The second door opens into a small, muted room. The olive green upholstery on the chairs and sofa matches the carpet and the curtains that hide the door to the viewing area. The pale green walls look bleak despite the subdued lighting. Only the lilies on the mantelpiece above the cast-iron fireplace bring a welcome splash of colour. I’m not including the leaflets and brochures on funeral plans, strategically placed on the low table between the armchairs.
When Niamh arranged the funeral, I stayed at home. Thanks to the cuts, bruises and swelling to my face and neck, I looked like the Elephant Man. And I was still smarting from the revelations and discoveries about William Fisher. Now, standing here in this sombre room, I’m ashamed to say my anger and frustration blinded me to Niamh’s grief.
It did save us from an argument though. She doesn’t like eco-friendly, biodegradable cardboard coffins.
I open the door into the main reception area, which looks out onto the street. It’s much brighter and warmer than my last visit a few years ago. The Council was tendering for the welfare burials we have to carry out by law when someone dies without relatives. On that occasion, I stepped into the world of Miss Marple, complete with antique furniture and phone. Miss Penrose, who had an uncanny resemblance to the legendary Joan Hickson, sat behind an old oak desk, hammering out letters and invoices on a black manual typewriter. She smelt of lavender and had a kind, sympathetic smile that must have comforted many a grieving relative.
A woman in her thirties, with short blonde hair, inquisitive blue eyes, and a wide smile, now sits at a modern desk, complete with PC and flat screen monitor. She’s dressed in a smart cream blouse, which parts to reveal a thin gold necklace and slender neck. Her long, dextrous fingers stop their hypnotic rhythm on the keyboard when she spots me. She removes her frameless spectacles and pushes her hair behind her ears as she looks me over.
“Do you always enter through the rear?”
Her deep voice and languid smile soften her American accent. Something Neanderthal pastes a grin on my lips and deepens my voice as I pause by the water dispenser.
“If you leave a door open, someone will walk in.”
She sighs. “If only it was Mr Right.”
“Perfection always disappoints. It’s better to seize the moment.”
“And trespass onto private property?”
“Can I help it if I’m intrigued by the MGB in the yard?”
“How do you restrain yourself when you pass a showroom?”
“It’s a constant battle,” I reply, taking a plastic beaker, “so I confine my urges to the owners of the cars. You are Yvonne Parris?”
“Since the sex change, yes. It’s amazing what surgeons can do, don’t you think?” She laughs as I hesitate, spilling water over my hand. “Boy, do you look mortified,” she says, collapsing back in the chair. “Never make assumptions.”
I shake the water off my fingers and walk over to her desk with much less swagger than before. “You’re a long way from home, Miss Parris.”
“And you’re a short distance from the door, Mr Kent Fisher.” She chuckles, enjoying my surprise. “Alasdair spotted you on the security cameras. He’s busy with a client at the moment and suggests you make an appointment for tomorrow.”
“I’m here officially.”
“Is that why you sneak in through the rear, trying to catch us out?”
“Mr Davenport may have information on a business I’m investigating.”
She pulls on her glasses. “Do you always turn up and expect people to stop what they’re doing?”
“No. Well, not intentionally. But when you put it like that, I guess I do.”
She begins typing once more. “Then you must be an expert at returning at a more convenient time. Alasdair’s in the embalming room.”
“I’ll pop in on my way out,” I say, placing the beaker on her desk. “I’m sure he can embalm and talk.”
She rises, revealing a short blue skirt, slim legs and sensible shoes. “Why don’t you let your ego cool off in the waiting room,” she says, striding around the desk. “I’ll see if Alasdair will spare you a few moments.”
There’s no way I’d enter an embalming room, but she shows no fear. She returns a few minutes later, telling me Alasdair will be along shortly.
“How long have you lived in England?” I ask to fill the silence that follows.
“Long enough to recognise bullshit.”
“You’re not passing through then.”
“In my fascinating MGB, you mean?”
I should give up as my touch has deserted me. “Must be an expensive car to maintain.”
“For a receptionist, you mean?” She removes her glasses and regards me with cold, but curious, eyes. “Has it occurred to you that the MG was a birthday present from my father? Hey, maybe I’m temping to earn a few bucks before returning to San Francisco.”
For someone who’s not interested, she’s revealing a lot about herself. “If you were temping you wouldn’t have a named parking bay,” I say.
“Give the man a star. No, I’m not temping. Neither am I married, engaged or interested in men who think they can do as they please.”
That put me in my place.
Davenport saves me from any further mishaps. He strides in, looking paler than ever, his forearms as white as his rolled-up shirtsleeves. When I shake his cold hand, I notice a small tattoo of a heart and the word ‘Angelina’ on his forearm. He’ll need to remove that if he’s serious about Niamh.
“Can I get you a tea or coffee, Mr Fisher?”
When Yvonne rises, he raises a hand. “I think it’s my turn to do the honours, Miss Parris. We’re one big, happy family,” he tells me as we walk down the corridor. “No one’s too important to make coffee.”
In the kitchen, he tries two cupboards before finding a catering tin of instant coffee, which he places on the worktop.
“Yvonne tells me you need my help with a business,” he says, staring at the mugs, submerged in dirty water in the sink. “I’m intrigued to know how I can help – unless someone has died.”
“You wash, I’ll dry,” I say, pulling a damp tea towel from a ring on the wall. “Ever heard of a sandwich business called Grub on the Go?”
Davenport, who’s used to handling bodies, pushes a tentative hand into the murky water, looking relieved when he pulls out a mug. “Should I have heard of it?”
“Colin Miller ran the business.”
He rinses the mug under the tap and hands it to me. “It no longer exists?”
Would he answer every question with another?
“You’re head of the Chamber of Commerce,” I say. “Maybe you came across it.”
“We don’t have many sandwich rounds in our little fraternity,” he says, rinsing a second mug. He looks into the kettle and turns it on. “It’s a pity because the food at our meetings can be bland.”
“You saw Colin Miller once.”
“Was he looking up from a coffin?” His laugh peters out as he struggles to open the coffee tin.
“He was dining with Daphne Witherington at La Floret.”
Finally, the lid comes off and tumbles to the floor. He pounces on the lid, scooping it up with some agility. “That must be at least a year ago. Why are you interested in him now?”
I could tell him I’m cleansing the database at work, which we do from time to time. Lots of businesses register and then don’t start trading, leaving us with unwanted records that clutter up the system. But if Niamh’s mentioned my interest in Colonel Witherington, Davenport will know I’m lying.
I finish drying the second mug. “You know Daphne went missing.”
“And you clearly know I witnessed her last night in Tollingdon.” He stops spooning coffee into the cups. “Are you sleuthing at the expense of the ratepayer?”
“No, I’m taking a late lunch.”
“No need to be defensive, Mr Fisher. I’m not going to report you.” The kettle comes to the boil and he fills the mugs with water, leavi
ng little space for milk. “If you’ve read my statement, there’s nothing more I can tell you.”
“The police won’t let me see a copy. That’s why I’m here.”
“I see,” he says, pulling a bottle of milk from the fridge. “I can spare you ten minutes.”
Armed with coffee strong enough to unblock drains, and my carrier bag, I follow him upstairs to a dark office that doubles as a store. A musty smell emanates from a thick layer of dust and bundles of old papers, strewn on every available surface. Old files, strapped together with thick elastic bands, fill an old coffin that’s lying across a row of rusty filing cabinets. Instead of drawing back the curtains to let in light, he switches on an old lamp with a decorated glass shade, which casts uneven shadows across the jaded wallpaper.
“Our premier range,” he says, patting one of the coffin lids, laid to rest against the wall. Each lid has a card with details printed on it. “Once, I could remember every make and model,” he says, settling in a creaking swivel chair. “Now, I don’t have the energy or the inclination. That’s why this place is a mess. I had to move everything out of the cellar when the public sewer in the road flooded the basement last winter.”
“That’s one way to be interred.”
His laugh misses his eyes. “Niamh told me about your legendary wit.”
I find a space on the desk for my mug. It’s the oak desk, inlaid with leather, which Miss Penrose used. I move a bundle of papers from a chair and sit, placing my carrier bag in my lap. Davenport picks up a paper knife and starts cleaning a fingernail while he speaks.
“From what I recall, Colin Miller was a boorish show off. He bought champagne and drank it like cheap wine. He gave large tips to the waiters and made sure everyone knew how generous he was. I didn’t know who he was at the time. In fact,” he says, pausing in his nail cleaning, “I felt uneasy as Daphne was obviously having an affair of some sort. It was only later, when I found out she’d gone missing, that I realised I could help the police.”
He keeps his observations factual, giving little in the way of opinion, despite my questions. When he finishes, he has a clean set of fingernails.
“I can understand why Colonel Witherington won’t accept what happened, but I don’t see how you can help, Mr Fisher.”
“He asked me to check out Miller’s catering business.”
Davenport takes a noisy sip of coffee, grimaces, and then puts the mug to one side. “I rather had the impression you weren’t interested.”
“Is that what Niamh told you?”
“Colonel Witherington pestered you at the funeral. You seemed rather dismissive and he looked angry. But you must admit, missing wives are a long way from environmental health.”
“Not if there’s a caterer involved. We investigate accidents and food poisoning outbreaks, following the trail of evidence, sifting fact from opinion, truth from lies.” I get to my feet. “I enjoy separating the false from the genuine.”
“Do I detect a warning, Mr Fisher?”
“A warning? What do you mean?”
“You looked uncomfortable when I spoke to Niamh at the wake.” He clasps his hands behind his head, revealing damp armpits. “I try to support the bereaved through their grief.”
“You can’t have a moment to yourself.”
He rises and strolls around the desk. “Niamh needs someone to talk to – someone who understands grief.”
“Someone like you, you mean.”
“Not necessarily, but I’m a good listener.”
“And I’m not?”
He regards me the way people look at traffic wardens. “It’s not for me to say, but you spend a lot of time investigating crimes and tending to your animals. Then, there’s your social life –”
“You’re right. It’s nothing to do with you.”
I grab my carrier bag and hurry down the stairs, kicking open the door at the bottom. How dare he criticise me? He has no idea what’s going on at home – unless Niamh confides in him, of course. By the time I reach my car, the anger and frustration have faded to guilt. She spoke to Davenport because she couldn’t speak to me.
Did I let her down?
The way I let Gemma down.
Ten
While Niamh talks about nothing in particular over supper, Davenport’s words reprimand me like a conscience. I can listen without judging and I’m going to prove it.
“You put your feet up while I clear the dishes and then I’ll make us both a cup of tea.”
“Not for me,” she says, slipping Columbo a morsel of turkey. “I’m going out.”
“With Davenport?” I thrust the plates into the dishwasher and close the door with a thud. “No problem.”
“Clearly there is,” she says, getting to her feet.
I groan, wondering what happened to my pledge to listen without judging. “I wanted to have a chat, Niamh, but I suppose it can wait.”
“If it’s important, I –”
“No, no, you mustn’t keep Davenport waiting.”
“Don’t ever go on the stage, Kent. You’re a hopeless actor.”
She strides out of the room, closing the door so Columbo can’t follow. He stares at the door for a moment and then wanders over to me. I sit next to him on the floor and ruffle his fur.
“Yeah, I know. I’m no good at this emotional stuff. That’s why I switch it off so I can stay calm and focused. I wouldn’t be much good at saving animals if I got upset by the sight of blood, would I?”
He stares at me for a moment and barks as if he understands.
“That’s right. I see things as they are. It doesn’t make me uncaring, does it?”
He nudges my arm as I’ve stopped stroking him.
“Look what happened with Gemma.” I cringe, recalling the moment when I blurted out my feelings for her. “Did it bring us closer? No, it put a barrier between us. I couldn’t face her in hospital, so she thinks I don’t care.”
Who am I kidding? She’s thought that since the day I ran out on her seven years ago.
“I need to clear her out of my system, little mate.”
Columbo rests his head on my thigh, watching me with those big, dark eyes.
“Davenport too. I let him rattle me today. Niamh knows I care. I let her move in here, didn’t I? I don’t need to be all touchy feely, do I?”
He sighs and snuggles up against my leg, enjoying the attention. It’s clear I’m better with animals.
I stroke his fur as he drifts to sleep, contented with his life. It wasn’t always that way. That’s why I can’t let Davenport or Colonel Witherington deflect me from my sanctuary. There will always be animals to rescue, no matter what happens. But will it have to be on Birchill’s terms?
Once again, the anger flares. How could William Fisher say he’d given the land to me when he’d already lost it to Birchill?
I sigh and nudge the anger back into its hiding place, reminding myself I have to play the hand I’m dealt, to do what’s best for Frances and the animals.
I’m still on the floor when Niamh returns from her bedroom, looking smart and business like in a pale green trouser suit and sensible heels. She’s pulled her hair into a ponytail, revealing new gold earrings. The glow in her eyes brightens when she looks down at us.
She brushes a hand across my cheek. “And people say you don’t care.”
“You look great,” I say, noticing the woman not the stepmother. “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry. I forget how difficult it must be, having me under your feet. We’ll talk later.”
Columbo jolts to life when I get to my feet. I kiss her on the cheek and give her a hug. “I don’t mind you seeing Davenport. It’s your life and you should enjoy it.”
“I’m not sure anyone enjoys themselves at a Tollingdon Hospice Trust meeting, but I’ll try.”
Thankfully, she can’t see me cringe.
***
Columbo and I are curled up on the sofa, watching Inspector Morse on DVD w
hen Niamh returns at ten. After fending off Columbo, she tosses her jacket on the armchair, releases her ponytail, and drops onto the sofa next to me. She kicks off her shoes and sighs with pleasure when she wiggles her toes. Columbo clambers over her legs and settles himself between us.
“Now he’s sexy,” she says, gesturing at John Thaw on the screen. “Vulnerability in a man is always appealing.” She reaches across me for the remote and switches off the TV. “You know every episode inside out, Kent, so don’t look at me like that.”
It’s more the playful way she’s behaving that troubles me. Did Davenport attend the hospice trust meeting? After all, he is the next step in the process.
“Good meeting?” I ask.
She settles back, her shoulder against mine. “I’m counting my blessings, I suppose. Colonel Witherington joined us for the first time since his wife left him. He resigned from the Trust, saying he would need its services soon as the cancer was spreading fast.
“Not a word,” she says, raising a finger. “He’s got months, maybe weeks to live. The only thing keeping him alive is your investigation.”
“No pressure then.”
“Do what you can, Kent. He’s not expecting miracles.”
“They take longer,” I say. “Have you spoken to Davenport today?”
“Please call him Alasdair. I know you feel threatened by him, but –”
“You have spoken to him then.”
She puts a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. “He put your nose out of joint, didn’t he?”
I shift, not sure how to respond. “Do you find it easier to talk to him?”
“He understands how it feels to lose someone you love.”
“And I don’t?”
She puts a hand on my arm. “You feel betrayed by William. You see his failings, the weakness he hid. I saw it too, but I forgave him because I loved him. When I told you how much I missed him, you said he wasn’t worth grieving over.”
No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2) Page 9
