No Bodies

by Robert Crouch

  “Don’t be so unkind,” Kelly says. “He’s growing up at last.”

  Gemma shakes her head and returns to her desk. “Exactly what did you say to Danni?”

  “You don’t have to look so surprised. I’m the first to own up when I get things wrong.”

  “Yeah, right, Kent.”

  Her smirk does little to ease my discomfort. It looks like nothing I say will convince her I’m serious. No wonder, after the way I ran out on her without even leaving a note. No wonder after I told her I loved her and then kept out of her way for the next two weeks. Maybe it’s time to atone for my poor behaviour.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been a pain in the butt. I never meant to –”

  “Two apologies in five minutes,” she says, cutting me off. “Hey, Kelly, Kent’s apologising again. People will start to think you have feelings, Kent Fisher.”

  Gemma’s dark, sexy eyes smoulder with mockery. While there are many things I want to say, the most attractive woman I know looks anything but.

  “You were about to say you never meant to what?” she asks as I return to my desk.

  “Undermine morale,” I reply, spotting the Post-It note on my desk. “Liam and his grandfather are positive for E. coli. Is it the same strain as Charlotte?”

  “Probably. We’ll have confirmation tomorrow.”

  “Then you need to question the grandfather again,” I say. “He must have been ill.”

  “Or a symptomless carrier,” she says.

  “Then it’s time we found out.”

  “I know,” she says. “That’s why I made an appointment to see him in the morning.”

  I should tell her she’s one of the most intelligent and capable women I know. “See you tomorrow,” is the best I can manage.

  ***

  Back home, I walk Columbo in the rain, enjoying the water as it runs down my face. He’s more interested in sniffing every blade of grass as usual, interrupted only by an occasional shake. I doubt if he understands what I’m saying. I’m not sure I do, but he wags his tail in all the right places. He even dips his head and looks sad when I tell him my feelings for Gemma are now in the dustbin.

  “There’s no room for regret on the Fast Forward Express,” I tell him, prompting a hearty bark. He shakes the water from his fur and trots up the stairs to the kitchen, where Niamh’s waiting with a towel to give him a rubdown. Naturally, it’s a game and he gets the towel between his teeth and tugs it from her hands.

  After a quick shower, I join them in the lounge for a mug of tea. Columbo’s already on the sofa, nudging her arm for more attention.

  “Charlotte Burke may have caught the bug from her family,” I say.

  Niamh looks so relieved, I’m surprised by how emotional it makes me. “See, prayers are answered,” she says.

  Charlotte could still have caught it from the goats and passed it to her brother and grandfather, but I keep that to myself. If Stephen Burke was ill, then why didn’t he admit it? Did he think he was protecting his daughter in her fight to keep custody of her children?

  “Do you still want Sarah to test the goats?” Niamh asks.

  “As I’m not paying the bill, yes.”

  “You mean he is – Birchill.”

  For a moment, she stares at me, eyes filled with an incendiary blend of disbelief, disgust and fury. Then she lets rip. Columbo scuttles under the table as she berates me for betraying her, the memory of her husband and everything that’s good on this earth.

  “That man destroyed our lives. He took everything from us – our land, our heritage, our dignity. And you have the nerve to take his money. Money he stole from us. And don’t you dare tell me it’s because he’s your father.”

  She’s on her feet now, shouting at me. “William was your father. He loved and cared for you. He was there when things went wrong. He put you first, even when his own problems got the better of him. He saved this piece of land for you, Kent.”

  “He did not,” I say, keeping my voice calm, but firm. “He lost this land along with the rest. He lied, Niamh. He lied to both of us.”

  I’ve never seen such a wild look in her eyes. For a moment, I wonder whether she’s going to strike me. But doubt’s crept into her eyes. I think she knows the extent of her husband’s deceit. I can’t blame her for wanting to gloss over it or pretend it never happened, but we only have a home for as long as Birchill permits.

  “The man’s poison, Kent,” she says, tears in her eyes. “For the love of God, can’t you see that?”

  “We still have to deal with him,” I reply, putting my hands on her shoulders. I look into her angry eyes. “I can’t change that.”

  “You can,” she says, almost pleading with me. “I know you think William betrayed you. I understand that. I do. He betrayed all of us. And it hurts. It hurts so much. But he was ill, Kent.”

  “Then why didn’t he seek help?”

  “He tried, but addiction’s a disease.”

  “Like adultery, you mean?”

  The slap stings my face, but I don’t flinch. “He could have resisted, Niamh. He could have resigned from the Cabinet, but he wanted the glory.”

  “I don’t see you resisting,” she snaps. “Your father’s not cold in the ground and you’re inviting that man into our home. Why won’t you fight him, Kent? What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid he’s my father,” I say.

  She marches to her room and slams the door behind her.

  ***

  Once changed into my black polo shirt and chinos, I drive to the District General in Eastbourne to visit the Colonel. Rather than pay the excessive charges in the hospital car park, I scour the housing estate opposite. Ten minutes, and as many roads, later, I find a space halfway up the hill and down a small cul-de-sac.

  It takes me another ten minutes to learn I can’t see Colonel Witherington as I’ve missed visiting hours. While the nurses sympathise and agree that it’s difficult when you have to work during the day, being an environmental health officer cuts no ice. Being Kent Fisher fares no better, though one of the nurses asks if I’d like to check her chest freezer. Then the Ward Sister asks me if I’ve tested negative for E. coli, thanks to contact with the animals at my sanctuary, and ushers me off the premises.

  I drive to Friston, hoping Alice will know more about the Colonel, but darkness fills her flat and the house. Then I realise she’s at the hospital. Had I stopped to think, I could have asked to see her instead of trying to force my way onto the ward.

  With a shake of the head, I start the car, tempted to nip down the road for a bite to eat at The Tiger in East Dean. Then a text tempts me back to Tollingdon.

  The Prosecco’s chilled. I’m hot. Yvonne.

  I’m lukewarm, but what the hell? After the day I’ve had, Yvonne could be just what I need.

  At 8.20, I leave my car at the town hall and walk the couple of streets to La Neapolitan. In Market Street, I cast a brief glance at the Tollingdon Tribune’s first floor offices across the road. Though the lights are out, I turn up my collar in case Tommy Logan’s lurking in the shadows. He often works late with only a table lamp and vivid imagination for company.

  La Neapolitan wraps around the corner with Victoria Road, populated by chic restaurants, tearooms and art galleries. The three storey Victorian buildings, with their ornate gables and brickwork, tower above me like custodians of more prosperous times. Overlooked by red, green and white striped awnings, the restaurant’s sheet glass windows, boast bright menus that offer Italian dishes for everyone. Inside, it’s modern and noisy, with an open plan dining area that bustles with waiting staff, weaving between the tables like black and white ants. The aroma of garlic, basil and tomato fills the air, wafted by large, silent fans in the industrial ceiling.

  I join the queue at the polished wood reception counter and glance around the vast space. When I spot Yvonne by the window, I peel away and almost bowl over a cute waitress with dirty plates balanced on her arm. I apologise for the third tim
e today and pick up the spoons that fell to the floor. When I hand them back and look into those dark, Italian eyes, I almost make a fool of myself.

  “She’s married,” Yvonne says, showing no offence at my interest in the young waitress.

  She’s wearing a fitted red jumper with a sparkling brooch. The sleeves stop short of her wrists, cuffed with silver bracelets, but the colour is a perfect match for her nails and lipstick. There’s a touch of Meg Ryan about her hair and face – a confident assured sparkle and vitality with more than a hint of fun. As long as she doesn’t do the scene from When Harry Met Sally, we shouldn’t attract too much attention.

  “Not wearing your glasses?” I ask, taking the Prosecco out of the chiller to top up her glass.

  “No, I wanted to be blind to your faults.”

  “But you might not see my good points.”

  “Like your fashion sense?”

  I peel off the damp anorak to reveal crumpled chinos and a polo shirt that needs laundering. “Sorry, I wasn’t planning on coming here.”

  “You know how to make a girl feel wanted.” She takes a sip of wine, studying me with eyes that seem to analyse all the time. “Should I ask for the tab?”

  I ask a passing waiter for still mineral water, no ice. He offers to take my coat, but I decline, draping it over an adjoining chair. I sit and straighten the red, green and white tablecloth. Then I move the red candles in their green tumblers onto the window sill.

  “I once investigated an accident where a man leaned across the table to kiss his girlfriend. The heat from the candle melted his cheap shirt, causing nasty burns to his chest.”

  She smiles. “I’m pleased to learn you’re planning to kiss me, but I wish you’d buy better quality shirts.”

  “How can you tell when you’re not wearing glasses?”

  She leans closer, treating me to her potent perfume. “I’m not wearing knickers either.”

  “Because you couldn’t see where you left them?”

  “Maybe I want to make things easy for you.”

  Maybe that’s the problem.

  The waiter arrives with my mineral water and pours it into a glass. I look outside at a thin, elderly man with an unkempt beard. He trudges along in a trench coat that drags his shoulders into a stoop. His cold hand tugs the short length of rope attached to a small, bedraggled mongrel that’s found something edible in the gutter. As if sensing my interest, he glances through the window with the staring, bloodshot eyes of a man who needs a drink.

  The waiter waves him away. “Are you ready to order?” he asks.

  I haven’t even opened the menu, but I order what I always eat in Italian restaurants - bruschetta, penne arabiatta with extra chilli, a side salad, and tiramisu for dessert. Sometimes, if I’m feeling wild, I order a pizza with extra chilli.

  Yvonne orders calamari, followed by a large vegetarian pizza and no dessert.

  “Are you expecting someone?” she asks, breaking the silence since the waiter departed. “Only you keep looking out of the window.”

  “Do I?”

  “I’m getting the impression you don’t want to be here.”

  “I’ve had a bad day, that’s all.”

  “So tell me about it.”

  “I don’t want to talk about work.”

  “Does that include the body at the farm? Is it anything to do with your missing women?”

  “No idea, but it was considerate of Alasdair to tell me.”

  “He’s like that.”

  “So tell me about him.”

  She laughs. “You think he’s taking advantage of Niamh, don’t you? Well, he’s still grieving for his wife, Angelina, who died about eighteen months ago. Not that he’ll ever admit it, being a man, but it sounds like she had a rough time.”

  “What happened?”

  “I wasn’t around, but she died a long, slow death from pneumonia apparently. Yeah, I thought you could treat it with antibiotics too,” she says, “but she refused treatment. She was scared of doctors and hospitals, I think. That’s why Alasdair blames himself for her death.”

  She helps herself to more Prosecco. “That’s why he understands pain and loss. That’s why he connects with bereaved people.”

  “You clearly admire him.”

  “I like a man who’s not afraid to show his feelings – or admit his failings.”

  “How did you come to work for Alasdair?” I ask, passing on the opportunity she offered.

  She studies me while she takes a long drink of wine. “He buried my father and a few weeks later a job came up, so I applied, thinking it would be different and interesting.”

  “And is it?”

  Though she skimps on the detail, she’s dealt with some strange, and ‘frankly freaky’, requests from relatives, including the lady who wanted her dog buried with her husband.

  “That was timely, the dog dying …” I stop, realising the dog was still alive. “She didn’t have it put to sleep, did she?”

  “Alasdair suggested she place a photo in the casket. It’s kinda like his trademark.”

  The waiter arrives with our starters at this point. After declining the offer of black pepper, I sink my teeth into the soft, toasted ciabatta base and let the tomato, pesto and garlic slither across my tongue, stimulating my taste buds and my thoughts.

  “Did Angelina’s family put photographs in her coffin?”

  Yvonne leans closer. “There was an almighty ruck. They wanted her buried in the family plot in Eastbourne, but she wanted to be cremated. I’m with her,” she says, jabbing calamari onto her fork. “I want my ashes scattered out to sea from Beachy Head. It’s just about the most beautiful place around here, especially with the pretty lighthouse.”

  Having steered the conversation away from Davenport and onto the South Downs, she reveals a love of mountain biking and trail running, thanks to a misspent youth pickpocketing. Despite having wealthy parents, she dropped out of Boston University when her mother died and took to the road to become a country and western singer, marrying her manager, Duane.

  “I couldn’t really sing, but I loved the freedom. Not to mention the sex, liquor and drugs.”

  While I don’t doubt she led a wild and adventurous life, there’s no emotional content to her tales. She’s factual and precise, more interested in dates and places than what she did there. Not once does she mention making a record or playing a gig. She talks plenty about Duane’s lovers, naming quite a few before she divorced him and gave up the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle.

  “Then I met Jonathan.” She pauses, a faraway look in her eyes. “He was a dream. English gentleman, rich and handsome, with a cruiser in the Caribbean. We married on a sandy beach in Guadeloupe and toured the islands. Then the nightmare started.”

  She tells me about Jonathan Jones, property developer, conman and lowlife. Turns out he didn’t own the cruiser, or the house on the beach in Miami, or the villa in Antibes. He used her to rip off her father and many of his friends in a scam and took off to Columbia with the money.

  “We were living in an apartment in Canary Wharf when he vanished. I didn’t know he’d gone until the police broke the door down one morning. They refused to believe I didn’t know about his scams and interviewed me for days, going over the same stuff. Eventually, they had to let me go. I was the lucky one,” she says with a sigh. “Pa lost everything. His health declined and he went into a nursing home. He died in September last year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “That’s when I met Alasdair and here I am – 38, single and penniless. What about you?”

  “About the same,” I reply, “but slightly older.”

  “Come on, Kent. Your father owned an estate. You must be loaded.”

  “I don’t earn enough to sustain my sanctuary.”

  “So you do detective work to bring in extra cash? Come on!”

  The waiter saves me from an explanation, arriving with Yvonne’s pizza, on a wooden board and my pasta in an oversized bow
l. The aroma of tomato, chilli and sweet peppers all blend into a heady mix that demands a liberal helping of parmesan.

  “You can never have enough parmesan,” I tell the waiter, refusing to let him take it away.

  “Smells like sweaty socks to me,” Yvonne says, tearing away a slice of pizza with eager fingers. She pushes the slice into her mouth, smearing topping on her lips and the corners of her mouth. Then she laughs and tells me to loosen up.

  When I take her advice and make a flamboyant approach toward my pasta, I catch the empty mineral water bottle. It scuttles across the table and bounces off the windowsill before falling to the floor beneath the table. While Yvonne giggles, I stretch a hand down. I can’t quite reach the bottle, so I slide my chair back and duck my head under the table.

  Yvonne has great legs – athletic, shapely and tapering to slim ankles, charmed by fine silver bracelets. On the top of her left foot she has a tattoo of a spider’s web, visible between the straps of her red, spike-heel shoe. I’m no lover of tattoos, but it’s discreet, artistic and almost as tiny as her short red skirt. And she’s not wearing knickers as she said, but a thong, if I’m not mistaken.

  As my fingers tighten around the bottle, she ducks her head under the table. “Enjoy the view while you can, Kent, because someone’s about to rain on your parade.”

  I look around and spot the sodden suede shoes beneath the brown corduroy trousers with frayed and dirty hems that drag along the ground. When I emerge from beneath the table, Tommy Logan raises his trilby. He gives me a Blofeld smile so sly and joyous I know I’m in trouble.

  “Kent Fisher on his knees,” he says in his familiar drawl, eyeing Yvonne with pleasure. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Yeah, I was looking for you in the gutter,” I say, extricating myself.

  “Perhaps you’d like to introduce me to your rather delectable companion.”

  “I don’t mix with tramps,” she tells him.

  He pretends to look offended, placing his hand over his heart. “You’d look like a bedraggled vagrant if you’d spent the last four hours outside a barn in Jevington in the rain.”

  When his photographer, a young man with gelled hair and big teeth, steps out from behind him and points his camera at me, the maître d’ strides over.