No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 10
“She hasn’t left me.”
While I’m struggling to remain calm, Foster looks and sounds so cool. “Did you check your wife’s texts before Friday?”
“If I had, I would have known what Halliday-Jones was planning. I could have stopped him.”
“Why should I believe you when you’ve admitted you withheld information from the police?”
“Why would I report her missing if I’d ...”
“If you’d what, Mr Fisher?”
“If I had anything to do with her disappearance.”
She glances at the clock on the wall. “Where were you on Friday evening, Mr Fisher?”
“In the holiday home with Columbo.”
“Can anyone confirm this?”
I shake my head.
“Has Gemma contacted you since Friday?”
“No.”
She glances at Penn and rises. “I’ll need your wife’s phone, Mr Fisher. We may also need to ask you further questions as our enquiries progress.”
I drop the phone into the plastic bag Penn holds out.
“I’m sure DI Goodman has already advised you to allow us to investigate. As your wife could be in danger, I can’t believe you’d want to obstruct us in any way.”
Ashley gives me an unhelpful shrug and follows her colleagues down the stairs. Once they exit the car park, Niamh’s on her way over. She bounds up the stairs, eager for news.
“Have they found Gemma?”
I shake my head. “I have a horrible feeling they think I killed her.”
Twenty-One
Niamh gasps. “Why would they think you killed Gemma?”
“I behaved like an idiot. I convinced myself she would be back within an hour or two. When I realised she wouldn’t, I wondered if she was having doubts about marrying me. Before the wedding, she said she wasn’t the woman I thought she was.”
“Did she explain why?”
I glance down at Columbo, who’s listening intently, his head moving from side to side.
“I never gave her the chance. I dismissed what she said, the way I dismiss anything that complicates my relationships. I’ve been doing it since I was eighteen.” I give a helpless shrug, not sure why it’s taken me this long to work it out. “The first sign of trouble, I bailed out. If someone wanted more than I wanted to give, or got too involved, I walked away. Gemma knew only too well. Maybe that’s why she never told me anything about her time in London, afraid I’d walk away again. Then, when she tried to tell me, I wouldn’t listen.”
“She still married you though.” Niamh sighs and opens out her arms, as if asking for forgiveness. “I know I’ve not always supported your taste in women, but it’s because I care about you, Kent. And so does Gemma. She loves you and she’s out there right now, waiting for you. She won’t give up on you, so don’t give up on her.” She places her hands on my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes. “Do whatever it takes to find her, but let us help you.”
“You mean you’re staying?”
“Only if you want me to.”
“I thought your father was expecting you back.”
“He told me to take as long as I wanted.” She chuckles to herself. “He’s not interested in my ideas for new products. He’s happy to keep things the way they’ve always been. Not like Hattie.”
She bites her lip, realising she’s said too much. “She thought it was a waste to have a catering kitchen and not use it. She thinks we can make better cakes and confectionery at a fraction of the cost of the ones you buy in. She wants to spend more time with her grandchildren, but she doesn’t want to let you down.”
“So you’ve been plotting to come back since I went on honeymoon.”
“Are you happy for me to come back?” When I hesitate, she says, “I don’t mind renting a place in the village. Gemma might be more comfortable if I live off site.”
I doubt whether my wife will be happy at all, but she has more pressing troubles to contend with. I keep hoping she’ll ring or text, if only to let me know she’s safe. But whoever set fire to my car must have other ideas.
What happened all those years ago to cast such a long shadow?
“I’m happy for you to come back, Niamh, but you must accept Gemma for who she is.”
“I only want what’s best for you, Kent. Surely you know that.”
“Then you should be delighted Gemma’s my wife. Now, I need to catch up on what’s been going on here.”
She leaves me to check on the animals and volunteers. They’re pleased I’m back, but the reticence in their eyes tells me they know Gemma’s missing. No doubt rumours are flying around since the police called. When I mention it to Frances, she tells me to stop the speculation before it gets worse.
“You’ve been talking to my father again. Did he suggest a media release?”
She frowns and shakes her head. “I can ask everyone to stay behind when we close.”
I’m not ready to face them. “What do I tell them?”
“The truth.”
“What, my wife took my car and ran off with a stranger?”
She sighs. “Do you want me to tell them?”
“No, it’s my job. I don’t want to admit I failed her. I know I shouldn’t think like that, but I’d like to have some positive news.”
“They’ll understand, Kent. It’ll stop them thinking you’ve split up. There are already rumours on Facebook and Twitter. Not that I pay any attention,” she adds.
“I’ll do it tomorrow, first thing. Now, tell me about this little bundle of fun. It looks like a cockapoo.”
The small black dog with curly fur and floppy ears bounds up to gate as we approach her kennel. She’s not much more than a pup, with a gorgeous face that will see her rehomed by the end of the day.
“She came in yesterday. She’s too lively for her owner, who’s in her eighties. She’s a real sweetie – the dog, I mean. The owner was heartbroken, bless her, but she couldn’t cope. She’s called Blackie – the dog, I mean, not the owner.”
I can’t help smiling, which makes Frances relax. “Gina’s set her heart on her.”
“And my father agreed?”
“He’s not happy, but he knows he’s facing purgatory if he refuses. Blackie adores Gina, so it’s a done deal. That’s why she’s not on the website. The dog, I mean, not Gina.” Frances grins again and leads me away from the kennels, spotting Columbo by the small barn. “Is there anything I can do to help you find Gemma?”
“Do you know anyone who works in the music industry? Gemma’s at a house with a studio, not far from Ditchling.”
“That’s great news. Did the police find her?”
“I need to identify the house, but I’m not sure where to start.”
“There’s at least one recording studio in Eastbourne,” Frances says. “They’d know about other studios in the area.”
“I’m on it.”
Back in the flat, a Google search nets me several hits for Eastbourne studios. Most are closed on Sunday, or not answering the phone. A young man, who insists on referring to me as ‘dude’, thinks I’ve made up the name Ditchling. After a few more fruitless calls, I make a cup of tea and ring Gemma’s uncle, Frank Dean, hoping he’s returned home. I can hear a kettle in the background.
“I got back about ten minutes ago. I was about to ring you, Kent.”
“You’ve spoken to Sarah?”
“She left a message on the answer machine, but she never says why she’s ringing. There’s also a curious message from Gemma.”
“She rang you?” I’m on my feet, trying to stop my mind going into overdrive. “When? What did she say?”
“She rang this morning. She sounded drunk. What’s going on, Kent?”
“What did she say, Frank?”
“She said she’d done a terrible thing and didn’t know how to make it right. What’s she talking about? What’s she done?”
Relief that she’s made contact overrides everything. “I need to listen to the message. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”
I beckon Columbo. Once he’s deposited with Niamh, I jump into the hire car and head south to Friston and East Dean. Once over the South Downs the road dips into Eastbourne. At the traffic lights, I turn into Summerdown Road, lined with pleasant redbrick houses of various ages, often tucked behind flint walls and gardens with mature trees. I’m soon turning right into Compton Drive, where the houses are more modern, but no less pleasing to look at. The first left takes me into Paradise Close, filled with detached houses that were built in the 1970s, when rooms were larger than today.
I spot Sarah’s old Volvo estate on Frank’s drive. Sooner or later I have to face her, but I was hoping for time to prepare. When I step out of the car, she exits hers, her expression grim and unforgiving. She folds her arms across her baggy jumper, spreads her legs, and blocks the way.
“So Kent, when are you going to stop making my life a misery?”
Twenty-Two
As greetings go, it’s not one of her most hostile, but no less cutting. She stares at me with intense brown eyes that threaten all kinds of pain. She may be stick thin, but she’s a feisty package of aggressive words, when she can be bothered to talk. The scowl that’s etched into her forehead deepens. She flexes her long fingers, as if she’s ready to thump me. Yet when she’s with animals, she’s as gentle as a lamb.
Fortunately, she’s a veterinary surgeon not a butcher.
She brushes her wild auburn hair from her face and gestures towards the house. Frank, who shares her thin face, prominent nose and narrow mouth, casts a worried look as we approach. Well aware of my differences with his sister, he’s the peacemaker. His calm diplomacy has helped him become Downland’s longest serving chief executive, promoted into the role in his mid-thirties, when he had a full head of chestnut brown hair. It’s grey now, receding in line with the council’s budget.
“I’ve made coffee,” he says, “but I don’t have any doughnuts.”
Coffee and doughnuts are both the bedrock of his diplomacy and a panacea for all troubles and disputes. It’s difficult to argue when your mouth’s filled with dough and jam. Not to be outdone, Sarah leans into her car and retrieves a small paper bag, which she thrusts into his hand.
“Flapjacks won’t do anything for your spare tyre, Frank, but they’re healthier.”
He breathes in to disguise his expanding waistline and ushers us into a hall, decorated in a faded beige colour. A row of ornate hooks holds an impressive array of Berber coats, golfing jackets and baseball caps. The shoe rack below contains more golf shoes than you can shake a putter at. And in case the unobservant visitor doesn’t get the message, the walls are lined with fun, caricature golf prints in black frames. He subscribes to several golfing magazines, has collections of DVDs on how to improve his game, and three sets of clubs.
Why he doesn’t drive to work in an electric buggy, I’ll never know.
Once Sarah and I are seated at either end of the green sofa, he brings in a tray with a large and a small cafetière, flanking a milk jug. He sets the tray on the long glass table and returns to the kitchen for cups, plates and flapjacks. “Tuck in,” he says, walking over to the sideboard and his ancient answer machine. “Shall I play Gemma’s message?”
Sarah nods and draws a deep breath.
I pull out my notebook, even though I’ll record the message on my phone.
There’s a pause before Gemma speaks. In the background, I can make out the ticking of a clock. It suggests she’s not being kept in a cellar or somewhere equally bleak. Her voice is slurred and uncertain, stretching out her words.
“I’ve done a terrible thing. I don’t know what to do, Uncle Frank.” Her voice fades, as if she’s losing consciousness. “Tell Kent I’ll always love him.”
The line goes dead, as if the call was cut off.
No one speaks. Sarah stares at her hands, grasped together in her lap. The skin stretched over her knuckles is as white as her face. She turns to me, her voice flat. “Do you know what she did?”
I shake my head.
She turns to her brother. “Do you?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure why she rang me and not you or Kent.”
“The police will want a copy of the cassette,” I say, finishing my note. I fill my cup with decaf coffee from the small cafetière, stir in some milk, putting my thoughts in order. “I’ll pass it to Ashley Goodman.”
He nods. “Does she have any news?”
If I tell them about my burned out car and the body inside, they’ll assume the worst.
“Nothing yet,” I reply.
“So what happened?” he asks. “Sarah said Gemma went back to retrieve her camera and vanished.”
“She took my car.”
“Have the police found it?” Sarah asks.
It’s the first of many questions, seeking more details or clarification. While I give them a summary of what happened, I can’t always provide an explanation, leaving them frustrated, and in Sarah’s case angry. Her expression rarely shifts from grim. Frank’s more animated, homing in on the practicalities and process.
“Why didn’t you contact the police straight away?”
“I thought she’d be back in a couple of hours.”
Sarah stares at me in disbelief. “I’d hardly call a whole day a couple of hours. Where’s Gemma’s phone? I want to see the texts.”
“The police have it.”
“The police in Stratford?”
“Sussex Police.”
Frank looks up. “Didn’t the police in Stratford want to see the texts?”
“I didn’t get the chance to show them.”
“Why not?” Her voice cracks like a whip. “Do you know why Gemma drove off?”
“Not yet. It’s linked to her life in London. I thought you might have some idea.”
“You know she never confided in me, her mother.” Her empty laugh betrays the depth of her resentment. “Her father was a drunken bum, who couldn’t keep his hands out of the cocaine jar. He had a string of boyfriends and associates that were as rank and disgusting as the furniture in his flat. But my daughter wanted to be with him because I was a lousy mother.”
Her shoulders drop as the fight fades inside her. “She right, isn’t she? When they were handing out maternal genes, I got the ones that drew me to animals not children.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Though Frank gives her an encouraging smile, there’s little warmth in his voice. Apart from the facial similarities, you wouldn’t think they were brother and sister. He’s tall and stocky, despite his frequent strolls around the golf course. He has a smiling, benevolent quality that draws people to him. She wears a brooding malevolence like armour.
Not used to seeing them together, I wonder if they had different fathers.
“Gemma still loves you,” he says, perching on the edge of his armchair.
“Yeah, she just can’t bear to be in the same room as me. She hides it well though. She always did. But then she was a natural actress, playing up to her father, and you, Frank. She did some acting here and there in London. Bit parts in the chorus line, that kind of thing.”
“She had a degree in drama.”
“The certificate’s fake, Frank, like most of what she told you.” She sighs, the strain visible in her eyes. “She didn’t have the qualifications to go to university, but she didn’t need to. Her father’s star might have well and truly waned, but he knew people. He got her roles and bit parts, put her in touch with people who could help her.”
Frank doesn’t look convinced. “How do you know all this?”
“Whenever Marty needed money, he’d update me on her progress. He sent me programmes from theatre productions where she was listed in the cast. He kept telling me she was going to be a huge star. Then she had an accident on stage. It should have been her breakthrough role. Instead, she broke her leg. How ironic and cruel is that?”
The memory seems to drain her. “I don’t know why she turned her back on the theatre. She didn’t answer my calls or emails. I’ve no idea where she went or what she did. Then years later, I return to the house from my surgery and she’s sitting in my lounge, drinking tea, as if she’s popped round for a chat. She said you’d found her a job, but you never thought to tell me, did you, Frank?”
Says the woman who didn’t tell me much at all.
He shifts in the chair, used to dodging bullets from councillors and the press. “We’ve done this to death, Sarah. Let’s move on and focus on what we do now.”
She folds her arms in defiance.
“How much contact did you have with Gemma when she was in London?” I ask him.
He drains what’s left of his coffee and casts his sister an apologetic look. “Marty came to me for money too. For Gemma, of course.”
“For his next fix, you mean. Don’t worry, I’ve always known. Gemma said you visited.”
I pick up my pen and look at Frank.
“I was in London for a conference, so I asked if I could pop round.”
She slams her hand down on the table, rattling the cups. “You were always going to London. How many times did I ask you to pop in and see how she was? And every time you were too busy.”
He shrinks back from her onslaught.
“Then suddenly you decide to visit her? Why?”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, she wanted some advice.”
“About what?”
“I can’t break a confidence. Sorry.” He walks over to the answer machine. “I’ll get you the cassette, Kent.”
He wants us to leave, but he must realise we’re not going to budge.
Sarah pulls out her phone. “Obstructing the police is a serious offence, Frank, more so for a prominent chief executive like you. If you won’t tell me, you can tell them.”
“She’ll never forgive me, Sarah.”
“If anything happens to my daughter, I’ll never forgive you. Neither will Kent. Now, do you want me to call the police?”
