“Why didn’t you ask me five years ago?”
“I wasn’t here then. Closing the café could be unconnected, but you’ve already told me the owner disappeared. Anything else you remember?”
“The café never reopened. Henry’s brother sold it about six months later. We didn’t get involved until a new business opened. The café became Easy Burger and then Easy Pizza. Then Tariq Hossain bought the place and turned it back into a café.”
“Are you aware that Leila King worked in every one of those businesses?”
I shake my head.
“Did you meet her at the Rosy Lee Café? Would it be in your records?”
“Possibly,” I reply, wondering what DI Goodman’s not telling me. Is Leila King connected to the murder ten years ago? Is that why she’s disappeared from her flat?
“I’m interested in anyone who worked at the Rosy Lee Café at the time you closed it down, or just before.” Ashley pops the last of the flapjack into her mouth and grabs her bag and phone. “I have a good feeling about us, Kent. We’re going to work well together.”
“Does that mean you’ll tell me why Leila King’s important?”
She shoos Columbo off the seat and shuffles along. “I can only tell you what’s in the public domain, as I’m sure you know. If this leads to a prosecution, I’m not having some smartarse solicitor picking holes in my evidence or behaviour.”
“Ashley, I understand confidentiality.”
“It’s not a criticism, Kent. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”
I don’t trust cats. They like to tease.
While we walk back to the main gate, she catches up on phone calls. Columbo trots by my side until we reach her Audi. When he doesn’t get another treat, he pees on her front wheel. She’s too busy to notice, searching her purse for a business card.
“Email me your inspection records for the past ten years,” she says. “And anything else that might be relevant.”
“It would help if I knew what you’re looking for.”
“I’m interested in names.”
“Other than Leila King?”
“The names of the owners, managers and workers, the people you dealt with.” She opens the driver’s door and pauses. “Keep this to yourself, okay?”
“That might be difficult when the scanner overheats.”
“If Leila King’s disappearance is connected to the original murder, I don’t want anyone to know we’re onto them. Nor do I want to spook her or put her in danger.”
“So, Leila’s the second lead.”
Ashley tosses her jacket onto the passenger seat. “The second lead concerns Sunshine View Caravan Park, where the victim was buried. You tried to stop it being built.”
I nod, recalling happy days when I chained myself to trees and bulldozers to disrupt developers. “We also licence caravan parks, as I’m sure you know. Do you want me to scan those records too?”
She climbs into the car and starts the engine. “I’m interested in the man who owned Sunshine View ten years ago, when the victim was buried there.”
She closes the door and lowers the window.
“Miles Birchill,” she calls speeding away.
Three
Niamh watches from the main gate, Columbo by her feet. She’s left her white coat and hat in the kitchen, but not the flour that dusts her black hair, snared into a loose ponytail. Tall, slender and full of energy, my stepmother’s rarely still, moving as fast as she talks, her words struggling to keep up with her thoughts. Today she looks weary, the skin around her green eyes puffy.
“About this morning,” I say.
“Forget it. What’s done is done. We wouldn’t be here now if William hadn’t passed away.”
I’ve no idea if she’s pleased or not. Having spent most of her life in Downland Manor, a three bedroom farmhouse must seem inadequate.
“Who’s taken a shine to you?” she asks. “Never seen anyone flick or stroke her hair so much.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Too busy looking at her figure, not the person inside.”
“Detective Inspector Ashley Goodman was here on business,” I say.
“Don’t tell me you’ve had another row with that eejit at the riding stables.”
“Ashley wants my help with a cold case. She’s interested in a café I closed down.”
“Then why didn’t she visit you at the office?”
“I’m on leave today.”
“She could have waited till Monday. A detective inspector, you say. That’s an important position. You earn that by being good at what you do, not who you know.”
“Not Gemma again, please.”
“She was engaged to another man and carrying on with you. What does that tell you about her? I know what it tells me.”
“Admit it, Niamh, you never liked Gemma.”
“I tried, but I can’t say I didn’t dance a jig when she left to join Richard.” Her sneer falters when our eyes meet. “She was using you, Kent. You did the right thing, telling her to go.”
I didn’t tell Gemma to go. She left without warning, without a word.
It was no more than I deserved.
We walk in silence until we reach the farmhouse. “How are you feeling?” I ask. “This morning must have taken its toll.”
“I wasn’t angry with you. I wasn’t angry with William, even though he put us through hell. I was angry with myself. I thought it was the job, the long hours. I even thought there was another woman.” She sniffs back a tear. “I wish William could have died in peace.”
I hug her, aware he cost her almost everything.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” she says. “Without you, I’d have nothing. I think we deserve one of my fancies, don’t you?”
“I’ve just eaten a flapjack.”
“Only one? You were with your detective inspector for at least half an hour.”
“I didn’t know you kept a stopwatch with your binoculars.”
She turns to look at the sanctuary. “You need someone to share this, to share your dreams, Kent. William had his faults but we shared everything.”
Apart from the secrets he kept.
Inside, the aroma of savouries and pastry fills the air. Columbo scampers down the hall, his claws clicking on the vinyl. I glance into the lounge, amazed at the cards that fill the mantelpiece, the dressers, the bookcases. People seem to have forgotten how their friend, colleague and local MP betrayed them. Even Tommy Logan was respectful in the Tollingdon Tribune, focusing on William Kenneth Fisher’s achievements.
Maybe it’s time I moved on.
The kitchen at the rear is pure 1980s with oak effect doors and worktops arranged along two walls and a vinyl floor covering that’s faded and worn over the uneven chipboard beneath. Alice brought her Aga from Belmore, where she used to live, and the pots, pans and utensils that fill the cupboards and hang from hooks on the magnolia walls. Pots of herbs squeeze together on the window sill. Baking trays fill the draining board and adjacent worktops. On the table, wire racks strain under the weight of cooling pastries.
I take a chilli beef slice and walk over to the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the utility area. I settle on a stool to savour the fiery taste as the pastry melts on my tongue. Columbo pesters Niamh while she makes a pot of tea. I lure him away with some pastry, surprised he hasn’t doubled in weight from all the treats we give him. Then again, he spends most of his time with Frances, my manager, following her around, chasing any squirrels brave enough to come down from the trees. Twice a day he joins the rescue dogs on their walks across the Downs.
“Would you like to join a couple of old gossips for dinner?” Niamh asks while we drink tea and watch a couple of magpies in the garden. “Alice bought some chilli sausages from the farm shop.”
“I was hoping to meet up with Mike.”
“Invite him over. He’s a sausage connoisseur. He could sell them from his mobile café. People like locally sourced food.”
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I doubt if the people who stop at Mike’s Mighty Munch care where his burgers and sausages come from. They want enormous portions, along with wit and banter.
“Mike has a new woman in his life,” I say.
“You could invite Ashley and we’ll have a proper dinner party like we used to. What do you say? Let’s celebrate new beginnings.”
“I’ll ask Mike,” I say, getting to my feet, “but don’t hold your breath.”
“And Ashley?”
“We’ll see.”
On my way back, I detour to check on the dogs in the kennels. The two collie crosses will be going to new homes on Saturday, leaving a lurcher cross, a timid spaniel that’s frightened of people, and a mongrel that wants to bite everyone. We don’t take many dogs because other charities have much better facilities and systems.
And everyone wants Columbo, of course.
Back home he curls up in his favourite armchair while I ring Mike, who’s deep cleaning his griddle. It’s a euphemism for a bottle of Budweiser and a cigarette on his veranda, which overlooks the sea at Pevensey Bay. After the usual banter and insults, I ask him if he wants to meet up later.
“I’m on a promise, pal,” he says, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. “Is it my sparkling wit you seek?”
“Did you hear about the fire at Station Diner last week?”
“You want information as usual. What about the fire?”
“A few months ago Tariq Hossain wanted to buy a couple of deep fat fryers.”
“Sure, but we’d stopped trading.”
Profits from the second hand catering equipment business we ran helped to fund my previous sanctuary. Though we never supplied equipment to businesses I inspected, there was always a potential conflict of interest waiting to bite me. As soon as I moved to Meadow Farm, I closed the business, leaving Mike to scrap the outstanding equipment.
“Did you sell the fryers to Hossain?”
When Mike doesn’t answer, I know we’re in trouble.
Four
On Saturday morning, I head into Tollingdon to check out Station Diner. I could park at the town hall and walk the short distance to the diner. Instead I drive past the boarded up windows and continue down the road, slowing when I approach Gemma’s flat.
The ‘Sold’ sign confirms what I already know. She’s not coming back.
She said I would never make a commitment.
Is that why she didn’t break off her engagement to Richard?
A car pulls out, allowing me to park outside the flat I visited most evenings and weekends. I never stayed overnight. The relocation of my sanctuary to Meadow Farm meant there were animals at both sites for several months. While Frances remained at Downland, I slept on a camp bed at Meadow Farm, rising at five to check the animals. Then I would drive over to Downland Manor and have breakfast with Frances before heading into work.
One night, Gemma arrived at Meadow Farm with a flask. She said she wanted to surprise me.
I wonder if she was checking on me. Maybe she thought my animals meant more to me than her.
I push the thought from my head and walk back up the road.
Though the fire started in the kitchen at the rear, the front door and window have been secured with chipboard panels, decorated with graffiti by one of the local gangs. I stroll down the lane at the side of the building to the rear yard. The smell of smoke and charred timber hasn’t faded in the week since the fire. The blackened wall above the kitchen window reveals where the fire burst out. It followed the stainless steel flue to the roof, where several slates are missing, revealing burnt roof timbers. Black stains, like dried out rivers, traverse the rear yard, converging on a drainage gully.
I stare at the glassless window on the first floor. If Leila King had been asleep in her flat ...
What if someone wanted to harm her?
What if she knew that?
The thought takes root in my mind as I ponder the link between the fire and the unsolved murder ten years ago.
The smell of smoke intensifies when I approach the kitchen window, boarded from the inside. The rear door, clad with steel for security, has warped but escaped serious damage. The letterbox offers the only view into the kitchen.
I scan the scorched room, trying to imagine what it was like, swirling with smoke and flames. The fire destroyed the false ceiling, consuming the tiles, warping the metal frame to leave charred joists and dangling electrical cables, stripped of their sheaths. Wall tiles have blown and fallen, lying shattered among the debris that covers the floor.
The stainless steel tables, cladding and toaster remain, but the deep fat fryer and cooker have gone.
The fire investigator must have removed them for testing. I’ll check on Monday. I need to know what faults he found in case Hossain claims Mike supplied faulty equipment.
Before I leave, I look inside the wooden shed at the bottom of the yard. It’s still damp, thanks to a drenching by the fire brigade. A fridge and chest freezer line one side. Rusty metal racking, containing a few boxes of dried out vegetables and sprouting onions line the other side.
With the power off, I should know better than to open the fridge. The rancid smell turns my stomach. The stench from the freezer makes my eyes water. At least Leila King’s not floating in the slurry at the bottom.
Hossain needs to clear and disinfect everything in the shed to avoid causing a nuisance or attracting vermin.
I also want to know why this fire has sparked interest in an unsolved murder.
If DI Goodman won’t tell me, I know someone who might.
Five
Mike Turner settles back in the tatty armchair on his veranda. He takes another swig of Budweiser from the bottle and stares out across the garden and shingle beach. A dog scrambles over the pebbles as twilight sinks over Pevensey Bay. The hypnotic rhythm of the waves can’t still his restless hands.
“You want to know why I sold two deep fat fryers to a jerk like Hossain?” He swivels to face me, pointing the bottle at me like a gun. “He had cash. They were in good working order, pal. A bit worse for wear on the outside, but aren’t we all?”
He’s six feet tall, overweight, and a public health nightmare with his smoking and drinking. I’m not surprised after the horrors he witnessed as a Scenes of Crime Officer with Sussex Police. Then there’s the abuse he endured in the 1970s as one of the few Afro Caribbean officers in the force. Yet he dismisses it with a shrug of his broad shoulders, remaining jolly despite the challenges life throws his way.
“Why didn’t you scrap the fryers?” I ask.
“Hossain was desperate. You can’t run a diner without chips and chicken nuggets.” Mike reaches into the bucket of iced water for another Budweiser. “His fryer packed up on Friday evening. I made a thorough check of ours before I delivered them on Saturday morning. They were safe.”
“Why did he buy both fryers? He’s only got room for one.”
Mike takes several noisy gulps of beer. “He wanted a spare.”
“Did you install the fryer?”
“Hossain said he would do it.” He swipes a paw at a crane fly that’s flickered onto the veranda. “You don’t need to worry. When he was questioned, he said he’d had the fryer from new and never had a problem.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“Ash Goodman told me. She was here when you rang yesterday. That’s why I couldn’t say anything.”
“Do you think she suspects?”
“She’s a few steps ahead of you, pal. She said you’d pop round about the corpse at the caravan park. You’ve wasted your time. I’m not crossing Ash Goodman.”
“She seemed pleasant enough to me.”
“You want to get inside her knickers. Before you do, talk to her ex.”
“Why don’t you save me the trouble?”
Mike reaches for his cigarettes. “They were on holiday in a forest up north somewhere. Ash comes back early and finds him bouncing up and down on a chalet maid in the woods. As
h took their clothes, emptied the wardrobe and drove off with his wallet and the car.”
He pauses to light a cigarette. “When he got back home, she’d cleared her stuff from the house and gone. To show there were no hard feelings, she slashed his clothes to ribbons and emptied their joint savings account. She also reported the chalet maid for theft. The locals found cash with the maid’s clothes in bushes near the chalet.”
The sound of a car crunching to a halt on the gravel at the side of the bungalow distracts him. He’s out of the chair, flicking his cigarette into the flowerbed.
“She badly needs to get her career back on track, pal, so take care.”
“Why?” I ask, following him inside.
He furnished the bungalow with bargains from second hand stores after his wife cleaned him out. She pestered him for a new kitchen and ran off with the contractor. Mike was left with no wife, no sink and a collection of flat pack cupboards. I installed the kitchen, but I couldn’t fix his marital problems. He lost interest in work and retired from Sussex Police six months later.
While he pays for the curry, I extract a couple of plates from the packed dishwasher and wash them in the sink. He makes excited noises as he sets the carrier bag on the drop leaf table in the corner. He sniffs in the aroma for a moment and then lifts the foil trays from the bag, his fingers oblivious to the heat. By the time I’ve washed and dried the plates, he’s set out all the dishes. He hands me a carton of skimmed milk from the American style fridge that fills one corner.
“You don’t want a glass, do you?”
I shake my head and sit at the table, savouring the bouquet of tomatoes, onions and peppers from my chicken jalfrezi.
Mike grins as he tips the contents of his foil trays onto the plate. The smile never leaves his lips as he mixes his chicken tikka and rice together, blending in a generous helping of Bombay Potato. “There isn’t a problem on the planet that can’t be solved with a good curry,” he says, reaching for a samosa.
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