No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 18
Ashley would also know. Why hasn’t she told me?
Could Eddie be the film maker and husband?
“Here we are,” Lesley says, sounding like she’s run up some stairs. “They lived at Hope Cottage, Ditchling.”
I note down the postcode, keen to finish the conversation and get in my car. “Thanks for the information, Lesley. It’s a great help.”
“I’m surprised the police haven’t contacted me. Your wife’s still missing, I take it.”
“I’m sure the police will be in touch.”
I gather my notebook, camera and phone. Columbo, used to me dashing out, leaps down to the floor, tail wagging more in hope than anticipation. I ruffle his fur and tell him he’s coming too. A man walking a dog looks far less conspicuous than a man pointing a camera over a hedge.
As I hurry down the stairs, Columbo races me to the door. He gets there first and barks, I pause, common sense overruling haste. Someone shot Halliday in the head. If Gemma’s at Hope Cottage under duress, turning up on the doorstep on my own, without a plan, could end badly.
I should ring Ashley.
My imagination fills with visions of armed units racing down narrow country lanes, only to find an elderly couple potting up dahlias for the winter.
I need to check out the place first.
While Columbo grows restless, Charley answers her phone.
“Are you in the office?” I ask, hearing a familiar background noise.
“I’m about to go out on district. How can I help?”
“I’ve got a property address. Could you take a quick look in your database to see if your colleagues have had any dealings with Hope Cottage, Ditchling?”
I walk back upstairs and reach my study in time for her to tell me about a history of complaints, going back several years. “Lots of complaints about noisy parties till the early hours. Then there’s clay pigeon shooting on Sundays. There’s also a complaint about hazardous chemicals in a photographic studio. It’s in a barn on the boundary with the complainant’s property. She claimed it was a fire risk.”
Why didn’t I think of a photographic studio? “When was this?”
“Two years ago. No complaints since then. The owner’s name at the time was Edward Marshall. Could this be your Eddie?”
“I hope so,” I reply, barely able to contain my excitement. “Do you have a name for the complainant next door?”
“Miss Trudi Blossom. I hope you’re not going to impersonate an EHO when you visit.”
“As if I would, Charley.”
Columbo flops down on the floor, head between his paws while I check Google Maps. Hope Cottage is situated down a small lane south of Ditchling on the way from Plumpton. It has a substantial garden, surrounded by lots of trees to add to the feeling of privacy. No wonder, with a large swimming pool in the garden. On the boundary with the neighbouring property, situated at right angles to Hope Cottage, there’s a barn.
Is this the photographic studio?
Whatever it turns out to be, there are plenty of places to hide a prisoner.
Or a body.
Forty-One
Tanyard Farm looks nothing like an agricultural building, and there isn’t a tannery in sight. The large rendered bungalow with a concrete tile roof looks like it was built in the late 1950s or early 1960s, as a place for someone who wanted to retire to the country. The property sits well back from the lane, approached by a curving drive that sweeps through close cut lawns and immaculate borders of shrubs and perennials, most past their prime as autumn marches towards winter under malevolent, brooding skies.
The electronic box on the gatepost tells me I won’t get buzzed into the property without a valid reason for calling.
I reverse back along the lane, noticing the change from pruned laurel hedge to the overgrown Leylandii perimeter of Hope Cottage. I turn down the lane to the gated entrance, guarding a gravel drive with a healthy collection of weeds and oil smears. Trees and shrubs crowd up to the drive, blocking the view of the house beyond. Only the tyre tracks in the gravel suggest someone lives here. The width of the tracks suggests a standard saloon, rather than a four wheel drive or sports car.
Either way, I can’t risk entering until I have a better idea of what’s behind the trees.
Back in the car, Columbo barks, furious with my refusal to let him out to explore. I need a public footpath where I could walk him and let him accidently detour into someone’s property. I should have paid more attention when I checked Google Maps. Before dismissing the possibility, I drive further along the lane, looking for a stile or gap in the trees and hedgerow, but I’m out of luck.
It’s Tanyard Farm or drive up to Hope Cottage and surprise Eddie Marshall, if he still lives here.
Could I play the environmental health officer and claim I’ve left my ID badge at home? The occupiers of Tanyard Farm have fitted electronic access for a reason. They want to feel safe and secure. A stranger dressed in a polo shirt and chinos, claiming to be an EHO, won’t make it through the gate. One phone call to the council would be enough to dash my credibility.
I drive back to Tanyard Farm and pull up outside the gate, noticing a small plaque that warns me to beware of the Rottweiler that lives there. At least the owners are dog lovers. It’s a starting point. I know they were worried about the barn and have a natural dislike of their neighbour.
Is it enough to get me inside?
I press the buzzer, not sure if there’s anyone home. A cultured female voice asks me to identify myself and state my business.
“My name’s Kent Fisher. I’m a private detective, making enquiries about your neighbour, Edward Marshall. His place looks overgrown and rather neglected.” When she doesn’t rise to the bait, I say, “I was wondering if he still lived there.”
A curtain twitches in a window to the left of the front porch. “You’re a private detective?”
“I understand your neighbour may have a photography studio on the premises.”
“Why are you interested in his studio?”
“So, he does have a studio, Miss Blossom. You are Trudi Blossom, I take it.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’m a private detective. There’s no need to be alarmed. My sole interest is in Mr Marshall’s studio. I know you’ve suffered a great deal of nuisance and antagonism in the past, thanks to his lifestyle, but my enquiries are of a more personal and delicate nature.”
“He may be my neighbour, but we are worlds apart.”
“I’m told Mr Marshall likes to surround himself with women. Young women,” I add, sounding suitably concerned. “My client is worried that he may be up to his old tricks again.”
“Why doesn’t your client contact the police, Mr Fisher?”
“Evidence. That’s why I’m here. I believe the studio’s on the boundary of your property. Would you allow me a moment to take a closer look, maybe take a few photographs?”
I hold up my camera for her to see. “I wouldn’t need to come into your house or disturb you in any way.”
“What do you mean by old tricks?”
“I can only say it’s not something I’d want next door to me. If you’ll permit me to take a quick look at the barn, I may be able to prevent any future problems.”
To my surprise and relief she invites me in. “When you come up the drive, could you park to the right, Mr Fisher. My husband’s due back any time.”
The unit buzzes and the gate opens inwards. A few moments later, I’m parked on a hardstanding to the right of the drive. Columbo’s on his hind legs, peering at the garden, his tail wagging. I’m about to exit the car, when I remember the warning sign for the Rottweiler. I open the door gently and step out, ready to dive back inside if a dog comes hurtling around from the back garden.
Columbo starts barking, desperate to get out and explore the garden. Worried he might attract the Rottweiler, I try to quieten him, prompting even more barking.
When the front door opens, I half expect to see a slavering dog with bared teeth. I’m not expecting a slim, attractive woman in her forties or early fifties, looking stylish in a fitted black jacket, matching trousers and expensive-looking boots. Her blonde hair, cut into a short bob that’s longer at the front, frames a slim face with strong cheekbones, a proud nose and cheeky brown eyes. From her confident stride and the way she smiles, she knows she’s got the upper hand.
Stopping a few metres from me, she puts her fingers to her mouth and gives a piercing whistle.
Moments later, a gorgeous long-haired dachshund leaps over the threshold and trots over, sniffing the air. Columbo goes frantic, pawing at the window. The dachshund looks up, totally unimpressed, and heads for the nearest bush.
“Columbo, no!”
He ignores my pointing finger and keeps barking.
“Columbo,” she says, walking over. “Why don’t you let him out, Mr Fisher? Hendrix is quite friendly.”
“And hardly a Rottweiler.”
“You’re not the only one skilled in the art of deception. Mr Blossom ran off with a woman half his age in 1999.” She rolls her shoulders as if it’s no great loss. “I believe your wife’s missing too, Mr Fisher. Is that why you’re here?”
Forty-Two
Trudi Blossom enjoys my surprise. “I read the Sussex Police posts and tweets on social media, but I’m curious to know why you think your wife’s next door.”
We’re walking down the side of her bungalow into a beautifully landscaped rear garden with winding paths, box hedges and large pond, knitted together by sweeping borders of perennials and shrubs. Climbing hydrangeas all but obscure the rear wall of Edward Marshall’s barn.
“You have a lovely garden.”
“I need to with a name like Blossom. Hendrix! Heel!”
Her dachshund stops pestering Columbo and trots over, his little legs working overtime.
“It’s an unusual name for a dog.”
“Not for a former rock journalist. I was too young to meet the great man, but I loved his music. These days I write romantic suspense fiction and judge short story competitions for the local writers’ groups. I make time for the garden, though it’s never at its best in late October.”
“What’s romantic suspense fiction?”
“It’s crime fiction with a strong romantic angle. Or romance with murder and mystery.” She looks at my expression and laughs. “Not your cup of tea, I’d say.”
“I was thinking about who Miss Marple could fall in love with.”
When Columbo wanders over, she gives him a warm smile. “You rescued him, didn’t you?”
“You seem to know a lot about me, Miss Blossom.”
“Social media keeps me abreast of your exploits. If you check your records, you’ll find I’m a supporter of your animal sanctuary. I’m also acquainted with your stepmother, Georgina. So why do you think your wife’s with Eddie Marshall?”
“They were married.”
I hadn’t intended to be so specific, but there’s something about her that makes me keen to talk. She’s intelligent, cultured and observant, interested in everything and anything, if she’s a writer. Then there’s the mocking, humorous glint in her eyes that tells me she’s fun and keen to help
“Do you think she’s gone back to him?”
“I wish I knew what was going on.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” She raises a delicate eyebrow. “Why are you interested in the photography studio?”
“You complained about it to Lewes District Council.”
Her laugh is warm and cosy, conspiratorial even. “I’ve complained about a lot of things, for all the good it did me. If you’re asking me to tell you about my neighbour, most of it is old news. A couple of years ago, following his wild, party years, he stopped filling his house and pool with scantily clad young women and became something of a recluse.”
“Is he still living there?”
“I may not see him, Mr Fisher, but he has his groceries delivered twice a week. People visit him from time to time. I hear their cars and vans arriving and leaving.”
“Do you know if he went out last Friday evening?”
“He spends his evenings in his studio, Mr Fisher. If he has the windows open, sometimes I can hear his TV. He lost his driving licence eight months ago after driving his E Type Jaguar into a ditch. He’d downed a bottle of vodka before getting behind the wheel. The car’s sat in his garage ever since. If we hadn’t been at loggerheads, I’d offer to buy it.” She sniffs at a rose, swaying in the gentle breeze. “The rock chick inside me loves fast cars.”
If Eddie didn’t drive, how could he meet Halliday at the industrial estate?
Did someone else meet Halliday?
“Do you know if anyone visited him last Friday evening?”
“Not Friday evening, no. He had a visitor early on Saturday morning though.”
“How early?”
“Five thirty? I rise at five to write. I heard a diesel engine. Up until about ten days ago, a van came around on Tuesday and Friday afternoons, driving away about forty minutes later. It’s a small white van with a dent in the rear bumper. And before you ask, I would need binoculars to read the registration number from my front room.”
Halliday had a van. Was he bringing and collecting DVDs from Eddie Marshall? The fire at his unit would explain why he hadn’t visited in the last couple of weeks.
“Do you think it was the same van that came round on Saturday morning?”
She studies me for a moment. “From the look in your eyes, this is significant. I doubt if your wife drives a van. Do you think she came here last Saturday?”
I shrug. “Is there anything else you remember about last Saturday?”
“I volunteer at Nyman’s Gardens at Hand Cross on Saturdays. I leave about half nine and don’t return until early evening.” She stops by a bottlebrush shrub and runs a gentle finger along the faded red blooms. “The lights weren’t on in his studio, which was unusual. But sometimes he was so drunk he fell asleep in the afternoon.”
“How do you know he fell asleep?”
Her eyes twinkle as she gives me a conspiratorial grin. “Let me show you my little secret.”
She leads me past the barn, smothered by a climbing hydrangea, and along the laurel hedge that separates the two properties. Columbo and Hendrix follow, still playing with each other. As we reach an oak tree that towers over both gardens, she stops and pushes some laurel branches aside.
“Welcome to your own secret passage into Eddie Marshall’s garden. It’s wooded on the other side, so you can reach the barn without being seen. You squeeze through around the trunk and follow the hedge back to the barn. There’s a window facing you, giving you a good view of the interior. Would you like a cup of tea when you return?”
“You’re not coming with me?”
“Someone needs to be here in case you don’t return, Mr Fisher. I’ll keep an eye on Columbo too.”
I reach down and scoop him up before he dives into the undergrowth. “Could I have your mobile number?”
“Really, Mr Fisher, we’ve only just met.”
“I might need to ring you if I get into any bother.”
“I think you can handle Eddie. He’s older than you, overweight and smokes like a chimney. He’s also fond of takeaways and red wine. He’ll be sound asleep in his conservatory by now. He likes an afternoon nap.”
“You seem to know a lot about him, Miss Blossom.”
She pretends to look bashful. “What’s the point of having a secret access if you don’t use it? And if I’m going to give you my personal number, you must call me Trudi.”
Once we’ve exchanged numbers, she takes Columbo so he can’t follow me through the hedge. She gives me a little wave and heads back towards the house, Hendrix at her heels. I slip between the laurel bushes into Marshall’s garden. As the skies continue to darken, it’s like dusk beneath the leafy canopy. There’s barely enough light for me to weave between the brambles, shrubs and tree trunks. As the air grows heavy, the birdsong fades to leave an eerie quiet. A blackbird bobs across the path, startling me.
While adrenaline has elevated my heart rate and sharpened my senses, I need to take care.
Halliday was shot in the head.
Did he drive here in his van on Saturday morning?
Or did his killer drive here with Gemma in the van?
It takes less than a minute to reach the timber clad barn, nestled among the trees. As Trudi said, there’s a window in front of me. A black roller blind covers the top half. The weeds below look like they’ve been trampled on.
Someone’s been here already.
I flatten myself against the trunk of the nearest tree and glance around. Hearing nothing more than the wind rustling the leaves above me, I walk across to the barn and duck under the window. Once past, I rise, flatten myself against the cladding and listen again. After wiping my palms on my chinos, I bend to look through the window.
The room is dark, thanks to blinds over the other windows. I make out a sofa, facing the window. A man’s sitting there, chin on his chest, his face partly illuminated by a TV that’s below or to the side of the window I’m looking through. One arm hangs over the side of the sofa. The other rests in his lap, clutching a remote control. On the table in front of him, I can make out an empty wine glass.
As Trudi suggested, he’s having an afternoon nap.
Certain I can surprise him, I walk around the side of the barn to the entrance door. Slowly and silently, I depress the handle. I hold my breath, ready to push open the door. It’s barely open an inch before a familiar nauseating smell bursts out.
I close the door to hold back the smell, but it’s too late. After a long, deep breath, I head inside. In the small foyer, I open the door on the right. A cloud of flies escape past me. Many more swarm around Eddie’s head. I seek out a light switch on the wall and illuminate the room. Stepping inside, I stride over to the sofa. Congealed blood has pooled around and beneath the exit wound on the left side of Eddie’s head. The fingers of his left hand curl around the gun that lies in his lap.
