"Don't you want to know who your real father is?" She plucks a book from the shelf and saunters over to the sofa.
I can't help noticing the way Muscles watches Gemma. There's something sinuous and effortless about the way she lowers herself. She has a strong core, as the runner in me would say, and beautifully toned muscles. She's as near to perfect as I can imagine.
"Do you think your mother will tell you?" she asks, giving Muscles a wave.
"No. And I'm not talking to her either."
"You don't know who your father is. You want nothing to do with your mother. And there's no one special in your life. I find that sad."
I wish I could find the lever.
"You don't look like William," Gemma says. "He's fair with blue eyes and you're dark with brown eyes."
"You don't think my mother had something to do with that?"
"Why do you hate her, Kent?"
I stroll to the next section of bookcase. It's nearly five o'clock, and I'm trapped with someone who wants my life history. I pull Sue Grafton's A is for Alibi from the shelf, surprised Birchill likes the Alphabet Series.
"What did she do to you?"
When I left Manchester, I pushed all memories of my mother into a safe corner of my mind as if she never existed. Now, for the first time in twenty-three years, I can hear her harsh voice, coloured with that flat, Germanic tone and clipped sentences.
"Nothing I did was ever right, or good enough," I reply. "She lied about everything and never had a good word to say about my father." I stop, floored by a thought. "She knew William Fisher wasn't my father, didn't she?"
"Maybe that's why she took you away from here."
I'm in danger of re-evaluating the mother who spent more time waging war on dust than she spent with me. "No, she resented everything and everyone. Men were only after one thing. Governments penalised poor divorced mothers. God made it rain when she hung out the washing." I pause, remembering the constant drone of complaints and negative words. "William Fisher took the blame for everything that was wrong with her life."
"No one's all bad, Kent."
Frustrated at not finding the lever, I ram the book back and stride to the desk. "She was clean and fastidious around the flat, I guess. She spent most of her life with a duster in her hand, or ant powder."
"Ant powder?"
"She could stand for hours at the back door, poised to wage war on ants. All the joints between the flagstones were picked out in white powder. If a cat strayed into the garden, she would chuck water over it. She collected any poo they left and lobbed it back over the fence into next door's garden."
"Maybe that's why you love animals," Gemma remarks.
I perch on the desk, recalling the moment when I felt like the cruellest person on the planet. "When I was fifteen or sixteen, I discovered a mouse nesting in some compost in the shed. There was a mother and three baby mice. The mother was too quick and scurried away, leaving the babies. They were so small. I collected them in a plastic tub, knowing they wouldn't survive without their mother."
I pause, remembering how I agonised. If I turned the babies outside, they would die. If I left them in the nest, my mother would kill them.
"I took them down to the river and set them free in the grass, hoping they'd survive. But they had no chance. I'd killed them. I felt rotten for months, imagining how scared and cold they must have felt."
I close my eyes, trying to hide the memory. "I vowed then I would never hurt another animal. Everything has a right to live."
Gemma's in front of me when I reopen my eyes. "You did what you thought was right," she says, her voice and expression sympathetic.
"I could have left the nest undisturbed. My mother might not have found them."
"And if she had?"
I run my finger across the base of my neck. "She hated everything."
She sighs. "Have you ever considered how alone and vulnerable she felt, leaving this grand house and her husband? She lost everything."
"Maybe he threw her out for the affair."
"Then she lost her lover too, didn't she?"
I don't want to listen or understand. Whatever the reasons, my mother didn't have to take out her problems on me. What had I done to upset her? If she didn't like or want me, why did she take me?
"She wanted to spite William Fisher," I say. "That's why she took me."
Gemma looks appalled. "Come on, it couldn't have been easy, bringing you up on her own. Why don't you ring her? You've got the perfect opportunity. You can ask her who your real father is."
I slam my fist on the desk. "Will you just leave it?"
Like Gemma, the mouse jumps. The computer's hard drive whirs and the picture returns to the monitor. The Google search page offers results on 'Fire at Maynard's Farm, Uckfield'. Birchill was on Page Two of his search when we interrupted him.
I move around to the chair and take a seat. Gemma's right behind, resting her chin on my shoulder as I go back to the first page. He's viewed items from the Tollingdon Tribune and Eastbourne Herald. He's viewed every entry bar the blog from 'Gyro the Enviro'.
Unlike the newspapers, the blog bemoans the loss of ancient woodland habitats, criticising Miles Birchill, The Concrete Cowboy. The blog pokes fun at Tombstone's shallow appeal, comparing it to the 'blonde bimbos' he likes to be seen with. It's all cosmetic and fakery, Gyro rants, repeating himself. I'm about to leave the page when Gemma puts her hand over mine on the mouse.
"There," she says, guiding the pointer to a thumbnail photo. I double click and an image loads, showing a burnt out farm, courtesy of East Sussex Fire and Rescue. Most of the building has gone, reduced to charred timber beams and a mess of damp, black debris. The resolution of the photo is poor and I can't make out the fine detail, but the metal springs of a bed are visible. The charred remnants of appliances show where the kitchen was located.
Gyro wonders if The Concrete Cowboy's burning ambition to build Tombstone had anything to do with the fire.
"Look at the date of the photograph," she says, pointing.
Today is the fifth anniversary of the fire.
"You and Birchill talked about a killer," she says as if it's an everyday topic of conversation. "Do you think Collins was murdered because he started the fire?"
It's an intriguing thought. Birchill was checking this out when we arrived. Like me, he wasn't convinced Collins died in a work accident. So why didn't Birchill say something to me? Why didn't he compare notes? Why did he get me thrown off the case and suspended?
Then everything tumbles into place so fast my mouth can't keep pace.
"He's the real target, Gemma. Birchill, I mean." She backs away as I stand, fired by the thoughts coursing from my brain to my mouth. "He gained the most from the farm burning down, didn't he? William Fisher helped him get planning permission. He's a target too. That's why he's missing."
I'm over at the bookcase in a couple of strides. "That's what he meant in his text, Gemma. Emergency at the ranch. He meant Tombstone."
"Slow down, Kent. You're making me dizzy."
I turn and put my hands on her shoulders, looking into those lovely eyes. "This is about revenge. Collins was the first. He probably started the fire. Now she's moving on to Birchill, who wanted the farm flattened. And for good measure, she's going to kill William Fisher because he got them the planning approval."
"Who are you talking about, Kent?"
"The Maynards' daughter. She's avenging the death of her parents."
Gemma thinks about this for a few moments. Her eyebrows dip and rise a few times before she gasps. "We have to get out of here and call the police."
She runs across to the French door and thumps on the glass, calling to Muscles. She makes a phone sign with her thumb and little finger, shouts some abuse, thumps on the door again, and freezes. Her arms drop. Her shoulders sag. With more resignation then defiance, she gives him a middle finger salute.
When he laughs, she picks up a small wooden table and hurls it at hi
m. The table thuds against the glass and bounces off, clattering to the floor.
Muscles applauds.
"Cool it, Gemma. The fire started about nine in the evening. Birchill will be there long before that."
"Why doesn't he ring the police?"
"That's not his way."
"What if he fails?"
She's right. We need to get out. I'm out of the chair and heading for the bookcase. "Distract Muscles."
"How? He ignored me a moment ago."
"Appeal to the brain in his trousers?"
"You want me to whip out my tits?"
"As tempting as that is, I need to find the lever to open the bookcase. No, go over there and let Muscles think that's what you're going to do." I look across to the French doors, then back to the bookcase, trying to work out times. "Stay by the door and be ready to close the curtains. We'll only have a few seconds after that."
She nods. "I get it. We go into the passage and close the bookcase. He rushes in and thinks we've vanished, right?"
"No, we close the curtains and you hide behind the sofa."
"Why?"
"Trust me."
"You said that once before, remember?"
Will she ever let me forget? "I'm not going to leave you this time," I say. "Now, go and do your stuff."
She saunters across the room, swinging her hips in a sinuous rhythm. When she's in position, she beckons him closer with her finger. I can't see what she's doing, but he's transfixed. It takes me a few moments to realise I'm no better. With a sigh I turn to the bookcase, sliding my hand to the back. I start at the underside of the top shelf and slide my fingers down to the shelf below. I repeat the process on the next two shelves with no success.
"How long are you going to be?" she calls.
She's turned her back on Muscles, gyrating her bottom at him. She's undone several buttons to reveal more than a hint of cleavage and lacy bra. "I'm running out of buttons."
It takes a lot of willpower to turn back to the bookcase. I shuffle along to the next section and slide my fingers down the back. The texture of polished wood changes to something colder and smoother.
"Got it!" I call, sliding my finger into the small recess. The lever refuses to budge. "It's stiff, Gemma. And so is the lever," I add quickly.
"Muscles too," she says. "If you don't hurry up, he's going to come and drag me away."
Once more, I slide my finger into the recess and try to pull the lever. Once more, it refuses to budge. I glance back, noticing that Muscles has moved to the door to get a closer look. His hand gestures suggest he wants her to get her clothes off.
Then the lever moves a little. Gritting my teeth, I bend my forefinger, straining to free the lever. Finally, it frees and flies open. With a quiet click, the bookcase swings, crashing into my shoulder. A cold, musty draught fans my face.
"Get ready," I call, steadying the bookcase. If it swings open when I join Gemma, we're sunk. "Take the left curtain. I'll take the right."
Without missing a beat, she sidles across to the left and wraps the curtain across her. Muscles looks confused. Then he notices me at her side and frowns. I wink at him and cry, "Pull."
Thankfully, the curtains slide effortlessly on the metal pole. While Gemma rushes for the sofa, I position the wooden table at the foot of the curtains. Muscles thumps on the glass. I rush to the bookcase and pull it open to reveal a veil of dusty cobwebs. Then I hear a key in the lock. I just make it behind the desk as he flings open the door. He grunts as he tangles with the curtains. Then, a few moments later, there's a cry of surprise and a crashing thud that registers on the Richter Scale. After some superlative Anglo Saxon, it sounds like he's back on his feet and crossing the floor. In the silence that follows, I wonder if he'll realise the cobwebs are undisturbed.
I look over the top of the desk. He's gone into the passage.
"Run, Gemma!"
I reach the bookcase in two strides and push it closed with all my strength. I've no idea if the catch engages because I turn and follow Gemma. She leaps through the gap in the curtains. I'm seconds behind. As I turn to close the door, Muscles, who's smeared with cobwebs, bursts out through the bookcase, scattering books.
I slam the door and yank up the handle to engage the locking bolts. My shaking hand reaches for the key he left in his haste. He thuds into the door. His hand reaches for the handle. I turn the key. To my relief the handle holds firm. From the fury ingrained in his face, it won't take him long to wrench the handle off the door.
Delighted that my lip reading skills have improved, I wave goodbye to him, before throwing the key into the bushes. Gemma and I don't stop running till we reach the courtyard. Once in the car, I take a deep breath, grin to myself, and drive off. We're past the hotel and heading for the woodland before either of us speaks.
"That was amazing," she says, glowing from the exertion. "You know how to show a girl a great time, Kent Fisher."
"You might want to button up your blouse."
She looks down and smiles. "I never thought I'd hear you say that."
Me neither.
Within a minute, we reach the main gates and the A27. Without thinking, I swing left and accelerate hard.
"We should go back to your flat and ring the police," she says.
"By the time they send someone out, take a statement and check out Downland Manor, the barn will be burnt to the ground. And that's if they believe me."
"Why wouldn't they?"
"Where do I start?" I ask, glancing at the dash. It's a quarter to six and Tombstone will be closing. Even with a fair wind, it will take us 30 minutes to get there, maybe a little less. If Foley has left, the trade entrance will be locked.
"Let's overlook my feud with Birchill. Let's forget I'm suspended and discredited, okay?" When she nods, I say, "Consider how difficult it must be to murder someone with a power takeoff."
She arches her back into a stretch that threatens to burst open her blouse. Her grimace melts into a sigh as she relaxes. "Go on," she says.
"You need to lift and position Collins over the power takeoff so his tie will snag and become entangled. He'll be heavy, so they have to be quick."
"They?"
"Even Muscles would struggle to hold the dead weight of Collins on his own."
"You're thinking Cheung, right?"
I wasn't, but I nod. "Then, when the tie snags, Collins is wrenched out of their hands. Blood will spurt everywhere. I can't imagine the noise or the smell. The two of them will be covered in blood."
I have to slow as we join the end of a tail of traffic, heading towards Brighton. "They're already at the barn," I say, thinking aloud. "They already have William Fisher. They may now have Birchill. But they won't be expecting me."
"Us, Kent. I'm coming with you."
I should have dropped her at the sanctuary. With Niamh to help, she could have contacted the police. They would listen to Niamh, maybe send a patrol car to Tombstone, even to the barn. While I picture the scene, I'm sure it wouldn't happen that way. The response car would turn up outside the barn with its lights and sirens flashing. By then the damage would be done. The fire would be started. The daughter would be escaping by the trade entrance.
"Us," I agree, settling back to make my own plans.
Gemma sinks into the seat and falls silent. The road dips down towards the Cuckmere River, which is little more than a stream at this point. Moments later, we reach the Alfriston roundabout and take a right towards Berwick Station. It's not the fastest road in the district, but it's the shortest route north to the A22 and Tombstone. I hope we don't encounter any tractors.
"Collins had to be unconscious," she says. "He'd struggle like a caged animal if he wasn't. They'd never hold him still."
"They filled him with vodka until he passed out. When the post mortem reveals he was drunk, his death is ruled to be accidental. Neat, don't you think?"
"Practical," she says. "Someone planned this in great detail."
I nod, hoping Coll
ins was unconscious when they held him over the takeoff. Anything else is too terrible to consider.
As we drive into Berwick Station, the lights flash and the level crossing barriers descend. I draw to a halt and switch off the engine. I turn to face Gemma.
"It must have taken months, maybe years, to plan this. The tractor has to be repaired, especially if you want the blame for the accident on Birchill. Collins slept late. He never wore ties. Someone had to get to know him."
"You mean Wednesday Woman, don't you? She's the daughter." She cringes and turns away. "If she slept with him... it's too horrible for words."
"Then you have to clean up afterwards," I say, hoping to distract her and push the image from my thoughts. "The shower in the barn had been used recently. Cheung must have showered, disposed of the clothes, and then rung the police. No wonder he got his story mixed up. I...."
My voice tails off as I look into Gemma's eyes. I'm not sure what she's thinking, but it's making me go weak. "What?" is all I can say.
"You're amazing," she says. "When did you work this out? You had your doubts on the first morning, didn't you? You knew then."
I shake my head. "No, I knew something wasn't right. We were meant to believe Collins went to make fence posts. There was no space for new posts in the enclosure, no fresh timber to make any. That's what bothered me, though I didn't understand the significance until yesterday evening. I had a hazy picture, which only came together today.
"I thought it was Birchill," I say. "I wanted it to be Birchill because it solved so many problems. But he also knew Collins was killed, so it couldn't be him."
"When you and Birchill started talking about a killer, I thought you'd lost the plot. But you both worked it out, didn't you?"
"Only when you pointed out the anniversary of the fire. Then it had to be the daughter."
"Who is the daughter? Adele Havelock?"
The train rushes through in a blur of noise and lights. The barriers lift and we're away, speeding through the village to make up time.
"It could be," I reply. "She went back to Collins' house yesterday evening. But she got a call from the killer, using Collins' phone."
No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1) Page 25
