No Bodies

by Robert Crouch

  ***

  Half an hour later, thanks to more rush hour traffic, I reach the Sovereign Leisure Centre in Eastbourne. I take a left at the roundabout and follow Prince William Parade towards the harbour, wondering how long it will take me to find a house that looks like a castle. As I pass the sewage works, hidden inside a large brick fort, I realise the modern estates cover one, maybe two or three, square miles.

  As I come around the small roundabout into Atlantic Drive, I spot a couple of dog walkers. Dressed in waterproof coats and trousers, and bent against the rain, it takes a toot of the horn to get their attention.

  “I’m looking for a house that looks like a castle.”

  “You mean Castello Mia,” the woman says, pointing. “Drive down until you reach the close on the left, just before the roundabout. You can’t miss the house.”

  A couple of minutes later I’m parked outside a detached house with a stone clad front elevation that rises above the eaves into a crenelated parapet wall, complete with small turrets at either end. One has a flagpole, flying the Italian flag. All it lacks is a drawbridge and a moat, though it looks like the rain has created a new pond in the middle of the lawn.

  I nip past a blue Fiat Ulysse on the driveway and step inside the arch to an enclosed porch with an oak door, lined with riveted battens. I glance around for a metal pull, attached to a church bell, but find only a video intercom. I press the button, listen to the static and then hold up my ID card.

  “Kent Fisher, environmental health officer. Could I have a quick word?”

  Manfredo Tucci turns out to be a short, stocky man with dark, almost black eyes that brood beneath bushy eyebrows. He has thick, wavy hair that’s turning silver, and a solemn face, dominated by a large nose. Though I estimate he’s in his fifties, years of smoking have aged him, if his nicotine fingers and stained teeth are anything to go by.

  “To what do I owe this visit?” he asks in a heavy Italian accent. “My wife only make pasta for the church. It’s not a business, no matter what these …” His hands waft about in the air as he speaks. “… neighbours tell you. They don’t like my castle, no? It’s a magnificent, don’t you think?”

  I’m not sure whether mediaeval castles had surround sound and a bar in the corner of the living room, but what do I know? The living room has a warm, traditional feel, thanks to the brown leather three-piece suite, chunky oak furniture and a wood burning stove in the stone hearth. I’m drawn to the large dresser, filled with shelf after shelf of china ornaments and figurines. Many are bride and groom, holding a cache of sugared almonds in white netting.

  “We give to the guests at the wedding as a keepsake,” he says, walking behind the bar. “You look like a man who would enjoy Peroni, or perhaps you’d prefer some Chianti?”

  I shake my head and sidle across to the family photographs on a sideboard unit. Mr and Mrs Tucci have two sons, one daughter and plenty of grandchildren.

  I point to a photograph of a serious-looking woman in her early 20s. She’s wearing tight jeans, a blue fitted top and high heels. Her thick black hair cascades over her shoulders, almost hiding her small face. She has a cheeky smile, wide, olive eyes, and a prominent nose that may account for her self-conscious air.

  “Is this Angelina?”

  “How do you know her? Who are you, Mr Inspector? What are you doing here?”

  He’s in front of me, trying to force me away from the photographs. I stand my ground despite the nauseating reek of cigarettes.

  “Fredo, let him speak.” His wife, dressed in a black dress with a matching scarf, walks in with a tray of espresso cups and saucers. Short and overweight, she walks with a stoop. Her tanned skin looks ready to crack open along the many lines that score her cheeks and forehead. “If he knows Angelina, maybe he’s here to help.”

  “Or cause more trouble.”

  When we’re seated, she asks me why I’m interested in Lina. “She’s dead almost two years,” she says, making the sign of the cross. Then she hands her husband the sugar bowl. He tips four heaped spoons of sugar into his coffee.

  Manfredo stares at me. “Why are you interested, Mr Health Inspector?”

  “I believe she was ill for some time.”

  “She wasn’t ill,” he says, unable to speak in anything other than an agitated voice. “He made her ill. Every day I curse that man for what he did to my angel.”

  “Fredo,” his wife says in a soft voice, “she was always weak as a child, getting every infection. If someone at school had a cold, she would get it. And always you pamper her, Fredo, letting her stay home from school.”

  “Mama, didn’t I let her stay out late when she was a teenager? Did I criticise her friends?”

  His wife snorts. “No one was good enough for you.”

  “Especially that man, Davenport.” For a moment it looks like he’s about to crush the small cup between his fingers. He turns to me, finger jabbing the air. “He made her ill.”

  “How did she meet him?”

  “Work experience,” Mrs Tucci replies.

  Fredo snorts, his arms are on the move again. “Would you let your daughter work in a place full of dead people? I forbid her to work there, but would she listen to her papa?”

  He slams the cup on the table, spilling coffee into the saucer. “No, she stays out late, coming home drunk and giggling,” he says, on his feet now. “Then she tells me she make love to Alasdair Davenport.”

  “You accused her, Fredo. She said it to spite you.”

  “Mama,” he says, taking her face in his hands, “he got her drunk. She was so young.”

  “No, Fredo. She was a woman, not a child.”

  He steps back, tears of rage in his eyes. “He take advantage of her. He never deny it.”

  “He married her, Fredo. They were happy together.”

  “Until he poisoned her.”

  I watch as his anger melts into sadness and despair. His wife goes to him and squeezes his hand. “She was ill, Fredo. So ill. Why are so interested?” she asks, turning to me.

  “Davenport’s interested in my stepmother.”

  Fredo laughs. “See, mama. The inspector doesn’t like him either.”

  “Fredo, tell him about Lina’s illness. Tell him what you saw when you visited.”

  He sits, his fingers hovering close to the packet of cigarettes in his breast pocket. He takes a while to compose himself, staring at the floor when he speaks.

  “I visit Angelina about three months before she die. She was so thin, like a ghost. She laugh, she joke a little, but she wanted to sleep. All the time, she yawn and doze off.”

  He sighs and looks up. “I beg her to come home. I go on my knees, but she says her place is with her husband. She says he’s looking after her, but he’s not a doctor. What does he know about pneumonia? If he’d taken her to hospital she would never have died.”

  He closes his eyes against the tears and rises. “He killed her.”

  Moments later, the front door slams after him.

  “Lina hated doctors and hospitals,” Carmela says. “I don’t know why, but she get hysterical. That’s why she never go to hospital. When her husband took her, they said it was too late, they couldn’t treat her.”

  “Davenport told you that?”

  She nods. “She looked so weak – more like a little girl than a woman. Because she hated hospitals, she never get the antibiotics. Fredo blames himself. He thinks he let his little girl down.”

  She looks lost for a moment, staring into space. “I always hoped they’d have a little girl because Lina wanted children so much. She tell me they try, but … I don’t know what was wrong,” she says, looking back at me, “but Lina changed. Maybe she could not have children. Maybe she dies from a broken heart.”

  Mama blinks back the tears, determined to remain resolute. It must be difficult, losing her daughter and trying to placate her husband. I want to ask more, but I’m clearly intruding. I slip away, not sure she hears me. Outside, Fredo’s in the porch,
blowing smoke into the rain.

  “You’re a health inspector,” he says as I pass. “You tell me. How does a young woman die from pneumonia? Old people die from pneumonia. Homeless people, alcoholics, people who take drugs - they die from pneumonia because they don’t have the strength to fight it.”

  Charlotte Burke died because her immune system couldn’t fight E. coli.

  Back in the car I phone Niamh. Her mobile goes to voicemail. “Ring me,” I say, starting the car. “I need to tell you something about Davenport.”

  Though the traffic’s thinning, the relentless rain slows my journey out of Eastbourne. Finally, the traffic speeds up and I’m back at the sanctuary, surprised to see Gemma’s Volvo parked by the old caravan. I find her on the kitchen floor, playing tug-the-towel with Columbo. The aroma of chicken jalfrezi seeps out of the oven to fill the air.

  “Is Niamh with Alasdair?” she asks, rising.

  My stomach tightens. “Isn’t she back?”

  “What’s wrong, Kent?”

  I ring Davenport. He picks up straight away. “Good evening, Kent. Good of you to ring.”

  I can hear country music in the background. I try to speak, but my mouth’s so dry, it takes me a few seconds. “Can I have a word with Niamh?”

  “She’s indisposed at the moment,” he replies, “but I’m taking good care of her.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  Thirty-One

  I grab my raincoat from the back of the door. “Davenport’s got Niamh,” I tell Gemma.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Columbo,” I call, turning off the oven. “Here.”

  I scoop him up and tuck him inside my raincoat, despite his attempts to wriggle free. “Gemma, tell Frances we’re taking Columbo,” I call, hurrying down the steps. “I need something from the barn.”

  I put him on the back seat and collect a crowbar and pickaxe from the barn. Gemma jumps into the passenger seat moments later, shaking the rain from her hair.

  “What’s going on, Kent?”

  “Davenport killed Daphne Witherington, Stacey Walters and Marcie Baxendale,” I reply, accelerating out of the yard. “He left a body at Meadow Farm to throw us off the trail.”

  “He did?” She places a hand against the dashboard to steady herself as we swing and bounce along the lane. “Slow down, Kent, or you’ll kill us both.”

  I hold on tight to the steering wheel as the car grazes the verge. Though I know the twists and turns of this lane intimately, I can hardly make out the hedgerows. Even on full speed, the wipers can’t cope with the rain that’s battering the windscreen.

  “Thank you,” Gemma says, settling back when I ease off the accelerator. “Now, tell me why Davenport killed those women.”

  “It was something you said earlier.”

  “Me? What did I say?”

  “Remember Martin Burke, the man with the smallholding. You said he wasn’t to know his manure would infect Charlotte.”

  “What’s that got to do with Davenport?”

  “His wife, Angelina, died from pneumonia because her immune system couldn’t fight the infection.”

  “You think he infected her with pneumonia?”

  I brake hard as we approach the junction with the A27. “No, Gemma, HIV. AIDS.”

  “I thought there were treatments.” She stares at me, looking both doubtful and puzzled at the same time. “People don’t die from AIDS, do they?”

  “They do when they don’t know they’re infected,” I reply, pulling out and into the stream of traffic heading for Tollingdon. “Angelina had a phobia about hospitals and doctors. She wasn’t diagnosed until it was too late.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Her parents told me. They didn’t know she had HIV, but it explains why Davenport killed Daphne and the others.”

  “It does?”

  Her sarcasm’s starting to irritate me. “Davenport believes one of the women infected him,” I say, unable to keep the impatience from my voice.

  “So why hasn’t he died? Or anyone else?”

  She has a point. Without tests, I can’t prove anything. “Maybe he’s dying, Gemma. I saw a photo of him, taken eight years ago, and he was much stockier then. He’s thin and pale now, like he’s withering away.”

  “Maybe he’s stopped eating ready meals.”

  “Will you cut it with the wisecracks?” We jerk to a halt at the traffic lights and I turn to face her. “He’s got Niamh. I don’t know what he’s done to her, but if we don’t get there soon, she could be joining the other women he’s killed.”

  “Then you’d best get moving,” she says, gesturing at the space that’s opened ahead of us.

  The driver behind me sounds his horn when I stall the car. I draw a breath and start the car, pulling away smoothly to join the traffic crawling into Tollingdon.

  “Look, I’m no expert on HIV, Gemma, but I imagine it’s like any infection – some people are stronger and resist it better and for longer.”

  “I know, but how do you know he had sex with Daphne and Stacey?”

  “Don’t forget Marcie.”

  We slow to a halt again. “Come on!” I call, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Columbo barks and leaps down from the parcel shelf, panting as he peers between the seats.

  Gemma reaches across to still my fingers. “You don’t know if she’s dead. It’s all supposition.”

  “Deduction,” I say, inching the car forward a few yards. “All three women lost someone close seven or eight years ago. Davenport did the funerals. And I checked,” I say, before she can challenge me. “All three women also benefitted from his unique aftercare.”

  “Okay,” she says, twisting to tickle Columbo behind his ears, “but if one or all of the women had HIV, how come no one else has been affected?”

  “Maybe they have. Maybe they got treatment.” With a sigh of relief, we reach the mini roundabout that’s slowing the traffic. “And maybe there’s a much simpler explanation.”

  “Go on, Holmes, the suspense is killing me.”

  With no sign of an end to the stream of traffic around the roundabout, I accelerate into a small gap, forcing the car coming around to brake and slow down. The insistent sound of his horn follows us down the road.

  “Davenport embalms the dead,” I say, accelerating away. “All it takes is one infected body, one careless moment where he cuts himself, and he’s infected.”

  “He must know the risks, Kent. He’d wear gloves.”

  “But what if he was rushing, or complacent? It doesn’t matter really because he blamed his infection on one of his lovers. He passed it to Angelina without realising until years later when she became ill with pneumonia.”

  “Then, after his wife died, he took revenge, starting with Daphne.” Gemma frowns, looking thoughtful. “Bit extreme, don’t you think?”

  “Not if you won’t accept it’s your carelessness that caused the infection.”

  “Denial, you mean? To avoid accepting the blame, he turns on his former lovers.”

  “Starting with Daphne. He knows the Colonel’s routines and picks a day when she’s alone in the house. He calls under some pretext and takes her out for the morning.”

  Gemma gasps. “That’s why she left her paints. She thought she was coming back.”

  The traffic slows once more as we reach the town centre. I don’t know why I glance at the clock, because Davenport’s not going to harm Niamh until I’m there. He knows I won’t ring the police because he’ll kill her the moment he spots a patrol car or an officer on his CCTV.

  With razor wire and security cameras, his yard’s well protected, like his embalming room.

  “How does Colin Miller fit in?” Gemma asks, breaking into my thoughts.

  “He was a bonus because he had a history with Stacey. I don’t know the exact details, but Davenport tells the Colonel that Miller and Daphne are sleeping together. Davenport knows Miller needs money and sets up an elaborate sting. Al
l Miller has to do is take Daphne out for a meal, drink too much, and tell everyone they’re running away together.”

  Gemma nods. “Davenport sits at the next table to witness everything.”

  “No, that’s what Davenport wants you to think. Miller told me someone threatened to kill him if he went to the restaurant, so he fled to Spain. That was Davenport. Having frightened off Miller, Davenport takes his place and meets Daphne for dinner.”

  Gemma shakes her head. “Why would she play along if she’s expecting Miller?”

  “Davenport tells her that Miller’s run off with the money and dumped her. He takes Miller’s place and persuades her to have something to eat. Then, a week later, Davenport gives the police a false witness statement.”

  “If Miller went to Spain, how did he buy meat from Walters after Daphne disappeared?”

  I smile, enjoying her puzzled frown.

  She sighs. “Davenport pretended to be Miller.”

  “Walters had already caught Miller sniffing around and sent him on his way.”

  “Davenport sets up Stacey and …” Gemma stares at me. “When did you work it out, Holmes?”

  “Much too late.”

  I drive past Tollingdon Funeral Services, knowing Davenport wants me to enter through the yard, where he can track me on his cameras.

  “Davenport laid a trail to Miller,” I say, “knowing he was safely tucked away in Spain. Only Miller blew the money and returned to Glastonbury. When I found him, Davenport had to act quickly. He sent the letter from Stacey.”

  Gemma shudders. “He was planning that letter while we ate dessert.”

  “It gets worse,” I say, turning into the lane that leads to the yard. “Davenport set me up. He told the Colonel to ask me to find Daphne. Alice let it slip this afternoon. Once the Colonel hooked me, all Davenport had to do was stick close to Niamh and follow my progress.”

  “He was taking a chance, wasn’t he?”

  “Not really. He’d already disposed of the bodies. That’s what undertakers do.”

  I stop at the gates and dive out into the rain. Inside the car, Columbo barks and paws at the window, eager to join me. With my hood over my head, I peer through the gap between the gates and spot Davenport’s black Ford Mondeo in its parking space.