A Killing in the Family

by David W Robinson

  “Offer my apologies and tell ’em I was unavoidably detained.”

  ***

  Lester Parks matched the impression Joe had of him after talking with Toby. Behind his grizzled features and the drooping moustache, he was an amiable host in an amiable, tourist area pub.

  “All this is for the visitors, innit,” he said waving his hand around the busy bar.

  Joe followed the sweeping gesture around the packed room, taking in the broomsticks and black hats mounted on the walls, and the tiny cauldrons and stuffed, black cats in the fireplace and windows.

  “They come here for the witch thing,” Lester concluded.

  “You obviously don’t disapprove?”

  “Who am I to say them nay?” the landlord asked and spent a couple of minutes serving a young couple dressed in shorts and T-shirts.

  “So you’re staying with the Ballantynes, are you? Trust me, you’d have been better off here. The wife does a belting full English. And we’re not dear.”

  “I’m slightly obligated,” Joe explained. “I run my own catering outfit and we’re up for the catering contract with Ballantyne Distribution in Blackpool.”

  As lies went, it was enough to cover his inquiries, and Joe backed it up with one of his business cards.

  Lester studied the print. “Sanford, eh? West Yorkshire. Do you know how to cook a decent black pudding over there?”

  Joe smiled. “Do you people know how to make decent Yorkshire pudding over here? Listen, buddy, I didn’t come here to start the War of the Roses again. I don’t know these people well, and this contract could be worth a lot of money to me. I need to know who I’m dealing with and gossip has it that you’re the best authority on them after their butler, and he won’t tell me anything.”

  “Alistair Winters? Not surprised. Grumbling old git, he is. You wanna know about the Ballantyne mob, I’ll tell you. They’re a bunch of barmpots.”

  There was another delay while Lester, bowing to the demands of his wife and son who were rushed off their feet, served another brace of customers.

  Coming back to Joe, he took up his lecture. “The old man’s crazy about heavy metal music. At his age! He should be listening it Al Jolson, not Thin bloody Lizzie. That lad, Toby, he’s allus flying about in his classic cars or even flying proper in his bloody helicopter, and as for the two daughters. If they were mine, I’d have drowned them at birth and kept the kittens instead. That bloody Verity turns up outside singing hymns with the Band of Hope and tries to put the punters off, and Hermione tells everyone how wrong we have the story of the witches here.” Again Lester gestured at the pub décor. “As if anyone actually cares.”

  Joe suppressed a smile. “What about the sons-in-law? I’m told they can be difficult to negotiate with.”

  Lester made no effort to cover his laughter. It came out a short, sharp bark. “Jeffrey Claremont and Quentin Olsen? You won’t have any trouble with them, matey. Eunuchs, the pair of them. They do as they’re told. A brace of hangers on, they are. The one comes in here and he’s all over the women like a cheap suit, while the other puts everyone to sleep with tales of dropped shots on the short fourth. Know what my regulars call them?”

  “Go on. Surprise me.”

  “The long arm and the bore.”

  Chapter Six

  In direct contrast to Joe’s expectations, dinner was not a particularly sumptuous affair. Despite the vast wealth of the Ballantynes, it was no grander than any other celebratory family dinner, and he could just as easily have been sitting with Sheila or Brenda at one of their homes.

  Cream of mushroom soup, made with fresh tarragon was followed by roast loin of lamb stuffed with mint and served with rosemary sauce, and for dessert there was fresh strawberries and Cornish clotted cream. Joe had never been one for fine wines, but the Montagne St Emilion Merlot 2010 Clos du Pavilion complemented the main course adequately, and he as he drank the half glass he allowed himself, he was sure he overheard someone say it cost about £40 a bottle. Not a lot of money for such affluent people.

  Toby had forecast the dress code correctly. The old man was in his slacks and shirt sleeve, his mp3 player hung round his neck. Toby and Jeffrey were in dinner suits, but Quentin, while he had donned a pale blue polo shirt, had opted for charcoal grey trousers rather than the promised jeans. The two Ballantyne daughters dressed dourly, Serena rather more grandly in a dark green, flowing gown with glitzy accoutrements at the neckline. Sheila and Brenda had also dressed smartly and sensibly, and Joe did not feel out of place in his blazer and tie.

  The family seating had been carefully thought out, with Sir Douglas at the head of the table, Toby, Verity, Sheila and Jeffrey to his left, Hermione, Quentin, Brenda and Serena to his right, with Joe not quite at the opposite end of the table, but slightly to the left, alongside Jeffrey and Katya opposite him. Rodney sat at the far end of the table, next to Joe and facing Sir Douglas.

  The conversation was spritely, but curiously disjointed. As with Jeffrey and Quentin earlier in the day, everyone chatted about different subjects and almost to themselves.

  Sheila passed a comment on her wish for a new car, which prompted Toby to say, “I’m looking at a 1958 Triumph TR3A. Seller only wants thirty-eight grand for it.”

  No one picked up the conversational thread, whereupon Quentin joked about dropping a couple of shots on the tenth, but he never mentioned which golf course he was referring to. Verity made some kind of religious comment, and Brenda riposted with the tale of a local vicar who had been caught with his pants down and subsequently moved to another parish, and that brought out a comment from Jeffrey.

  “Damned unfair for a man to lose his entire life and career just because he made a mistake.”

  “The mistake being he got caught,” Serena said, and although Joe silently applauded the comment (anything to take the wind from the supercilious Jeffrey’s sails) he detected a needling edge to her voice.

  As the evening wore on, Joe found himself drawn into one or two conversational snippets, and Sir Douglas put him on the spot as the dessert was served.

  “As a restaurateur, Joe, how do you rate Mrs Winters’ cooking?”

  “I thought yours was a truckstop, Murray?” Jeffrey said in what sounded like a sneering tone.

  “It is,” Joe replied, “and for my customers, it’s more likely to be steak and kidney pie than bouef en croute, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. My old man sent me to catering college for four years, and I learned a lot more than I need for The Lazy Luncheonette. As for the lamb, I thought it was excellent, but a touch heavy on the rosemary.”

  “And I suppose you have an opinion on the wine, do you?” Rodney asked. He, too, sounded like he would prefer it if Joe were not present.

  “Yes. I’d rather have a bottle of brown ale.”

  The heckle-stopper of a remark did little to ease what Joe sensed as an underlying tension in the room. Jeffrey brought up something political, Rodney took the opposite standpoint, and Joe found himself caught in the crossfire, while at the other end of the table, Toby and Hermione were discussing the relative merits of a nearby armaments factory, which had built aeroplanes at one point in its chequered history, Verity and her husband served up a pointless oratory on God versus golf, neither of them making a bit of sense to Joe or anyone else.

  Katya was deep in conversation with Brenda and Serena, while Sheila tried to arbitrate between Verity and Quentin, and Joe felt like a wallflower.

  He was saved any potential embarrassment by the arrival of the birthday cake and a magnum of champagne. Once again Joe was surprised by the lack of quality in the wine. He would have expected a bottle of Dom Perignon, even from the cheaper end, but instead, it was a brand only slightly upscale from supermarket.

  The cake had been made to look like a parcel, in reference to the source of the Ballantyne fortune, complete with red ribbons formed of icing. Despite the massage which read, Happy 75th birthday, Douglas, it bore only one candle.

&
nbsp; “I don’t think the old eejit would have enough wind to blow out more,” Alistair observed when he lifted the cake from the serving trolley onto the table.

  There was a chorus of Happy Birthday To You and a round of applause when the old man blew out the candle, before Sir Douglas stood in preparation for a speech.

  Joe hoped he would not go on too long, and he was pleasantly surprised by Sir Douglas’s words.

  “It’s not my birthday until tomorrow officially, but I can think of no better way of celebrating my three-quarter century than to be surrounded by my family and friends. I’ll not rabbit on about it, so here’s to you.” He raised his glass, and everyone joined in a mixed toast, some saying ‘Father’, others echoing the old man, Sheila and Brenda offering their best wishes to ‘Sir Douglas’.

  They took their seats again, the curiously disjointed conversations picked up once more, and Joe noticed Katya looking a little peaky. As he watched her, she clutched at her abdomen and winced.

  “Are you okay?”

  Katya smiled back at Joe. “Gyppy tummy. Think I need to go to the smallest room.”

  “Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  With a bleak smile of apology she excused herself and left the room.

  Sir Douglas stood again, and waved vaguely at the windows. “Tell you what; it’s such a beautiful evening, why don’t we enjoy coffee outside on the terrace.”

  There was general murmur of agreement, and they began to shuffle out through the open French windows.

  Joe was relieved. He had never been a natural conversationalist, but putting such considerations to one side, these people were not his kind. Sir Douglas may have retained vestiges of his down-to-earth, working class background, but his children and in-laws were of a different caste.

  Leaving instructions with Alistair to serve coffee outside, which drew the cutting remark, “Yer sure you wouldnae like me to put a tea cosy round the cups to make sure it doesnae go cold,” the old man was last out, close behind Joe.

  Away to their right, beyond the treeline, the horizon was bathed in the crimson glow of the recent sunset, and the sky above gleamed a pearly ice-blue. For all that night approached, the temperature had abated only slightly. It felt as though they could wring the sweat from the air.

  The three family men wandered off to one side, still talking up their various themes, lending the impression that they were speaking purely to ensure the sound of their voices could be heard. Joe tagged himself onto a small group which comprised his two friends and Serena. They were talking fashions, and Joe was relieved when Sir Douglas tapped him on the shoulder, and indicated they should step off, out of earshot.

  “Any ideas, Joe?”

  “Only one. I’m here under false pretences.”

  Sir Douglas laughed. “Well, if nothing comes of it, you’ve enjoyed a slap up feed, haven’t you?” his smile faded. “You, er, did enjoy the meal, didn’t you?”

  “Excellent,” Joe agreed. “A little rich for my usual Friday night food, but it was superb.”

  The rattle of Alistair’s trolley on the uneven flagstones caught their attention, and there was a delay of a couple of minutes while they queued behind Jeffrey and Quentin for coffee and After Eight mints. Once again, the pair stood off to one side.

  “I think you have nothing to worry about,” Joe declared. “I’ve done some talking and a lot of listening, and I haven’t overheard one remark made against you.”

  Sir Douglas gestured expansively at the small crowd in their little cliques. “If it is any of them rather than some idiot’s idea of a practical joke, they would be extremely careful not to let it be known to the others. I was hoping you’d pick up some sort of, ah… reason behind it all.”

  “I can give you a few reasons. Joe gestured with his coffee cup. “Toby has much to gain, Jeffrey is a poser, Quentin is crap at golf, Serena is bored out of her skull, someone could be trying to alienate you against Rodney, and the man himself could still be a conman.”

  “I’ll go with the first four, but not the last. I can show you all the documents, if you wish. Including Katya’s research, which confirmed his story. They’re all in my safe.”

  “Let’s enjoy a little more of the night air first?” Joe took a mouthful of the excellent coffee. “You’re certain it can’t be a member of your staff?”

  “I’m not certain of anything, but I would trust Alistair Winters with my life, and if any of the staff harboured a grudge, he would know about it. He may be a grumpy old bugger, but, as you’ve probably noticed, he’s a shrewd judge of character.”

  “I’ll be honest, Douglas, I feel like a fraud. Here I am enjoying your hospitality, but you called me in for a reason and I’ve made no progress at all. You asked me to investigate, and I can’t investigate anything because I haven’t found anything to investigate. It would be much better if I could confront a member of your family with the threats and question them.”

  “Sunday,” the old man promised. “It’s my birthday tomorrow, and I don’t want any fights or arguments. So if you’re no further ahead by Sunday morning, we’ll bring it all out in the open and challenge them. Come on. Let me show you those documents.”

  Reeling slightly (Joe guessed he had had too much to drink) Sir Douglas led the way back into the house and Joe followed. As they re-entered the dining room, where Alistair and his team were clearing away the detritus of the meal, Katya came in from the house side, her face serious, her forehead glistening with perspiration.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” the old man asked.

  “Dicky tummy, Sir Douglas.” She clutched at her abdomen.

  “You need Alka Seltzer,” Joe advised. “Great for hangovers and upset stomachs.”

  She smiled weakly. “I thought a little fresh air might help.”

  “Take it easy,” Sir Douglas told her. “You have the weekend off anyway, so get plenty of rest. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  Katya carried on through the dining room and out onto the terrace, Joe and the old man carried on into the house.

  “Excellent at her job,” Sir Douglas commented.

  “How did you find her?”

  “Hermione. My eldest daughter. She’s a historian, you know. Oh. Course you know. I told you, didn’t I? Anyway, she came across the girl through a leaflet someone had left at the college where Hermione lectures. I’d been talking about commissioning the family history for some time. I’d hoped Hermione might do it, but she refused point blank. Anyway, we brought Katya in. There was a lot of haggling and I insisted on a two-month trial before I officially appointed her, but it’s been worth it. The pieces I’ve seen are top drawer.”

  Sir Douglas passed the bottom of the staircase and down the other side, where he paused and dipped into his pocket for a set of keys and unlocked the last door on the right.

  “You haven’t read it all, then?” Joe asked as the old man pushed the door open and led the way in.

  “No. Don’t want to, either. She works in here, but keeps the work in her room. As far as I’m concerned, Joe, it’s confidential until she chooses to show me bits and pieces.”

  Joe was not listening. The study took him by surprise, but in retrospect his brief knowledge of Sir Douglas should have told him what to expect.

  The word ‘study’ conjured in Joe’s mind images of old and dusty, leather armchairs ranged before ageing bookshelves packed with similarly dusty old volumes. A creaky, scarred desk with a faded green baize top would have completed the picture.

  This room bore no resemblance to Joe’s imagination. The bookshelves were there, but they were smart, clean pine, and to Joe they looked as if they were self-assembly. There was a single armchair, but it was built of tubular, chrome-plated steel, with a black leather back and cushions and it was matched by a three-seater settee, the pair facing each other across a glass-topped coffee table constructed of the same steel tubes.

  The desk was not a desk in the traditional sense. It was a computer workstatio
n with a flat, empty working area in the centre, and the actual keyboard/monitor set up to one side. To the left stood a tall, black, display unit with lower and middle cupboards, and above them a couple of shelves holding photographs of Sir Douglas and others who Joe presumed were his wife and children when they were younger. To the right of the main workstation was a second, smaller set up, with a second PC. Alongside that stood a two-drawer, metal filing cabinet with three box files stacked up on top of it. Joe cocked his head to read the labels on the file, but they bore dates for the current and previous year, and Joe assumed they were related to Ballantyne Distribution.

  In the corner, behind the workstation, Sir Douglas opened the lower cupboard of the display, and looking past him, Joe could see the safe. A good, solid construction, with a red, LED indicator glowing from its panel. Sir Douglas punched in six digits, and the spaces on the LED lit with asterisks. Twisting the handle, pulling open the heavy door, he reached in, pulled out a document folder, and pushed the door to.

  Flushed with the exertion of kneeling in such a tight space, he flopped into the chair behind the desk, and tossed the folder to Joe, who took the seat opposite, opened up the folder and took out its contents.

  In amongst them was the DNA report. Divided into more than half a dozen columns, most headed Alleles Called it was series of completely meaningless numbers to Joe, many of which matched the numbers in other columns, some of which did not match.

  At the bottom of the sheet was a paragraph which began, ‘Statement of Results: Alleged relationship is not excluded’. That was followed by a semi legal paragraph which the analyst had signed with an illegible scribble.

  Along with the report was a letter from Annabelle Immerman, a solicitor acting on behalf of Rodney Asquith, dated the middle of May, it reaffirmed her satisfaction with the test and the result, insisting that it proved, ‘beyond reasonable doubt that Sir Douglas Ballantyne is the biological father of Rodney Asquith’.

  Placing all these documents on the workstation, Joe studied Rodney’s birth certificate. He’d been registered in Birmingham, and it appeared genuine. Beyond that, he leafed quickly through a set of documents from Katya, including a photocopy of the birth certificate, which backed up Rodney’s claim.