No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  “We need a break,” I say.

  “I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

  “No, a lucky break.”

  “Will I do?”

  Freya sits on my lap. She kisses me, running her fingers through my hair. With the passion she’s arousing, I could easily forget about Jonathan’s murder for a while. Only I daren’t forget. Ashley Goodman’s homing in on my father. If I don’t uncover the truth, he could go to prison.

  “There must be something here,” I say, gesturing to the scanned files and notes.

  “Or here,” she says, stretching for the mouse. She scrolls over my notes about the fires in Brighton and at Station Diner, her eyebrows furrowed as she concentrates. Then with a frustrated sigh, she gets to her feet and goes across to the files on the bed. She flicks through the pages, looking irritated, and then she grins.

  “What have you found?” I ask, joining her.

  “I remembered seeing something that happened about a month before you started checking, but it’s only a health and safety inspection of the basement.”

  “With a fire officer,” I say, feeling a familiar tingle of anticipation. “Didn’t Connie say a fire officer and Jonathan took an instant dislike to each other?”

  I can hear the pieces falling into place. “We demand a fire safety inspection before we issue a licence for caravan sites. The details for Sunshine View are here somewhere.”

  With renewed energy we begin searching, waking Columbo, who barks and wags his tail.

  “Here we are,” she says, waving a small sheaf of papers at me. “The site was inspected in October, ten years ago, ahead of a new licence for a change of ownership. Was it before you closed the Rosy Lee Café?”

  “A month before. There should be another inspection before the site was extended.”

  She turns the page and nods. “It says there was a visit when the site wanted to extend its opening times. How would that affect fire safety?”

  “It wouldn’t. Let me have a look.” I take the notes, which give no details of who carried out the inspections. “I’ll ring Bob Glover in the morning, see if he can check his archives and tell me who did the inspections.”

  As we bundle the papers together, Columbo barks and leaps off the bed, racing down the hall. I glance through the window, wondering if it’s Frances returning. It’s a man, using the torch on his mobile phone to make his way to our door.

  “William Rodgers, my father’s solicitor,” I say, heading for the lounge. “Quiet, Columbo!”

  He ignores me as usual, pushing out of the door the moment I open it. He flies past William, who looks tired and drawn, his immaculate hair limp against his forehead. Once inside, he unbuttons the jacket of his expensive suit, nodding to Freya when she approaches. He takes a seat on the sofa, stretching out his legs, and places his leather briefcase on the table.

  Freya picks up the kettle. “Tea? I’m Freya, by the way.”

  “William Rodgers,” he says in his smooth, Roger Moore voice. “Do you have any biscuits, Kent? I haven’t eaten since lunch, if you discount the rather bland sandwich we had at the station.”

  “How’s it going?” I ask.

  “They’re holding Miles overnight for further questioning tomorrow. DI Goodman’s case relies heavily on the circumstantial, as I’m sure you realise. I thought we’d dismiss it before midnight. Then she dropped the bombshell.”

  He rubs his eyes with his knuckles. “You probably don’t know, but the victim had a menu in his pocket when they found him.”

  “It was laminated.”

  He stops rubbing his eyes. “How do you know? The detail was never released into the public domain. Did DI Goodman tell you?”

  I can see where he’s heading. “No, she didn’t.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly legal,” I say. “I also know the name Peter Stone, along with a mobile phone number, was written on the menu.”

  “Indeed,” he says, sitting upright. “But we weren’t expecting Miles to leave a thumb and a fingerprint on the laminate.”

  Fifty-Three

  William dips into his briefcase and pulls out a sheet of paper. He holds it between thumb and forefinger to demonstrate. “Thumb and forefinger print on opposite sides,” he says. “DI Goodman asked him if he held it like that while he wiped off the rest of his prints.”

  “Really?”

  He scrunches the paper into a ball. “Miles told me there are computer records from the casino that show he deleted files relating to the victim and his debts.”

  “I saw them earlier,” I say. “He believes someone hacked into his account.”

  “Either way, when Goodman’s techies recover the details, we’re in trouble.” He shakes his head and sighs. “Do you have anything to cheer him up, Kent?”

  “Ideas, no more.”

  He declines tea and rises. “DI Goodman plans to interview you on Friday, Kent. We’ll need to prepare.”

  We shake hands and he leaves. Columbo trots back inside. He leaps onto the sofa and settles on my lap, sensing my anxiety. He looks up and licks my face.

  “Someone planned the murder in minute detail,” I say. “Before committing the murder, someone handed my father a laminate sheet to get his fingerprints. It had to be someone he worked with.”

  Freya looks thoughtful. “He might have a laminator at home.”

  Georgina answers on the second ring. She sounds anxious. “Are they charging Miles with murder?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “One of Teddy’s old pals suggested I might want to distance myself from Miles. What’s going on, Kent?”

  “They’re keeping him in overnight.”

  “He’s in trouble then.”

  “Do you know if he has or ever had a laminator?”

  “A what?” she asks.

  “You place a piece of paper between clear plastic sheets and feed it through a machine that seals the sides together.”

  “Is it important? Of course it is. It must be or you wouldn’t ask. Well, we have a room filled with unopened boxes.”

  “I’ll come over and help,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Take care. When the media find out he’s moved in with you, they’ll be outside your door.”

  My phone rings as soon as I end the call. It’s Tommy Logan from the Tollingdon Tribune. “A little bird tells me one of your more generous benefactors is in grave trouble, Kent.”

  “I have many generous benefactors, Tommy. But you’re not one of them.”

  “None are as generous as Miles Birchill. A little bird tells me you were with him at his casino when his luck ran out.”

  “I’m going to block your phone number, Tommy.”

  I end the call and turn to Freya. “It won’t be long before the world knows that Miles Birchill is my father.”

  Freya slides a hand around my waist and rests her head on my shoulder. “It’s hardly news compared to murder, is it?”

  I kiss her forehead. “Thanks for keeping my feet on the ground. I’d better warn Niamh.”

  Freya pulls me back. “Leave it till the morning,”

  Columbo barks once more and heads for the door. Moments later, Frances walks in with a couple of boxes of cakes. “Did you see the late news? Miles is being held in custody overnight.”

  “I know,” I say, checking the boxes. “It’s going to be a challenge to squeeze a nail file into one of these cupcakes.”

  “Why would you do that?” she asks.

  “Old joke,” I say, feeling anything but humorous. “How’s Niamh?”

  “She insists you return his donations. She’s not having a murderer on the sanctuary’s books.”

  Fifty-Four

  I’m awake when Freya brings me cup of tea at five on Thursday morning. I hadn’t planned to stay the night at her flat, but as she said, there was nothing I could do to help my father until morning.

  She slips into bed and snuggles up close. When we kiss her breath tastes menthol
fresh. “Have you been up long?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t sleep with you tossing and turning.”

  I stretch my arms and yawn. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you awake.”

  “No probs. I caught up on a few episodes of Dallas. It’s so far-fetched with all those impossibly glamorous women and shoulder pads, but totally addictive.”

  “What did you say?” I ask, feeling another tingle in the back of my mind.

  “I was saying how far-fetched Dallas was. I watched it with my mother in the 1980s.” She stops and studies me. “What is it?”

  “For a moment I thought I’d made a connection.” I sigh and shake my head, wishing I didn’t feel so lethargic. “It’s like putting a name to a song you remember. When you said far-fetched, I ...”

  She kisses me and snuggles up closer. “Maybe you need a little stimulation,” she says, sliding her hand under the duvet.

  ***

  I reach my desk by eight, surprised to find Nigel and Charlie already in the office and working at their computers. Their electricity bridges the gap between the desks, giving them both contented, smiling faces.

  With a determined effort, I push aside thoughts of Freya. I ring the Ace of Hearts, knowing Linda will be at her desk, if she left it at all last night.

  “William asked me about a laminator,” she says, sounding as weary as I feel, “but I can’t find one. The basement’s a junk store. I’ve never seen so many broken chairs, old slot machines, telephones, microwave ovens. Everything but a laminator.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, wondering how bad it would look if my father’s fingerprints were found on a laminator.

  “I came across some old laptops though. Terry’s going to remove the hard drives and connect them to his computer at home.” She yawns loudly and apologises. “He’s probably working on them as we speak, bless him. Then, a few minutes ago, while I was getting some coffee, I noticed a small sticker on the machine.”

  Charlie waves at me and mouths the word, ‘Tea’, forming the letter with her fingers. I nod and pass her my mug.

  “Every piece of equipment has a unique serial number for insurance purposes,” Linda’s saying. “I rang Terry for the numbers and one of the laptops was used to produce identity cards. You take a digital photo, load it onto the laptop and the software produces a card image. We had a special printer to produce the ID cards in house. I’ve no idea what happened to it, but –”

  “You have a collection of staff photos.”

  “And names,” she says, sounding excited. “The laptop dates back twelve years, so I’ve asked Terry to look for Gill Kaine. Is there anyone else?”

  “Terry caught Jonathan Wright with one of your waitresses? If he recognises the woman among the photos, I’d appreciate a name.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” she says. “He didn’t sound too hopeful he could recover anything when I spoke to him. He won’t give up though.”

  “Like you,” I say, admiring her dedication. “You need to get some sleep.”

  “I’ll sleep when they release Miles. Good luck, Kent. We’re banking on you.”

  No pressure then.

  I settle back, wondering what to do if Terry can’t lift the images.

  “Are things going well?” I ask Charlie when she places a mug of tea before me. I gesture towards Nigel, who’s looking smarter than usual.

  “Brilliant, thanks. We have so much in common. How about you? You look shattered if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “It’s this list of instructions Danni’s given me. She’s only away tomorrow for a long weekend.”

  “It’s the wedding, isn’t it? Nigel told me about you and Gemma. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “The best man won. Or in this case he didn’t.”

  She frowns for a moment and then smiles. “Nigel told me about the engagement party when Richard asked you to be best man. It sounds complicated.”

  I shake my head. “I blew it. Don’t follow my example.”

  She shares a smile with Nigel that makes me feel good.

  My faith in human nature restored, I set aside Danni’s instructions and reminders and call up the file for Sunshine View Caravan Park. If I’m going to ask Bob Glover about one of his fire safety colleagues, it helps to have a name.

  Only there’s no fire inspection report attached to the file. The notes refer to a verbal report from the fire officer, confirming everything was in order. The written report was supposed to follow, but either it never arrived, or someone forgot to scan a copy for the file.

  Noise and nuisance complaints from adjoining residents make up most of the file entries for Sunshine View. Four and half years ago, we asked East Sussex Fire and Rescue to comment on any issues before we licensed the new part of the site. No written report again – only verbal advice about warning signs.

  “Nigel, have you had problems getting fire officer reports for caravan sites?”

  He thinks for a moment and shakes his head. “Bob Glover used to take weeks to produce a report, but they were always thorough. He moved on a few years ago, didn’t he?”

  “He’s a fire investigator now.”

  I ring Sunshine View and recognise Elvis Harper’s voice. “It’s Kent Fisher at environmental health. Can you remember a visit by the fire officer to look at the new part of the site?”

  “You mean the guy who drove my dad insane with his questions?”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “No, but my dad will. I’ll transfer you.”

  A few moments later, Daniel Harper talks to me in his broad Sussex accent. “Elvis says you want to know about the fire officer. Glover’s his name. Right miserable bugger he was. He came here twice.”

  I grab my pen. “The first would have been before the original site opened.”

  “Before my time, Mr Fisher. You’d need to talk to Mr Birchill about that.”

  “Of course. So when did Bob Glover first visit?”

  “He popped in a few months before we started work on the new site. Said he’d heard we were extending and wanted me to show him the layout. He couldn’t have been here more than fifteen minutes.”

  “This was before the body was discovered.”

  “Gave me the shock of my life, seeing that arm sticking out of the soil.”

  “I can imagine, Mr Harper. What about the second visit?”

  “That was after we’d extended the site. Spent all day here, asking me questions, talking about the body. I thought he’d never go.”

  “Thanks for your help, Mr Harper.”

  I put the phone down, not sure what to make of Bob Glover’s casual visit to the caravan park. I often pop into places for a cup a tea, especially where I’m on good terms with the owners. It’s a chance to cement good relationships and find out what’s happening locally. You’d be surprised what people tell you about other businesses.

  Before I can think any more about it, Danni summons me to her office.

  She’s dressed in yet another short skirt and jacket combo. She’s also had her hair trimmed and tinted in preparation for the wedding on Saturday.

  But she’s not going.

  “I saw the local news last night, about the body they found near Alfriston.”

  It was only a matter of time before she discovered I was investigating and asking Charlie to get information. “I can explain,” I say.

  “So it’s true? Miles Birchill is your father.”

  She turns her monitor to let me read the headline on the Tollingdon Tribune’s website.

  Miles Birchill’s secret love child.

  I don’t want to read what Tommy Logan has written. “Yes, he’s my father.”

  “And he needs you,” she says, turning the monitor back. “I want you to go home. There’s no way you can concentrate with this going on.”

  I try to argue, but she cuts me off. “It’s an instruction, Kent. You’re of no use to me when your mind’s elsewhere. Go home and I’ll brief the team.”


  “You must go to the wedding, Danni.”

  “Gemma won’t notice if I’m not there. And it’s not like we’re going to see her again, is it? Now go before Tommy Logan gets here.”

  At the door, I stop. “Thank you for not asking if he did it.”

  “If you need anything ring me, day or night.”

  “Are you okay?” Charlie asks when I return to my desk. “You look bemused?”

  “Can you do something urgently?” I ask, shutting down my PC. “You know the fire at Hossain’s restaurant in Brighton? Can you get me the name of the fire investigator? I’m going home for the rest of the week.”

  “I thought you looked a bit peaky.”

  “Danni will explain. Can you get those details now?”

  “Two minutes,” she says, picking up her phone.

  I pull on my jacket, pocket my phone, and slip out of the office. I’m at the bottom of the stairs when Charlie rings.

  “Bob Glover,” she says.

  “Thank you.”

  I exit the town hall, wondering why Bob Glover needed to look up the fire investigation report for the restaurant when he wrote it.

  Fifty-Five

  On the journey home, I make plans for the next few days. Tommy Logan’s headline may be local news, but he’ll be pushing it at the national media, hoping for a scoop. My father’s kept a lower profile than usual over the past six months, but as the prime suspect in a murder enquiry, that’s about to change.

  Back at Meadow Farm, I check the texts that have rolled in. Most are from colleagues, offering support and best wishes. Even the Chief Executive wishes me well. Charlie asks me to ring her if I need anything, absolutely anything.

  I text back my thanks.

  I stop to help Niamh load the van for her delivery round. Even in a white coat, she looks elegant, the Fisher’s Fancies logo classy and amusing. Some wag wrote ‘Ask inside for a sticky willy’ in the dirt on the back doors. She took a couple of photographs before cleaning the van.

  “We don’t make suggestive confectionery,” was her only comment.

  She has plenty to say about Tommy Logan’s news story though. Filled with indignation, she doesn’t stop her tirade while we go back and forth from the house three times to finish loading the trays. Though I focus on the wonderful savoury aromas from the pasties, meat slices and sausage rolls, they can’t blot out her voice.