No Accident (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Crouch

  I wrench my thoughts back to Niamh. “How could a man with such high principles have such a low opinion of us? Didn’t we deserve the truth?”

  She hugs me, her cheek hot with tears. “He raised you to be what he aspired to be, but …” She pulls back and looks at me, her eyes filled with bewilderment and sadness. “He found it difficult to express his feelings, but I know he loved you.”

  “Yeah, that’s why he left me to rot with my mother for ten years.”

  “Let it go, Kent. Please. Don’t we have enough to contend with?” She casts a weary glance at the media. “Play the hand you’re dealt. Isn’t that what you tell everyone?”

  It doesn’t mean I’m any good at it.

  I want to tell her that people know the truth, but she’s already on her way. Alasdair Davenport, who claims to be Tollingdon’s most respected funeral director, straightens his tie and checks his appearance in the wing mirror of the limousine. He opens the rear door for her and then scowls when she stops to talk to Gemma.

  “How’s your arm?” Niamh asks.

  “Still sore, but much better. I’m back at work on Monday.”

  “Is that wise after only two weeks?”

  “I’m bored at home.”

  “With that gorgeous fiancé of yours, waiting on you hand and foot?” Niamh’s disbelieving expression seems exaggerated. “Richard’s such a charming, thoughtful young man.”

  Unlike me, she means. I’m the one who investigated a work accident and uncovered a murder. While she hasn’t accused me of contributing to her husband’s death, there’s a prickly undercurrent to her words sometimes. I’ve no idea what Gemma thinks. Today’s the first time I’ve seen her since she was shot.

  “The undertaker’s waiting,” I say.

  “You go with him,” Niamh says. “I’m travelling with Gemma.”

  “We’re taking the back roads to avoid the cameras,” Gemma says, turning towards the gravel path. “Why not come with us?”

  The path passes the Fisher mausoleum. The simple granite portico wraps around two oak doors, built to resist a battering ram. Inside, generations of Fishers lie stacked on top of each other in a crypt carved out of the chalk. A smugglers tunnel once ran from the back of the tomb to Downland Manor, where contraband was stored and dispersed. Customs Officers never ventured into the tunnel or the crypt, unsure of which spirits they might find.

  Colonel Witherington, the Leader of Downland District Council, stands like a sentry in front of the doors. A ghost of his former self, he’s struggling to defy the stoop of old age, curling his shoulders against a world he no longer recognises. His skin appears almost translucent over knuckles, swollen by arthritis. When our eyes meet, he raises his tweed cap, revealing patches of grey stubble and a forehead marbled with liver spots.

  He shuffles across the grass, clearly in pain. “Please accept my condolences, Niamh. I know how it feels to lose someone you love dearly.” His flint grey eyes give the reporters a stony glare. “Don’t let those parasites contaminate William’s achievements.”

  The sleeves of his jacket barely hide the cuffs of a shirt that looks as weary as him. The collar, padded out by a silk cravat, looks three sizes too big. Only the silver moustache, bushier than ever beneath his gnarled nose, looks healthy.

  “Are you coming to the wake?” Niamh asks.

  He shakes his head. “There’s nothing lonelier than being with others.”

  “Lonelier than rattling around in that huge house of yours?”

  “It’s empty without my Daphne,” he replies, a wistful look in his eyes, “but I came to pay my respects, not burden you with my troubles.”

  Niamh shakes her head as he shuffles away. “He called on William about a month ago,” she says in a low voice. “The police found Daphne’s engagement ring among some stolen jewellery, but they refused to reopen the investigation. So he asked William to have a word with the Chief Constable.”

  “What investigation?” Gemma asks.

  “Daphne left him for a younger man. The Colonel won’t accept it, of course, and after your recent heroics, Kent, I suspect he wants your help.”

  “Me? I don’t know the Chief Constable. And I don’t have the right handshake.”

  “But you solved a murder,” she says. “And unless you want the Colonel pestering us at the wake, I suggest you put him off right now. I’ll inform Alasdair we’re making our own way.”

  The Colonel’s stopped by the church to catch his breath. When Gemma and I approach, he flourishes a jewellery box that contains a slender gold ring with a cluster of three large diamonds.

  “You’ll have to go down on one knee if you want me to marry you,” I say.

  Gemma smirks. “I’m surprised you know what an engagement ring looks like.”

  “This ring belonged to my grandmother,” he says, his voice dry and humourless. “She gave it to my mother, who bequeathed it to me, her only child. I gave it to Daphne when I proposed, seven years ago on this very day.”

  I nod, but I’m barely listening. Davenport’s standing too close to Niamh, who’s smiling and toying with her hat.

  “She’s dead, Mr Fisher,” the Colonel is saying. “He killed her and sold the ring.”

  “Who did?”

  He snaps the box shut. “The man who took my Daphne. She would never have parted with this ring, believe me.”

  If she needed money, she might. “What do the police think?”

  “They think I’m a fool.”

  I could say the same about Davenport, who seems to have forgotten he’s an undertaker. When Niamh starts laughing, I wonder if he’s told her one of his jokes. The one about how he ends his letters, ‘Yours eventually’, had me in stitches for weeks.

  I look the Colonel in the eye. “What if they’re right?”

  His snort is dismissive. “Come to my house this evening and you’ll see I’m no fool.”

  I turn to leave. “This is between you and the police, Colonel. I can’t help you.”

  “But you know about catering,” he calls.

  “Did you have to be so blunt?” Gemma turns on me when we’re out of earshot. “The guy’s clearly upset.”

  “Do I look like Hercule Poirot?”

  I can’t keep the frustration from my voice. Two weeks ago, I uncovered a murder and now I’m super sleuth, ready to investigate any old nonsense.

  “More like Lieutenant Columbo. This is almost as old as his raincoat.” Her thumb rubs at a faded stain on the lapel of my jacket. “Why not humour the Colonel? He could help you.”

  I’m well aware of his influence, but if I don’t give him what he wants, he could just as easily turn against me. “Niamh needs me more.”

  Davenport steps back a couple of paces when we approach. His eyes, the colour of dirty washing up water, look like they hide a lot below the surface. His complexion, which is the colour of bone, suggests he spends too much time in his windowless embalming room.

  “I understand you no longer want me to chauffeur you to the Downland Arms,” he says, as if it’s my fault. “While I admire Miss Dean’s resolve, perhaps it’s a little soon after her ordeal to be driving.”

  “I drove here,” Gemma says.

  “All the same, I will make myself available to take Mrs Fisher home should you feel tired or wish to leave early.”

  I can’t stop myself. “You’re coming to the wake?”

  “It’s the least we can do after Alasdair’s kind offer.” Niamh takes my arm and leads me away.

  We leave the church in silence and cross the road to the Volvo estate that Gemma’s borrowed from her mother. Though battered and more used to transporting sick animals, it’s reliable and never lets her down, unlike me, apparently.

  “Did you deal with the Colonel?” Niamh gets into the front, oblivious to the intense heat inside the car. We could have cremated William Fisher in here and saved a fortune.

  I wind down the window before getting in the back. “I did.”

  We’re soon s
kimming through the outskirts of Tollingdon where the modern housing estates have flooded the countryside. The considerate developers squeezed in a small parade of shops to provide some facilities for the new residents. Unfortunately, the primary school opposite can’t cope with the extra children and had to add several portacabin classrooms in the staff car park. Displaced teachers now fight for parking spaces in the surrounding streets. Their favourite is the slip road that serves the shopping parade, where a small knot of people have gathered around the back of a car. From the way they’re peering into the back of the car, I know they’re not protesting about the lack of parking spaces.

  “Pull over now, Gemma,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.

  She swings into the slip road and stops. I’m out of the car as it lurches to a halt and running. The people shuffle back as I reach the old Vauxhall Astra with faded paintwork and a stump where the rear windscreen wiper should be. With my hand shielding my eyes, I peer through the rear windscreen at a champagne coloured cocker spaniel, panting as it lies on the floor in the only area of shade. I try the hatch, but it’s locked, like the doors.

  I stare at the exercise books that smother the back seat, wondering what kind of teacher would go into school and leave a dog in a hot car.

  I turn to the people. “Do you know whose car it is?”

  An elderly man in a blazer steps forward. His voice has authority. “A scruffy young man went into the betting shop about ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Can you fetch him?”

  Blazer Man nods and marches across the grass. I pull out my phone to take some photographs.

  “Are we in time?” Gemma asks, peering into the car.

  I glance at the bookies. “Do you have a wheel brace?”

  “Do I look like a mechanic?”

  “Okay, can you and Niamh get as many bottles of water as you can from the shop? We need to soak the dog to cool it down.”

  I return to the Volvo. The rear’s a mess of carrier bags, soil and the remains of various plants and weeds. I remove the clear plastic container that holds Gemma’s white coat, probe thermometer and antibacterial gel and lift the carpet. The recess for the spare wheel is filled with oily rags. Luckily, one is wrapped around a bottle jack, which I take with me. I can’t tell if the dog’s any worse, but with no sign of the owner or Blazer Man, I position myself beside the driver’s door and raise the jack.

  “Oi, you! Stop!”

  A thin man with greasy hair, and at least two days of stubble, charges down the steps. From the shadows beneath his eyes, to the remains of curry on his crumpled shirt, it looks like he spent the night on the sofa and woke late. The whiff of stale lager, cigarettes and body odour greet me as stumbles to a halt. His hand grabs the waist of his jeans, which look ready to fall around his ankles.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I keep the jack raised. “Your dog’s cooking in there.”

  “I’ve been gone a few minutes, that’s all.” He struts to the rear of the car and looks inside. “Who the hell are you?”

  I would pull out my ID card and tell him I’m an environmental health officer, but as I’m suspended from duty, I need to appeal to his better side.

  “Open the hatch, will you?”

  Yellow fingers extricate some keys from his jeans. He opens the hatch, averting his face from the rush of heat. The dog raises its head slowly, staring at him with pained eyes. I can’t believe someone so unkempt could have such a well-groomed dog.

  “She’s fine, see.”

  “She needs to cool off,” I say, moving closer. “Let’s take her over to the shade.”

  “Get lost!” he says, reaching for the hatch.

  When I reach up to stop the hatch closing, I lose my grip on the bottle jack, which slips through my fingers and lands on his foot.

  “Oops,” I say to mask his expletives.

  I nudge the jack under the car with my foot as he staggers backwards, catching his heel on the kerb. He tumbles to the ground with another chorus of expletives. I’m already lifting the dog from the boot and heading to the shaded area of grass beneath a cherry tree.

  I set the spaniel down and run my hands along the dog’s flank, feeling the heat beneath the fur. Her heart’s hammering against her ribs and she can’t seem to pant fast enough.

  “Hang on, Morgana,” I say, checking the black name tag.

  The owner’s on his feet and on his phone, talking loudly. “He attacked me and stole my dog. He broke my foot, that’s what. The guy’s mental. You need to get here before he attacks me again.”

  He ends the call and gives me a self-satisfied smile as he limps over to a bench and sits with a thud. He raises his injured foot onto the slats, wiggles his toes inside his Nike trainers, and pulls out his cigarettes. When Gemma arrives a few moments later with bottles of water in a carrier bag, he winks and takes aim with his phone.

  “How about a smile, darling?”

  Niamh makes a snatch for the phone, but she’s too slow.

  “He’s not worth it,” I call, wishing bottle caps were easier to unscrew. I tell Gemma to trickle water over the dog, making sure it penetrates the fur. “Do you have your ID card?”

  “I’m on sick leave, remember?”

  While we soak the dog, Niamh stands in front of the owner so he can’t film us. He continues to smoke and enjoy the sunshine until a patrol car pulls up. He rises and puts on his best limp as he staggers towards the police officers.

  “Did you call them?” Gemma asks.

  I shake my head.

  She’s on her feet in an instant. “Why don’t men ever tidy up?” she asks Niamh as she strides past.

  After a brief chat with the owner, the police constable walks up and towers over me. He’s in his forties, with silver hair at the temples and eager blue eyes. He straightens his stab vest with pride and beckons me to stand so his body camera can get a better view of me.

  Police Community Support Officer, Avril Gardner, who was Downland District Council’s animal welfare officer before they made her redundant, steps up beside him.

  “I might have known it would be you.” She sighs and then bends to greet the dog. “And you must be Morgana. Let’s take a good look at you.”

  While she examines the dog, I join Niamh, who’s glaring at the owner.

  “She a little underweight,” Avril says, getting to her feet, “but I think she’ll be okay.”

  While the owner looks relieved, his voice remains indignant. “There was nothing wrong with her to start with. He’s the one with a problem. He assaulted me.”

  “Leave this to us, Mr Baxendale,” the constable says, his gaze fixed on me. “Could you confirm your name, sir?”

  “Kent Fisher.”

  “The super sleuth environmental health officer?” His tone is mocking, but good natured. “I didn’t notice any bodies.”

  I get the feeling I could be hearing comments like this for some time.

  “Another few minutes and you might have had one,” I say, glancing at Morgana.

  “The owner left her while he was in the betting shop,” Niamh says, stepping forward. “You have plenty of witnesses to confirm this. Maybe you should be speaking to them.”

  “I was only gone a couple of minutes,” Baxendale says, searching for something in his pocket. “I placed one bet. When I came out, he’s breaking into my car. When I tried to stop him, he drops something heavy on my foot.”

  “Kent’s only concern was the welfare of the dog,” Niamh says, tugging me back.

  “It must be under the car,” Baxendale says, turning. “I’ll show you.”

  The constable follows him back to his car, leaving Avril with me. “You could find trouble in an empty paper bag,” she says.

  The moment her colleague finds the bottle jack, I’m in trouble. Niamh realises too, judging by her anxious glance. Baxendale’s on his knees, looking under his car. His angry voice and body language suggests he can’t find the bottle jack. When he gets to h
is feet and heads for Blazer Man, the constable intervenes.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Baxendale calls, heading for me.

  “Calm down,” Avril says, stepping in front of him. “You should be more concerned about Morgana. Your vet needs to examine her.”

  “I’ll take her off your hands,” I say.

  He ignores me and attaches a lead to Morgana.

  “You can’t leave him in charge of the poor dog,” Niamh says, watching as he tugs Morgana to her feet. “He doesn’t deserve to have a dog. Look at him.”

  The constable makes calming gestures with his hands. “We could investigate further, Mrs Fisher, but then we’d have to interview witnesses and you never know what they might say.”

  She sighs and steps back, allowing Baxendale to pass. Then she points at the smears of clay on my trousers. “What people will think when we get to the wake?”

  We flatten the empty bottles and push them into the carrier bag. By the time we’re through, Baxendale’s about to leave. He winds down the window and greets me with a middle finger. The petulant roar of the engine tells me he’s not a happy man.

  “I can’t believe he’s a teacher,” Gemma says, waiting by the open doors of the Volvo.

  I can’t believe the bottle jack vanished. I look around for Blazer Man, but he’s gone. Once settled in the back of the car, I offer to buy a new bottle jack.

  “Forget it,” she says, starting the car. “I didn’t know I had one.”

  “You don’t,” Niamh says with more than a hint of irony. “Thank goodness someone’s looking after you, Kent, or you’d be facing an assault charge.”

  I settle back and stretch my legs. My feet collide with something solid beneath Gemma’s seat. Reaching down, my fingers encounter something oily and metallic in a cloth.

  “Must be my guardian angel,” I say with a smile.

  *****

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