No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  They’re back on script. I caught them out with the Brighton fire, but I’m not sure it helps. I close my notebook and rise. “Thank you for your time, Miss King.”

  She nods and smiles. “I’ve told Tariq not to buy cheap, second hand equipment. You never know where it’s come from, if it’s faulty or not. As an environmental health officer, you’d only recommend buying new equipment, wouldn’t you?”

  She knows the fryer came from Mike. That’s why she wanted to meet me. She’s telling me to back off or she’ll report Mike.

  “I could have died, Mr Fisher. That’s why you must investigate and find out who sold us a dangerous fryer. I want him exposed and made to pay.”

  Forty-Four

  Back in the office, I study the photographs of Leila King, not sure what troubles me. She’s a consummate liar, far more accomplished than Hossain, and ready to fight dirty. If they are defrauding insurance companies, I have no evidence to pass to Lizzy Wong or Bob Glover. All the suspect equipment has long gone.

  Apart from the second deep fat fryer Hossain bought. He could tamper with the thermostat and produce the fryer to show we sold him faulty equipment. That’s why he bought two fryers. He wanted one as insurance.

  The irony isn’t lost on me, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Neither can I see how Leila or Hossain are involved in murder. I doubt whether she worked at the Rosy Lee Café. Even if she had a Saturday job, how does that link her to a body found buried on the South Downs?

  I find a quiet spot in the corridor and ring Ashley.

  “Kent, I’m busy. Why don’t you call round later? I was a little short with you yesterday. I’d like to make it up to you.”

  “I have one question. Are you sure Leila King worked at the Rosy Lee Café?”

  “That’s what Mr Hossain told me.”

  “So, you never checked it out?”

  “That’s two questions, Kent. Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It sounds like you have issues, Kent. Let me cook dinner. You can choose dessert.”

  I end the call, annoyed that she didn’t check what Hossain told her. Then again, why would she when she’s only interested in nicking my father for murder?

  But I can check. If Leila King worked at Easy Burger and Easy Pizza, someone will know. It takes minutes to identify the owner of the businesses from our databases. It takes seconds to find Easy Kebab and Pizza in Eastbourne on Google, but there are no details of its owner.

  “Nigel, do you know what happened to Kambiz Kazemi after he closed Easy Pizza in Station Road?”

  “No idea,” he replies, walking over. “I think he owns a place in Eastbourne though. Yeah, that’s the one,” he says, looking at the screen.

  It takes several wasted phone calls and almost half an hour before I speak to Kazemi. He’s playing snooker in a club two streets from the town hall. He invites me to join him.

  “How will I recognise you?” I ask.

  “You’ll have no trouble,” he says with a laugh.

  Tollingdon Snooker Club occupies the first floor of an old Victorian workhouse, tucked away down a side street that once led to a slaughterhouse. It’s dark and quiet, the crack and click of snooker balls making more noise than the players. I stop at the bar and introduce myself to the woman drying beer glasses. She points to the man in a red suit and shoes. He’s playing on the furthest of six tables, his gold rings and bracelets glinting under the table lights.

  He nods as I approach and chalks the tip of his cue. He walks down the table, crouches to bring his eyes in line with the table and nods. A few seconds later, he pots a long black with ease. His opponent nods and walks away, unscrewing his two piece cue.

  “Do you play, Mr Fisher?”

  I glance at the scoreboard. “I’m no match for you, Mr Kamezi.”

  “Call me Kambiz, Mr Fisher.”

  “Call me Kent,” I say, shaking his hand.

  Kambiz has a big smile, large teeth, a rounded face and a shiny bald head. His lack of hair, dark bushy eyebrows excepted, makes him difficult to age. There’s a glint in his eyes, a swagger in his stride and a lack of modesty in his flamboyant suit, complete with waistcoat, both dusted with green chalk.

  “We can talk at the bar or here,” he says, nodding to the stools on either side of the small round table. He picks up his red watch and slides it onto his wrist. “Would you like a drink?” he asks, picking up his empty glass.

  “Mineral water.”

  He waves his glass and holds up two fingers. The lady behind the bar gives him the thumbs up. “Stella will bring them over.”

  “The service is good,” I say, brushing chalk dust from the stool.

  “It should be – I own the place.”

  “Why isn’t it called Easy Snooker then?”

  “Snooker’s a game of skill and concentration.” He laughs and sits, loosening his waistcoat, which struggles to contain his muscular frame. “You want to talk about Leila King.”

  “I believe she worked for you.”

  “Sure. She was good for business. Slim, attractive, sexy eyes, flirting with the punters. She belonged in a trendy nightclub or high class cocktail bar, playing games with the men. And the women,” he adds with a wink. “She likes attention.”

  I nod. “Yes, I got that impression.”

  “You’ve met her? Tell me, how did you find her?”

  “Attractive and playful, as you say, but I imagine she could be ruthless.”

  “Indeed,” he says, nodding. “When she set her mind on something, you couldn’t stop her. She persuaded me to spend a lot of money, converting the empty rooms above the shop into a flat. She said I should let her live there rent free because she would keep an eye on the premises.”

  “You must have been keen to keep her,” I say.

  “Like I said, she was good for business. Now, can I interest you in lunch, Kent? Stella makes the best steak sandwich in town.”

  She smiles at the compliment and puts the tray with our drinks on the table.

  “I’ve already eaten.”

  “Then you must come to my restaurant in Eastbourne,” he says, dismissing Stella with a flick of his hand. “Bring your wife and family. I will treat you to the best kebab you have ever eaten.”

  That wouldn’t be difficult as I don’t eat them.

  I take a sip of mineral water from the bottle. “What happened to Leila after you sold the business?”

  “She let me down long before I sold the business.” He lowers his voice. “It was my own fault. I was busy setting up my restaurant in Eastbourne. We had trouble with the planning inspectors, the building inspectors, the health inspectors. So many rules and regulations.”

  “What about Leila?” I asking, trying to avoid a list of grievances about disabled toilets, odour filters, ventilation stacks, late night opening.

  “I left her in charge. I thought it would be good for her. But she changed suppliers. She bought cheaper meat and vegetables. She changed the man who collected the waste cooking oil, the people who emptied the bins. When my workers complained, I thought they didn’t like working for a woman. Money was tight, so I understood what Leila was trying to do, you know? Kambiz Kamezi can’t be in two places at the same time, can he?”

  “What happened?”

  He wipes his hand over his face, replacing the smile with a tight-lipped grimace. “We had trouble with a fryer. Instead of calling Mikey, the engineer, who’s a friend of mine, she bought a cheap one from a man in Brighton. She paid cash, which made me angry. You have no comeback with cash.”

  He sighs and shakes his head. “But you can’t stay angry with Leila. When she starts crying, you want to protect her. She said she wanted to prove herself, to make me proud of her. Her father had always made her feel useless and stupid.” He gives me a helpless shrug. “What could I do? I needed to be in Eastbourne.”

  “Did something go wrong?” I ask, certain I know what’s coming.
<
br />   “Sure. One night – I think it was Monday – I was feeling good. The works in Eastbourne had finished ahead of schedule. I wanted to celebrate. I was feeling good, man, so good. I thought I would surprise Leila. When I got there, the restaurant was closed. Mondays are quiet night, sure, but it was only half past nine. Where was everybody? Why were there no lights upstairs?”

  He drinks most of his mineral water before continuing. “As soon as I was inside I could smell something was wrong. The oil in the deep fat fryer was so hot. I knew it could catch fire any second. I turned off the power. I soaked towels and placed them over the top. I stayed there for over an hour,” he says, rubbing his chin, “wanting to know why no one had turned the fryer off.

  “The next morning, I found out Leila closed the restaurant early and sent everyone home. She told them she’d cleared it with me. Like I would turn away business, you know? She said she went to Crawley because her mother had fallen over and broken her leg. What could I do?”

  “Did you ask your engineer to check the fryer?”

  “Sure. It had a faulty thermostat. It should have cut the power to prevent the oil overheating. Mikey said it was an accident waiting to happen. He didn’t understand why I bought it.”

  “Interesting,” I say.

  “Not as interesting as Leila’s mother. I rang to see how she was, send her some flowers, you know. She was fit and well and living in Birmingham, not Crawley.”

  Forty-Five

  Back in the office, I ring Bob Glover. His world weary tone and attitude soon changes when I relate Kamezi’s story.

  “I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Bob says. “Good job, tracking down Leila King and Mr Kamezi. What was she like?”

  “All smiles before she scratches your eyes out.”

  “Not likely to confess to anything,” he says.

  “Can’t you review your report? Kamezi’s evidence casts doubt, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s not like the good old days when we stood up in a witness box and no one challenged us. People respected who we were, what we did. Unless the police prove arson, there’s not much I can do.”

  “I’ll talk to Ashley.”

  He treats me to one of his cynical sighs. “She’s far too busy with her body.”

  I’m not sure if he intended to be ambiguous, but I thank him and put the phone down.

  Kelly strides over. “Rick Preston has been arrested. The police want a statement from you.” She hands me a slip of paper with the contact details. “Anything to do with the files you scanned?”

  “Haven’t you got a wedding to go to?”

  “I’m not setting off till tomorrow. Who’s Rick Preston?”

  “I’m deputising for Danni at a meeting in Eastbourne this afternoon.” I rise and pull on my jacket. “I won’t see you till next week. I’m looking forward to the photographs, especially you in your Maid of Honour dress.”

  “Gemma’s dress is divine.”

  “But you’re an angel,” I say, heading for the door.

  ***

  The meeting finishes earlier than expected, so Columbo’s out walking with Frances and the other dogs when I reach home. I make a cup of tea, take one of Niamh’s Millionaire’s Slices, and head for my room. Thirty minutes later, the scamper of claws on vinyl signals Columbo’s return. He barges open the bedroom door, leaps up on the bed and scatters my notes in a flurry of paws, tail wagging and kisses.

  If only people could muster such a welcome.

  In the time it takes me to gather up and sort my notes, he’s drifted off to sleep, exhausted by his stroll on the Downs. A run might clear my head. I could even stop by Ashley’s cottage on the way back.

  No, I’d rather be with Freya.

  I can’t stop thinking about Sunday, about her, about what I could lose. Whether she lied to me or not about her divorce, or the lack of one, I don’t care. No, of course I care, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.

  Identifying the murder victim and killer might prove more difficult to fix. While I can’t believe she had anything to do with the murder, I can’t afford to discount the possibility. That’s the trouble with investigations with little tangible evidence. It’s all lies and half-truths.

  I’m hardly Sherlock Holmes, the way I stumble along, often down blind alleys, trying not to lose sight of all possibilities.

  I could really do with my Watson to help me.

  Maybe that’s why I want to be with Freya. I want her here beside me. Now I have my sanctuary on a sound financial footing, I want someone to share it with.

  Did I have to lose Gemma to discover that?

  Pushing her from my thoughts, I return to my notes. A few moments later, my phone rings. I take a deep breath, paste a smile on my lips and greet Ashley.

  She’s ringing from the car. “Do you fancy something hot and spicy?”

  “Have you got Geri Halliwell with you?”

  “I’m talking Mexicana or Pepperoni. My treat.”

  “Are we celebrating Rick Preston’s arrest?”

  “No, it’s a local collar. Don’t forget you need to give a statement.”

  “Why don’t I pop into Hammonds Drive tomorrow?” I ask, sensing a way out of this evening’s pizza. “We could have lunch.”

  “DNA results for Jonathan Wright tomorrow – not that I’m expecting a positive identification. But as Senior Investigating Officer I need to prepare for all eventualities. So, tell me about Leila King.”

  “You’ve spoken to Bob Glover.”

  “He had the courtesy to keep me in the loop.”

  “I was going to discuss it with you this evening.”

  “You should have informed me right away. I could have spoken to her this afternoon. Text me her phone number and I’ll do it now.”

  I shift, realising my omission. “I only have her mother’s number.”

  “Didn’t you take Leila’s details when you interviewed her?”

  “It wasn’t an interview. She asked to meet me.”

  “Was she wearing a red rose in her lapel?”

  “You can reach her through Hossain.”

  “Her partner in crime? Jeez, Kent! This is basic interview technique. Please tell me you cautioned her.”

  “It wasn’t a formal interview.”

  “You’ve got interview rooms at the town hall. You’ve got portable recording equipment.”

  “We didn’t meet in the office.”

  Her voice hits another octave. “Don’t tell me you met in the park to feed the ducks?”

  “I didn’t think you were interested in Leila King.”

  “I put you onto her in the first place. Look, Kent, I can’t have you undermining my investigation like this. Stay away from Leila King, Freya Preston and anyone else involved, or you’ll be in my interview room, learning how to do things properly.”

  “I’ll cancel pizza then.”

  “You don’t get off that easy, Kent. I want every note, phone number, scrap of paper you’ve accumulated since I asked for your assistance. I need to know what else you’ve screwed up.”

  I put the phone down and turn to Columbo, who looks worried. I ruffle his fur and reassure him, relieved I didn’t submit my application for a private investigator’s licence.

  “It’s one less Christmas card to send,” I say, though there’s nothing to laugh about. “I screwed up – and not for the first or last time, I fear.”

  He licks me and then rolls onto his back so I can rub his chest. Somehow, I can’t see that working with Ashley.

  ***

  My anger increases with every step as I head through Jevington, my notes in a cardboard box. Ashley’s deceived me, pretending to go out on a limb when she’s running the investigation to identify the body at Sunshine View. It’s hardly ethical, but nowhere near as bad as my schoolboy error.

  Why didn’t I request contact details, even if Leila King refused to give them?

  She would never have agreed to an interview at the office. Not that I could have interv
iewed her. I deal with food hygiene and health and safety at work offences, not arson.

  Ashley knows that. She wants to kick me into the long grass where I can’t challenge her.

  I bang on her front door and step back.

  She opens it a few minutes later, her blouse hanging over her skirt, her feet bare. She studies me for a moment, giving nothing away as usual and then steps back to let me in.

  “The notes you wanted,” I say, pushing the box at her.

  She grabs it with both hands before it drops to the floor. “You let yourself down, Kent.”

  I have a brief riposte prepared, but what’s the point? DI Ashley Goodman isn’t interested. My anger’s wasted, eating up valuable time and emotion, important space in my head, pushing up my blood pressure for a woman who doesn’t give a shit.

  “I don’t know why you need all this,” I say, nodding at the box. “You decided who was guilty before you asked me to help.”

  “If that’s true, why did I submit a DNA swab to see if Jonathan Wright’s the victim?”

  “To rule him out?”

  “You suggested him, Kent. Now I’m suggesting you consider Miles Birchill as a murder suspect. I know you don’t believe it, blood being thicker than water, but is blood thicker than murder?”

  She knows he’s my father. I’d already guessed, but it still hurts. No, it’s the subterfuge that hurts. She knew the day she visited me at Meadow Farm. She sat there in the Hydro Hotel, spinning her lies, gloating as she sat within touching distance of the man she intends to arrest.

  I wrench the box from her hands and march away.

  Maybe she’s done me a favour.

  I’m free to conduct my own enquiries and she’s not going to like what I have planned for tomorrow.

  Forty-Six

  After a club sandwich lunch at Downland Manor Hotel, my father drives us to the Ace of Hearts in Brighton. He spends most of the journey talking about Gina. It’s clear he’s besotted with her and reaping the benefits of being engaged to a woman who’s on first name terms with politicians, high-ranking police officers and the judiciary.