No Going Back (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 7), page 10
“Do you think she knows where the original photographs are?”
“She might. Before they split, Harry might have told her what he’d uncovered about Rathbone. Can you track her down?”
Ashley’s sigh suggests it’s not going to be that simple. “If her parents report her as missing, maybe, but it won’t be me who follows it up. She could have trashed her own house to send us in the wrong direction. Have you considered that?”
At the moment, there’s too much to consider. “Maybe I’ll ask Adrian Peach about Miranda. He worked with Harry at the Argus.”
“You mention Miranda and Adrian will know you’re investigating Harry’s death. He’s already hassled Sarah. If he finds out Gemma’s helping you, he’ll be like a dog in a butcher’s shop.”
I consider her words as we return to the truck. “There’s another possibility. What if the killers were searching for something that had nothing to do with Harry’s photographs?”
She groans. “I knew you were going to make this even more complicated.”
“I’m struggling to envisage Rathbone getting mixed up in people trafficking. But I can imagine his fiancée Katya employing illegal immigrants as cheap labour.”
“There are plenty of migrants coming across the channel.” Ashley jumps up into the truck and manoeuvres the sofa onto the lifting plate. “And the future Mrs Rathbone has expensive tastes. Beth told me the engagement party was a pretty lavish affair.”
“Katya’s running the Travellers for him. They’ve spent a fortune on the place, but he has no other businesses to help fund the works. Well, no legal ones.”
Ashley grins as she lowers the sofa to the ground. “So, either they’ve had a windfall or they’re making money on the side.”
“Does that mean you’ll check it out?”
“It’s not my ball to kick,” she says, her voice strained. “Not that I’ll be kicking anything other than my heels. There’s talk of restructuring.” She turns away to move the sofa. “If they find out I’m helping you, Kent, they’ll transfer me to Hastings.”
“Moving here’s not going to help, is it? Unless ... you told them where to stick the job, didn’t you?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Maybe you returned to work too early. You need more time to ...”
“More time for what?” She spins around, tears brimming in her eyes. “More time to make silly mistakes? My guvnor tells me to keep my distance and I move in next door to you. Is that the behaviour of a rational woman? No,” she says, with a weary shake of the head, “it’s the behaviour of a frightened woman. I’m getting too old to work all the hours God sends, running on adrenaline and cups of coffee, fighting a system that makes it harder for me to do my job.”
“But you love your job.”
“I love this place.” She glances around and draws a breath. “I could run the visitor centre.”
As much as I want to make her feel better, it’s not the answer. “You’d be bored senseless within a week. We’re restless – driven. We want to make a difference, even if we know it’s impossible sometimes.”
My voice dies in my throat as Savanna saunters into view. She pushes her hands through her gleaming hair and lets it settle over her tanned shoulders. She looks amazing in a powder blue shirt, knotted above her waist, and matching shorts, both sporting her logo. Even though there’s an angry glint to her blue eyes, they still turn my brain to mush and my legs to jelly.
She walks up to me, ignoring Ashley. “Thanks for screwing my plans, Kent.”
Twenty-Four
“I have a feeling this is my fault.” Ashley gives me an apologetic shrug and turns to Savanna. “Is this about the farmhouse? You wanted to use it while you were filming.”
“You must be the detective Johnny spoke to.” Savanna peers into the truck, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Then she glares at me. “You agreed to let me use the farmhouse while we were filming. I’ve spent months setting this up. Then first thing this morning, Johnny says you don’t want me to film here.”
I’m about to protest my innocence when the penny drops. Before I can confirm my suspicions, Columbo joins us, leaping up at Savanna, his tail wagging. She drops to her knee to fuss him, unable to stop him clambering up to lick her face. She slides a hand underneath him and gets to her feet, smiling as he pushes his nose under her hair to nuzzle her ear.
I can’t believe I feel jealous. What’s wrong with me?
“Why don’t you take Columbo back to my flat,” I say. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
Her look tells me I’d better not keep her waiting.
I turn to Ashley, wondering what she said to Johnny Spender, knowing he was Savanna’s partner.
“You said the filming wasn’t going to happen,” Ashley says, a defiant look in her eyes. “When Spender shows up to tell me the cottage is a death trap, he asks me if you’re about to discuss the filming next week.”
“You told him there wasn’t going to be any filming.”
“I needed somewhere to live.”
“You could have stayed in my spare room until the filming was over.”
“Yeah, like Gemma’s going to agree to that.”
“What’s Gemma got to do with anything?” Then I recall Gemma coming into the café earlier. “You assumed she’d moved in with me, didn’t you? She stayed the night to get away from her mother and Steph Richmond.”
Ashley pushes the button to raise the ramp. “Tell Savanna she can go ahead with her precious filming.”
“Where will you go?”
“What do you care?” The ramp jolts to a stop, almost discharging her to the ground. She sways back and grabs onto the sofa. “I didn’t want you getting mixed up with Spender, okay?”
“You didn’t want me spending time with Savanna.”
“They’re both bad news, Kent. She can’t be blind to his business dealings, or the people he mixes with.”
“What sort of people?”
“People we’re interested in.”
“People like Rathbone?”
“He’s small fry.” She sits on the arm of the sofa, considering her words. “Spender’s now a member of your father’s casino in Brighton. It’s filled with the kind of people Spender wants to meet – people with money, influence and no scruples.”
“With that level of cynicism you should have no trouble getting your old job back. Then again, you have something in common with Savanna. She’s hates casinos and all forms of gambling. My father wasn’t impressed when she turned down his offer to be his VIP guest.”
Ashley doesn’t look impressed either.
“If you’re suggesting she knows nothing about Spender’s gambling, it’s time you looked beyond the big blue eyes, Kent. Trust me, she knows about Spender’s interests. Ask her if you don’t believe me. You’ve got the perfect opportunity to get to know her better with this film you’re making.”
I want to dismiss Ashley’s sneering words, but beauty doesn’t equal honesty and integrity, does it? Everything I know about Savanna is filtered through the haze of fantasies.
Ashley gets to her feet and hauls the sofa back into the truck. “Think about this, Kent. If Spender’s involved in Harry Lawson’s death, how will Savanna feel when she finds out you said nothing?”
Twenty-Five
Getting to know Savanna should have been a dream assignment. She would be consulting me about animals, seeking advice on how best to film them without causing anxiety or stress, marvelling at my skills and compassion. We’d have to spend days together. And if there was any late shooting, she’d stay over in the farmhouse.
Now I’m not sure what to expect.
The media branded her the Ice Queen after her brief appearance in Love Island. But watching her play with Columbo on the floor in my flat, I see only warmth and love. She knows exactly what he wants because she loves animals.
In my books that makes her compassionate and caring.
“You’re amazing,” I hear myself saying.
She looks up and smiles. “You’re the amazing one, caring for all the animals, making sure they live out the rest of their lives in peace. I’ve read about the cruelty and suffering some people inflict on animals. I’d like to do the same to them.”
“Me too.”
“How do you set aside the anger when you see what people have done to these poor creatures? What if you can’t save them? What if they die?” She’s padding across the floor in bare feet. “How do you deal with it, Kent?”
“You make sure the ones that live have as good a life as possible.”
“What must you think of me, Kent?” My stomach tightens as she stops before me, looking into my eyes. “I roll up and accuse you of messing up my plans when Johnny never spoke to you. That’s one of the reasons I sent him to Jevington.”
I wonder if Spender sees himself as a messenger.
“Johnny’s not good with people in authority,” she says, strolling across to the window to look out at the Downs. “His mother died from an overdose when he was four or five. He went into care, but he never talks about it. When you read about some of the things that happened in those places...”
She shudders and falls silent. Columbo nudges her leg with his nose and whines. She scoops him up and lets him lick her face. “Frances told me how you rescued him, how you sit and talk to him, discussing your cases and troubles.” She ruffles his fur and looks into his eyes. “I wish I had someone like you.”
“Columbo’s a great listener,” I say, reaching for the kettle.
“Sure, but I’m hopeless at expressing my feelings. That’s why they branded me the Ice Queen. Johnny’s the strong, silent type, so imagine what it’s like after dinner at my place.”
My place, not our place.
“Maybe you need a dog.”
She sets Columbo on the floor. “We’re busy people with businesses to run. Sometimes, we don’t see each other for days.”
Hearing a diesel engine below, I look out to see Ashley driving away. “What does he do?”
“He likes to surprise me with holidays in the Cayman Islands.”
Is that why she’s here – to tell me she’s off on holiday?
She grabs her phone from the worktop. “I need to talk to Wayne, my production manager. I usually bring him along to assess the project, make all the necessary checks.”
Maybe she didn’t bring Wayne because she isn’t going to film next week.
“Did you send Johnny to tell me you were off on holiday?” I ask.
“I knew nothing about a holiday until he showed me the tickets this morning. We had a monster argument. That’s when he told me you didn’t want your sanctuary associated with sleazy swimwear.”
Is she angry with me or her partner?
“When we discussed this at the grand opening of the sanctuary, Savanna, you sounded so excited about making a film here. But you never followed up, so I thought you’d lost interest. What’s a small animal sanctuary on the edge of a village compared to the glamorous world of swimwear?”
She looks at me with those sultry blue eyes and cancels the call to Wayne. “Kent, it’s you I’m interested in. Can’t you see that?”
If she’d said that yesterday, my emotions would be turning summersaults of joy. Today, I know I can’t compete with the Cayman Islands.
“You solve murders,” she’s saying, animated now. “You rescue animals. You protect people in your work. You’re strong, fearless, a local hero.”
My disappointment hasn’t dulled my ability to recognise bullshit. “What do you want, Savanna? Why aren’t you packing for your holiday?”
She looks down at Columbo, as if she’d prefer to talk to him. “I’m not sure about Johnny. I was hoping you could help me.”
She picks up her phone, taps and swipes, and then places it back on the counter. “This is a photograph of an email on Johnny’s laptop.”
Local Property Developer Harbours More than Tenants in Shoreham.
Johnny Spender, who owns many properties along the South Coast, was unavailable for comment following accusations that he is harbouring illegal immigrants in his properties.
It’s the kind of speculative piece Tommy Logan would print in the Tollingdon Tribune.
Do you really want me to print this?
Harry Lawson.
I look at the date. Harry sent the email last Friday evening, the day before he drowned. “You need to show this to Ashley,” I say.
Savanna snatches back the phone. “No way. She’s a police officer. Can’t you find out if it’s true? I’ve checked online every day and the Argus hasn’t printed the story.”
“Harry’s death might have prevented him from submitting the story. Why were you checking your partner’s emails?”
“Last Friday evening, Johnny was shouting down the phone, threatening all sorts of grief and retribution. When I asked him what was going on, he said it was nothing he couldn’t handle.”
“So you took a peek at his emails.”
She nods. “He’s been on edge for weeks. The slightest thing sets him off. Then this morning, he tells me he’s booked us two weeks in the Cayman Islands.”
“You think he’s making a run for it?”
“I don’t know what to think. We could investigate Harry Lawson’s claims, couldn’t we? You do this sort of thing all the time.”
“You mean I could investigate. You’re going on holiday.”
“I’ve got too much to do,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t drop everything at a moment’s notice.”
She hurried straight over here though.
“Won’t he be suspicious if you don’t go on holiday with him?” I ask.
She gives me a wry smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he takes someone else instead.”
There’s no emotion in her eyes as she speaks. Is it bravado, or is she trying to tell me Johnny Spender’s history? If that’s the case, and she rushed over here, what does she want?
Not that long ago, I’d be thinking my fantasies were about to come true.
“Would you forward the photo to me?” I ask, playing wait and see. “I can contact Harry’s email provider to find out more.”
She nods and scoops up her phone. For a moment she looks at me, all manner of emotions flickering across her eyes. Then she’s on her way. Before she shuts the front door behind her, she calls up the stairs. “I can’t wait to start filming on Monday.”
I can’t wait to phone Ashley.
Twenty-Six
Tollingdon Furniture Supplies occupies several interconnected units on a small retail park on the northern edge of the town. Built in the 1950s, the buildings are a mixture of brick and corrugated sheet cladding. According to the sign over the main door, the business has traded since 1971.
It’s a shame they haven’t cleaned or repainted the sign since then.
Ashley parks her Audi in the corner of the car park, next to some weary shrubs that stop litter blowing into the road. She sits there, fingers drumming on the armrest.
After our disagreement earlier, I wasn’t expecting her to ring me with the address of Miranda’s workplace. When I forwarded the details of the email Harry sent to Spender, Ashley phoned straight back.
Maybe she’s having second thoughts.
“Let me do this,” I say.
She shakes her head. “My guvnor will put me behind a desk unless I show what a good detective I am. If he disciplines me for using my initiative and coming here, I may as well quit the force now.”
While I understand how vulnerable she feels, interfering in a local investigation will not win her any friends. “If I can find out what happened to Miranda, you won’t need to risk your career, Ashley.”
“No offence, Kent, but why would Mark Steele tell you anything when he didn’t tell the uniforms? He’s Miranda’s deputy, before you ask.”
I point to a couple of old sofas, dumped in the alley that runs alongside the building. “That’s a public footpath, so they’re guilty of fly tipping. The sofas also provide harbourage for rats, which is a serious public health risk. And who knows what health and safety contraventions I’ll find inside. Letting me try doesn’t make you any less of a detective.”
“Okay, you can take the lead, Kent. It’s the least I can do after the information you gave me about Johnny Spender. Harry’s editor at the Argus knew nothing about the story. There’s no reference to Spender on Harry’s work computer.”
“It would be great to find a link between Spender and Rathbone.”
Ashley raises a finger. “Let’s walk before we sprint.”
“Talking of running, you need to stay out here in case Steele legs it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“If we’re looking for Miranda, there’s a chance the guys who turned over her place have already visited here. What if they threatened him?”
“I’ll pretend I’m a customer, looking for a chaise longue. I can intercept him before he reaches the exit.”
“Give me a moment,” I say, heading for the alleyway.
The two sofas look old. While companies often take away old sofas when they deliver new, these were dumped here from the nearby housing estate. I take a couple of photographs and return to the entrance. Ashley’s gone inside already, captured on the CCTV camera above the door. It closes behind me, cutting off the fresh air needed to dilute the unmistakable fumes of new furniture.
The store’s divided into room areas, each hosting the appropriate units. An elderly couple are testing reclining armchairs, supervised by a patient sales assistant. Ashley’s in the bedroom area, which is nearest to a staff door. A young man in a suit sits behind a desk, watching her, ready to pounce if she shows any interest.
He looks up when I approach, straightening the huge knot on his colourful tie. He looks disappointed when I ask for the manager, Miranda Tate. He gives my ID card a brief glance and picks up the phone.
