No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  “Cranberry’s fine.”

  She passes me the carton. “I sometimes sneak a measure of vodka into my cranberry. That’s my naughty secret. What’s yours?”

  Her smug, almost arrogant confidence has killed any doubts I had about her text. What she saw at Downland Manor confirmed her suspicions. She will also believe I’m on Birchill’s side.

  “It’s not the woman from the poodle parlour, is it? Your naughty secret?”

  Ashley’s enjoying herself now.

  “No, chips,” I reply. “Hardly naughty, but a little risqué for someone who promotes healthy eating.”

  “Do as I say not as I do,” she says, passing me a glass. “Does Mike know? He said you’ve scared him off most of the foods he used to enjoy.”

  “I didn’t realise you were checking on me.”

  “Did you know him in his Scenes of Crime days?”

  I fill the glass with cranberry, wondering whether to cut the crap and confront her about my father.

  “I was investigating a fatal accident,” I say. “A young child was crushed when some timber sheets toppled on him at a local DIY store. Mike was shopping there at the time and witnessed the accident. He helped me preserve the scene, collect and bag the evidence, interview witnesses. All bread and butter stuff to him.”

  “In return, you helped him set up his mobile café business. You wrote his systems, didn’t you?”

  Has Mike remembered that his memoirs are on the same memory stick as his management systems? Without his memoirs I wouldn’t know about the menu found on the body.

  Who is Peter Stone? Where does he fit in?

  All I know for sure is that Peter means rock. Stone is a hard place.

  Is this someone’s idea of a joke?

  Ashley takes her large glass of wine to the conservatory, still warm from the recent sunshine. She’s covered a small table with a plastic tablecloth, smothered in poppy flowers. Matching coasters and mats, arranged symmetrically, await our takeaway. She pauses by the window sill, which bristles with cacti from large upright ones to those that spread like a spiny carpet.

  “Like me, they’re low maintenance,” she says, running the tip of her finger across a spine. “I travel light, have few expectations and know exactly what I want.”

  I want to be somewhere else. I want to stop feeling like a suspect. I don’t want to spend the evening wondering what she knows. I want to be with Freya, enjoying her nervous energy and honesty.

  “Love the view,” Ashley says, staring at the grassy slopes of the Downs, now in shadow. The silhouetted trees, stark against the moody sky, call to me, urging me to put on my running gear and make the steep ascent.

  The oven timer pings, drawing her back to the kitchen. I stare at the Downs, desperate to escape, to run till my muscles burn, till the anxiety clears. She soon returns with the food, laid out on plates. Steam rises from the cut pizza, dispersing the heavenly aromas of pepperoni, garlic and tomato. I pinch a potato wedge and sit at the table.

  “Love spicy wedges.” She makes pleasurable sounds as she feeds pizza into her mouth, ignoring the trail of oil that runs down the groove in her chin. She licks the tomato sauce from her fingers and smiles at me. “Is it spicy enough for you, Kent?”

  I nod and eat in silence as she gives me a resume of her efforts to clean the house and make it habitable.

  She helps herself to another slice of pizza. “Environmental health officers are like coppers. They never switch off. You spotted the mould along the back of the sink, the sticky black patch in the corner. I tried a scraper, scouring pad and degreaser, but it looks like I’ll need a controlled explosion to shift it.”

  “White spirit,” I say. I use it to clean tar spots off the car, but never as a conversation killer.

  We eat in silence, taking no time at all to polish off the food. She’s still chewing the last mouthful of pizza when she collects the plates, stacks them and takes them to the kitchen. “No dishwasher,” she says, as if it’s the end of civilisation.

  “Why don’t I wash and you dry?”

  “There should be enough hot water,” she says, searching for a tea towel.

  While the sink fills with soapy water, she waits, tea towel poised. “What have you been up to today? Anything exciting?”

  “There’s plenty to do at Meadow Farm.”

  “I don’t remember seeing your car when I drove past this morning.”

  I pass her a plate. “Were you going anywhere interesting?”

  “More interesting than I was expecting.”

  “Really?” I ask, focusing hard on washing another plate.

  “You’re making a fool of yourself, Kent. Worse than that, you could compromise the investigation.”

  So, she tailed me to Downland Manor, tucking herself out of sight to spy on me. She must have enjoyed watching me and my father, her suspicions confirmed. Now, all she needs is a confession from me to turn them into evidence. I could argue that I was getting close to my father to glean information, but I doubt if she’d believe me.

  “Do you get a thrill, spying on me?” I ask, handing her another plate.

  “I’d rather you didn’t mess around with Freya Preston.”

  “Is that why you called me a silly boy?”

  Ashley sighs. “She’s a married woman with a lousy choice in husbands. Richard Preston has cautions for shoplifting, handling stolen goods, selling illegal substances and theft. He’s a small time villain with connections to some unsavoury characters.”

  “Good job Freya’s divorced him.”

  “Kent, she hasn’t divorced him. They share a flat above a betting shop. I can give you the address, if you want to check.”

  I shake my head, surprised by how betrayed I feel.

  I should have known when we first met, when Freya tried to hide her wedding ring.

  Ashley places a hand on my arm. “I didn’t want you to make a fool of yourself.”

  I throw the sponge into the water. “Your nose is out of joint because I chased after Freya the other evening.”

  “I don’t want you caught in the crossfire.”

  “What crossfire? What’s a petty crook got to do with your investigation?”

  Her smile sends a chill through me. “Anyone who frequents Birchill’s casino is of interest to me, Kent.”

  Thirty-Four

  On Sunday morning I drive to Herstmonceux. I park on the opposite side of the road to Connie Wright’s bungalow to give me a clear view in both directions. It’s a little after nine forty-five and I can’t stop going over the questions I want to ask Freya.

  She rang while I was at Ashley’s. I ignored the call, picking up the voicemail at home. Armed with the address, I considered visiting Connie alone this morning, but I want to confront Freya, to hear what she has to say.

  Innocent until proven guilty, I remind myself.

  The small estate was built during the 1960s or 70s when windows reached all the way to the floor to increase heat loss. Most of the owners have enclosed the recessed front doorways with patio doors to create a porch. Most have well-tended gardens, many filled with bright annuals. Connie prefers crazy paving and a few plants in pots. There’s a concrete ramp and handrail to the front door and no car in the drive.

  Maybe she’s popped into the village for a Sunday newspaper.

  William Fisher surrounded himself with Sunday newspapers and their glossy supplements. He remained at the breakfast table, long after his mug of tea went cold, reading the Times, Telegraph and Observer in turn. As a young child, I sat next to him. He pointed out the photographs, but I was always fascinated by the words, especially the big headlines. I wanted to know what they said, what they meant. Little by little, he taught me to read.

  When I started school, my reading seemed to antagonise the teachers for reasons I’ve never understood.

  Freya’s arrival brings me back to the present. Her van swings around the corner and pulls into the bungalow’s drive. She remains in the van, staring at a c
hocolate bar in her hand. She reaches to open the wrapper several times, always stopping and shaking her head.

  I know how she feels. I want to undress her, to make love to her, in spite of my reservations. Why can’t I get her out of my thoughts? Why am I angry with Ashley when Freya lied to me?

  At least Ashley didn’t follow me when I met my father yesterday.

  Or did she? We were only five minutes from Jevington.

  I need certainty, clarity. I hope Connie Wright can provide that.

  Then I’ll confront Freya.

  Setting my emotions aside, I walk over to her van. “I admire your willpower,” I say, gesturing at the chocolate bar.

  She gasps and puts her hand to her chest. “Don’t sneak up like that! Where are you parked?”

  I open the door for her. “I didn’t want to wait outside in case it worried Connie. Is there anything I need to know?”

  “About what?”

  “About Connie.”

  Freya pushes the hair out of her eyes and adjusts the bulldog clip. A combination of eyeliner and mascara highlight her eyes, accentuating the lost soul look I find so endearing. A generous coating of lip gloss highlights the whiteness of her teeth and the curve of her mouth. Her skin may not be as smooth and flawless as Georgina’s, but Freya looks human and flawed, her features etched with life.

  “New suit?” I ask, admiring the navy blue jacket and skirt. “New shoes?”

  She stretches out her arms. “New bra, new blouse, new knickers, new me.”

  “New you?”

  “Tell you later,” she says, distracted by the front door opening.

  A small lady with a kindly face and white permed hair, steps forward, leaning on a walking stick. She has rounded shoulders, a nervous smile and a slight twitch, which makes it look like she’s nodding. Her pastel blue cardigan fits snugly over a white blouse with a frilly collar that seems too large for her neck. Her sharply creased trousers stop short of Bugs Bunny slippers, which dwarf her feet.

  Though she looks frail, there’s a keen look in her eyes. “I saw you in the newspaper,” she says, pushing her frameless glasses up her twisted nose. “You found a missing woman last year.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Mrs Wright.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything,” she says, looking me over. “I find a suit brings out the best in a man.”

  “I didn’t want to appear officious. It unsettles some people.”

  “You could stand in front of me naked, Mr Fisher and you wouldn’t unsettle me. I might find you more interesting to look at though.”

  Freya scuttles over from the back of the van with a carrier bag. “I’ve brought the brie you wanted.”

  “English?” she asks, as if foreign cheese is inferior. “Good, good. Thank you, Freya. I can always rely on you.”

  “You can trust Mr Fisher too.”

  Connie looks me over once more, her expression not filling me with optimism. “Can you find my son?”

  “We’re not here to find Jonathan,” Freya says, encouraging Connie inside. “We’re here to talk about him.”

  She refuses to budge. “You can tell Mr Fisher everything he needs to know. I want to know if you can find him, Mr Fisher. Yes or no?”

  “I thought he was in America.”

  “I thought he’d keep in touch with his mother.” She sighs as if her son’s always been a source of grief and beckons me to follow her inside.

  Freya helps her along the narrow hall, decorated in pastel blues and creams. Though spotless, ceramic horses line every window sill, the mantelpiece above the electric fire, and almost every surface and shelf of her antique furniture. Horse brasses hang from the walls, charting the many English towns and villages she’s visited over the years.

  It must take days to dust the place.

  I settle on the two-seater sofa opposite Connie’s mechanised armchair, which looks like it tilts, tips and reclines, all at once probably. My gaze drifts past the lace-trimmed cushions and curtains to the sideboard, where a collection of family photographs stand proud in silver frames.

  Her husband, Malcolm, looks like one of those men who blend into the background. Average height, average build, no scars or blemishes, short neat hair and an ordinary face and eyes make him difficult to describe. He only smiles when he’s sitting at the wheel of his delivery vans.

  Jonathan, on the other hand, wants to be noticed, pushing himself to the front of most photographs. He has dark messy hair that reaches his shoulders, a big smile that connects his ears, and eyes that seem to stare through you. He’s handsome, athletic and a bit of a clown, by the looks of things.

  It all seems a bit posed and calculated.

  Connie and I sit like strangers in a waiting room until Freya returns with a tray bearing a stout teapot and three china cups and saucers. Once tea is poured and everyone’s settled, I open my notebook and write in the date. Freya, sitting beside me, watches me scribble.

  “Tell me about Jonathan,” I say.

  Connie speaks slowly and clearly, like a headmistress reciting the rules.

  “He’s my son and I love him. He was an idle, arrogant little sod, who spent his life lying, cheating, sponging and gambling. He used everyone he met. He promised them the earth, took their money and gave them nothing but heartache and misery.”

  She pauses and stares at me with steely eyes.

  “I suppose you think that’s harsh, Mr Fisher.”

  I smile. “I’m sure my mother says the same about me.”

  “Why, did you disappoint her?”

  “No, I never liked her.”

  Connie laughs. “I’m not sure Jonathan liked us much. We had him late, you see. We were always too busy with the business to keep an eye on him. We let him down badly,” she says, her eyes filled with regret. “That’s why he ran away.”

  “Do you think he was running from someone?” I ask.

  She glances at Freya and gives her a resigned smile. “He was always running, always chasing, always arriving late. He called himself a catering maintenance engineer when he drove the delivery van. He liked to talk big. According to Facebook, he’s responsible for security at a casino in Las Vegas. It probably means he locks the doors after he’s cleaned the rooms.”

  “Do you know which casino?”

  “He’s not allowed to say,” Freya replies. “Hotel rules. That’s why he can’t post his photograph on Facebook or any images of the hotel.”

  Connie snorts. “He doesn’t want anyone to know where he is, more like.”

  “Then why post on Facebook?” I ask.

  “He sends a message on my birthday and at Christmas.” Connie rises slowly and walks over to the bureau. She retrieves a tablet computer and returns to her armchair. “Everything else is jokes, cute animal videos.”

  “Do you have a photo of him on his own?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Shortly after he left, someone broke into the house and ransacked his room. They took his TV and hi fi, his laptop and personal things like photographs.”

  “He didn’t take his laptop?”

  Connie shakes her head. “He took the clothes on his back and my savings.”

  “They took my phone and some personal things too,” Freya says.

  “You lived here when you came back from Vegas?”

  “We had a detached house in Cross in Hand at the time,” Connie replies. “I moved here a few years ago when the stairs became too much for me. We knew Freya, of course, but we never expected them to marry. Malcolm was furious. He and Jonathan almost came to blows.”

  “He was going to throw Jonathan out,” Freya says.

  Connie nods. “That’s why he ran. He always ran from trouble, leaving others to sort out the mess.”

  “Why do you think he went back to America?”

  “Las Vegas.” Connie looks up from her tablet. “He was a gambler. Nothing else mattered, only the next bet, the next chance to win. It was three months before he contacted us to s
ay he was safe.”

  “You’ve no idea what happened between him vanishing and getting in touch?”

  She shakes her head.

  “He deleted his original Facebook page the day after he left,” Freya says. “His phone was out of service.”

  Connie gives her daughter-in-law a sympathetic smile. “You tried everything to get in touch with him. We all did.”

  “Did you report him missing?”

  “Malcolm said Jonathon would return as soon as he needed money. Then, about a week later, we had a visit from someone at the casino, saying Jonathan had missed the deadline to repay his debts.”

  “Which casino?”

  “The Ace of Hearts in Brighton. Or No Hearts, as Malcolm called them. He said everything would be alright, but he was shaking when they left. He kept telling me he’d sort everything out, but he didn’t sleep that night. In the morning he flew out of the door, saying the casino would pay for what they’d done.”

  Connie glances at the photo of him on her tablet and sighs.

  “I never saw him again.”

  Thirty-Five

  In the space of a week, Connie’s son and husband vanished. Her son got in touch from Las Vegas, but she hasn’t said anything about her husband. His disappearance ties in with what Tony Layman told me at the farm.

  Did Malcolm confront Birchill or his security staff?

  “Have you any idea what happened?” I ask.

  Connie reaches for her walking stick and rises. “I’d like you to leave now.”

  Freya’s about to speak, but I shake my head. “I know someone at the Ace of Hearts. I may be able to find out.”

  She shuffles to the door. “If the police couldn’t find Malcolm, how can you?”

  “One more thing,” I say, grabbing my notebook. “You supplied the Rosy Lee Café on Station Road in Tollingdon. It was run by Henry Potter and his wife.”

  “We supplied a lot of businesses.”

  “I closed it down on the 11th November ten years ago, Mrs Wright. When did Jonathan go missing?”

  “Second of December.”

  “What about your husband? When did he disappear?”