by Iain Cameron
‘Whichever way he tells it, he didn’t get back here until three. By then, the Beeches were dead. He might have passed the shooters on the road, or seen them climb into their car, but despite giving him a chance to say so, he said nothing. I think they were long gone. We’re always suspicious when someone’s alibi is found to be full of holes, and while he is a former soldier and can no doubt handle a weapon, not to mention would know where to find one, I think his priorities lie elsewhere.’
‘He’s responsible for the whole show, but I don’t get the impression he’s much interested in what goes on in the house. He’s more technical, I think, only happy when servicing a machine or fixing a blocked pipe.’
‘You’re right. He looked a good suspect on paper, but after meeting him and hearing his story, I think we need to look elsewhere.’
NINE
Oliver Lee walked out of the newsagents and headed home, his eyes glued to The Times held tightly in his hands. It wasn’t a sensible thing to do, as at this time of the morning, around seven-thirty, commuters were scurrying down Worth Park Avenue on their way to Three Bridges station and a collision was possible. He used to be one of them, tie in the pocket, top shirt buttons undone, not content until a scalding cup of tea and two slices of thickly-buttered Southern Rail toast were sitting in front of him.
He didn’t mind commuting. Give him a good book or if he remembered his headphones, an audiobook, and he was happy as a sandboy. He didn’t do it anymore. ‘Early retirement,’ they’d called it; clearing out the ‘dead wood,’ the unkind ones said. They could call it what they liked, he couldn’t care. A decent pay-off and a pension that kicked-in at fifty-five, he wasn’t complaining. His only problem now was finding things to fill his day.
He had been made redundant three weeks before Christmas, a miserable time for anyone to lose their job, and it threw a pall over the festive celebrations. However, at a New Year party, he met a guy who’d retired ten months before. Lee didn’t take Dominic Hardcastle for a retiree initially, as he was well-dressed and looked well-groomed with an easy, relaxed manner which entranced many of the women at the party.
He and Dominic enjoyed a long discussion and, by the end of it, Lee felt galvanised. ‘You need something to get you up in the morning,’ Dominic had told him and now he had it. He’d started putting regular posts on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, and every morning he spent a couple of happy hours checking the responses and answering any messages. For once in his life he felt important. No longer was he the fall-guy in the office, a taxi driver for his daughter, or the handyman at the beck and call of his wife, but a star amongst his online friends.
Of course, for the last week or so his morning routine had been disrupted, as his next-door neighbours at their house in Milton Mount, Crawley, had been murdered. Since Sunday, he’d risen early and trekked down to the newsagent at Three Bridges station. In the days following the murder of John and Lara Beech, he’d bought two or three newspapers and read the story in each at least twice. Now, a week on, it was old news, and he had to look on the inside pages of the single paper he held in his hands to find anything.
It wasn’t because he liked his neighbour; in fact, if they hadn’t lived next door to one another, John Beech wasn’t the sort of person he would have associated with. Beech was snooty and aloof, as if Lee and his neighbours were lucky to have him in their street. It was a friendly neighbourhood, and they got on well together and held many celebratory occasions. Any time Lee had been stuck beside him at a lunch, street barbecue, or Royal wedding celebration, he would refuse to talk about the work he did, saying it was top secret, the stupid sod, leaving photography as their only common ground.
He had liked Lara better. In fact, he’d been in love with her. She had a wicked sense of humour and, while her looks wouldn’t win any beauty prizes, even when younger, she took care of herself. She had a wonderful trim, athletic body, and fabulous legs which she’d show off every summer.
Their only child, Kayleigh, was a real piece of work. He’d known her from an early age and, as far as he could remember, she’d always been a precocious bitch. The hands-on-hip stance was funny on a six-year-old, but on a teenager, it got everyone’s back up. Why she had become a family lawyer, a job requiring sympathy, empathy, and an understanding of other people’s problems, he would never know. She was the most insensitive person he’d ever met.
He unlocked the door of his house, walked inside, and switched off the alarm. He didn’t organise his return from the paper shop in an effort to miss his wife and daughter, so he didn’t have to talk to them or say goodbye, but it suited him all the same. It wasn’t due to any form of envy, watching them go off to an interesting day at work while he was stuck at home with a duster. No, they were too noisy, clanking crockery at breakfast, running up and down stairs, stomping across floors above his head as he sat in the study, and arguing with one another as they walked out to the car.
He made a pot of tea and when it had brewed, he took a mug into his study. He woke his computer and loaded Google. He started tapping in, ‘Black Quarry Farm murder’ before the system realised he had used the expression before and completed it for him. He scrolled down through each of the stories, looking for any developments in the case made by the police.
The police had issued a new statement and, selecting The Guardian, he clicked on it. He read slowly. It wasn’t because he was thick, but he wanted to savour every word. It was the first time anything so big had happened to anyone he knew, and next-door neighbours couldn’t be any closer.
He knew enough about police investigations to realise this was a ‘holding’ statement. Look folks, it was saying, we haven’t forgotten about the death of these two people, but we haven’t found anything yet. When we do, we’ll let you know. He read the articles on several other news websites, but none of them could shed any more light.
He was puzzled by this. He didn’t like John much, but even if Lee possessed enough money to hire a hitman, available on the dark web he’d been told, it wasn’t worth the candle. If he wanted to annoy them or encourage them to move, he could buy some mice and leave them in the loft, hide a turd under their boiler, or loosen the tops of several tins of paint stored in the garage. After all, he had a key to their house. In truth, it had been given to his wife by Lara as they were the best of friends, but it was he who went into their house whenever they went away on holiday to water their plants and make sure they hadn’t left anything on.
Perhaps with John being such a supercilious sod and telling everyone he worked on ‘top secret’ stuff, it was possible some half-wit had been taken in. The skanky lads who hung around Memorial Gardens in Crawley came to mind. With some illegal substances in their bloodstream and the right amount of brainwashing about conspiracies, dirty deeds, and subterfuge, some could be persuaded to take someone out. However, their modus operandi didn’t stretch beyond the odd kitchen knife, filched from their nana’s house. Putting a submachine gun into their hands would present a greater danger to their toes and those of their mates, than to any potential victim.
One or two residents in the road said they’d felt scared following the murders and, in the last week, one had installed a new alarm system. Shame. It was the last house among a group of ten or twelve to be fitted with one, as he’d always imagined a smart burglar would target any unalarmed house first. He’d told anyone he’d met their fear was irrational, the Beeches were murdered elsewhere. If they had been killed in their own house, he and every one of his neighbours would have good reason to feel frightened.
He didn’t feel scared, but still a little uneasy. The police didn’t know why they were killed and neither did he. Until the motive was uncovered he would continue to take precautions, because if a violent death could hit someone as dull as John Beech, it could happen to anyone.
He put all thoughts of murder and violence to one side and loaded Facebook. He refreshed the page and spent the next half hour reading and commenting on various posts. When he�
�d finished, he looked through his messages and notifications, sending considered replies and comments as required. He repeated this on all the social media sites he used. The next time he looked at the clock, it was quarter past eleven.
It was coffee time, but instead of taking out his favourite cup and making a brew, he lifted the Beeches house key from the rack and headed out the back door. He climbed over the fence and approached their back door.
Usually, he would have gone through the front, but with all his neighbours on high alert, checking the occupants of every car driving along the road, they would see him and wonder what he was doing. He couldn’t say he was heading in there to water the plants as who would be around to see the healthy blooms? No, he didn’t have a legitimate reason for the visit and it would stick in their minds and be recalled whenever the police or the daughter next came by.
He closed the door behind him before striding into the hall to silence the alarm. He walked into the kitchen and over to the door leading to the integral garage. Taking a key from a peg, he opened the door. He stood for a moment, looking around at all the tools, equipment, adhesives, sealants, and pots of paint.
John had trained as an electrical engineer and was a practical man, making Lee’s efforts look like those of a beginner. John had built the front porch of the house, the conservatory, wired the back garden and installed a series of fancy lights. A sentimental man might have shed a tear to see all the things here that would never be used again, but to Lee they were only tools. He lifted the chainsaw, one he had lent John several weeks ago, a strimmer and helped himself to a few tools before depositing the lot outside the back door.
He walked back inside. He looked around the kitchen and wondered what his wife would take if Kayleigh offered. He soon became bored and moved from the hall into John’s study. On the desk sat a large-screen Apple iMac. He would like to take that as he often found his laptop screen too small, while this one could display all his social media sites at once. It would be missed by Kayleigh though, as it was probably the main depository for family photos and documents, all of which would mean something to her.
He walked through the rooms in turn, feeling more melancholy with every step. Here were two lives cut short, leaving a young woman bereft and alone, and for reasons as yet unfathomable. He ended up in the main bedroom. The wardrobes in front of him had a ‘his’ and ‘her’ side, the same as his and Celia’s at home. In John’s side, the dark, sober suits and white shirts he would wear to work every day.
In Lara’s, the tight skirts and white blouses she wore to her job as HR Manager with an airline at Gatwick. It was a standing joke between them: she worked in the holiday business and the Beeches could travel anywhere in the world at discounted prices. Instead, with a husband frightened of flying, they spent their summers in the Lake District.
He picked a floral, summer dress and lifted it out. He brought it to his face and tried to detect her scent. It was there, yes, it was still there. This was the dress, he remembered, she had worn when they first made love. It was love from that moment on, and she felt the same as he did. They had talked about leaving their respective partners, and she had assured him she would talk to John about a split during their trip to Black Quarry Farm.
When he removed the dress from his face, both were soaked in tears. They’d had a love no one knew about and now she had taken it to her grave. He, in turn, would take it to his.
TEN
At eleven, they trooped in: Vicky Neal, Harry Wallop, and Carol Walters, fresh from a two-week break in Ibiza. At this morning’s murder team meeting Henderson felt they were going over old ground. Perhaps it was time for a new approach. Problem was, he wasn’t sure what that might be.
‘Come in, come in,’ Henderson said, as he gathered his papers together and moved over to the table in his office to join them.
‘Welcome back, Carol. I hope you enjoyed your holiday.’
‘I did, but it’s hard coming back, I can tell you.’
‘I’m sure, especially to be dropped into the middle of a murder investigation. Are you up to speed with the case?’
‘I think so, although I wouldn’t mind visiting the crime scene in the next day or so.’
‘Getting wine withdrawal symptoms already, Carol?’ Neal said.
She smiled. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘At this morning’s meeting,’ Henderson said, ‘I didn’t hear anything new, leading me to think we’re not making sufficient progress. I want to use this session to review where we are and see if we can identify some new lines of inquiry. Okay?’
‘No problem.’
‘We’ve interviewed all the key people at the farm,’ Henderson said, getting up from his seat to stand at the whiteboard. ‘This includes the woman in charge of renting the house,’ he said, tapping her name on the board with a marker pen, ‘the farm manager, the owner, and several members of staff from the shop and in the winery. So far, we’ve come up with zilch.’
‘Brian Faulkner,’ Neal said, ‘looked the best bet as he lied to us about his alibi, but even he’s fallen by the wayside.’
‘Which makes me think,’ Henderson said, ‘we’re barking up the wrong tree. On that note, there is still the question mark hanging over Simon Radcliffe, is he telling us the whole truth about his nefarious past? However, I’m starting to think we can ignore him too.’
‘Why? It’s a dirty business he operated in,’ Wallop said.
‘It is, Harry, and I’m sure he has lots of enemies, but if the killers knew he lived at the farm, how come they didn’t know he stayed in the barn conversion, and that for the rest of the year he lived in Spain? It doesn’t feel to me like a mistake a professional outfit would make.’
‘If so, it suggests he wasn’t the target,’ Walters said.
‘I’m beginning to think the murder isn’t connected to Black Quarry Farm at all.’
‘In which case,’ Harry Wallop said, ‘and by a process of elimination, it must be linked to the Beeches.’
‘If you missed it in the file, Carol, John Beech worked for Galen Electronics in Crawley, and worked on various Ministry of Defence contracts. His boss made it sound like he didn’t work on anything important or top-secret, but he could be trying to cover up. You know how these military guys think: only on a need-to-know basis.’
‘I know what you mean. What did Lara Beech do?’
‘Human Resources Manager for a holiday airline at Gatwick,’ Wallop said.
‘Hang on,’ Neal said. ‘Isn’t their daughter, Kayleigh, a family lawyer?’
‘Yep,’ Wallop said, ‘at a practice in Redhill. They specialise in child custody, divorce, and pre-nups.’
‘What’s a pre-nup?’ Neal asked.
‘Prenuptial Agreements,’ Henderson said. ‘An agreement to be signed by a man or woman marrying into a household with way more assets and money than they have. It guarantees the rich person doesn’t lose half their wealth if the marriage doesn’t work out.’
‘Charming. Whatever happened to love and attraction?’
‘Quite.’
‘Some divorce cases,’ Neal said, ‘can be acrimonious, and involve large sums of money.’
‘You think,’ Henderson said, ‘it might be a way of getting at Kayleigh, by killing her parents?’
‘Yeah, forcing her to do something she doesn’t want to do, making sure she knows they mean business.’
Henderson thought for a moment; it wasn’t a bad suggestion, but he wasn’t convinced. ‘I don’t see it Vicky, even in a divorce involving large sums of money, such as that one in the news a few weeks back, that Russian oligarch and his former model wife–’
There was a knock on the door. It opened and DC Sally Graham stuck her head inside. ‘Sorry to interrupt the meeting, sir, but Kayleigh Beech is downstairs and has asked to speak to you.’
‘Can’t anyone else do it?’
‘I’m sorry sir, but no. She insists on seeing you, and she’s already upset the desk sergeant for being
made to wait.’
‘Tell her I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.’
‘Right oh.’ The door closed.
‘I’d better go and see her. I’ll rearrange this meeting for another time, but I want you all to think about what we’ve been discussing. The direction we’re moving in at the moment doesn’t seem right to me. I’m convinced we need to look further afield.’
The three sergeants departed. Henderson picked up his notes on the Beech case, a blank pad and headed downstairs.
It was easy to spot Kayleigh sitting on the bench in Reception. He could discount the two skinny scroats with neck and arm tattoos, the sixteen-year-old girl with home-dyed hair, and two men who both looked in need of a shave and a good feed. This left two lawyers. He took the one in the careworn suit to be a duty solicitor, and the woman in the long skirt and styled jacket to be the object of his attention.
‘Kayleigh Beech?’ he asked.
‘About time too,’ she said, jumping up.
‘I’m Detective–’
‘I know who you are. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
He looked over at Gary on the desk, who was pretending to be writing while listening to their exchange. ‘Interview Room Four is free,’ the Duty Sergeant said.
‘Thanks Gary.’ Henderson started walking. ‘This way,’ he said to Kayleigh.
He led her through a set of secure doors to a series of interview rooms. He walked into Interview Room Four and, after allowing Kayleigh Beech to enter, closed the door.
‘I’m here because I’m not pleased about the way the investigation into the murder of my parents is progressing,’ she said, before he’d had a chance to sit down.
‘What in particular are you not happy about?’
‘Everything. You haven’t caught their murderers, have you?’
She had shoulder-length brown hair, hazel eyes, and an attractive face, currently spoiled by a serious scowl. The only lawyers he ever came across were over-tired and badly-dressed duty solicitors, who often wore the same stained suit all week, or the sartorially elegant big-time defence barristers engaged by the wealthy. He had no idea if Ms Beech’s demure outfit was the appropriate attire for a family solicitor specialising in divorce at a big legal outfit, but to him it looked a tad old-fashioned.