Her lips press against mine before I can protest. Her kiss is forceful, energetic and short. “Make an effort,” she says. “He’s watching.”
“You’re overdoing it,” I say, aware people are watching. I take her hand and guide her to the table where Georgina’s settled into a sumptuous armchair. She tucks one leg under the other. Her dress parts to reveal a smooth, tanned thigh.
“What made you desert the north, Ashley?” she asks when we’re settled on the sofa opposite. “I thought Northerners hated the south.”
“I came here on holiday and fell in love with the place. Have you always lived in Sussex?”
“Born and bred, like Miles. He made his money from property and casinos, I married mine. That makes us both gamblers.”
He sits in the armchair next to hers and slides his phone into his jacket pocket. “Don’t be modest, Gina. Your family were wealthy landowners.”
“And like the Fishers, we couldn’t afford the upkeep. We needed your business acumen, Miles.”
“It sounds like you’ve known each other for some time,” Ashley remarks. “I thought you met on holiday.”
“Teddy was a regular at the Ace of Hearts,” Georgina replies. “Miles always looked after us, made sure we were treated well, even though I was a total bitch. Teddy always lost,” she says with a wry smile, “but I’ll get it all back when I marry Miles.”
Though she laughs, she’s deadly serious.
We pause while the waiter serves coffee.
Ashley turns to Birchill. “It’s fascinating, listening to the connection you have with Gina. We have a connection too, though it’s more chance than casino.”
“We do?”
“My mother and I stayed at a caravan site near Alfriston about five years ago. Sunshine View Caravan Park,” she says, as if she’s suddenly remembered. “I’m sure someone told me you own it?”
Georgina shudders. “You wouldn’t catch me in a small metal box, trudging across a field to share the showers and toilets.”
“These were luxury homes with all mod cons,” Ashley says. “Kent inspects and licences them, don’t you?”
Georgina laughs. “You must see some sights.”
“Don’t get him talking about hygiene,” Birchill says, rising. He gestures towards the restrooms with his eyes. “He’ll put you off eating for life.”
I take a sip of coffee and glance at my watch. “I need to call the office,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket. “We have a serious problem brewing.”
I take a circuitous route to the restrooms. Inside, an elderly man washes his hands at one of the basins in the centre of the room. He goes through a ritual with each hand, washing the front, the back and then between the fingers. He’s still drying his hands on a small white towel when I finish at the urinal. He places the towel in the linen basket and shuffles out, pausing only to adjust his flies.
A few moments later, my father emerges from a cubicle. He strides across to a basin and skims his hands through the water, barely wetting them. He grabs a towel, dries his hands and then hurls it into the basket.
“Only a handful of people know about Sunshine View Caravan Park,” he says, unable to keep the tension from his voice. “Your girlfriend isn’t one of them.”
I play dumb. “Then how does she know?”
“She’s a cop, trying to frame me for murder.”
Twenty-Seven
I’m caught in the middle. Do I believe my father, who wasn’t averse to breaking the law in his younger days? Or do I believe a detective inspector who’s not averse to breaking the rules?
I have to choose or indecision will put me at the mercy of both sides.
I could try to play both sides. That might work. It might give me enough time to investigate the murder so I can make an informed choice. Ashley already believes I’m on her side, even though she tells me next to nothing. My father won’t be so easy to convince. If I don’t dump Ashley, he’ll think I believe her.
“I know she’s a cop,” I say. “She asked me to help her with her investigation. Today’s subterfuge was her idea.”
He laughs. “You didn’t look happy when she kissed you. Why are you going along with her?”
“To find out what she knows.”
He nods with pleasure. “What have you learned?”
This is where it gets tricky. “I know she thinks you did it.”
“Because I owned the caravan site where this man was found? You think I’d kill a bloke and be stupid enough to bury him on my land?”
“No, I don’t. That doesn’t mean you didn’t though.”
“No,” he says, pacing. “I suppose not. Does that mean you’ll continue working with DI Goodman?”
“How else will I find out what she’s got against you?”
“Good man,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Keep her close, Kent, so we can discover what she plans to do.”
I’m pleased he thinks I’m on his side. I thought he’d take some convincing.
“If you’ll forgive the choice of words, she must wonder why you and I have buried our differences. You gave her the line we agreed, I take it.”
I nod. “She’s not convinced, but she can’t prove different.”
“Why don’t you tell her you’re not happy about me pressuring you, trying to take over the sanctuary, using your good work to improve my public image? If she thinks there’s friction between us, she might reveal more.”
“You need to tell me about the caravan park.”
“I sold the land a couple of months before the body was discovered. I’ve no idea who dumped it there or when. I’ve made enemies over the years, but it seems like a strange way to get back at me.”
“How could anyone know you’d expand the site?”
He nods and glances at his watch. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow or the girls will think we’re conspiring?”
“One of them already does.”
“We’ll meet at Downland Manor. They haven’t started work on your old place yet.”
Back at the table, Ashley and Georgina seem to be chatting like old friends. Ashley regards me with suspicion before laughing when Georgina delivers the punchline. My father pours himself a cup of coffee and laughs along.
“Were you two conspiring?” Georgina asks him.
“Comparing notes about you two,” he replies. “We should get together for dinner one evening. What do you think?”
“You know I can’t tell one side of a chopping board from the other.” She turns to me. “You know the best places to eat, Kent. Where do you suggest?”
“I’m busy at Meadow Farm most evenings.”
“Nonsense,” my father says. “With all that money I’ve invested, you should employ a builder to take over the work.”
“I need to get back to the office. We have a problem with one of our food businesses. Can we get the bill?”
My father shakes his head. “My treat.”
I make it look like I’m going to object and then accept. We shake hands before I bend to kiss Georgina on the cheek. “Must be the first time I’ve looked down on you,” I whisper in her ear.
She grins and pats my bottom. Ashley shakes Birchill’s hand, followed by some first rate air kissing with Georgina, who insists they go shopping and meet for lunch. I head through the hotel at a fair pace, bursting out into the fresh air.
“I wish Birchill would stop trying to run my sanctuary,” I say, staring across to the sea. “He makes a big donation and thinks he owns the place.”
“It makes him look good, supporting abandoned animals.”
“He wants to come over with Georgina to go through the official opening. I told him I didn’t want one. He ignored me and we argued. That’s why we were gone so long.”
Ashley links my arm as we descend the steps. “When you came back, you were chatting like old friends, not enemies.”
“I gave in because you want me to find out what happened at Sunshine View.”
“I
do, but I don’t trust Birchill.”
“Sounds like you don’t trust me.”
Twenty-Eight
Charlie and Nigel return after three. Both look tired and hungry as they unload their bags onto their desks. Nigel walks over and places a copy of the Emergency Prohibition Order he’s served, closing the premises.
“We’ve collected scrapings and some dead cockroaches from the cellar. We’ve left traps there, in the kitchen and in the storeroom to determine the extent of the infestation. A pest control contractor will be round this evening to treat.”
He pauses to catch his breath, smiling when Charlie stands beside him. “Charlie took some great photographs. We’ve interviewed the owner under caution and he’s held his hands up.”
She hands me the Food Hygiene Rating Scheme sticker she’s recovered from the window of the restaurant. “I’ve seen this before. A business brings in a chef who sorts out the systems and hygiene. Once they get a top rating, they get rid of the chef to save money. Standards drop and you know the rest.”
The date on the sticker is eighteen months old. “Any idea how long they’ve had cockroaches?”
“Weeks, maybe months,” she replies.
“Luckily there are no other food businesses nearby,” Nigel says. “I think we should check the flats above though. I’ll get onto the managing agents once we’ve logged in all the evidence.”
“Well done, both of you. Thank you for showing Nigel the ropes,” I tell Charlie, once he’s returned to his evidence bags.
“He was good,” she says, watching him. “Firm but fair.”
“All the same, he couldn’t have done it without you. When you’ve finished here, why don’t you go home? I’m guessing you missed lunch.”
She nods and returns to help Nigel.
Danni’s delighted to learn we’ve shut down a restaurant. Apart from boosting the department’s standing with councillors, it confirms her policy of using contractors to carry out essential work while reducing costs.
“I told you Charlotte would be an asset,” she says, already composing her report to councillors.
“Nigel took the lead. He’ll be in court next week, applying for the order to confirm the closure.”
“Along with Charlotte,” she says. “She discovered the infestation. Without her, it could have been months before we inspected the restaurant. I’m surprised you didn’t go out there, Kent. Nigel doesn’t have your experience or presence.”
“He does now,” I say, getting to my feet.
“With Charlotte’s support.”
When Danni’s report reaches the councillors, it won’t mention names. She’ll accept the credit for a job well done. I’ll post a summary on our intranet, the appropriately named, DownNet, reporting the good work carried out by Nigel and Charlie. Mutton Geoff, our Communications Officer, will create a press release, praising Downland’s efforts to repel an invasion of cockroaches. Everyone will thank the Chief Executive. The Leader of the Council will comment on how Downland is providing excellent service in spite of austerity measures and public spending cuts.
Then he’ll delete Gemma’s frozen post.
“Now you know why I’m a contractor,” Charlie says when I finish my rant. She hands me a Post It note. “I found this mobile number in the files from Brighton.”
“Do you have a name to go with it?”
“Let me think,” she says. “Derek and the Dominos tribute to a sovereign.”
It takes me a blink to decipher the clue. “Would you mind if I kissed you?”
“Nigel might. We’re going out for a drink tonight. See you on Monday.”
A few minutes later I’m in Committee Room 1, dialling the number, hoping Leila King will answer. The woman who answers sounds uncertain and suspicious.
“Could I speak to Leila King?” I ask in my friendliest, most relaxed voice. “I’m Kent Fisher from Environmental Health at Downland District Council.”
“My daughter is dead.”
So is the line.
Twenty-Nine
When I ring back, the phone goes straight to voicemail.
“This is Kent Fisher, Environmental Health. I’d like to talk to you about Station Diner. It’s nothing to worry about, so can you please ring me back?”
I leave my number and ring off.
If Leila King’s dead, I don’t need to worry about her ringing back.
Did I speak to her mother? She didn’t sound old, upset or grieving. Why did she answer the phone? My number’s withheld, so she wouldn’t know who was calling or why.
If it was Leila, maybe she was waiting for a call. Not Hossain though. She would know his number.
Then who?
Why say she was dead? Why not say I had a wrong number? By saying she was dead she’s confirmed I’ve rung the right number.
She’s also confirmed she’s not dead.
Maybe she panicked. Maybe she’s hiding after the fire.
With deductive skills like this, I’m halfway to my private eye badge. Only the modules on chain smoking, world-weary cynicism, and falling in love with female clients stand in my way.
I settle back in the velvet upholstered chair, thinking of Freya. Though not a client, or a femme fatale in the traditional sense, I can’t stop thinking about her. She has the nervous energy of a puppy, scampering around, not sure which scents to follow.
What about those lovely eyes – offering a glimpse of her soul, her fears and vulnerabilities?
Could she see into my soul?
I hope not.
Jerked out of my daydream, I ring Mike Turner. He should have returned home to clean his burger van by now. His deep, weary voice confirms another busy day ‘feeding the masses on Uckfield’s bypasses’, as his latest slogan proclaims.
Apparently rhyming soundbites boost street cred. But as Uckfield has only one bypass, he can only feed one mass. He couldn’t find anything to rhyme with ‘feeding the hungry’, having rejected my suggestion of ‘with devilish foodmongery’.
“Is this social or antisocial?” he asks. “Only the van looks like someone let off a grease bomb. Why can’t someone invent non-stick wall finishes?”
“Like Teflon Tiles?”
“Exactly. They’d make a fortune. Or non-stick cooking oil.”
“Until they do, you’ll have to settle for cleaning more often.”
“Are you volunteering to help, pal, or are you after a favour?”
In the background, I can hear water sloshing. “Quid pro quo?” I suggest.
“I don’t suppose you know the Latin for sod off? Not that it’s in your vocabulary. Does this favour involve bending or breaking rules?”
“You’d be assisting an enforcement officer with his enquiries.”
“You want me to break the rules.” He lets out a long sigh. The sound of water stops and I can hear him climbing down the steps to the ground. “What do you want?”
“An address to go with a mobile number. It’s linked to the fire at Station Diner.”
“Why aren’t you asking Ash Goodman? No, don’t answer that,” he says. “The less I know the better my chances of hanging onto my private parts. You’re a law enforcement officer, pal, why don’t you do the necessary?”
“Apart from not knowing where to start, I imagine I’ll need a warrant or written authorisation.”
“Ash Goodman can do it with an email. What happened to the dream team?”
“She’s not interested in the fire.”
“Then why are you?” He laughs when I don’t reply. “She won’t be pleased if you go off investigating on your own.”
She won’t be too happy if she finds out I’m working for both sides.
***
I should cancel pizza with Ashley in her new home. The meal at the Hydro has left me bloated. I also need time to work out how I can investigate her.
If only it didn’t involve getting closer to her.
You can’t get much closer than sex, I guess.
“It’
s a dirty job but someone has to do it,” I tell Columbo, wondering what other sacrifices I’ll need to make in the interests of justice.
He barks and wags his tail, nudging my hand for more attention.
“I could plant a bug on you and loan you to Ashley,” I say, gently rubbing his ears. “She might talk to you the way I do, discuss her problems. If I’d spoken to you before Gemma walked out, maybe I could have stopped her. You liked Gemma, didn’t you?”
He barks once more, sidling up closer.
“I miss her too, little mate. I could really do with her now. I’m stuck between Ashley and my father with no one to help me. Mike’s scared of Ashley. And while you’re the best, you can’t come up with ideas like Gemma.”
I make the call I’ve been putting off and persuade Ashley to meet me in the Eight Bells for a drink. It gives me an hour to complete some jobs in the kennels, freshen up, and wander down to the pub, where she’s already settled at a table in the main bar.
She rises to greet me, looking great in high heels, skinny jeans and a simple, but elegant knitted top. While her makeup is as minimal as her jewellery, her eyes sparkle like the large Prosecco in her hand.
Her leg rests against mine while she tells me about the boxes she’s unpacked. Her animated hands touch as much of me as possible, while her gaze roams around the busy bar, diverting to the entrance when someone walks in. Some of the locals nod to her. A few smile and call across, asking how she’s settling in. Most say nothing, which may have more to do with me and the way I’ve divided the village.
With a second Prosecco before her, she focuses on me, studying me with those piercing, but impenetrable eyes.
“What does Gina see in Birchill?” she asks. “She’s not short of a few bob, whatever she says. She wasn’t exactly all over him, considering they had a whirlwind holiday romance. You got a kiss and a pat on the bum.”
“Ah, you’re jealous.”
“I’m not constructed from silicone and Botox,” she says, running her fingers along my thigh.
Her fingers stop close to my groin. A cold rush of air distracts her. Olivia Haynes, who runs the riding stables next to Meadow Farm, strides into the pub, her boots thudding on the floorboards. In a worn tweed suit, she needs only a shooting stick to complete the Horse and Hound look.
No More Lies Page 11
