“Can we prove it?” Gemma asks.
“Not unless Chloe owns up.”
I recall the antagonist mother at the sanctuary that Saturday afternoon. If she believes she could lose her children, she’ll blame my goats and there’s nothing I can do to stop her.
Or maybe there is.
“Can I borrow your phone again?” I ask.
Gemma heads into the office while I walk across to a small grassed area and sit on the bench. I ring Downland Manor Hotel and ask to speak to Birchill. I’m put straight through to his office.
“Hi Kent,” he says, sounding like he’s eating. “How can I help?”
“Do you remember the woman with the two children at the sanctuary, a week ago, Saturday?”
“The mouthy one? How could I forget?”
I explain the situation and my theory that Chloe has been less than honest about her children’s health. “There’s a chance she’ll claim my goats infected her daughter.”
“I heard you tell her at least twice to wash the children’s hands,” he says. “How did they get in the paddock anyway?”
“I went upstairs to answer the phone. I asked them to wait in the yard for me.”
Birchill laughs. “Would you have waited?”
“No,” I reply. “When I returned, they’d gone, but I’m not sure the mother even noticed.”
“So,” he says, sounding like he’s about to formulate a plan, “if she accuses us of infecting her children, what happens?”
“I’ve already told Frances to cancel the planned school visits this week.”
“That could be viewed as a sign of guilt.”
“Or a sensible precaution from a caring, law-abiding concern.”
“If the children are supervised and don’t touch the animals, where’s the risk?”
“There’s always a risk.” I stop, aware my voice is rising. “You can never guarantee there are no bugs left on surfaces. An infected person could bring bugs onto the site.”
“Have any other children been ill?”
“None, as far as I know.”
“Then I can’t see how anyone can claim it’s the sanctuary. You have risk assessments, systems in place, and hundreds of children who have never had so much as a sneeze after visiting the place. If you start cancelling visits, people will suspect there’s something wrong. Don’t close,” he says, as if ticking off the last item on his list.
“I’m an EHO. Doing nothing is not an option.” I sigh, angry and annoyed with myself for leaving the children to run free at the sanctuary. “If Chloe Burke finds out I’m investigating the case, she’ll accuse me of protecting my sanctuary.”
“So, why the hell are you investigating?”
“I didn’t know who the kids were until this morning. When I recognised the boy, I got out of the place and left Gemma to finish, but he may have recognised me.”
“Then get someone to take over right away. Make sure you put it in writing so no one can accuse you of improper conduct. Gemma will back you up, won’t she?”
“She’s not the problem. Danni will insist I close the sanctuary and have the goats tested.”
He pauses. “I’ll deal with Danni.”
“No, this is my problem.”
“Then why did you ring me?”
I close my eyes, angry with myself for seeking his protection and help. How shallow does that make me? What’s wrong with me? Where’s my resolve?
“You’re a witness,” I reply. “I need you to corroborate the events of Saturday afternoon and discredit Chloe Burke.”
“In that case, we need to tilt the odds our way.”
***
Five minutes later, Gemma intercepts me on the landing of the second floor.
“Colonel Witherington’s in Danni’s office,” she says. “He’s been there for over an hour.”
“Where’s Danni?”
“She’s at some high-powered meeting. Her email doesn’t say where, or with whom,” she says, emphasising her correct choice of grammar. “She’s booked a meeting with Dr Doolittle at two, so she’ll be back before then.”
“Okay, let’s see what the Colonel wants.”
When I open the door to Danni’s office, I hear him snoring. He’s seated at her meeting table, his head drooping forward. His mouth hangs open, a dribble of saliva running from the corner of his mouth to his chin. His neatly arranged hat, gloves and walking stick rest next to an untouched cup of tea.
Gemma closes the door, making enough noise to stir him. His head jerks up and he takes a few moments to orientate himself. We sit opposite and wait. Then he points a gnarled finger at me.
“Why do you think I killed my wife?”
Eighteen
“Did you kill her?” I ask, meeting the Colonel’s icy stare.
“You think my Daphne’s buried under the conservatory?”
“Is she?”
He slaps his hand down on the table. “Dammit, man, I’m too ill to waste time playing games. You went to Glastonbury to confront Miller. When were you going to tell me? Next week? Next month?”
I offer silent thanks to Niamh for telling him. “When were you going to tell me you paid Miller to leave?”
He shows no emotion. Unlike Gemma, who realises how little I’ve told her.
“You paid him twenty grand to take Daphne out and pretend they were running away together.” I pause, watching for any reaction. “Then, the next day, when he doesn’t show, she’s devastated and you pick up the pieces, right?”
“When I found out about Miller, I was angry. No,” he says, slumping back in the chair, “I was scared of losing her. I knew she had needs I couldn’t meet, but Miller sounded serious, so I checked him out. He was a third rate chancer, so I made him an offer to see how much he cared for my Daphne. He practically snatched the money from my hands.”
He pauses for a self-satisfied smirk. “Only he duped me, didn’t he? He did everything I asked and then took my Daphne anyway. Now she’s dead.”
I remain silent, not sure who or what to believe. I know Daphne was at home Tuesday morning and gone by the evening. Where she went, if she left at all, or who she went with, I don’t know.
I walk over to the window. “The investigation’s finished, Colonel. Miller’s gone. There’s no evidence your wife is dead.”
He slams his hand down on the table. “She’s dead, dammit! I feel it here.”
He thumps his chest and then gasps. His face twists with pain, his cheeks growing redder. When his hands begin to shake, I’m sure he’s fitting.
“Gemma, get some water,” I say, hurrying over to him. “Colonel, take deep breaths.”
“Pills. In my pocket.”
He points to his jacket pocket with a shaking finger. Inside, I find a small bottle of pills. I take one out and place it on the table. He pinches the pill between his fingers and then pushes it under his tongue.
“Bloody angina,” he says, clearly in pain.
I head for Danni’s desk. “I’ll call an ambulance,”
“I don’t need a hospital,” he says, his tone still angry. “I need to know what happened to my Daphne.”
“What if she’s alive and doesn’t want to be found?” Gemma asks.
“Why would she do that? She loved me.”
“Then why did she fall for Miller?”
Tears fill his eyes and he lets out a mournful groan. In a quiet voice, he says, “I lost my temper with her.”
Maybe the fit unsettled him. Maybe the thought of dying makes him want to tell the whole story. I raise a hand to silence Gemma and we wait while he draws deep breaths. Slowly, his breathing returns to normal and the colour returns to his cheeks. He straightens and clasps his hands together.
“I bought her beautiful dresses and gowns, but she insisted on wearing those awful leggings, or whatever they’re called, and shapeless sweaters, even when we had guests. One evening, I went to her room when she didn’t come down for dinner and found her gowns on the floor, like she
’d thrown them there in a rage. I told her she was keeping our guests waiting and she laughed. She told me what I could do with my guests and my dresses.”
He closes his eyes tight, squeezing tears out of the corners. “I wanted her to be happy and have the best. I worshipped her. I wanted to see her looking beautiful in those gowns. I wanted others to see how lovely she was.” He looks up, clearly distressed as he shakes his head. “I worshipped her. I never meant to strike her.”
Gemma and I exchange a glance. “When was this?” I ask.
“About a month before she left.”
“She was seeing Miller at the time.”
His head jerks up. “He turned her against me.”
“And you offered him money to jilt her? What made you think he would?”
“Desperate times demand desperate measures.”
“Didn’t it occur to you that Miller could tell your wife what you were planning?”
The Colonel stares at me, his frown deepening as he realises what I mean. Then his stubborn nature kicks in. “No, she’s dead,” he says, struggling to his feet. He pulls on his cap and gloves as he shuffles across the office, walking stick under his arm. He turns at the door and says, “Find the man who killed her.”
The door slams behind him.
“Why did you lie about Glastonbury?” Gemma asks, breaking the silence.
“I didn’t lie.”
“No, you didn’t say anything.” She pauses, expecting me to say something. “What about Stacey Walters? Did you ask Miller about her?”
“Miller said he left the day before Daphne disappeared.”
“And you believe him?”
I think back to Glastonbury. Miller didn’t seem to know that Daphne Witherington had disappeared. He said he didn’t have dinner with her at La Floret because he thought the Colonel was going to kill him. While it sounds like a plot from a cheap movie, if it’s true, then who had dinner with her? Did anyone else know about the Colonel’s plan?
I shake my head, certain only Miller knew. It means he lied to me from the moment I spoke to him. So, why don’t I believe he killed Daphne Witherington or Stacey Walters? He wanted to kill me, didn’t he?
“I need to brief Danni about the E. coli case,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Where is she?”
At five minutes to two, after several visits to her empty office, I’m no wiser. Bernard Doolittle’s phone goes straight to voicemail, prompting an unwanted image of them thrashing around on his desk. But his office is also empty.
I sit at my desk, uncomfortable with the strategy I agreed with Birchill.
Then Gemma waves me over. “Todd Walters has received a letter from Stacey,” she says in a low, but excited voice. “I said we’d pop round at seven.”
My phone rings before I can ask her about the letter. It’s Frank Dean, the Chief Executive. “Kent, would you come up to my office to discuss the E. coli case,” he says. “Immediately.”
I put the phone down and turn to Gemma. “Make sure you get poo pots from the Burkes.”
“Don’t you want to know about the letter?”
“Later.”
I hurry down to the Chief Executive’s suite on the first floor. The level of polish on the oak panels and the spring in the carpet increase as I walk past the Council Chamber and Committee Rooms. While I spend as little time as possible down here, I’m always impressed by the quiet and cleanliness. All the inward-facing services like HR, Finance, Legal, and Facilities Management, occupy this floor, looking after themselves, it seems.
Outside the Chief Executive’s office, I draw a breath. I knock and enter, expecting to see Danni and Bernard Doolittle with Frank Wheeler, but not Colonel Witherington. He still looks weary and fragile, despite holding his head high.
Frank beckons me to the polished oval table. “Have a nibble,” he says, pushing a tray of sandwiches towards me. “Coffee?”
I decline and sit facing the four of them. While Frank acts the genial host, he can’t dispel the tension. The absence of any files or papers on the table suggests nothing is being written down. They must have good memories as Danni’s been absent for three hours.
Frank finishes his sandwich, wipes his hands on a napkin and nods to Danni. She straightens in her chair, places both hands flat on the table and clears her throat.
“We’ve received an email from Rapier and Radcliffe, solicitors representing Chloe Burke. She claims her daughter, Charlotte, was infected by E. coli O157 at your animal sanctuary on Saturday, the eighth. In addition to the formal complaint against you and this Council, she’s demanding a substantial sum in damages.”
So much for being distressed by her daughter’s illness.
“We need to carry out an internal investigation,” Doolittle says. “You’ll hand over the E. coli investigation to Nigel, who will report direct to Danni.”
I make a note on the back of the PHIS report.
“We will examine all your activities pertinent to the case,” Doolittle says, looking like he can’t wait to get started. “The Head of Audit will lead and we will ask the Health and Safety Executive to inspect and report on your animal sanctuary.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“It also appears you do not have planning permission for the sanctuary,” Doolittle continues. “Or the first floor living accommodation you have created within the barn.”
Someone has been doing their homework.
Danni picks up the baton. “You must close your sanctuary immediately and test your animals for E. coli.”
While I’m tempted to remind her I’m innocent until proven guilty, I simply make notes. This is a well-rehearsed performance that thankfully, Miles Birchill anticipated. I baulked at his suggestions on how to defend my sanctuary, but now I’m glad I listened.
“Colonel, is there anything you wish to add?” Frank asks him.
He shifts in his chair, avoiding my gaze. “Officially or unofficially?”
As the Chief Executive starts to answer, I cut him off. “Everything must be official and recorded. My solicitors will want a full transcript of this meeting, which I notice no one is recording.”
“Solicitors?” Danni looks surprised. “This is an informal meeting to advise you of a complaint that’s been made. We’re not accusing you of anything.”
I consult my notes. “What about not having planning permission for my sanctuary or living accommodation?”
“I said you didn’t appear to have planning permission,” Doolittle replies. “That’s not an accusation.”
“They have nothing to do with Mrs Burke’s complaint either,” I say, getting into my stride. “But you obviously checked with Planning. If not, you’re making an assumption.”
His back straightens. “Of course I’ve checked.”
“Even though it has nothing to do with the complaint made, Mr Doolittle.” I pause for a moment to enjoy his blustering discomfort. “And please don’t threaten me with the Health and Safety Executive. I can give you the name of the inspector, who checked my sanctuary last year. I can let you have a copy of his report that says I meet all health and safety at work requirements, unlike this Council.”
Doolittle looks ready to pounce on me, but Frank makes calming gestures. “There’s no need to get personal, Kent. We’re –”
“Then don’t tell me how to run my business.” I gather my papers and rise, looking down on them one at a time. “If Chloe Burke intends to claim compensation, she’ll sue me, not the Council.”
“She’s made a formal complaint about you,” he says, remaining seated.
“And the council, you said. Maybe you’d like to put some meat on the bones.”
“It’s a conflict of interest,” Doolittle says. “She claims your animals caused the illness and you’re investigating it.”
“I’m not investigating.”
This causes a ripple of surprise. “You were there this morning,” Danni says.
“And when I discovered who was infected, I left a
nd rang you. But you’ve been incognito, Danni. Had you returned to your office you’d have seen the note I put on your desk a couple of hours ago.”
She holds up her BlackBerry. “Why didn’t you email me?”
“Some things are too important and complex for emails. But you’ve been hard to reach since last Wednesday. Just like you, Bernard, now I think about it.”
“Let’s not turn this into a soap opera,” Frank says, rising. “These are serious allegations, Kent. The professionalism and reputation of you, your department and this council are being challenged. We need to present a united front.”
“Then present it to Chloe Burke, not me.”
I stride out of the room and slam the door. My heart’s pounding harder than it does after a sprint, but I don’t have time to catch my breath.
I need to write a note and get it on Danni’s desk before she returns to her office.
Nineteen
Gemma’s late and still in her work clothes.
“I took the poo pots to Brighton,” she tells me when I climb into her Volvo. “One was a bit runny and it might have leaked, so be careful.”
Immediately, I lift my backside from the seat and look down. It takes a few seconds for her laughter to cut through my alarm. Peeved, but relieved, I settle in the seat.
“Fancy being mugged by your own wind up,” she says.
“I’m glad to see you’ve perked up.”
She sets off along the bumpy track. “I’m looking forward to more sleuthing. It’s much more fun than poo pots.”
“You should be spending more time with Richard,” I say. “He’s a good bloke.”
“I’m glad you approve. He’s kind, gentle and caring.”
Unlike me, she means. Only this isn’t about me, is it?
“You’re lucky to have him,” I say. “I like him.”
“Do I detect a bromance?” She glances at me and laughs. “Jeez, you’re so serious tonight.”
“You were hardly singing from the rooftops earlier.”
She pulls up to the junction with the A27 and swings right across the road. “I was tired, that’s all. It’s great having Richard around every evening, but I like my space.”
I nod, wishing Niamh wasn’t there wherever I turn. Maybe that’s why I’ve never wanted a permanent relationship. I like the freedom to do what I want when I want, with whoever I want. Had Niamh not moved in, my brief encounter with Rebecca might have developed.
No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2) Page 17
