No Going Back (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 7), page 24
As Katya turns, I duck out of sight and move around the corner.
When my heart rate returns to normal, I hurry along, hoping the people inside won’t notice me as I pass the windows. The kitchen doors are open, folded back against the wall, allowing staff to access the outdoor fridge and freezer stores. The smell of steak, onion and fries reminds me I haven’t eaten since lunchtime. The ventilation system reeks of burnt cooking oil, reminding me why I don’t eat fried food.
Hearing voices, I run across the grass and out of sight behind the cold store. Terry Phelan’s familiar scouse tones precede his arrival outside. The smell of cigarettes fills the air.
“In a couple of hours, we’ll be on our way to the airport,” he says, sounding like he’s about to embark on the holiday of a lifetime. “Then it’s you, me and a South American beach.”
I edge closer to the corner so I can hear more clearly above the noise of the extractors.
“Are you sure the other two will drown?”
“Don’t worry, Katya. They’ll be dead long before the pool fills to the top.
I sprint down the service road to the back of the pub. Around the corner, I find Gemma and Sarah’s Volvos, parked next to a hotel service van. I pay no attention to the view across the gardens and marshes that reach almost to the coast.
If I’m too late Gemma will never see the view.
In that moment, I realise how foolish I’ve been. I’ve wasted the last eight years, drifting, denying what I feel inside, looking for someone better.
There is no one better.
I hope I’m not too late.
I race across the car park and across the lawn as if my life depended on it, leaping over the orange plastic barrier that surrounds the pool building. I take the steps down to the patio two at a time. When my foot hits the bottom step, the stone flags tips forward, sending me across the patio. A plastic table and chairs halt my progress, sending me sprawling to the ground. Winded, I look up at the sky, aware of a pain in my rear. With a flurry of arms, I disentangle myself and get to my feet. The French doors are locked, the view inside blocked by condensation.
I free the loose flagstone from the bottom step. With the flagstone in both hands, I smash it into the glass. The whole door shakes. The glass splinters, but remains intact. A second strike penetrates the outer pane. The third turns the glass in the inside pane into tiny pieces. I dump the flagstone and kick away loose glass. As the inner pane falls away, the humidity and reek of chlorine surge out like an acrid tsunami.
In the distance, I hear sirens.
Inside, I spot Gemma and Sarah sitting back to back in the shallow end of the pool, water up to their chins, gags stifling their voices.
There’s no sign of Stephanie.
I run along the side of the pool to the shallow end, narrowly avoiding the patio table and chairs next to a bar. I leap into the water and wade over to Gemma and Sarah. Their hands and legs are bound by tape. A rope runs around their waists, binding them together.
“Hold on,” I say, untying the napkin that’s gagging Gemma. “I’ll see if I can find something to cut you free.”
She cries out. “He’s got a knife.”
Terry clambers through the door, brushing glass out of the way. He’s brandishing a carving knife and breathing hard, as if he’s run from the kitchen. I haul myself out of the water, jump to my feet and grab a plastic patio chair. With its legs pointing at him, I walk towards him as he swishes the knife from side to side.
“I’ve always wanted to get my own back on environmental health officers.”
He’s still breathing heavily. Despite his bravado, there’s fear in his eyes. When he raises his knife arm, ready to lunge at me, I thrust the chair into his chest. Pushing for all I’m worth, I propel him back until he falls into the pool.
As he tumbles the knife falls from his fingers, dropping into the water. I leap in to retrieve it, pushing him out of the way. As my eyes adjust, I see Stephanie Richmond, lying bound and gagged on the floor of the pool.
I grab the knife and swim towards Gemma and Sarah, leaving Terry to thrash around.
It takes me a few moments to saw through the rope to separate Sarah and Gemma. I cut the tape to free her hands and help her to her feet. She grabs hold of me for support, struggling to stand with her legs strapped together.
In the background I’m aware of people shouting and piling into the pool area.
Shouts of “Police, stay where you are!” echo around the building, but they’re no more than a blur in the background.
“What took you so long?” Gemma asks.
“I thought I’d lost you.” With one arm around her waist, I bend and lift her legs until I’m cradling her in my arms and gazing into her eyes. “I don’t ever want to feel like that again. Will you marry me?”
With the chlorine stinging my eyes, it’s difficult to tell if she’s surprised or stunned.
“Are you sure, Kent? There’s so much you don’t know about me. Things I wished I’d never done. Things I shouldn’t have done.”
“I don’t care, Gemma. It’s taken me eight years to realise how much I love you – how much I’ve always loved you. I don’t want to waste another minute.”
“There are things I need to explain,” she says, a pained look in her eyes.
“All I care about is our future. Nothing else matters. So, what do you say?”
When she urges me to help her mother, I have a sinking feeling Gemma’s going to turn me down.
Sixty-One
When Ashley rings, I’m buttering toast and looking out of the kitchen window of a self-catering cottage in Stratford-upon-Avon. The bird feeders on the small tree in the yard have drawn a few blue tits and sparrows. The clear blue sky suggests another unusually mild October day to end what’s been a glorious honeymoon.
It’s hard to believe over three months have elapsed since I proposed to Gemma.
Ashley interrupts my thoughts, coming straight to the point as usual. “We’ve found Miranda Tate – or what’s left of her. Katya’s finally dropped her plea of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility and admitted murder. We should be able to proceed much quicker with the prosecution now. Naturally, she’s still claiming all the victims contributed to the death of her daughter.”
“What about me? I led Katya to Stephanie Richmond.”
“Pippa Castle identified Stephanie, not you. They were having sex in the sick bay while the kids were swimming. Miranda saw them and did nothing. I’m pretty sure that’s why Katya killed her.”
“If Miranda had told Katya, she could have killed Stephanie Richmond first. Maybe Harry and Adrian would still be alive.”
“Maybe Miranda wanted to protect Stephanie. Maybe Stephanie helped Miranda later. I’m not sure we’ll ever find out as they’re both dead.” Ashley pauses, clearly affected by the case. “Do you want to know how Katya kept track of your progress?”
“Betty Cooper and Ollie Nash, right?”
“Betty approached Katya after she’d persuaded Harry to do some digging. When it was clear he hadn’t identified the lifeguard, Katya killed him.”
“Once she crossed that line, there was no going back until everyone who let her daughter down had paid the price.” I pause, saddened by the events that had driven Katya to kill. If the charity workers had kept an eye on her daughter at the activity centre, none of this would have happened. “Then again, she had to kill Harry or he would identify her as the killer.”
“But he guessed what she would do and left you some clues.”
“Hang on. Betty and Ollie were working at my sanctuary months before Harry was killed.”
“Katya said they were thinking about employing you to identify and find the lifeguard. Katya persuaded them to select Harry, realising he’d be less trouble than you.”
I laugh. “Instead, they got two for the price of one.”
“I thought you’d want to know,” she says, and rings off.
It feels like Ashley couldn’t wait to end the call. I’m not sure why she rang when she could have waited till we were back from the honeymoon.
Gemma comes down the stairs, wrapped in a dressing gown. “Who were you talking to?”
“Ashley. They’ve found Miranda’s body.”
I relay the details once we’re seated at the small breakfast table. Gemma says little, still troubled by memories of being left to drown in the swimming pool. The nightmares have reduced since that terrible day, but it doesn’t take much to trigger the memories.
“One thing still doesn’t make sense,” she says, looking at the last slice of toast. “If Katya invited Harry to the party, why did he pester my mother for an invite? Why didn’t he simply turn up on the night?”
“He wanted to make sure your mother came to me if he died. Insurance in case she didn’t realise the significance of the text clues.”
I reach across for the toast, only to find Gemma’s beaten me to it. With a grin of triumph she snatches it away. Once smeared with raspberry jam, she cuts the slice in two and passes half to me. “I’m not always going to be this generous, Mr Fisher.”
“I’m not always going to make you toast, Mrs Fisher.”
“Do you think they’ll find Betty and Ollie?” she asks, once she’s devoured her toast.
I lick the jam off my fingers and shrug. “That’s enough talk about murder. This is the last day of our honeymoon and I’m finished with sleuthing.”
She laughs. “And when Savanna returns, all bleary eyed and lost, asking you to find out who killed Johnny Spender?”
“I mean it, Gemma. I’m through with sleuthing. The thought of you drowning in that swimming pool was more than I could take. You’re my future,” I say, taking her hands in mine, wishing she’d believe me. “We’re going to develop Meadow Farm to its full potential. We can expand, rescue more animals, offer more experiences to visitors and children, improve our online reach.”
“What if I want to become an environmental health officer?”
“Then you’ll have the best personal tuition you could wish for.”
“All your short cuts and bad habits? No thanks.” As the laughter subsides, a shadow seems to fall over her. “Are you sure it’s what you want, Kent?”
“When you agreed to marry me, my life finally made sense. Nothing’s going to spoil it.”
A tear runs down her cheek. Apologising, she leaves the table and runs upstairs.
It’s not the first time her emotions have got the better of her. Though we’ve known each other for eight years, on and off, the last three months have felt like a whirlwind romance. Neither of us expected the pressure the approaching wedding would bring. In the end, I left Georgina to organise everything, including the guests, the meals, the choice of wines, the DJ for the evening.
Two weeks ago, we married in the Mike Turner Visitor Centre at Meadow Farm. Gemma looked so stunning, I had tears in my eyes. My father stood beside me, speechless for once. It seemed perfect as Mike once admitted how much he’d like to be my best man. He also liked the idea of walking Gemma down the aisle.
Hopefully, we fulfilled both his wishes that day. I felt his presence several times during the proceedings.
Even Tommy Logan enjoyed himself, giving the wedding a centre page spread in the Tollingdon Tribune. He promised to have a full set of photos ready for our return. Despite their reservations, and lack of input into the proceedings, Niamh and Sarah attended in all their finery.
“Isn’t it all a bit sudden?” Niamh asked when I broke the news.
Sarah said, “I hope you’re not expecting me to treat your animals for free.”
Now it’s our last day in Stratford-upon-Avon and Gemma doesn’t want to go home.
Columbo jumps down from the sofa when I put water, treats and poo bags into his rucksack for the day ahead. He’s not interested in the old timbered buildings that keep history alive and give the town its unique atmosphere. Like me, he knows nothing about Shakespeare, though he enjoys chasing squirrels in the gardens adjacent to the theatre.
We were lucky to find the holiday cottage in a terrace close to Holy Trinity Church, where Shakespeare’s buried. The parking’s a nightmare as visitors compete with residents for spaces, but we’re a short walk from the river, the town centre and the main attractions.
Gemma comes down the stairs, looking gorgeous in a bronze roll neck sweater, jeans and tan boots. As it catches the sunlight from the window, her auburn hair shines like a fresh horse chestnut. She pulls on an anorak and grabs Columbo’s lead from the windowsill.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods, but there’s a nervous look in her eyes. “I want everything to be perfect, Kent. It’s easy for me because you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted. But what if I don’t live up to your expectations? What if I’m not the woman you think I am?”
“It’s me who doesn’t deserve you.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, wishing I could calm her anxieties. “Now let’s get going before Columbo wears a hole in the carpet.”
Her kiss is so passionate I’m tempted to take her upstairs, but Columbo has other ideas. Once through the front door, he’s off like a rocket, straining at the lead, barking at another dog across the road. Gemma locks the door and hands me the keys.
“We won’t go too far,” she says, gesturing towards a traffic warden. “We need to move the car before ten.”
Hand in hand, we walk down the road and cross to Holy Trinity Church. In the graveyard, Columbo spots a grey squirrel and hurtles across the grass until his extendable lead reaches its limit. He stares up at the tree, barking as the squirrel scurries along the branches.
He repeats this several times as we walk around to the rear. People of all ages, races and denominations fill the cemetery and riverside path, snapping with their cameras. We stop by the low stone wall and look down on the River Avon, rippling with activity. A tour boat chugs past on its way to the weir, where it will turn. Several visitors are struggling with rowing boats, causing mayhem among the local swans and ducks.
Gemma taps my arm. “I left my camera in the house. Can I have the keys?”
She hurries back, weaving through the tourists. Columbo’s on a mission to cock his leg against as many gravestones as he can. I pull him back and keep him on a short lead as he drags me around, still hunting for squirrels.
Realising ten minutes have passed since Gemma left us, I steer him back towards the church. Maybe she’s talking to someone or taking photographs. When we reach the main gate, she’s nowhere to be seen.
“Come on,” I say, dragging Columbo away from a cocker spaniel.
We hurry back to the holiday cottage. I open the door and step inside, spotting her camera and phone on the coffee table. Calling out, I run up the stairs, hoping she’s not had an accident.
But she’s not there.
Back downstairs, I check the rear garden.
Then I notice my keys are missing.
When I step out onto the street, so is my car.
THE END.
If you would like to find out more about the Kent Fisher mysteries and be the first to find out about new releases from Robert Crouch, you can sign up to his email newsletter at his website. You’ll also receive a free copy of Dirty Work, a short story featuring Kent in his days as an environmental activist.
I hope you enjoyed this book. As an independent author, I don’t have the budget that big publishing houses possess to market their books, but I have you. If you could please leave a review on Amazon, it would make my day. Reviews need only take a few minutes of your time, but will inform other readers indefinitely.
You can leave a review on Amazon UK here
You can leave a review on Amazon US here
Thank you.
Other books by Robert Crouch
No Accident Kent Fisher mystery #1
No Bodies Kent Fisher mystery #2
No Remorse Kent Fisher mystery #3
No More Lies Kent Fisher mystery #4
No Mercy Kent Fisher mystery #5
No Love Lost Kent Fisher mystery #6
Fisher’s Fables A collection of humorous blog posts
Author’s Note
Thank you for taking this journey with me. I hope you enjoyed reading No Going Back as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Writing the novel is a solitary process, but I’m lucky to have the company of the characters I create. While they are the product of my imagination, they become real when I’m writing, often going in directions of their choosing not mine. I live their lives with them, sharing their hopes, fears and desires as they deal with the complex murder mysteries I throw at them.
Once the writing is completed, I’m helped by a team of people who help turn the manuscript into the finished novel.
My thanks go to my wife Carol and advance reader Kath Middleton, who provide valuable feedback and help me fine tune the novel; to my editor Liz Bailey, who casts an expert and objective eye over my manuscript and helps me strengthen the plot, iron out weaknesses and add a final polish; and to Jane Prior of String Design, who produces another great cover in the series.
I’m indebted to a trusty team of bloggers, who selflessly give up their spare time to read books and write honest, objective reviews, helps me with the launch. Many of them have been with me from the first novel in the series, encouraging and supporting me and my books, helping to bring my work to a wider audience.
And finally my thanks go to you the reader for choosing my book among the many millions of novels out there. I’m always delighted to hear from you, whether by email, social media or directly through my website.
Robert Crouch
April 2021.
