"Protesting against Tombstone, that's all."
"Methinks you protest too much, pal." Mike laughs at his own joke and slaps me on the back. "Even though you like them young and naïve, there's no way you'd pass up Sarah Wheeler."
"I would if I'd slept with her daughter."
He stares at me for a moment and then grins. "You slept with Gemma? Not when she was sixteen, surely? You have no scruples, pal."
"And you make too many assumptions."
"That's because you never tell me anything."
Don't I wish I'd kept my mouth shut? "If you breathe a word, Mike."
He makes a zipping motion across his mouth and we drift into silence, watching the pub. A few minutes pass before Gemma returns and climbs into the van. We jump in beside her. She leans back, sighs, and lets her shoulders relax.
"I never understood the word odious until tonight," she says. "Brendan Farmer's offensive and patronising." She hands me a wad of notes as if they're contaminated. "It cost him another £50."
"He coughed up?" Mike looks at her with a mixture of disbelief and admiration. "How did you manage that?"
"The rat running into the pub routine," she replies. "He told me not to worry my pretty little head, so I got out my phone and rang my uncle, Tommy Logan, at the Tollingdon Tribune."
"Tommy's your uncle?"
She shakes her head at Mike. "That's what I told Brendan. I said I'd also tell my uncle he bought knocked off equipment for his kitchen."
"And he paid up?"
"Sure, when I offered to show him the photos of the rats." She smiles, obviously pleased with herself. "He doesn't want any more gear, by the way."
Mike laughs, thumping the dashboard for extra effect. "Well done, Gemma."
She gives me an expectant look.
"Indeed," I say, "but you took a big chance. Things could have got nasty."
"No way. He'd never hit a woman."
"I don't think his ex-wife would agree with you," Mike says, starting up the van. "Let's go see Hetty."
On the way to Willingdon, Mike reveals more about his years with DI Wainthropp. Happy years, Mike calls them, as if modern policing has taken the fun out of the job. While policing may be dogged by paperwork, environmental health is plagued by people with big expectations complaining about small problems. The faintest whiff of smoke and there's a pyromaniac living next door. A dog barks and the neighbour's starting a boarding kennel. No one's prepared to talk to their neighbours unless it involves mediation.
The Prestige Nursing Home looks like a jaded hotel with its stained render and paintwork. We leave the van in the staff car park and head for the entrance porch. Mike buzzes the intercom and announces us and who we're visiting. Moments later, we're inside a carpeted lobby, face to face with a nurse who insists we sign the visitor book. We double the number for the day.
There's something sad and neglected about the lobby. The magnolia walls have seen better days. The scratches and scuff marks on the mahogany table and dresser are mirrored on the skirting boards. The brown carpet is lifeless, flattened by years of people walking to the old-fashioned, high backed chairs that line the walls of the lounge. Two elderly men, with expressions set by years of routine, watch the news on an old TV that fills one corner. The spider plants and chrysanthemums have faded to pale green from a lack of light. Only the photographs of old Eastbourne show any life, but that life passed years ago. No wonder the press and stand-up comedians refer to Eastbourne as God's waiting room.
They should join the clubbers and foreign students on the pier each Saturday night to see the other face of the town.
A faint whiff of stale urine threatens my nose when we push through a set of fire doors and climb three steps into a rear extension. The carpet and furnishings are cheaper here. There are no photographs to distract people from the fact they're here to die.
"This wing houses referrals from the hospital," the nurse remarks, managing to make it sound like the patients are foisted on her. "Most have little hope, I'm afraid. Your friend, Mr Wainthropp, refuses to quit smoking, even though he's got emphysema and lung cancer."
Why do health professionals insist you give up smoking when you're about to die?
"You allow smoking?" Gemma asks, sounding surprised.
The nurse stops at an open door. "Only in certain parts of the garden. If Mr Wainthropp asks you to take him outside, don't. He's not got long, so go easy. I'll check on you every five minutes or so to make sure he's all right."
DI Wainthropp looks like a starving refugee, hunched in an armchair that dwarfs him. His face is pale and thin. Every bone is visible beneath the dry, wrinkled skin that covers his angular nose and sunken cheeks. A glistening trail of saliva runs from the corner of his mouth down a groove in his chin. Only his eyes are alive, especially when he spots Gemma.
"Sit." His arid voice rasps through his lips. He reaches for the oxygen mask and takes several slow and painful breaths. "Be lost without this," he says patting the huge cylinder beside the armchair. "Sit opposite me, young lady. If I can look at you I won't need morphine."
Mike shakes his head. "You'll do yourself a mischief, Hetty."
Wainthropp's hands are small and gnarled, withered by arthritis. His jacket's clearly too big for his shrunken frame. His shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, reveals a scrawny neck with folds of skin, scarred from some kind of surgery. If I ever wondered what death looked like, I now know.
"It's been a long time, Chunky. Another week and you'd have to watch them lower me into the ground." He shifts his gaze to Gemma. "I might look like Freddie Kruger, love, but I'm still human. Well, the bits that work are. I don't smell and I don't bite, so there's nothing to be afraid of."
He turns his attention to me. "You're not what I imagined."
"What did you imagine?"
"Your father had breeding and class. You couldn't get into the Ace of Hearts without it. I tried." He pauses to catch his breath. "Your father had it in spades, but it didn't stop him being a cheat."
Wainthropp pulls the oxygen mask over his mouth, shooing Mike away with the other hand. "I'm not gone yet," he says through the mask. A minute later, he pulls it off and slumps back in the armchair. "Not till tomorrow. It's shepherd's pie for lunch."
"How do you know my father cheated?"
"Have you been in a coma? He's cheated all his life." He pauses to regain his breath and then smiles maliciously. "Gambling. Fraud. Women. Ah," he says, pointing a bony finger at me, "that one you already know about."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do, Mr Fisher." Wainthropp points a shaking finger at a pile of manila folders, bursting with paper. "Try the folder, 'Missing Persons'."
I go over to the small table. The Missing Persons folder is top of the pile. The papers inside smell musty. Some of the sheets are parchment coloured, filled with a shaky, spidery writing. Some pages have women's names at the top. Some have a photo. Some pages start with a list of police officers. I'm guessing they worked with Hetty.
Most of the women listed are from the Far East, brought into the country illegally, destined for the sex trade, it says.
"Who am I looking for?"
Hetty's eyes close and his head rolls back. It looks like he's fallen asleep, or died, until he speaks. His voice is clear. "Mandy Cheung went missing about twenty years ago. Presumed dead."
I find her details, but there's no picture. The notes are clear enough. PC F Pritchard and WPC L Maynard responded to the original report from a colleague at the Ace of Hearts. DI Wainthropp and DC Porter carried out the investigation. Mandy came from the Philippines, entered the country illegally as a teenager, and worked as a prostitute in London. It's not clear how she made her way to Brighton, but Birchill has casinos in both cities.
I look out through the window at the garden. It's difficult to imagine this clandestine world coexisting with the peaceful one I inhabit. In my world, the biggest crime, apart from Tombstone Adventure Park, is to bu
ild social housing in villages.
"A couple of the girls said Mandy had an affair with your father," Hetty says, forcing out each syllable. "Before she went missing, some girls said they heard shouting. Some..."
He winces and doubles up. The oxygen mask comes loose. Mike pulls the emergency cord and bends down beside him. He fits the mask back and tries to ease him back in the chair, but it's futile. Hetty's gasping for breath. The colour's draining from his face. The nurse rushes in and takes over.
"You'd better leave," she says, lifting his chin so she can look into his eyes. She presses the oxygen mask to his face. "You don't want to go yet, Mr Wainthropp. It's shepherd's pie tomorrow. Your favourite."
He mouths something, but it's inaudible. The nurse bends closer and he mouths again. Another nurse rushes in with a medical bag. While she attends to Hetty, the first nurse ushers us out.
"Are you relatives?"
Mike shakes his head. "We're friends and colleagues. He has no one."
"I'll call the doctor, but you should be prepared for the worst. His lungs can't take much more. I'm sorry." She's about to go back inside, but she stops. "I don't know who he's talking about, but he said she's pregnant."
My stomach tightens. "Do you think he meant Mandy Cheung?"
"I imagine so," Mike says, trying to see what's happening in Hetty's room. "He was methodical to the point of obsessive. He had a phenomenal memory and the patience of a saint. He spent years building a case, trying to prosecute Birchill, but he never did, poor sod."
We retrace our steps to the front entrance in silence. Once outside, I turn to Mike. "How did Hetty know who I was looking for?"
"When I rang and mentioned your name, Hetty knew why you wanted to see him. That's why the right folder was on top."
"How would he know?" I ask.
Mike shrugs.
"What are you going to do?" Gemma asks.
"Find the truth," I reply. "It's in short supply in my family."
I need to know what happened all those years ago. My mother lied about what happened. My father never explained what happened. It's time he came clean about Mandy Cheung.
"What if she didn't die?" I ask Mike when we reach the van. "What if Mandy Cheung was pregnant? What if she had the baby?"
"You heard Hetty. She's probably buried in the foundation of some bridge."
I don't go for the gangster movie cliché. "Who do we know who's the right age to be her son?"
He shrugs, more interested in smoking a cigarette.
Gemma gasps. "David Cheung! You could have a stepbrother, Kent."
I could have a lot more than that.
Twenty
"Mike, I need to talk to Cheung. Take me to Tombstone."
We're not far from the sanctuary. Since we left the nursing home, I've been thinking about the spiky-haired punk, who bears no resemblance to me or my father. I don't believe for a moment that Cheung's my stepbrother. It's a common name, but what are the chances of finding two Cheungs linked to my father, Birchill and the accident investigation?
Mike hits the brake hard. The van lurches to an ungainly stop, plunging us forward. The seatbelt locks. My head continues to roll forward, and then suddenly I'm jerked back. My head thuds into the seat. Feeling out of control, I grab Gemma's hand.
"That hurts!" she cries, wrenching her hand free.
Mike pushes the gear stick into neutral, yanks up the handbrake, and turns to me. "The take away's just around the corner. My stomach's shrivelling."
"I have to talk to Cheung."
"To find out if he's your brother?" Gemma asks.
"To confirm he's not my brother," I reply. "If he is, why hasn't he contacted my father? Why didn't he say something to me?"
"He wouldn't just come out with it," she replies, rubbing her fingers. "And he was in shock after finding Collins."
"Maybe he has contacted your father," Mike says, checking the mirror. "Maybe he told Collins. They are neighbours."
It's possible, I guess, but why would Cheung get a job at Tombstone? If he believes he's a Fisher, surely he would contact my father, not Collins. Then I remember the emails they sent each other. Collins worked at the casino when Mandy was there. He would have known about the pregnancy. Maybe he knew about David and arranged a job for him. Maybe Collins sought some gain from the situation.
"What if Collins orchestrated everything?" I ask. "What if he intended to blackmail my father?"
"That's one hell of a leap, pal."
"That's why we go to Tombstone."
Mike's tummy rumbles at this point to emphasise his reluctance. He checks his mirror and pulls out into the road, slowly building up speed until we're on the A27. We soon pass my sanctuary and drive on in silence. I wonder if Cheung thinks I had a privileged upbringing while he went from foster home to foster home.
I would have swapped the damp basement flat in north Manchester for a warm foster home. Cold and damp, it remained mouldy, even in summer. In winter, ice tempered the inside of the windows, while the cold air penetrated the rough blanket I rescued from the airing cupboard. The Calor gas heater couldn't banish the icy draughts. Its heat faded quickly as you moved across the room.
"Your father left us nothing." My mother's German accent hardened her words. "I have nothing. You have nothing. That means you are nothing without me. If you do not take good care of me, you will have nothing."
As she only had lies to offer, nothing turned out to be a better deal.
"What if he is your stepbrother?" Gemma asks, breaking the long silence.
When I returned to Sussex and met my stepmother, I was surprised I didn't have a brother or sister. But being the only child made me the centre of attention at home and in the community. For a while I felt like a celebrity. Everyone wanted to meet me. People kept commenting on how I'd grown. My accent, though not completely northern, attracted a lot of attention. Some people wanted to know if the north was as grim as they'd heard.
The novelty soon wore off when I discovered my father spent most of his time in Westminster. My stepmother, who was nearer my age than his, also had a busy life. I was often alone in a sprawling, crumbling relic of a house. Fortunately, I had Tara to lust after. Several years older than me, and with a wicked sense of humour, she kept me more than occupied.
"He'll want his share of the Fisher millions if he is," Mike says.
Gemma nods. "That will make him popular."
"He'll need to prove it," I say, tuning back into the conversation. "Who's going to take his word against that of a respected politician?"
"If he is your brother, you wouldn't begrudge him his share, would you?" she asks.
"He's not my stepbrother," I say. The prospect of sharing my sanctuary with a stranger is hardly appealing. It probably makes me seem selfish, but I've built the place up from a derelict barn and low grade pasture.
We lapse into another silence that lasts until we draw close to the road to Tombstone. I tell Mike to drive past the main entrance and follow the road around to the back of Collins' house. I rummage through a jumble of receipts and scribbled notes in the glove box.
"Do you still have a Maglite?"
"Watch my accounts," he says, as a small bundle falls into the footwell. "Don't mess them up."
I examine the handwritten receipt for a gas stove we sold over a month ago. "When did you last update the accounts?"
"I have every invoice and receipt," he replies. "They were in order until you messed them up. It's going to take hours to sort them out."
"You were so organised at work, Mike."
"There's nothing like the buzz of a crime scene, pal. When you have to identify murderers and rapists, it focuses the mind. If I do my job well, it's easier for the lads to catch the perpetrator."
"I was so excited when I arrived yesterday morning, I almost wet myself," Gemma says. "Someone was dead because of a faulty machine. Beats complaints about spiders in sandwiches."
He groans. "Don't start on food, please. I get
enough grief over what I can and can't eat from Kent. Has he told you they scrape meat off bones to make burgers?"
"I don't eat burgers," she replies.
"Neither do I anymore."
I take the torch from the glove box and feel its weight in my hand. Long, thin, and cased in metal, it casts a strong beam, which I'll need in the woods. I shine it out of the side window as we pass the service road.
"Slow down, Mike. We're there."
"Should we try the Game Cock first?" Gemma asks.
I spot a familiar blue car at the back of the house. The lights in the kitchen and upstairs are on. "Drive past and stop behind the trees, Mike. Adele Havelock's in the house."
He accelerates past and stops 20 yards down the lane. I'm already unbuckling the seatbelt and sliding out of the seat. "You and Gemma check the pub in case Cheung's there, and then meet me back here."
"What if she's not alone, pal?"
"You worry too much." I slam the door and stick close to the bushes as I make my way. When I reach the driveway, I pause and peer around the laurel. The landing and back bedroom lights are on and the curtains are drawn. When I'm certain she's not in the kitchen, I sneak across the concrete and duck down behind her car. I hear Mike drive away in the van.
I move along the side of the car, checking the driver's door. It's locked. Once I reach the kitchen extension, I can move along without being spotted. I duck below the window and stop when I reach the door.
If Adele has a key, why didn't she use it earlier? Why was she waiting by the front door? Someone else has a key. Collins' lover, maybe, hoping to sell the autobiography.
I depress the door handle and open the door a fraction, listening for any sound within. I can hear the blood pulsing through my head as I slip inside and close the door behind me. I hold my breath and listen. Finally, the groan of floorboards above confirms her location. While it's difficult to tell, it sounds like she's alone.
I fish her business card from my wallet and dial her mobile number. She must have her phone on vibrate because I don't hear it ring. The sound of her voice makes me jump.
"Hello, Adele Havelock speaking."
No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1) Page 19
