No Bodies

by Robert Crouch

  The gates are unlocked.

  “In a minute,” I tell Columbo, who licks my ear once I’m back in the car. “We’re going in through the cellar.”

  Gemma pulls out her phone. “We should call the police,”

  “He’ll kill Niamh before they break down the door. He’s got cameras everywhere.”

  “And if you don’t call the police, he could kill you.”

  I speed back up the lane, preferring not to think about it. Once back on the main street, I park a couple of doors up from Tollingdon Funeral Services and retrieve the pick axe and crowbar from the boot.

  “Stay here with Columbo,” I tell Gemma. “And no matter how much he paws the window, don’t open it. Keep him dry.”

  I pull the hood over my head and make for the cellar. Kneeling on the wet slabs, it takes me seconds to force the padlock and latch. I look around and get to my feet. Thanks to the rain, the streets are empty, except for an occasional taxi flying past. After I dump the tools in the boot, I fuss Columbo.

  “I don’t want you barking,” I say, wishing he’d calm down so I can pick him up.

  “I’ll bring him,” Gemma says. “When you’re in the cellar, I’ll hand him down. And I’ll keep him dry,” she adds as I start to speak. “Even if I get soaked in the process.”

  He settles inside her coat without protest. Mind you, if I was nestled in there, I’d be more than content. He gives me a bark, reminding me to get on with it.

  I grab my Maglite and head back to the cellar. I pull back the flaps, hand the Maglite to Gemma, and lower myself into the opening before dropping to the floor. Columbo wriggles as she lowers him into my raised hands, but once I pull him close to my chest, he relaxes. When I set him on the floor, he rushes into the shadows to explore.

  “I still think we should call the police, Kent.”

  I shake my head. “He’s got Niamh in the embalming room. She’ll be dead the moment they arrive.”

  “What’s to stop him killing her the moment he spots you?”

  “He won’t get the chance to gloat,” I say, hoping I’m right.

  She pulls her coat tighter. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Isn’t this where you tell me you’re hopelessly in love with me?”

  “Not now, Gemma.”

  “That’s what you claimed when you abandoned me at Tombstone,” she says, shining the Maglite in my face. “Or have you forgotten?”

  How could I forget? “Give me the torch, Gemma.”

  She lets it go. I just grab it before it smacks me in the face. I’m not so lucky with the cellar flap. It catches me on the head as she closes it with some venom. Thankfully, it’s only a glancing blow as my reflexes save me. Seconds later, the second flap thuds down, shutting out the light and the rain.

  I congratulate myself on another emotional moment well handled.

  I shine the beam around the whitewashed walls, black and blistering with damp. Rows and rows of grey filing cabinets, twisted and rusting, fill half the space. Tables and chairs with musty smelling upholstery, cover the remainder, leaving a passage to a panelled door in the corner. Columbo sniffs the base of the door, his tail wagging hard.

  The door opens into a corridor. At the end, brick steps lead up to a door. Nose to the ground, Columbo finds another door to the left and nudges it open. The smell of something like disinfectant seeps out of the room. I recall Davenport telling me the cellar flooded with sewage and call to Columbo.

  When he doesn’t respond, I go after him. “Shit!”

  Columbo’s by a four-poster bed, pawing the mattress and whining. It could be a child propped up by pillows, but it’s an emaciated woman with lifeless olive eyes. Foundation and rouge colour her sunken cheeks, while her scarlet lips look thin and shrivelled beneath her prominent nose. Thick, black, wavy hair cascades over bony shoulders, protruding into her pink nightdress.

  Poor Angelina, embalmed instead of cremated.

  When Columbo leaps onto the bed, I snap out of my daze and rush over, grabbing him as he places his paws on her chest. He wriggles and growls when I carry him out of the room and close the door behind me. I lean back against the wall to catch my breath, not sure whether I feel sick or sad.

  At the top of the stairs, the door opens into the funeral parlour. On the other side of the door, I find a key in the lock.

  Davenport anticipated me entering from the cellar. As usual, he’s one step ahead.

  I leave Columbo to explore while I make my way to the embalming room, across the corridor from the small kitchen. An intercom on the wall bursts into life as I approach, startling me with the sound of country music.

  “Better late than never, Kent.”

  The lock clicks and I push the door open a few inches. I peer into a storage area lined with tall metal cupboards and shelving. Glass jars, some labelled and filled with a brownish liquid, mingle with empty ones. Boxes of latex gloves, stacked high, fill another shelf. On one side there’s a stainless steel bench, where a pump lies prostrate among coils of rubber piping.

  At the end of the room, a second door summons me.

  I beckon Columbo, who follows me in, nose to the floor, sniffing under the shelves. I wedge the door open with the Maglite and I nip across to the kitchen for the biscuit tin. Armed with digestives, I return to find Columbo, determined to burrow beneath the shelves. He soon comes out when I crumble the digestives and scatter them across the floor.

  While he eats, I grab the Maglite like a club and open the second door, quickly sliding through the gap. I pull the door behind me to stop Columbo following. My heel stops the door closing, letting it rest on the latch.

  I look up at a gun, aimed at my forehead.

  “You’re lucky I’m a patient man,” Davenport says with a smile.

  “You won’t mind waiting for the police then.”

  “Take a look at the screen on the wall behind me.”

  The monitor shows views from four cameras, one at the front of the building, two in the yard, and one on the deserted lane beyond. Gemma’s pacing up and down at the front, glancing at her phone every few seconds.

  “Lose whatever you’re hiding behind your back and put your hands on your head.”

  I place the Maglite on the adjacent bench and raise my hands over my head. As he backs away, he reveals Niamh, lying under a white plastic sheet on the ceramic embalming table. She looks so peaceful, it takes me a moment to realise she’s naked under the sheet.

  “Stay calm,” Davenport says from the other side of the table. He smiles and pushes hair back from her face. “I sedated her.”

  “Before or after you removed her clothes?”

  He runs his fingers along the rubber tubing that runs to a pump beneath the table. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

  “I’m talking about decency, but you don’t know anything about that.”

  He laughs and holds up a monster stainless steel needle, about four inches long and almost half an inch wide. The sharp point at the end sends a shudder through me.

  “It’s a trocar, used to remove fluids from the body. Don’t worry,” he says, running the needle along Niamh’s cheek, “she won’t feel a thing.”

  “Is that what you did to Daphne Witherington?”

  I look around for something to use against him. Maybe I could batter him to death with the docking station that’s playing the rather ironic, Stand by your Man.

  “Does my music offend you?” he asks, following my gaze. “I can turn it off if you prefer.”

  “No, no,” I reply, aware of Columbo sniffing at the base of the door. “It helps with the ambience.”

  “It helps to have the right music. When I cremate you on Monday, I’ll play Burning Love by Elvis.”

  “I’d prefer Funeral Pyre by the Jam,” I say, aware of the sweat running down my back. “Or you could bury me to the strains of Going Underground.”

  “I’m glad your wit hasn’t deserted you, Kent
.”

  “Do you mind if I take my coat off? I’m overheating.”

  “Be my guest. You won’t need it in the chiller.”

  I unzip the coat, sensing I need to make a move. Columbo’s getting restless and could bark at any moment

  “How did you dispose of the bodies?” I ask, shaking the water from the coat. “Did you put two together in a coffin?”

  “You can’t squeeze two bodies into one coffin. Think about the health and safety implications of all the extra weight. No, I added a leg here, an arm there, and a head when space permitted.”

  I fold the coat with the fleece lining on the outside and toss it onto the embalming table next to Niamh. “Who’s the woman at Meadow Farm?”

  He sniffs and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his lumberjack shirt. “I don’t remember. I kept her in reserve, in case I needed her.” He uses the tip of the trocar to lift the plastic sheet. “Such a pity,” he says peering inside. “Still, I’ve enjoyed watching you fumble around, wondering if you’d stumble on the truth. It allowed me to spend more time with Niamh.”

  “Planning a ménage â trois with Angelina downstairs?”

  He drops the trocar and strides around the table. He pushes the barrel of the pistol into my chest, his eyes narrow with rage. “Those filthy bitches poisoned me. They robbed me of children and then my wife. Now, we’re all going to die long before we should.”

  “That’s not Niamh’s fault.”

  He starts to blink rapidly as his eyes redden. “No, the fault is yours, Fisher.” Then he starts to sniff. “Have you brought that wretched dog of yours?”

  “It must be his fur on my coat,” I reply, enjoying his discomfort.

  He steps back, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He grabs my coat and hurls it at me. “Time to say goodbye,” he says, taking aim.

  “I lied,” I say, pointing to the floor. “Columbo’s behind you. Bite him, Columbo!”

  Davenport can’t help looking down. I hurl the coat at him and push open the door. His arms flap as the coat smothers his face. By the time he throws it down, Columbo’s biting his ankle. With a sharp cry, he looks down and tries to swat the dog with the gun.

  But I’m already on him, grabbing his gun arm and forcing him back against the bench. He smashes into the docking station, ending the music. But he manages to push a hand into my face, forcing me back.

  I feel the embalming table against the back of my legs. I cling onto his gun arm as I struggle to remain upright. My other hand tries to fend off Davenport, who’s forcing me back. When Columbo bites him once more, he freezes for a moment, wincing with pain. Then I hear a yelp. He pulls back and swivels, wrenching his arm so he can take aim at Columbo.

  I kick him hard enough to spoil his aim. The sound of the shot echoes off the harsh surfaces, followed by a second. Somewhere in the confusion, I hear a whine, but I can’t see Columbo. My momentary distraction allows Davenport to grab my throat and forces me back until I’m lying across Niamh. He swings the gun round and points it at my head.

  I close my eyes a moment before he sneezes over my face. A second sneeze gives me the chance to grab his wrist and force the gun away.

  “It wasn’t the women who infected you,” I say, my fingers tracing along the rubber tubing on the table. “You cut yourself in here.”

  Another shot rings out as he sneezes again. His grip on my throat loosens. My grip on the trocar tightens.

  Davenport now has both hands on the pistol, forcing it towards my head. He squints, barely able to see out of his red, swollen eyes drowning in tears. Then they bulge open as the trocar plunges into the side of his neck.

  For a moment he stares at me, looking confused. Then he staggers back, crashing into the bench, a wild hand trying to grab the trocar. The docking station clatters to the floor. Then the pistol as he grabs at the trocar with both hands.

  With a cry of agony, he pulls it from his neck.

  Blood spurts from his wound. Blood trickles from his mouth as he wheezes.

  I grab the pistol as he collapses to the floor.

  Then Columbo charges out of nowhere, lips drawn back over his teeth. Davenport raises the trocar.

  I fire the three remaining bullets.

  Thirty-Two

  In Colonel Witherington’s conservatory, Alice serves tea and fruit cake. Outside in the garden, Columbo pesters Monty, who just wants to lie in peace. I’m delighted the dogs get on so well, especially since Columbo’s assumed the role of pack leader.

  Alice takes her seat in the final wicker chair and gives me a smile. “Have you taken it all in yet, Mr Fisher?”

  I’m still speechless.

  Two weeks ago, I spent several hours in the Custody Suite in Eastbourne, answering questions about the incident in Tollingdon Funeral Services. For a while it looked like they would charge me for shooting Davenport in the arm and shoulder. I didn’t tell them I was aiming for his heart in case they realised what a lousy shot I was.

  Well, I’d never fired a gun before.

  Though Davenport couldn’t be questioned for another five days due to his neck injuries, he soon confessed to killing Daphne Witherington and Stacey Walters, claiming they poisoned him with HIV. He claimed not to know the identity of the woman in the freezer, though the police soon discovered her head in one of his chillers. He also denied all knowledge of Marcie Baxendale, but confessed to another murder in the Tunbridge Wells area.

  The day after my tussle with Davenport, I went to see the Colonel. Though weak, and unable to say much, he thanked me for finding his wife’s murderer. When Richard arrived, I left, sensing I wouldn’t see the Colonel again.

  That night, he passed away in his sleep.

  We’ve just returned from the funeral, arranged by one of Davenport’s competitors. Niamh claims she fine, making a show of her bruised shoulder, sustained when I fell on her in the embalming room. It gives her and Gemma the chance to compare injuries, joking that I’ve left my mark on both of them.

  But Niamh knows how close she came to death.

  Richard leans forward to take another slice of Victoria sponge. “Do you have any plans for this magnificent house, Kent?”

  I still can’t believe the Colonel left me his estate. Alice can continue to live in the annex over the garage for as long as she likes, enjoying the substantial legacy he left her.

  “Are you sure there’s no family?” I ask again.

  “Positive,” Richard replies. “It’s yours.”

  “But I don’t want it.”

  “Of course you do,” Niamh says, having spent all day yesterday touring the house and gardens with Alice. “I’m moving in tomorrow.”

  “Monty and Columbo get on,” Gemma says, glancing out of the window. “It’s perfect.”

  “Maybe you’d prefer Meadow Farm,” Richard says.

  Niamh agrees. “You can move the sanctuary and tell Birchill where to stick his land.”

  “You can tell Danni where to stick her job,” Gemma says, following me into the garden.

  I sit on the stone steps and savour the view across the Downs, knowing I should feel grateful. Columbo trots up, lies down and rests his head against my thigh. His dark eyes look up at me and I know he’s all I need, along with my flat, my sanctuary and the job I love.

  “Mr Fisher,” Alice calls from the conservatory. “There’s someone to see you.”

  I rise and greet Kirk Baxendale, who’s gained a few pounds and looks good in a navy blue suit. No wonder, he’s found a slim woman with short brown hair, beautiful eyes and a demure, but incredibly sexy smile. It’s only when we shake hands that I realise who she is.

  “Where did you go, Marcie?” I ask. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I went to a retreat to work out what I wanted,” she says, clinging to Kirk’s hand. She looks into his eyes and smiles. “Bit of a no-brainer really.”

  Gemma gives me her best ‘told you so’ smirk. “You got that wrong, Super Sleuth.”

  Like a lot of things, it s
eems.

  Kirk slides his arm around Marcie “We’re leaving for the Peak District tomorrow. New school, new home, new start. A bit like you,” he says, looking at the house. “From what I hear, it sounds like your problems are over.”

  I have a feeling they’re just beginning.

  THE END.

  About the author

  Robert Crouch spent almost 40 years working in environmental health, mainly as an inspector, checking hygiene and health and safety standards, but latterly as the manager of a team of officers.

  While he enjoyed modest success writing articles and columns for national and trade magazines during the 1990s, it wasn’t until he turned to writing crime that he found his true niche. He now writes full time from his home on the South Coast of England, drawing inspiration from the beautiful South Downs and his former job.

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  The third Kent Fisher Mystery, No Remorse, should be released in February 2018, but keep reading to the end of this eBook for a sneak preview!

  If you would like to receive exclusive content and insights about the books, and be kept up to date with new releases from Robert Crouch, please click here to sign up to his email newsletter, The Tollingdon Tribune. You’ll also receive free content on subscribing.

  Please visit his website to learn more about Kent Fisher, the South Downs and author.

  Author’s note

  Most people are unaware of the work environmental health officers (EHOs) carry out on a day-to-day basis.

  With each Kent Fisher Mystery novel, I hope to explore different areas of environmental health to reveal the depth and breadth of the important work carried out to protect public health.

  I should also tell you that the setting, Downland District Council and the events in my novels are fictional. Tollingdon exists only in my imagination, as do many of the pubs, hotels and food businesses. And as the saying goes, all characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.