No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 7
Relieved to be free of systems, procedures and action plans, I check through the three columns of notes I made before lunch. Uncle Frank Dean goes top of my list. I’m surprised he hasn’t rung, asking about Gemma. Sarah must have told him what’s happened.
His phone goes straight to voicemail. Not sure how much he knows, or how much I should say, I ask him to ring me back. Then I check in with Sarah, who’s in her car. After assuring her I’m doing all I can to find her daughter, I ask her if she’s spoken to her brother.
“Frank’s shut away from the world on a detox week. No phones, no contact with the outside world, no fun. Can you believe it’s a birthday present from Collette? With friends like that, who needs enemas?” She laughs at her joke. “If enemas are part of the detox, I can’t see the relationship lasting, can you?”
If she’s concerned about her daughter, then Sarah has a funny way of showing it. Then again, they’ve never been close, which explains why Gemma went to live with her father when she was thirteen.
“Is he back at work on Monday?” I ask.
“I imagine so, though whether he’s in any state to work, I don’t know.”
Though tempted to end the call, I persist. “You know when Gemma got the job in my team, did she have to apply and fill out any forms?”
“I didn’t know she got the job until after she started. Why are you interested?”
“I’m going through her work history, looking for a friend or someone who knew her well. Someone she confided in. Do you remember anyone, Sarah?”
She takes a few moments to respond. “We were like ships in the night most of the time, but there was someone she chatted to on a regular basis. He or she – I don’t know which before you ask – wasn’t local as she’d go away for the weekend every so often. Always by train, so I guessed it was London.”
“Do you remember anything from her time in London?”
“Apart from her father encouraging her to smoke weed and skip school?” Sarah sighs. “I shouldn’t be bitter. I was a terrible mother. I married a totally unsuitable man, who left when I told him I was pregnant. All I did was slag him off when Gemma was growing up. It’s no wonder she couldn’t wait to find him.”
From the background noise, it sounds like she’s pulled over to the side of the road. “It doesn’t mean I don’t care about her,” she says, her voice starting to tremble. “And I’m sorry if I’ve been less than charitable about you. I know you care about her. I want to help, but I know so little about her. Isn’t that terrible?”
She’s not alone. I have a feeling we’re not the only ones who know little about Gemma. Either she’s incredibly private or what she’s hiding is much worse than I imagined.
Before my mind wanders into more speculation and wild ideas, I promise to keep Sarah updated. Dropping onto the sofa, I close my eyes, wondering what Gemma did to prompt her extreme behaviour. Columbo joins me, placing a paw on my thigh. I run my hand over his fur and tickle the base of his ear.
“If she did something terrible, who knows about it? Who else besides Halliday-Jones and Eddie, whoever he is?” I look down at Columbo, who’s licking my hand. “Could this person be the one Sarah mentioned, the one Gemma went to see by train?”
My phone rings. I haul myself off the sofa and step over to the breakfast bar. My phone screen tells me the number’s withheld.
“Kent? Is that you? Thank God you’re alive.”
The Mancunian lilt of my friend, Detective Inspector Ashley Goodman, can’t hide the cocktail of anxiety and relief in her breathless voice. “Your car’s been abandoned and torched at the back of some old farm units at Lower Dicker. They found the charred remains of a body in the driver’s seat.”
Fifteen
Time seems to stop. I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. The thought of Gemma’s body in my car overwhelms me. It can’t be her. Not Gemma. Not the woman I was laughing and joking with only yesterday.
“I thought it was you, Kent.” Ashley’s relieved voice cuts through the fog. “After all the people we’ve put away, I knew someone would come after us one day.”
Her words barely register. It’s like I’m in a bubble, cut off from the world.
“When the officers who attended contacted me with a suspicious death, I didn’t know it was your car,” she says. “The number plates melted during the fire, but the traffic guys used the Vehicle Identification Number on the chassis. The car was flagged in connection with a misper report from South Warwickshire. When I saw your name ...”
I can’t bring myself to ask if it’s Gemma’s body in the car. It can’t be her. It can’t.
Why would someone want to kill her?
“Kent, are you there?”
Feeling Columbo’s paws on my legs, I glance down. He’s anxious, scared even. Can he sense whether Gemma’s dead?
“Talk to me, Kent. What’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, finding my voice from somewhere. “One minute she was going to fetch her camera, the next she was gone.”
I shouldn’t be here. I should be in Sussex, in Lower Dicker. I need to know what’s happened.
I need to find out why. “Ashley, are you the Senior Investigating Officer?”
“I’m Duty Officer. That’s why I got the call. A detective sergeant I know is on his way to meet the Crime Scene Manager. I haven’t had chance to read the report, so I need some background to pass on to my colleagues. What happened? Why did you report her missing?”
“The car and keys were missing when I returned to the house. I think she took the car.”
“Oh my God, no!” Ashley’s voice sounds as desperate as I feel. “I’ll get back to you.”
“I’m on my way. I need to be there.”
“No, Kent, no! You can’t go gunning down the motorway in your state. You need to stay where you are and keep calm. I’ll ring you back as soon as I know.”
Is she on another planet?
How can I keep calm when my wife could be lying dead in my burned out car?
I have to believe it isn’t her.
Ending the call, I take deep breaths, desperate to calm the panic and confusion that make me next to useless. I pace about, telling myself Gemma didn’t drive to Sussex. It’s Halliday-Jones. He’s the body in the car.
But I don’t believe it.
I almost fall over Columbo, who retreats, head bowed, tail between his legs.
“I’m sorry,” I say, dropping to my knees, realising my shouting frightened him. “It’s okay, little mate, I’m not angry with you.”
He remains a few feet away, eyeing me with suspicion.
“I’m not angry at all. I’m scared. I’ve never felt so scared in my life.”
Columbo looks up and whines. Then he comes to me and licks my face. When I ruffle his fur, his licks become more energetic, as if he can wash away the pain and helplessness I feel.
“You must miss her too.”
I want to pull him close, but he doesn’t do hugs. He’s a Westie – independent, resilient and determined. The characteristics I associate with myself. These are the characteristics that have helped me out of tough spots in the past. They can help me again.
Until someone confirms it’s Gemma in the car, it isn’t her. It could be Halliday-Jones, or this guy Eddie, whoever he is. And the sooner I get there to find out for myself, the better.
“We’re going,” I say, heading for the holdalls I’ve yet to unpack. As I haul them outside, he bounds around in excitement, well aware of the routine.
Richard comes out of the conservatory, looking puzzled and worried. “Has something happened?”
“The police found my car.” I slide the holdall into the boot. “There’s a body in the driver’s seat. Someone torched the car, presumably to destroy the evidence.”
His hand goes to his mouth. His eyes tell me he wants to ask if it’s Gemma.
I manage a shrug and go inside to pack Columbo’s bits and pieces. Once packed, I pass the bag to Richard, who seems dazed. I thrust my notepad and laptop into a small holdall and follow him outside. Amanda’s standing by the conservatory door, looking worried.
He steps aside as I open the rear door. Columbo leaps inside, ready for the long drive to Sussex. Richard closes the boot and turns to me, a nervous look in his eyes.
“Do you want me to drive?”
I almost snap back that I’m perfectly capable of driving. Then I realise he’s concerned for my safety.
His simple act of kindness almost destroys what little resolve I have left.
I don’t know what to say.
Thankfully, my phone saves me. It’s Ashley’s mobile number this time. She has news.
I don’t want to answer. If it’s Gemma in the car, I don’t want to know.
I’m not ready for this.
We had a life ahead of us – ideas, plans, dreams. Hopes.
Richard shifts. “You need to answer it, Kent.”
I’d rather pass the phone to him, but I can’t. It’s my dilemma, not his. Whatever the news, I have to hear it, face up to it.
“Is it Gemma?” I ask, my voice sounding as tight as my gut.
“We don’t think so.”
The relief almost floors me.
“The pathologist’s on her way.” Ashley’s tone is formal but reassuring. “We’re pretty sure the victim’s male, based on physiology and size. Either way, he’s too overweight to be Gemma.”
I turn so Richard can’t see the tears filling my eyes. How much more of this I can take?
Sixteen
The drive home seems to flash by. I have no recollection of the M40, only a vague memory of the congestion approaching Heathrow and then the junction where the M3 joins the M25. Stuck behind a brightly-coloured Volkswagen Camper, I think about Scooby Doo and the Mystery Machine. Each week, I would come home from school to watch him and the gang. Like Enid Blyton’s Famous Five, Scooby Doo gave me hope and happiness in a dark and uncertain world.
And while the world Gemma’s been drawn into is dark and uncertain, she’s still alive.
It’s time to find out who died in my car – and why he’s dead.
When I leave the M23 at Crawley, I head across country through the Ashdown Forest to Wych Cross. Across the road, there’s a garden centre where I once carried out a health and safety inspection. It’s changed hands now, but I wouldn’t remember the previous owners. I remember the place I inspected, not always the people. My memory for kitchens is better than my recall of names, though I seldom forget a face. Sometimes, it causes me grief in Sainsbury’s when someone recognises me and I can’t remember their names or where they work.
Gemma once told me I see hundreds of caterers and managers in a year. Most of them only see one or two environmental health officers.
It’s her practical side I need now.
Or a text to tell me she’s fine.
Until then, I need to remain calm and focused, single minded in my determination to find my wife. I need to treat this like any other investigation I’ve undertaken.
Only I need to act faster.
Driving faster, however, leads to a traffic cop pulling me over near Golden Cross. He climbs off his bike, removes his gloves and strolls toward me with a confident swagger. Tall, stocky and intimidating, he takes a long look at the car as he makes the short stroll to my driver’s window. He raises his visor and looks down at me with cold blue eyes. His voice is firm, but not aggressive.
“In a hurry, were we?”
“Actually, I am. If you’d like to contact DI Ashley –”
“You’re Kent Fisher.” He relaxes and bends so his face is level with mine. “You run the animal sanctuary in Jevington.”
I nod, hoping my luck’s in. “You know the place?”
“My aunt, Hattie Reynolds, runs the café. Well, that’s what she tells me. She loves it, the animals and such. She speaks very highly of you and your wife.” He straightens and raises a gloved finger. “Go easy on the gas, Mr Fisher. You don’t want to hit any badgers or foxes, do you?”
I drive off, relieved to escape without a ticket. Ten minutes later, I reach my sanctuary without incident. The potholes in the lane haven’t improved, but neither has my mood. Staring at the familiar buildings, black against the evening sky, I wish I could think of this place as home. Even though I have a flat here, it lacks the family history of Downland Manor to bind me here or to the village of Jevington.
My mother took me away from the manor when I was eight. Despite the alimony she received, we lived in a damp basement flat to the north of Manchester. I knew nothing about the money until my father rescued me when I was seventeen, returning me to the ancestral Fisher home.
Only he wasn’t my biological father. I bear the Fisher name, but have none of their genes or the history that goes back to Anglo Saxon times. I’m half German, thanks to my mother, and half entrepreneur, thanks to my biological father, Miles Birchill. While I struggle to think of him as my father, I’ve grown to like and even respect him, despite the years we spent as adversaries.
Columbo, who’s spent the last five minutes bouncing about on the back seat, barking at the landmarks he knows so well, paws my arm. He’s eager to return to familiar smells and sounds, keen to reassert his territory. Maybe I should follow his example and get my act together. I’ll refrain from peeing on the fence posts though.
I’d like to sneak back into my flat and consider what I’ve learned from Ashley. The body in my burnt out car is an unidentified male, possibly Halliday-Jones. If not, who is he?
Why was he killed?
The murder escalates Gemma’s disappearance to a new level. It poses more questions and answers none.
Beyond the sanctuary, blackness smothers the South Downs. She’s out there somewhere, wondering what’s happening. Did she witness the killing? Is she in shock and despair, fearing for her life, wondering whether I’ll find her?
Niamh walks over and opens the main gate. I should have known she’d spot me, the house she occupies being close to the car park and entrance. I drive through and pull into my designated space. She closes the gate and walks over, watching me climb out of the car. Once Columbo’s on the ground, he speeds across to a fence post to relieve himself. After sniffing the air, he trots over to her, staring at her as if not sure who she is. When she kneels beside him, his tail wags and he stretches up to give her face a swift lick. Then he’s off, nose to the ground, disappearing into the dark, occasionally tripping a security light.
She looks tired, her face pale in the intense beam from the security light. Warm inside her coat, she stands there, hands in pockets, her thick hair resisting the breeze that comes down from the hills.
Her disapproval of Gemma adds to the barrier between us. Niamh didn’t let me know she was coming to the wedding. She simply turned up in a taxi, two days before.
She should have gone back to Northern Ireland before our return.
“Have you eaten?” Her accent makes the words sound like a reprimand.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re not Superman either.”
“Neither am I helpless.”
The words leave my mouth the way they did when I was a teenager, defiant and all knowing. It seems we’ve reverted to our former roles. She’s reaching out, offering to help. To me, it’s interfering.
“I’m worried about you, Kent.”
I cross the few feet that separate us and wrap my arms around her. She clings to me, sobbing into my shoulder. I’m not the only one affected by Gemma’s disappearance. Sarah, for all her bravado, is sick with worry. Frances too will put on a brave face, as will Niamh, despite her reservations.
What a group we are, all afraid to admit or show how we feel.
She pulls back, tears staining her cheeks. “I went back to Moy, to my family, because I couldn’t cope. I didn’t know how to talk to you about it.” She swallows before continuing. “I thought I was going to die and it was your fault. All those murder investigations, dragging the rest of us into your world, exposing us to the dangers you and Gemma thrive on.”
“I don’t go looking for trouble.”
“You never did, but it always found you.” She sighs and runs her fingers down my cheek, the way she did when I was seventeen, loaded with hormones and in love with my stepmother. “I feel so ashamed for running like a frightened rabbit, blaming you, blaming Gemma for stealing you from me.”
I step back, startled by the revelation. “You were jealous?”
“It wasn’t like that. You were there when William died, when the whole awful truth came out. When I felt the world was against me, you were all I had left.” She bites her lip. “But Gemma wanted me out of the way. She accused me of turning you against her.”
“But you did.”
“I thought you deserved better.” She sighs and lets her arms drop. “I was wrong. I saw the way you looked at each other when she walked towards you in her wedding dress. That’s why I’m here. I couldn’t leave without telling you, Kent. Now I want to help you bring her back – if you’ll let me.”
“You can start by helping me with the luggage.” I squeeze her hand and walk her round to the boot. “Then you can feed me.”
I haul out the holdalls, one at a time, passing her the one with my laptop and electrical items, and the small bag containing toiletries. With one large holdall in each hand, I follow her along the path that runs around the car park, past the café and information centre to the barn. She opens the door, flips on the lights, and heads up the stairs to the flat. Though the whiteness of the walls, floors and furniture make it look glacial, the large open plan room feels warm.
I drop the holdalls in the bedroom, spotting a framed photograph of Gemma and me at the wedding. We look conspiratorial, relaxed, in love. Back in the lounge, I spot another photograph, featuring my father, stepmother, Niamh and Sarah, all looking smart, proud and uncomfortable.
