No More Lies

by Robert Crouch

  “I’ll be there.”

  In the car I text Freya.

  Will pick up treats for Molly. Be there about 2.15. Kent.

  Hopefully the reference to Molly will tell Freya I understood her message. It shouldn’t alert Glover. If he thinks I’m arriving at 2.15 he’s in for a surprise.

  Within minutes, I’m cutting across country towards Berwick Station. At the crossroads south of the village, I go straight across, following the road at the southern end of Arlington Reservoir. From here, it should take five minutes to drive through Arlington and on to Layman’s Farm.

  A small hatchback pulls out ahead, forcing me to brake hard. Occupied by four older people, judging by the hats and coats, the car slows to a crawl at every bend. I resist blasting my horn, telling myself I’m no use to Freya in a ditch. I have time on my side.

  Sensing the tension in my hands and my neck, I push all thoughts of Freya from my head. I need to focus on what I’m going to do when I reach Pristine Pooches.

  How can I make plans when I don’t know what I’m going to find?

  How can I make plans when I don’t know if I’ll ever get there?

  I’m about to hit the horn when the car indicates to turn left. The foursome is going for lunch at the Yew Tree pub in Arlington. I bite my lip as the car makes a laborious turn into the car park.

  Once clear of the pub and the double bend, I drop a gear and roar away like an idiot. It relieves the tension in my muscles and makes me feel better. A few minutes later, I reach the turn off to Layman’s Farm. I stop, not sure whether to walk down the lane or drive.

  Drive. I can leave the car to block the lane so Glover can’t escape.

  And stop the cavalry getting to Layman’s Farm.

  I drive slowly, dodging the potholes, feeling every bump and depression in the lane. When I reach the bend that will bring me into view from the entrance gate, I stop. I climb out and edge forward, staying close to the hedgerow.

  Everything ahead appears normal.

  There’s no sign of Glover. Maybe he’s not there.

  Then I spot the silver SUV, parked beside the trees beyond the entrance.

  I return to my Ford Fusion and drive on, slowing as I approach the entrance to the industrial units. The silver Lexus looks abandoned in the muddy layby. I pass the gate, looking left and right, parking ahead of the Lexus, blocking its escape.

  I turn off the engine, looking around, listening for the slightest sound.

  Silence.

  Freya’s nearby, trapped with a killer who has run out of choices.

  I climb out of the car. My heart thumps as the adrenaline kicks in. I swing round, disturbed by the slight breeze, rustling the leaves. The birds have stopped singing. The air feels heavy, like a storm about to break. Nature’s holding its breath, waiting for my next move.

  If only I had a plan.

  I grab the foot pump from the boot and make my way through the mud to the front of the Lexus. Using the nozzle, it takes a few minutes to let the air out of the front tyres. The rush of air seems to echo and amplify in the stillness, making me jumpy.

  Again I look around.

  Satisfied Glover cannot escape in his car, I grab the foot pump to return it to the boot. The flashing alarm light inside the car stops me. If I smash the window, will the alarm sound? Will that make Glover come running, leaving Freya in the salon?

  Or will the noise alert him to my arrival?

  I crouch down between the two cars and ring Ashley.

  My call’s rejected.

  Of course, she’s interviewing my father.

  I ring William, but he doesn’t answer.

  I text him.

  Glover’s got Freya at Layman’s Farm, opposite Abbotts Wood near Hailsham. Get Ashley to send backup. No sirens!

  I wait there, counting the seconds, going through various plans to sneak up to Pristine Pooches. I could smash a window to distract Glover. But he’ll be watching the yard, listening for the sound of my car.

  He’s going to see me before I see him.

  I glance at my watch. It’s almost two fifteen.

  Five minutes since my text.

  No response from William or Ashley.

  I can’t wait any longer, knowing how scared Freya must feel. I grip the foot pump tight and stand, ready to smash the driver’s window.

  My phone rings.

  Ashley doesn’t sound too pleased. “What the hell are you doing? What’s this about Bob Glover?”

  “He killed Jonathan and Malcolm Wright. He’s holding Freya hostage at Pristine Pooches. I need you here now.”

  “I can’t rush out there because you think he killed the Wrights. Where’s your evidence? Do you have any evidence?”

  “Forget it, Ashley. I’ll sort it out myself.”

  I end the call, wondering why I thought she’d believe me.

  I smash the foot pump into the driver’s window. Again and again till the window shatters.

  Nothing.

  I reach inside to open the door. The alarm goes off, almost deafening me.

  I hurry across the lane and press myself against the wall of the farm building beside the gate. I stand there, trying to quieten my breathing so I can hear Glover approaching.

  He doesn’t.

  The alarm continues to sound, echoing off the walls and concrete.

  Maybe he can’t hear it in the salon.

  I lean forward and peer around the corner. That’s when I feel something jab me between the shoulder blades.

  “Drop it!” a woman cries.

  The foot pump clatters onto the concrete.

  “Turn around, Mr Fisher. Slowly!”

  The woman backs away, aiming the shotgun from Mark Layman’s office at my chest.

  The shotgun that’s not loaded.

  I recognise the woman straight away, even though her hair’s black rather than peroxide blonde. I extend my hand. “Good to meet you at last, Gill Kaine.”

  “Not any more. I’m Leila King.”

  Sixty-Two

  She’s not the Leila King I met last week. She’s hard, cold and cruel, if her eyes and the set of her lips are anything to go by.

  Thank God the shotgun’s useless.

  She cocks one barrel. “Stop right there. I’ll shoot you if I have to.”

  “I’m sure that’s not part of Glover’s plan.”

  I move away from the building, stepping sideways, trying to give myself a clear view into the yard.

  As I move, she moves, staring into my eyes. We move like boxers, circling.

  “Is he planning to set fire to Pristine Pooches?” I ask. “Then come along later to investigate and find an electrical fault?”

  I take another step, wishing the car alarm would cut out. No wonder people complain about the noise.

  “It won’t work,” I say, noticing headlights, bobbing down the lane towards us. “The police know he killed Jonathan. I can understand Glover being angry with his wife for having an affair, but why are you helping him?”

  “My mother gave their life savings to Jonathan Wright so they could start a new life together in Las Vegas.”

  “Glover’s your father?”

  I take another step. A couple more and Leila will have her back to the lane.

  “Jonathan Wright took the money and married Freya,” she says. “When he came back, he slept with my mother and then told her she was a sad, pathetic slut. Now do you understand?”

  I take another step and stop. “I don’t understand why you pointed the finger at the Potters.”

  “You mean the menu for the café? I had a Saturday job, so I knew Jonathan Wright delivered food there. I also knew the menu would send the police in the wrong direction when they found the body.”

  “But the café closed long before the body was found.”

  “No sweat. With the Potters gone, we could claim Jonathan Wright seduced Mrs Potter, providing another motive for murder.”

  The car has stopped in the lane at the bend.
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  “Is that why you took a job and a flat there?” I ask. “Were you waiting for the day when the police would arrive?”

  “I fell in love with Kambiz Kamezi.” She gestures towards the gate with the shotgun. “Freya’s waiting. I’m surprised she let you move in after she ran away from you at the Travelodge.”

  “You were there?”

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on you from the moment you hassled Hossain. That was his daughter you met, pretending to be me. Now move!”

  The car’s moving again. Thanks to the noise from the car alarm, Leila hasn’t heard the white Mercedes convertible racing towards us. If Georgina blasts the horn to distract Leila, I can grab the gun.

  “I’m going nowhere,” I say.

  She raises the shotgun. “I’ll shoot you.”

  “Not without shot, you won’t. The gun doesn’t work.”

  Georgina puts the lights on full beam.

  Leila spins round. She freezes for a second - long enough for me to rush forward and grab the shotgun.

  The blast of the shot deafens me. I stumble backwards, crashing into the wall.

  As Leila takes aim, the screech of brakes almost pierces my eardrums.

  There’s a sickening thud. Leila tumbles over the bonnet and crashes to the concrete. The Mercedes swerves to a stop, inches from my legs. Georgina’s out of the door. She hurries over to Leila, who’s out cold. Georgina checks for a pulse.

  “She’s alive. I’ll call an ambulance.” She throws the shotgun to me. “Go rescue Freya.”

  I run through the gate, keeping to the wall.

  I stumble to a halt when the door to Pristine Pooches flings open. Glover steps out and turns to face me, a clear plastic container in his hand.

  I raise the shotgun. “Your daughter’s injured.”

  He looks past me to the entrance then at me. “You shot my girl?”

  With a roar he swings the plastic bottle through the air. Its colourless contents spray out of the open top. I raise my arm to shield my eyes. Most of the liquid hits my arms and body, but the fumes fill my nostrils. My nose, throat and eyes sting. Through watery eyes I make out Glover, walking towards me. He knocks the shotgun out of my hand.

  When I raise my fists to defend myself, he laughs and raises a hand.

  I spot the cigarette lighter. Its long flame flickers in the breeze.

  Though woozy and nauseous from the fumes, I hear sirens getting closer.

  “The police are here. It’s over, Bob. Your daughter needs you.”

  The flame flickers as he moves the lighter from side to side.

  Georgina cries out.

  Cars screech to a halt, doors opening, voices calling.

  But all I can see is the flame.

  Freya rushes out of the salon, her commercial hairdryer in her hands. She smashes it down onto Glover’s head. He falls forward, dropping the lighter. His knees hit the concrete. With a cry of pain, he slumps to the ground, smothering the lighter.

  Freya watches, transfixed. The hairdryer falls from her fingers, missing her toes by millimetres.

  She rushes into my arms, almost knocking me over. Her lips meet mine.

  At last, the car alarm cuts out.

  “You taste as bad as you smell,” she says, stepping back.

  “I need to get out of these clothes.”

  She sighs. “Only you could think of sex at a time like this.”

  Sixty-Three

  On Saturday, while Ashley holds a press conference, Freya and I relax in the lounge of my mobile home. Niamh insisted we return here so she could look after us. While my nose and throat feel sore, there’s no permanent damage. To prove it, I eat two slices of tiffin.

  When my father and Georgina arrive, Niamh retreats to the farmhouse. She calls Columbo, trying to tempt him with a treat, but he’s too busy chasing Molly, rolling and tumbling with her in the meadow.

  “Glover confessed to the murders.” My father smiles as he watches the dogs through the window. “DI Goodman’s claiming the credit, naturally, skating over the questions about why she detained me.” He turns to face us. “You need to tell your story to set the record straight, Kent. The publicity could double or treble donations.”

  Georgina, looking like a company executive in a black trouser suit and heels, helps herself to an eclair. She’s unfazed by the whole event, apart from the police impounding her Mercedes.

  “Let the inspector have her moment,” she says. “She could charge me with dangerous driving.”

  “You saved Kent’s life.”

  “And you’re rid of DI Goodman. Leave it that way, Miles.”

  Freya agrees. “The truth will come out in court, won’t it?”

  He squeezes in next to Georgina. “How did you work out it was Glover.”

  “Fire safety inspections,” I reply. “And a little help from Terry, Linda, Georgina and Freya.”

  My father frowns. “Nothing else?”

  “Glover helped too. The first time I met him he told me his wife, Mona, had left him. He said she had dreams of going to America, but would never get there working as a barmaid. Mona thought Jonathan would take her to Las Vegas.”

  “But he took me,” Freya says.

  “Had he taken Mona to Las Vegas and not come back, he’d be alive today. When he married you, Glover hoped Mona would go back to him. But she left him anyway, humiliating him. I think she’s in Birmingham.”

  “So he killed Jonathan,” my father says.

  I nod. “I think he was already planning to kill Jonathan. Glover had found a burial site at your caravan park.”

  “Why me?” he asks. “What did I do to antagonise him?”

  “I think Leila hit on the idea when she realised she could access your account. She deleted all records of Jonathan to make it look like you’d done it. If the body was ever discovered, the trail would lead back to you.”

  “Your obsession with backups meant they couldn’t succeed,” Georgina says.

  “It didn’t feel like that when DI Goodman revealed the evidence against me,” he says. “How did they get my thumb and fingerprint?”

  “Someone showed you a laminate sheet at work,” Georgina replies. “Maybe they wanted your opinion. Then they wiped the rest of the prints off.”

  “I thought I was going down when they found the second body. Even William began to doubt me when I told him about my argument with Malcolm Wright.”

  “Glover seized the opportunity,” I say. “He’d already found an alternative burial site at Downland Manor, so he put it to good use.”

  My father smiles at me. “I don’t know how you worked it out, son, but I can’t thank you enough.”

  Georgina gets to her feet. “Come on, Miles. We have a wedding to organise.”

  “We could do it here,” he says, rising. “The council passed the plans for the visitor centre, café and Kent’s flat on Thursday evening. If we made it a wedding venue, think of the extra income and publicity. You have your wedding in a beautiful location, surrounded by animals, knowing a percentage of the fee goes to saving more animals. It’s win-win.”

  “It’s better than the Ace of Hearts,” she says, nudging him towards the door, “but we’re having a church wedding or none at all.”

  As they leave, Molly and Columbo return, panting as they settle on the carpet. Within seconds, they’re asleep, lying next to each other. Freya snuggles up beside me, holding on tight to my arm.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” she says. “I knew you’d understand my text.”

  “Thank you for saving me.”

  “Those dryers cost a fortune, you know.”

  “Are you saying I’m not worth it?”

  “I’ll send you the bill,” she replies, resting her head on my shoulder. “I could get used to this. It’s so peaceful here. It’s full of hope and promise, looking to the future not the past. My flat holds too many bad memories.”

  I straighten. “You want to move in here?”

  “Don’t pan
ic, Kent. It’s kind of you to offer, but let’s get to know each other first. I don’t want you rushing me.”

  We laugh and settle back, watching the sun break through the clouds and light up the South Downs. It’s a magical view, peaceful and invigorating. It’s where I belong. I don’t want to be anywhere else. With my father’s financial backing, I could quit environmental health and make Meadow Farm the place I’ve always wanted.

  Freya could help me design a new flat.

  “Why are you grinning?” she asks.

  A knock at the door rouses Molly and Columbo. They move from sleep to guard dog in an instant, rushing to the door. With a groan, I disentangle myself and head for the door, wondering who it could be. Frances has gone into town. Niamh won’t disturb us.

  I hope it’s not Ashley, coming to give me another lecture.

  The dogs hurtle down the steps when I open the door, rushing past the bride in full wedding dress. She lifts her veil and looks up at me with sad eyes.

  “I couldn’t do it,” she says. “I couldn’t marry Richard.”

  The End.

  Thank you for reading my story.

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  Thank you

  I owe a huge thank you to those who helped with the planning, plotting, polishing and promotion of this novel.

  I have fond memories of my discussions with Amanda from the Major Crime Team at Sussex Police, who told me I couldn’t tell my story the way I wanted to. Thanks to her ideas and input, we found a better way to tell the story and remain faithful to police procedures.

  Neal Robinson, former investigator with East Sussex Fire and Rescue offered me a fascinating insight into fires and their investigation. His chilling photographs and accounts of his work allowed me to bring my descriptions to life and remain as accurate as possible. Thank you, Neal.