No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  No More Lies

  By

  Robert Crouch

  (Kent Fisher #4)

  No More Lies

  Robert Crouch

  Published by RWC Publishing

  Copyright © Robert Crouch 2018

  The right of Robert Crouch to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by String Design, Eastbourne

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

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  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Thank you

  In memory of Sue Grafton, who created Kinsey Millhone and inspired me to write the Kent Fisher mysteries.

  One

  Her languid stroll reminds me of a cat – aloof, unhurried, ready to pounce.

  That’s why I prefer dogs. You know where you are with dogs – apart from West Highland white terriers. They’re predictably unpredictable, like Columbo. Normally, he rushes to greet visitors, whether stranger or friend, hoping for treats and some attention. Today, on a sunny Friday afternoon in September, he stands beside me, a low growl in his throat as our visitor approaches.

  She coasts between the puddles and potholes in the lane, smartphone pressed to her ear. While I can’t make out the words, the hint of frustration in her voice suggests she’s used to getting what she wants. Her sly smile confirms it.

  She’s a cat alright, assessing her surroundings through mirrored sunglasses. A lazy hand pushes back long blonde hair to reveal an oval face with a strong nose and defiant chin. She looks chic in a pale grey jacket with crumpled sleeves. Her matching short skirt and sensible shoes draw my attention to her tanned and toned legs. Her flat stomach and upright posture suggest hours at the gym. She could be a runner, though I’ve never seen her on the South Downs or the local streets.

  I’d remember, believe me.

  Her sigh carries on the wind. With a frustrated shake of the head, she thrusts the phone into a grey clutch bag.

  “Do I have to do everything?”

  I remove the final brass screw from between my lips, hold it in position and drive it home to secure my new sign. After a nod of satisfaction, I place the drill in its case. Aware my visitor has reached the gate, I turn, wiping my palms on the back of my shorts.

  When Columbo growls, a faint smile parts her lips. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”

  She removes her sunglasses to reveal intense eyes, the colour of platinum. Eyes that want to know everything but offer nothing in return.

  With eyes that looked like ice on fire …

  Elton John’s Nikita shuffles into my thoughts. I can’t think why as it’s a song about unrequited love. From the way her tongue traces across her lips, this cat’s thinking of her next meal not love.

  “Are you all right, Mr Fisher?”

  Her northern accent takes me back to my first day at school in Manchester. The teacher asked me the same question. When I answered, the children laughed at my posh southern accent. Later, when I ignored their taunts during morning break, they christened me Lord Snooty.

  “You are Kent Fisher?”

  I nod. “This is Columbo. He won’t bite.”

  “Love the name.”

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a marrowbone treat. He inches closer, licking his lips, stretching to sniff. He snatches the biscuit and scampers to the bushes to devour the treat.

  “I had a Cairn called Cagney and a Border Terrier called Lacey,” she says, watching him demolish the biscuit. “I’ll leave you to work out my favourite TV show.”

  “I liked Starsky and Hutch too,” I say, hoping she’s brought a bag of chips for me.

  She seems friendly enough. Her smooth complexion and dispassionate eyes remind me of magazine cover models with airbrushed expressions that make them seem aloof and distant. Only this woman makes no attempt to mask her grey roots or the thin lines that radiate from the corners of her eyes.

  “Love the sentiment.” She gestures to the sign behind me. “Not sure about the cutesy animal graphics.”

  Meadow Farm Sanctuary

  Where animals come first

  “Nor me.” I should have rejected the cartoon dogs, horses and foxes. This is a place of peace, rest and recovery, not a children’s zoo.

  “Then lose them, Mr Fisher. Or can I call you Kent?”

  “That depends on who you are and what you want.”

  She could be another sales person, eager to help me attract more visitors to become a viable, self-sustaining enterprise with a range of choices, optimised for my customer profile. My money’s on a solicitor, or maybe a consultant, representing one of the many locals who have objected to my plans.

  When she holds up her warrant card, I offer my wrists for cuffing.

  “I’ll come quietly, Detective Inspector Ashley Goodman. I bought the graphics in good faith from a man down the pub.”

  “DI Briggs said you liked to play the comedian – and amateur detective.”

  Her disparaging tone doesn’t bother me. Whoever heard of an environmental health officer solving murders? In my defence, I never set out to solve crimes. It started as a fatal workplace accident at Tombstone Adventure Park a year ago. My investigation to determine whether any health and safety offences had been committed uncovered a murder – along with a mess of family secrets and revelations.

  “I’m not here about your sleuthing,” she says.

  “I don’t sleuth anymore.”

  “I guess you have your hands full.” She scans the houses along the lane. “Can’t be easy in a village like Jevington. Too many locals with too much time on their ha
nds. You must miss the privacy you had at Downland Manor.”

  “The prospects are better here.”

  “It must have hurt though, being evicted from the family estate by a crook like Miles Birchill.”

  She’s fishing.

  Only five of us know the truth – unless someone has blabbed.

  Meadow Farm’s smaller, but it’s mine. It has more barns and buildings to provide winter shelter for the horses, donkeys, goats and other animals we take in, isolation facilities and enough storage for feed, equipment and my furniture. Behind the barns, I’ve added kennels for the dogs we rescue and rehome. Though out of sight of the neighbours, it hasn’t stopped them complaining about the noise from barking.

  It’s a source of great hilarity among the Pollution Control Officers in my team. They can’t wait to investigate their manager for noise nuisance.

  “How can I help you, DI Goodman?”

  “Call me Ash. Everyone does.”

  “I prefer Ashley. It suits you.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew me.”

  She rests her elbows on the top rail of the gate and gazes at the South Downs, rising gently behind the sanctuary. “It’s so peaceful up there, isn’t it? At least it was before we discovered a body in a shallow grave near Alfriston.”

  “I’m surprised no one’s mentioned it. Say something at breakfast round here and everyone knows by tea time.”

  “The body was discovered five years ago during some building works. You probably read about it in the Argus.”

  “I don’t read newspapers.”

  “We believe the victim was murdered about ten years ago, taken there and buried at that time. Despite DNA, medical records and our best efforts, he remains an unidentified male with his face smashed in.”

  “No joy with the missing persons register?” I ask.

  “Without a positive identification, we don’t know anything about him, his family, if he had a partner, who his friends were. We don’t know where he lived or worked, if he worked. We have no suspects, no motive and no idea why he was killed or where.” She gives me a wry smile. “Sounds like a case you’d relish.”

  There’s no way Sussex Police would ask me to investigate. “Why are you here, Ashley?”

  “Until last week we had no leads. Now we have two, and they both involve you, Mr Fisher.”

  Two

  DI Goodman buttons her jacket against the playful north wind and gestures to the flint farmhouse. “Can we talk inside? I could murder a brew.”

  I grab the drill case and open the gate to let her through. Columbo rushes ahead, nose to the ground, disappearing into the undergrowth. Ashley strolls beside me along the crushed gravel path, separated from the new car park on the right by a wooden rail, painted yellow. At various points, notices warn parents to control their children, to stick to the path and to keep any dogs on a short lead. Once past the car park, she stops to look at the excavations, protected by an orange mesh fence.

  “Foundation trenches for a visitor centre and cafe,” I say. “My business adviser tells me I can’t survive without them.”

  “You need to attract as many people as you can and keep them here as long as possible. Let them talk about the great things you do while they eat cake and sip tea.”

  If they can put down their mobile phones, of course.

  “It’s not that simple,” I say.

  “You’re a charity. You need money.”

  “I’ll have to employ people.”

  We’re talking recruitment, training, wages, work pensions, national insurance. Then there are suppliers, HMRC, trading standards and environment health officers to deal with. Not forgetting the invoices, accounts and paperwork each evening. And I mustn’t forget the companies, eager to promote my great work once I’ve bought advertising from them.

  “I may not get planning permission,” I say. “Some locals have formed an action group and objected to the council. As Downland employs me, the powers that be don’t want anyone to claim they’re favouring me in any way.”

  She sighs. “No one trusts us anymore. You know that better than me. Your father was a Cabinet Minister.”

  I should be flattered by her research, but William Kenneth Fisher was not my biological father. I only found out a few hours before a heart attack killed him, almost a year ago to this day. My natural father turned out to be Miles Birchill, who didn’t evict me from my previous sanctuary, as she believes.

  He was a crook though, of sorts.

  “It was William Fisher’s remembrance service this morning,” I say, pausing as we reach the farmhouse. “His widow, Niamh, lives here with her friend and business partner, Alice. I would introduce you, but Niamh’s a little upset, as you can imagine.”

  Niamh’s furious because I arrived late for the service at St Mary’s church. I was up all night, nursing a badly injured fox cub. It died this morning, upsetting me more than the anniversary of William Fisher’s death.

  It sounds heartless, I know, but he lied, cheated and betrayed those who loved him. Unlike Niamh, I’m struggling to forgive him.

  Ashley walks past the small front garden, bulging with flamboyant fuchsias that burst through the white picket fence. Though built in the 1980s, the flint walls, slate roof, squat chimneys and sash windows of the farmhouse reflect the centuries old originals in Jevington. The satellite dish does the house no favours, but Niamh’s taken an unexpected liking to Game of Thrones.

  “We converted the garage and outhouse into a commercial kitchen for their new confectionery business,” I say, pointing to the small refrigerated van, proclaiming Fisher’s Fancies.

  “Love the name.” Ashley laughs when I pull a face. “It’s fun, Kent, like Niamh. Her chocolate orange muffins are heavenly.”

  “I didn’t realise you were a fan.”

  “She popped into the Custody Suite last week, touting for business. We had to detain her and seize the stock as evidence.”

  And she accused me of being a comedian?

  We cross a concrete yard to the barns and outbuildings, where I deposit the drill. It’s a short walk around the wildflower meadow to the woodland that forms a boundary along the rear of my land. In a small clearing at the back, the mobile home I rescued from a caravan park comes into view. With its pitched roof and rendered walls, the home looks like a bungalow, perched on concrete blocks.

  Columbo races ahead, hoping for a glimpse of a squirrel or the scent of a fox. He scurries into the trees, weaving between the trunks, his nose working overtime.

  “It arrived on low loaders in two halves,” I say, pausing by the wooden steps. “It took longer for the lorries to negotiate the parked cars in the lane than it took to bolt this together and make it watertight.”

  DI Goodman glances at the rotary washing line, filled with bras, knickers, combat trousers and camouflage tops. “Intriguing selection, Kent, but I can’t quite imagine you in combat clothes.”

  “Frances will be relieved. She runs the sanctuary and this is her home. I’m only staying here until I get planning permission to convert one of the barns into a flat.”

  Inside, the home makes the most of every inch of space with an open lounge, dining area and kitchen, complete with sink, cooker and cupboards. The wide screen TV looks out of place in a living area dominated by 1980s beech laminate and a rusty Calor gas fire. The faded carpet has seen better days and one or two of the windows are draught proofed with gaffer tape, but the place is clean, watertight, and cosy, even if it creaks when the wind howls past.

  After a cursory glance, Ashley slides across the long seat with its worn cover and places her clutch bag on the Formica table. Once settled, she shrugs off her jacket to reveal a formal white blouse.

  “We rented a place like this in the Lake District. My ex, Curtis, liked to study the wildlife, aka the site owner’s daughter.” She checks her phone as she speaks, sounding factual rather than emotional. “I left him to it and transferred to Brighton. After reading Peter James, it soun
ded like the place for me.”

  “Is it?”

  “You feel the buzz the moment you step off the train or out of a building. It’s vibrant, diverse, filled with opportunities, especially if you’re a villain like Miles Birchill.” She looks up. “As you know, he built his business on intimidation and dodgy property deals.”

  It’s the second time she’s mentioned him.

  “How do you like your tea?” I ask.

  She pulls out a tube of sweeteners. “Strong and dark, splash of milk.”

  Columbo joins us when I put out a plate of Niamh’s flapjacks. He follows me to the table and leaps up onto the seat beside DI Goodman. He watches and licks his lips as she devours a flapjack in two bites.

  “That’s three miles on the treadmill.” She takes a sip of hot tea and gazes out of the window. “It’s so quiet here. Maybe I could run your visitor centre.”

  “You’d miss the excitement of chasing villains.”

  “Cold cases are more of a plod – until you get a lead. You must know about last week’s fire at Station Diner, run by Tariq Hossain.”

  “Electrical fault, wasn’t it?”

  “We’re waiting for the final report from Bob Glover, Fire Investigator. He says a faulty deep fat fryer caused the fire. Hossain bought it second hand from a man with a van.”

  A hollow feeling fills my gut. “Any idea who?”

  “It’s not arson, so I’ve left it to the insurance assessors. I’m interested in the manager. Leila King has a flat on the first floor, directly above the kitchen. She wasn’t at home on the night of the fire and no one’s seen her since.” DI Goodman pauses for another sip of tea. “Do you remember her from your hygiene inspections?”

  Is this one of the leads she mentioned earlier?

  “I’ve never inspected the place.”

  “I thought you closed it down ten years ago.”

  “I closed the Rosy Lee Café, a different business,” I reply, recalling the mouse infestation. “Henry Potter ran the place then. He vanished the following day. Do you think he’s your unidentified body?”

  She takes another flapjack, savouring a mouthful before answering. “The victim has a connection to the Rosy Lee Café. I can’t say anymore because the details are confidential, but you may have met him during one of your inspections.”