I turn away from the door to the hall. "It's Kent Fisher. I wondered if you fancied dinner."
"Now? I'm rather busy."
"Why don't you join me downstairs and we'll walk over to the Game Cock."
There's a sound like a curse, followed by rapid footsteps down the stairs. She pushes open the door and glares at me. She's swapped her suit for a black polo neck jumper that looks baggy on her tiny frame. She complements this burglar chic with leggings, running gloves, and deck shoes, all in black. All she needs is a balaclava.
"What are you doing here?"
I pull out one of the stools. "I could ask you the same question. Don't tell me you were just passing, because it's the back of beyond."
"Then you must be spying on me."
"In case you've forgotten, I'm investigating Collins' death."
"You seem to have forgotten you're suspended."
"You're breaking and entering. Tell me why I shouldn't ring the police."
She saunters over, full of confidence, her dark eyes gleaming. "I have a key. Syd was my father."
"Have you found the autobiography?"
She shakes her head. "He was going to give me the manuscript today."
"But he died."
"There's no need to be glib." She places the phone in her handbag and pulls out a small bottle of mineral water. She takes a sip and leans back against the worktop. Her eyes are reddened and tired. "Have you any idea how it feels to find a father you never knew you had?"
I suppress a smile. "No idea."
"Unreal. That's how it feels. You wake up, have breakfast and do all the mundane stuff. You trot into work for another day, wondering whether today's the day you get your break with a big story. Instead, you get a poorly written email from the father you never knew you had."
She walks across to the window, bottle in hand. "Naturally, you dismiss the email as a sick joke, a cruel hoax. It's a nutter, trying to get your attention. But something in your stomach tells you it's true. This is the father you never knew.
"Then the anger takes root. While he had good health, he didn't care about my mother or me. Then, when he discovers he's dying, he has to crash into our worlds, but only because he wants to publish his life story."
Slowly, she turns to face me, her expression grim. "I'm glad he's dead, but it leaves me with a problem."
I wait for her to continue.
"I don't want anyone to see or read his manuscript, Kent. I don't want anyone to know about my mother or me, but what if it's a good story? What if he reveals secrets about Miles Birchill? What if it's worth thousands?"
"Someone's already read the manuscript though," I say. "They could also sell it, couldn't they?"
She nods. "I need to find this mystery woman, if only to learn more about my father. He can't have been all bad, can he?"
"He only saw her on Wednesday evenings, according to local gossip, so she could be married."
"Does anyone know who she is?"
"It doesn't look like it, but she might email you if she wants to sell the autobiography."
Adele smirks. "Not if she wants to keep her affair secret from her husband. My father might have visited her so she could write up his autobiography."
I'm tempted to mention the condom wrapper I found in the bedroom, but I'm not sure I trust her yet.
"So, Mr Fisher, you know why I'm here. What about you? As you said, it's the back of beyond."
"I was on my way to the Game Cock when I spotted the lights were on."
She stares out into the darkness. "Where's your car? I didn't hear you drive in. I didn't see any headlights. Are you checking on me?"
"If I was, why would I ring you?"
She breaks into a slow smile. "Why were you going to the Game Cock? Why didn't I see or hear your car?"
"I'm with a friend."
"Your assistant? She looked uncomfortable earlier. Did she know you were going to be suspended?"
I shrug. "Have you looked everywhere?"
"Everywhere but the loft."
Why didn't I think of that? "Is there a loft ladder?" I ask, heading for the stairs.
The hatch sits above the landing, just out reach. There are no chairs in the front bedroom. The chair in the study is on castors and will move or rotate if I stand on it. "I'll have to get a ladder from home."
Adele puts her bag on Collins' desk and sits in his chair. "What would happen if I took this?" she asks, pointing at the laptop.
"You're probably his beneficiary, so I guess it's yours."
She glances at her watch and sighs. "There's nothing more we can do here, so I'll freshen up and we might as well go. Is your offer of dinner still on the table?"
"Maybe."
When she closes the bathroom door, I check my phone. Mike hasn't sent a text to say he's found Cheung, so maybe I should leave. Then Adele's phone vibrates inside her bag. After a quick look down the landing, I open her bag.
Syd Collins is ringing his daughter.
Either he isn't dead or someone took his phone. Without a thought for the consequences, I accept the call, but say nothing. Neither does the caller. Every few seconds I peer out of the study, expecting Adele to return. When the caller hangs up, eleven seconds have elapsed.
I thrust the phone back in Adele's bag. The next time she uses the phone she'll spot the call and work out what happened. But was she expecting the call? Does she know who has the phone? If I had to guess, I'd say it was the lover, mainly because I can't think who else would take Collins' phone.
It looks like the lover has an autobiography to sell.
The sound of the toilet flushing prompts me to leave. With a nifty bit of footwork, I descend the stairs, taking the last two in one leap. I grab Mike's Maglite from the counter and slip out of the back door. Outside, I move to the front of the house and scurry into the bushes.
I don't want to turn on the torch and give my position away, so I feel my way into the woodland. The sound of insects seems louder in the black. Even the brush of my legs against the undergrowth sounds loud. I stub my toe on tree roots, scratch my ankle on some brambles, and bang my head on a couple of branches as I make slow progress into the woods. Finally, I switch on the torch, confident I'm far enough from the house. With it pointed at the ground, I speed up and reach Cheung's hovel in a few minutes. I turn off the torch and remain in the bushes. There are no lights on in his house.
I ring Mike. "Where are you?" he asks.
"Outside Cheung's house. Did you check the Game Cock?"
"No one's seen him for a couple of days."
He could be in the house. "Where are you, Mike?"
"We're parked in the lane behind Collins' place. Hang on, something's happening."
There's a pause and some muffled sounds. Then I hear a car drive past, accelerating away. After some further muffled sounds, Mike's back. "We ducked down. I'm guessing it was Collins' daughter."
"I'm going to check Cheung's place," I say. "If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, send the cavalry."
Guided by the torch, I hurry across the clearing and vault the front gate. Once flattened against the front wall, I catch my breath and shuffle along, ducking under the leaded windows. Around the corner, I scamper to the back, dousing the torchlight.
The garden is made up of different shades of impenetrable black. The smell of rotting rubbish hangs in the air, becoming more intense as I edge along the wall. The metallic clatter as I crash into the bin probably wakes half of Sussex. That's me resitting my stealth exams.
I hold my breath and wait. Minutes pass before I'm confident there’s no one home. Even then, I still try to slide the glass door open without making a noise. Unfortunately, it scrapes along its frame, making a sound similar to fingernails on a blackboard. Finally, I slide it open enough to squeeze through. All I can hear is the hum of the chest freezer. I'm tempted to look inside for an ice cream, but resist.
I try the kitchen door, but it's locked. I shine my torch through the window, but all I c
an see is a bowl of dirty water in the sink and some cups on the drainer. The living room door is open, but I can't make out anything beyond.
Then a noise in the bushes makes me freeze. Inch by inch, I turn, the Maglite ready to be swung like a truncheon. The sweep of the torch beam forces a rabbit to scamper into the undergrowth, and I start breathing again.
Back at Collins' house, Mike and Gemma are waiting in the van. "I was just about to send the cavalry," he says, looking relieved.
Gemma looks pale and cold. "Why couldn't you wait until tomorrow?"
I get inside and close the door. "Someone used Collins' mobile to ring Adele. I think it's the lover, but as the person didn't speak, who knows?"
"You answered her phone?"
"Wouldn't you if it said Collins was ringing?"
"She doesn't know, I take it."
"She will when she checks the call history. Cheung's not at home."
"Can we get something to eat?" Mike's voice has a pleading quality that suggests he's had enough. He's right.
"Can you drop me home on the way?" I ask.
"We could pick up a pizza and...." His voice fades as he looks at me. Then he grins. "Okay, you two don't need me around. So, what's the plan for tomorrow? Do we come back?"
Not before I visit my old friend and lover, Tara McNamara. I don't think she'll be too pleased to see me when she learns I'm interested in the sale of Downland Manor. Then I need to talk to my father. He's holding his Saturday surgery at the leisure centre, so it will be after lunch before I can see him. As he's used to fending off the likes of Jeremy Paxman and David Dimbleby, I'm not going to pose much of a challenge.
"I don't know," I reply.
For the past two days, I've followed my instincts, trying to understand why Collins changed his habits and routines. That change led to his death. While it looks like carelessness, all my enquiries suggest the death is part of something much bigger and more complex. He's asked for and received help from my father, who probably acted illegally.
Why? I don't know.
Then I discover that my father is acquainted with Birchill's casino, the Ace of Hearts Club. It looks like he had a fling with Mandy Cheung, who worked there. She could be David Cheung's mother. He could be my stepbrother. He's also living five minutes from Collins.
Why? I don't know.
Then my father sells Downland Manor to Birchill.
Why? I don't know.
Underpinning all of these questions is Collins' autobiography, written by a lover no one knows. She was with him on the eve of his death. She may even have been with him when he had his accident. Either way, she didn't hang around. She didn't call the emergency services. Yet it looks like she took his phone and rang his daughter not 30 minutes ago.
Why? I don't know.
When Mike drops us off at the sanctuary twenty minutes later, I'm certain Collins' death was no accident.
Saturday
Twenty-One
I was 16 when I first watched Lieutenant Columbo unpick a perfect murder on TV. This seemingly disorganised and absent-minded detective mesmerised me with the way he picked up tiny inconsistencies and turned them into a trail of evidence. Had I not fallen hopelessly in love with Barbara Booth, who stood me up on our first date, I would not have returned home to watch the lieutenant.
From that moment, I wanted to solve a murder.
And now I have one. Only it's too surreal for words. I keep wondering how the police will react. They'll listen without comment, study every movement, every gesture I make, and ask me the questions I asked myself last night.
Then they'll wonder which planet I'm from.
"I need to get some evidence first," I tell Columbo, ruffling his fur.
When Frances taps on the door, he bursts into life. He rushes over, barking and jumping up at the door. I stifle a yawn and get up from the table, still groggy after oversleeping until ten.
"You went to bed late," she says when I let her in.
I gave up trying to guess the password to the autobiography files about three in the morning. "Then you must have been spying on me."
"Well, if you will spend your time in chat rooms." She says it as a joke, but then her cheeks redden. She kneels and fusses Columbo. "I fed him with the other dogs, as you were dead to the world, but you should feed him here."
"Tomorrow," I say.
"I was joking about the chat room," she says, looking up. "It's none of my business what you do."
I won't be doing much now I'm suspended. I should tell her, but I don't want to worry her.
"I'm off to see Tara at the White Horse," I say. "Can you manage?"
She nods and hurries away. After a shower, shave and a bowl of oat granola, I take an extra fish oil capsule to stimulate my brain cells. I need to be sharp and at my best if Tara chooses to be difficult. While I change into a shirt and smart trousers, a text message arrives from Kathryn, Animal Welfare Officer at Eastbourne. She wants to know if I can take a Border Collie for the weekend.
When I end the call, I notice the unusual spelling of her name on my contact list. It reminds me of the way Collins spelt Sydney. Columbo barks and chases after me as I rush to my computer. He leaps on the bed and watches as I pace about, wishing the PC would boot quicker. If I'm right, I could have the evidence I need to convince the police I'm not bonkers.
When the password window appears on the screen, I type Wynston instead of Winston. It fails, so I try Churchyll. There's a pause and then the document opens. I punch the air in delight, almost hitting the monitor. After a calming breath, I reach for the mouse and start scrolling. 'Chapter One' appears about two-thirds of the way down the page. It's followed by line after line of exclamation marks, which continue for the remaining 20 pages.
This repeats for all chapters. Each time I open one, I tell myself it will be the last, but I can't miss one, just in case. As I come to the end of the 20th chapter, Frances strolls in with a mug of tea.
"I thought you were off to Tara's. What's that?" she asks, joining me.
"Part of Collins' autobiography," I reply, closing the document. "It's nothing but exclamation marks."
She settles on the bed next to Columbo. "Have you checked the file at the bottom called 'Introduction'?"
It's dated 15th March and opens without a password.
If you ever wondered about your father, it's your lucky day. Your mother, Amira, worked at the Ace of Hearts in Brighton where I ran security for Miles Birchill. He owns the casino. We go back a long way, me and Miles, when we was both poor and penniless. With his brains and my gift for persuading, we done well.
Amira left home because her parents wanted her to marry some wealthy cousin in Pakistan. She entertained the best punters—politicians, footballers and celebrities. She made more in tips in one night than I earned in a week, but she saved herself for me.
Then she got pregnant. Sensible women take precautions, don't they?
Miles gave her money for an abortion, so she could get back to entertaining, but we never saw her again. Then, a few months ago, someone sends me your birth certificate and some photographs. If she'd told me about the baby, I could have been there for you. But I can still put things right before I shuffle off this mortal coil.
Cancer will kill me, but I have a story. I'll tell you things about Miles the tabloids will kill for. You'll be rich, my daughter. That's my gift to you.
Sydney Collins.
"What do you think?" I ask. "Do you think it's genuine?"
"I don't know. He thinks birth control is for women, and then quotes Shakespeare. Shuffling off this mortal coil," she says when I give her a blank look.
"I think the woman he was seeing wrote it for him."
"Why would any woman write that? It doesn't say much for the man she's with."
I wonder if the lover wanted to make Collins look bad. "When I find her, I'll ask."
It's almost eleven by the time I'm on the road to Alfriston, shadowing the Cuckmere River, which is like a
ribbon in the wide valley that runs to the coast. I'm stuck behind a tractor that's trimming the hedgerow with a cutter attached to a power takeoff. It's a wonderful bit of kit that can tackle all kinds of jobs—spraying, cutting, trimming and killing. Whoever killed Collins understood this.
A few minutes later, the White Horse Hotel, named after the chalk carving on the escarpment, comes into view at the northern edge of the village. Like Downland Manor, it has symmetrical rows of sash windows, grand chimneys, and a Grecian entrance. I'm not sure who thought blue render was a good idea, but it's distinctive.
The drive weaves between striped lawns and formal beds, terraced up an embankment to the hotel. Stone balustrades and steps, weathered green with algae, separate the terraces.
The flowerbeds are overgrown with sparse roses thrusting through dense layers of marigolds, petunias and bindweed.
I skip the public car park and head to the rear of the building where I can enter via the kitchen. I park next to a battered Fiat Panda, which has a pair of chequered chef’s trousers on the passenger seat. The smell of rancid fat draws me through wooden gates that hide a yard at the back of the kitchen. Beyond the bins, a lake of greasy water spills out from a manhole. Curdled grease and fat coat the concrete like soap. Staff must see this every time they put refuse in the bins.
Why hasn't someone dealt with the blocked drain?
I sidle around the edge of the fat lake and through double doors into a long, dark corridor, which smells of damp and mould. Every windowsill has its own collection of dead flies and cobwebs. The filthy mesh fly screens cut out half the light, helping to disguise the sticky black grouting between the quarry tiles.
The familiar noises of a kitchen increase as I get closer. Someone who hasn't a prayer of hitting the high notes sings along to Bon Jovi. The hum of the extract system harmonises with the drone of refrigerator motors, encouraging someone to beat out a steady rhythm on some pots and pans. I push through the door to find Chef playing air guitar with a broom.
Neglect pervades the kitchen like a virus. Many of the tiles in the suspended ceiling have warped and stained. Every wall has tiles like colanders, punctured with holes where shelves were once fitted. Chipped and cracked quarry floor tiles are obscured by the black grease that's settled on them. Old cookers with faded enamel huddle back-to-back beneath a huge stainless steel canopy, streaked with lines of dark grease. Everything looks grubby, especially the feet of the stainless steel tables. Under some of the cabinets, I spot food waste, including an orange coated in green mould.
No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1) Page 20
