I swivel my chair so Gemma can hear me better. "Tell me what time and I'll meet you there."
"Ten o'clock. See you then." She puts the phone down, but I pretend we're still talking. "Two o'clock this afternoon? That's short notice, Carolyn. Yes, I know you're busy, but... okay, I'll see you there."
I hope Gemma caught all that, but just to make sure, I give her the gist as I pass her desk.
Danni's office is an austere room that's functional rather than welcoming. Like the suits she wears, the furniture is grey and modern. The off-white walls are bare, apart from her large Motivational Pinboard, where she places positive and inspiring messages and quotations. The messages vary from week to week, depending on which pithy quotes she culls from her desk calendar.
'A glass that's half full can never be empty' is her current favourite. It distracts me whenever I'm in here because I can't stop wondering what happens if you knock the glass over.
She's standing on a chair, trying to rehang a vertical window blind that's come off its hook. If she strains much further, she'll overbalance. I offer to help, but she tells me to sit.
Danni looks old before her time with her dull bobbed hair, frilly blouse and buckled shoes. Wrapped in a plain grey jacket she can't quite button up and a matching skirt that hangs just below the knee, she only needs glasses to become my old history teacher. We called her Michelin Woman because her blouse bulged into several bands when she sat. She never wore makeup, rarely smiled, and preferred to live in the past, which I suppose you would if you taught history.
"Excellent." Danni jumps to the ground to admire her repair. She hauls the chair back to the table. "'Champions keep playing until they get it right'," she says, determined to turn anything into a learning experience. "Billie Jean King," she adds, nodding at her pinboard.
She sits opposite, back straight and arms on the table, and regards me with pale green eyes. She goes through this ritual every time we meet. I don't know whether she's composing herself, planning her questions, or reminding herself she's a service head at the age of 31. Luckily, she's not at her desk, or I'd have to endure the ritual of her straightening pens, pads, keyboard, mouse and phone.
"How dare you undermine me in front of the Chief Executive?" she growls. "How dare you discuss a case with legal before talking to me? And don't you dare blame me for not knowing you had a grudge against Miles Birchill."
I'm tempted to remind her she arranged an interview with Birchill without consulting me. Two wrongs don't make a right, though, according to the pinboard.
"And why are you wearing such an inappropriate shirt? How many times have I told you—you never get a second chance to make a first impression?"
"My appearance has no bearing on my professional competence."
Her fingers are drumming on table top now. "Are you going to disagree with everything I say and do?"
"I'm not against you, Danni."
"If insubordination were an Olympic sport, Kent, you'd be world champion."
"Don't you mean Olympic champion?"
She grimaces. "You can't stop yourself, can you?"
"I'm not the one demanding three quotes before I seize machinery."
"That was Gemma's role. She was there to help you, not carry the Grab Bag all morning. And before you interrupt," she says, leaning forward, "three quotes would have prevented you selecting the company that services Tombstone's tractors."
"And how else could I prove Tombstone serviced the tractor that killed Collins?"
She folds her arms. "If you have proof, why are you wasting so much time on the victim?"
So, Gemma has reported back.
"I want to know why he was out there so early."
"How does that affect the safety of the machinery or Tombstone's management of the risk?" she asks, relaxing back into her chair. "This is a work accident not a vendetta. Bring me the evidence that proves Tombstone failed in their duty of care."
"I know how to do my job."
"Are you sure?" Her question suggests I've missed something, putting doubt in my mind. "If you've proved Tombstone serviced the machinery, Kent, why won't you confront Miles Birchill?"
I shift in the seat. "I don't have the documents yet."
"Then go and get them. If I have to watch Philippa scrutinise every bit of paper Mr Birchill produces, then I want to know you're photocopying documents too."
As I reach the door, she calls me back. "I want regular reports on your progress. Understood?"
"How regular?"
"Daily, starting tomorrow morning. I will update everyone on my meeting with Miles Birchill and you can bring the evidence you're collecting this afternoon."
"When you say everyone, who are we talking about?"
She counts them on her fingers. "The Portfolio Holder, Councillor Rathbone, the Chief Executive, Gemma, me and you. I suppose I'll have to include Philippa. Geoff Lamb, our Communications Officer, will attend too. Kelly will take minutes and record action points for us."
Action points is management speak for the instructions Danni intends to give me. "If we prosecute, any minutes will have to be disclosed to Birchill." I say.
"Then be careful what you say. I'll see you at nine thirty tomorrow morning in the Conference Room."
I'm outside the office before I realise she's suckered me. How can I meet Carolyn tomorrow morning if I have to be here?
"What's up?" Kelly asks, pushing an open bag of wine gums toward me.
"Danni's just beaten me at my own game."
Eight
My plan to travel to Collins' house by train soon hits the buffers.
My plan was quite simple. We'd ride in the cab with Artie and quiz him about Collins' girlfriend. Artie has other ideas.
"You can't ride in the cab. Health and safety," he says with relish.
Gemma gives him a hurt look. "But I've always wanted to toot the whistle. You'll hardly know I'm there."
With her looks and smile that's highly unlikely. He mops his forehead with a rag. Artie wavers. "I'd like to, but...."
"What if I ride in the carriage?" I ask, taking a seat.
He helps her into the cab and whispers something in her ear. She giggles and watches him trot across the platform to the barrier. He drops his arm and she toots the whistle twice. The noise is almost as big as her grin.
The maelstrom of children swirls across the platform. They pile into the carriage, rocking it in every direction as they push and shove their way to the best seats. It seems like a long time before everyone's seated and ready to go. Artie has his hand next to Gemma's as they toot the whistle to leave. With a jolt, we're on our way across Tombstone's wild plains, as the brochure describes them. With the children churning around me, it's wild enough in the carriage, thank you.
Once we leave the town, the train rumbles through fields and pastures occupied by buffalo, ostrich, llama, and horses. They gather in the shade of the trees, indifferent to our passing. The children on either side of me, however, can't sit still. Not content with trying to clamber over and around me while shooting their toy pistols at each other, they make enough noise to give me tinnitus. Gemma encourages them by pointing her finger at them like a pretend gun.
A few minutes later, the line crosses the road from the barn to the town. We're soon running along the fringe of the woods. The train slows at the end of a chestnut grove and it's time to exit.
"That was awesome," Gemma says, waving to the kids as the train pulls away. "Artie's a real sweetie. You really upset him this morning."
"Yeah, I noticed him crying as he left the station. Did you ask him about Collins' girlfriend?"
"No, but I discovered that Collins and Birchill fell out over Tombstone. Collins assumed he would run Tombstone, but Ben Foley got the job. His father's a Downland district councillor." She raises her eyebrows to signify the obvious. "Birchill wanted Collins to run the maintenance side of things, giving him the house, the barn and all the machinery, but Collins refused the job."
; "That's why the machinery in the barn has never been used. Birchill must have been furious after all the money he spent."
She nods. "Collins decided to make fence posts and sell them to Tombstone, but the tractor broke down after a few months. He gave up and spent most of his time in the pub, Artie reckons."
I think about this while we plod through the long grass, disturbing the crickets and grasshoppers that sing to each other. Butterflies fold open their wings to the sun when they settle on the many wild flowers that drift across the grass. Overhead, a kestrel hovers on the thermals, looking for a naïve field mouse or vole. Gemma, coated in factor 50, discovers her sandals offer no protection against stinging nettles. When we reach the woods, her ankle and toes are itchy red. She stops and gently massages the affected areas, her face twisted into a mixture of pain and ecstasy.
"So, what changed?" I ask, resting against a tree trunk. "Why did Collins get the tractor fixed and start work at six this morning?"
"Maybe he was sharpening a stake to drive through Birchill's heart," she says.
We laugh and set off again, stepping over twisted roots and squeezing between banks of nettles stretching to reach the light. The shade feels invigorating, full of an energy that charges the air. I run my hand over the rough bark, sensing the flow of sap beneath as it fuels these mighty trees to oxygenate the planet. No wonder people want to hug them.
"Do you think there's an autobiography?" Gemma asks.
I hope so. If nothing else, it might give me something useful to use against Birchill. "Maybe it's hidden with the missing guard."
"Or a suicide note." She turns, her face full of excitement. "Why not, if he had cancer?" she asks, answering my frown. "What if he couldn't take the pain anymore? If he commits suicide, the insurance won't pay, so he fakes an accident."
And I thought I had a vivid imagination. "Who collects the insurance?"
"His family, I guess." She follows her half-hearted reply with a long sigh and rubs at her itching ankle. "I know it sounds nuts, but suicide explains why he was there early and why he was wearing a tie. The empty vodka bottle means he got drunk to numb any pain."
"Why not drive your car into a wall or off Beachy Head?"
She smiles smugly. "The tyres on his Range Rover were flat."
"Good point. Say, did you check if Collins was in court?"
"I went straight to see Uncle Frank and Danni in the Conference Room. I'll ring when we get back to the office."
"Did you tell them about your adventures this morning?"
"I told Danni not to eat at Mike's Mighty Munch."
"You did what?"
"Joke!" she cries, holding up her hands. "I told her we interviewed Cheung, Foley and Artie. Obviously, she wanted to know what they'd told us."
"And who they were," I say, recalling Danni's instruction to focus on the accident, not Collins.
Gemma sighs. "She wanted to know why we interviewed a train driver. I said you wanted to know more about Collins."
"I want to know what Danni said when she rang you this morning."
We walk a few paces before Gemma replies. "I had to ring her, actually. She rang three times before half seven, so I knew it was serious."
That might explain why Danni took thirty minutes to phone me after taking the call from Carolyn. It doesn't explain why my boss rang Gemma first.
"She told me to get the Grab Bag from the office and meet you on site," she continues.
"Did you wonder why she'd asked you to assist me?"
She shakes her head. "Danni said you'd requested me. She said she was surprised, but assumed you knew what you were doing." She pauses, looking confused. "Hang on. You said you asked for Lucy. What's going on?"
That's what I'd like to know. "When Danni rang me, she'd already spoken to you."
"What do you mean? I don't understand."
"Danni rang you first. Why would she do that?"
"I don't know," she says, becoming agitated. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I've betrayed you or something. I never asked to come on this case, you know. Danni sent me."
"But why?" I ask. "Why did she pick you? You've said she wants you to report back each day."
She shields the sun from her eyes as she stares at me. A few moments pass before she understands what I'm suggesting. After the initial surprise, which looks genuine enough, she gives me a look of such contempt I almost feel guilty.
"Do you remember when you inspected La Floret?" she asks, struggling to keep her voice calm.
How could I ever forget?
"You told me to follow my dreams. All I had to do was believe in myself. Nothing's impossible, you said, if you want it bad enough."
"Did I say that?"
"Yeah, the night before the morning you snuck out. When I knew you'd dumped me, I went to London to make a fresh start. For five or six years I had a great time, but it wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to make a difference, just like you. So I spoke to Uncle Frank," she says, lowering her head. "I wanted advice. I never thought he'd get me a job in your team."
"You wanted to empty bins, did you?"
"I might have known you wouldn't believe me." She glares at me and turns away. "Well, don't flatter yourself that I came back because of you. I'm not the awestruck virgin you seduced."
She stumbles through the grass and nettles in her haste to get away. I watch, remembering how I had been the nervous one, surprised at how confident and self-assured this young waitress was. Not that it makes any difference now. She's engaged to Richard now, a respectable, trustworthy solicitor who has money and status. Like most solicitors I've met, he operates slowly. She doesn't have a ring on her finger yet.
I set off after her, catching up with her as she breaks out of the woodland onto the grass path that leads to Collins' house. I knock on the front door hard enough to wake the dead. When no one answers, I peer through the adjacent window. I shield my eyes from the sun, but I still can't make out anything inside.
"Carolyn should be here," I say, checking my watch. "Maybe she's parked around the back."
I pretend to search for a few minutes before returning. "She just rang to say she's been called out. She'll be here as soon as she can. Apparently, there's a key under a pot by the front door if we want to make a start in the meantime."
Gemma selects the large variegated hosta nearest the door and heaves the pot back. She pulls out a key on a piece of twine. "How did she know about the key?"
"Artie told us, remember?"
"Yeah, but how did Carolyn know?"
That was a careless slip. "Maybe Cheung told her."
She hands me the key and says, "I'm not going in there. It's like we're invading Collins' privacy."
"He's dead. He's hardly going to protest."
I turn the key in the lock and open the door. "Watch out for the rats," I say, pointing to the flattened grass where the foxes run along the base of the wall. "You don't normally see them during the day unless they're hungry."
She steps back, staring at the run and looking along the wall. "Rats? Here?"
"Imagine how big you look to them, Gemma. They'll probably scatter in all directions if they see you. I'll close the door so they don't run into the house."
I walk into the homogenous cream hall, which looks like it's never been used. I run my fingers along the top of the dresser, but there's no dust. The carpet is dirt and stain free. There are no shoes or umbrellas, no hats or coats on the hooks. I feel a warm breeze on the back of my neck, followed by the sound of the door slamming.
"I heard rustling in the grass," Gemma says, glancing over her shoulder. "I didn't wait to see what it was."
"Okay, now you're here, tell me what's missing."
She walks up and down the hall, glancing at the floor, walls and ceiling. "Character," she says without hesitation. "It looks antiseptic."
I open the first door on my left into a living room. "The place should reek of cigarette smoke."<
br />
"Not if he smoked outside. There were cigarettes in the Land Rover, right?"
Lieutenant Columbo wouldn't accept that. He'd check every little detail, looking for anything out of place as he unpicked perfect murders. I'm not Columbo, and this isn't a murder, but there are too many details that don't make sense.
I look around the lounge, furnished in the same colour and style as the hall. Maybe Collins landed a job lot of ex-display furniture from a showroom. The money he saved paid for the enormous flat screen TV on the wall. Underneath, in a cabinet, I find a collection of DVDs, all in neat lines on the shelves.
"What are we looking for?" Gemma asks, opening a drawer.
"Address books, diaries, bank statements, photographs." The films are mainly musicals from the 1950s and 60s. Fred Astaire, Doris Day and Elvis feature prominently. "Anything that could identify friends or family."
I slide out the Marilyn Monroe box set. While I've never seen any of her films, I can see why she attracted so much interest. While there's no disputing her beauty, she has a vulnerability that makes her irresistible. I can imagine her surprise if someone told her she looked stunning.
"She's not your type," Gemma says, looking over my shoulder. "You prefer the lean, toned look, judging by the way you watch female runners—and waitresses."
I place the box set on the arm of the sofa, wondering if I'm so easy to read. "Anything else you've noticed about me?"
She runs her finger along the spines of the DVDs. "Collins organises his collection alphabetically by its stars, but you choose genre, followed by the titles in alphabetical order. You rearranged my meagre collection. I didn't notice until you'd gone and it made me madder than ever. It was like you were taking over, imposing your tastes on me."
"I wanted to make it easier for you to find your films."
"You do the same when you inspect kitchens. You scan the room and then home in on the detail. So," she says, looking pleased, "what do you think of this room?"
I look around, wishing there was a photograph or some art on the walls. "It's all lazy," I say, wishing I could pinpoint what troubles me. "He's bought a show house, but he doesn't live in it. Does that make sense?"
No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1) Page 8
