No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  “How about obesity?”

  “This is healthy compared to the Pot Noodles, burgers and cakes I used to eat as a cop. You never knew when you’d have time to eat a proper meal. It was even worse on Scenes of Crime.”

  “Is that where you met Ashley?”

  “Ash moved to Sussex about four years ago after some bother in Greater Manchester. She failed to disclose some text messages and a case collapsed. She transferred to Brighton to spare everyone’s blushes. I only heard whispers, but she screwed up on another case and was moved out of the Major Crimes Team to rural crime. Now she wants to crack a big case to get back.” He feeds half a samosa into his mouth. “And they don’t come much bigger than Miles Birchill.”

  “So why was there nothing on the ...?”

  I stop myself. Mike would never forgive me if he found out I’d read his notes on the caravan site investigation.

  When he started his mobile café, I wrote a food safety management system for him. I suggested he back up the files onto a memory stick and keep it in a secure place. He gave the memory stick to me. When I checked to make sure he’d backed up all the documents, I found a folder, entitled Memoirs. It contained details about cases he’d investigated during his career.

  The No Stone folder contained details about the body of a man, between 25 and 35 years old, found in a field at Sunshine View Caravan Park. While his findings were interesting, there was no reference to Miles Birchill owning the site.

  Mike grabs another samosa. “There was nothing on what?”

  “Nothing on the licence file to say Miles Birchill owned the caravan site,” I reply. “Until Ashley told me, I had no idea.”

  “Me neither,” he says. “So, that’s why she wants your help.”

  “Why didn’t you guys identify Birchill as the site owner?”

  “It was November. The site was closed for winter. We couldn’t identify the body. We had no leads. The investigation stalled.”

  “How did Ashley find out?”

  “Perhaps she’s got more time to dig around. Perhaps she knows something we didn’t.”

  “Like what?”

  “How should I know?” He stares at the samosa, poised before his mouth. “She didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Me neither.”

  He pushes the samosa into his mouth. “Sounds like you’re made for each other.”

  “She’s hardly my type.”

  “Slim, long blonde hair, curves in all the right places? What’s not to like? Okay, she’s twice the age of the waitresses you like,” he says, pushing his spoon into the curry, “but she eats healthy, runs marathons and looks good for someone in her forties.”

  I can’t help grinning. “Sounds like you’re besotted, Mike.”

  “Not me, pal. They don’t call her the Ice Queen for nothing. But you’re no better, hiding your emotions behind an enigmatic smile.”

  Gemma accused me of that.

  “Actually, that’s not entirely fair,” he says after a mouthful of curry. “You have a conscience. Or you did before you took Birchill’s money.”

  Mike’s not the first to challenge me about Birchill’s donation.

  “The buyer for his hotel wanted my land,” I say, sticking to the script. “We did a deal. It was more tax efficient to have the proceeds as a charitable donation.”

  “Since when did you use words like tax efficient?”

  “Since I started to run my sanctuary as a business. I don’t want to sell catering equipment to people like Hossain to make ends meet.”

  “Don’t change the subject, pal. You hate everything Birchill stands for. Now you’re taking money from him.”

  “It was my money, Mike. It was business.”

  I hate deceiving my best friend. I’m not thrilled about Birchill being my father, but I live in the present. I never asked for money, but his donation allows me to plan and build with confidence, to save more animals. That’s all that matters.

  Mike shakes his head. “I don’t buy it. Neither does Ash.”

  “When I pack in the day job, I’ll need all the money I can get.”

  “You’re quitting?”

  From the stunned look on his face it seems my deception’s worked. “Maybe. Not a word to anyone.”

  “Tell Ash. She spotted the donation on Birchill’s Facebook page.”

  “She’s more interested in the Rosy Lee Café,” I say, hoping Mike will take the bait. “Or someone connected to it. Someone called Peter Stone.”

  Mike’s next spoon of curry stops short of his mouth. “She told you about Stone?”

  His No Stone folder contained a photograph of a menu from the Rosy Lee Café. Someone had written Peter Stone and a mobile phone number in marker pen across the top of the menu.

  “I overheard her on the phone. Who is he?”

  “It’s not my investigation.”

  “You attended the scene.”

  He hesitates and takes a few gulps of beer.

  “First, Ash Goodman turns up, assuming I’ll tell you everything about the body. Now you’re here, assuming the same.” He points to his forehead. “Does it say mug?”

  “I only want to know who Peter Stone is.”

  “Don’t we all?” He rises from his chair, his chest heaving. “Peter Stone’s name and mobile number were on a menu in the victim’s pocket. Why would he write his own name and number on a menu?”

  “What makes you think it’s his menu?”

  Six

  My popularity soars after a long weekend. On Monday morning, my Inbox bulges with messages, often sent by people who knew I wasn’t around on Friday to answer them. Those who want to make their problems seem more urgent and important use my voicemail the same way. Daniella Frost, my manager and Head of Service, has sent the most emails despite spending three days at a Less is More seminar.

  “I imagine attendance was low,” I say, wishing Danni would stop glancing at her smartphone.

  It’s one of the irritating habits she’s developed since hooking up with Bernard Doolittle, Head of Human Remains. She oozes self-confidence with her short blonde hair and sassy makeup, power dressing in short skirts and fitted jackets. She also becomes flirtatious without warning. At the last Team Talk, she asked for my opinion on boob jobs.

  I told her we’d had no complaints about them in last quarter.

  “Mock if you wish, Kent, but a select audience ensured more quality contact time with the trainers. This helped me crystallise the critical learning points into a set of QBPs. Quality bullet points,” she says in response to my baffled expression. “You’re never going to progress in management until you talk the talk.”

  I hope my silence encapsulates my quality response.

  After a sip of decaffeinated skinny latte with caramel, she straightens the keyboard to line up with her mouse mat. She plucks a manila folder from the top of her letter trays, which are pale blue to match her suit.

  “Let’s talk Monday Management Meetings,” she says, enclosing the words in finger quotes. “Kelly’s populating your diary as we speak. Team Talk’s moving from Fridays to Thursdays.”

  “Thursday Team Talk?” I ask, making a reasonable stab at finger quotes.

  “You can mock, but with the council looking for savings, you need to be at the table or you could find yourself on the menu.”

  Like Peter Stone. Maybe that’s why his name was on a menu.

  When Danni steeples her fingers I brace myself. She’s sending me on the two week version of the Less is More seminar.

  “I can’t support your request to replace Gemma,” she says.

  I’m not surprised. Gemma’s post was created by her uncle, the Chief Executive. It was bound to go when she left.

  “The statistics for summer revealed a drop in complaints for two of the three months,” Danni says, reading from her monitor. “I know the drop was slight, but our new contract environmental health officer, Charlotte, has experience in food hygiene and pollution, offering synergies we didn’t
have before.”

  “And she’s cheaper to employ than a replacement for Gemma.”

  “I know Gemma’s departure upset you, Kent, but Charlotte has more experience and gets results. We need to prosecute more offenders,” she says, cutting me off, “to raise our profile with councillors and the public. If we demonstrate the important work we do we could avoid cuts in the future.”

  “Agreed,” I say, surprising my boss, “but Charlie only works three days a week. If you increase it to five, it would soften the blow when I tell the team we’re not replacing Gemma.”

  Danni rises and hands me the manila folder, signalling the end of our meeting. “Charlotte’s revised contract, signed and dated this morning. She’s now working five days a week for the duration of the contract, starting today.”

  I’m not used to Danni being a step ahead of me. “Thank you,” I say.

  “You might not thank me when you check your Inbox. Stratford upon Avon District Council would like a reference. Gemma’s applied for a job.”

  ***

  Though Gemma left three months ago, I still picture her sitting opposite me, deep in concentration as she grappled with the complexities of pollution complaints. Whether it was a couple of neighbours, feuding over noisy music or the smells from paint spraying at a rural car repair workshop, her enthusiasm and charm overcame her lack of knowledge and experience.

  I wish she were still sitting there.

  Everything happens for a reason, my English teacher once told me. Accept it and move on. You never know what’s over the horizon.

  It won’t be Ashley Goodman, if she continues to pester me. It’s only ten o’clock and she’s already sent two emails, demanding information about the Rosy Lee Café. She has access to a national database. The public have access to information under the Freedom of Information Act. To access my department’s archives, where my old inspections records are stored, I need approval from Danni, who has meetings for the rest of the morning.

  At least I can interrogate the environmental health database to check inspections for the last six years. I find a mobile number for Tariq Hossain and leave a message to meet him at Station Diner on Wednesday morning. I don’t specify a time to encourage him to ring me back, otherwise he’ll pretend he never received the call and not show.

  Five years ago, he transformed the failing Easy Pizza. It had dipped below minimum legal standards between routine inspections. It improved for a couple of months after our intervention, only to slump back again. Poor cleaning, failures in maintenance, the constant turnover of staff and indifferent management led to low food hygiene ratings. Yet every evening, after the pubs closed, the queues stretched down the street.

  Making the display of hygiene ratings mandatory, as in Wales and Northern Ireland, would encourage the businesses to improve or lose customers.

  Then again, hungry people who’ve drunk too much don’t focus on hygiene.

  When Nigel comes into the office after an early morning visit, I take him downstairs to Committee Room 1. It has one of the new vending machines Downland installed to save money. It offers seven varieties of coffee, but in smaller cups than the previous machine.

  “Looks like last week’s fire at Station Diner has saved you a prosecution,” I say when we’re seated at the press table with decaffeinated lattes.

  Though a fraction of the size of the Council Chamber, CR1 has the same high, ornate ceilings, wall-to-wall oak panelling and a carpet emblazoned with the Downland District Council crest. The heavy oak chairs with high backs sit around a long table, polished to a mirror shine. The press have to make do with plastic chairs and a laminated table that looks like it came out of a school dining room.

  Nigel casts a nervous glance at the video camera in the corner. Committee Cam allows meetings to be broadcast live on the council’s website.

  “They can’t watch us, can they?”

  He lowers his head, revealing how much his hair has thinned, apart from the bristles that protrude from his nostrils. I had hoped the woman he met through internet dating would smarten him up, replacing his old brown jacket with one that had an intact lining and a full set of buttons. No wonder he goes around in shirts with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His corduroy trousers, of which he has two pairs, alternate each week, unlike his shoes, which he changes every couple of years.

  “I ... I ... I thought you’d be interested in Station Diner,” he says, his stammer telling me he’s nervous. “I was going to ask you to ... to come with me on the revisit in case we needed to take legal action.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to me after the initial inspection?”

  “It’s always up and down, Kent. You know that.”

  “But not this much,” I say, pointing to the photos I’ve printed.

  “That’s why I ... I gave Mr Hossain a week to sort the place out. Charlie said I should have closed him on the spot, but he’s got problems with his manager.”

  “Leila King?”

  “She had her hands in the till and was badmouthing him on Facebook and Twitter, saying he couldn’t keep it up.” Nigel glances down at his groin in case there’s any doubt. “She’s a good looking woman, smartly dressed, intelligent. She knows her stuff too, unlike Mr Hossain. I don’t know why she stays there.”

  I remember what Ashley told me. “Leila King’s worked for all the businesses that occupied the premises. Interesting, don’t you think?”

  He considers for a moment. “Not if she owns the building.”

  It’s an intriguing thought.

  “Let me know when she shows up, Nigel. She’s been missing since the fire.”

  He relaxes a little. “Is this another of your investigations?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He raises his decaffeinated latte. “You always take me somewhere private and buy me coffee.”

  My phone saves me. “DI Goodman. We were just talking about you and Leila King.”

  “A week before the fire, Leila rang 999,” Ashley says. “She claimed Tariq Hossain had threatened to kill her.”

  Seven

  Ashley reaches for her second National Trust cheese and onion relish sandwich. Like the first, she rips out a huge chunk with her teeth, devouring the sandwich in a couple of mouthfuls. I wonder how long it would take to demolish a baguette.

  “Love this place,” she says. “I come here to unwind, to think, to focus.”

  We’re settled on a blanket on the eastern slope of the South Downs, overlooking Birling Gap. She sits, legs crossed, back straight, gaze focused on the Seven Sisters, their chalk faces rising vertically out of the sea to meet the gentle green slopes of the South Downs. The breeze ruffles her hair, blowing it across her face. Dressed in a charcoal grey trouser suit, with a name badge pinned to her lapel, she’s hot-footed it from a seminar at headquarters in Lewes about twelve miles away.

  “I’m impetuous by nature,” she says, flicking her hair back to reveal a slim neck. “Act first and apologise later, my old DCI said. Never give the villains a chance to escape. He hesitated once and ended up on the slab. All his good work, all those collars, blown away in a second.”

  I’m no good with platitudes so I remain silent, munching my sandwich, looking down at the shingle beach, bleached grey by the sunlight. A black Labrador bounds out of the sea and shakes. The spray lands on a family close by, startling a young girl, who runs wailing to her mother.

  She stares out to sea. “I’d like to slow down, to focus on what matters.”

  “Like climate change? Plastic in the oceans?”

  “People,” she replies. “Unsocial hours, the unpredictable nature of the job, take their toll on relationships. I also like to be on the move.”

  Most of the people around us are on the move, apart from those brandishing cameras with lenses the size of telescopes. While they focus on the small blue butterflies, flitting between flowers, hordes of foreign students swarm across the Downs in their t-shirts and skinny jeans, rucksacks slung over th
eir shoulders. They capture the bigger picture on their phones and tablets, while listening to music and gabbling in loud voices. Some pause to take selfies at the cliff edge, standing with their backs to the cliffs. Some sit with their legs dangling over the edge, unaware of how fragile the chalk can be.

  Ashley reads my thoughts. “I’ve seen the broken bodies, not to mention the shattered lives they leave behind.”

  “How do you deal with it?”

  “You see horrendous sights, rescuing injured or abused animals. How do you cope?”

  “I concentrate on saving the animal, doing my best.”

  “Bet you’d like to punish the people who mistreat and hurt animals.”

  I drink the last of my tea, remembering how angry I used to feel, and still do at times. “My vet suggested I educate children so they didn’t grow up to abuse animals.”

  “Sensible woman.”

  “How do you know it was a woman?”

  “We’re compassionate and sensible. You also have a link to Sarah Wheeler, local vet, on your website.”

  “You checked me out?”

  “Know your enemy.” She laughs and reaches into the paper bag for a flapjack. “You could use social media better. If Sussex Police can embrace Twitter and Facebook, you’ve no excuse.”

  “Talking of Facebook,” I say, “one of my team said Leila was badmouthing Tariq Hossain. You might want to check her out. She might say where she is.”

  “She’s long gone.” Ashley shields her eyes to watch a ferry, heading out into the English Channel. “Didn’t Lord Lucan escape on the Newhaven ferry?”

  “His car was found in the town,” I say, wishing she’d stop changing the subject. “A friend could have driven it there as a decoy while Lord Lucan flew out of the country from an airfield in Kent.”

  “Mike Turner said it’s the one mystery you’d love to solve.”

  “He said you’d popped round to see him.”

  “I knew you’d approach him.”

  She grins and takes a lustful bite of flapjack, watching me as she chews. I’m even more convinced she’s a cat, teasing and toying with me, purring with pleasure before her paw shoots out to deliver a killer blow.