"She brought the money in a briefcase. Well, the goon she brought along had the briefcase. Military looking chap with close cropped hair and chips on both shoulders. He looked like he wanted to thump me."
"Did you get his name?"
"I didn't ask, and I don't want to know. I did them a favour, and all I got was bellyaching, like I'd let the place go to the dogs."
"Maybe you should have sold it to a vet."
I end the call, confident I know where Tara got £1 million in cash. Birchill's involvement should be simple enough to prove if he's a partner in the business. I'm sure Mike Turner can help me with that.
I rise from the table and head for the door. My BlackBerry rings again and it's the Coroner's Officer—brisk, business like and blunt. "I have the pathologist's preliminary report, if you're interested, Kent. Collins was a dead man walking-advanced lung cancer, cirrhosis of the liver, and failing kidneys. He must have been in pain and struggling to breathe."
So, how did he walk from his house to the tractor?
"I can imagine him doubling up in agony," Carolyn says. "Maybe that explains why he bent over the power takeoff."
"Maybe," I say.
"He'd been drinking too—heavily, we think. No breakfast consumed, either. Did you find anything in the barn?"
"The missing guard," I reply.
"Did Collins remove it?"
"I can't think who else it would be."
"But you considered the possibility, didn't you?"
She's sharp—I'll give her that. "I like to keep an open mind, Carolyn."
"You're not still fretting about why he wore a tie and smoked the wrong cigarettes, are you? Facts and evidence prove the offence, Kent. Remember that."
It sounds like a slogan for Danni's Motivational Pin Board. "I don't have the evidence to take formal action against Birchill."
"Don't you? Why not?"
She'll find out soon enough, but I'm in no mood to talk about my suspension. "I can't prove he's responsible."
"Is everything okay, Kent? You sound deflated."
"I'm tired, that's all."
She chuckles. "Is your assistant wearing you out?"
"Only with questions."
I put the phone down and consider what I've learned. If I'm right, Collins had sex the night before his death. He may not have slept at all, which explains why he went to the clearing so early. The empty vodka bottle suggests he was drinking, maybe to numb the pain. Exhausted, in pain, and drunk, he lost his balance and....
I could just about accept that, if someone hadn't repaired the tractor.
Back in the bedroom, I place my Garmin on the windowsill. While the GPS satellites locate the watch and tune in, I hunt around for my head torch. With the evenings drawing in, I can either run in Tollingdon under the street lights, or use my head torch on the Downs. I may be back before darkness falls, but it depends how much thinking I do.
When I'm ready, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and head down the stairs. Columbo races past me. At the bottom, he turns and barks to encourage me. Frances comes over and scoops him up, struggling to hold onto him as he wriggles.
"You have to stay here," she tells him. "I'll put him in the kennels or he'll follow you."
"Thanks."
I set off towards the sleeping hills, darkening beneath the setting sun. My legs feel heavy, my gait uneven, as I dodge the flints that poke through the chalk like spearheads. Once clear of the paddocks, I feel the muscles loosen and lengthen my stride. Within five minutes, my breathing settles into a familiar rhythm. I'm in the zone, my mind free to go where it wants.
No matter which way I approach Collins' death, I can't make everything fit. Add the speculation and hearsay—the autobiography, the lover, the illiteracy, the colourful past— and they show a man determined to tell his story before he died.
The path meanders up the hill between the trees. With every minute, the view expands below me, stretching across the A27 and the Eastbourne to the London railway line towards Arlington Reservoir. Most of the fields have been ploughed for next year's crops, leaving only corn and the pastures, grazed by sheep and cattle.
Moments later, the former Fisher estate comes into view. Where horses once roamed, golfers now reign. A few are finishing on the last of the nine holes as the light fades. In time, the trees will mature to separate the almost intestinal tangle of fairways and greens.
In the silvery light, the Georgian elegance of Downland Manor dominates the gardens and parkland like a stately home. From up on the Downs, I'm struck by the symmetry of the sash windows and the ornate chimneys that thrust through the slate roofs. Even the satellite dishes and the Velux windows that ventilate the staff accommodation in the attic evoke no reaction.
I don't miss the place that never felt like home. Though it's now a luxurious hotel, it remains a crumbling relic in my mind. The empty rooms, bedrooms without ceilings and floorboards, and secret passageways blocked by rubble made it a cold, heartless place, too big and unloved to be a home.
In my first few weeks at Downland Manor, the horses, with their long heads and rows of stained teeth, terrified me. Tara helped me conquer my fear. We rode a lot that first summer, but not always on horseback. Then, just as the sex became something more than thrashing about between the sheets, she married a computer programmer. A few months later, while we were galloping through the woods, she fell from her horse and broke her back. Within weeks the marriage failed. She turned to me for comfort, but it wasn't the same. I couldn't handle her bitterness.
My breathing eases as the path levels out at the top of the Downs. The wind blows strong from the south-west up here, giving the hawthorn and gorse their distinctive quiffs. Rabbits scatter across the grass. Some hikers linger, admiring the orange wisps of cloud as they bleed into red. Between the sky and this undulating green canvas, I'm an insignificant dot.
After another mile, I turn back. The dark swoops in, blotting out the trees and bushes, merging the sky and the ground. My years in Manchester never prepared me for the dense black of the countryside. I switch on my head torch and follow the beam on the ground. I slow my pace and descend, guided by the lights from Downland Manor in the west and Tollingdon to the east. The lights of the sanctuary come into view and it's easy to picture the line of the road Birchill wants to build for his holiday village. It's not so easy to follow the path that will lead me to safety.
Now I know why he let me loose in his theme park. He wanted me to break rules in my quest to prosecute him, and I obliged. Without a thought for the consequences, I snooped around Collins' house. I pressured Ben Foley. At least I took a more sympathetic approach with David Cheung.
A connection sparks in my mind. I stumble to a stop. Is he Mandy Cheung's son?
I must talk to Tara. She knows more about the sale of Downland than I ever imagined.
Back at the sanctuary, I race up the steps. I gulp back half a bottle of chocolate flavoured milk and skip my usual stretching routine. My thoughts focus on how to break down Tara's resistance. Once in the shower, I savour the hot water and let it rush over my head and body. It won't be long before Mike arrives for the delivery of kitchen equipment. Then we'll visit his retired colleague to find out what he can offer to bring down Birchill.
That's what I have to do to save my job.
Feeling invigorated and ready for the fight, I wrap a towel around my waist and exit the bathroom. The scamper of claws on laminate flooring signals Columbo's arrival. I scoop up the flurry of white fur and let him lick my ear and face while I ruffle his fur. It's a while before I spot Gemma, smiling in amusement.
Her smile widens into a grin when the towel slides off my hips and drops to the floor.
Nineteen
The last time I stood naked before Gemma, I had only one thing on my mind.
"I don't often see something so cute and hairy," she says, strolling over. She ruffles Columbo's fur, tickling him behind the ears. "Who are you?"
"His name's Columbo
."
"Like the scruffy detective? See, I paid attention," she says, bending so he can lick her face. "You're pleased to see me, aren't you?" She picks up the towel from the floor and holds it out to me. "I can see you're not."
I put Columbo down and wrap the towel around my waist. "What are you doing here?"
It looks like she's on her way to a party in fitted black jeans and a matching silk blouse. A small, silver pendant, shaped like a tear, rests at the base of her slender neck, just like the first time I saw her in La Floret.
"I came to see if you're okay. You didn't deserve that." She drops to her knees to play with Columbo, who's demanding more attention. "Look, a Fisher who likes me."
"If you don't mind, I'd like to get dressed."
"You never used to be self-conscious."
"What do you want, Gemma? You didn't dress up to come here, so I'm guessing you're off out with your fiancé."
"Why don't you ever use his name, Kent?"
Because he becomes more real if I do.
"I'm coming with you and Mike," she says when I don't answer. "He said you had some catering equipment to deliver, so you can shift your lazy butt."
I stride over to the window and see the van, backed up to the store. "He's early."
"It's a big delivery."
Apart from a select few, no one knows I run a business on the side. People could easily assume I find problems in kitchens and then offer to supply new equipment from my own stock. I wouldn't do that, but I feel I should justify myself.
"Every penny we make supports this place," I say.
"Mike told me. You're lucky to have a friend like him."
I take a pair of black chinos from the wardrobe. "Unlike Mike, I don't believe you dressed up to help us move cookers. Why are you here?"
She fingers the pendant as she watches me pull a black polo shirt from the dresser. "I thought you might want some company."
"I have all I need here, thank you. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get dressed."
Without a word, she turns and totters away in her high heels, flicking her glossy hair off her shoulders. A moment ago, I stood naked before the woman I'm in love with, revealing everything but my feelings. Now, I've rejected her.
"It's for the best," I tell my reflection, running a comb through my damp hair.
As I pass through the lounge, I catch sight of her in the yard. She's walking towards the paddocks, Columbo at her heels. Once there, she leans over the fence and encourages the donkeys over. She pats and strokes them before feeding them some chopped carrots, saving a chunk for Columbo. He almost takes her fingers off as he snatches the treat from her.
In the kitchen, Mike's brewing up. "Why did you invite Gemma?" I ask.
"I didn't." He squeezes the tea bag and then tosses it into the bin. "Why didn't you tell me your boss suspended you?"
"I was going to tell you later. Has Gemma just told you?"
He shakes his head, helping himself to milk from the fridge. "She stopped by Mighty Munch as I was packing up. She was well upset, I can tell you."
"So, how does inviting her on a delivery make her feel better?"
"I thought it would make you feel better." He thrusts a mug of tea into my hand. "I've seen the way you look at her."
"I've seen the way you look at her."
He smirks. "I'm a dirty old man, but you're potty about her."
"What time are we meeting Hetty?"
The door swings open and Gemma saunters in. "Is he the retired detective you spoke about yesterday?"
I nod, wondering if she's been listening at the door.
"Does he know you call him Hetty?"
"Sure," Mike replies. "He didn't mind. I think he was quite pleased, really. They called me Chunky."
Her eyebrows arch. "That's a bit insensitive, isn't it?"
"Why? What's wrong with Chunky Kit Kats?"
I raise a finger to silence her. "Hetty knows all about Birchill and Collins."
"What if Danni finds out?"
"Where's Columbo?" I ask, surprised he hasn't come through the door.
"With Frances. She's taking care of him while we're out."
The van needs a good clean. The seats are grubby and worn, the dashboard covered in dust, and the carpets sticky. Mike pulls out some antiseptic wipes from under the dash and hands them to Gemma. She cleans down the passenger seat and then dries it with a tissue. Satisfied it's safe to sit on, she climbs inside. As I climb in to join her, she picks up a Chunky Kit Kat from the dashboard.
He snatches it from her. "That's my supper."
"You should eat something nutritious."
"I'll have a kebab once we've finished with Hetty."
Mike tells us about Hetty and Birchill as we bounce along the uneven track towards the main road. We sit at the junction with the A27 for what seems like 10 minutes before he floors the accelerator. The van lurches and takes a couple of seconds to pick up speed as we push into the traffic. The noise is deafening.
At Wilmington village, we take a right, heading north. The road narrows and weaves through the countryside, past some lovely old houses with Sussex tiled roofs, terraced gardens, and triple garages for the Mercedes, Audi and Lexus monsters on the drives. Further along the road, many of the houses are modern and out of place, which makes me wonder why we bother with planning laws.
"Government inspectors have a lot to answer for," I say. "Look at Tombstone Adventure Park."
"You know it's about influence and favours, pal."
"Collins knew about that," I say, nodding. "That's why I want to read his emails."
Mike jerks his head round. "What emails?"
"Kent copied them from his computer." Gemma makes me sound like a master spy, which I quite like. "We were in his house yesterday."
Mike groans. "No wonder you were suspended."
"Not before Danni caught him in a barn with a woman," she says.
"Collins' daughter, Adele," I say. "We were looking for evidence that would explain his death. She's a journalist. He wanted her to publish his autobiography."
"Autobiography? Syd Collins?" He shakes his head in disbelief. "What's this got to do with his accident?"
"Nothing," she replies. "That's why Danni closed the case."
"Closed? You only just started."
"If I can get my hands on the autobiography, who knows what it might reveal?"
Mike pulls up at a junction and turns right for Upper Dicker. "Collins wouldn't rat on his friend. They'd both go down."
"Collins did—yesterday."
"What are you saying?" he asks.
"Nothing, Mike. I can't open the files. They're password blocked."
"I hope you're not asking me to help," he says, his voice rising. "I'm not taking files to my old friends in IT, especially if they were obtained illegally."
"I wouldn't dream of asking," I lie.
A few minutes later, we arrive at the Downland Arms, once part of the Fisher estate when the family owned everything for miles. Mike reverses the van up to the wooden gate at the rear and toots the horn. We wait until a young chef in dirty whites opens the gate and walks up to Mike.
"You're late," he says, pulling out his cigarettes. "Brendan wants a word about that steam cleaner you sold him. It worked once and then died. Hello, darling," he says, giving Gemma a wink. "Are you on special offer?"
"Only to adults," she replies. She gives him such a withering stare, I'm surprised he doesn't turn to dust.
I jump down from the van and head around the back, as I always do, in case anyone recognises me.
"Brendan's a tight-fisted bastard," Mike says as we unload the first of four microwaves, "but I'll sort him out."
We stack the microwaves on a small trolley, which he pushes into the yard. I shuffle a couple of deep fat fryers forward.
"What a dump," he says as we lift the first fryer onto the trolley. "Brendan sacked the kitchen porter when takings dropped, so no one's cleaning the place."
O
nce he's on his way, Gemma says, "You can't do this, Kent. It's unethical. You're a law enforcer."
"Not while I'm suspended."
"If the place is dirty, you can't ignore it."
"I have a sanctuary to save."
I want to tell her that Mike will make an anonymous complaint in the morning, but she might inadvertently blurt something out if she knows. Nigel will investigate and take action if necessary.
After moving the deep fat fryers, Mike's sweating. He makes one final trip with a small refrigerator, taking fifteen minutes to return. This time he's boiling.
"Brendan won't pay until we produce electrical safety certificates for the microwaves and the fridge."
"You told him they were less than a year old, right?"
"Of course I told him, but without the invoices, we can't prove it."
"Then let's take the goods back."
"He threatened to report us to Trading Standards for selling unfit appliances. Chef told me he hasn't paid his suppliers for months."
"So, why do they keep supplying him?" Gemma asks.
"Because if they stop they'll never get any money," I reply. "This way, there's a chance."
Mike pounds the van door with his fist. "We can't let him get away with it. On Monday you can close him down. Chef won't be there to remember you."
"I'm suspended, Mike."
"Brendan won't know that."
"We'll think of something," I say.
"Where's Gemma?" he asks, looking down the side of the van. I check the other side and catch a glimpse of her entering the yard. "You have to stop her," he says. "Brendan's a bastard."
I grab his arm. "She can handle herself. I saw her deal with a couple of difficult customers when she was only sixteen."
"All the same...." He sighs and leans his back against the van. "So, you've known her some time, then. You kept that quiet."
"I'm better acquainted with her mother, Sarah. You know, Sarah Wheeler, the vet."
"She's Sarah's daughter?" He whistles. "So, that's why you're holding back."
"You think I had a relationship with Sarah?"
"You never did 'relationships'," he replies, framing the word with finger quotes. "You spent a lot of time together, though."
No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1) Page 18
