No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 1
No Escape
Robert Crouch
(Kent Fisher Murder Mystery #8)
Copyright © Robert Crouch 2022
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
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Next in series
In memory of my ‘little mate’, Harvey, (02-03-2006 to 20-09-2021)
One
Friday’s our last full day in Stratford-upon-Avon. Gemma doesn’t want to go home.
Columbo jumps down from the sofa when I put water, treats and poo bags into his rucksack for the day ahead. He’s not interested in the old timbered buildings that keep history alive and give the town its unique atmosphere. Like me, my West Highland white terrier knows nothing about Shakespeare, though he enjoys chasing squirrels in the gardens adjacent to the theatre.
We were lucky to find the holiday cottage in a terrace close to Holy Trinity Church, where Shakespeare’s buried. The parking’s a nightmare as visitors compete with residents for spaces, but we’re a short walk from the river, the town centre and the main attractions.
Gemma comes down the stairs, looking gorgeous in a bronze roll neck sweater, jeans and tan boots. As it catches the sunlight from the window, her auburn hair shines like a fresh horse chestnut. She pulls on an anorak and grabs Columbo’s lead from the windowsill.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods, but there’s a nervous look in her eyes. “I want everything to be perfect, Kent. It’s easy for me because you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted. But what if I don’t live up to your expectations? What if I’m not the woman you think I am?”
Is she trying to tell me something or fishing for reassurance?
“It’s me who doesn’t deserve you.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, wishing I could calm her anxieties. “Now let’s get going before Columbo wears a hole in the carpet.”
Her kiss is so passionate I’m tempted to go back upstairs. Columbo has other ideas. It’s already gone nine and he’s been hinting to go out for ages. Once through the front door, he’s off like a rocket, straining at the lead, barking at another dog across the road. Gemma locks the door and hands me the keys.
She gestures towards a traffic warden. “We need to move the car before ten.”
Hand in hand, we walk down the road and cross over to Holy Trinity Church. In the graveyard, Columbo spots a grey squirrel and hurtles across the grass until his extendable lead reaches its limit. He stares up at the tree, barking as the squirrel scurries along the branches.
He repeats this several times as we walk around to the rear of the church. People of all ages, race and denomination fill the cemetery and riverside path, snapping with their cameras. We stop by the low stone wall and look down on the River Avon, rippling with activity. A tour boat chugs past on its way to the weir, where it will turn. Several visitors are struggling with rowing boats, causing mayhem among the local swans and ducks.
Gemma taps my arm. “I left my camera in the house. Can I have the keys?”
She hurries back, weaving through the tourists. Columbo watches her go and then embarks on a mission to cock his leg against as many gravestones as he can. I pull him back and keep him on a short lead as he drags me between the graves.
When ten minutes have passed since Gemma left us, I steer him back towards the church. Maybe she’s talking to someone or taking photographs. It’s not easy to capture the church with the mature trees in front of it. When we reach the main gate, she’s nowhere to be seen.
“Come on,” I say, dragging Columbo away from a cocker spaniel.
We walk back to the holiday cottage. I open the door and step inside, spotting her camera and phone on the coffee table. I call out. When she doesn’t reply, I run up the stairs, Columbo in pursuit.
She’s not there.
I push back the prickle of fear and apprehension and check the bedrooms and bathroom. Downstairs, I check the courtyard at the back, telling myself there’s a simple explanation.
Back inside, I’m about to ring her when I remember her phone’s on the coffee table. Then I notice my keys are missing.
When I step out onto the street, so is my car.
My breath catches in my throat. The hollow feeling in my stomach intensifies as I look up and down the street. I keep telling myself there’s a simple explanation as I check every car, every space.
Maybe she moved the car so we don’t get a ticket. No, she would have locked the front door on her way out. Feeling a nudge on my leg, I look down. Columbo has followed me out of the house, dragging his lead behind him. He whines, sensing my confusion and concern.
Like me, he’s knows something’s wrong.
Seriously wrong.
Throughout our honeymoon, we’ve gone everywhere together, done everything together. This is the first time Gemma’s gone off alone.
I flick back through the last two weeks, looking for clues that might explain what’s happening. Something about texting flashes through my mind. A growing apprehension has me in its grip, paralysing me. Columbo too. He looks up at me, seeking answers.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I say, unable to keep the frustration from my voice. “We had plenty of time before we had to move the car. Where’s she gone?”
Columbo tilts his head from side to side, but has no answer.
The street looks so normal for a Friday morning. Visitors’ cars fill the parking spaces vacated by residents, who’ve gone to work. People walk towards the church, keen to check out Shakespeare’s resting place or stroll along the riverbank. Several of them cast admiring glances at Columbo. One or two bend to stroke him. He tolerates this invasion of his space, hoping for treats.
“Lovely dog. Lovely morning.” One admirer gives me a warm smile. “You wouldn’t think it was October, would you?”
“Almost November,” I say, without thinking.
Back into the house, I close the door. How am I going to lock it without a key?
“Looks like we’re stuck here until she returns, little mate.”
What if I’m not the woman you think I am?
Gemma’s words come out of nowhere, filling my thoughts.
What did she mean?
Was she preparing me for this?
Why would she wander off on the last day of our honeymoon?
“You’ll never guess what happened when I got back here,” she’ll say, her eyes wide with excitement when she bursts through the door. “I was about to grab my camera and there he was, standing in the doorway. David Tennant. The David Tennant. He needed a lift to the theatre. His car wouldn’t start.”
A smile creeps across my lips. She’s liked him since he starred as Dr Who, all those years ago. It’s the eyes apparently. Carrie Fisher’s eyes were the root of my fantasies, along with her smile, her terrific sense of humour, her determination, her sexy voice.
Everything I love about Gemma.
I undo Columbo’s lead and slip him a treat from my pocket. He takes it and settles in the corner beside the sofa. He’d rather be out sniffing in the bushes, but we have to stay here, if only to ensure no one breaks in.
/> Telling myself Gemma will be back soon, I make a cup of tea. Keep calm, behave normally, stay positive.
Yeah, right.
What if I’m not the woman you think I am?
“She’s always taken her camera,” I say, dropping back onto the sofa. Every day, she puts it into her bag with her phone. She said the texts were junk, but she looked surprised.”
Or was it fear?
I can’t get my mind to focus. The doubts and questions keep battering against my attempts to remain calm and logical. I’m always detached and objective in a crisis, doing what needs to be done.
So why do I feel lost and helpless?
Columbo leaps up onto the sofa and climbs on my legs so he can lick my face. I ruffle his fur to reassure him, my gaze drifting to the camera and phone.
Why did she leave her phone behind? Like most people, she has it glued to her hand.
Once Columbo settles, I stretch across and pick up the phone. I tap in her PIN and draw a breath. Checking her text messages is like reading someone’s diary. Apart from the invasion of privacy, you may get an unwelcome surprise.
Saturday is too late. Be ready at 9.
Two
The words hit me like a punch in the stomach. I don’t know long I sit there, staring at the texts, trying to make sense of them. But my head’s filled with unpleasant thoughts. With all the murders we’ve solved, someone was going to seek retribution sooner or later.
What better time to strike than my honeymoon?
Images of my gorgeous wife, so happy at our wedding, fill my thoughts. How could I ever forget the look in her eyes when I made my speech, struggling to put into words how much I loved her and had always loved her? We didn’t need words to know how we felt.
What if I’m not the woman you think I am?
Her words, taking on a sinister meaning now, seem to bring me back to reality, to the phone in my hand. The texts were sent by someone called Halliday-Jones.
It can’t be a real name, can it? Though tempted to Google it, I need to read the rest of the texts. Bracing myself, I scroll to the first text he sent on Tuesday, a few minutes before midnight.
Eddie will ruin our lives if we don’t do something. Will explain when we meet.
I’m on my honeymoon!
I can’t believe you married the jerk after the way he treated you.
No reply from Gemma.
Have you told him what we did?
No reply.
Of course you haven’t. He wouldn’t have married you if he knew. He’ll find out soon enough unless we do something now.
On Thursday morning, Gemma replies.
Can’t it wait till I’m back on Saturday?
He doesn’t text until a few minutes after midnight.
Saturday is too late. Be ready at 9.
No matter how many times I read the exchange, I can’t believe Gemma said nothing about the texts. I remember her going quiet on Tuesday evening. Or was it Wednesday? Frustrated at my lack of focus, I slam my fist down on the arm of the sofa.
What the hell’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I pay more attention? I should have known she was in trouble.
Columbo barks, his posture wary, his tail down.
Now I’ve frightened my little mate.
Angry with myself for being so useless, I slump back, determined to get a grip, to make sense of what’s happened. I summon Columbo, who leaps up and tries to smother my face with kisses. I ruffle his fur, certain he’s missing Gemma too.
“I’m going to be a pretty poor private detective if I go to pieces at the first hint of trouble, right?”
He barks and licks me once more.
I retrieve Gemma’s phone and return to the texts, wondering if I’m jumping into the middle of a conversation. But there are no texts before Tuesday. Did Gemma ignore and delete them, hoping the problem with Eddie would go away?
I could ring the number and talk to Halliday-Jones. Would he answer?
Maybe he made her leave the phone behind so I could read the texts.
It makes sense if someone’s out to hurt me.
Then again, I can’t track where she is without her phone.
Once again, unpleasant thoughts gather, threatening to undermine me. I need to get out and focus on finding her, not sit around brooding, blaming myself for doing nothing to anticipate and prevent her disappearance.
How on earth did this happen?
Why?
With no answers to calm my doubts and fears, I make another cup of tea while my laptop boots. A Google search reveals a botanist called Halliday Jones, who has an entry on Linked In. There are a few businesses with the name and a couple of women with the surname Halliday-Jones. Facebook brings even fewer results and no matches, only more hyphenated surnames. I remove the biro from Gemma’s book of cryptic crosswords, grab a notepad and settle back with her phone.
Columbo nestles against my leg.
Eddie will ruin our lives if we don’t do something.
Our lives. It’s something that affects them both. There’s no preamble to the text, no previous contact before this. Halliday-Jones knows her phone number. His name shows, so he must be in her Contacts. A quick check confirms this. They have a past together, which involves Eddie.
Who is he? What’s he about to do?
I’m on my honeymoon!
Gemma doesn’t seem overly concerned. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?
I can’t believe you married the jerk after the way he treated you.
Did she tell Halliday-Jones about the day I walked out on her, eight years ago?
We’d only met on the Monday afternoon, six days earlier. I called into La Floret, a restaurant in Tollingdon High Street, to carry out a routine food hygiene inspection. She was standing on a chair, reaching up to change a light bulb. When she looked down at me with sexy eyes the colour of dark chocolate, it was lust at first sight. I had a weakness for waitresses, especially ones who wore short skirts and tight blouses.
“Be careful,” I said, as she stretched on tiptoes. “You might fall.”
She looked down and flashed a mischievous smile. “Then you'd better catch me.”
By the time she jumped down and stumbled into my arms, I didn’t want to let her go.
We spent a passionate week together, mainly in her bedsit, sometimes on the South Downs, walking along the cliffs to Birling Gap and the Seven Sisters. On Sunday morning, she snuck into the shower with me and said she loved me. Naturally, I took this declaration in my stride and walked out later while she nipped down to the local shop to buy some milk.
I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t phone or text her.
My behaviour was unforgiveable, but I couldn’t go back. The damage was done.
She didn’t contact me either, not that I blame her. She left Tollingdon and went back to London. I only discovered this when she returned seven years later. She’d wangled a job in Environmental Health, thanks to her uncle, the Chief Executive of Downland District Council.
“London,” I say, tapping the pen against my lips. I’ve no idea what she did in London during those seven years. When I proposed to her, she said there was so much I didn’t know about her. Things she wished she’d never done. Things she shouldn’t have done.
I have a similar history – one I don’t like to share. I can’t change it, so I lock it away and live in the present. Maybe I should have encouraged her to tell me instead of saying her past didn’t matter. After the struggles and problems we had over the years, all I wanted to do was marry her and look forward.
Thinking back, I wonder if my haste was driven by guilt as much as love.
Have you told him what we did?
Of course you haven’t. He wouldn’t have married you if he knew.
It took me eight years to realise what everyone else knew. Gemma was the only person I’d ever loved – except for myself, according to her mother, Sarah.
He’ll find out soon enough unless we do something now.
How will I find out? Will Eddie contact me? Will he put something on social media?
While I’ve received publicity for solving murders, I’m hardly a celebrity or household name, unlike my father, Miles Birchill. Thanks to his wealth, built on casinos which attract politicians and celebrities, he was often photographed with a young blonde, beautiful and eager for publicity. He’s now acting his age and married to Lady Georgina Rhys-Jones, arousing more media interest.
