A Killing in the Family

by David W Robinson

  They watched the aircraft come down, hover briefly over the lawns, flattening the grass and stirring up dust on the nearby car park, then settle to the ground. Inside the bubble, Toby began to flick the various switches to shut down the rotors and eventually, after a humorous exchange with the air traffic controllers, he threw off the headphones, removed his harness, opened the door and climbed out. Reaching back in and behind his seat, her retrieved his jacket and briefcase, then closed and locked the door behind him.

  Much shorter than his father, he was more Joe’s height, with a reddish tint to his curly hair. There was a boyish exuberance about him as he strode briskly across the car park to meet them.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Toby. I’d like you to meet a friend, Joe Murray. Joe, my eldest son, Toby.”

  “The Joe Murray?” The younger Ballantyne shook hands energetically while Joe nodded his answer. “I remember Dave Kane telling me about you. Damn good job you did back in April.”

  “Good enough to warrant an invitation to your father’s birthday thrash.” Joe said.

  Unusually for him, Joe took an instant liking to the younger man. Although he was in his mid-forties and head of the giant corporation that was Ballantyne Distribution, there was a boyish enthusiasm and joie de vivre about him which was infectious.

  “I suppose you’ve shown him my collection of cars.”

  Sir Douglas shook his head. “Been too busy giving him the grand tour. Why don’t you show him.”

  “Fair enough. You into cars are you, Murray?”

  “Not really. Just four wheels and an engine to me. And please call me Joe. Murray sounds a bit too snapped off and sergeant-majorish.”

  “Fine, Joe. Give me ten minutes to change, and I’ll try to convert you to the world of the automobile.”

  “We’ll be on the terrace,” Sir Douglas called out, but he was already talking to his son’s back. “As good a son as I could wish for, Joe. And he married well. Serena is a little bit snooty, but she’s been a good wife to him.”

  The old man led the way into the house and the drawing room where Jeffrey and Quentin were seated before an old, iron fireplace, apparently talking. But from the snippets of conversation Joe got, they were not talking to each other. Jeffrey was complaining about government levies on large companies, and Quentin was describing his problems on the dogleg fifth at Pannal.

  As Joe and Sir Douglas entered the room, Alistair came in from the outside carrying an empty tray. Sir Douglas passed him the air horn. “Do me a favour, Alistair, drop that on my bedside cabinet will you?”

  His words made Jeffrey and Quentin realise that there were other people in the room and, turning to take in the scene by the door, their non-conversation came to an abrupt end.

  Alistair cast a withering stare over the air horn, and then scowled at the old man. “If ye think you’re calling me with this bloody thing, you’ve another think coming.”

  “Just put it on the bedside cabinet, will you?” Ignoring his manservant, Sir Douglas led the way out into the sunshine where Sheila and Brenda were still talking to Katya.

  “So, ladies, are you enjoying your afternoon in the sun?” Sir Douglas took his seat opposite them, and Joe sat on the only remaining empty chair.

  “Wonderful,” Sheila complimented him.

  “I could get very bored with this,” Brenda echoed, “but it would take me years.”

  Chapter Five

  “This is my pride and joy,” Toby said. “The Aston Martin Lagonda.”

  Joe looked over the maroon-coloured car and wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say about it. As far as he was concerned, it was too big, quite ugly, and unlike other marques, it was none too sleek. It reminded him of the big American cars of the 1950s.

  “The others are mine, too.”

  Toby gestured across the largest garage where a 1966 E-type Jaguar in ice blue stood alongside a bright red, open-topped, 1969 Alfa Romeo Duetto.

  “Cheap, those,” Toby said. “I think I gave ninety-five grand for the E-type and less than thirty thousand for the Alfa-Romeo. But this baby…” He ran a loving hand across the gleaming bonnet of the Aston Martin Lagonda.

  “Expensive?” Joe asked. It was not that he was particularly interested, but he felt some comment was needed and the only thing crossing his mind was the idiocy of someone with money to burn.

  “Set me back a hundred and seventy-five thousand. But, hell, I’d have sold my soul to the devil for this.” He laughed at Joe. “You don’t understand the attraction, do you?”

  “No,” Joe admitted. “Like I said, they’re just functional. The car gets me from A to B in the shortest possible time, and I need it for the business. Beyond that, all I can see is cost, and it’s not like you can use them for socialising, is it? Drink and drive. Eh?”

  “They’re a passion, Joe. And like all other passions, you have to make sacrifices for them.”

  “Where do you get to open them up?” Joe asked. “You can’t travel over seventy in this country… not legally, anyway.”

  “Tough one that. Germany is the only place, but even then, about half the autobahns have speed restrictions. It’s not all about speed. It’s the look of the thing, the beauty of being able to say, ‘I own this car’.”

  “Sorry, Toby. Sounds like posing to me.”

  From somewhere outside came the noise of a horn. Joe followed Toby out into the rear yard where Jeffrey’s Mercedes stood and Alistair had appeared and was haranguing its owner.

  “Ye know what Doogie is like about noise. It’s less than an hour I had to warn the other fool about it.”

  “I was cleaning the car and I caught the horn by accident,” Jeffrey retorted. “What kind of place is this where you can’t have an accident?”

  “Well, when his lordship hassles me, I’ll refer him to you, and you can complain about the way he accidentally beats you o’er the head with his walking stick.” Alistair turned and marched stiffly back to the kitchen.

  Jeffrey did not appear put out by the argument. He grinned at Joe and Toby. “Like living in Nazi Germany.”

  “I shouldn’t think Sir Douglas will hang you for that,” Joe pointed out.

  “And Alistair is right, Jeffrey. You know what Dad is like about noise.”

  “Well at least it was my car, and not your Alfa-Romeo.”

  Joe and Toby came away from the debate.

  “What’s this about your Alfa-Romeo?” Joe asked.

  Toby chuckled. “Alistair caught Quentin fooling around with it earlier and sounding the horn. I’m not particularly protective of the cars, Joe, but I don’t allow anyone to drive them. Sitting in the seat and daydreaming about owning one, which is what Quentin was doing, is perfectly all right, but sounding the horn isn’t. The old man would have had a fit if he’d heard.”

  “Why?” Joe asked. “I shouldn’t have thought he was noise averse with all that heavy metal stuff he listens to.”

  Toby answered as they stepped into the kitchen, and passed through to the hall. “Those are mp3s. No one can hear the music but him, thank heaven. But when it comes to disturbing the peace of the house and grounds, he’s pretty hot on it.” He laughed again. “And as for Jeffrey hitting the horn by accident, I don’t think so. He goes out of his way to wind the old man up.”

  They made their way into the drawing room where Toby visited the sideboard and helped himself to a Jack Daniels. He offered the bottle to Joe, who declined.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Joe, but I’m surprised he invited you.” Toby leaned back against the sideboard. “I appreciate what you did for the company back in April. We all appreciate it, but none of us ever met you. Both Jeffrey and I are based at the Blackpool depot and even we didn’t meet you. Your only contact was with Dave Kane.” He sipped his JD. “Makes me wonder if there isn’t a hidden agenda.”

  Thinking on his feet was one of Joe’s fortes, but he usually preferred to knit it together with the truth. In this case, he could not. “If th
ere is a hidden agenda, it’s your father’s, not mine. Truth is, Toby, he turned up at my place last week and invited me here. I didn’t want to accept, but he reminded me I’d never had any form of payment for the work I did in Blackpool. Doesn’t bother me. At those times I play detectives, I never charge anyway. He insisted, and I found it hard to refuse. In the end, I demanded that he invite Brenda and Sheila along, too. They were the ones who tipped me off to what really happened over there, albeit accidentally.”

  Toby nodded judiciously. “So he hasn’t brought you into to investigate our half-brother?”

  “Rodney Asquith?” Joe feigned surprise. “You think he needs investigating?”

  “I think he needs a closer inspection than Katya Nolan gave him.”

  Joe strode to the French windows and gazed out over the sun drenched lawns. Sheila, Brenda and Sir Douglas were still at the table on the terrace, talking now with Verity, Hermione and Serena. Beyond them, Quentin was walking along the treeline with Katya and they appeared to be joking over something. He knew Jeffrey was in the rear yard, leaving Rodney as the only noticeable absentee.

  He turned back to face the younger Ballantyne. He was glad that Toby had drifted along this erroneous tributary. It prevented having to tell more lies about his presence.

  “No, I’m not here to investigate Rodney. That’s not the kind of detective work I do. I work on crime, Toby, and I work with my observational skills. I notice things. I noticed things at Blackpool which the police didn’t. That’s how you trap a killer. I don’t prove anything. That’s a job for the cops and the courts. To look into the past of a man like Rodney, who suddenly turns up and declares himself to be a Ballantyne, you need access to specialist areas, and I don’t have that access. I wouldn’t even know where to start. Katya, on the other hand, is a genealogist, and she does know what she’s doing. She gave Rodney the thumbs up according to your father.”

  Toby’s smile never wavered. “My information is that Katya’s skills are mainly horizontal. Not necessarily sleeping.”

  Joe grunted and looked again at Brenda. “I know other people about whom the same thing could be said, but that doesn’t mean their heart isn’t in the right place or that I wouldn’t trust them.” He swung back once more. “Katya’s bed-hopping? Is this just scuttlebutt or do you know it for a fact?”

  Toby shrugged and emptied his glass in a single gulp. “It came from a very good source. Lester and Helen Parks at the Coven Inn, down in the village. When it comes to gossip, they know everything.” He put the glass down and checked his watch. “Almost four. I’d better get some sleep. Long and boring party tonight.”

  “Yeah, me too. Hey, listen, Toby. Two things. First, do you have wi-fi router in the house? I need to chat with my nephew, make sure he hasn’t bankrupted me.”

  “Sure. Just set up your laptop or whatever you’re using and you’ll pick it up. The router is actually in Dad’s study, but it’s good for the whole house. And the second thing?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Tonight. Is it a dinner suit job? Only—”

  “Come as you like, Joe. I know for a fact that Jeffrey will put on his best bib and tucker, and so will I, but Quentin will turn up in a pair of jeans and a golfing sweater. Verity will wear black, because God insists it’s the only colour you should wear, my wife will be in a glorious evening gown, which she probably charged to my company credit card, and Hermione will be in some dour little number she probably picked up in Primark. Finally, the old man will wear his slacks and an open necked shirt, with the mp3 player dangling from his ears.” Toby laughed again. “He can’t face family dinners without a bit of Pink Floyd.”

  Joe ignored much of the cynical diatribe. “So I’ll be okay in a blazer and tie?”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  ***

  Joe retired to his room where he booted up his ubiquitous netbook, picked up the router, and went onto the web looking up the various family members.

  All of them were mentioned here and there, but everything was cold and formal, nothing of any significance, nothing that could not be gleaned from Who’s Who or the local media. Sir Douglas was listed as the CEO of Ballantyne Distribution, Toby the Managing Director. The two daughters were also listed as directors, but that was as far as it went.

  The in-laws were a different matter.

  Serena, he learned from the company website, had been Sir Douglas’s private secretary before Toby wormed his way into her affections and married her, and there was little more that Joe could learn about her.

  And yet, the internet, with its vast array of historical entries, proved a goldmine when it came to the two men.

  Despite Jeffrey Claremont’s airs and graces, he came from a humble background, the son of a Blackpool tram driver. He had worked hard through school and college to gain his accountancy qualifications. He was already working for Ballantyne Distribution when he met Hermione, but the meeting happened at the Pendle Technical College, where he lectured part time and she was history tutor. Love blossomed and they married, thereby assuring his rise to higher office at the company’s Blackpool headquarters. The family name also guaranteed Hermione’s rise to head of department at the college.

  But Jeffrey had a secret, known to the whole family, but, presumably kept quiet by the Ballantyne insistence on controlling the media. Five years previously, he had been arrested and charged for stalking a young woman from the Blackpool depot. He had bombarded her with suggestive emails, offers of secret meetings and the promise of a good time if she agreed. She did not, and instead reported him to the Managing Director, Toby. When nothing apparently happened, she took the matter to the police, who arrested and questioned him. All the reports, which Joe found in the archives of a local newspaper, said that the woman later dropped the charges, but Joe, with his knowledge of the Ballantyne media paranoia, could guess that she had been paid off, and Jeffrey quietly hauled over the coals for his lack of discretion and total stupidity.

  Joe also knew that woman would not have been fired. She would have been promoted. It was tempting to ring Amy Willows, the union woman in Blackpool with whom he had dallied for a short while, but he refrained. Jeffrey was an idiot, and he even came across as an idiot, but that did not mean he was a murderous idiot, and there was no more reason to pin the mysterious letters on him than anyone else. At this point in time there was no reason to drag up his murky past.

  The same could be said of Quentin, who had an even stranger history than Jeffrey. Aged about forty, without actually winning a tournament, he had shown great promise on the golf circuits as a teenager, and during the 1990s, when he turned professional. Then, for no apparent reason, his game dropped off. A later conviction for possession of a class A drug was sufficient explanation for Joe, and Quentin had to settle for the position of club professional in the Burnley area, during which time he met and married Verity. He then began to share his job with another professional, allowing Quentin to play on minor tours, usually invitation tournaments.

  Following up on him Joe checked on his last two tournaments. He had played The Belfry on one weekend in the middle of June and returned poor scores which listed him as an also-ran. Prior to that, he had been at Pannal in mid-May where his scores were little short of disastrous. Joe was not a betting man, but he made a mental note never to bet on Quentin Olsen in a golf tournament.

  It begged the question, how could Quentin support himself and his wife. The old man had said the children’s wealth was tied up in company stock. Toby and Jeffrey both had salaries from Ballantyne Distribution, but Quentin’s earnings on the golf tours must be rock-bottom, so was he living off Verity?

  “He is still the club professional near here, and gives lessons,” Sheila told him, when he joined his two friends on the terrace and put the proposition to them. “Verity told us all about it.”

  “He’s one of two professionals at this club, but he floats off on these invitation tournaments half a dozen times a year,” Brenda said.

  “And what of
Katya Nolan?” Joe asked abandoning his attempts to grind out more dirt on the two men. “How much did you learn about her?”

  His researches into Katya had told him nothing. He had found her website, which looked homemade, but nothing more.

  “Bit of a gawp if you want my opinion,” Brenda said.

  “But she does know her onions when it comes to genealogy,” Sheila said. “She’s offered to do our family histories at a reduced rate when she’s finished Sir Douglas’s. Yours too, Joe.”

  Joe grunted. “Life is grim enough as it is without having to learn what my ancestors got up to.” Changing the subject, he asked, “Have you spoken with the two men?”

  “Not Quentin,” Sheila said, “but I definitely don’t like Jeffrey.” She looked down her nose. “Octopus arms.”

  Even Brenda disapproved. “If he’d tried groping me one more time, guest or no guest, I swear I’d have bitten his hand off.”

  Sheila changed the subject once more. “So, Joe, where does this leave you with the poison pen writer?”

  “All at sea,” he admitted. “I can’t see one reason why any of them should threaten the old man. And if it’s a joke, it’s a pretty sick one.” He stroked his chin, thoughtfully. “Fancy a drink?”

  “Hmm. Lemonade for me,” Sheila said.

  “I don’t mean here. I mean in the village pub.”

  Brenda checked her watch. “It’s almost six o’clock, Joe. We’re expected for dinner at half past seven.”

  “No problem.” He got to his feet. “The old man will be asking me for a progress report later tonight, and right now, I can’t tell him anything. The only place I know where I might get the information is at The Coven Inn, in the village. So Toby says, anyway. I’ll be back for seven. I’ll only need a quick shower and shave.”

  “But what if you’re not back?” Sheila asked as he strode towards the end of the building and his car.