.
"My mother comes from Bavaria," I reply.
"How did you end up in Manchester? It's a long way from Downland."
My mother had friends there—not that she ever saw any of them, as far as I could tell. "She went back there when she left my father."
"I'll bet your father liked that."
"I wasn't keen on the place myself," I say, recalling the move.
I was six or seven at the time and used to open fields and the Downs, not row upon row of sooty houses where people spoke with strange accents that made them sound foreign. The children at school mocked me because I sounded posh. I wanted to go home, but my mother told me my father was dead and we'd been thrown out of the house because she was German. So we lived in a damp basement flat in a road where people played music all night and threw up in our yard.
"Is that why you came back to Sussex?"
"More or less."
When I was 17, my father arrived on the doorstep one evening. My mother was out playing bingo as usual, so we had time to talk, once I'd recovered from the shock. As well as being alive, he was an MP in the House of Commons and a member of several important committees. He couldn't believe we lived in such a dump with all the maintenance he paid my mother. He asked me if I wanted to return home. I packed a rucksack, wrote a note for my mother, and headed south that night.
I haven't heard from or spoken to my mother in the 24 years since that day.
I don't expect to.
Seven
Tollingdon is a market town that prides itself on its café culture, art galleries and antique shops. While you're unlikely to find artists and writers sipping peppermint tea or decaffeinated skinny lattes, there are plenty of women sporting artistic fingernails and tattoos.
While the High Street has preserved its Georgian and Victorian brick buildings, the influx of charity shops, takeaways, and nail salons has changed the ambience. The council has tucked away its social housing between the railway line and the sewage works, but they can't stem the influx of teenage mums into the town. According to the Tollingdon Tribune, they fill the pavements with their buggies, blocking access to antique shops while they
chat and text. Cigarette ends and empty alcopop bottles fill the gutters, while antisocial behaviour turns the town centre into a no-go area on Friday and Saturday nights.
I watch this assault on traditional values from our office in the High Street. We're on the top floor of a three-story red brick building that has all the lavish touches of the Victorians, including ornate windows framed in stone. Majestic chimneys, embellished with intricate corbelling that will cost a fortune to restore rise out of grey slate roofs. The grand oak doors lead into a tiled foyer that has a sweeping staircase, perfect for weddings.
Wood panelling and parquet floors reflect the historic wealth of the area. They also highlight the problems Downland's councillors have in adjusting to the modern world. The council has a building filled with small offices. It can't create the larger open plan spaces it needs for mobile working and hot desks, which would help to cut costs. The old heating system, with its clanking cast iron radiators, needs updating to something greener and more sustainable. Until all these issues can be addressed, the Public Protection Team I manage retains its cosy office. The downside is that Danni is next door, along with the thermostat. Her PA, Kelly, sits outside in a small reception area that boasts unbroken views of the main corridor in each direction. No one sneaks up on us.
Long before I reach Kelly, she's grinning. She struts over in her stilettos and appraises my electric blue shirt. "You look like one of those 1980s porn stars. All you need is a moustache and a mullet."
"You can talk," I say, looking at her short, tight skirt, figure-hugging top and big earrings. "And I bought this shirt in the nineties, not the eighties."
"Geez, Kent, don't you throw anything away—apart from your career prospects?" She points down the corridor. "They're waiting for you in the conference room. When you stroll in, looking like you stepped out of a nightclub, you know what Danni's going to say."
"'You never get a second chance to make a first impression'," we say in unison.
"I need someone like you at home to improve my wardrobe," I say when we stop laughing.
"You'll find it's cheaper to buy new clothes. Now, don't keep Danni and the Chief Executive waiting."
"You haven't asked me about the investigation."
"I don't need to. If Miles Birchill is on his way, you must be making an impression."
Kelly's the smartest person I know. She hides her wit and intelligence by looking, dressing and talking like a barmaid in a rugby club. She flirts with the male directors and managers, who fall over themselves to impress her. Many of the women in the council like the way she manipulates the men by playing dumb. I just love her sense of humour and free spirit.
"Could you tell Danni I'm stuck in heavy traffic and running late?" I ask.
"I could, but she won't believe me. Twinkle Toes is already there."
It takes me a couple of seconds to realise she's referring to Gemma and her diamante sandals. "In that case, tell Danni you haven't seen me. I'll be in Legal if you need me."
"With the dashing Doug or the pliable Philippa?"
"Doug never believes anything I say."
"Then you should stop lying to him, shouldn't you?"
In her office, I explain my dilemma to Philippa Fry, who makes notes between mouthfuls of hummus, forcing me to stop mid-sentence from time to time while she catches up.
"I need to interview Miles Birchill," I say, "but he has a restraining order against me. In a moment of madness, I emptied slurry into his car."
She nods as if it's an everyday occurrence. "Yes, I can see how Mr Birchill might question your impartiality."
"That's why I want you with me in the interview. If he's bringing his best lawyer, then I need our best to balance the odds."
A smile sneaks across her mouth. "I'd be happy to help you, Kent."
I sigh. "Then I realised we shouldn't be balancing the odds."
"No?"
"No. We should tip them in our favour, Philippa. Birchill's coming here, expecting to win because he can rubbish me." I look around the small room and lean closer. "But he can't if someone else interviews him."
She polishes off the last of the hummus. "You mean Lucy, don't you?"
"She's not intimidated by Birchill," I say, as if thinking aloud. "But he won't want to talk to someone from the shop floor, will he?"
"No, those Doc Marten boots don't help, do they?" She pushes her spectacles back up her nose with a forefinger and then smiles. "He'd respect Danni, though."
"Philippa, you're a star. Why didn't I think of Danni?"
"You're too close, Kent."
"Sorry, I'll give you some air," I say, shuffling the chair back.
She giggles. "I mean you're too close to Danni to see her as anything but a manager."
"And you're too smart to waste your time on leases and tenancy agreements. You and Danni are more than a match for Miles Birchill and his overpaid monkeys."
"Then let's get things moving."
Philippa enters the Conference Room with a confidence I haven't seen before. The heels of her sensible shoes beat an assertive rhythm as she strides across the parquet floor. She stops and places her folder on the large, mahogany table, surrounded by matching wooden chairs inlaid with velvet. Danni and the Chief Executive sit at the opposite end with various folders and papers, spread out before them. Gemma, who's chatting to my boss, falls silent when we enter.
The grand room with its oak-panelled walls and intricate plaster ceiling imposes an air of authority and history that can seem daunting when you're holding a team briefing or food hygiene training course. But the grandeur sits uncomfortably with the screen and projector, top of the range sound system, and huge smartboard that only IT knows how to operate.
We sit opposite my boss. "Philippa's had a great idea."
The Chief Executive peers over the top of his glasses. "Why have you brought the Council’s Solicitor to this meeting?"
She puts a hand on my arm and rises, as if making an objection in court. "Kent came to me with a problem that could compromise the success of his investigation. Miles Birchill has a restraining order against him."
Danni and Frank glance at each other. "Is this true?" she asks.
"It was five years ago," I reply. "I thought it lapsed when the park was completed. I'm sure my powers of entry override it."
"If Miles Birchill accuses Kent of holding a grudge, it could undermine the investigation," Philippa says.
Danni parts the curtains of brown hair and tucks each side behind her ears. "You never thought to mention this when we spoke earlier?"
"I didn't appreciate how Birchill could use our feud to his advantage."
Danni shakes her head, releasing her hair back into its bob. "You withheld important information that could embarrass the council."
"If someone more senior and respected were to take charge of proceedings," Philippa says, "Mr Birchill would have no cause to complain."
Frank raises a hand to forestall Danni. "Who do you have in mind?" he asks.
"Danni. She'll show Mr Birchill we take him seriously."
"I need to keep a healthy distance to remain objective," Danni says, her voice quivering. "I can't take over the investigation."
"You only need to do the interview this afternoon," Philippa says. "I'll be there in case you need legal advice."
"The only advice I need is how to deal with Kent's failure to disclose information that could compromise the council."
"Hang on," I say, meeting Danni's angry stare. "You told me to get the hell out to Tombstone. You never gave me a chance to tell you."
"You could have rung back."
"I was already late. The Coroner's Officer said she'd been waiting for an hour after speaking to you."
"That's my fault," Frank says. "Daniella rang me and I wanted to make sure we covered every base." That's management speak for not knowing what to do. "So," he says, replacing the cap on his fountain pen, "either we cancel the interview, or you and Philippa take charge."
Frank glances at Philippa, who nods. "I can live with that."
"Good. It shouldn't take too long, either."
Birchill could be in and out of Tollingdon in less than an hour. I'll have hardly any time to nose around Collins' house.
"If he brings any supporting documents, would you check they're genuine?" I ask Philippa.
"I'll make him sit and watch me," she replies. "It could take some time."
I head for the door, barely believing I got what I wanted. Danni intercepts me with surprising speed. "My office in two minutes," she says, striding past.
Gemma falls in beside me. "She won't let you get away with that."
"Get away with what?"
"You stitched her up good and proper. So, how come she got the top job?"
"I never applied for it. Now, tell me why you rushed off the minute we got here."
"Uncle Frank wanted to know how I got on."
Or Danni wanted to know what I was doing, more like.
I return to the office in silence. Lucy and Nigel scurry over, wanting to know everything. In reality, Lucy wants to know why she's not assisting me, but she can't bring herself to ask outright.
"Gemma can fill you in on the details," I say. "I have to see Danni."
I'm halfway to the door when Kelly waves me over. "I've got Ms. Montague on the phone about the accident."
"Put her through," I say, glad of the distraction.
I return to my desk and search beneath the files and paperwork for a message pad. My ‘In’ tray has enough letters, memos and messages to show I'm behind with my work, mainly food hygiene inspections, complaints and planning consultations. That's in addition to the management meetings, performance monitoring, appraisal reviews and time management training.
The phone rings and I settle back. "Carolyn, how can I help?"
"Back in the office, Kent? Have you wrapped up the case?"
"We're doing okay," I reply, aware that Gemma’s taking an interest.
"I'm going to Collins' place in the morning to see if I can find details of any relatives, that kind of thing. Want to tag along?"
No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1) Page 7
