The busy yard is filled with trucks, tractors, diggers and trailers. The old cowshed houses a service area, complete with hydraulic ramps, trolleys of tools, blade-sharpening machines and all the spare parts needed to maintain farm machinery. The office and reception area occupy the adjacent barn, which overlooks a small compound, surrounded by a mesh fence. I pull up alongside the locked gate and stare at the Massey Ferguson tractor.
"Is that it?" Niamh asks. "I was expecting something bigger and newer."
It looks old and tired in solitary confinement. Without the rusty bench saw, the corrosion and neglect in the tractor are more noticeable. The rear wheel arch has a dent I hadn't noticed before. The sides of the vinyl cab flap in the breeze. The power takeoff hangs limply from the rear, looking harmless.
Tom's striding across the yard, his bushy eyebrows knitted into a deep, unwelcoming frown. His demeanour changes when Niamh climbs out of the passenger seat. He diverts to her side of the car, gives her a broad smile, and holds out a hand. The roughness of his skin and blackened fingernails contradict the clean lines of his suit. He's muscular and strong, with hands that can perform the most intricate tasks with ease. He might own and run the company, but he can't stop tinkering with machinery.
"It's always a pleasure to see you, Mrs Fisher." His voice deepens, as does the colour in his cheeks, when she smiles. "I don't believe you came here to buy a tractor, did you now?"
"Would you believe me if I told you I learned to drive one in Donegal?"
"Of course I would." When he turns to me his smiling charm evaporates. "If you're expecting a report, I have paying customers to attend to."
"I'll settle for your first impressions," I say.
"I could do a passable David Beckham if you close your eyes," he tells Niamh. "And everyone does Michael Caine, don't they?"
"I get the impression you're stalling, Tom. So, let me focus your mind. You remember the muck spreader I used to fill Birchill's Mercedes?"
"Of course."
"How do you think he'll react when I tell him you loaned it to me?"
Niamh stares at me in disbelief. "Kent, that's blackmail!"
"You get used to it, Mrs Fisher." Tom punches the code into the lock and opens the gate. When we reach the tractor, he runs a hand along the body, patting the engine cover. "Someone removed the guard we fitted. There's no sign of any abuse or damage, no wear and tear. That's all I can tell you."
While it's what I expected, I'm still disappointed. I take a closer look, hoping I'll spot something, but I'm not sure what to look for. Not that it matters, since the case was closed.
"You must know something about this tractor," I say, straightening. "You know every tractor for miles."
He smiles. "I helped Gerry Maynard restore her after he bought her at auction. About thirty years ago," he says, anticipating my question. "She was a rusting wreck, but we brought her back to life. Then, when Gerry died in the fire, Collins claimed it. He wrecked her within three months and left her to rust."
"Why did Gerry sell the farm?" I ask.
"He needed the money for Martha."
Niamh nods. "Martha had dementia."
"Some days she recognised you, others she was like an empty shell," he says. "She got confused all the time. She swore blind their daughter, Lynne, had returned home and told her not to sell the farm."
"I didn't know they had a daughter," Niamh says.
"She ran away when she was sixteen. Gerry never spoke about it. She was adopted and wanted to find her real parents or something like that."
"Did she?" I ask Tom.
He shrugs.
"Did anyone try to find her? She's entitled to her parents' estate."
"Not if they sold to Birchill," he points out.
We follow him out of the compound and wait while he locks the gate. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Mrs Fisher," he says, bowing his head. "I was sorry to see you leave Downland Manor. Your roses were spectacular."
She blushes slightly. "We have to go, Tom. Thank you for your time."
He opens the passenger door for her and helps her in. Then he walks around and joins me. "I don't understand why Tombstone ordered a service," he says in a low voice. "The tractor hadn't worked for the best part of three years."
"Who requested the service?" I ask.
"Ben Foley's secretary, I imagine. He couldn't organise the proverbial in a brewery. She leaves him notes to remind him when it's his birthday or his wedding anniversary."
"I didn't know they were married."
"They're not. He has a wife and two kids, but he wants everyone to think he's having an affair with Rebecca. She doesn't have a car, so he gives her a lift to work and back." Tom grins. "She's a good looking lass, as I'm sure you've noticed."
"She remembers when I went to her school to talk about my work."
He laughs. "That put you in your place. So, when can I expect someone to check the tractor over?"
I'm about to tell him the investigation's closed when my BlackBerry rings. I walk away from the car and he heads towards his office. "I didn't know you worked Saturdays, Carolyn."
"People die all week," she replies in a humourless voice. "Want to tell me why you were suspended?"
"You must stop beating about the bush and get to the point," I reply, caught off guard by her directness. "Someone didn't approve of my methods."
"Birchill always fights dirty. Look, if you need someone to back you up, give me a shout."
"Thanks."
"Who's taking over?"
"No one—the case is closed."
"You're joking. Why?"
"I'll tell you another time, Carolyn. I'm busy at the moment."
"I'll still need a report for the Coroner. No frills, no waffle. Tell it as it was, Kent. My investigation's still open in case there's anything you want to tell me."
I can't imagine her putting murder in her report, but her police colleagues are more likely to listen to her than a suspended EHO. But will she listen to me? There's only one way to find out.
"What if I said I had doubts about Collins' accident?"
"What kind of doubts?"
"It's complicated. Collins wrote an autobiography." I pause, expecting her to interrupt, but she remains silent. "Only he didn't, because he was illiterate. Someone else wrote it, or so I thought. I copied all twenty chapters from his computer, but they contain nothing but exclamation marks."
"Slow down, Kent. You said you copied the chapters from Collins' computer. Do you mean the knackered laptop on his desk?"
"There was a working PC on the desk the day before. I copied the files onto a memory stick. We had to get out then as someone came to the house."
"We?"
"Gemma and me. We—"
"You went into the house on Thursday? Why didn't you tell me yesterday? Why did you go round with me if you'd already seen the house?"
"I wanted to see if the killer had removed or changed anything. And he'd swapped the PC for an old laptop."
"Did you say killer?"
I draw a breath. "I think Collins was murdered."
"With a power takeoff?"
She sounds incredulous. I can picture her making gestures to her colleagues to say she has a nutcase on the phone.
"I know it sounds crazy, but it's a clever way to disguise a murder."
"I must be crazy to even ask this, but do you have any evidence?"
"Murder's the only answer to all the questions. If we could persuade the police to send a SOCO team to the clearing, they might be able to unearth something."
"Oh, I get it," she says. "You want me to put your theory to my colleagues. Nice try, Kent, but you're on your own with this one."
"They'll never believe me."
"Can you blame them? I mean, what sort of twisted mind would think of killing someone like that? You'd have to know all about power takeoff shafts. Then there's the blood. And how would you get the victim over the shaft? He'd have to be drugged or something."
> "You said Collins was drunk."
"I didn't quite say that, but...." She pauses for a few moments and then sighs. "I must be going soft in the head. Why don't we meet at the clearing at six? Bring the memory stick and I'll hear you out."
I return to the car, feeling relieved and excited in equal measures. I have a chance to convince Carolyn I'm right. It won't be easy, but then few things are, in my experience. I just need to get everything together and give a killer presentation.
"You seem pleased," Niamh says as I climb into the car. "Was that Gemma on the phone?"
"No."
"I've seen the way you look at her," she says. "And when you talk about her, there's a twinkle in your eyes."
"Niamh, she's engaged."
"And you'll start chasing after someone else within a few weeks. That's your trouble, Kent. You won't settle down and make a go of things."
I drive away and head for the dual carriageway, barely listening as she tells me to set down roots and build a proper house at the sanctuary.
"I'd love to," I say, seizing the chance to change the subject. "Do you think my fath—William would help me? You must have made quite a bit when you sold Downland Manor. Do you miss the place?"
She shakes her head. "William pretends he's fine, but I see him looking across to the Downs. He regrets moving, even though he couldn't afford to maintain the relic. I never thought he'd sell it, mind."
"What if didn't sell it?" I ask, accelerating into a gap in the traffic.
"What do you mean?"
"Tara told me he gave it to Birchill."
"Why would he do that? The place was worth a fortune, even if it ate money. And how would she know, anyway?"
I swing around the roundabout and head for Tollingdon, wishing I'd kept my big mouth shut. "I don't know what happened, but it was all so sudden, don't you think? No estate agents, no solicitors, no explanation."
She withdraws into herself as we speed south, only speaking when I draw up at the lights. "He sold so many paintings and heirlooms over the years to pay for repairs, but he was paying off gambling debts, wasn't he?"
I'm not sure what to say. "He hated gambling in all forms."
"He couldn't stop himself," she says bitterly. "I know he visited casinos, but I've no idea how much he lost over the years. I thought he had an endless supply of money until he started selling the antiques." She closes her eyes over the tears. "He gambled our home away, didn't he?"
I can't believe he racked up the kind of debts that would cost him Downland Manor. Then again, he only had to use it as security for a loan and default.
"And now he's run off," Niamh says. "I'm sick with dread, wondering where he is and what he's done. I don't want to lose another house."
I don't want to lose the sanctuary. I accelerate away from the lights, hoping there isn't a bailiff waiting for me at home.
Twenty-Four
"What's she doing here?"
Niamh frowns at Gemma, who's sitting on the top step by the kitchen door. She looks amazing in a pastel yellow blouse and leg-hugging jeans. If she had worn heels or diamante flip-flops I would have assumed she was going out, but she's wearing trainers. I need to get rid of her so I can settle Niamh in the spare room. Then I can track down William Fisher.
I jog up the stairs, looking around for Frances or Columbo. I had hoped he would rush over to welcome me. When I reach the next to the top step, Gemma looks up. She's swept her glossy hair to one side, holding it in place with a clasp that matches her blouse. She raises her Audrey Hepburn glasses.
"You're not pleased to see me, Kent."
"It's not a good time, Gemma. Can't it wait?"
"I have something you need to look at," she says, getting to her feet. She leans closer and whispers. "Niamh mustn't see it."
She steps aside to reveal a cardboard box, similar to the ones we use at work to archive files. She scoops it into her arms and waits for me to unlock the door. I push it open and gesture her inside, following close behind.
"Did Mike ask you to collect Hetty's files from the nursing home?" I ask.
"Good call, Sherlock. How did you work that out?"
"Elementary, my dear, Watson. It says DCI Wainthropp on the box."
She puts the box on the table and turns, giving Niamh a big smile. "Hello, Mrs Fisher. You look well."
"That blouse brings out your tan, Gemma." Niamh drops her holdall inside the door and rubs her numb fingers. "I'm afraid to spend that long in the sun. You hear so many stories about cancer."
"That's why I keep fit and healthy, Mrs Fisher, but I haven't seen you at Pilates for weeks. Is there a problem?"
"I've found a more advanced course that suits me better."
Gemma nods. "Yes, you can plateau when you do something too long."
There's an undercurrent beneath the warm tones and smiles. I'm not sure they like each other, so why do they pretend to?
And people wonder why I prefer animals.
Right on cue, Columbo barks and leaps through the door. He stops to look at us in turn and makes for Niamh, sniffing her legs. The moment she bends to stroke him, he scurries to Gemma. She pulls a chew from her pocket and drops to one knee. Columbo grabs the chew and disappears under the table.
Niamh takes charge of the kettle. "Tea, anyone?"
"Not for me," I reply, picking up the holdall. "Let's pop your stuff in the spare room and settle you in."
She shakes her head. "If you two have plans, I'd hate to get in the way. I have this gorgeous Westie for company, and I can find the bathroom when I need it."
I take the holdall to the spare room, which Frances uses in winter. She removes her clothes from the wardrobe and dresser in spring, takes her books and disconnects the X-Box from the TV. Only the life-size poster of a musclebound man in budgie smugglers remains.
"Envy's a terrible thing," Gemma says, cradling the archive box. "You won't look cool in yellow Speedos, trust me. Where do you want this?"
"Put it by the computer in my room," I reply, placing the holdall on the bed. "I'll take a look later."
"Are you off to meet Adele Havelock?"
I squeeze past her. "You can have the poster, as you seem to like it."
"Danni will go ape if she finds out you're with Adele Havelock again."
"It's nothing to do with you."
"I thought we were a team, Kent."
"You mean you're miffed because I took her into the barn."
"No, I'm angry, Kent. You're a law enforcer, but you're always breaking the rules. You say you want to do what's right, but you do things the wrong way. You tell me we're a team and then you ignore me."
"That's unfair," I say, wishing I could tell her how much she means to me. I hate the way she looks at me as if I've let her down.
"Is it? I waited in the restaurant for you yesterday. When you didn't show, I thought you'd had an accident or something. I should have known you'd be with another woman." She pauses, her chest rising and falling as she regains her breath. "If you'd taken me into the barn, you wouldn't be suspended now."
"Sometimes you have to take a chance."
"You didn't take a chance, Kent. You broke the rules."
"Birchill plays dirty. How else am I going to get him?"
"Get him for what, exactly?"
I can hardly tell her he's a killer. She'd never believe me.
"See," she says, her voice rising. "You don't know and you don't care." She thrusts the archive box into my stomach. "You never think you've done anything wrong."
She's not referring to my recent behaviour, that's for sure. "I have to find William Fisher," I say, preferring to look forward. It's three forty and I'm running out of day. "He's disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"It's linked to Collins' death, but I don't know how. Maybe Hetty can shed some light."
"So that's why Niamh's here." Gemma takes the archive box from me and puts it on the bed. "She mustn't read the files. If she finds out your father's involved wit
h Birchill...."
"I already know," Niamh says, stepping into the bedroom. "Most months I don't know whether the bailiffs will call. I don't know if he's sitting in the House of Commons or lying with another woman."
The uncertainty and pain are etched into her features. Suddenly, she seems hesitant. "Put me out of my misery—tell me about Adele Havelock and Hetty."
"Hetty is DCI Wainthropp. These are his memoirs," I say, patting the box. "He was writing a book, but he died yesterday."
"Are you looking for something you can use against Miles?"
"I haven't had time to look."
"Don't!" she says, coming closer. "You've already seen what Miles can do. Destroy the files, Kent, for all our sakes."
"Not until I've uncovered the truth. William Fisher has some serious explaining to do when I find him."
"If you find him."
Her heels thud across the wooden floor. She casts a furtive glance at the archive box as she heads out of the room and towards the kitchen. She wants to read Hetty's files as much as I do. Maybe she wants to know how her husband could lead a double life without her knowing. I want to know how he could look me in the eye and tell me integrity mattered.
"How can she defend him when he's lied, cheated and gambled everything away?" I ask.
"That's what people do when they love someone."
If that were true, then the divorce rate would drop.
I want to understand the man who was my father until an hour ago. I can imagine how being the last Fisher would have weighed heavy. History would be ready to record him as the Fisher who failed to produce an heir. Yes, he would feel a failure. It could explain his affair with Mandy Cheung. It could explain why he gambled his estate away. The Fisher dynasty would die with him. What did he have to lose?
I need to find him, and fast.
"I have an errant husband to find," I say. "Look after Niamh, will you? She's not holding up well."
Gemma takes the top file from the box. "I could, but what if I let it slip that you've been suspended?"
"Don't you think she has enough to worry about?"
"You're not being honest with her, Kent. Just like your father."
"I want you to leave." My voice is calm and even, but I'm struggling to contain the anger. How dare she invite herself round and criticise me? "I didn't ask you to come round here."
No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1) Page 23
