No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  "No, Mike did," she says, refusing to move. "He thought you might need some help. That's what friends are for, isn't it? Or don't you consider me a friend?"

  Just when I think my feelings can't hurt me, she unleashes them with effortless ease. What makes me think she'd consider me as more than a colleague or a friend? How can I be so dumb?

  "You'll never get into Tombstone without this." She pulls her ID from the back pocket of her jeans. "You no longer have one."

  If I go to Tombstone, I'm not using the main entrance. "William Fisher has nothing to do with you or work," I tell her.

  She pats the folder. "You should read Hetty's notes. It's all there—the gambling, the assault on Mandy Cheung and the birth of her child. He interviewed a Government inspector who says your father persuaded him to grant planning permission to Tombstone. Even the fire at Maynard's Farm looks suspicious."

  "You're not suggesting he had something to do with the fire, surely?"

  "No, that one's down to Birchill, if Hetty's right. It's all in here."

  Finally, I usher her into the corridor and close the bedroom door. "Another time, Gemma. I have a missing Cabinet Minister to find."

  "What if he's not at Tombstone?"

  I pause, unable to repel the doubt she's put in my mind. In truth, I have no idea where to look or start. "He must be," I say, knowing I don't sound convincing.

  She gives me a smug smile and wanders into the lounge. "I know where he is."

  "He's at Tombstone. That's what his text said. Emergency at the ranch. The ranch is Tombstone. It was a coded clue."

  "So why didn't you go straight there?"

  I've only just thought of it, and she knows it. I don't want to take her with me in case it's dangerous, but if she's worked out where he is from Hetty's notes, I have no choice. At least she can't accuse me of not working as a team.

  "Okay, lead the way," I say.

  In the kitchen, I say something well intended but inane to Niamh about not worrying. I fuss Columbo for a moment, reminded of his namesake's dogged determination to get to the truth. I could do with some of that. Once in the car, I turn to Gemma, who gives me a quizzical look.

  "Where do we go?" I ask.

  "To the main road and turn left."

  She opens the file to read as we bounce along the uneven track. "Hetty believed the fire was started deliberately to kill the Maynards," she says. "He never believed the inquest verdict of accidental death. Neither did many of his colleagues, including Carolyn Montague."

  "The Coroner's Officer?"

  "She was a police officer at the time. She arrived at the scene with the fire crew. She told Hetty the fire looked suspicious. Hetty believes Birchill got Mr Maynard drunk, lit a cigarette, and pushed it down the side of the sofa while he slept."

  It's the same kind of speculation I've indulged in. All it lacks is proof.

  At the junction with the A27 I wait for the traffic to rush past. It's just gone four o'clock and in a couple of hours the light will fade. My chances of finding William Fisher will also fade.

  "Birchill wanted the farm so he could build Tombstone," I say, inching forward. "If the Maynards refused...."

  "The Maynards wanted to sell," Gemma says. "It was the daughter who didn't. She ran away when she was fifteen. No one had seen her for twenty years, and then she shows up as if nothing happened. Two days later, a fire breaks out, but she's nowhere to be found."

  "Tom Gibson mentioned a daughter. She was adopted or fostered, I think."

  "She hears about Birchill's interest, comes home and persuades her parents not to sell. Birchill's livid and burns the place down." Gemma chuckles. "You've got me at it now, coming up with crazy conspiracy theories."

  "Like someone killing Collins?"

  "Exactly. You'd have to be nuts to believe that."

  "So, what happened to the daughter? Why didn't she report Birchill to the police?"

  "She disappeared, according to Hetty. What if Birchill killed her?"

  Finally, there's a gap in the traffic and I accelerate away. "I'm meeting Carolyn later. I'll ask her."

  "Turn here," Gemma says, pointing to the entrance to Downland Manor Hotel.

  "Here?"

  "When people say back at the ranch, they mean work or home. Your father grew up here. He feels safe here, especially with Birchill to protect him."

  I swing between the two stone pillars that support an ornate black metal arch, bearing the name of the hotel in gold letters. The Fisher crest has given way to a gold outline of the hotel. Gold is Birchill's brand. He loves it when the media compare him to Midas. I think of him as Auric Goldfinger, destined for an unsavoury end.

  Gemma steadies herself with a hand on the dashboard as I speed through the bends that weave between ash, oak and sycamore. "Take it easy," she says. "I'd like to stay alive long enough to see your old house."

  We emerge from the woodland for our first glimpse of the Edwardian manor. It looks the same as when I first arrived here, aged seventeen. Three storeys of red brick, trimmed with stone on each corner and around the windows, rise out of a flagstone terrace like a mansion from a period drama. Any moment now, women in long dresses, pinched at the waist, will promenade onto the clipped lawns that swirl around ornate borders of roses and ponds of koi carp. They'll linger on the stone bridges to gaze at the South Downs, rising out of flower meadows to bask in the sun.

  "It's awesome!"

  For once, she's right. There's something stately about the tall windows. They're so lofty the people inside must be giants. They were, I recall. They had stature and a quiet confidence I'd never seen before. They didn't need to talk about their wealth. It was part of them—in their rich voices, their elegant clothes and the large glasses of cognac they sipped from.

  "It must have been amazing to live here," she says.

  After a damp basement flat in Manchester, Downland Manor was a palace. But the grand façade hid an empty interior, rotting and perishing from neglect. The basement, which contained the kitchen, wine cellar and secret passages used by smugglers, was a great place to explore. Only one tunnel survived, connecting the dry store behind the kitchen with my father's study in the south-eastern corner. It emerged through a bookcase that opened out into the room.

  I loved snooping around, reading files on people I'd seen on TV, business leaders and all manner of dubious characters, singled out for attention.

  "I loved the attic," I say, remembering how I occupied a new room every month to introduce some variety into an otherwise dull routine. "Many of the floorboards and stairs were rotten, so I could walk on the joists like an acrobat."

  A familiar blue VW speeds out of the car park, cutting across us on its way out. Adele's sunglasses can't mask her grim expression. Whatever she was doing at the hotel, it was not successful.

  "Must have been hell being in charge of all the staff," Gemma says.

  I never felt comfortable having others serve me lunch. I retreated to the stables where Tara had her office. I hung about there most of the first summer, losing my fear of horses until I could ride into the woods and hills, where I lost my virginity. When my father found me a job with Downland District Council and sent me to university to study environmental health, I lost the freedom I'd enjoyed that first summer.

  I drive past the main car park, tucked away among mature trees at the side of the hotel, and head for a large cobbled courtyard at the back of the hotel. Birchill has converted the stable block into a health club with a gymnasium, pool, and sauna.

  "People leave here with wallets slimmer than their waists," I say, pulling into the health club manager's parking bay. It's directly beneath the only security camera. "Stay close to me and we won't be seen."

  "Why are we sneaking around the back? What's wrong with reception?"

  I'm assuming that Birchill has taken the study as his office. If he hasn't, my surprise will fall flat.

  "Act casual," I say, pointing to a chef, who steps out of the kitchen opposite. Hi
s white coat exhibits most of the lunch menu. With a cigarette pinched between his fingers, he leans against the wall and checks his mobile phone. No doubt he's texting instructions to the second chef on how to cook aubergine, as most young people seem unable to communicate verbally.

  At the corner, we turn down a shaded lane that runs alongside the hotel. To our left, the dense woodland screens old agricultural buildings. These contain the workshops and machinery stores that serve the 9-hole golf course Birchill built after Downland Golf Club rejected his membership application for the third time.

  "There's Birchill's Mercedes," Gemma says, pointing.

  The black Mercedes waits in the shade alongside the study. When we draw level, I stop and raise my hand. I flatten myself against the wall, sidle along and peer through the window. Birchill's sitting at a vast desk that occupies almost all of a Persian rug. He has his back to me, which means I should make it to the French doors at the front without being spotted. The doors are wide open, so there's nothing to stop me bursting in.

  "I can see Birchill, but no one else," I whisper. "I'm going in. If anything goes wrong, get out of here and ring Mike."

  She groans. "If only I'd asked Q for the reality meter. It would have sent us to reception."

  "I want to surprise Birchill and catch him out," I say.

  "You want to play James Bond."

  "I'd look pretty stupid, bursting into the study without a gun. I could point my finger, I guess, or challenge him to a game of stone, scissors, paper."

  I'd settle for a witty one-liner in the thirty seconds it takes to creep to the front. I pause, taking a deep breath as I step into view. I'm so focused I don't notice Birchill beside the doors.

  "Welcome, Mr Fisher. Unlike me, you haven't mastered the secret of surprise. Come inside. Your faithful poodle will be with us shortly."

  Gemma soon follows, propelled by a shaven-headed man with a flattened nose and tattoos on either side of his neck. I've no idea what the Chinese symbols mean, but they should warn of the dangers of squeezing into a tight suit if you're built like a brick outhouse.

  "As you can see, I watched your progress," he says, nodding toward the flat screen TV on the wall.

  With nothing witty to say, I stroll to the bookcase. The weighty tomes that smelt of leather and dust have given way to modern hardbacks and paperbacks, which seem to shrink to the back of the grand shelves. "I see you like Dick Francis."

  "I like success." He walks over and opens the small fridge. "Can I get you a drink? Sparkling mineral water might help, as you look a little flat."

  Not only does he have the advantage of surprise, he's ahead in the wisecracking stakes. Wondering if he found the secret passageway while renovating the building, I try to remember where the hidden catch was located as I walk along, looking at the books. He has an interest in the natural world, which his developments smother with concrete. Biographies about Napoleon, Caesar, Wellington and Lord Mountbatten, among others, reveal leaders he wishes to emulate, I imagine.

  "As you can see, my interests are diverse," Birchill says. "I imagine you like Ian Fleming. You see yourself as James Bond, no doubt."

  "More Dirty Harry," I say.

  He smirks as if the idea is ludicrous. "You should study the great leaders who shaped our world with their courage, foresight and bravery." He takes a bottle of water back to the desk and drops into his leather chair. "What are you doing here?"

  "I'm looking for William Fisher."

  "What makes you think he's here?"

  "This was his home."

  "Mine too." The bottle hisses as he unscrews the cap a little. "I slept above the stables—something we have in common, Fisher. Now, sit down. Marcus will think you intend to escape if you keep walking about."

  When Muscles steps forward, Gemma pulls me back to the sofa. "He'll flatten you, Kent."

  "Is William Fisher here?" I ask, shrugging off her hand.

  "Why would he return after gambling the estate away?" Birchill watches me closely and then grins. "You know about his gambling, I see."

  Gemma gives me a surprised look. "I thought your father sold it."

  "No, Miss Dean, he offered it as security against a substantial loan. He wanted to win back the money he'd lost. I advised him against it."

  "Yeah, I'll bet you did."

  Birchill turns his chair through a sweeping arc. "He didn't care about the money. He didn't care for this place. A thousand years of history and expectation weighed him down. He wanted to be free of his high-maintenance wife. She had dreams of becoming Lady Fisher. He had dreams about Mandy Cheung. I see you know about that too," he says with a smile.

  "Yeah, you put paid to that."

  He raises his hands in innocence. "The gentry think they can have anything they want. Without me, he'd be another disgraced MP, paying the price for keeping his brain in his trousers. Instead, he's a respected politician."

  "A politician who got you planning permission for Tombstone."

  "He enjoyed opposing it in public, while pushing it through in private. His only regret was that he couldn't tell anyone."

  I get to my feet, staring at Muscles to goad him. "He didn't tell you he'd hived off a strip of land for me. I'll bet you were livid when you found out he'd duped you. I wish I'd seen your face at the time."

  His laugh never reaches his eyes. With only the slightest of head movements, he unleashes Muscles, who pulls my arms behind my back, immobilising me. Birchill walks round the desk and punches me in the solar plexus. The second punch makes my legs buckle. I collapse to my knees, gasping for breath. Adrenaline has numbed the pain for the moment, but not the effect. I'm aware of Gemma attacking Muscles, but he soon flings her onto the sofa.

  As I try to stand, he plants his foot behind my knee and forces me back to the floor. He grabs my hair, yanking my head back. I look up at Birchill and say, "Serves you right for not checking before you grabbed Downland."

  I brace myself for the punch to the face or the kick in the guts. Instead, he pulls some papers from the desk. "I've offered you twice the market value of your land," he says. "All you need to do is sign this contract and build a proper sanctuary somewhere more suitable."

  "I'd rather expose you and your pet politician."

  He pulls a hand back, ready to slap my face. "You need to show your father some respect, Fisher."

  I can't help laughing. "It's not your day, Birchill. He's not my father," I say, enjoying his look of surprise.

  He gives Muscles a sign, and I'm hauled to my feet. Birchill takes my BlackBerry from its holster. "Yours too, Miss Dean," he says, going over to her.

  She looks dazed, but hands over her phone. "Top it up for me, will you?" she says.

  He walks to the French doors and nods. Muscles propels me across the room. I crash into the desk. While the pain in my thighs registers in my brain, my face plunges towards the desk. Just in time, I turn my head. It thuds into the wood. My jaw feels like it's dislocated. Half stunned, I pull myself upright. Birchill and Muscles are outside. Muscles smashes the phones with a rock from the garden and then hurls them into the woodland.

  "You're welcome to stay," Birchill says. "You have books to read, water in the fridge and security cameras to watch over you."

  "Where are you going?"

  He shakes his head. "Marcus will keep you company."

  "I'll call the police, Birchill."

  "And throw your stepmother out onto the street? I don't think so."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Who do you think owns their house in Herstmonceux?"

  Twenty-Five

  Gemma steps in front of me and studies my face. "You're going to look like the Elephant Man unless you stop pacing about and let me put some ice on that."

  "I'm not pacing. I'm looking for a way out."

  "No change there then," she says with a sneer. "Okay, play the hero, but at least tell me about your father not being your father."

  "We need to get out of here and go a
fter Birchill."

  She doesn't budge, her mouth set to stubborn. "And go where? We're trapped, in case you hadn't noticed."

  I wish she could look after me and sooth my battered face and aching stomach, but not now. "I only found out about my father a couple of hours ago," I say.

  "Niamh told you?" Gemma's voice is pure disbelief. "Why now? Because her husband is missing? What's going on, Kent?"

  I push past her to resume my examination of the bookcase. I follow it to the back of the room and try the handle on the door again, in case some unseen force has intervened to help me. It's still locked, of course. Our only hope of escape lies with the passage behind the bookcase.

  I've no idea if the passage still exists, or whether the hidden lever is still in place and working.

  All I need to do is find out without Muscles seeing me.

  "Talk to me, Kent. This is massive."

  She means well, but I can't deal with this now. "I'm not bothered who my father is," I say. "What difference does it make? Will it help us get out of here?

  "You're not who you thought you were."

  I stride over to the mirror on the wall. "I'm a little bruised and battered," I say, surprised at how swollen and fiery my cheek is, "but still Kent Fisher."

  "This morning you woke as the son of William Fisher, now you're..." She flaps her hands, trying to dislodge the words from the air, "... not."

  "I'll have to ring the BBC and book you a place on Mastermind. Specialist subject—stating the blatantly obvious."

  "Better than denial, Kent. You're not who you thought you were."

  "Really? So, my past has suddenly changed, has it? My childhood and adolescence no longer cast a shadow over me. I never lived in this place, so I won't know how to get out of here."

  I move along the bookcase as I speak, pretending to look for a book. When I reach the section where the lever should be, I stop. I place myself between the books and Muscles and pretend to read. My left hand feels along the smooth wood. I hope the bookcase won't spring open—if it opens at all after so many years.