No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  I consider for a moment. “Small details that don’t make sense. I’m working on it. How do you feel, Freya? It affects you too.”

  “I’m hoping you can put in a word so I can get my money back. Sorry,” she says, “that’s not funny under the circumstances.”

  “What if my father instructed his people to get rid of your husband?”

  “You didn’t ask him to do it, did you?”

  I look into her eyes, not sure what I’ve done to deserve her. “You’re amazing,” I say, looking into her eyes.

  “And don’t you forget it.” She kisses me so softly, so gently, I feel my doubts melt away. “But if I tell DI Goodman about my phone call to the casino it’ll make things worse.”

  “No worse than they already are. You have to do what’s right, Freya.”

  “Was it right to take Jonathan’s secret stash of cash?”

  ***

  Freya rings Connie’s bell. When there’s no answer, she uses her key and lets us into the bungalow. An ominous silence fills the place, heightening my senses and concern. There’s a half-eaten sandwich and a full glass of milk on the table. The copy of Dead Simple by Peter James lies face down on the sofa.

  Freya calls out again as we head into the kitchen, where a chopping board and knife lie on the worktop. An empty plastic milk bottle stands in the sink. Freya calls again and leads me to the bedroom. As she’s about to enter, there’s a thud within, like something heavy falling to the floor.

  I ease her out of the way and push open the door, ready for anything. Freya flicks on the light to reveal Connie, dressed in a loose nightgown, standing over a broken ceramic horse on the floor. Tears roll down her face.

  Freya goes over and eases her away from the broken shards of pottery. She leads her out of the bedroom. I gather up the pieces of horse and drop them into a pedal bin. A quick glance around the room reveals a cup of cold tea on the bedside cabinet. When I straighten the pillows I spot the tablet computer, peeping out from under the duvet.

  She’s been looking at photographs of her son.

  Connie hasn’t eaten since the police visit. We walk her into the living room and switch on the electric fire to warm her. Though unsteady on her feet, there’s anger in her eyes. She sits with her back straight and agrees to a fresh cup of tea. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks in a clear, but flat tone.

  “My boy died when he stole money from my purse, desperate to impress a girl at school. He took her out for a meal, paid for everything and took her home. When she didn’t invite him in, he went around the school next day, saying how cheap and easy she was, telling everyone she’d been all over him. He was sixteen.

  “The girl’s brother beat him to a pulp and left him in an alley. When he came home, he said, ‘You should see the other guy’. That was his trouble, Mr Fisher. He lived in a fantasy world. He never took responsibility for his actions. We tried, but it only made him go out of his way to antagonise us.”

  She pauses when Freya returns with a tray, setting it on the table.

  “He was a miracle,” Connie says. “We’d given up on having children when ... I’m sure you can imagine our joy at the news. But from that point I was scared that something would happen to him. He was so precious to me, I spoilt him. He knew how scared I was of losing him, so he did whatever he wanted with impunity. Mum would always come to the rescue.”

  “Is there anything you can tell us about the time before he died, Mrs Wright? Anything unusual or different in his routines.”

  “Apart from marrying Freya?” She clasps Freya’s hand and gives her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I created a monster, love. I know you tried your best.”

  “Was there anyone who wanted to hurt Jonathan?” Freya asks.

  Connie shrugs. “We hardly saw him from one week to the next.”

  “Did anyone come round to the warehouse, looking for him?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “We had deliveries. Freya and her father popped round sometimes. There were the occasional sales people with their shiny brochures.”

  “Last time you mentioned a fire officer,” Freya says. “Trading Standards too. I had the impression you thought they were picking on you.”

  “Someone with a grudge?” I ask.

  “Well, they came around so close together, if that’s what you mean. The chap from the fire brigade was a right misery guts, complaining about the way his bosses treated him, sending him out on boring jobs to places in the back of beyond. It didn’t stop him checking every corner, every nook and cranny, mind. He was determined to find as much wrong as possible. I didn’t think he was going to leave until Jonathan returned.”

  “What about Trading Standards?” I ask.

  “Someone said we were selling out of date food, which was rubbish. She had a quick look round, checked our invoices and delivery notes and left, apologising for troubling us. Your inspectors were the only regular visitors, Mr Fisher. That’s why the others stick in my mind. I never saw them before or after.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you, Connie?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and reaches for Peter James. “Jonathan could have written books with all the stories and lies he told. I hope he wasn’t buried alive like the character in this book,” she says with a shudder.

  We drink tea and chat a little more about Jonathan before leaving. Back in the car, I ask Freya what she thinks.

  “It looks like someone had a grudge against Wright Choice Foods.”

  “Or Jonathan,” I say.

  “But why send fire officers and trading standards?” she asks, buckling her seatbelt. “Why not take him down a dark alley?”

  It’s a good point.

  Fifty-One

  We stop at Pasta Paradise in Tollingdon for a bite to eat and a summary of my investigation. Freya listens while enjoying her pasta with extra chilli. When I finish telling her, she puts down her fork and wipes the sauce from the corners of her mouth.

  “If DI Goodman thinks the murder and the fire at Station Diner are connected, why isn’t she investigating both?”

  “She might be,” I reply. “That’s the trouble. I’ve no idea what she’s doing. She used me to get to my father though.”

  Freya doesn’t look convinced. “What about the woman at the Ace of Hearts?”

  “Gill Kaine?”

  “Why do you think she might be Leila King? She sounds like she’s in cahoots with Hossain to defraud the insurance company.”

  I chew on my pizza, not sure I want to mention the anagram connection. It makes me look like I’m desperate.

  Freya leans over and pinches a piece of chilli. “What if DI Goodman wants you to think there’s a connection? Just because Station Diner’s in the same building as the Rosy Lee Café, doesn’t mean they’re connected.”

  “What if ...” I pause, not sure what flashed through my brain. “Sorry, it’s gone. That’s the trouble. I’m missing something.”

  She takes my hand. “Then let’s go through everything you’ve got and see if anything jumps out.”

  “It could take some time.”

  “We should spend more time together.”

  I look into her eyes and thank my lucky stars. Of all the businesses that supplied the Rosy Lee Café I found the one that occupied the unit opposite hers. Was it luck or fate? No, Wright Choice Foods was the only local supplier.

  ***

  I drive straight through Jevington to the other end of the village. Ashley’s cottage is dark and her Audi’s not there or in the Eight Bells’ car park. If she’s interviewing my father she can’t drop into Meadow Farm.

  “That’s where she lives,” I say. “She moved in a week ago.”

  Freya stares at the cottage. “She’s not going to give up, Kent. I don’t want to think about how she’ll react if you prove she’s wrong about your father.”

  I’m well aware of the threat Ashley poses, but it does nothing to lift the feeling of unease in my stomach. She’s given me a day and a
half’s grace because she thinks I’ll make a fool of myself.

  What if she’s right? What if she has compelling evidence she’s kept to herself?

  When I pull up outside Meadow Farm, I wonder how Freya’s coping. It can’t be easy, talking about the murder of her second husband. She shared a life and a bed with Jonathan Wright, albeit briefly. She loved him and someone snuffed out his life.

  “Are you okay, investigating the death of your husband? It’s not like he’s a stranger, a name in a newspaper.”

  “Jonathan was a stranger,” she says. “A charming, funny and totally captivating stranger.”

  “What if my father is responsible?”

  “You’ll do what’s right. It’s in your DNA.”

  Guided by my torch, we walk along the path, my arm around her waist, her head resting on my shoulder. One or two of the dogs are barking in the kennels, disturbed by a fox or rabbit. Columbo soon joins in, scratching at the door to go out. Frances lets him out and he stops, sniffing the air before scurrying towards the kennels. Then he spots us and bullets across the grass to greet us.

  Freya scoops him up, letting him plaster her face with kisses. She carries him to the mobile home, where Frances takes him and sets him down. His claws click on the vinyl as he jumps about, eager for more attention. Frances gathers up her plate and utensils from the table and places them in the sink.

  “Vegetable curry slice?” I ask, enjoying the spicy aroma.

  “Niamh brought loads. I put most of them in the freezer.”

  “Freya’s here to help with the murder at the caravan park.”

  “It was on the news earlier. I recorded it for you.”

  I gesture to the sofa. “Shall we?”

  Freya settles down beside me, Columbo on her lap. I soon find the recording on the Freesat box and settle back. A male presenter, whose name I can never remember, looks straight into the camera, his expression sombre.

  “South East News has received reports that entrepreneur and multimillionaire, Miles Birchill, has been taken in for questioning by Sussex Police, investigating the murder of Jonathan Wright, whose body lay undisturbed in a grave on land Mr Birchill once owned. Police raided his casino, the Ace of Hearts, in Brighton earlier this afternoon. Staff and members watched while he was escorted from the premises into a waiting police car. A spokesperson for Sussex Police informed us that Mr Birchill is helping them with their enquiries.

  “We can now go live to our reporter in Brighton.”

  The local reporter repeats everything the presenter said for those with short attention spans. She then pauses to show mobile phone footage of my father being escorted out of the front entrance of the casino, flanked by two officers. He looks lost, his confidence and swagger replaced by disbelief and uncertainty. There’s a brief interchange between the presenter and reporter before a promise of more details during the late bulletin.

  “No sign of DI Goodman,” Freya remarks.

  “She was putting me in my place at the time.”

  I switch off the TV, surprised by how shaken I feel. Suddenly, the enormity of the task ahead hits me. I’m not battling Ashley, I’m up against the Major Incident Team of Sussex Police.

  I’m out of my depth.

  Freya frowns. “Are you all right, Kent?”

  I look into her dark eyes, seeing a resolve I haven’t noticed before. Despite her marital failures and troubles, she’s still standing, as Elton John would say, still hopeful for the future. Like Gemma, and most women, I suspect, Freya has a core of steel.

  “We’ve got a case to review,” I say, rising.

  Columbo jumps to the floor, ready for action. I take Freya’s hand and help her to her feet. “Do you want to join us, Frances?”

  “I’m no Gemma,” she says. “Niamh’s showing me how to make naan bread.”

  Frances pulls on her camouflage jacket and leaves, making sure Columbo doesn’t follow. I slip him a treat and make tea. Armed with our mugs, we head for my bedroom and the computer.

  “It’s small, but cosy,” I say as she settles on the bed. Columbo lies next to her, panting as she strokes his fur and tickles his ears.

  While the PC boots, I pull the papers and folders from their cardboard box. I’m already structuring the review in my thoughts, identifying the key points.

  “Won’t be long,” I say, sitting beside her.

  I slide my arm around her waist and nuzzle her neck, enjoying the scent of her. My lips trace along her jaw and chin until they find her mouth. Her kiss is intense, promising pleasures for later.

  “Tell me about Gemma,” Freya says. “She helped you, didn’t she?”

  “I wouldn’t have solved the cases without her. She saved my life too.”

  “Big shoes to fill. Why isn’t she helping you?”

  “She’s getting married on Saturday in Stratford upon Avon.”

  “We’d better get a move on then. Can’t have you missing her big day.”

  “I need to support my father,” I say, wondering why I mentioned the wedding.

  “A lot could change in the next couple of days.”

  A lot could change if Freya discovers my relationship with Gemma.

  No more lies, I said.

  I return to my seat and log into the computer. “Gemma and I were together for a few months,” I say, watching Freya’s reaction. “But I couldn’t compete with Richard. He’s a great bloke – loyal, considerate, eager to please and besotted with her.”

  “You make him sound like a spaniel.”

  It’s not a bad description.

  “So why did she choose him? You took her out solving murders. How cool is that? Shit,” she says, casting me a nervous glance. “We’re looking for someone who kills people. This is real, isn’t it?”

  Fifty-Two

  We start with the archives from the town hall basement. The paperwork lies in neat bundles on the bed, surrounding Columbo.

  “You’re sure someone went through the records for the Rosy Lee Café?” Freya asks, looking up. “Why would someone rifle through your records?”

  Suddenly, I feel uneasy. My investigation started with those archived inspection records, but someone was already ahead of me.

  “They wanted information about my visit,” I reply.

  “You interviewed Henry Potter and his wife, Gladys. Anyone else? Waiting staff, cleaners?”

  “Leila King claimed she worked there. She said Gladys sent her home when I arrived.”

  Freya ruffles Columbo’s fur. “Maybe someone wanted to see if her name was on your records. Do you know when they did it?”

  “People can come and go without attracting attention.”

  “So it could have been months, even years?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So it was recent. Do you think someone knew you were about to investigate?”

  I shake my head. “Unless Ashley told someone.”

  “She’d have to report to her bosses, right?”

  “She told me she was working unofficially.”

  “Yet she’s running the show,” Freya says. “I’ve been thinking about this. We know she followed us to the Travelodge. What if she told Rick we were there, hoping he’d beat you up? She moved into the same village as you, Kent. Either she’s stalking you ...”

  “Or I’m being watched.”

  Columbo tilts his head and looks at me as if I should have worked this out some time ago.

  I kiss Freya on the cheek. “I like working with you, Miss Layman.”

  “Concentrate,” she says, pushing me away. “Who knows you keep archives in the basement?”

  “Everyone at the council, public bodies like Trading Standards, the police and the county council.”

  “Do you use private contractors?”

  “I know, it could be anybody,” I say, unable to staunch my frustration.

  She shakes her head. “Anybody could have snuck into the basement, but who would know you kept your old inspection files there? If
you snuck in, you wouldn’t want to spend hours looking for the right file in case someone disturbed you.”

  “I’ll add my team to the list of suspects,” I say.

  “You don’t think someone going through a file is important?”

  “No, it’s the number of people it could be. I’ve already checked with Brian, who manages the archives, and it could be anyone with access to a key.”

  “Or someone we’ve overlooked. What about Leila King? What’s her link to the murder?”

  “No link unless she’s Gill Kaine.”

  “She’s the accountant at the Ace of Hearts.”

  “Someone deleted Jonathan and Gill Kaine’s records from the Ace of Hearts database and made it look like my father did it. I think it’s her.”

  “Why?”

  Once again, I’m forced to confront my lack of evidence. “Would you believe her name’s an anagram of Leila King?”

  “Who you discounted after you met her.”

  “Someone at the Ace of Hearts hacked into my father’s account to do the necessary. Gill Kaine didn’t show up for work one day, shortly after Jonathan vanished. His debt was deleted from the system. But someone else knew about you and chased the debt. If no one had come after you, if you hadn’t paid, there would have been no record of Jonathan’s debt.”

  Freya whistles. “Are you saying Jonathan may never have been identified if I hadn’t paid his debts?”

  “You only knew about his debts because Collins and Peter Stone came to see you.”

  “Someone went to a lot of trouble to hide his murder, didn’t they?”

  “And put the blame on my father.”

  She bundles up some of my notes. “Are we discounting Leila King or not? Sounds like you only took an interest because DI Goodman told you to.”

  I scroll through the notes on the computer. “Leila managed a restaurant in Brighton that had a fire. And a fire at a nail bar.”

  “How does that help with the murder?”

  I remember Gemma shooting holes through my theories. That’s how we homed in on the truth, eliminating the lies and misconceptions, the unlikely and some of my more creative ideas.