No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 17
But it’s not her drunken smile and bleary eyes that interest me. It’s the red elbow length gloves she’s wearing.
Are they the ones Frances told me about? The ones delivered on the eve of the wedding with a note?
How could you forget these?
Taking a closer look at the photograph, I’m curious about ponytail guy, who seems to be nuzzling Gemma’s neck. There’s a faint shadow running from his ear to his eye. I fish out a magnifying glass. The shadow looks like the arm of a pair of spectacles. Wire-framed spectacles, if I’m not mistaken.
Is he the guy from the Ace of Hearts?
If he is, then Gemma could be fifteen in this photograph.
What the hell’s she doing, looking like a tart in a hotel bedroom with two men, old enough to be her father?
On the rear of the photograph, someone scribbled, Teddy and Bryan share the love.
Thirty-Eight
I’ve had a glimpse into a world I’d rather know nothing about.
Gemma was eighteen when I met her. In bed, her skill, imagination and stamina seemed way beyond her years. Not that I was complaining. But once we’d gone our separate ways, I realised she was an attractive woman who could have her pick of lovers.
Why did she have to say she was in love with me?
I didn’t want a relationship. I didn’t want to be tied to one person, doing the same things in the same places every week, making plans for a future, governed by routine. The future was for people who wanted to play safe. I preferred the present, being spontaneous, free to go in whichever direction I wanted.
Now, looking back, I wonder if I bolted because I was in love with Gemma and didn’t know how to deal with it.
I was used to my mother’s bitterness and resentment. She blamed me for her alcoholism, the poverty we lived in. Love was alien. It scared me. It meant letting people see the real me, the dark side I kept hidden. It meant trusting them not to share what they learned. On the few occasions I’d trusted people, it came back to bite me. Though I’d never known anyone like Gemma before, I didn’t know what to do, how to deal with my feelings.
I was an insecure teenager in his thirties, afraid of being hurt.
She was eighteen, already an experienced adult, confident in what she wanted.
Now I know why.
Or do I?
No matter how it looks in the photograph, I shouldn’t judge Gemma. I let her down once. I can’t do it again. She needs me more than ever. Someone doesn’t want her to escape her past.
I go back to the photograph. Bryan Halliday is the more sober of the two. Eddie, or Teddy, could be the man from the Ace of Hearts. As we’d skipped a formal engagement, we arranged the meal to celebrate booking the wedding. Miles made an announcement on social media, which generated thousands of likes and shares. Eddie spotted an opportunity to spoil Gemma’s happiness.
Was it jealousy or unfinished business?
His appearance would have cast a shadow over the wedding. When Halliday started to text during the honeymoon, she must have feared the worst. Maybe she thought she could settle it once and for all, meeting Eddie head on.
Only things didn’t work out the way she’d hoped.
Halliday was shot dead.
Did Eddie take Gemma with him?
Niamh’s voice, calling up the stairs, interrupts my thoughts. I thrust the photograph back into the pocket album, which I drop into the top drawer of the desk. I close it moments before she pushes through the door, almost tripping over Columbo. She apologises and bends to fuss him.
“Are you okay, Kent? You look flustered.”
“I’m fine.”
“You weren’t answering your phone.” It sounds more like an accusation than an observation. She spots the police photographs on the desk. “The motorcyclist who stopped by looked quite animated while he was talking on his phone. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
She wants to know who he is and why he called. “Tony Jackson is Hattie’s nephew. He’s the traffic cop who found my burned out car.”
She points at the photographs, no longer interested in Tony. “Are those Gemma’s rings?”
“They were found beside the car.”
Her eyebrows arch. “Did she drop them?”
I shrug, hoping to avoid another discussion about what might have happened.
“What do the police think?”
“They’re not sharing their thoughts with me.”
“But Ashley’s a friend.”
“I’m a suspect, Niamh.”
“That’s nonsense and you know it. Ashley knows it too. She’ll do all she can to help you.” Niamh scans the remaining photographs and pushes them back to me. “Not that you deserve it, the way you treated her.”
“If you’re about to tell me I should have married Ashley, you can pack your bags and go back to Northern Ireland now.” I rise, tired of Niamh’s sniping. It was only a matter of time before her self-control slipped. “If you have anything to say that might help me find Gemma, then tell me.”
Niamh doesn’t frighten so easily. “Has it occurred to you that she might not want to be found?”
“Then why did she marry me? She had plenty of chances to bail out.”
“Did she? What chances?”
I almost tell her about the meal at the Ace of Hearts. “She could have changed her mind at any time.”
“Oh.” If ever a little word said so much. “I thought you were going to tell me about the red gloves.”
I should have known Frances would tell Niamh. She looks me straight in the eyes. “Have you told Ashley, or the police?”
She knows I haven’t. There’s so much I haven’t told the police, I could be charged with obstructing an investigation or perverting the course of justice. The moment I saw the photograph of Gemma with Eddie and Halliday, I knew I’d keep it to myself.
I can’t bear the thought of Ashley and her colleagues delving into Gemma’s past.
“If you want her back, you should tell Ashley everything you know.” Niamh places her hands on my shoulders. “You can’t do this alone, Kent. Ashley won’t let you down.”
Unlike Gemma, she means.
Thirty-Nine
Early Tuesday morning, I walk around the sanctuary with Frances, spending time with the animals we’ve rescued, reminding myself of how far we’ve come since we converted an old barn on the Downland Manor estate. She updates me on what I missed while I was on honeymoon, the progress with our existing plans, some ideas she has for the future.
Not for the first time, I feel superfluous.
What am I going to do now I’ve left Environmental Health?
I don’t want to be the chief executive of my charity, checking accounts and settings targets, monitoring performance and holding annual appraisals. I don’t want to spend hours in meetings with team leaders, sponsors or the media. I don’t want to be the face of the charity, smiling out from posters and social media photographs.
I want to be out in the Land Rover, rescuing injured fox and badger cubs, nursing them back to health. I want to be rescuing dogs and finding them caring homes.
I want Gemma beside me.
The ache of her absence seems to grow with each passing hour.
I miss her telling me about her day on the district, the food businesses she inspected, the people she met. I want to watch her roll her eyes and become animated as she relates more of the crazy ideas her new manager has dreamt up to save money. I want to be part of her world, sharing the highs and lows, helping her make the difference I once made.
“I’m lost, Frances.” The words fall out of my mouth without prompting. “I don’t know where I fit anymore. I’m beginning to think my work defined me.”
“Your values define you. The sanctuary defines you.”
“Then why does it feel like a business instead of a passion?”
She casts me a worried look, not sure what to say. Since she joined me all those years ago, I’ve always trusted her, never doubting or questioning what she does. We rarely disagree or argue. We share the same unspoken vision for the animals in our care. She’s been a good friend as well as a colleague, though we rarely talk about personal issues. Maybe that’s why I’m struggling to translate my feelings into words.
“I’m afraid of losing what made us what we are, Frances. I know we need a café and a play area for visitors and their children, but we’re a haven for animals not a theme park.”
She stops to look across the pastures towards the South Downs, veiled by mist. Our horses and ponies are trotting around in the early morning sun, their breath white against a sky, marbled with red. Around us, birds sing, their calls not yet drowned out by traffic noise. And weaving through the grass, nose to the ground, Columbo tracks the smells left behind by foxes, badgers, rabbits and field mice.
Frances fiddles with her braids, a sure sign she’s anxious. “Did you discuss any of this with Gemma?”
“No. Her absence has made me realise what matters, what I could lose.” I rest my arms on the fence and look at the Downs, hoping their tranquillity and beauty will seep into me, calming my emotions. “I’m surrounded by people who care about me, yet I feel alone.”
She surprises me by wrapping her arms around my waist and holding on to me. Her braids brush against my face as we stand there. When she sniffs, I realise she’s crying. She pulls back, her cheeks flushed as she stares at the ground.
She looks as lost as I feel.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Kent.” Her voice is shaky and nervous, but she continues regardless. “You’re like a father, a brother and a best friend, all rolled together. You’ve given me a home, a purpose. You inspire me. You’re the reason I look forward to every day.” She looks up now. “I’d do anything for you, but I don’t know how to fix this. It makes me feel like I’ve let you down.”
I feel ashamed and unworthy. “Without you, Frances, we wouldn’t be here. I’m the one who’s let you down. I never tell you how much I appreciate what you do.”
“You don’t need to, Kent. I know. I’ve always known. You trust me. You leave me to get on with my job. You never challenge or question what I do.”
“I don’t need to, but I shouldn’t take you for granted.”
She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “The day you take me for granted will be my last day here.”
“Not without giving me at least a month’s notice,” I say, forcing a smile. “You could make it a couple of years, and I still wouldn’t find anyone to replace you.”
She manages a smile and we start walking again. “Are you worried about how Gemma might affect things?” I ask.
“No, she wants to be an environmental health officer. When she worked for Trading Standards in Brighton, they were part of the same department as Environmental Health. They had no vacancies for a student, so she asked her Uncle Frank to get her a job at Downland.” Frances looks away for a moment. “She also wanted to be close to you.”
For the last few days, I’ve been talking to people, trying to uncover Gemma’s past, where she lived and worked, who she knew. Some of the answers were in front of me all the time.
“When did she tell you this?”
“The day the red gloves arrived, she walked the dogs with me that afternoon. I knew right away they’d upset her. The gloves, I mean, not the dogs. She told me about her time in London, living with her hippy dad, smoking weed and going to school stoned. When he was diagnosed with AIDS, he became unbearable, blaming her and the world for his troubles. She couldn’t handle it and came back to Tollingdon for a break. That’s when she met you.”
“She told you about our week together.”
“She knew about you and her mother being hunt saboteurs. That’s when she fell in love with you, she said. It was a crazy teenage crush until the afternoon you walked into the restaurant where she was working. It was her afternoon off, but she knew you’d be calling.”
“How? We never let people know we’re visiting.” Then I realise. “Uncle Frank checked my diary, didn’t he?”
Frances nods. “She had him wrapped around her little finger.”
“She told you I walked out on her, I guess.”
Frances pauses to let Columbo scurry past. “She said she frightened you off. She went back to London to forget about the mess she’d made and start again.”
“Did she say anything about a guy called Eddie? Or Bryan Halliday?”
“No. It was her and her dad. When he died, she had to leave the flat. She moved to Brighton and stayed with a friend for a while. She got by, working in catering and hotels until she landed a job at the council, working as a clerk in Trading Standards.”
“Did she say anything about the red gloves?”
We’re at the kennels now, and our four rescue dogs know it’s time for breakfast. Columbo too, even though I’ve already fed him.
Frances hesitates. “She swore me to secrecy, Kent.”
“One person has already been killed, Frances. Gemma could be next.”
“She’ll kill me if she finds out.”
I remain silent, knowing she’ll tell me.
“Gemma was desperate. Her dad was ill. He needed treatment, to get to hospital, to pay for food and rent. She’d done some modelling before, so she contacted this guy to see if he could get her some work.”
A hungry lurcher leaps up against the gate, eager for attention.
Needing to keep her talking, I tell her about the photograph of Gemma wearing the gloves and a revealing dress. “She’s with two men. One of them pirated DVDs. Did she say anything about making films?”
Frances shakes her head, glancing past me as if she’d like to make a break for it. “No, she became an escort.”
She scurries into the food store, slamming the door behind her.
I scoop up Columbo, despite his protests, and take him back to the flat. Based on the photograph of Gemma with Eddie and Halliday, I have a motive for Gemma’s disappearance.
They were blackmailing her.
She’d married a man of means with a father who’s worth millions.
I’m not sure how the fire at Halliday’s unit fits into this, but his murder suggests Eddie doesn’t want to share.
The lack of a ransom demand is even more disturbing.
Forty
Blackmail, kidnap and ransom belong to novels and TV dramas, not rural life in Jevington. Then again, I’m hardly a stranger to murder. Sometimes, looking back at the investigations, it feels like they happened to someone else. Yet Gemma was beside me for most of them, loving the thrill of the chase, the adventure and drama. Now she’s in the thick of it once more, the victim this time, thanks to a past I never expected.
I’ve married a former call girl.
If nothing else, it explains Gemma’s prowess as a lover when I first met her.
Why does it matter? It’s in the past, a way to put food on the table and keep a roof over her dying father’s head.
Why didn’t she seek help from the council, a hospice?
What do I tell Ashley?
I can’t mention the blackmail without revealing the escort business.
Gemma’s in enough trouble without her past being smeared across Facebook and the media. Imagine going into work, knowing all your colleagues are aware of what you used to do. Imagine all the people staring at you, wondering why you did it, desperate to find out all the details.
I shouldn’t be thinking this while Gemma’s alone somewhere, not sure what’s going to happen to her.
Or is she?
Eddie’s nuzzling her neck in the photograph.
Why didn’t she trust me enough to tell me?
I would have understood.
Wouldn’t I?
Frances said Gemma did some modelling, as well as acting. What kind of modelling and acting did she do?
Halliday’s pirated DVDs enter my thoughts. Did he have films she needed to destroy? Could it explain the fire or his murder?
The unit burned down while we were on our honeymoon.
Did the fire prompt Halliday to fight back?
Tony Jackson’s assertions about my wife could be closer to the mark than I dare believe. Does the lack of a ransom note mean she’s working with Eddie to clear away the evidence?
Why am I letting my imagination run away like this? Gemma’s still the person I married. She hasn’t transformed into a monster because of one photograph and a few revelations. Her past didn’t stop her falling in love with me, did it?
I’m not the woman you think I am.
She confessed about the red gloves to Frances – not me.
Gemma thought I’d react badly.
I glance at Columbo, who’s stirred from his slumber. “She’s right, isn’t she? I’ve already condemned her.”
Determined to make amends, I phone Ashley. To say I’m relieved when the call goes to voicemail would be an understatement. I end the call.
When she discovers how much information I’ve withheld, she’ll have to march me down to the Custody Centre for a formal interview.
I ring Lesley Kane. “I thought you’d be back,” she says, sounding like she’s smiling. “You want to know about Gemma’s time with us, don’t you?”
“Are you psychic?”
“No, after talking to you I looked up your wedding on Facebook and realised you’d married Gemma Marshall, who worked in our Admin team.”
When did she become Gemma Marshall?
“She was a bleached blonde then,” Lesley continues, “and far too glamorous to be working for us. All the blokes in the building made a beeline for her, but she was already married. He was something to do with films, as in movies not photography. Hang on, the paper with my notes has gone walkabout.”
While she collects her paper, I think about a bleached blonde married to someone in films. I should be wondering why no one’s mentioned the marriage before. Foster and Penn would have discovered this with their routine checks, wouldn’t they?
