No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 25
“You’re an attractive woman.”
“I’m a lonely, desperate woman, easily charmed and flattered.” She shakes her head and sighs. “He knew how to make me feel good about myself. He was attentive and charming, making me laugh with his stories about his time in the Met. Did he tell you he worked undercover to infiltrate drug gangs and prostitution rackets in London?”
From the tone of her voice, she’s about to tell me he didn’t.
“Do you believe he’d drop from undercover detective in the Met to traffic cop in Sussex? He said he needed a less stressful job where he could indulge his love of motorbikes.”
“Is that why you checked him out?”
“I bumped into an old colleague on a training course in London last week. He asked how Tony was doing out in the sticks. I could tell from his voice that he didn’t have a high opinion, so I asked him about Tony.” She gives me a shrug, as if she couldn’t help herself. “Turns out he was a beat officer with a vivid imagination. They called him Mitty because he was always fantasising and making up stories about the women he seduced. You’ve heard of Walter Mitty, right? He was always dreaming he was someone else.”
I shake my head, wondering whether Tony’s been spinning me stories.
“When I challenged him about being a beat officer in London, he didn’t deny it,” she says. “He said he’d moved back to Sussex to look after his mother, who had advanced dementia. He didn’t tell me because he didn’t want me feeling sorry for him or wondering why he couldn’t see me in the evenings. Naturally, I didn’t believe him.”
“But?”
She sighs and pulls her phone from her handbag. “He sent me a text a few minutes ago. His mother’s been admitted to a hospice. She hasn’t got long to live. He said he’s sorry he wasn’t straight with me and could really do with some company.” She looks up. “I don’t know if I trust him. Does it make me a horrible person?”
I almost tell her Tony’s at Birling Gap, but I realise he isn’t. He’s waiting for Ashley. The incident in Brighton is a cover so he can be with her, if she accepts his invitation.
That’s the trouble with people who fantasise – you never know when they’re telling the truth.
“You don’t think I should see him, do you?”
“Only you know what to do, Ashley.”
“Well, I know I’m not getting any younger.” She heads for the stairs, her expression grim. “Mel Gibson’s hardly beating down my door.”
“Be careful, okay?”
“I was about to say the same to you. Don’t do anything rash.”
When the front door closes behind her, I grab my phone to ring Hattie, hoping I’m not too late.
Fifty-Seven
The moment I select Hattie’s number, Ashley’s warning replays in my head. Don’t do anything rash. I hesitate. What if my hunches are wrong? A few moments ago, I thought Penn was the killer. I could cause untold damage. I could antagonise or lose Hattie.
But without Halliday’s subscriber list to confirm my suspicions, what choice do I have?
His binder sits on my desk, tantalising me with the promise of evidence and proof. Ashley would be delighted to peruse the names of subscribers. Some of them could be colleagues or people she worked with in the past. She could claim the credit for the breakthrough and rescue Gemma.
But what if the killer’s not on the subscriber list?
What do I do then?
How will I solve the murders and save Gemma?
Every minute that passes erodes what little hope she’s clinging to.
I pick up the binder and examine the base of the spine. There’s no damage or wear and tear to suggest the stitches rubbed away over the years. With the tip of my pen, I lift the inner lining. The chunky metal ring mechanism, which holds the pages in place, hampers my efforts. Armed with a pair of tweezers from the bathroom, I lift the lining enough to see underneath.
In my excitement, I almost drop the binder.
I move my desk lamp closer and slide the tweezers beneath the lining. Then, gripping the plastic tight, I pull out a micro SD card.
Columbo barks, sharing my excitement.
Rummaging around in my desk tidy, I find an SD adapter and insert the card into my laptop. It takes a few agonising moments to read the card and list the files in Explorer. I double click the Excel file, waiting for it to load, praying it’s not password protected.
When it opens, a quick glance confirms this is a list of people, addresses, email details and the dates they subscribed. There are no details of any DVDs purchased, so it must be a mailing list. It contains over 8,000 names and addresses, spanning countries across the world, but mainly Europe and Russia.
If I knew how to search in Excel, I might find the name I want.
Then, calling on a memory of sorting data in columns at work, I make a couple of false starts before arranging the data alphabetically by surname.
A few moments later, I ring Hattie. When I announce myself, she seems hesitant. After an apology for disturbing her at home, I ask her about Tony, choosing my words with care. “You told me someone he loved walked out on him in London. Do you know why she left?”
“It was years ago.” The stiffness in her voice suggests she’s not comfortable discussing her nephew’s relationships. “He found a pregnancy testing kit in the rubbish bin in the kitchen. He was delighted to discover she was pregnant. He sent her a text, telling her he would be round to celebrate that evening. When he returned about seven, she’d gone. The flat was empty. He rang her, but she’d blocked his number. He was devastated, poor mite. Later, when he found out she’d lost the baby... well, you can imagine how he felt, Mr Fisher.”
I haven’t given any thought to the baby. “Did she have a miscarriage?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it must have been.”
“If she’d blocked his number, how did he find out?”
Her voice chills. “Why are you asking me, Mr Fisher?”
It’s a fair point. “I don’t want to upset Tony.”
“You won’t. He’s well rid, if you ask me. He’s with a detective inspector now. They’re going to move into his mother’s house, now she’s moved into a care home. They want to start a family.”
Somehow, I don’t think Tony’s shared this fantasy with Ashley. “Do you remember the name of his girlfriend in London?”
“I don’t know her real name. Tony always called her Gorgeous.”
Gorgeous Gemma, as she was known to subscribers. Another piece falls into place.
“Why are you interested, Mr Fisher?”
“I thought he missed his old girlfriend,” I say. “He’s quite a sensitive soul, isn’t he?”
I cringe as I say it, but Hattie doesn’t doubt me. “It’s kind of you to think of Tony when you must be worried sick about Mrs Fisher. That’s why Tony wants to help you. He knows what it’s like when someone you love goes missing.”
“He’s been a great help, Hattie. And so have you. Could I ask one more question? Is Tony’s first name, Walter?”
“Yes, it was his grandfather’s name. Tony hates it, of course, and uses his middle name.”
I thank her and sit back in my chair, finally separating the truth from the fantasy. Halliday and Marshall’s deaths are no fantasy. The red gloves left for Gemma are real too, like the DVD of Gorgeous Gemma.
Not to mention the baby.
Something else Gemma hasn’t told me.
And Hattie didn’t tell me how Tony found out about the miscarriage.
I can’t imagine how Gemma must have felt. Her father had died a slow and painful death. Her acting career was about to take off when she discovered she was pregnant. Then Tony Jackson found out.
No wonder she fled.
So how did he find out she’d miscarried?
I pause, trying to recall what Tony said to me.
He said his son was taken and killed.
It doesn’t sound like a miscarriage. It sounds more like a termination.
Or is that how Tony sees it?
No, if Gemma had a termination, this could be the motive behind the killings.
Taking a deep breath, I clear my mind and return to the spreadsheet, looking for the date Walter Anthony Jackson subscribed to Halliday’s DVD club. Tony Jackson joined in February 2012.
Was this when he came across Gorgeous Gemma?
Or did he meet her as an escort and fall in love with her, like Pretty Woman?
My wedding to Gemma was hardly a secret, thanks to my father. Even cynical old hack, Tommy Logan, became excited, publishing an interview in the Tollingdon Tribune. When he asked her if she wanted children, Gemma’s response was immediate and honest.
“I’ve always been too busy to give children any serious thought.”
This must have infuriated Tony Jackson when he read it.
It doesn’t explain how he found out about the termination, but he’s bound to have asked her by now.
I wince as more of the mystery unravels in my thoughts. Halliday didn’t go to Stratford to collect Gemma. Jackson did. Who better to avoid ANPR cameras than a traffic cop?
If he sent her the texts from Halliday’s phone, he’d already abducted or killed the guy.
Eddie too.
Then, once he had Gemma back in Sussex, Jackson disposed of Halliday’s body in my car, sending me an unequivocal message. A message I failed to notice or heed.
Jackson holds Gemma responsible for the death of his baby. He killed Halliday and Marshall because they helped her, no doubt keen for her to continue making videos and money for them.
Maybe they persuaded her to have the termination.
Maybe they arranged it and paid for it.
Now Jackson has me in his sights.
He removed Gemma’s rings to show me he’d taken her from me.
He left the DVD of her beside Marshall to taunt me with her past.
He knows I spent a week with her while she was seeing him.
Is this why he’s determined to make me suffer?
Then it hits me like a sledgehammer.
What if he’s got it into his head that I’m the father of the baby?
Is he planning to kill me, using Gemma as the bait?
Fifty-Eight
I ring Ashley, knowing I can’t save Gemma on my own. The automated response tells me the person I’m calling is unavailable. I’m cut off, not even given the option of leaving a message.
Is her battery flat? Has she switched off her phone?
While I search for DC Foster’s card, my phone rings. Jackson doesn’t waste time with small talk.
“You had no right pestering Aunt Hattie.”
If I get this wrong, I may never see Gemma again.
“I had to confirm whether your name was on Bryan Halliday’s list of subscribers, Tony. Or should I say, Walter.”
His silence isn’t good. It forces me to continue, not knowing what to expect.
“I have a list of everything you’ve viewed since you joined his club in February 2012.” I pause, but he doesn’t take the bait. “I could pass it over to Ashley, but I’d rather trade it for Gemma.”
Wind blows across his phone, telling me he’s outside. “You’ve got balls, buddy, but for how much longer, I can’t say. How do I know you haven’t given the list to Ash already?”
“How do I know Gemma’s alive?”
“Meet me in the overflow car park at Birling Gap in fifteen minutes and you’ll find out. If I see anyone else, or get a whiff of police, you’ll never see your wife again.”
He ends the call.
I should run to my car and race over to Birling Gap, but something stops me. My chances of saving Gemma or myself may be slender, so I have to make sure Jackson pays for his crimes.
I copy Halliday’s files onto a memory stick. Then I slip the micro SD card back into the spine of the binder and lock it in my drawer. On my way to the car, I drop Columbo with Frances and give her the key to my desk.
“If I don’t ring in the next hour, go to my desk. You’ll find a binder, like a Filofax, in the top drawer. Make sure you give it to Ashley, or DC Foster in person. No one else. Tell them there’s a micro SD card hidden in the spine.”
“Have you found Gemma?”
“I hope so. Look after my little mate.”
I scoop up Columbo and let him lick my face. When I pass him to Frances, he gives me a soulful whine I’ve never heard before. I make one last fuss of him, knowing I may never see him again. Then, realising I’ve wasted over five minutes, I head for my car.
The sound of Columbo’s howling brings tears to my eyes.
He doesn’t think I’ll be back.
I glance at my watch, knowing I can’t make Birling Gap in the time Jackson’s given me. He’ll wait though. If I’ve read him right, he’ll want to boast about how clever he’s been.
I only need a moment to surprise him.
I ring Naomi Foster and speed away through the village. Her yawn says I’ve woken her.
“It’s Kent Fisher. I don’t have much time, so please record this conversation.”
“Sorry,” she says in a sleepy voice, “I dozed off in front of the TV. Let me get my iPad.” I hear her stumbling around, cursing as she knocks something over. A few moments later, she’s back. “Right, you’re on speaker. What’s going on?”
I swing through the bends, heading south into the darkness.
“I’m going to tell you why traffic cop Walter Anthony Jackson murdered Bryan Halliday and Edward Marshall. He’s planning to kill me in about ten minutes from now. He may run off with her after he’s finished with me.”
“What are you –?”
“Don’t interrupt, Naomi. I’m driving to Birling Gap, where he’s holding my wife. By the time you muster the troops, it could all be over. If he sees anyone approaching, it will be over, so take care. Now, let me tell you why he’s killing people.”
As I surge through the blackness of the countryside south of Jevington, I detail my suspicions, starting when Jackson shot Eddie Marshall and Bryan Halliday the day before he came to Stratford to abduct Gemma.
“Trudi Blossom goes out on Thursday lunchtimes with friends, so she wasn’t around to hear the shots or see Jackson come and go. He also sent the texts from Halliday’s phone to make sure Gemma returned to our holiday home without me. He left her phone behind so I would find the texts and go on to discover her modelling days.”
From here, all Jackson had to do was avoid the police ANPR cameras, take Gemma to his mother’s house and then move Halliday’s body to the industrial estate. Intercepting me on my way back was an unexpected bonus. Or maybe he planned it, wanting to make sure I’d returned. With Hattie’s help, he then became my friend and monitored my progress until he was ready to strike.
In the background, I can hear Naomi on the landline, mobilising her forces. I tell her where she can find Halliday’s binder, finishing my explanation as I’m halfway through East Dean village, heading for the coast. I warn her I may lose my signal when I reach Birling Gap in a couple of minutes.
She tells me help is on the way. “I don’t suppose there’s any point telling you to leave it to us, is there? I’m a trained hostage negotiator.”
“Whatever happens, Naomi, don’t let him get away.”
Once through the double bend at the southern end of East Dean, the village lights fade behind me. The hills of the South Downs become black shadows. A glimpse of moonlight as the clouds scurry through lightens the sky for a moment. In the distance, the hills rise on either side of Birling Gap. Like a beacon, the illuminated telephone box at the edge of the main car park draws me closer.
I stop in the road, my headlights illuminating the rough terrain of the overflow car park.
No sign of Jackson or Gemma – only the Downs rising up to the cliffs.
“He wants to make it look like I fell from the cliffs to my death.” I talk as if Columbo’s on the parcel shelf behind me. The thought of him, listening to me ramble on, my imagination filling the gaps in the evidence, makes me determined to come out of this alive.
I edge into the main car park, scanning the shadows for any sign of Jackson or his Harley. There’s light in one of the ground floor windows of the three coastguard cottages. Small green lights dot the National Trust café, shop and visitor centre, marking fire escapes, I guess. Otherwise, it’s little more than a shadow against a dark sky.
I swing left into the overflow car park, almost colliding with a white van that looks abandoned on the grass verge.
Halliday’s van. The one Jackson used to bring Gemma here.
My car bounces over the humps and dips. Its headlights sweep across the steps that are the first part of the steep climb up the Downs. It’s a walk Gemma and I made many times over the years, revelling in the view across the Seven Sisters to Cuckmere Haven and Seaford Head beyond the estuary.
We came here on Saturday, the evening before she proclaimed her love for me. In the fading sunlight, we made love in the wild grass behind the National Trust offices.
I had no idea she’d posed for photographs and made videos.
I had no idea she’d fallen in love with me.
I had no idea she was seeing Tony Jackson in London.
I wouldn’t have cared. Passion consumed me like never before. The stunning scenery, the calls of gulls on the wind, and the gentle ebb and flow of waves on the shingle heightened my desire to levels I’d never experienced before. Gemma wanted me as much as I wanted her. The thought that we could be discovered at any moment, excited and thrilled her.
I felt inspired, reckless even.
So reckless, I didn’t have a condom with me.
Fifty-Nine
The car stalls when I slam on the brakes. Dropping back into the seat, the realisation hits me. If I’d had a condom with me that evening, we wouldn’t be here now. Halliday and Marshall would be alive. I’d be sitting at home with Gemma and Columbo, enjoying a peaceful evening.
