No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 11
Frank shakes his head and returns to his chair. He takes a moment to compose himself, to choose his words. When he speaks, his voice is low, his words reluctant.
“She didn’t stop acting because she broke her leg. She said she’d killed someone.”
Twenty-Three
Sarah breaks the stunned silence. “She killed someone? What are you talking about?”
“She said I didn’t need to know the details.”
“And you did nothing?”
“She looked so ill, Sarah. She sounded so empty, so desperate, I was worried what she might do. I was scared I might push her over the edge. She pleaded with me.”
“When was this?” I ask.
“She was back in London, a few months after being with you.”
“I might have guessed.” Sarah casts me a long, hard stare, as if I’d pushed her daughter into killing someone. “And you never thought to tell me, Frank?”
“She said she was going to talk to you.”
“That’s no excuse, and you know it.” She rises so sharply, she clatters the table, spilling coffee. “I’m her mother, for God’s sake.”
“She returned to London to get away from you.” He raises a hand as she looms towards him. “You asked, Sarah. You can’t blame me if you don’t like what you learn.”
“You’re my brother, not a bloody messenger.”
“She confided in me because you cared more about your practice than her. Sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound like that.” He rises, forcing her to step back. “She never felt she could talk to you.”
“So what made you think she would on this occasion?”
She’s in his face now, a finger extended dangerously close to his eye. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t notice me rise and pocket my notebook. It’s time to get away from this caustic atmosphere. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I dumped her after she confessed her love for me.
I head for the answer machine. “I’ll take the tape and be on my way.”
Sarah looks at me and groans. “Oh Kent, what must you think of us?”
Frank looks down. “I’m sorry, Kent. We’re supposed to be finding Gemma, not fighting over the blame. She needs our help.”
“She needed our help then.” She drops back onto the sofa. “For God’s sake, Frank, if she killed someone, she’s in danger herself now. Someone’s found out.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Sit down, Kent and let me tell you what I think happened.” He waits for me take a seat and continues. “Martin was dying a slow and painful death. He was emaciated and in constant pain, lying there, waiting for his lungs to pack up. Gemma came home every day, not knowing if he would still be alive. She would have heard him in agony every night. He would have begged her to help him end it all.”
“You mean a mercy killing.”
He nods. “It’s still murder in the eyes of the law. On top of the trauma of what she did, she lost the flat. I begged her to come home, but she refused.” He gives his sister an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You gave her money, didn’t you?”
“You’ve no idea how frightened she was.”
“You don’t think I was worried, knowing she was up there, sharing a poky basement flat in a shitty backstreet with a washed out junky, riddled with HIV?”
“You could have visited her any time.”
From her description, it sounds like she’s been there, but not when Gemma was present.
“Stop pointing fingers,” I say, tired of their bickering. “You’re supposed to be on the same side.”
Frank apologises. “After I sent her the money, I went up to London the next weekend, but she’d gone. None of the neighbours knew where. I rang and sent texts, but she never responded.” He glances at Sarah, his expression saying he tried his best. “Like you, I heard nothing for what, five years? Then, out of the blue, she rang from Brighton, asked how you were.”
Sarah doesn’t seem interested. She glances at me and frowns. “Are you okay, Kent? You’re very quiet.”
If a mercy killing is the secret Gemma’s keeping from me, it doesn’t explain why she ran off with Halliday Jones. If she confided in him, why would he turn against her? What could he gain from exposing her secret?
Money?
I’m not the woman you think I am.
Halliday Jones said he didn’t think I’d marry her if I found out.
Her disappearance suggests she thinks he’s right.
Twenty-Four
When Ashley calls round on Monday morning, she’s determined to lift me out of my sombre mood. She offers to help me chase up the recording studios in Eastbourne and Brighton. Someone must know about a studio near Ditchling. Based on the replies I receive, I’m not sure there is, or ever was, a music studio there.
“Come on, Kent, we’re on the case now. I’ll get the techies to analyse the tape, clean it up a bit, and see if we can identify the background noises. Officers are talking to people at the industrial estate in Lower Dicker, so you’d better stay clear, unless you want Naomi Foster to haul you in for a formal interview.”
“Does she think I’ve killed Gemma?”
“You’re a suspect, Kent. You know the statistics. Spouses and family commit the most murders.”
“She’s not dead.”
“We’ll do everything we can to find her. You know we will.”
I nod, but the body in my burned out car isn’t a good omen.
“Have you uncovered anything else, Kent?”
I shake my head, knowing I can’t say anything about Gemma’s mercy killing. “Do you think she’s being held against her will?”
Hearing the click of Columbo’s claws on the stairs, she turns. When he reaches the top, he pauses, glances from me to Ashley, and races over to greet her. She’s delighted to see him. He enjoys the attention until he smells the chew in her pocket. He drops back and barks, encouraging her to give him the treat. She smiles and obliges, watching him disappear into his favourite corner to devour the bone-shaped chew.
“Does he miss Gemma?”
I nod. “More, since we came back.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile and gets to her feet. “If you think of anything else, let me know.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“The note she left you suggests she knew where she was going and why. I know it doesn’t rule out being held against her will, but telling you not to contact the police could simply be an attempt to keep her secret to herself.”
“Halliday-Jones knows.”
“Don’t forget this character, Eddie, whoever he is. How he’s involved is anyone’s guess at this stage. If he’s dodgy, either we’ll have a record of him or your father will find him. If he does,” she says, tapping her phone, “let me know immediately. I mean it, Kent. Gemma’s too precious to go blundering in like a hero.”
She’s right, but I hate feeling impotent.
I follow her to the door. “Why did she ring her uncle and not me?”
Ashley turns and hugs me. It’s brief, a little awkward, but welcome. “I think it would have upset her too much to talk to you, Kent. It means she hasn’t stopped loving you. Don’t lose sight of that.”
After ruffling Columbo’s fur and telling him to look after me, she walks down the path to her car. Niamh emerges from the café and marches over, looking worried.
“What was all the hugging about? Is it bad news?”
“Ashley’s a mate. She wants to help.”
“There was a time when I thought she’d be more than a friend.” Niamh watches Ashley get into her car and sighs. “She was keen on you. You were attracted to her.”
“I was attracted to you once.”
I’m not sure why I admit this, though I’m sure she noticed at the time. The memory of her walking down the steps of Downland Manor, her face illuminated by the evening sun, is hard to forget. “You looked so glamorous and exciting the first time I saw you.”
Her cheeks flush. “You were seventeen and a slave to your hormones. Thankfully, Tara gave you an outlet for them.”
A mischievous twinkle lights up Niamh’s solemn eyes. Once Tara, who managed the estate, taught me how to please a woman, Niamh and I became more like brother and sister. We’re closer than Sarah and Frank, who are related by blood.
At least we were.
“Are Sarah and Frank really related?” I ask.
Niamh’s hands go to her hips, but there’s no quarrel in her voice. “Why do you always change the subject when someone talks to you about relationships?”
“If you were about to tell me Ashley would have been a more suitable partner for me, save your breath.”
“What if Gemma meant to leave you?”
“I thought you wanted to help. It didn’t last long, did it?”
“You have a blind spot, Kent.” She looks at me, defiant and sure of herself. “Tell me Gemma leaving you hasn’t crossed your mind.”
When I don’t answer, she gives me an ‘I told you so’ look and strides away, followed by Columbo.
I head into the café, where Hattie’s preparing lunch. Her rounded face, glistening with perspiration, accentuates the benign, motherly look of a school dinner lady, who enjoys her own food. She stops arranging the packets of sandwiches in the main display cabinet and gives me the same wary look as most of the volunteers at the moment.
I can see the questions in their eyes, the desire for information, battling with their fear of upsetting or antagonising me. My announcement earlier has done nothing to dispel the awkwardness people feel around me.
“Hattie, tell me about this project with Niamh. How do you feel about it?”
She straightens the protective cap she wears, her expression giving nothing away. “It makes sense financially. We can both cook. We know the rules and regulations. Her kitchen’s perfect for what she wants to do.”
“I’m interested in what you want to do, Hattie. Are you happy about the changes?”
“You’re going ahead then.”
“Only if you’re a willing, equal partner. I don’t want Niamh railroading you. I don’t want to lose you, Hattie. The customers would miss you too, especially the young ones.”
“It was my idea. I suggested it to Niamh.”
“You’re happy to go ahead.”
She hesitates before nodding.
“What is it, Hattie?”
“Shouldn’t you discuss it with your wife first?” She apologises, her cheeks turning red. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive, Mr Fisher. We’re all concerned about her, and now your car’s been found in Lower Dicker...”
“How do you know about my car? The police haven’t made it public yet.”
“My son-in-law, Tony Jackson, works for Sussex Police.”
“Is he part of the investigation team?”
“No, he was on his motorbike when he came across the car.”
“He’s a traffic cop? He’s the one who pulled me over on Saturday.”
“Yes, but he’s much more than a traffic cop,” she says, flushed with pride. “He loves being the eyes and ears of the force, keeping an eye on the local area, but he could be so much more. When he worked for the Metropolitan Police, he was an undercover detective, infiltrating drug gangs.”
“Dangerous work.”
“They had to pull him out for his own protection. His nerves were shot. He wasn’t pleased, but I was. You hear such horror stories about drugs, don’t you? When he transferred to Sussex, I was delighted.”
She pauses to sprinkle some grated cheese on a sandwich. “His instincts told him something was wrong when he spotted someone driving slowly up the narrow lane to the industrial estate. When he smelt smoke, he knew what it was and went to investigate. When he took a closer look at the car, he saw the body. It was awful, he said. Like something out of a horror film. At first, he thought the person was burned alive. Then he spotted the gun on the passenger seat.”
The revelation sends my mind into overdrive. Was the guy shot in front of Gemma? Was she dragged from the car? Or was she taken from the car before it was dumped in Lower Dicker?
They’ve already killed one person.
They can kill again.
Twenty-Five
Back in my study, looking out across the pastures, woodland and South Downs, my mind begins to calm. The fear, which seemed to stifle all rational thought, fades to a grumble in my stomach. It’s time to take action not sit around brooding, waiting for the police to call.
Is the industrial estate where they dumped my car significant, or was it a place they chanced upon?
When I was working for Environmental Health, I could access the property database, identify the premises and any history we had on individual units. A phone call to colleagues on the ground floor of the town hall would have netted me the names of those who paid business rates. Once on site, my ID card would do the rest.
Now I’m reliant on Gemma to do these tasks.
Niamh’s words flash through my mind. Do I have a blind spot?
Am I deluding myself about Gemma?
Does she think I wouldn’t understand what a difficult and heart-wrenching decision it must have been to put her father out of his misery?
If Halliday-Jones knew, did it cost him his life? Was he the trigger that made Gemma run?
Or did someone else pull the trigger?
Caught in a whirlpool of unanswered questions, I ring my father. As usual, he’s brisk and to the point. “Any news?”
“I’ve drawn a blank on the music studios. You?”
“Ditto, but I’ve had a thought.” He pauses, as if I need time to prepare for his revelation. “What if it’s not a recording studio, but one of those places that churn out pirate CDs and DVDs? I know everyone downloads and streams everything these days, but there are still people like me who prefer discs.”
Trading Standards used to raid car boot fairs, looking for pirate discs. I’ve worked with a few of their officers in the past. Hopefully, some of them are still there, despite the spending cuts and lure of early retirement.
My father breaks into my thoughts. “I’ve got a couple of guys ringing round. This guy Eddie’s a mystery. I know a few Eddies, but they’re hustlers and petty thieves – the kind who like to separate my punters from their winnings.”
“Doesn’t the house always win?”
“We have to let punters strike lucky every now again or people might lose hope. I was hoping you had some positive news.”
“Gemma moved to Brighton shortly after her father died. It looks like she lived and worked in the city until Uncle Frank got her the job at Downland District Council.”
He perks up. “Brighton’s my stomping ground. If she worked there, I’ll find out where. Any idea what she did to earn a crust?”
“She was acting in London, so she might have tried the local theatres. Actors usually have jobs when they’re between roles. When I first met her, she was waitressing, so you might want to look at hospitality too.”
“That narrows it down in a seaside resort. What are your plans?”
“I’ll chase up the pirate discs, if you don’t mind tackling Brighton.”
“Don’t tell me Environmental Health deal with piracy too.”
“Why, are you looking to expand your collection of dodgy films?”
“You don’t need porn when you’ve got someone like Gina, son.”
“Too much information.”
He laughs and invites me over to dinner.
“Thanks, but I’ll wait until Gemma can come too. I’d also like to be here in case she returns or calls.”
“We’ll get her back, Kent. Chin up.”
I end the call and return to the kitchen for another cup of tea. Pouring the one I didn’t drink into the sink, I turn my thoughts to the afternoon ahead. As soon as I’ve made contact with Trading Standards, I’ll visit the industrial estate in Lower Dicker. You never quite know what you’re going to find with lots of small units and businesses starting and failing on a regular basis. My former boss, Danni, could never understand why I wanted to survey the small industrial estates each year – until I found three unregistered food businesses, one of them trading in illegal meat.
Columbo returns as I make my way back to the study. He leaps onto the sofa bed and watches, ears pricked, eyes alert. He knows when I need help. He tilts his head from side to side when I tell him Ditchling is part of Lewes district.
“We know someone who works there. Remember Charley Donavon?”
He barks, though I’m not sure he remembers the contractor who carried out food hygiene inspections for me at Downland. A single mother who often looked like she’d tumbled out of bed and headed straight to the office, she was one of the best EHOs I’d worked with. If I can find an address for the house with the studio, she could get me details of the people who own or occupy the premises. If it’s an Eddie or an Edward, we’re moving in the right direction.
“Mustn’t forget Nigel,” I say, scribbling a note in my diary. Charley’s partner, Nigel Long, an EHO who worked in my team, now has a job at Brighton and Hove City Council. While it’s unlikely he’ll find a record of Gemma, he always wanted to help with my investigations.
Thinking about my former colleagues reminds me of the strong team we had, all kept in check by Kelly Morgan, the cheeky, blousy personal assistant, who fooled us all. Before things went sour, she was Gemma’s best friend and Maid of Honour.
Would Kelly be willing to set aside our differences if Gemma’s in danger?
I dismiss the idea, knowing it’ll take a prolonged cold snap in hell before Kelly Morgan talks to me. I’m not even sure if she’s still in the country.
It’s a shame because Kelly had an effortless way of getting people to talk about their lives and secrets. She had senior officers and councillors eating out of her hands. She knew all the gossip, all the important news and big announcements before they were made.
