No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 13
Blondie examines his cigarette, as if it holds the answer. “No warehouse fires round here, were there, Spud.”
Spud, who has lank, greasy hair, pushed behind large ears, looks confused. “What about the unit across the road?”
“That wasn’t a warehouse, was it?”
Spud takes a draw on his cigarette. “Nah, more like a shed.”
“It was a summerhouse.” Blondie looks back at me. “Why are you interested? You’re not police or fire brigade.”
“Reckon he’s a reporter,” Spud says. “Got a notebook, see.”
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been mistaken for a reporter. It often nets me more information than saying I’m an environmental health officer.
Blondie shakes his head. “He’s no reporter, but I’ve seen him in the paper.”
“I didn’t know you could read, Tats.”
“I like the pictures. This is the dude who got married at that animal sanctuary your mum’s always visiting.”
“That’s right. He’s got a well fit wife. I wouldn’t say no.”
“You wouldn’t say no to anything that breathes.” Blondie sighs and grinds the remains of his cigarette into the concrete with his heel. “So, dude, why are you interested in Bryn? He doesn’t get many visitors.”
Spud laughs. “He doesn’t get any now – apart from that courier. He was well miffed until you signed for the parcel.”
Blondie gives his pal an angry glare. “You didn’t answer my question, dude.”
“As you saw my wedding photos, you’ll know I’m Kent Fisher.”
Spud nudges his colleague. “He’s the dude that solves murders. Someone’s topped Bryn.”
“Is that right?” Blondie asks. “Has someone topped Bryn?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to find out. Do you have a mobile number for him? Do you know where he lives?”
Blondie shakes his head. “Hardly ever saw him.”
“Yet you signed for his parcel.”
“I’m a neighbourly sort of guy.”
“Do you still have the parcel? It might have a return address I can contact.”
Blondie tips another cigarette out of a packet, in no hurry to answer. He’ll know he’s committed theft if he’s taken the contents. I help him along.
“I imagine you had to check inside to make sure there was nothing important or urgent.”
“It was full of blank DVDs and cases. Who watches DVDs when you can stream Netflix?”
He glances at Spud, who looks like he’s going to say something. He doesn’t.
I make one final effort. “I know Hemmingway copied films and sold them to customers.”
“Then you’ll know what kind of films he sold.”
“Porn,” Spud says, ignoring his colleague. “Old stuff, new stuff, foreign stuff. He said he could get us any film we wanted, didn’t he, Tats? What happened to the sample disc he gave us?”
“I left it in the staff room. One of the guys must have taken it.” Blondie glances at his watch and gives me a shrug. “What can I say?”
I’m sure he knows more, but how do I get him to open up?
“You must know about the burned out car,” I say.
Spud looks up. “Was Bryn in the car?”
“Help me find out. All I need is a phone number, or someone who knew him.”
“You make it sound personal, dude.”
“It was my car.”
“Yeah, that’s personal.” Blondie gives me a wry smile. “What if I said we fitted some new tyres to Bryn’s van a few months ago?”
“Could you check your records?”
“I’m not sure I can reveal personal information.”
“Do you have children?”
His back stiffens. “What have they got to do with anything?”
“They could spend a day at my sanctuary, help out with the animals. You can have lunch on me. We have a play area, lots to see and do behind the scenes. They’d have a great time.”
Blondie flicks his cigarette away and heads inside. Spud follows. I wait, but neither returns. I peer inside, but I can’t see either of them. Disappointed, but not surprised, I climb in the car and drive off. Almost directly opposite, a farm gate protects a narrow, muddy lane, with more holes than a certain Dutch cheese. The cluster of farm buildings isn’t too far down the lane, so I park and walk.
Once through the gate, I stick to the side of the lane to keep clear of the mud and puddles. A break in the hedgerow reveals a small yard, containing a couple of cars on bricks. An old digger, bucket to the ground, stands in front of a pile of blackened timbers. After taking a few photos with my phone, I walk on, hoping to find someone. The smell of burned timber still hangs in the air. The yard’s empty and the buildings are locked. The timbers have been pushed against a sleeper wall, making it impossible to see anything that might help.
For a few minutes, I walk around the remains, glass crunching under my feet as I poke around with a stick. I check from every angle, looking for the computers and burners Hemmingway must have used to create the DVDs. All I can find is what looks like a two drawer filing cabinet and a desk lamp.
When I turn to leave, Blondie’s leaning on the entrance gate, watching me with amusement.
“He used it as an office and collection point. There were always couriers coming and going, three, four times a week. I don’t know where he copied the films, but it wasn’t here.”
“How can you be sure?”
He opens the gate for me. “The courier who came after it burned down told me. He said the place was full of packages, going all over the world. It was the same when he ran a video rental shop in Tollingdon High Street. He had a club for selected customers. That’s how Spud’s dad got his porn before the internet.”
When we reach my car, Blondie hands me a piece of paper. “It’s Bryn’s mobile number. Found it on an old job sheet, but you don’t know that.”
“Thanks. Let me know when you want to visit the sanctuary. I’ll make sure your children have a day to remember.”
“You’re alright,” he says, looking a little embarrassed. “Not like the police. They were in and out like a dose of salts. They weren’t interested in talking to anyone. I reckon they knew exactly what Bryn was up to. I reckon he supplied them with films to keep them off his case.”
Twenty-Nine
If Blondie’s right about the police, I’m not looking forward to telling Ashley. If he’s wrong, any enquiry could leave a lasting stain on several reputations.
“Do you have any proof?” I ask.
“Something a traffic cop told Spud. He’s restoring his dad’s Triumph Bonneville. Tony often stops by for a chat about motorbikes and helps Spud source parts.”
“Are you talking about Tony Jackson?”
“You know him?”
“He’s the guy who found my car.” I need to talk to Jackson, if only to find out if he knows anything about Hemmingway and the films he supplies. “Do you know what he told Spud?”
“Spud’s not the sharpest chisel in the toolbox, okay? He gave Tony the sample DVD. Tony handed it back, saying they had a few back at the station.”
The police could have picked them up during raids or searches connected to other crimes.
Or maybe not.
“Thanks for your help, Tats. I’ll need your real name so reception knows who you are when you visit the sanctuary. I’ll get some certificates made up as a keepsake.”
“My name’s Taylor. Malcolm Taylor.” He scowls, as if it’s a cross he has to bear. “It was my grandfather’s name, before you ask.”
“And Spud?”
“Maurice Piper. Parents, eh?”
I nod and smile.
Once Blondie’s back inside his workplace, I ring Hemmingway’s mobile number. It’s unavailable. No surprise there. It’s probably the number Carol O’Donnell rang earlier.
Sometimes I wonder whether I’ll ever make a private detective.
While you can do a diploma, I’ve no plans to take a course. Becoming a part time private investigator could provide a diversion from the sanctuary. I miss the cut and thrust of environmental health. While it’s hardly dramatic, I did enjoy my work – until the government and accountants knocked the soul out of the public sector.
Now I’ve made the break, I can no longer use Downland’s staff car park, entrance or computer systems. Without Gemma, I can only go through Frank Dean and hope he agrees to me nosing around in the database for a video rental business. When I phone him, he’s keen to help, even reserving me a spot in the staff car park.
Twenty minutes later, Jenny in reception issues a visitor’s badge, happy to let me make my own way to Frank’s plush office on the first floor. Filled with oak panels, photographs of Downland District Council through the decades, and a coffee machine to match any national chain, it feels strange to be back here. Last time I sat at his highly polished meeting table, I was an acting service head.
Acting more or less sums it up.
I’m at my best on the district, face to face with businesses, advising and helping them, solving problems and improving standards. Meetings, spreadsheets and performance monitoring demand a skillset I’ve never possessed. I only took the job to stop the department being absorbed into Planning. Unfortunately, I hastened the inevitable.
Frank joins me about ten minutes later, having curtailed a meeting with the new Leader of the Council. He places two coffees on the table. “Unlike Gregory Rathbone, who saw empathy as a weakness, Beverly Frobisher’s insisting I take compassionate leave until Gemma returns.”
“Will you?”
“No point when you’re doing everything possible to find her. Any joy?”
I tell him about the fire at Bryn Hemmingway’s premises in Lower Dicker.
“You don’t think it’s a coincidence that your car was abandoned and burned in the same location?”
“I have no connection with Hemmingway, but he might connect to a studio in Ditchling. I think it’s where he pirated and put together his DVDs. His unit at Hackhurst Lane was a delivery point, so he could avoid having dodgy DVDs delivered to his house.”
Frank nods. “Have the police traced his van? I’m told it’s missing.”
“Wouldn’t it be registered to his home address?”
“It was registered to the business at the Hackhurst Lane address.”
“You have been busy.” I take a sip of coffee, wishing I was on first name terms with the Chief Constable. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea as I sometimes like to go ‘off piste’. “Hemmingway used to run a video rental business on Tollingdon High Street. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“I remember Tollingdon Video Rental. ‘If it’s not on the shelf, I’ll get it myself’. Sorry, that was the slogan. The owner claimed he could get any video you wanted, as long as it existed.” Frank pauses, looking thoughtful. “So, Bryn Hemmingway owned the business. I don’t remember ever meeting him, but I know the shop closed early in the millennium, probably with the advent of broadband. He sold films at car boot fairs, after that.” He pauses and looks at me. “What?”
“Did you buy any films from him?”
“I rented some in the Nineties. The woman who worked evenings said he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of films. If you could describe the plot or a couple of the actors, he’d find it for you. She said he’d spent his whole life around films. His father was a projectionist at the Curzon, I think. His mother was involved in the Devonshire Park Theatre. Eastbourne’s former Director of Leisure Services might remember them.”
I make a note. “You have a good memory.”
“Actually, it wasn’t Bryn. It was Bryan. And I’m not sure it was Hemmingway either.”
“We can check on the database, see if we ever visited the place.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Nothing. I know Gemma’s log in details, unless she’s changed them since I was her manager. All I need is access to her PC.”
“I can’t let you wander around the offices, Kent. We’ll do it together.”
We walk upstairs to my old offices. Despite being merged with Planning, there was no room in their suite to accommodate the team. Not a well planned merger, but perfect for Frank and me to work without drawing too much attention.
Thankfully, the officers are out on district. A couple of licensing officers remain in the adjoining office, but they’re too busy discussing dodgy taxi drivers to notice us. I sit at Gemma’s workstation and boot up her PC. Once I’ve logged into the database, a search reveals an old property record for Tollingdon Video Rentals. When it opened in August 1986, the business was registered under the old Offices, Shops and Railway Premises Act 1963. This gave details of the owner and people employed. No one visited, as registrations were for information only. Two complaints about illegal videos were forwarded to Trading Standards. In January 2003, a certain Kent Fisher closed the premises file.
Frank sighs and gets to his feet. “Oh well, it was worth checking.”
I open the attached file, which is a scanned copy of the registration form. “Indeed,” I say, pointing at the screen. “Look who signed the form.”
He bends closer and squints as he reads. “Bryan Halliday. What about it?”
“Halliday-Jones was the guy who took off with Gemma.”
Thirty
The excitement of the breakthrough fades fast. Bryan Halliday and Halliday-Jones could be different people. Even if they are the same person, we have no way of finding him without an address in Ditchling.
Once we’re back in his office, Frank says, “If they’re the same person, he has a history with Gemma. We have a name. Who knows what the police could turn up?”
I want to know how Gemma met a guy who pirated DVDs. If he has a house near Ditchling, could she have met him while she was working in Brighton? If I could find out what she did while she worked for the city council, it might provide a clue. One phone call might net me answers to both.
Leaving Frank to catch up with his emails, I nip outside and ring Charley Donavon. When she answers, there’s a lot of people noise in the background. “Kent, how are you? How was the honeymoon?”
I’m tempted to say awesome, which seems to be the description for most things these days. “It was great. Could we meet up later? Nigel too. I’ll need his help as well.”
“Ooh, sounds like another of your investigations. We’re dining with Nigel’s parents this evening. That’s why we’re having a stiff drink in the pub. We could meet up beforehand, if you like.”
“You’re not at work, obviously.”
“No, we’re having enormous fun shopping for clothes.” Charley has a simple attitude when it comes to shopping – buy it online and let the shops deliver it to you. “We’re getting the train to Eastbourne soon, so we could stop at Tollingdon. It would be good to catch up with Gemma.”
“I’ll meet you at the train station in Eastbourne. Gemma’s tied up at the moment.”
Once we’ve agreed times, I return to Frank’s office. He waves me over and hands me a message slip. “Lesley Kane left Trading Standards two years ago. She used her redundancy money to set up as a consultant, advising small businesses on legal compliance. Kane Kompliance,” he says, repeating what’s on the slip. “Do you want to ring her?”
“Why don’t you put her on speaker and we can both talk to her?”
He nods and dials. Lesley answers within three rings, her Yorkshire accent sounding more pronounced than the last time we spoke.
“Hi Lesley, it’s Kent Fisher. How are you doing?”
“Very well, thank you. Congratulations. I saw your wedding photographs in the Tollingdon Tribune. How much did you pay Tommy Logan for a colour spread?”
“He’s trying to compete with Hello magazine. I hope you don’t mind me calling, but we need some help.”
“We?”
“Frank Dean, Chief Executive of Downland District Council,” he says, with pride. “We’re making enquiries about Bryan Halliday. We believe he sold pirate videos and DVDs at car boot fairs during the early millennium. I was hoping you might remember him.”
“Now there’s a name I haven’t heard for some time.” She pauses as if recalling the man. “We used to visit car boot fairs with the police from time to time, sure. We caught a few dealers, but Bryan Halliday was never around when we carried out a raid. It’s like he knew we were coming.”
“You think someone tipped him off?”
“Impossible to say for certain as dealers have their own jungle drums. He wasn’t the only regular to go missing when we raided.”
“Did you have any other dealings with him?” I ask.
“No, but the police visited his shop in Tollingdon a few times. It was the same story. They turned up after a tip off, but never found any hooky videos or DVDs. Then he closed his shop and disappeared from the scene a few years later. We had rumours about internet trading, but nothing we could pin down.”
“Did you ever come across anyone called Bryn Hemmingway?”
“No, I’d remember a name like that. Who’s he?”
“We think he’s Bryan Halliday.”
“He could have had an alias, several probably. Some of your friends in the police could help you there. I’ll ask some of my former colleagues and let you know if I learn anything.”
Frank ends the call and gives me a hopeful shrug. He must have picked up on the inference of a leak within the police or trading standards. It ties in with what Blondie suggested earlier, but without proof, I’m not pointing fingers. The police have a difficult enough time without me making it worse.
I rise and head for the door. “I’ll be home at seven, if you need anything.”
He nods and turns back to his computer screen.
On the way downstairs, I call Ashley, leaving a message to say I’ll be home from seven if she’d like a bite to eat. “I’ll update you on my progress,” I add, hoping to pique her curiosity.
