No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 12
“No,” I tell Columbo, “I’m not that desperate.”
He licks my hand and lets out a quiet whine, as if he’s in pain. I know the feeling and spend a few moments, comforting him. Sitting beside him, his head resting on my leg, I’m sure he misses Gemma as much as I do.
It’s not worth stirring up bad feeling by approaching Kelly, especially when she threatened to kill me if our paths ever crossed.
Maybe she wants me to suffer first.
Twenty-Six
Trading Standards Officers were never the easiest people to contact. Now, thanks to a government-funded initiative, they can only be reached through the Citizens Advice Consumer Service. As I want to talk to Lesley Kane, the people who take the calls can only pass on a message. She may no longer be working for Trading Standards. Like most public services, they lost so many officers to spending cuts, wiping out a wealth of local knowledge and experience.
It’s what passes for progress these days.
There’s no point ringing Environmental Health to get a direct number. Gemma’s the only full time employee left. My old team has gone, replaced by a contract EHO and less qualified technical staff.
In need of some muscle, I ring Frank Dean on his personal phone. He answers after a single ring. “Kent, any news about Gemma?”
He sounds as desperate as I feel. “I’m following a couple of leads, but it’s a bit hit and miss. I still don’t know what prompted her disappearance.”
“You don’t think it’s Martin’s death? What if she’s never forgiven herself, Kent?”
I recall her hesitation when I proposed.
I’m not the woman you think I am.
“Then this Halliday-Jones pops out of the woodwork and turns everything upside down,” he says.
It doesn’t explain why someone was murdered in my car.
“That’s not why I rang, Frank. Do you have any influence at County Hall?”
“I know the Chief Executive and most of the senior managers. Who are you interested in?”
“I need to talk to Lesley Kane in Trading Standards. I used to have her direct number on my work phone, which I returned to IT when I left.”
“They’ll have wiped and reissued it months ago. Oh, I see. You want me to talk to Trading Standards and get her direct number, don’t you?” His heavy sigh suggests he’s having a difficult day. “Sorry, I can’t think straight at the moment.”
“Can you get Lesley Kane’s direct number straight away?”
I feel bad ending the call before he can ask me why I want to talk to Lesley Kane. He wants to talk about Gemma, be part of finding her. I need to be out there, looking for her, not sitting around and speculating. Visiting the site where my car was abandoned may yield nothing, but someone on the industrial estate might have seen something.
I’d like to take Columbo, if only for the company, but he needs to return to his old routine of walking with Frances and the other dogs each afternoon. While he’s wary of the cockapoo, he won’t hesitate to put her in her place if she gets too boisterous.
Armed with the last few samosas from the fridge, I jump in the car and set off for Lower Dicker. The dense layer of cloud creates a gloomy atmosphere that mirrors my mood. The air feels heavy, as if the clouds are squeezing the life out of it. Gemma’s out there somewhere, looking at the same sky. She left a note so I could find her, but I’m getting nowhere fast.
Once on the dual carriageway, heading north, I pick up speed, recalling the days when I was master of my own district. While hygiene inspections took up most of my time, apart from the paperwork and updating computer records, I often popped into certain businesses on my travels. A quick chat and a cup of tea netted me information about what was going on in a town or village. These visits also cemented the trust many people placed in me.
It meant I could rely on them for help, if I ever needed it.
I need it now.
I pull into the driveway of a large 1930s detached house, widened by several large extensions, and park next to Carol O’Donnell’s sporty white Range Rover. When cash-strapped local authorities cut the funding for people needing care, Carol could no longer fill all the beds in her nursing home. She didn’t want to sell the place, but felt she had no choice.
“Have you thought about turning it into a guest house or small hotel?” I asked.
Situated close to the busy A22, but set in the countryside down a narrow lane, the tranquillity, countryside walks, and transport links helped her create a thriving business for nine months of the year. When I suggested she could hold events during the winter months, she set up a retreat for writers and artists, bringing in guest speakers and tutors. She’s been so successful, she now runs courses and retreats all year round. Judging by the cars parked down the side of the property, I’ve called during one of them.
Tall, flamboyant and rattling with chunky bracelets, Carol opens the front door and gasps with delight. “The Gods of Providence are shining on me today,” she says, her shrewd eyes looking me over. “Our local sleuth has called in to grace our mystery writers’ week. Come in, Kent, and let me look at you.”
Her emerald green sari swishes around her ankles as she leads me into the elegant reception hall of oak furniture and framed photographs of her various creative weeks. She air kisses my cheeks, leaving the reek of tobacco behind. Sensing my distaste, she bursts into a wheezing laugh that would put Muttley to shame.
“If it weren’t for the weed and the whiskey, I could have taken you to paradise, Kent Fisher. But then why would you be interested in an old hag like me?”
“You don’t need to fish for compliments, Carol. You always look great.”
“Aye, but it costs more and more each year – and I’m not talking about money. But you didn’t come here to listen to my woes, did you now? You have the look of a troubled man, for sure, despite the shiny ring on your finger. I’ve met Gemma, so I know you’ve married a cracker, as one of my fellow countrymen used to say. In fact, we had quite a gossip about you.”
My hygiene inspections always took twice as long as usual. Apart from Carol’s ability to talk for Ireland, her incessant flirting kept me on my toes. Though in her 60s, a few nips and tucks, a personal trainer, and the best moisturisers money can buy, have helped reduce the effects of cigarettes and whiskey. Nothing seems to diminish the twinkle in her eyes, or her enthusiasm for life, despite losing her husband and both sons in a motorway pile up.
“But I didn’t share any of your secrets,” she says, giving me a sly wink. “So, what brings you here? No, let me work it out. You’re not dressed for an inspection, but you’ve got a notebook in your hand, so it’s not a social visit either. How am I doing?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Och,” she says, as if it’s nothing. “Would your visit have anything to do with the body in the burned out car?”
“Who told you about it?”
“The local police stopped by earlier, wanting to know if I’d seen or heard anything suspicious on Friday night, Saturday morning.”
“Did you?”
She shakes her head and then checks her appearance in a wall mirror. Having flicked the thick waves of black hair into place, she turns. The eager look in her eyes tells me she knows something she can’t wait to tell me.
“It’s the second fire in ten days on the same industrial estate.”
“Another car was torched?”
“No, it was a fire in a small warehouse unit. The fire brigade were fast. They managed to contain the blaze, so they did. Not that it’s any consolation to poor Bryn. He’s lost thousands of CDs, DVDs and videos – his entire stock.”
“He sold CDs and DVDs?”
“Mail order mainly. He specialised in old films and rarities, sent them to customers all around the world.”
“Do you know where I can get hold of Bryn? I wouldn’t mind a word.”
She raises her thin eyebrows. “So would the police. The officers told me it was arson. Bryn hasn’t been seen since.”
Twenty-Seven
While Carol has a cigarette in the garden, I settle in a wicker chair in the conservatory of Oh! Donnell’s Guest House and Creative Retreat and pour decaf coffee into a large cup. When she returns, she helps herself to a mint chocolate and settles on the sofa opposite. She gestures to the open notebook and pen on the table.
“You look like one of our writers. Most people use their phones to record conversations and interviews, but writers prefer a pen and paper. You can’t beat the feel of a fountain pen gliding over quality paper, can you now?”
“Gemma bought it for me. She said I spent so much time on the computer my writing had deteriorated to an illegible scrawl.”
She laughs. “It’s a bit posh for shopping lists, wouldn’t you say? Or were you planning to declare your undying love in poetry like Shelley and Keats?”
“I’d rather talk about Bryn,” I say, keen to avoid any more meandering.
“Now, why would an environmental health officer be interested in a man who sells films?”
“It’s the two fires that interest me.”
“You didn’t know there were two fires when you came here.” She grins, knowing she’s caught me out. “So what’s really going on?”
“You should be with the mystery writers upstairs, Carol. You don’t miss a trick.”
“And you should answer questions if you want my help.”
I savour another mouthful of smooth coffee. “I’m interested in the body in the burned out car. I was on my way to take a look round the industrial estate when I thought of you. If anyone knows what’s going on, you will.”
“I’ve told you all I know about the car.”
“Then tell me about Bryn.”
She reaches for another mint chocolate and stops. She looks at me with wide eyes, her voice rising. “You think Bryn Hemmingway died in the car, don’t you?”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me, but it’s worth considering.
Gemma believes she’s going to a house with a studio. Bryn has a DVD business, which might have a profitable side line in films, pirated at a studio. Someone sets fire to his warehouse and he disappears, only to turn up dead in my burned out car ten days later.
Has Ashley or her colleagues in the Major Incident Team made the connection?
“I don’t know who died in the car.” I pick up my pen, knowing Carol doesn’t believe me. “That’s why I’d like to know more about Bryn Hemmingway.”
She cradles her cup of coffee in her hands and settles back. “Bryn wanted to advertise on my board in the hall, put flyers in the rooms. In return, he offered to convert any old video tapes or films I had to DVD at no cost. I had so many videos of the family, Billy and Fergal when they were young. Bryn’s jaw nearly hit the floor when he saw the four big boxes, brimming with video tapes and film reels, but he transferred them all over during the next few weeks. I never went through the discs to see if he transferred everything, but then I had no reason to doubt Bryn’s integrity at the time.”
She takes a sip of coffee, an expert at dramatic pauses.
“In February, we held a course on crime writing. One of the attendees was a retired detective inspector, called Peter James, would you believe? He said he wanted to write novels like his namesake, but I think he was bored and lonely, missing the thrill of his job.
“One morning, while we were chatting in the hall, he spotted Bryn’s card. He removed it to take a closer look and then put it back. I thought nothing of it until he came to see me in my office at the end of the day. He closed the door and told me Bryn Hemmingway was suspected of copying and distributing pornographic material.”
She takes another sip of coffee. “As you can imagine, I was shocked. I’d given Bryn tapes of my boys as babies and children. When I told Peter, he said Bryn was strictly adult pornography and suggested I check the DVDs in case there was anything unsuitable on them.”
“Was there?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to look, so Peter went through some of them, but all he found were videos of the children playing football or messing about in the garden. He gave me a number to ring if I had any concerns and suggested I remove the card from the board.”
“Have you seen or spoken to Bryn since?”
She gives me an emphatic shake of the head and drinks the rest of her coffee. “Did you know about the films?”
“I didn’t know he existed until you mentioned him, Carol.” Her disbelieving look prompts me to explain. “I’m trying to find a country house with a recording studio. Someone suggested it could be place where films were pirated, so when you mentioned Bryn –”
“You put two and two together. Well, he won’t be much help if he was in the burned out car, will he now?”
“No, but from what you’ve said, the police were aware of him copying films. If he isn’t dead, I’d like to talk to him. Do you still have his business card?”
“Walk this way.” She rises and sashays across the conservatory and into the dining room, where an older woman with scraped back hair is setting tables. She ignores my smile and continues with her work. Back in the hall, Carol’s behind the reception counter, rummaging through a drawer. She soon pulls out a card for Dicker DVD. The name has an unfortunate connotation, or maybe Bryn has a sense of humour. Either way, it’s progress.
When I hold out my hand for the card, she shakes her head. “He’ll be less suspicious if I ring him. I can tell him I’ve found more videos to transfer to DVD.”
She rings from the landline, a finger raised to stop me interrupting. “Bryn? Is that you? It’s Carol O’Donnell. I’ve found some more videos.”
She listens. Her eyes widen with surprise. Her mouth falls open. With a trembling hand, she replaces the receiver.
“It wasn’t Bryn.” She takes a deep breath and hands me the card as if it’s contaminated. “He said I should forget about Bryn and say nothing, unless I wanted my house reduced to a pile of smouldering rubble.”
“You need to talk to the police, Carol.”
She raises a hand as I walk around the counter. “You didn’t hear that man’s voice. It sent a chill through me. I’m going to throw the card away and forget all about it, like he said.”
“No!” I say, when she goes to rip up the card. “At least let me have the number.”
“So you can give it to the police? Then they come round, asking questions.” She’s backing away now, putting distance between us. “I’ve worked hard to build up my business. It’s my home too. It’s all I have.” She tears the card into small pieces. “On your way, Kent.”
She escorts me to the door, an uncompromising look in her eyes. My enquiries have left her anxious, unsettled, fearing the worst. There’s nothing I can say to change how she feels.
Another person tainted by one of my investigations.
Behind me, the door closes with a thud.
Twenty-Eight
Though troubled by how I left Carol O’Donnell, Gemma’s my priority. Once in the car, I check the internet for Bryn Hemmingway’s business, but draw a blank. For a moment, I wonder if there’s any point in a short trip across the A22 to the industrial estate on Hackhurst Lane. My burned out car will be in a police compound by now. Bryn Hemmingway’s unit was destroyed by fire.
Did he start the fire, hoping to make a claim on his insurance?
Or was someone destroying evidence?
Someone in a neighbouring unit might have an address or phone number for him.
Once across the A22, a concrete road, flanked by unkempt verges and hedgerows, leads me towards the industrial estate. The hedgerow on my left ends to reveal a large forecourt that serves a steel fabricator. Girders and steel joists of varying dimensions rest in small, almost forgotten groups on the concrete. Next door, a terrace of homogenous units, two storeys high, with corrugated asbestos cement roofs, completes the block. Many of the units are occupied, though it’s not always obvious what type of business they house. Some units have an entrance and window on the ground floor, others have roller shutter doors. This is the land of small businesses, though the number of cars parked on the forecourt suggests a lot of people work here.
The left turn ahead takes me past a tyre fitting unit into the heart of the estate, between more terraces of units with corrugated roofs. While most look like typical, purpose built warehouse units, some resemble agricultural buildings. It takes only a minute to reach the large new units, constructed recently as an expansion of the estate. With no sign of my burned out car, and no smoke damaged buildings, I turn around and drive back slowly, looking from side to side. Before I reach the tyre fitter, I take a left into a narrow road that runs between two sets of buildings to the northern edge of the estate.
Though cars are parked beside the units, there’s no one around to talk to. I follow the perimeter of the building into a service yard and around to an area of rough ground, enclosed by a boundary of trees. Beside a couple of abandoned cars, I see scorch marks on the ground and the blackened brick wall of an outbuilding. I park, grab my phone and walk across to take a closer look, spotting the remains of some police hazard tape, hanging from a bush. After taking several photos, I glance around, looking for the nearest residence.
There’s one in the distance, but that’s all.
It could explain why no one saw the flames or the smoke.
Then again, if it was the middle of the night, maybe no one noticed.
Not wanting to dwell on where Gemma might be, I turn my attention to finding Bryn Hemmingway’s burned out unit.
Driving back to Hackhurst Lane once more, I spot two tyre fitters, having a smoke break at the side of their unit. Clothed in matching overalls, both are young, pierced and athletic, regarding me with suspicion. The one with blonde hair, shaved at the sides, looks me over, his gaze lingering on my notebook.
I give them a friendly smile. “I’m looking for the warehouse that had a fire ten days ago.”
