No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 16
“I’m okay,” he says, looking relieved. “As soon as I put a few drops in my eyes, they stopped itching, so I let this little guy out. It sounded like he was going to burrow under the door.
“I don’t know when you last ate, Tony, but I had these in the fridge, so grab a stool and tuck in.”
I brace myself as he sits, not sure the stool will take his weight. But it’s fine. He doesn’t sink down to the floor. While he munches away on a sandwich, he studies the photographs. “Were these taken at the scene?”
“Yeah, the detectives looking for my wife dropped by earlier.”
“Any news?”
“They can’t tell me much, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yeah, but you’re almost one of them.” His hand dwarfs the mug of tea. He blows across the top and takes a few sips. “How many murders have you solved?”
“Enough,” I reply, unable to escape the slight embarrassment I feel when asked.
“Do you think you’ll solve this one?”
“Not without some help.”
“Fire away,” he says, ignoring the unfortunate connotations. “I don’t know how much you know, but I can take you through what I found.”
We’re soon tucking into a selection of sandwiches, watched by Columbo, who’s sitting by my feet. Tony outlines his visit to Hackhurst Lane, following some youngsters in a BMW. He kept back, not wanting to alarm or alert them, but lost sight of them when he reached the estate.
“They could have turned into the estate or driven on along the lane. I stopped, listening for the car. That’s when I smelt the smoke. Worried there was a fire in progress, I followed my nose into the estate and eventually found the burned out vehicle. When I saw the body in the driving seat, I called it in and backed off. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”
“You could tell it was a man?”
“It looked like a man. I couldn’t see anyone doing that to a woman.” He pauses for a slurp of tea. “Did they tell you he was shot in the head?”
“Not in so many words.”
“I thought it was an execution, drug dealers falling out, you know?”
“Did you look around the car?” I ask.
“Mustn’t contaminate the scene,” he says, mimicking what he’s been told too many times. “I didn’t see a gun, if that’s what you mean. When I saw the damage to the guy’s head, I checked to see if he had a gun in his hand, but he didn’t. I couldn’t see it in the foot well either.”
“You wouldn’t find a gun if the killer took it with him.”
“Or her.” He helps himself to another prawn sandwich, oblivious to the hungry dog that’s watching him. “Mustn’t rule out the fairer sex.”
“Were there any signs of another vehicle at the scene?”
He shakes his head. “I checked for tracks, if that’s what you mean. What did the detectives say?”
“They said there was no evidence of another vehicle.”
He reaches for a sandwich. “So, the killer could have been in the car. After he shoots the guy, he pours petrol or some other accelerant over the vehicle and sets fire to it. If he was in the car, he must have had the accelerant in the boot.”
“Or he was waiting nearby.”
“Either way, it was premeditated. Once the car was burning, the killer walked away with your wife.”
“He could have parked his car on the road, waited until Halliday arrived and then killed him.”
“Which means they arranged to meet, yeah? They knew each other.”
I nod, wondering if Gemma knew Halliday planned to meet someone. She must have realised when he turned off the main road into an unlit industrial estate.
Tony points to the photos. “Where were the rings found?”
“On the ground, by the passenger side of the car. Someone pressed them into the soil with their shoe.”
He takes a sandwich, giving me a quizzical look as he chews. “You haven’t mentioned your wife once, Kent. Do you think she killed Halliday?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“What makes you so sure? Aunt Hattie said she ran off with this guy on your honeymoon. Do you know anything about him? Is he an ex or something?”
“I didn’t know he existed until I found the texts he sent Gemma.”
“An old flame, you mean. Not good, buddy.”
“You don’t know that.”
He holds up a hand, aware of my sharp, defensive tone. “I say as it is, Kent. I didn’t say she killed anyone, but if she didn’t, she’s still a witness, yeah?”
“I guess.”
“Then why didn’t the killer shoot her and leave her in the car with Halliday?”
Thirty-Six
While Tony works his way through the remaining sandwiches, I wonder why the killer didn’t shoot Gemma as well as Halliday. Why would he take her as a prisoner when she can identify him?
Does she know him?
The possibility she might be complicit in what happened disturbs me. Didn’t she tell Uncle Frank she’d taken someone’s life? The texts referred to a guy called Eddie, who could ruin their lives.
Does he know her secret?
Does he have some kind of hold over her?
Not for the first time, I’m splashing around with no real sense of what I’m dealing with.
Tony polishes off the last sandwich and wipes his fingers on a paper napkin. He dabs the sides of his mouth and nods in appreciation. “You make a good sandwich, buddy. You must pick up shedloads of tips, inspecting cafés and restaurants.”
“Some,” I say, not really listening.
“I know you won’t want to hear this, but you need to face some unpleasant realities. When I attend a fatality on the roads, no matter how terrible it is, I have a job to do. Relatives and loved ones need to know what happened. They deserve the truth. It’s our job to give them the truth.”
“She didn’t kill Halliday. What if she escaped?”
“Then why hasn’t she gone to the police?”
“She’s in shock, scared the killer will come after her.”
His voice is quiet, but unequivocal. “Buddy, she could be in cahoots with the killer. Why would you drive out to a remote industrial estate in the dead of night? I suppose she could have arranged a meeting, not realising someone would kill Halliday. It doesn’t explain why she took off her rings though.” He points at the photographs. “Take away the rings and there’s no evidence she was in the car or at the scene.”
Tony’s certainty should be a comfort, but it’s intimidating, ruling out more palatable possibilities. I want to tell him he’s wrong. He doesn’t know Gemma. She’s experienced enough tight spots to know she has to remain calm.
Then again, if someone pulled a gun and shot Halliday while she was sitting next to him...
I brush the thought aside. “I think she wanted me to know she’d been taken by the killer.”
“Or the killer wants to make it look like she killed Halliday?” The way he shrugs, we could be chatting about the weather. “No, scrub that. It doesn’t stand up to close scrutiny. She can tell the police what happened. She can identify the killer. Why didn’t he finish the job there and then?”
“Like I said, she could have escaped.”
He looks at me, his expression grim. “Or she worked alone?”
“Gemma, a cold blooded killer?” I’d laugh if the situation wasn’t so perilous.
“Stranger things happen at sea, buddy.”
“If she killed Halliday, torched the car and walked away, why would she leave her rings?”
“To make it look like she was taken under duress. While we’re trying to make sense of everything, she’s on her way to South America.”
It sounds like the plot to a second rate thriller.
“She’s your wife, buddy. You know her better than anyone.”
I’m beginning to wonder if I know Gemma at all.
“Have you checked her things?” he asks. “Found anything unusual or difficult to explain?”
I groan inside. What’s wrong with me? As soon as I returned, I should have emptied the holdall and checked. How will I find her when I can’t manage something so basic?
“I know it’s tough, buddy. There’s a lot to take in. I see the wreckage people cause all the time. I see the lives lost, the people on both sides who have to cope with the aftermath. Half the time it’s not fair, but you play the hand you’re dealt, yeah?” He swallows and looks away. “I’ve been there. I know.”
“What happened?”
“Years ago, my son was killed.” He pushes the photographs around as he speaks, his expression unable to conceal his anger. “I never knew why. That’s why I became a copper. I didn’t want other people to go through the questions and recriminations, not having any answers.”
“How do you cope with something like that?”
“I tell myself I’ll discover the truth one day. It keeps him alive, in here.” He taps his chest. Then he rises, takes his crash helmet and heads for the stairs. “Don’t say anything to Aunt Hattie. She doesn’t know.”
When the door slams behind him, Columbo whines and paws my leg. I pick him up and stroke his fur, glad of his company. When he spots the empty plates and wriggles, I set him on the floor. I clear the plates, scraping the crumbs and remains into his bowl. Once the plates are in the dishwasher, I gather the photos together.
If Halliday was in contact with Gemma before the wedding, why didn’t she tell me? Why did she marry me as if nothing had happened? Did she think he would go away?
Why didn’t she say something when he sent the texts last week?
Why did she believe it was better to run?
I study the photographs, wondering what I’m missing.
Why did you take off your rings, Gemma?
Why did you leave them where they would incriminate you?
It makes no sense unless...
“You weren’t there, were you?”
Thirty-Seven
Columbo barks and runs over, wagging his tail, always positive. I could be guilty of wishful thinking, determined to make excuses for my wife, to protect her no matter what. If Gemma wasn’t at the scene, the killer wants me and the police to believe she was. If I can figure out why someone wants to frame her for murder, I might have a chance to save her.
The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.
Back in the study, I sit at my desk with a notepad. After scribbling a few notes and ideas, I slap the pen down. While Gemma’s past remains a black hole, I’m going nowhere. With her father and Halliday dead, only Eddie can help me. If he’s the guy with the studio, I need to find him fast.
If he’s not the killer, he may also wind up dead.
If I ring Ashley, she’ll only challenge my ideas like Tony did. It’s what police officers do. They want evidence to support the theories. Without it, they’re unwilling to commit. Sarah will have no such reservations. When she answers I ask her if she’s heard from Gemma.
“No,” she says, her voice weary. “Tell me you’ve made some progress, Kent.”
“There’s an eight year period of her life I know almost nothing about.”
“That makes two of us. The police didn’t believe me either. I told them I wasn’t psychic.”
“Did Gemma leave anything behind? I’m thinking diaries, address book, Marty’s stuff. She must have some keepsakes.”
“Everything’s on her phone, which the police have. They had a nose around her room and took some papers from the loft, but they wouldn’t say what they were. When she moved in with you, she took most of her things. Did the police find anything at yours?”
I’m about to tell her they haven’t searched my flat when I remember Ashley waiting in the lounge area when I came back with Foster and Penn.
Ashley had already had a sneaky look around.
Why didn’t they ask? I have nothing to hide.
“I’ll have another root around, Sarah, see if I’ve missed anything. Do you remember anything about the band Marty played in?”
“NDevvr lasted a couple of months. Marty called it a fusion of experience and experiment. He was older than the other two guys combined, so it was doomed before it got off the ground. Is it worth putting a message on Facebook to see if anyone remembers them?”
“Go for it.”
“I’ll keep you posted. Or you could send me a friend request.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer.
Armed with a fresh cup of tea, I head for the bedroom to go through Gemma’s clothes and possessions. Most of her dresses and suits are crammed into a double wardrobe. The drawers beneath, combined with a dresser, house the rest of her clothes and underwear. Her shoes line the book shelves in the spare bedroom. While she doesn’t wear more than half a dozen shoes or outfits, she refuses to donate the rest to charity shops.
One by one I remove her jeans, trousers, skirts and dresses, checking pockets for scraps of paper, tickets, anything that might help. When I pull out one of her three body-hugging little black dresses, my thoughts go back to the evening we spent at the Ace of Hearts. When we entered the restaurant, every person stopped to look at her. My father loved the attention, parading her as if he’d discovered her. I wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or irritated by the attention she received. Georgina, no stranger to being the centre of attention, told me to smile and be generous. Whether I liked it or not, Gemma and I had become a golden couple. While hardly Posh and Becks, we were likely to sell a few more copies of local newspapers and Sussex Life.
Then I remember something. I ring my father.
“Do you remember when we dined at the Ace of Hearts at the beginning of September?”
“How could I forget? Next time, let’s notify the local media, get some free publicity for the animal sanctuary. What do you say?”
It sounds about as appealing as most of the dishes on the poncy menu that night.
“Do you remember the guy who claimed he knew Gemma from school?”
“The guy with the greasy blond hair and John Lennon spectacles? Looked like his tuxedo was older than him?”
“That’s the one. He insisted he remembered her as a fresh-faced fifteen year old in London. Was it my imagination or did Gemma shrink back when he walked up?”
“She looked uncomfortable, sure, but he was creepy. Even Georgina said so.”
“Could you find him on your members’ list?”
“I’ll try, but he didn’t look like a member. What made you think of him?”
“Apart from being creepy and the way he stared at her boobs?”
“Most of the men present were guilty of that,” he says, including himself, I’m sure. “She looked like a Hollywood actress on the red carpet.”
“Yeah, but after making such a pest of himself, he dumped his untouched glass of wine on a table and scarpered, like he’d achieved what he wanted to do.”
“Are you interpreting his behaviour in the light of what’s happened?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I’m grasping at straws.”
“Don’t give up, son. We’ll find her.”
After the call, I hold the dress to my nose, hoping to smell her favourite perfume. Georgina introduced her to Fracas by Robert Piquet, but its scent has long faded, unlike the memory of how well she coped with being the centre of attention.
Maybe her time on stage had prepared her well.
After going through her clothes and drawers, I’ve netted a couple of petrol receipts, a ticket stub from an Erasure concert, and half a tube of wine gums. Her jewellery box yields nothing more than a few earrings without a partner and two old watches with broken straps.
In the spare bedroom, I grab the two holdalls she brought when she moved in with me. They’re almost empty now, but I check all the pockets and pouches. An old pack of wet wipes and a stale aroma greet me inside the first. The second offers a crumpled bag in the bottom. Inside I find a crumpled box of tampons. I’m about to drop them in the bin when I feel something slide around. I look inside the box and pull out a pocket-sized photo album, filled with plastic wallets.
Like me, Gemma stores her photographs on her laptop and memory sticks.
Columbo slinks over, sniffing at the album. His tail gives a hesitant wag as he looks at me.
“I’ve never seen it before, little mate. Let’s take a look.”
He jumps up onto the bed beside me and waits while I drink what’s left of my tea. When I open the small album, he watches me thumb through a series of teenage photographs that reveal a confident, photogenic young woman. She liked to pose in skimpy cropped tops and short skirts, like most teenagers. What sets her apart is the flawless, understated makeup, which emphasises her dark, sexy eyes and full lips. No false lashes, stencilled eyebrows or plumped up lips.
These are professional photographs, not random snaps taken by her father.
Marty makes a few appearances towards the end of the album, usually with a cigarette or a joint between yellowing fingers. His thin, almost emaciated appearance makes him look more like a grandfather, lounging on an unkempt sofa with worn arms and threadbare cushions. Not once does he look at the camera, as if he’s embarrassed by his appearance.
These photographs lack the quality of the ones Gemma posed for.
Between the final wallet and the cover, I find two more photographs. The first shows Gemma with a man in his thirties or forties, dressed in a formal suit, posing in what looks like a hotel room. He has greased brown hair, sharp features and a sneering smile that matches the possessive arm he has around her. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind that his hand rests under her breast.
Unlike the previous photographs, her makeup looks exaggerated, almost garish.
In the second photo, she’s sandwiched between two men in dinner jackets. One is the guy from the first photograph. The other has blond hair, scraped into a ponytail. It’s all I can make out as his face is buried in her hair. She’s wearing a strapless red dress that barely reaches her bottom. She has her arms draped over the men’s shoulders, as if she’d collapse without their support.
