No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 14
With a little over an hour until I meet Charley and Nigel at 5.15, I return to the flat, check my emails and phone messages and head for the shower. When I step out of the bathroom, Columbo’s waiting for me, his tail wagging so fast it’s a blur. When he’s finished licking my face and trying to scramble over me, he follows me into the bedroom and leaps up onto the bed. While I change into a polo shirt and chinos, he watches, ears pricked. His bark precedes the sound of the doorbell by a couple of seconds.
Hattie glances at my wet hair and declines my invitation to come inside. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you, Mr Fisher. I was wondering if you thought it was worth talking to Tony, my nephew, the police officer. He wants to help.”
“Yes, I’d like to talk to him.”
“He’s on a rest day, so I could ask him to pop round this evening, if you’re free.”
“I’m surprised he doesn’t come round for one of your cakes,” I say, feeling peckish. “Can you set aside a blueberry muffin? I’ll collect it before you close. If Tony can make it around eight this evening, I’ll be happy to chat to him.”
She nods and returns to the café. After half an hour at the computer, entering a summary of what I’ve done and learned today, I collect my muffin, drop Columbo with Frances, and drive to Eastbourne train station.
Charley and Nigel walk towards me along the platform, hand in hand, smiling at each other. It reminds me of the time Gemma and I first walked along the cliffs to Birling Gap. A stiff westerly wind pummelled our faces, making it difficult to breathe, but we never stopped smiling. I couldn’t believe how stunning she looked, even with her hair blowing around her face. When she rested her head on my shoulder, I mistook the warmth I felt inside for desire. I should have realised it was much more than lust.
Charley, dressed in jeans and a thick jumper beneath her raincoat, pulls me into a warm hug. She’s lost weight, her face slimmer and younger looking, thanks to a feathered hairstyle. The concern in her eyes tells me she knows.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Before I can reply, Nigel clasps my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Like Charley, he’s slimmed down, taking years off his appearance. Though tucked inside a matching raincoat, he looks toned, his slumping, reluctant posture a thing of the past. “Sussex Police posted a news bulletin on Twitter,” he says, “asking anyone with information on Gemma’s whereabouts to contact them.”
He pulls out his phone to show me.
It was thoughtful of Ashley to give me advance warning of the media release.
Charley looks distraught. “What’s happened, Kent? Where’s Gemma?”
I point to the café. “Let’s grab a drink and I’ll explain.”
Once we’re seated in a quiet corner, I give them a summary of events since Gemma disappeared last Friday. I don’t mention the texts or her note, in case the police want to keep these details from the public. Having stripped out much of the detail, it sounds like she left me.
The occasional surreptitious glance between Charley and Nigel suggests they’re thinking the same.
Or am I planting my own subconscious thoughts on them?
“Do you have any idea why she went off like that?” she asks.
Though it’s only been three days, it feels longer. Wherever I go, whatever I do, Gemma’s in my thoughts. Knowing she disappeared with Halliday-Jones undermines every step I take, no matter what her note said.
She didn’t forget her camera that morning – she planned to meet him at the house.
What was so bad she couldn’t tell me about it?
Running off doesn’t help. She’ll have to explain when she returns.
But if she didn’t want to tell me before, why would she tell me after?
I look up at Charley then Nigel, my voice choking in my throat.
“She’s not coming back, is she?”
Thirty-One
Charley and Nigel look at each other, as if they thought this would happen. Neither of them wants to reply, but she relents.
“On the morning of the wedding, while we were having our hair done, she seemed distracted, checking her phone every few minutes. When I asked her if everything was okay, she said she’d be happier if you hadn’t invited Niamh.”
“There’s no love lost between them,” I say, sensing Charley can’t tell me much more. “So, let’s talk about something positive. You two look amazing. You’re glowing with health.”
They glance at each other once more, aware of what I’m doing. Charley tells me how they’ve discovered the gym, breathable tops and healthy eating. They tell me about the transformation, each chipping in to finish the other’s sentences. They’re so relaxed and comfortable, like they’ve known each other a lifetime.
In the eight years since we met, Gemma and I have been ‘a couple’ on two occasions, totalling up no more than a few months together.
No wonder I hardly know her.
I’m not the woman you think I am.
Why did she marry me?
“Earth to Kent,” Nigel says, pulling me from my thoughts. “You wanted our help.”
I pull myself back to the present. “I’m searching for a property near Ditchling with a studio of some kind. I thought it was a recording studio, but I’ve searched high and low on Google without success. I’ve rung other local studios with no joy.” I take a slurp of tea. “Now, I’m thinking it’s a studio for pirating DVDs.”
“Don’t people watch Netflix these days?”
“Some of us have significant rom com collections.” Charley smiles and turns to me. “You want me to see if I can find the place, I take it. Do you have an owner’s name?”
“Two names, possibly the same person.” I spell out Bryan Halliday and Bryn Hemmingway. “If you could check with your Council Tax guys, it would help.”
She makes a note on her phone. “I’ll do my best, but you know how protective these people are about personal data. Your friend, Ashley, might have more joy. How is she?”
“She’s keeping a watching brief. She can’t instigate any action, or tell me what’s going on, so I’m not sure how much she can help.”
“She can listen,” Charley says. “And pass on information.”
“She won’t thank you for calling her a messenger.”
“At least you’ve involved the police,” Nigel says. “We thought you were trying to find Gemma on your own.”
She chuckles. “He is. That’s why he wants our help. So, where does this guy Halliday or Hemmingway fit in?”
I drink more tea, knowing I can’t mention Gemma’s note. “My car was abandoned and torched on an industrial estate in Lower Dicker. About ten days before, on the same estate, a small unit was burned to the ground. It seems to be the office and despatch point for a DVD subscription business.”
“Have you told Ashley?”
“No need. The police investigated both fires, but I’ve no idea what they found.”
“So you’re doing your own digging.”
Nigel leans forward, a twinkle in his eyes. “What do you want me to do?”
“Gemma worked for Brighton and Hove, but I don’t know when or for how long, or which department. I’m not even sure it will have any bearing on what’s happened, but if she worked in Trading Standards, say, she may have come across a dodgy DVD producer.”
“Couldn’t you check the CV she supplied when she applied for the job at Downland?”
“Pimentos,” Nigel says, grinning.
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s an anagram of nepotism. When Gemma was dumped on us by her uncle, we weren’t happy about it. So, if we were talking about it in the office, we said pimentos, so management wouldn’t know we were talking about nepotism.”
Charley chuckles. “You mean she didn’t need CV.”
I should have checked with Frank earlier. Richard was going to look for a CV too. As he hasn’t been in touch, either he hasn’t found it or he’s forgotten.
“You could cut to the chase and ask your admirer in HR,” she says, enjoying the way Nigel scowls at her. “She spotted him at the gym and jumped on the treadmill next to him. He hasn’t gone to the gym at lunchtime since.”
He groans. “Do I have to talk to her? She twists everything I say.”
“You don’t know anyone else in HR. And she wants to please you.”
He shudders. “It’s what she’ll want in return that bothers me.”
“I don’t need any confidential details,” I say, trying not to laugh. “If I know where Gemma worked, I can follow it up myself.”
“We’ll do what we can, right, Nigel?”
“Or I could introduce you to Evangeline,” he says. “I’m sure you’d handle her better than me. She’s American,” he adds, as if that makes a difference. “No inhibitions.”
After a quick glance at the clock on the wall, Charley drinks the last of her cappuccino and they rise in unison, synchronised like most happy couples.
I remain in the café, nursing an empty cup, watching the commuters return from London and Brighton. They all have their routines, grabbing a takeaway coffee being the most common. There’s no age or sex bias in this. Coffee now seems to be the universal drink of choice for people who live their lives on their phones. If anyone invents a takeaway coffee cup that can receive emails, take photos and post on Facebook, they’ll make a killing.
I glance at my phone, wondering if I’m becoming a grumpy old man ahead of my time.
Is that why I married a woman fifteen years younger than me – to cling on to my youth?
Married for two weeks and my wife’s already left me.
I shake my head and leave.
I’m passing the public library, on my way to Gildredge Park, when Sarah phones, her usual irascible self. “I’ve had Dempsey and Makepeace round again, asking more questions about Marty and why Gemma went to live with him. Did I know my daughter had a caution for possessing cannabis? Why did she want to live with a drug addict rather than her mother? Didn’t I realise how many unsavoury characters he mixed with?” She pauses to catch her breath. “I know I’m a rubbish mother, but they didn’t have to make me feel like a criminal.”
“At least you’re not a suspect.”
“And you’ll like this,” she says, as if I haven’t spoken. “Did I know Marty was gay when I married him? I told them he didn’t hang around long enough for me to find out. What’s wrong with these people, Kent? Why are they dredging up the past?”
“They’re looking for motives and suspects.”
“Frank says you’re interested in Bryan Halliday’s shop in the High Street. His mother, Jessica, has a French bulldog. Poppet only has to have a slight snuffle and Jessica brings her to the surgery. Too many treats and too much pampering – that’s the problem.”
“Do you think she’d talk about her son?”
“I imagine so. She was always criticising him. Mind you, she doesn’t have a good word to say about anyone. She accused me of incompetence because I told there to take her dog on longer walks.”
“Do you have her contact details?”
“I’ll text them to you. Don’t tell her I passed them on though. I don’t need her haranguing me about data protection.”
Sarah ends the conversation as abruptly as she started it. A few minutes later, her text arrives. Jessica Jones lives on my route home to Jevington. It takes me no time at all to locate her 1980s bungalow, set two drives away the main road. Even in the fading light, her neat, well-kept front garden betrays a fastidious nature that demands annuals grow in regimented rows. I’m not sure about the models of French bulldogs, though they look remarkably lifelike. A matching pair guards the front porch. In case visitors are in any doubt, the sign on the door reminds them a French bulldog lives here.
I can hear it bark before I press the doorbell. I take a step back when it thuds against the door.
A weary looking lady with greying blonde hair peers around the door, her scowl guaranteed to frighten off the unwary or faint-hearted. Her dog tries to push its snout through the narrow opening, it’s breathing laboured.
“Mrs Jones? Mrs Jessica Jones? I’m Kent Fisher. I run the animal sanctuary up the road in Jevington.”
“I’ve got a dog, in case you hadn’t noticed. I don’t need another.”
She tries to close the door, but the dog gets in the way.
“I believe you worked with your son Bryan Halliday, in his video shop in the High Street.”
“It was fifteen years ago.” She stares at me with sharp grey eyes, a little bloodshot. Her breath smells of alcohol as her thin lips tighten into a malicious pink line. When her dog tries to get out, she snaps at it. “Stop it, Poppet!”
No need to ask what she says when her dog refuses to let go of a toy.
Poppet gives her a snuffle of disgust and retreats.
“I’d like to talk to your son,” I say, trying to make it sound inconsequential. “My wife’s missing and he may know where she is.”
“Yes, I heard something on the radio.” She pauses, her expression softening. “There’s no easy way to say this, Mr Fisher, but if your wife’s with my son, you may not want her back.”
Thirty-Two
I step forward to prevent her closing the door. For an elderly woman, she’s stronger than she looks. I manage to push the door back until the chain engages.
“Mrs Jones? Jessica? You can’t leave it there. What do you mean about your son?”
“I’m calling the police right now.”
“I’m trying to find my wife. We only married two weeks ago.”
“I know. You could hear the music from here.”
“Gemma went missing last Friday with a man called Halliday-Jones. I think it’s Bryan, your son. I think they already knew each other.” When there’s no response, I step back. “I’m worried about her, Mrs Jones.”
“I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing these days.”
“He was working out of an industrial estate in Lower Dicker. The place burned down ten days ago. He hasn’t been seen since.”
“Your wife must have seen him.”
After his unit burned down, Halliday must have travelled to Stratford-upon-Avon. How did he know Gemma was there?
Did she tell him?
He could have spotted our social media posts from the town, but he’d have to be looking, wouldn’t he?
Tired of trying to talk through a narrow gap between door and frame, I ask Jessica to let me in. “Your neighbours must be wondering what’s going on, me standing here at the door, shouting to you. If you don’t let me in, I’ll stay here and make a nuisance of myself until you do.”
She walks towards the door. “The police will soon move you on.”
“Then hurry up and call them, Mrs Jones. Ask for Detective Constable Naomi Foster. She also wants to find your son.”
She doesn’t hide the contempt in her voice. “I’ve already spoken to her, thank you.”
“Then you’ll know she’s looking for my wife. Sarah Wheeler’s daughter.”
I hear Poppet snuffling at the base of the door and withdraw my foot. The door closes and I hear the chain being removed. Jessica opens the door, her expression grim. “I’m only talking to you because I know your mother-in-law and I can imagine how worried she must be.”
Poppet looks up at me and then follows her down the smartly decorated hall, sweetly scented by a plug in air freshener. Unlike the porch, which is a mess of coats, wellingtons, dog leads and muddy paw prints, the bungalow is pristine with carpets and floral wallpaper that look as old as her antique furniture. Glass cabinets contain collections of dolls from all over the world. The photographs on the walls and mantelpiece are of a young Jessica with her husband, a tall, slim man with short, military style hair and an expression which suggests he enjoys life.
No photographs of her son, as far as I can tell.
Though much thinner now, Jessica’s lost none of her beauty. Only her chin and neck betray her age. Her hair looks no different, but her blue eyes are cold, chilled by life, frustration even. Dressed in cropped trousers, ankle boots and a stylish mohair sweater, she takes great pride in herself and her home. Even Poppet wears a snazzy neckerchief.
“Why won’t you tell me what you meant about your son, Jessica?”
“He’s my son, which means I love him. It doesn’t mean I like him or approve of what he does.” She pauses, as if about to tell me, and then changes her mind. “You’re good at solving puzzles. You’ll work it out.”
She stops inside the lounge and mutes the large TV. “I won’t ask you to sit because I don’t have much to say.” She draws herself to her full height and stares straight into my eyes. “I haven’t seen or spoken to Bryan since I closed the shop in 2005. He fought me all the way, but we couldn’t compete. He had his own business upstairs. His customers bought videos and DVDs direct from him. He continued to operate until I sold the premises to a coffee chain. He didn’t think I would sell, but I showed him.” She looks at me with sadness in her eyes. “He hasn’t spoken to me or visited since.”
While she remains stoic, she can’t hide the pain she feels. “I thought he’d moved to London, but Miss Foster said he was operating from Lower Dicker, until someone burned the place to the ground.”
“Is there anyone he was friendly with?” I ask, thinking about Eddie.
“Apart from young women, you mean.” She bites her lip, as if she can’t help herself. “Like my husband, Bryan attracted women like bees to a honeypot. They both had the same predatory look – the one that sets off alarm bells, but draws you in regardless.”
Her heavy sigh suggests plenty of regrets.
Did Halliday attract Gemma when she was young and naïve in London?
“Did he ever mention a friend or colleague called Eddie?”
“My son worked alone, Mr Fisher. Even when we were in the same building, I had no idea what he was doing. Perhaps I chose not to look, fearful of what I might find, but he was never in trouble with the police.”
