No Bodies

by Robert Crouch

  No Bodies

  Robert Crouch

  Published by RWC Publishing

  Copyright © Robert Crouch 2017

  The right of Robert Crouch to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover by String Design, Eastbourne (http://www.stringdesign.co.uk)

  Other books by Robert Crouch

  No Accident – the first Kent Fisher mystery

  Fisher’s Fables – the perfect companion to the Kent Fisher mysteries

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  About the author

  Author’s note

  For all the environmental health professionals who work hard each day, often without recognition, to protect public health and make your world a safer, better place.

  Acknowledgements

  While the writing of a novel can be a solitary occupation, the preparation, research, revision and promotion of the work often involves many people, who willingly give their time, knowledge and experience to help me produce an accurate and credible story.

  My grateful thanks go to –

  Lisa Harvey-Vince, Public Health England, for her extensive knowledge and guidance regarding the investigation of E. coli O157 and infectious disease control

  Sgt David Kent of Sussex Police for explaining the workings of the Custody Suite and arrest procedures

  Nick and Debbie Flude for investigative insights and for opening doors

  Jim van den Bos, Communications Officer at Wealden DC, for his ideas and help with promotional work

  Will Hatchett, Editor of Environmental Health News, for supporting and promoting my work

  I’d also like to offer special thanks to Caroline Vincent of Bits about Books, for supporting the Kent Fisher mysteries and for organising the blog tour for this novel. Special thanks also go to the bloggers who are working with Caroline to review and promote No Bodies through their blog sites and social media. These lovely people are passionate about books and work tirelessly to help authors bring their work to a wider audience.

  And last, but by no means least, special thanks must also go to Jane Prior, of String Design, who translated my vague ideas into the stunning cover for No Bodies.

  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. And you have to 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 trouble, which is why we’re gathered at St Mary’s church on an unseasonably warm Friday afternoon in October. It looks like the whole of Tollingdon wants to pay their respects to our local MP and Cabinet Minister, the Right Honourable William Kenneth Fisher. His heart attack at a murder scene two weeks ago saved him from scandal and a right dishonourable discharge, but it hasn’t saved him from media speculation.

  “Vultures,” Niamh says, glaring at the barrage of telephoto lenses, poised on the flint wall of the cemetery. “There’s nothing left to pick over.”

  Thanks to his gambling, she’s lost pretty much everything, including their spacious home in Herstmonceux. It’s a bit of a squeeze in my flat, but we’ll manage. If she stops tidying everything and criticising my clothes, I promise not to walk around in my underwear. When I find where she’s put it, that is.

  We’ll work it out. We have no choice. William Fisher betrayed us both. She wants me to keep quiet about it, but as the coffin hovers above the grave, she nudges me forward 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 enjoyed, the Rt. Honourable William Kenneth Fisher touched 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. Her green eyes flash me a warning.

  “For those of us who knew the private person,” I say, “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, stepping back.

  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.

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

  “He still loved you, even though …” Tears fill her eyes and she wraps her arms around me. Her cheek, hot with tears, presses against mine. “He raised you to be what he aspired to be, but …”

  “He wasn’t my father,” I say, still not sure how I feel about it. “But I’m talking about the lies and deceit, Niamh, not biology.”

  She pulls back and looks at me, her eyes filled with bewi
lderment and sadness. “He found it difficult to express his feelings, but 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?” Her eyes plead with me. “Play the hand you’re dealt. Isn’t that what you keep telling me?”

  It doesn’t mean I’m any good at it.

  I want to tell her I’m trying, 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 as she approaches. He opens the rear door for her and then scowls when she stops to talk to Gemma.

  “How’s your arm?” Niamh asks.

  “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 with a nod in his direction.

  “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? There’s room in the back.”

  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 towards us, 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 can’t contain 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. He asked William to have a word with the Chief Constable.”

  “What investigation?” Gemma asks.

  “Daphne ran off with 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. “Look, he may well change his mind and pester us at the wake, so I suggest you deal with him right now. I’ll tell 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 watching Davenport. He’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.”

  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.

  Gemma turns on me when we’re out of earshot. “Did you have to be so blunt? 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 to be driving after her ordeal.”

  “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?”

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

  We leave 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 skimming 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 cla
ssrooms 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. 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, Gemma,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “By those people.”

  She swings into the slip road and stops. As it lurches to a halt, I’m out of the car 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 inside. A champagne-coloured cocker spaniel shares the space behind the back seats with a sports bag, a cardboard box filled with books and a small water bowl that’s empty. Shrinking into the only shade available, the poor dog’s panting seems laboured. I try to open the hatch, but it’s locked, like the doors.

  I stare at the exercise books, strewn across 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 drench 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. With no sign of the owner or Blazer Man, I position myself beside the driver’s door and raise the jack.