Birchill rushes out from the shower room and throws a wet towel to me. He wraps another around his face and goes to William's feet. We lift him off the ground. Half staggering and half walking, we bundle him out of the door.
"Keep going!" Birchill cries.
Flames burst through the roof, lighting up the trees. Burning debris falls out of the sky as we stagger through the undergrowth. William becomes heavier with each step. Another explosion sends more flames and debris into the sky. With a creak and a groan, the roof collapses, crashing to the ground. A ball of flame shoots through the doorway like a bullet. Birchill and I are already falling as the heat and flames surround us. Then they're gone.
As I catch my breath, I hear a car start and accelerate away. Its headlights cut through the darkness.
"I have to stop her. She's got Gemma."
Birchill fumbles in his pocket for his car keys. "Take the Merc. I'll call the police and stay with William."
I switch my head torch onto full brightness. I know where she's heading.
The flames should be visible for miles, so it won't be long before the fire brigade arrive. I pass Cheung's hovel, my breathing growing ragged as I twist, jump and dodge the tree roots. In the chestnut grove, my tired feet fail to clear a root and I'm tumbling. I don't even have the strength to cry out as I hit the ground. Pain shoots through my stomach and pelvis as I scramble to my feet.
When I emerge onto the grass path, I see Carolyn's headlights, racing towards the gate. It's going to be close. I dim my head torch to the lowest setting and hope she's too focused on escape to notice me. With burning muscles and ragged breath, I stumble behind a bush a few yards from the gate. I douse the light and wait. The car screeches to a halt. The passenger door opens and Carolyn jumps out, shotgun in one hand, my Maglite in the other, spraying its beam everywhere. She curses as she spots my car.
"Where are the keys?"
"Kent has them." Gemma raises her hands to show she doesn't have any keys. She looks cold and vulnerable without her blouse.
Carolyn rattles the gate and smashes it into the side of my car several times. She knows she can't escape. She stomps up and down, clearly undecided. She puts the Maglite down. Then, without warning, she raises the shotgun and discharges one barrel into the windscreen of my car.
Gemma shrieks and puts her hands in front of her face as Carolyn turns the shotgun on her. "Walk!"
"Where are we going?"
"Adele's parked behind Syd's house. We'll use her car."
They walk towards me, Gemma in front, Carolyn a couple of yards behind with the Maglite. As they draw closer, I know I'll only get one chance.
Gemma passes. With a roar, I rush out.
Everything slows. Carolyn drops the Maglite. She raises the shotgun as I charge at her. I crash into her. The second shot discharges as she thuds to the ground. I land on top, knocking the wind out of her.
I'm on my feet in seconds, getting my bearings. I hear the butt of the shotgun before it whacks me on the back of my neck and head. I stagger forward, barely aware of the pain, determined to stay on my feet. Somehow, I dodge the second swing of the gun, grabbing the butt as it whistles past. I wrench the gun from her and toss it into the bushes. As Carolyn rises, fingers curled into claws, I punch her in the face.
She crumples like a rag doll.
Aware that Gemma's on the ground, I call her name. She doesn't move. It's only when I bend down beside her that I notice the blood.
Sunday
Twenty-Eight
I thought I'd be safe at the back of the café, hiding behind the Sunday Times. The sudden death of the Rt. Honourable William Fisher, MP, was shoe-horned onto Page Two before the printers rolled. In the days to come, the coverage will increase, especially when journalists link his death to the arrest of Carolyn Montague. Whether his indiscretions die with him remains to be seen.
Thomas Hardy Logan, looking more like a vagrant than an editor in a faded tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, hopes to impress the daily newspapers with his local knowledge. He slides into the chair next to me and places a skinny latte on the table to replace the cold one I'm nursing.
"A little bird told me you were in the thick of it," he says, pulling a fountain pen from inside his jacket. He studies my face for a moment and tuts. "You look like shit, Kent."
"And you want a scoop."
"I'm always willing to plumb the depths of misfortune, you know that. And yours promises to be deeper than most." He removes his trilby and places it on the table. "How did you acquire the black eye and bruised cheek? Birchill only picked up cuts and bruises."
"He's an expert at dodging the knockout blow. You know that, Tommy."
"Another little bird told me you spent four hours in the interrogation suite. Birchill was in and out within an hour."
"He has an expensive lawyer," I say, refusing to be drawn.
"Who offered to represent you, I hear." He leans forward and smiles. "Now, that's interesting, wouldn't you say?"
While he knows most of the events, he's fishing for the details he can't get from his sources in the police. "You know I'll speculate if you don't tell me," he says. "Then there's Adele Havelock. I'm sure she'll pool resources with me."
"Are you aware she slept through the evening's events?"
"After she found a body in a freezer," he says, tapping the side of his generous nose. "Now that's what I call a cold case."
A clamour by the entrance distracts us. With the help of hospital security, Birchill eludes several reporters and enters the café. He's dressed in a black shirt and trousers, minus the ornate cowboy belt buckle and his knuckleduster of gold rings.
"The plot thickens," Tommy says, rising. "Well, if it isn't Downland's most infamous entrepreneur. Taking a rest from wealth generation, are we?"
Birchill's cold stare could freeze the surface of a lake, but Tommy just laughs. "If it was me in that burning building, I'd have left you in there. So, why didn't you, Kent?"
Birchill lifts the trilby off the table and pats it onto Tommy's head. "Push off and peddle your perjury somewhere else."
"I never had you down as alliterate," Tommy says, rising. He looks at each of us in turn and taps the tip of his nose. "I can smell intrigue, so I'll keep sniffing."
I wonder whether Birchill will tell the world he's my father before someone guesses or finds out. I'll dispute the claim, of course. I should demand a DNA test to prove he's not my father, but what if it reveals the opposite?
Without a test, there's always doubt. And hope.
Once Tommy has left, Birchill sits. He unzips a leather pouch with a gold monogram and extracts a legal document, which he slides across the table. "The deeds to your land," he says.
"I already have a copy."
A slight smile twitches the corner of his mouth. "You don't think I'd acquire the Downland estate and leave out a small, strategic part, do you?"
I shouldn't be surprised after everything I've discovered these past three days, but I am. "Are you going to evict me?"
He fiddles with the zipper on the pouch, in no hurry to answer. When he looks up, his eyes seem apprehensive, nervous even. "I'm going to develop my holiday village in the woodland," he says. "I want you to be part of it."
"I'll be there, fighting it all the way."
"Even if it's a sustainable, carbon neutral village packed full of the latest green technology? From design to construction to occupation, it will be revolutionary."
"A rotating holiday village?"
"Grow up, Kent. If you're going to run the project, I'll expect a little more professionalism."
"What about my sanctuary?"
"It looks homemade," he replies. "We need a visitor centre with a coffee shop, toilets, and activities to inspire children and adults alike. Once we've achieved that, we need to improve the adoption and rehoming programmes. Then I'd like to link it to the holiday village in some way."
While it sounds promising, he's only doing this because he wants to be my father.<
br />
"What if I'd rather be an environmental health officer?" I ask.
He considers this for a moment and then shrugs. "I'm not expecting us to become father and son, but you need to accept you're not a Fisher. You never were, Kent. The land you occupy was never yours." He rises and buttons his jacket. "I want you to be free to do what makes you happy."
"If I'm so free, why did you lock me in the study?"
"What father wouldn't try to stop his son getting killed?"
He looks down and I'm sure his cheeks redden, though it's difficult to tell with his tan.
"And thank you for saving my life," he says quickly. "Now let me save yours."
He leaves me with a pouch full of possibilities and a conflict I can't possibly resolve.
A few minutes later, my trainers are squeaking on the polished floor as I make my way to the stairwell at the back of the hospital. Once upstairs, I follow the signs for the surgical wards. At the nurses' station, I ask for directions and they point me to a private room at the end of the ward.
"She already has a visitor," the nurse says. "A charming young man."
When I reach the room, I straighten my shirt and run my hand over my hair. It won't make any difference to my appearance, but it gives me another few seconds to calm my nerves. I was never like this on a date. Then again, I'd never told a woman I was hopelessly in love with her.
Why did I say that?
I'm still caught in indecision when the door opens. A man in a tailored navy blue suit, white shirt and silk tie steps out.
He's my height and much younger than me, with a strong jaw, impossibly white teeth, and puppy eyes, partially obscured by a mop of brown hair. This is the son William Fisher always wanted—smart, privately educated and perfect for dinner parties.
"I'm Richard," the man says. "Gemma's fiancé."
His voice is cultured, his handshake firm. "You must be Kent Fisher. I'm delighted to meet you. I can't thank you enough for saving Gemma's life."
"How is she?"
He glances back through the open door, as if she might be listening. "Sore, bruised and tired. She barely reacted when I showed her the engagement ring I bought this morning. I don't suppose she'll be her old self for some weeks."
She'll never be her old self after what she went through.
"I came this close to losing her," he says, his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "That's when I knew how much I loved her. That's why I can't thank you enough for saving her, Mr Fisher. You must come to the wedding—as our guest of honour, naturally."
At this moment, I can't think of anything I'd like to do less.
"Congratulations," I say through a dry mouth and throat. Inside, it feels like I've had the hope sucked out of me. "I'm sure you'll be very happy together."
He shakes my hand once more, almost wrenching my arm from my shoulder. "Why don't you talk to her? I'm sure she'd love to see you."
Somehow, I doubt it. If I hadn't charged out from the bushes, she wouldn't be lying in hospital. The surgeons might have removed the shot, but they can do little for the pain in her eyes. Pale and exhausted, she's propped up by pillows. She slides the engagement ring up and down her finger.
No matter how I feel, I can't come between them. Richard doesn't need to be scared witless to tell her he loves her. He has prospects, not a sanctuary that devours money. He's everything I'm not—kind, charming and reliable.
Hearing the click of heels, I look up. Rebecca from Tombstone Adventure Park is heading towards me. She looks amazing in a tight blue dress that reveals almost all of her slim, athletic legs. Without the heavy makeup, mascara and hair extensions, she looks more natural and so much prettier.
"What brings you here?" I ask.
"I've come for my phone." She studies my bruised face for a moment and then brushes her fingers over my cheek. "That's an impressive swelling. I think it might need attention."
The smile rises from my groin to my mouth. "Well, I am in a hospital."
"Oh, I think it needs personal attention," she says. "Don't you?"
THE END
About the author
Robert Crouch spent almost 40 years working in environmental health, mainly as an inspector, checking hygiene and health and safety standards, but latterly as the manager of a team of officers.
While he enjoyed modest success writing articles and columns for national and trade magazines during the 1990s, it wasn’t until he turned to writing crime that he found his true niche. He now writes full time from his home on the South Coast of England, drawing inspiration from the beautiful South Downs and his former job.
If you enjoyed No Accident, please consider leaving a review at
Amazon UK
Amazon US
The second Kent Fisher Mystery, No Bodies, should be released in October 2017, but keep reading to the end of this eBook for a sneak preview!
If you would like to be kept up to date with new releases from Robert Crouch, please click here to sign up to his email newsletter, The Tollingdon Tribune. You’ll receive a free copy of his case files, featuring humorous incidents and events from his career in environmental health.
Please visit his website to learn more about Kent Fisher, the South Downs and author.
Author’s note
Most people are unaware of the work environmental health officers (EHOs) carry out on a day to day basis. Programmes like the Food Inspectors on TV have highlighted the crucial role EHOs play in ensuring businesses maintain standards of hygiene and food safety. But environmental health is about much more than hygiene inspections.
With each Kent Fisher Mystery novel, I hope to explore different areas of environmental health to reveal the depth and breadth of the important work carried out to protect public health. In No Accident, I focused on our role in maintaining standards of workplace health and safety, which includes accident investigation.
During my many years working for a rural district council, I investigated at least seven fatal work accidents, which goes to show the countryside is anything but dull and uninteresting. It didn’t take much of a leap of imagination to disguise a murder as a workplace accident, allowing an EHO to investigate.
Finally, I should tell you that the setting, Downland District Council and the accident that starts the novel are entirely fictional. Tollingdon exists only in my imagination, as does Tombstone Adventure Park and many of the pubs and hotels that feature in No Accident. And as the saying goes, all characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No Bodies
Copyright © Robert Crouch 2017
One
I don’t like the way the undertaker looks at my stepmother.
But she does.
Not that I blame Niamh. She’s an attractive woman. She deserves a little happiness. From what I’ve heard, the undertaker’s a considerate man with a business he takes great pride in. I admire people with a passion for what they do, though his enthusiasm for embalming seems wrong on so many levels. Thankfully, it’s a well-kept secret.
But who am I to judge? I have a flair for getting into trouble, which is why we’re at St Mary’s church on an unseasonably warm Friday afternoon in October. It looks like the whole of Tollingdon has turned up to pay their respects to the Right Honourable William Kenneth Fisher, MP and Cabinet Minister. Two weeks ago, he died from a heart attack at a murder scene. It triggered a frenzy of media speculation that’s resulted in a barrage of telephoto lenses along the flint wall of the cemetery.
Have they captured Niamh’s self-conscious smile when she glances at the undertaker?
It can’t be easy for her, giving up her spacious home to move into my flat, but we’ll manage. If she stops tidying everything and criticising my clothes, I promise not to walk around in my underpants. When I find where she’s put them, that is.
We’ll work it out. We have no choice as William Fisher deceived us both. She wants me to keep quiet about it, bu
t as the coffin hovers above the grave, she now wants me to say a few words.
A couple spring to mind, but there are women and children present.
Father Michael commends William Fisher to the mercy of God and steps back, blotting the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Everyone looks at me, but I have no idea what to say. All around me the gravestones and plaques edit people’s lives to a few select words. Death sanitises the past, turning sins and transgressions into shiny marble tributes, but I can’t lie. I won’t lie.
Neither can I tell the truth. Not yet anyway.
I clear my throat.
“Charismatic, and with a personality larger than the cigars he liked, the Rt. Honourable William Kenneth Fisher touched all our lives in different ways. But I wonder how many of us knew the person behind the public façade.”
Niamh’s grip tightens on my arm. I ignore the warning in her green eyes and continue.
“For those of us who knew the private person, things will never be the same. His unexpected death denied us the chance to express how we really felt.”
I glance at Gemma. She’s a few inches away, but it might as well be miles.
“That’s why we should be honest with those who matter most,” I say.
The next thirty minutes plod by in a ponderous procession of platitudes. Everyone has something to say, a memory to share. Niamh remains solemn and dignified, saying all the right things. Not once does she let go of my hand, well aware that I’d rather be running over the green hills of the South Downs to clear my frustration and anger.
When the last mourner moves on, she turns to me, her voice sharp. “What was all that about being honest with those who matter most?”
Once again, I glance at Gemma, who’s waiting beneath a yew tree. She’s the most attractive woman I know with heavenly chocolate brown eyes, a sly smile, and a voice that’s as soft and rich as velvet, even when she swears. She looks amazing in a black cotton jacket, worn without a blouse, and a complementary short skirt that shows off her tanned legs. A trilby, perched on waves of glossy hair, makes me think of Audrey Hepburn.
No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1) Page 28
