"Sure." She's on her knees, looking at the lowest shelf of films. She holds up Star Wars—A New Hope. "You went gaga over Carrie Fisher, didn't you?"
Carrie Fisher filled my adolescent fantasies. She was my perfect woman with dark, mischievous eyes, a feisty temperament, and a wry sense of humour. As we shared the same surname, I used to pretend we were married.
"How do you know about that?" I ask, making a note to watch the films again.
"You said I reminded you of her."
I said many things, all of them now safely locked away in a mental cabinet.
The cream theme spills into the dining room, filled with a table and four chairs. A brief search of the sideboard reveals some Blenheim Palace coasters and place mats in one of the drawers. Gemma pulls out a chair and drops into it.
"This is pointless, Kent. Collins filled his house with expensive new furniture and never used it."
I nod, making a connection. "There's a barn full of new equipment that's never been used. Now we have a house full of furniture that's never been used."
"So?"
I shrug. "It's an interesting echo, don't you think?"
"I think we should hurry up and get out of here," she replies. "I feel like an intruder, poking around like this. What if someone catches us?"
"We're in the middle of nowhere."
While she watches through the lounge window for visitors, I go into a modern kitchen extension that's lined with glossy white cupboards, set against black tiled walls. I find nothing out of the ordinary in the cupboards and drawers and join Gemma at the foot of the stairs.
"Maybe we'll get lucky upstairs," I say.
"You wish," she says, sauntering ahead. "I'm not that kind of girl."
On the way up, the smell of stale cigarettes grows until it pervades the landing. I open a window and look out, wondering if Collins walked to the Game Cock or drove. I'm sure the pub isn't far along the lane, but I'll need to check. First, I need to deal with the reek of cigarette smoke that escapes from the rear bedroom.
"Close the door, will you?"
She ignores me and dives into the room, emerging a few moments later. She shuts the door behind her and breathes out in relief. Wafting fresher air into her lungs with her hand, she joins me by the open window. I step back, the acrid smell already burning at the back of my throat.
"I've opened the window," she says, "but it'll take hours to clear the smell. At least we know where he smoked."
"Thanks," I say, keen to put as much distance as possible between me and the room.
The front bedroom continues the Art Deco theme, expanding it to include curtains, pillowcases and duvet, all enhanced with a floral pattern. It's a large room, spanning the width of the house. While Gemma dives into the wardrobes, I peel back the net curtain and look out at the woodland. To my right, the trees give way to grassland. Beyond, there seems to be a road, leading to a gate in the stone wall, but I can't be sure.
"No suits, shirts or ties," she calls, closing the door. "Collins was a denim and tee shirt guy, with a fondness for suede shoes." She crosses the room and opens the other wardrobe. "This one's empty, apart from a spare duvet and pillows."
I fold back the duvet on the bed to reveal a wrinkled sheet beneath, but only on one side. "Damn!" I curse, lifting the pillow. "The revolver's missing."
She rushes over. "What revolver?"
"How would I know? It's missing."
She snatches the pillow from my hand and stares at the sheet beneath. "Not funny," she says, striking me with the pillow. "Can we go now?"
I've no intention of leaving yet. "Why do I get the feeling someone's cleaned this place from top to bottom?" I ask, heading for a waste bin in the corner.
"You wouldn't say that if you saw the office. What are you doing?"
In detective films, the waste bin always contains a clue of some kind. On this occasion, it's the foil and plastic packaging from a condom, nestled among some crumpled tissues.
"What do you make of this?" I ask.
She peers inside and sniffs. "Scented tissues. Unless Collins has a feminine side, he had company last night. Artie said he saw her Wednesdays."
"They had sex, yet she didn't stay." I return to the bed and raise the other side of the duvet to reveal a smooth sheet. "Did she leave last night or this morning?"
"What difference does it make?"
I shrug, interested in anything I can't explain. "When we find her, imagine what she can tell us about Collins. In the meantime, his house will have to do the talking."
The bathroom faces the back bedroom across the landing. It's modest but modern, dominated by a large bath with air jets to aerate the water. As I open the cabinet, I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. Some mornings I look and feel like I'm fifty. The blue shirt doesn't help, making my complexion look darker.
The cabinet contains the usual toiletries, plus a box of nicotine patches tucked underneath a pack of sticking plasters at the back. "Maximum strength," I say, showing them to Gemma.
She laughs. "They didn't work, judging by the smell from the office."
I return the patches, knowing I have to face the smell. While I'd sooner avoid it, this last room could be the one that reveals something about Collins.
"No sign of Carolyn," I remark, peering out of the landing window as we pass.
Cigarette smoke has impregnated every surface in the room like an invisible poison. Unlike the rest of the house, this room is a tip. The woodchip wallpaper, once white, has turned yellow and has started to peel at the junction with the ceiling. The carpet feels sticky beneath my feet, having surrendered whatever colour it had to dirt and grease. The net curtain on the window is stained brown, especially along the top where the casement opens. The sticky film on the surface of the glass makes my stomach turn. I hate fat and grease in all its forms, but this film feels particularly nasty. Realising it must be tar from the cigarettes I hurriedly wipe my finger on my handkerchief.
Gemma peers through the window. "Collins could see everyone who passed by while he sat at his desk."
The beech-effect, self-assembly desk, purchased from a DIY store, matches the bookcases that line the side wall. There's a cupboard over the stairwell, and some metal racking, containing rows of cardboard boxes, similar to the ones we use at work to archive documents. Unlike the other rooms, dust is not only tolerated but allowed to flourish, coating most surfaces. I drop into the leather executive chair, which is protected by a polythene wrapper, and swivel from side to side.
"Bit of a contrast to the rest of the place," I say, switching on the tower computer. "Why don't you check the bookcases and cupboards while I see what I can find on his computer?"
She nods, but seems reluctant to move away from the window. I glance about the room, noticing two black and white photographs of Winston Churchill. For Collins, who struggled to read and write, Churchill's wit and mastery of words must have been inspiring. My father would have agreed with that.
Gemma plunges into an archive box. "Pirate DVDs," she says, holding one aloft. "And CDs. Does the printer take CDs?"
I pull down the flap and take a closer look. "Yes, you can print CDs on this. So, that's how he made a living, selling dodgy discs at car boot fairs. I wonder if trading standards knew about him."
The computer continues to boot, and thankfully, it's not password protected. While the hard drive continues to work overtime, I walk over to the cupboard above the stairwell. Inside, the shelves are crammed with duty free cigarettes, purchased on the continent. There are a few packs of tobacco, one with a couple of pouches missing. Maybe Collins sold them to Cheung. At least I know how Collins made the money to buy his show house furniture.
"I wonder how Birchill would react if he knew about this?"
Back at the desk I pull a concertina folder full of utility bills from a small drawer to my right. They date back several years. But where are the bank and credit card statements, the calculator, notebooks, calendar and all the other bit
s and pieces most people have? There's no paper for him to print on. Mind you, if he doesn't write, he won't need to print. At least the PC has booted. In Explorer, I check the folder tree. The 'Documents' folder contains twenty files, labelled Chap 1 to Chap 20 consecutively.
"At last," I say to myself, double clicking Chap 1. To my surprise and frustration, a password window opens. This repeats for the next ten chapters I double click. With a sigh, I fall back in the chair and push the mouse away.
"What's the problem?" Gemma walks up behind me, places her hands on my shoulders, and bends to look at the screen. "Is this the autobiography Artie mentioned?"
"I'll let you know when I crack the password."
She gives me a worried look. "How long's that going to take?"
I glance at my watch. We've been here over an hour. "I'll do it at home."
I remove the memory stick I keep on my key ring. It takes a while for the computer to install the stick, but once completed, I copy the files across. Mike will have friends in the police who can crack the password.
"I'll check his emails," I call, launching Outlook Express. "Then we'll go."
"I hope so," she says, back at the window. "This place gives me the creeps."
"Why?" I ask, looking at a long list of emails in the Inbox. Though tempted to read some, I export them to the memory stick. I can view them at home later without any interruption. "Because Collins is dead?"
She flattens herself against the wall. "Someone's coming!"
Nine
I know it's not Carolyn, but Gemma doesn't.
"It's probably Carolyn," I say, strolling over. "What did you see?"
"Someone in the lane. I saw them through the bushes."
"Man or woman?"
She shrugs. "I only caught a glimpse."
"Could it have been a rambler? Lots of people walk around here."
She shakes her head. "Someone ducked out of sight behind the bushes." She turns those dark brown eyes on me. "Let's go, Kent. If someone finds us here...."
If Birchill's returned from the interview, why would he park in the lane and sneak around? In fact, why would anyone sneak around? No one would be expecting us to be here. Then I realise the window is open.
"Okay, we'll go." I return to the computer, eject the memory stick and pocket it. Gemma's already on her way down the stairs. I still have to shut down the computer. While I wait, I spot her notebook on a bookshelf.
"Come on!" she calls from below.
I set the computer to close. After a final glance out of the window, I head down the stairs to join her. She grabs my arm and hurries me towards the front door. "I don't want to lose my job."
"You're not going to lose your job."
"I don't have your father to protect me."
I wrestle my arm free. "He doesn't protect me."
"You wouldn't get away with half the things you do if you if he wasn't MP."
"While your uncle, the Chief Executive, got you the job, so he won't want you to lose it."
The sound of keys in the back door sends her rushing for the front door. She wrenches it open and stumbles out. I want to wait and find out who's coming in, but Danni will make my life hell if she finds out. I leave quietly, and then as an afterthought, slam the door behind me.
I hurry across the clearing, joining her behind a spotted laurel bush. I lower a branch and watch, certain the visitor will come to the door. There's movement behind the net curtain in the front room, but the reflection off the glass makes it impossible to see who's inside.
"You left the Marilyn Monroe DVDs out," she says, her voice a harsh whisper.
"They won't point to us. Now, had I left the memory stick or my notebook, then I'd be worried."
She looks down at her empty hands and mutters an expletive. "Danni will go ballistic. I told you I didn't want to go in there."
"Look on the plus side. If someone hands in your notebook, we'll know who the visitor is."
She looks ready to strangle me. "All my notes about the investigation are in the notebook."
"Then I guess I'd better check them for accuracy." I pull my hand from behind my back and open her notebook. "You've misspelt 'apology'."
"You bastard!" She snatches the notebook and turns away, so relieved she forgets to thank me.
I'm already ringing Kelly at the office. "Has Birchill left?"
"About half an hour ago," she replies. "Do you want a word with Danni?"
"No. Can you let the duty officer know we're safe? I'll see you tomorrow."
"You haven't forgotten Danni's briefing, have you?"
"How could I forget something so important?" I end the call, wondering how I can get out of the briefing to meet Carolyn at ten. Then again, do I need to go around Collins' house tomorrow?
"Let's go back," I tell Gemma. "We can pretend we were walking past and saw something."
"No way" she says. "I've had enough for one day."
"Don't you want to know who's in there?"
"Not if it means losing my job."
"Where's your sense of adventure?"
"What if there's an intruder in there?"
"They don't carry back door keys, Gemma."
"I'm just saying you could get hurt."
I almost do when I step out from the bush and collide with Cheung. I'm not sure who's more surprised, but I react first, blocking his way. He's wearing the same jogging pants and Nirvana tee shirt he wore this morning.
"I thought you were working," I say.
He pulls out the earphones. "They let me have the rest of the day off. I fancied a pint at the Cock."
"It's not open in the afternoon."
"Pubs are open all day. Haven't you heard?"
"Why don't we all go? We can write up your witness statement."
He shifts uneasily. "I thought you couldn't drink on duty."
"I'm allowed orange juice and lemonade."
He looks about him as if he's expecting someone to walk up. Then he offers to make tea at his hovel. "I don't want to talk about the accident in public."
Without waiting for our agreement, he pushes his earphones in and turns. We follow a few paces behind. Gemma tells me the witness statement forms are in her Volvo back in the main park, but I'm hardly listening. Cheung was on his way to meet the visitor in Collins' house, I'm sure of it. Cheung's appearance on the path is no coincidence.
"Get the number for the Game Cock," I tell Gemma. "Find out if they're open all day."
"Will we have time to visit?" she asks.
If I meet Carolyn in the morning, I can go to the Game Cock after.
We follow Cheung in silence and soon emerge from the trees. At the back of the hovel, the garden's a scramble of weeds, grasses and shrubs that must be a haven for the local foxes. A wooden shed slumps at the end of the patio, propped up on one side by two rusting refrigerators. A tall wooden fence keeps the woodland at bay.
A single glazed lean-to spans the back of the house. The polycarbonate roof panels, streaked green and black with algae, keep out the sun. Not that it's warm inside. The damp walls, stained where the flashings have failed, give the air a cool, musty feel that's as unpleasant as the greasy flagstones under my feet.
I'm surprised to see a fridge and chest freezer. Both plug into an extension block, which hangs from a cable that slips through a small window into the kitchen.
"Why do you have a fridge and freezer out here?" I ask.
He pulls a ring of keys from his pocket. "When you see inside you'll understand."
The musty smell of mould and damp fill the air, oozing from perished and crumbling plaster. Black mould creeps out from the corners like a shadow, sidling down the walls and along the ceiling. The furniture fares no better, with old plywood wall cupboards and base units barely clinging to the walls. Doors slump on aluminium hinges. Shelves sag and groan under the weight of dented and rusty tins. A glance into the stone sink reveals a bowl filled with dark, slimy water.
"You could have some undis
covered strains of salmonella here," I say.
"That's why I keep my food out there," Cheung says.
"How can you live like this?" Gemma asks. "It's unhealthy."
He laughs. "You could speak to my landlord, but he's dead."
My shoes stick to the vinyl floor tiles as I follow Cheung. "Collins owned this place?"
"Sure." He lifts an old metal kettle from one of the rings on the old cooker. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
The burned-on grease on the cooker makes my stomach turn. I hate fat in all its guises, especially when it gets under my fingernails. I strip the skin from chicken, refuse to eat most pork joints and lamb. But, as my stepmother frequently points out, I have no problem with cakes and pastry.
Gemma declines, but I accept. "I can see why you call it a hovel, David."
"It's close to work," he says, pulling two mugs from a cupboard. "I can't afford a place in town, and I'd need a car to get here, so this is fine."
"Why don't you get another job?" Gemma asks.
"Doing what?" He fills the kettle and places it back on the cooker. When he turns on the ring, I half expect a fuse to blow. "I left school at sixteen with no qualifications. I'd been in trouble with the law, so no one wanted to employ me. Syd got me the job here. It's crap, I know, but I have somewhere to live."
"It must be freezing in winter," she says.
He dips into a box of teabags. "I only came here in March, so I don't know."
"You said Collins got you the job," I say, trying not to touch anything. "How do you know each other?"
"I guess he got my name from the Job Centre."
"But why did he choose you, David? You got a job and a house. Haven't you ever wondered?"
He laughs. "You've never had a criminal record. I was so desperate I didn't care. He asked me to come and see him and here I am."
Collins had found Cheung, who then returned the compliment. Only Collins was dead.
"What was he like when you first started here?" I ask.
"He liked to talk about his 'special arrangement' with Mr B." Cheung frames the special arrangement in finger quotes. He steps outside and returns with a carton of milk. He gives the spout a sniff, considers for a moment, sniffs again, and decides it's usable. Gemma looks relieved that she declined tea.
No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1) Page 9
