No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  A group of noisy smokers congregate at the table outside the entrance. One or two of the lads compliment Niamh, which brings an extra swing to her hips as she sashays into the pub. Inside, a few regulars stand at the bar, their dogs lying on the wooden floor. A couple I’ve never seen before occupy a corner table, their heads inches apart as they feed each other seafood.

  Niamh waves to some men in suits in the adjoining lounge and joins them. I spot a half empty pint of bitter on the bar seconds before Mike bursts out of the corridor to the toilets. Dressed in old jeans and an older shirt, hidden by an ancient jacket, he gestures at his watch. I point towards Niamh.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a woman like her,” he says, blushing when she waves. “But she’s well out my league and you know all my faults.”

  “Of which there are many.”

  “Tolerance being the main one.”

  We order food and a St Clements for me before retreating to a table away from love’s young dream. I’m surprised Mike ordered a burger as he spends his days serving them from his mobile café. While he tells me about his day, he sneaks glances at Niamh, who’s now entertaining several men with her stories. From the snippets I can hear, she’s revealing some of the unusual and weird requests made to William Fisher, MP, at his constituency surgery.

  “I met the fire investigator this morning,” I say as Mike polishes off the last of his beer. “He showed me a photograph of the deep fat fryer you sold to Hossain. It looked like someone took a hammer to it.”

  “It was in good nick when I delivered it. Both were.”

  Mike signals to Doug Leverett, who ducks under the beams to pull a half pint. Built like a bouncer, he’s broad, bearded and has a voice that shakes dust off the shelves. “Food’s on its way,” he calls. “Chef’s probing it twice to make sure all the bugs are dead.”

  “I hope he’s using a thermometer,” someone calls.

  I’m used to quips like these. Doug likes to boast that the environmental health officer eats here, as if it will bring in more customers.

  “I also spoke to the insurance assessor,” I say. “Hossain disposed of the fryer, cooker and a couple of damaged fridges before she visited.”

  Mike looks relieved. “That means no one can trace the fryer to us.”

  “Hossain waited four days before ringing the insurance company. He said he was busy, clearing up the mess.”

  “He’s up to no good, pal.”

  Mike’s well aware that bogus insurance claims are becoming a national sport. People like Hossain claim for new equipment, having bought cheap from people like Mike. They ask him to put a higher price on the receipt. He refuses, which is why we struggled to sell the deep fat fryers.

  “The fire investigator found no evidence of arson,” I say.

  “You don’t sound convinced, pal.”

  “It’s the link to the body at the caravan site that troubles me. If Ashley hadn’t connected the two, I wouldn’t give the fire a second thought. Now I want to know why Leila King’s missing.”

  “She’s got no job and her flat’s burnt out. She’s probably staying with family or taken a last minute break to Spain.”

  “Did you come across her name when you investigated the body at Sunshine View?”

  “I investigated the scene. I didn’t interview witnesses.”

  “But you attended briefings. You knew what was going on.”

  “If only I had a photographic memory,” he says, making it clear he’s telling me nothing.

  “Ashley said Leila worked at the Rosy Lee Café, but I can’t find her name on any of our inspection records.”

  “Do you record the names of everyone you talk to?”

  “You know I don’t. It’s usually owners, managers and the chef.”

  “Then Leila King could have been a waitress. Now here’s something to get your teeth into.” He rubs his hands as our food arrives. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to enjoy my food without talking shop.”

  “How can you enjoy that? It’s more charcoal than meat.”

  “You know I like it well done,” he says, becoming defensive. “It’s your fault, telling me stories about bugs. I won’t eat lettuce and salad since you told me I’m more likely to get E coli from vegetables.”

  “You never ate salad in the first place, Mike.”

  He stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth, making contented noises as he chews. My burger still resembles meat, thought the limp Iceberg lettuce looks like an afterthought. One day, Doug will learn that second rate ingredients don’t encourage customers to return. At least the chilli relish has a kick.

  “At least I get to eat tonight,” I say, before giving Mike a summary of last night’s events.

  He stares at me in disbelief. “You turned down a night of passion with Ash Goodman? You’re going to regret that, pal.”

  I have a horrible feeling he’s right.

  Seventeen

  Back home, I retire to my bedroom with a cup of tea. Columbo leaps onto the bed and settles beside me. I reach for the scanned inspection notes on the dresser.

  “If Ashley won’t give me any information, I’ll have to uncover it myself.”

  Columbo nudges my arm for some attention, sighing with pleasure when I tickle the base of his ear. If only people were as easy to please.

  Reading my notes takes me back to the Rosy Lee Café, run by Henry Potter and his wife, Gladys. She was one of those proud women, small but fearsome. She wrapped a scarf around her hair, rolled her sleeves up, and stood there with her arms folded, defying you to find fault with her kitchen.

  “There’s nothing you can teach me about hygiene,” she said, barring my way into the kitchen.

  “How about the Latin name for mice?” I asked.

  Henry, a more timid man, bundled her upstairs, apologising for her behaviour. “We’re losing money and customers,” he told me, sheepishly showing me into the small kitchen. “We’ve got rid of the staff and we still can’t pay our suppliers at the end of the month. It’ll be a blessing when you close us down.”

  Why he waited for me to close the place, I’ll never know. He accepted everything with a resigned grace, apologising with each fridge I opened, each room I entered. The mouse infestation was months old. They’d invaded the cavity behind the pine cladding that lined the walls of the café and the kitchen. They had the free run of the ceiling void and the area beneath the floor, building nests in the shed, used as a dried goods store.

  “I’ll have to prosecute you,” I said at the end of a tough day. “You knew you had mice and you did nothing about it.”

  He never said a word.

  I never saw him or his wife again.

  Did they flee abroad or retire? When Ashley mentioned the unidentified corpse, I wondered if it was Henry, but Mike’s notes suggest a younger victim.

  I study the details of the anonymous phone call that prompted the investigation. Some of the details could only come from someone familiar with the kitchen.

  I don’t believe Henry or his wife made the call.

  Maybe one of the staff they let go felt aggrieved.

  Customers may have heard mice running in the ceiling, but they wouldn’t know about droppings under the sink or in the fridge. They wouldn’t know about coloured chopping boards, left standing on the floor.

  I’m about to close the folder when I notice the order in which the details are recorded. They start with the accumulations of rubbish and food waste in the refuse area, followed by the holes in the floor of the shed/dried goods store, along with droppings, gnawed foods and surfaces. The lack of rodent proofing on the rear doors comes next, followed by numerous problems in the kitchen and fridges.

  The complainant listed the problems in the order they were seen if you arrived and entered the premises from the rear.

  “Suppliers,” I say, ruffling Columbo’s fur. “The complainant was a supplier.”

  Henry Potter bought most of his food and supplies from the local cash and ca
rry, leaving Wright Choice Foods, Units 6 & 7, Layman’s Farm, Arlington, to supply bacon, cheese, eggs and dairy products. I recall a small industrial estate on a farm near Arlington. Charlotte said Wright Choice had ceased trading, but the owner of the farm, or one of the other traders on the estate should remember the company.

  There’s a chance the people who owned or worked for Wright Choice Foods are still in the catering business and local.

  I only need to find one person who remembers Leila King.

  Eighteen

  At 9.30 on Wednesday morning, I walk from the Town Hall to Station Diner. There’s no sign of Ashley’s Audi as I approach Tariq Hossain. He’s leaning against his old silver Mercedes, blowing smoke rings into the air.

  Short, with thick black hair and moustache, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Omar Sharif. It might explain the arrogance in Hossain’s demeanour, the look of superiority in his dark eyes, and the leering way he watches a young woman as she walks past. With a nonchalant flick, he despatches the remains of his cigarette into the gutter and smooths his shiny suit jacket.

  The gold rings on his fingers leave an impression on mine during a brisk handshake. “I have a meeting with my accountant in fifteen minutes, Mr Fisher, to discuss the sale of this place.”

  It’s his way of telling me I’m wasting my time. “Having trouble with the insurance company?” I ask.

  “The assessor is not happy because I disposed of the equipment. I told her the local hooligans had vandalised it. I told her she should have visited sooner if she wanted to examine it. I told her the fire officer said it was an accident, but still she asks questions.” He snorts. “They are quick to take your money, but not so quick to hand it back, no?”

  “Did you take the equipment to the tip?”

  “I paid someone to take it away.”

  “Who?”

  He shrugs. “A man with a van.”

  No doubt the equipment will appear at the side of a country lane, dumped by the contractor to avoid paying disposal charges.

  “I’d like to take a look inside,” I say, heading for the rear.

  “What for? It’s a mess.”

  “I understand the fire started beneath Leila King’s flat.”

  “She has the whole of the first floor.”

  I pull a notebook from my pocket. “Where’s she staying at the moment?”

  “She has family in Crawley, I think. She never told me the details. She will have found another job, for sure.”

  “Hasn’t she contacted you?”

  He pulls a cigarette case from his pocket. “She visited her mother on the day of the fire. She rang next day when she read about the fire on Facebook.”

  “How did she seem?”

  His eyebrows meet over his nose. “I don’t understand.”

  “Had she been upstairs, she might have died.”

  He sighs when he finds the cigarette case empty. “How could she die when she was in Crawley?”

  I gesture to the side passage. “After you, Mr Hossain.”

  “I would rather not smell like a bonfire when I speak to my accountant.”

  “Then let me in and stay by the door.”

  “Why you need to look inside? The place is a wreck. My business is gone.”

  “If you were operating faulty equipment, you could have committed offences under the Health and Safety at Work Act. Was there a problem with the thermostat of your deep fat fryer?”

  “Things go wrong.” He fishes in his pocket for the keys as he leads me to the rear. “The chef forgot to turn off the fryer.”

  I follow him into the rear yard, which has been jet washed since the weekend. “I’d like to speak to your chef,” I say, strolling over to the shed.

  “Asif has gone.”

  I open the door, surprised to find the shed empty and swept clean. “You must have contact details for him.”

  “Leila employed him. Her computer was destroyed in the fire.” Hossain shrugs as if it’s another of those irritating inconveniences he has to bear.

  I can see why the insurance assessor’s reluctant to process Hossain’s claim.

  “You must have trusted her a great deal,” I say.

  “She understood the business, how I worked, what I wanted.”

  An image of them thrashing about in her bedroom flashes through my mind. “Did she work for you in Brighton?” I ask, strolling over to the back door.

  “Brighton?” His puzzled frown can’t hide the sweat on his forehead. “Why are you asking about Brighton?”

  “Didn’t you have a fire at one of your restaurants in Brighton?”

  He checks his chunky gold watch. “I am late for my meeting, Mr Fisher.”

  “No problem. Why don’t I pop round to your house this evening and we can talk about the fire and Leila.”

  “I will be out this evening,” he says quickly. “I’m busy most evenings.”

  “That’s okay. Mrs Hossain might know where Leila is. Your wife knows about Leila, doesn’t she?”

  The glare in his eyes tells me what he’d like to do to me, but his body language admits defeat. He drops the keys into my hand.

  The reek of smoke and burnt plastic hangs in the air, clinging to the blackened walls, the charred surfaces and scorched equipment. I crunch over the debris and broken roof tiles that cover the floor. I look up through the electrical cables that dangle like ribbons, the trunking that hangs by a sliver of wire, and the twisted metal rails that once supported the suspended ceiling. I look up through Leila’s flat to the charred rafters and hole in the roof above.

  The area beneath the ventilation canopy is free of debris, leaving only the bright patches of flooring where the cooker and deep fat fryer once stood. The blackened and deformed steel of the canopy took the brunt of the fire. The ventilation trunking would have funnelled the smoke and flames to the top of the building within seconds, maybe causing the damage to the roof.

  As I look around the room, past the wash up and preparation areas and storage racking, it’s clear no part of the kitchen escaped. It’s difficult to believe that a fryer, no more than a couple of feet square, could cause such destruction. The clear up alone will take weeks, maybe months. How do you get rid of the smell, burnt into the fabric of the building?

  “Where do you start?” I ask, thinking aloud.

  Hossain joins me, his silence as striking as the tears in his eyes. “When the chef rang in sick,” he says, “Leila was going to cancel her trip to her mother to work. I am so relieved I came in to cover. If she had been upstairs ...”

  “I thought you said the chef forgot to switch off the fryer.”

  “I’m confused and upset,” he says, turning away.

  I follow him outside, careful not to brush against any of the blackened surfaces. “You worked in the kitchen that night. Did you forget to turn off the fryer before you closed?”

  Hossain looks shaken, a man drained of hope.

  “Miss Wong thinks I started the fire. Why would I do that? Business was good. Life was good.”

  “Where’s Leila?”

  He pulls out his cigarette case, forgetting it’s empty. With a snarl, he hurls it at the wall. He grabs the keys from my hand and strides over to the door. “This is my punishment,” he says, slamming the door. His shaking hand struggles to turn the key in the lock. “If the insurance refuses to pay, I will have nothing for my wife and children.”

  He brushes past me and hurries up the lane. As he turns the corner, his shoulders shudder.

  He could be crying.

  He could be laughing.

  Nineteen

  Layman’s Farm Industrial Estate is a rather grand title for a collection of converted agricultural buildings near Abbott’s Wood, a few miles north of Wilmington. Wild hawthorn bushes obscure the sign, making it easy to miss the narrow lane, where grass and weeds are overwhelming the tarmac. The trees and bushes stretch high on either side until I reach an open, rusty gate, clinging to one hinge. The faded sign tells me s
ix separate units make up the site – Premier Packaging, Interior Plants, Arlington Print, Pristine Pooches and two vacant.

  Through the gate, the track swings into a long concrete courtyard, wedged between two sets of buildings. The ones on the right are barns and cattle sheds, infilled with concrete blocks and lined with timber cladding that’s now rotting and tumbling to the ground. The smaller, timber buildings on the opposite side look like converted stables.

  I pull up outside the empty double unit, flattening the weeds that thrust through the cracks in the concrete. The faded sign above the double doors confirms that Wright Choice Foods were the last occupiers of the unit. Someone has spray painted Wrong Choice on the chipboard panels nailed over the entrance doors. The whited out windows prevent me from looking inside.

  Notebook in hand, I check both ways for tumbleweed before crossing the yard to Pristine Pooches, which beckons me with the newest, brightest sign on the estate. The small van parked outside also bears the ‘wet dog in a tub with bubbles’ graphic, which makes bath time look like fun.

  A few minutes bathing Columbo would soon cure anyone of that romantic notion.

  The yellow door with its chunky blue handle looks more preschool than poodle parlour. It opens into a bright room, flooded by light from two large Velux windows in the roof. A yellow counter with a blue worktop directs me towards a small holding area with blue hooks and doggy toys to my left. The bathing area behind has a wall mounted stainless steel tub and a collection of towels, sprawling over a full linen basket. A large industrial-looking hairdryer is aimed at an adjustable table for grooming, where a beautiful West Highland white terrier stares at me.

  A slim woman in a white t-shirt, black leggings and Nike trainers stands with her back to me. Her glossy, auburn hair’s held in place by a yellow plastic bulldog clip, which gives her a jaunty ponytail like a paintbrush. She sighs and wags a finger at the Westie, which sits every time she tries to trim its back legs.