No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  “Molly, I’m clean out of treats,” she says in soft, but exasperated voice, “so there’s no point being awkward.”

  Molly looks at me with a ‘yeah right’ expression, refuses to stand, and barks in triumph.

  The woman sweeps an arm across her forehead in frustration. Hair tumbles over her face, refusing to be blown away. With a sigh, she slaps down the scissors and wrestles her hair back into the bulldog clip. As she lowers her arm, she cries out and slides a hand inside her t-shirt, pulling at her bra. After a few wiggles and arm movements she sighs in relief and massages her breast.

  That’s when she senses my presence.

  I shouldn’t be smiling, but I know I’m going to like her.

  But not this much.

  I gaze into her big, dark eyes, the attraction instant and electric. My heart hammers in my chest. I feel breathless, excited, aroused.

  Nervous.

  I see excitement in her eyes. Fear too. She seems lost somehow. Maybe she’s giddy on adrenaline like me.

  She glances down, surprised to find her hand inside her t-shirt. She withdraws her hand and quickly moves it out of sight. But not fast enough to stop me noticing her engagement and wedding rings.

  Talk about a cold shower moment. I should have known someone so lovely would be married or involved with someone else. The realisation does nothing to dispel the disappointment, but I have my rules.

  Keep clear of women who are involved, engaged or married.

  Gemma was an exception because she removed her ring but remained engaged to Richard.

  I won’t make that mistake again.

  Paralysis defeated, I draw a breath and push my emotions to one side. I have work to do, a body to identify. The woman I have to interview may be married and out of bounds, but it doesn’t mean we can’t flirt a little, does it?

  She saunters up to the counter, studying my face as if she intends to paint me. She brushes away the stray strands of hair with a casual, but flamboyant flick of her fingers that dislodges the rest of her hair. It tumbles like an avalanche across her face.

  Determined to remain cool and indifferent, she gathers the hair with a lazy hand and reaches up to push it back into the bulldog clip.

  The bra bites once more.

  Eyes shut tight. She bites her lower lip.

  “You’ve heard of the Wonderbra,” she says between clenched, even white teeth. “Well, I’ve got Blunderbra. It’s the first new bra I’ve had in ages.” She groans. “Does it sound like I’ve worn the same bra for years?”

  I nod, captivated by her carefree honesty.

  “You probably guessed that from my clothes.” With a sigh, she clamps her hair into the bulldog clip. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to discuss bras.”

  “No, I’m more of a Basque man.”

  “You don’t have the figure,” she says, shaking her head. “But what do I know? I got one for my last birthday. It pushed my boobs up so high – the Basque not the birthday – I gained a treble chin. That’s just what you need when you’re battling a serious weight problem.”

  Her voice is smooth and animated, like her face.

  “Looks like you’ve won the battle,” I say.

  “The wine gums were the first to go, followed by ten months of purgatory without alcohol, chocolate or cakes. Ten months of salad, steamed fish and smoothies to drop three dress sizes. My boobs were rattling around in my bra so I got some new ones. Bras, not boobs,” she says with a giggle. “Though I’m beginning to think I got it the wrong way round.”

  “Not from where I’m standing.”

  Her cheeks flush a little. “That’s enough about boobs. I make enough of them, especially where men are concerned. I’m Freya,” she says, holding out her hand. “It means Fun, Raunchy, Energetic, Youthful, and Addictive. Once you get to know me you can’t get enough of me. Or maybe not,” she adds, blushing. “I’m Freya Preston – I mean Layman, Freya Layman.”

  I feel the electricity between us as I shake her soft hand. I don’t want to let go, but I force myself.

  “I keep forgetting I got divorced recently,” she says. “Crazy really as it’s my third time. That’s why I’m still wearing the rings. Not to remind myself I’ve had three marriages go down the pan,” she says, pulling the rings off her finger. “They’re meant to deter unwanted attention. Some men think recently divorced women are a bit of a pushover.”

  “It must be your fun, raunchy and energetic personality.”

  “You forgot youthful.” She slides the rings under the counter and sighs. “You don’t believe me, do you? About the divorce, I mean, not about being youthful.”

  “I don’t know anything about you, Freya.”

  I like the sound of her name as I say it. It’s like a soft wind, calling to me.

  “You know my name and aspirations. You know I’ve lost weight. You know I groom dogs,” she says, skipping over to the grooming table. “It might not look like it from the way Molly’s behaving, but like me she can be a bit of a bitch. Ask any of my former husbands – though I wouldn’t bother with the second. The marriage lasted less than a week.”

  She saunters back to the counter, her eyes sparkling with energy. “I’m 43, currently teetotal, and in desperate need of a new wardrobe – and somewhere to store the new clothes when I buy them. I’ve moved back with my father, Tony Layman, in the farm behind the estate,” she says, pointing over her shoulder. “Commuting’s a breeze, but he’s not keen on pasta or steamed rice.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I love animals, but not cats, walking and running on the South Downs, especially the coast, and fields of red poppies. Don’t ask me why, but there’s something magical about them.”

  There’s something magical about Freya.

  “I also have to sing along to any Abba song, even though I don’t always remember the words. I cry like a baby when I watch The Waltons and Little House on the Prairie. And talking of babies, I love them as long as they belong to someone else. So, if you’re hoping to have children, I’d leave now.”

  “Would I have to watch Little House on the Prairie?”

  She taps a finger against her lips. “I could grant you an exemption, once I got to know you better. And no matter how tempted I am, I don’t sleep with a man on a first date. I’ve done that three times and ... I think you can work it out.”

  “Why don’t we have lunch?”

  “I’d love to, but I need time to buy some new clothes and underwear. I burnt my old clothes and shoes last night in a big ceremonial bonfire. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, Mr Fisher? Someone complained about the bonfire.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “I learned to read at school,” she says, pointing to the ID badge, hanging around my neck. “Kent,” she says, looking thoughtful. “Kind, Enigmatic, Naughty – yes, definitely naughty, and ... Tenacious?”

  “Some people say I’m trying.”

  “I’m not surprised with puns like that. Stick to environmental health. And please tell our annoying neighbour it was a one-off bonfire. Time for a fresh start,” she says. “No more men, no more wine gums, no more apologising for who I am. Now I’m wondering if I was a little hasty.”

  “Wine gums are impossible to resist. And I’m not here about the bonfire. I’m interested in Wright Choice Foods.”

  “Oh.”

  I’m not sure if she’s disappointed or lost.

  “You need to talk to my father,” she says. “I’m the new kid on the block. He has an office around the back. I’ll ring to make sure he’s around. If I can remember where I left my phone.”

  “I’ll take a chance. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Outside, once I’ve walked around the corner, I stop and lean back against the wall. I’m an excited teenager again, waiting at the bus stop for Barbara Booth. “Freya,” I say, closing my eyes. The name sounds magical, whimsical, bursting with mystery, life and spirit – like her.

  She’s like no one I’ve met before.
<
br />   “Easy,” I tell myself, remembering how Barbara Booth never showed up, breaking my young heart.

  I set off along the muddy track, stopping at the muddy layby with deep tractor tyre ruts. I look at the South Downs through the gaps in the trees and bushes. Isn’t there a field of red poppies in Lullington Heath Nature Reserve? Would they still be in bloom in September?

  I’m about to walk on when I hear a vehicle accelerating, followed by a squeal of brakes. I look back to see Freya’s van turn down the track, Molly sniffing out of the window.

  Twenty

  “I don’t like men in suits.”

  From the scowl on his face to the sneer in his eyes, I doubt if Tony Layman likes anyone. Short and overweight, with unkempt grey hair and two days of stubble on his cheeks, he slumps in a filthy armchair behind an old desk that looks ready to collapse. For the last five minutes he’s been talking on the phone and munching on a cheese and pickle sandwich, made with bread the thickness of paving slabs. The conversation only stopped when the battery in his phone died.

  He operates from an office the size of a bathroom, filled with shelves and cupboards that look ready to collapse or topple. They cut out most of the light from a small, north facing window, coated in cobwebs. Boxes and tea chests cover the rough concrete floor, leaving only a small passage from the door to the desk. I remain by the door, resting my elbow on a fridge that’s more rust than enamel. It’s also the only source of heat.

  But I’m more interested in the shotgun, propped against the wall to side of his chair.

  “Shouldn’t that be in a locked cabinet?” I ask.

  He runs his fingers down the barrel and laughs. “It’s ornamental. It don’t work and I got no cartridges, so it wouldn’t be much use if it worked, would it?”

  “You should still keep it locked away.”

  “How would I intimidate those who might think they can get the better of me?”

  I wonder who would venture in here. “Do you get many visitors?”

  He lifts a cracked mug and slurps the dark brown sludge inside. “You’re here, and you didn’t come to talk about my shotgun either.”

  “Your daughter said you might help me.”

  He laughs, almost spilling coffee over his lap. “Why should I help you, Mr Fisher? You’re a regular Hercule Poirot, solving all those murders. Why do you need my help? Or have you come about the body in my septic tank? Has that limp-wristed cretin down the road complained? He films everyone who enters and leaves here.”

  “That’s a matter for the police – like your shotgun.”

  “You going to report me?”

  “That depends on what you tell me about Wright Choice Foods.”

  “What’s to tell?” He drains the last of his coffee and thumps the mug onto his desk. “Malcolm Wright pissed off nine years ago. Why are you interested?”

  “He may have important information about a food business. I only want a contact address or phone number for him.”

  “Don’t you have records? Your council seems to know everything about me.”

  “Well, you will start works without planning permission.”

  “True, but I ain’t lost an appeal yet. I know the law better than you. And Google’s a lot cheaper than any solicitor or consultant,” he says, patting the monitor that’s balanced on several telephone directories. “Maybe you should try it.”

  “I prefer to talk to people.”

  He pushes the last wedge of sandwich into his mouth, spluttering crumbs as he talks.

  “Pity you weren’t around when Malcolm Wright adulterated his products. He mixed in cheap ingredients to make them go further. He bought chicken you wouldn’t give to your dog, removed all the bad bits and mixed it with the good cuts. I don’t know where he sourced his meat, but the deliveries always arrived after hours.”

  “Why didn’t you report him?”

  “The bloke down the road complained about the disturbance, but your guys sent him diary sheets and told me to control my site. If they’d come out here, they could have caught Malcolm red-handed – literally.”

  “What if someone had suffered or died from food poisoning?”

  “He was no worse than the hotels and restaurants he supplied. He used to tell me stories that put me off lots of places. I didn’t see your lot doing much about it.”

  “We were waiting for people like you to report the problems so we could take action.” I sigh, wondering why the public think we’re psychic. “Did he ever mention the Rosy Lee Café in Tollingdon?”

  “Malcolm Wright paid his rent at the end of every month. He kept the units clean and never gave me any grief – unlike that waste of space son of his, Jonathan.” Layman’s chair groans in protest when he drops forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “He left deliveries outside the back door while he was seeing to one of the cooks or waitresses. Malcolm lost a lot of customers. He sent Jonathan packing, but it was too little too late.”

  “He went bust?”

  “Malcolm fell behind with the rent. When it got to six months, I told him to stop taking the piss. When he couldn’t pay up, I changed the locks while he was out on his rounds. I figured he’d settle up to get his stock back.”

  “Did he?”

  “I never saw or heard from him again. So, if you find him, Mr Fisher, or his useless son, let me know.”

  “How much does he owe you?”

  “I sold his stock and more than covered my costs, thank you.”

  “So why are you still interested in them?”

  “I’m interested in Jonathan Wright.”

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he seems more interested in picking his teeth with the tip of some nail scissors. When he finishes and looks up, he says, “You should talk to Freya. She married the useless lump.”

  “Was he the one who didn’t hang around long?”

  “Long enough to break her heart,” he says, scowling. “My daughter’s the first to admit she’s made some bad choices, but Jonathan Wright takes the crown. He buggered off to America, leaving her to pay off his gambling debts. First she knew was when the casino sent two blokes round to collect.”

  “Do you remember which casino?”

  “The Ace of Hearts in Brighton, owned by that flash git, Miles Birchill. His goons frightened the life out of Freya. So if you find Jonathan Wright, Mr Fisher, you let me know. I have a score to settle with him.”

  I nod, wondering if someone has beaten him to it.

  Twenty-One

  If Jonathan Wright’s the unidentified corpse, I’ve solved a mystery that’s baffled Sussex Police for five years.

  It can’t be that simple, can it?

  It sounds like he went to America, but did he? What if someone caught up with him before he could escape?

  His parents should confirm the identity of the corpse.

  Which makes me wonder why the police didn’t track down Wright Choice Foods five years ago? Maybe they did and ruled out Jonathan Wright. No, they would have spoken to Freya and asked her to identify the body.

  She would have pointed them at Miles Birchill.

  That might explain why Ashley’s interested in my father.

  I’m not sure it explains why Freya drove off in such a hurry. When she tried to ring her father, he was already on the phone. Why didn’t she come to his office?

  I ring Pristine Pooches and leave a brief message, hoping she’ll contact me.

  My phone rings a few minutes later as I drive south towards Wilmington, but it’s not Freya.

  “I’m moving house tomorrow,” Ashley says, skipping the formalities. “Why don’t you join me for a pizza, help me settle in?”

  I hesitate, wondering if she’s interested in more than pizza.

  “When Frances goes out on Friday night, I’m on call for emergencies,” I say.

  “Bring your phone. If you get a shout, I’ll come with you. I’d love to rescue an injured animal.”

  “I’ll check with Frances and let you know in the
morning.”

  “Have you made any progress?”

  I should update her about Jonathan Wright, but I’m sure Freya has more to tell. “Progress?”

  “We both know you’re not going to sit back and twiddle your thumbs, Kent. I want to know the second you find anything useful.”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “I hope so,” she says and ends the call.

  ***

  Back at my desk, while eating my lunch, I look up Freya’s Facebook page. She uses Molly as her profile image, and most of her posts feature the dogs she’s trimmed and groomed. Eventually, I find a photograph of her, taken a month ago in the garden at Bateman’s, Rudyard Kipling’s old home. She looks happy, her smile wide, her eyes full of excitement as they look into the camera. With her head tilted to one side, she clasps either side of her long cardigan to pull it tight over her blouse and black jeans, accentuating her slim figure. Her engagement and wedding rings sparkle in the sunlight.

  The comments below, many from men, tell her how beautiful she looks.

  Her replies suggest she’s either too modest, or suffering from a poor self-image.

  “Lost your appetite?” Kelly asks, pausing on her way back from a trip to the shops. “You took your lunch out of the fridge before I left.”

  I glance down at the bowl of pasta, barely touched, the breadstick with one bite missing.

  She places her bags on the floor, unzips her anorak and sits in the chair at the side of my desk. “Freya,” she says, studying the photo on the screen. “She’s pretty. Naturally pretty, like Gemma.”

  “She’s nothing like Gemma,” I say.

  “No, she’s older and married. She looks like a fun person though, if a little self-conscious. From the way she does her hair and makeup, I’d say she doesn’t realise how pretty she is. Gemma always knew the effect she had on men, especially you.”

  It sounds like a reprimand. Then the penny drops. “She told you, didn’t she?”

  “She didn’t need to, lover. When you returned to work after your last case, we could feel the sparks between you. We noticed the little glances, the secret looks, the way you pretended you weren’t interested in each other.”