No Bodies (The Kent Fisher Mysteries Book 2)

by Robert Crouch

  “Didn’t the Colonel want them back?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t think he knows they’re here. I held onto them in case she returned.” Debbie waits for the assistant to deposit two cream teas on her desk and depart before continuing. “Daphne must have had one hell of a barney with her old man to up sticks like that. He was always checking on her, you know.”

  “Really?”

  We sit at her desk and she reaches for a scone. “Oh yes. He got his housekeeper to ring on some pretext, especially if he was expecting her home at a certain time. She used to stay out longer, just to wind him up. Once, she asked me to pretend I didn’t know where she was, but that backfired. He turned up in his Range Rover ten minutes later to take her home, even though she preferred to walk across the fields.”

  I decline a scone, knowing it will take at least a five mile run to burn off the calories. “Do you think she was unhappy?”

  “With her marriage?” Debbie piles clotted cream and jam on the scone as she speaks. “I’d say she felt suffocated. Not that she ever said so. No, everything was bright and exciting to her. Out here, whether she was walking on the cliffs or painting, she felt liberated. That’s why I don’t understand why she just left. Unless…”

  I pour some tea into my cup while she savours a mouthful of scone.

  “Unless she did it to teach him a lesson,” she says, spilling crumbs everywhere. “Then she’d have come back, I suppose.”

  “Maybe she met someone else.”

  Debbie swallows the scone and licks some cream from her lips, clearly savouring the pleasure. “She often went walking with a Scottish chap who lives somewhere near Jevington. He has an unusual surname. He’s still around, I think.” She shrugs and takes another bite of scone. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

  Her hand’s already reaching for the second scone. While I want to ask more about the Scottish man, I sense she’s repeating rumours. The Colonel might know something.

  “Did her husband approve of the exhibition?” I ask, going back to the painting.

  “It was his idea.”

  “Really? It doesn’t sound like he was that involved.”

  “He wasn’t. I think he did it to give her something to do, if you know what I mean.”

  I nod. Daphne’s marriage to the Colonel was loveless. But was it loveless enough for her to vanish shortly before the art exhibition she’d spent months planning?

  Why didn’t the Colonel tell me about the art exhibition?

  I consider this on the drive back to the sanctuary, wondering whether the Colonel planned to kill his wife and blame Colin Miller. Maybe the Colonel struck his wife and she fell and hit her head on the corner of one his sturdy pieces of furniture. Loyal Alice would take his side, of course, suggesting they hide the body under the new conservatory.

  But if that’s the case, why did he ask me to investigate? Why risk me discovering the truth? Maybe he thought I’d never find Miller, who had fled to Spain.

  Before I can think about this in more detail, Kelly rings and I pull over onto the verge.

  “I don’t know what you’ve done, lover,” she says, sounding unusually serious, “but there are two policemen waiting for you in reception.”

  Twenty

  Sergeant Tom Bowles and PC Melanie Craddock rise from their seats when I enter the interview room in reception. Their neutral expressions and police jargon tell me this is not going to be a friendly chat. After brief introductions, he advises me that a complaint has been made, accusing me of assaulting a minor at my animal sanctuary.

  “If you mean Liam Burke,” I say, “he was left unsupervised by his mother, who was out of sight on her mobile phone. As he was provoking my goats with a stick, and in danger of provoking an attack, I carried him out of an animal pen to safety.”

  Bowles, who’s a big man with hands that could crush coconuts, watches me closely. He takes his time to respond. “You’re admitting you laid hands on the boy.”

  “As he refused to leave when I asked, I didn’t have much choice to prevent him from being injured.”

  “Or to protect your goats,” Craddock says, her eyes cold and unforgiving.

  “What was he doing in the enclosure with the goats?” he asks.

  “You’ll have to ask his mother why she let him roam around unsupervised. I had to take a phone call and left them for no more than a couple of minutes. When I returned the children had gone. I found Liam and his sister in the paddock with the goats.”

  Bowles makes notes as I speak. His colleague steps in. “Was the sister in danger too?”

  “She rushed across to help her brother, so I got them both out together.”

  She looks at her notebook. “The mother alleges you set your dog on them.”

  I suppress a smile. “My West Highland terrier was shut inside my flat at the time. He was let out by Miles Birchill. He witnessed everything.”

  The officers glance at each other and close their notebooks. Bowles looks straight into my eyes for far longer than necessary before saying, “I think it would be better if we continued this at the Custody Suite, Mr Fisher.”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “No, you’re attendance would be entirely voluntary at this stage.”

  It’s the next stage that bothers me. “And if I decline?”

  “Why would you do that, Mr Fisher?” Craddock asks. “I’m sure you want to help us clear this matter up as soon as possible.”

  “I need to make a phone call,” I say, rising.

  I nip into the IT office down the corridor and ring Birchill. His secretary interrupts his meeting to put me through.

  “Chloe Burke’s accused me of assaulting her son,” I say. “The police want me to go to the Custody Suite for interview. It’s voluntary, but I think they want to charge me.”

  “William Rogers, my solicitor, will attend with you. When’s the interview?”

  “I’d like to get it out of the way this afternoon, if that’s okay.”

  “I’ll need to make a statement too,” he says. “I’m busy until three, so if you attend at two, I’ll come along later. How does that sound?”

  When I consult the Council’s Solicitor for an opinion, it often takes weeks for a response. “Fine,” I reply.

  The line goes dead and I turn to my IT colleagues, who pretend they didn’t hear my conversation. “Do you have my replacement phone yet?” I ask.

  Armed with a new Windows phone, I return to the interview room. “My solicitor can’t make it until two o’clock this afternoon. And Miles Birchill will attend at three to give a statement. I hope that’s all right.”

  ***

  At one fifty, I pull into the car park and switch off the engine. The Eastbourne Investigations and Detainee Handling Centre lies at the end of Hammonds Drive on the edge of an industrial estate. A modern two-storey building built of brick and double glazing, framed in police blue and industrial grey, the centre looks out across the marshes that fill the centre of the town. To the right of the building, I notice a roller shutter door, where prisoners enter in a van, I imagine.

  William Rogers joins me a couple of minutes later in his black Jaguar. He’s young and sharply dressed in a suit and brown leather shoes that smell expensive. He swaggers across, clutching an I-pad and notebook in a hand with beautifully manicured nails. He stops next to my car and waits for me to get out.

  “Mr Fisher,” he says, his voice neutral but refined. “William Rogers. I have Mr Birchill’s account of events, which I would like you to browse before we go inside.”

  I take the I-pad, aware of his cologne and soft skin. In his early thirties, he’s tall and dark with thick hair in confident waves, tamed by gel. Well-trimmed eyebrows, separated by a dimple at the top of his small, but smooth nose, add to the alert, but controlled aura he emanates. Everything about him is smooth and confident, from his complexion to his assertive voice.

  “That’s how I remember it,” I say, then I’m not sure Birchill arriv
ed in time to see me lift Liam Burke out of harm’s way.

  “Anything you wish to add?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “What happens in there?”

  “We’ll be in one of the interview rooms, which will be fitted with video. A detective may be watching as assaulting a minor is a serious charge.” He removes his sunglasses to reveal eyes a curious shade of dark blue. “Don’t elaborate or embellish. Only answer the questions they ask and let them draw the answers from you. If you’re not sure, consult with me.”

  “I’ve interviewed suspects under PACE,” I say.

  He smiles. He knows that, of course. He’s a well-briefed brief.

  At the entrance, we announce ourselves on the intercom and we’re let into an atrium that rises to the roof. It’s light, airy and eerily quiet. Ahead of us, the reception desk, fortified with glass screens, is unoccupied. The posters deal with health and safety and cocaine drop points, whatever they are. We take a seat against the outside wall and look across to the opposite side. It has blue doors on both levels, with a landing running along the first floor. Somewhere behind the wall, suspects are checked in and interviewed.

  “Are there cells here?” I ask.

  “I think there are 18 cells in total, three for juveniles. You won’t see them or the main reception area because they’re beyond the interview rooms.” He points to the door straight ahead of us. “The reception area’s like the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. It’s like a huge console with four bays where suspects are checked in and processed by the duty officers. It’s modern, smart and efficient, but don’t tell them I said that.”

  The sound of a buzzer distracts us and a young woman in a grey tracksuit strides out of the door. She’s young, maybe a teenager, with short dyed hair, rounded cheeks and piercing grey eyes. Her short neck is covered with black tattoos. One of them extends down towards her cleavage, passing under a crystal necklace, which she fiddles with as she studies me.

  “Hi,” she says. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” I reply. “You?”

  “I got bail.” Her hair bobs as she nods. “Trouble with me ex, see. Still I got bail. That’s good, init? You gotta think positive. Just need a lift back to London now. No one available,” she says, gesturing back to the reception area. “I gotta wait now for me dad to come. You ain’t going anywhere near Wimbledon, is you?”

  William shakes his head and rises as the door opposite opens. He recognises Tom Bowles and strides across, making no noise at all. After a few words, he gestures me over and we walk through, following Bowles into a square room with industrial grey carpet and white walls. We’re directed to sit on blue chairs behind a beech laminate table. Fixed to the wall above, a flat screen TV plays video footage, supplied by a camera in the corner on the opposite side of the room. There’s also a second table with what looks like a DVD player and flat screen TV.

  It’s a long way from the small windowless interview rooms on TV police shows.

  Moments later, DI Briggs strolls in, reeking of cigarettes. A dusting of crumbs trickles down the lapel of his tired jacket. He’s tightened his tie without fastening the top button of his shirt, adding to the sense of indifference that pervades him. He places a folder on the table and sits, looking at us in turn for just long enough to show his dislike.

  “You have some interesting friends for an enforcement officer, Mr Fisher. Then again, so did your father.”

  He pauses, but I say nothing, happy to let him voice his prejudices.

  His world weary voice and eyes suggest he has better things to do. While Tom sits next to him, Briggs checks the monitor and goes through his set up routine, explaining the interview will be taped and could we each give our names clearly. Once introduced, he reminds me I’m here on a voluntary basis to answer questions relating to a complaint of assaulting a minor.

  “You are not under caution and you’re free to leave at any time,” he says

  He outlines the substance of the complaint and asks me to tell him about the afternoon in question. Briggs stares at something on the ceiling, occasionally cutting for clarification as I give a brief, factual account in line with Birchill’s statement. William sits there, pushing back the cuticles of his fingernails.

  “You left Mrs Burke and her children unattended,” Briggs says after I finish. “Is that usual practice, bearing in mind you have dangerous animals on site?”

  William leans forward and Briggs smiles. “Let’s forget the word, dangerous.”

  “I had to answer a phone call. I asked them to wait for me in the yard till I returned.”

  “You expect children to understand the potential dangers and stay still?”

  “No, but I expect their mother to.”

  He flicks open the folder. “It’s alleged you were absent for over ten minutes, Mr Fisher.”

  “Two minutes max.”

  “And this dog of yours …”

  I don’t respond, waiting for him to complete his question.

  “A rescue terrier, is it? Where was it?”

  William looks up. “Could you be more specific please?”

  “You haven’t mentioned your dog, Mr Fisher. I’m informed it behaved aggressively toward the children after they’d left the paddock.”

  “He was excited after being shut inside the kitchen. Miles Birchill let him out.”

  Briggs’ eyebrows rise. “Why did he do that?”

  “You’ll have to ask him. I was trying to save children from being injured.”

  He grins, well aware of the game we’re playing. “I intend to,” he says. “So, he let your terrier out and it ran at the children, barking and baring its teeth.”

  “Columbo sees strangers and he barks like most dogs would.”

  “Columbo?” Briggs can barely suppress a laugh. “You call your dog, Columbo? What about the goats? Starsky and Hutch? Morse and Lewis?”

  “My boss is called Frost, if that helps.”

  He sighs, looking like he’s had enough. “I think that will do for the moment, don’t you? Mr Rodgers, I understand Mr Birchill will be along shortly to give his version.”

  William leans back and folds his arms. “Maybe I could ask you something, Detective Inspector. As Mrs Burke is at the Evelina Hospital with her critically ill daughter, can you tell me when you interviewed her about the events in question?”

  Briggs closes his folder and rises. “The interview is terminated.”

  “Have you questioned her?” William asks, rising.

  Briggs turns, his expression dour. “I spoke to her by phone, being sensitive to her circumstances.”

  “I look forward to receiving a transcript of that conversation, Detective Inspector. Will you be returning to interview Mr Birchill at three?”

  Briggs leaves without replying. Bowles looks lost. “I’m sure he’ll be back. You’re free to leave, Mr Fisher.”

  He follows Briggs. William takes me into the room next door.

  “Briggs hasn’t formally interviewed the complainant. He’s fishing as usual, hoping you’ll incriminate yourself. Miles will put him in his place.”

  Birchill’s early, already waiting in the atrium. “How did it go?” he asks.

  “We can refute the allegations.”

  “Thank you, William. That leaves the goats. Do you think we should test them?”

  The solicitor turns to me. “Can the council force you to test them?”

  I nod, well aware it’s what I would do. “It would look better if I tested them voluntarily.”

  “Agreed,” he says, turning back to Birchill. “But we’ll decide what to do with the results.”

  Birchill grins and nods. “Okay, we test the goats.”

  “Does that mean you’re paying?” I ask.

  He looks at me with surprise. “Are you asking for my help?”

  “I know how much the test costs.”

  ***

  I need a long run to clear my head, but the outstanding jobs on my desk won’t resolve themselves. Withi
n minutes of checking the files, messages and complaint details, it soon becomes clear I need to perform major surgery. Armed with a cup of tea and a bar of chocolate from the vending machine, I begin to sort through the mess, making new and smaller piles to help me prioritise my priorities. Within ten minutes, I’ve spread from my desk to the floor, separating and ranking jobs.

  New business enquiries have proliferated over the past couple of weeks, mainly because someone has stockpiled them, it seems. I know Kelly would put them on the computer straight away, so who’s been taking the calls and not putting them on the system? A quick peek in Gemma’s In Tray confirms my suspicions when I discover several more queries from people wanting to set up food businesses. I separate these out and place them on the desk, ready to add to the ones she must have dumped on me.

  Unfortunately, as I replace the remaining files in her tray, I accidently knock the queries to the floor. While I’m on my hands and knees, gathering them up, a familiar pair of legs and diamante sandals approaches.

  “No arch support,” I say, pointing at her sandals.

  “No management support.” She plucks her jacket from the back of the chair and leaves.

  I’m still pondering what she means when Tommy Logan rings.

  “A little bird tells me you’ve been kidding around, Kent.”

  I sigh, in no mood for his quips. “Is that what you call a tweet, Tommy?”

  “Oh, I’m sure Twitter will pick up the photographs of your goats, dear boy. They look far too cute to poison a sweet little girl, but appearances can be deceptive, as they say.”

  Is there anyone Chloe Burke hasn’t spoken to?

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  I can almost see his innocent look of surprise as he speaks. “I only called to warn an old friend about the storm brewing on Facebook. I say storm, but it looks more like a hurricane.”

  Twenty-One

  Shortly before 7.30 the following morning, the hurricane hits Downland’s Facebook page. Parents are refusing to take their children to Tollingdon Primary School, claiming it’s infected with E. coli. I don’t have to scroll far through the posts and replies before someone blames me. This spirals into a thread about the dirty, dilapidated and unhygienic animal sanctuary I run. I never realised so many people considered the place to be a death trap.