No Going Back (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 7), page 1
No Going Back
Robert Crouch
(Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries #7)
Copyright © Robert Crouch 2021
The moral right of Robert Crouch to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Author’s Note
One
“Harry Lawson’s dead.”
I’m not sure why Sarah’s telling me as Harry and I fell out over ten years ago.
“The police were waiting for me when I returned home.” She folds her arms across her baggy sweater and stares at me, as if it’s my fault. “I’ve been out all night on an emergency call.”
That explains the smells of cattle shed and Jeyes fluid, and why she’s on my doorstep at seven fifteen on Sunday morning. Her jeans and wellingtons are speckled with muck and straw, suggesting she drove straight here after talking to the police.
“They want me to formally identify the body.”
Is that why she’s here? Does she want me to go to the morgue with her? I can’t think why. She’s a veterinary surgeon. She’s seen and operated on enough sick and injured animals in her time.
Maybe she wants me to identify Harry.
“Harry had my business card in his wallet,” she says, sounding put out. “They asked me about my relationship to him. They asked about relatives, someone close they could contact.” She sweeps back her auburn hair, revealing grey roots. “Did he tell you he grew up in a home after his parents overdosed on heroin?”
Harry told me his parents were kidnapped and executed during a conflict in the Middle East in the 1970s. It inspired him to follow in their footsteps and become an investigative journalist.
I’m not sure writing kiss and tell stories about celebrities quite hits the mark.
“Did the police say how he died?”
“They said investigations were ongoing.” She glances at her chunky wristwatch, but shows no sign of leaving. “I thought you should know. You and Harry were close once.”
I remember the night Harry silenced everyone in the saloon bar of the Red Lion with a drunken outburst. He’d been out of sorts for days, making sarcastic jibes, taunting and provoking me. When Sarah intervened, he pushed her away, accusing her of always taking my side. When I tried to calm him, he thrust me against a wall, pressing his face close to mine.
“Thanks for destroying everything that’s good in my life,” he said.
Then he crashed out of the pub. The following morning he left for London.
We haven’t seen each other or spoken since that night.
“Did you tell the police about the argument in the Red Lion?” I ask.
She gives me a cheeky smile – the one that says she’s misbehaved. “There’s a lot of things I haven’t told them.”
I stand aside. “You’d better come in.”
She walks around the large puddle, left by the storm that pounded the area for almost two hours last night. Set off by the heat and humidity of a balmy evening in late July, the wind and rain, aggravated by thunder and lightning battered the South Downs. I’ve already checked to make sure all our animals are safe and well. There’s no damage to barns, fences and visitor centre. A couple of the tables and chairs outside the café have overturned, but that’s all. The rattle of a stable door in the wind reminds me I need to let the horses and donkeys back into the paddock.
She steps out of her wellingtons, leaving them next to the bristle boot cleaner. Her woollen socks leaving damp smudges on the white laminate floor as she passes. She tilts her head back to look at the roof of the barn, underdrawn by sloping white ceilings, punctuated with Velux windows. Ahead, a central staircase leads to the first floor mezzanine. A stainless steel handrail seems to float over the glass panels that protect the edge and continue down either side of the staircase.
She runs her fingers along the handrail. “Gemma said you’d gone trendy.”
Sarah prefers sloping floors, beamed ceilings and brick fireplaces stained with soot.
I leave the front door open for Columbo and follow her up the stairs. At the top she takes a long, sweeping look at my open plan lounge diner, separated from the kitchen by a breakfast bar. She walks straight across to the huge photograph of the Seven Sisters, printed on glass. It dominates the wall behind a white leather corner unit. Smaller photographs of the iconic East Sussex cliffs and surrounding Downland punctuate the glossy white minimalism of the room.
The indifferent sneer never leaves her face as she scans the room. “I can see why Gemma wants to move in with you.”
This is news to me. I’m intrigued to discover what Gemma said to her mother. “You don’t approve?”
“Are we talking about the décor or my daughter’s infatuation with you?”
“Both, as Gemma helped me style the place.”
“It’s a replica of her old flat. Does it mean you’re serious about her this time?”
“It means your daughter has excellent taste.”
“I can’t say the same for her judgement.” Sarah slides onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar and spins herself around. “That’s the same make of coffee machine she had.”
“She gave it to me as a flat warming present. Would you like a latte, or something bitter, like an espresso?”
“I could murder a full English breakfast.” She gazes out through the window at the woodland and gentle hills of the South Downs at the rear of my animal sanctuary. “But you’re all smoothies and muesli these days, unless Gemma’s tempted you back to the dark side.”
“I can poach you an egg or two, laid by our own hens.”
“Poaching an egg is like offering me decaffeinated coffee.”
I slip the coffee capsule back into the drawer. “I’ll make some tea.”
A bark downstairs, followed by the eager click of claws on the stairs, heralds the return of my West Highland white terrier, Columbo. He hurtles across to greet Sarah, leaving damp paw prints on the floor. With a big grin, she slides off the stool and kneels to fuss him. While I make tea she calms him enough to examine his eyes, ears, teeth and fur.
She glances up at me. “No skin problems?”
I shake my head, well aware of the Westie curse. “I don’t feed him wheat, chicken or food with additives, so be careful with the treats.”
She holds up the lozenge she’s retrieved from her pocket. “It’s a vitamin pill, like the ones I use in the practice.”
Columbo snatches the treat, wolfs it down, and nudges her with his nose for more. She gives him another before climbing back onto the stool. When she doesn’t respond to his barks, he trots across to the corner unit, leaps up onto the blanket and settles to watch us with his big, dark eyes.
“He’s a gorgeous dog, so bright and alert.” She looks at me and sighs. “Why can’t you treat people as well as you treat animals?”
“Are we talking about Gemma?”
“I was thinking about Harry. I know he could be an arse at times, but you didn’t have to steal his girlfriend.”
“I didn’t. She dumped him.”
I could tell Sarah how Felicity came to me after Harry struck her in a drunken temper. Sporting a bruised, swolle n cheek and finger marks on her throat, she told me how he’d accused her of flirting and sleeping around. Angry and in no mood to return to the flat they shared, she stayed in one of the guest rooms at Downland Manor, unaware he’d followed her.
“Harry liked to hurt people,” I say, filling the kettle.
“Well, he can’t hurt anyone now, can he?”
We lapse into an awkward silence. While she checks her phone for messages, I pull two mugs out of a cupboard and make tea. “So, what didn’t you tell the police?”
“Harry sent me an email in January, told me he was leaving London to work for the Argus in Brighton. He met Miranda at an AA meeting last October and they were going to buy a smallholding north of the city and live the good life.”
“Why didn’t you mention this to the police?”
“A few months after he went to London, he invited me to celebrate his new job with the Evening Standard. There was a party at his editor’s house. Harry introduced me to his new friends and colleagues like I was his girlfriend. He hardly left my side all evening. When I came out of the bathroom he was waiting for me. He slid his arm around me, telling me how much he wanted me. Next thing I know, he’s propelling me into a bedroom, pushing me down onto the bed.”
A satisfied smile creeps across her lips. “I left him on the floor with a busted nose and a bruised groin.”
I can’t help laughing, even though it seems inappropriate.
“When he asked me why I didn’t want to meet Miranda, I reminded him of the incident. He said I had an overactive imagination, so I put the phone down. A week later, he sends me a wedding invitation.”
I remove the tea bags from the mugs. “I’m guessing you didn’t go.”
“The wedding was cancelled a week before the big day in June.” She places her phone on the breakfast bar to show me a text.
Can’t marry Miranda. She was never the one for me.
“He sent three more,” she says, scrolling.
You never gave me a chance, Sarah.
You only had eyes for Kent.
If you’d chosen me, none of this would have happened.
“Look at the times, Kent. Harry sent the texts in the early hours of Saturday morning. Twenty-four hours later, he’s dead.”
Two
While Sarah freshens up in the bathroom, I stare out of the window, wondering how Harry Lawson died. His last text seems to blame her for his troubles. It’s typical of a man who never took responsibility for his actions and mistakes.
Did he take his own life to make her feel guilty?
She returns from the bathroom, looking more composed, her hair now tamed into a loose ponytail. “Are you wondering if I carried a torch for you?”
Harry had a flair for the dramatic. She liked to tease. He hid behind wild ideas, she played games.
They both wanted attention.
I turn away from the window. “Why didn’t you show the texts to the police?”
“I wanted to talk to you first. What do you think he meant when he said none of this would have happened if I’d chosen him?”
“I’m an environmental health officer not a mind reader.”
She picks up her mug, caressing it with both hands. “You’ve also solved a few murders.”
“Was Harry murdered?”
“The police didn’t say. Maybe your friend can tell us.”
At last, the real reason for Sarah’s visit.
“I have lots of friends. Who did you have in mind?”
“Don’t be an arse, Kent. Who did you think I meant, your new friend from Love Island? She might have amazing tits but she’s hardly well-endowed up here.” Sarah taps the side of her head and laughs. “Not that you care about things like that.”
“Savanna has a first class honours degree in environmental science. She runs a successful beach and swimwear business, as well as her own YouTube channel.”
I stop, realising I’ve let Sarah goad me.
“It sounds like you’re smitten, Kent. Where does that leave my daughter?”
“I don’t know what Gemma’s told you, but she’s not moving in here. And so there’s no misunderstanding, Savanna’s in a steady relationship and not interested in me.”
“Then how come I passed her on her way to the donkey enclosure?”
I’m peering through the window at the paddock before Sarah’s laughter registers. “Oh dear,” she says between giggles, “you have got it bad.”
I retrieve my phone from the breakfast bar and ring my friend, Detective Inspector Ashley Goodman. “How are you feeling?” I ask, sensing frustration in her voice.
“Anxious,” she says to my surprise.
Like me, she’s an expert at hiding her feelings. She’s also desperate to return to duty in the Major Crimes Team after three months sick leave. She believes it’s dented her chances of going back to her old job.
“I start a phased return tomorrow. It’ll be four weeks at least before I’m back full time – if the counsellor lets me. He’s already delayed my return by two weeks because I refuse to deal with my issues.”
“What issues?”
“He won’t accept that I don’t need to talk about what happened.”
“Ashley, someone tried to kill you. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“So are you, Kent, but no one’s psychoanalysing you.”
“That’s because I handed in my notice.”
“Come on, Kent. You’ve buried it away like you always do, along with the rest of your feelings. Sorry,” she says, letting out a groan, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I’m saying we’re cut from the same cloth. We set our feelings aside, get the job done. Why can’t people accept that?”
“Sounds like you need to get back in the saddle. Can I tempt you with a suspicious death?”
“You’re not investigating another murder, surely?”
“Harry Lawson, a former acquaintance of mine, was found dead last night. The local officers aren’t giving out any details.”
“You want me to find out for you?” She sighs, as if I’m always taking liberties. “If I take an interest, the local inspector will want to know why a Major Crimes Team detective is interested. As I’m not officially on duty yet, questions will be asked.”
“You could say no, Ashley.”
“I will unless you give me a reason not to.”
“Harry sent some intriguing texts before he died.”
“You haven’t shown them to the investigating officer, have you?”
*
Ashley lives on the other side of the village, so she joins us twenty minutes later, leaving her Audi alongside Sarah’s old Volvo in the car park. Columbo barks and goes to greet Ashley, bounding back up the stairs with her, his attention fixed on the treat in her hand.
Dressed in one of her many grey suits and white blouses, she looks fit and healthy thanks to weeks of physiotherapy for her broken leg and injured shoulder. The hours of swimming at Tollingdon Leisure Centre should have helped her cracked ribs and breathing. With her thick blonde hair cropped short and tinted with copper streaks, she looks younger, keener. Even the cynical look that comes from twenty years of investigating murder, rape and violent crimes has deserted her piercing eyes.
She shakes hands with Sarah. “You look exhausted, Miss Wheeler.”
“I was called out on an emergency. I knew nothing about Harry until I came home and found a couple of your colleagues on my doorstep. What happened to him?”
Ashley settles beside me on the corner unit. Columbo leaps up and squeezes between us.
“It’s all over social media,” she says. “Harry Lawson was discovered at the bottom of a private swimming pool. When the storm abated after midnight, people came out of the house onto the patio and someone spotted him.”
Sarah’s voice is flat and uncaring. “He’d been drinking. He was unsteady on his feet, slurring his speech. He was an alcoholic, inspector. He must have fallen off the wagon.”
“Any idea why?”
Sarah shakes her head. She doesn’t mention Miranda or the cancelled wedding.
“Why was he outside during the storm?” I ask.
“I wondered that.” Ashley gives me a smile and turns back to Sarah. “Detective Constable Bobbie Cook will be at the morgue for the post mortem. After you’ve identified the deceased, Miss Wheeler, she’ll take a formal statement.”
