We turn left into a narrow alley between the shop and the metal railings that enclose the churchyard. A large mural on the wall of a craft shop features twisted roots, twining into a trunk that’s topped by clusters of pink flowers. I’ve no idea what it signifies, but it seems quite at home in a town of colourful shops and restaurants.
It would generate petitions in Tollingdon.
The alley opens into a large public car park that’s half empty. Straight ahead, beneath a wooden freestanding awning that could have come from an old railway station, stands the Volkswagen Camper. A small flue emits a spiral of greasy fumes that waft the aroma of fried onions our way, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunch. The hand painted sign on the passenger door says Grub on the Go.
Brian taps out another cigarette. “Don’t take too long,” he says, glancing up at the sky. “Shouldn’t be surprised if you’ve brought the rain with you.”
Two young women, dressed in short skirts and skimpy tops, are chatting to the man inside. His face is all grin as he stares down their tops. His hands assemble a hot dog with practised ease, allowing him to concentrate on his patter.
“There you go, darling,” he says, handing over the food. “You said you wanted to slide your lips around a big sausage. Well, they don’t come any bigger than mine.” He gives her a suggestive wink and passes a cheeseburger to the second woman. “If that doesn’t satisfy you, I’m here till three.”
He watches their bottoms wiggle as they strut away in their high heels.
“If I were 20 years younger,” he says, turning to me.
Maybe 30, I muse, looking at the shadows and sagging skin on his weary face. His long nose looks like it’s slithering towards his mouth, filled with yellowing teeth. He removes the greasy baseball cap and wipes his shining crown with the sleeve of his shabby white coat. If this is Colin Mellor, then the comb-over described by witnesses has become a silver ponytail.
“You look like you could eat a horse,” he says in his cheeky Cockney voice. “I don’t tell all my customers I offer that kind of speciality, but my burgers are thoroughbreds.”
“Environmental health.” The sweep of my ID card prompts him to replace his cap. “Are you Colin Mellor?”
“Guilty,” he replies, holding out his hands for cuffing. “I should have a permit, I know, but I’m only passing through, guvnor, bringing a little gastronomic pleasure to the locals. Could I tempt you with a burger, Mr …?”
“Fisher. Kent Fisher. I’m from Downland District Council in East Sussex.”
“You’ve driven all this way to see me?” His suspicion vanishes when he gasps like a camp theatre luvvie and clasps his hands to his chest. “I didn’t know my sausages were so famous.”
“Daphne Witherington’s a big fan of yours.”
“Has she made a complaint?”
“No, but her husband has.”
“Hey, it’s only banter. You know how it is. You flirt with a woman to make her feel important so she comes back. It’s harmless fun.”
“Twenty grand doesn’t sound harmless to me.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, looking confused. “And why are you here? Why aren’t the local Hygiene Police checking me out? This isn’t an inspection, is it?”
Either his acting’s better than his chat or he’s not Colin Mellor.
“No, I’m here with Todd Walters. He wants to see Stacey.”
“No idea who you’re talking about,” he says, scanning the car park. “You’ve got me mixed up with someone else, but I’m sure we can sort this out. I’ll be right with you.”
He unfastens the white coat and slips it off as he turns to the sliding door behind him. As he leaps down, I glance back at Slade to signal success. Then I hear Miller’s heavy footsteps as he runs.
For a man in his fifties, he’s quick, arms pumping as he charges down the side of a modern looking stone building, heading for a junction at the bottom. With a glance back as he crosses the road, he almost runs into a car coming around the corner. The screech of brakes pierces the night air. Somehow he sidesteps and weaves past the car, ignoring the shouts from the driver. Mellor stumbles and bounces off the wall of the corner house, oblivious to the mural, proclaiming ‘Too much of a good thing can be wonderful’.
I doubt if his lungs agree, but he crosses the road, picking up speed again. The smokers and drinkers in the garden of the Who’d A Thought It pub cheer as he rushes past. Their cheers become jeers as I chase after him.
Trust the British to favour the person fleeing.
I’m aware of something a moment before it thuds into the back of my neck. Beer splashes over my shoulders and hair before the bottle crashes to the pavement. The huge cheer from the pub garden encourages me to keep running.
The road bends to the right into a car park that stretches out on both sides. Ahead, behind a wire mesh fence and playground, is a school, decorated with another mural. I can’t make out the detail in the dark. Neither can I see Mellor. He seems to have vanished. I slow to a walk and scan both sides of the road. With the school to my left, guarded by a high fence, I focus on the car park to my right, serving a DIY store. There are a couple of cars near the main entrance, but otherwise it’s empty.
When I reach the end of the car park, I stop. Mellor couldn’t have reached the road junction in the distance unseen. Either he’s crouched behind one of the parked cars or he ran up the service road to the back of the store. I vault the yellow and black barrier and keep to the shadows. The road isn’t directly lit, but there’s enough light from the houses and store to see it swings right into a service yard about 50 metres ahead.
If Mellor’s not hiding there, he’s already running from the car park to safety.
When I round the corner, the light from the houses behind me illuminates the rectangular yard, which contains a couple of wheeled refuse bins, a pile of builder’s rubble and scaffolding boards, and a compactor behind some bails of cardboard. A forklift truck sits nearby, ready to move them in the morning.
I scan the area, listening for heavy breathing or steps on the concrete, but the only sound comes from cars and distant traffic.
My senses warn me I’m not alone. He’s either behind the bins, the compactor, or the forklift truck.
“Come out, Mellor and talk.” My voice bounces around the enclosed space. “I want to talk about Daphne Witherington.”
Something clangs against the compactor, startling me. I head towards it. Then, hearing the rumble of wheels on concrete, I stop and turn. The refuse bin deals me a glancing blow, knocking me to the ground. The sound of more wheels urges me to my feet. I scramble out of the way and spot Mellor. He backtracks as I approach, unaware of the scaffold boards on the ground until he tumbles and falls onto them.
His arms cross in front of his face when I loom over him. “Don’t kill me! Please! Don’t kill me! I have money.”
Of all the things I expected him to say, this wasn’t on the list. I step back a couple of paces and tell him to get to his feet.
Slowly, he stands, his legs wobbling a little, a hand clamped to his elbow. I gesture him away from the scaffolding boards and he steps back against the wall of the store, his eyes wide with fear.
He fishes a roll of notes from a rear trouser pocket. “£500 to say you never found me.”
“You got twenty grand from Colonel Witherington.”
“And I kept my part of the bargain,” he says, his voice ragged. “I took the old crust’s money and left, as instructed.”
I raise my hand to silence him. “What about his wife, Daphne?”
“What about her?”
“Did you take her with you?”
“Why would I do that?”
“She went missing the day you left.”
“Nothing to do with me. What’s the old crust been telling you?”
He’s such a natural liar, I don’t know what to believe. I step back to give him space. “Let’s get a few details straight, first. Are you Miller or
Mellor?”
“Whatever takes your fancy,” he replies, his back against the wall adjacent the loading area and roller shutters that reach to the roof. “I use both, but I’m Miller by birth. That’s how the old crust tumbled me. He found out I had form for deception and dodgy credit cards.”
“Then why couldn’t the police find you?”
“I didn’t know they were looking for me. I haven’t done anything.”
“How about conning him out of twenty grand?”
He shakes his head. “He thought I was having a fling with his wife, but it was harmless fun. She was bored and I paid her a few compliments. You saw me earlier. Put a pretty woman in front of me and I can’t help myself.”
“What about the money?”
“If he wanted to believe I was screwing his wife and pay me 20K to scarper, who was I to argue. I needed the cash.”
“What about the meal with Daphne Witherington the night before you left?”
He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “What about it?”
“Come on, Miller, you were seen.”
He shakes his head. “I never went near the restaurant. Why would I? I had the money.”
I move closer, certain he’s lying. “Wrong answer.”
He presses back against the wall, arms shielding his face. “I didn’t go near the restaurant, honest. Not after the phone call.”
“What phone call?”
“Someone rang me, said I was being set up. Said the Colonel planned to bump me off that night and tell everyone I’d run away with his wife.”
“Who rang you?”
He shrugs, but he won’t meet my eyes.
“Come on, Miller. Who rang you?”
“It had to be the old crust, didn’t it? He was the only one who knew about our arrangement.”
“What arrangement?”
He lowers his arms and draws a breath. “He wanted me to take Daphne out and make it look like we were running away the next day. Then, when I don’t call for her the next day, she thinks I’ve dumped her and goes back to her husband.”
“If he intended to kill you that evening, why would he ring you first?”
“So, I’d leg it straight away. And I did, I can tell you.”
“But you were seen in the restaurant.”
He shakes his head. “On my life, it wasn’t me.”
I recall the different description Davenport gave and wonder if Miller’s telling the truth. It’s clear he’s no hero, so why would the Colonel frighten him off and replace him with someone else? And why would Daphne play along with a fake Miller? Why would she think he was going to whisk her away from the Colonel?
“I don’t believe you.” I move closer as he looks from side to side, planning his escape, no doubt.
“The old crust killed his wife, didn’t he? He got me out of the way so he could blame me when he snuffed her out.” His confidence fades as he stares at me. “But something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it? He’s sent you to snuff me out too.”
When I say nothing, he waves the roll of banknotes at me. “Five hundred more at home to say you couldn’t find me.”
If he’s telling the truth, Daphne could be lying under the conservatory. Then why would the Colonel ask me to trace Miller and risk me uncovering the truth?
“Daphne’s engagement ring,” I say, thinking aloud. When it resurfaced, the Colonel panicked. “Okay, Miller, convince me.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have come back from Spain,” Miller says, pocketing the money. “That’s where I was supposed to take Daphne. He booked the flights, everything. After the call, I thought what the heck and went straight to Malaga.”
“Not without Stacey you didn’t.”
This seems to knock him back. “How do you know about Stacey?”
“Her husband’s a huge fan of yours, Miller.”
“Mr Charisma? Do me a favour. He beats the crap out of some drunk who touched her up and suddenly he’s Mr Perfect. I got Stacey a recording contract, and she didn’t want to know me. I took her off the streets and she dumped me for a butcher with two brain cells.”
The sound of a car revving nearby distracts me for a moment. “You went to see her, didn’t you?”
“When I set up Grub on the Go, I needed meat. I could have got it anywhere, but I wanted to see Stacey, for old times’ sake.”
“You went when Walters was out.”
He gives me a sad shake of the head. “He spotted me in the café opposite and came over. I thought he’d smack me one, but he was fine. He even offered to get me some cheap meat. I didn’t believe him until Stacey told me to get lost.”
The sound of more revving, followed by a squeal of tyres and doors slamming, drowns out his voice. I look around, but there’s nothing but shadows. Maybe it’s kids in the car park.
“She said if I ever came back, she’d tell Walters,” Miller’s saying, looking deflated. “When I told her I loved her, she laughed.” Then he grins. “But I still had Daphne Witherington. She couldn’t get enough of me.”
“I thought you said it was harmless fun.”
“It was until the old crust found out. Look,” he says, straightening, “I took the money and bought a share in a bar on the Costa del Sol. I’d still be there if the authorities hadn’t turned against us.”
“Us?”
“Me and my business partner.”
“Stacey Walters? You left with her a couple of weeks after you were supposed to dump Daphne, didn’t you?”
“If you say so,” he replies, suddenly full of confidence. He calls over my shoulder. “Help me, guys! He’s trying to mug me.”
I turn and face two men in hoodies, their faces hidden by shadows. Their muscular build and posture suggests they work out, but why are they here? I pull out my ID card and move towards them.
Then I realise my mistake.
I feel the thud in my side. I don’t feel any pain as I stagger sideways and crash to the ground, grazing my face and hands on the concrete. Adrenaline spins me over in time to see Miller raise a short scaffold pole above his head. It smashes into the concrete where my head was a moment earlier. The noise and vibration seem to daze me.
“Cool it, dude.” One of the hoodies steps in and grabs the pole as Miller raises it once more. “You ain’t killing no one, man.”
My phone, lying several yards away, starts to ring.
With an angry snarl, Miller stamps on the phone. Then he smashes it with the scaffold pole. He tosses the pole to the ground and stamps off, kicking me in the back as he passes.
The hoodies stand and watch as I pull myself to my knees, aching across my back. I wipe the grit from my face, wondering what these two have in mind. Whatever it is, they’re in no hurry.
I glance down at what’s left of my phone.
“Not such a smart phone,” the first one says, poking it with his toe.
The second one bends to pick it up. “Reception’s terrible round here, dude. You need to go higher.”
He hurls the phone onto the roof of the warehouse. They laugh and then swagger away. A few moments later, heavy footsteps bring Slade stumbling into view, gasping for air. When he sees me he rushes over and helps me to my feet.
“Did those two do this?” he asks, looking at my face.
I shake my head. “Miller.”
“If I hadn’t seen him running out of the service road, I’d never have found you. What’s going on, Kent?”
I take a step forward, ignoring the aches. “We have to get back to the van before Miller escapes.”
“I’ll call the police. If he assaulted you –”
“No, let’s get to the van.”
Slade’s phone rings before he can argue. Though he turns away, it’s clear he’s had complaints about a noisy party. He says he’s busy, but agrees to visit in the next 30 minutes.
“Did you get the registration number of the camper?” I ask as we hurry back.
He nods and pats his notebook. “He won’t get far.”
> Though aching and no doubt bruised, I’m relieved the blow landed on the soft tissue between my ribs and pelvis. Had Miller been a bodybuilder rather than an overweight caterer, he could have killed me.
The rain feels cool on my face as we hurry back, passing the deserted pub garden. Head bowed as the rain thrashes down, we reach the Market Cross before I realise we’ve taken a wrong turning.
“I need to get to the van,” I say as Slade turns towards Glastonbury Abbey.
“You need to get checked out.”
“I’m fine.”
“Says the man who’s limping and clutching his side. What happened back there?”
“Lead the way.” I can pick up my car and drive around to where Miller left the camper. At least I’ll be out of the rain.
Thankfully, another phone call distracts Slade as more complaints come in about the party.
“I’ll be fine after a shower and a good night’s sleep,” I tell him as he hovers beside my car. “Go and deal with your party.”
I drive out into Market Street before he can argue and head towards the church. When I realise there’s no road into the car park from this direction, I drive around the side streets, hampered by the mist on my windscreen. Five minutes later, I find the one-way street into the car park.
Miller’s camper has gone.
I’m 160 miles from home, soaked, in pain, and the details for the guest house are on a warehouse roof with my phone.
Maybe I’ll hang on to my private detective application a little longer.
Fifteen
I’ve always wanted to spend the night with Kinsey Millhone.
Ever since I met the feisty private investigator in A is for Alibi, it’s been a fantasy of mine. I didn’t think it would be in a deserted car park in Glastonbury, but with only my Kindle for company, and every one of Sue Grafton’s novels to choose from, it’s a pleasant way to pass the time.
I’m not sure when I drifted to sleep, but now, at 7.30 in the morning, I’m wide awake, if a little immobile. The slightest movement hurts. While Glastonbury comes to life, I’m heading in the opposite direction. The left side of my abdomen, my left arm and shoulder, and the right side of my face ache. Stiffness from a lack of movement numbs the rest of me. My bladder aches most of all, until I move.
No Bodies Page 13
