A Killing in the Family

by David W Robinson

  He came to a clearing and paused a moment. Removing his cap, he wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around.

  He was unsure whether he’d been this way before. The track he had followed petered out somewhere behind him, and he could not see where it picked up again on the other side of the glade. He knew the house stood in the general direction he was travelling, so logic dictated that the path, if it actually carried on, would do so from the other side of that small, grassy mound twenty yards ahead of him.

  He looked up into dazzling patches of pure blue showing through the canopy of leaves and branches, and wondered idly why no trees grew in this particular spot. Replacing his cap, he pressed on, and a few paces further in he learned why there were no trees when he fell over the stump of one which had been cut down. Didn’t someone once tell him that the Ballantynes called in logging teams every five or ten years? Chief Inspector Dickson told him that the clearing must be the result of the last such exercise.

  Picking himself up, he glanced automatically to the small mound, now just ahead of him. There was something not quite right about it. It did not look natural. The heavy grass of the glade was the same depth and consistency, throughout, but on this lump, it was different; false; artificial.

  He walked to it and studied it from all angles. What would Chief Inspector Dickson make of it? Rounded and elongated, about six feet in length and perhaps three feet across, it rose from the ground by about a foot.

  He queried his imagination, asking himself whether what lay beneath was a natural hump in the ground, or…

  A broad grin spread across his face. The great detective had done it again. Had he not just been thinking about the logging. That’s what this hummock was. A section of tree trunk cut down, possibly diseased and of no value to the loggers, so left here to rot, and over the course of time, the grass had overgrown it.

  To satisfy himself, he kicked out at it, and braced his calf muscles for the impact of his police issue boots on the hard, albeit rotting surface of a lopped down tree. To his surprise, it was soft and yielding. It was, after all, only an elongated heap of earth.

  His kick dislodged loose clods from the mound. They tumbled away slowly, revealing insects, now scurrying for more cover.

  And beneath the writhing and scuttling creatures, the bitten, chewed and decomposing, blue- grey skin of a dead hand.

  ***

  “You were awake when the siren went off?”

  Seated near the drawing room French windows, talking with Verity, Joe could not keep the surprise from his voice.

  “I was in contemplation, Mr Murray.”

  “While your husband was snoring his head off behind you?”

  Joe noticed that, exactly like her sister, when Verity became irritated, tiny spots of colour came to her cheeks, but they were more noticeable than they had been on Hermione’s face because Verity skin was paler, less tanned. Joe assumed it was her habit of spending so much of her time in church rather than outside in the sunshine.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I prefer to pray on my own. There is a small, spare room at the end of the landing, next door to our room, and I go in there every night to commune with God.”

  “Until three in the morning.”

  “Occasionally.” Verity sighed. “I am human, Mr Murray. Like everyone else, I find sleeping difficult in this weather. Plus, some of Quentin’s habits annoy me to the point where sleep becomes not just difficult, but completely impossible.”

  “I’m sorry. What…” Joe bit his tongue. He had no desire to know which of Quentin’s nocturnal habits she found aggravating.

  Verity sighed again. “Before you mind sinks into the gutter, let me hasten to enlighten you. The habits I’m talking about are his general untidiness and sleep apnoea, which manifests itself in some appalling noises. Both are calculated to keep me awake, either would send me to my private chapel.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t prying. I’m simply trying to finish what your father asked me to do.”

  “I should have thought that with the arrest of Rodney Asquith, the matter is best left with the police, and I’m told you had a hand in securing his confession. If so, I believe your duty to my father is discharged.”

  “Hmm. It would be if we had the man – or woman – responsible for the attack.”

  “Well surely, Asquith—”

  Joe interrupted. “That’s where me and the police differ, y’see. He’s a conman, is Asquith, but there’s so much about his carefully laid plans which don’t fit. Why would he attack your father in the first place? Why didn’t he just scoot when he had his hands on the two hundred and fifty grand? I know what he’s told us, about your father insisting he stayed, but I don’t believe it. If he was that fly, he wouldn’t have given a toss what the old man wanted. And then there’s the siren.” He leaned across the table and looked up at the house. He already knew the answer to his next question, but he asked anyway. “Where is your room and your chapel? Near mine?”

  “No. We’re at the far end of the landing, away from you and Father. Opposite the room Asquith was in.”

  “So how loud was the siren?”

  “Loud.”

  “What, as if it was right outside the door?”

  “Of course not,” Verity replied. “How could it be? I just told you my father’s room is at the other end of the landing.”

  Joe smiled to himself. “You know, a lot of people criticise you for your, er, steadfast, even rigid beliefs, but I think they may have misjudged you. To maintain faith in this day and age takes some motivation and courage. And yet, despite your faith, you let little things like snoring and untidiness trouble you.”

  “You haven’t seen untidiness of Quentin’s magnitude,” Verity assured him. “The man is simply lazy. Except when it comes to hitting a ball about golf course.”

  “Just dumps his clobber on the floor, eh?”

  “On the bottom of the bed, to be precise. Mr Murray, Asquith has been arrested, so may I ask, are you going anywhere with this line of questioning, or are you merely seeking to pry into my private life and my marriage.”

  “I’m seeking to establish the accuracy of alibis, Verity. Y’see, Toby and Serena alibi each other, so do Jeffrey and Hermione, and so do you and Quentin, and yet, when I look deeper into it, those alibis don’t hold up. Hermione knew nothing of anything until Jeffrey returned to their room and woke her. She’d taken a bottle full of pills and was out for the count. That means Jeffrey has no alibi. Toby and Serena tell me they woke when the siren went off, which means neither of them knows where the other was a few seconds earlier. You and Quentin claim that you were together, but you were not. That means you have no alibi and neither does your husband. Either of you could have stabbed your father without the other knowing.”

  The red spots returned. “That is not strictly true. I went to bed at about eleven thirty, as I have already told the police. My husband came in, half drunk at about one thirty. Within a few minutes, he was snuffling and snoring. I got up and went to my chapel. When the siren sounded, I met Quentin on the landing.”

  “And after the attack on Sir Douglas?”

  “I returned to my sanctum to pray for my father. A few minutes later, I joined Quentin, we dressed and made our way downstairs to await the ambulance and police. Are you happy now?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “May I ask why you are so determined to exculpate Asquith and that harlot?”

  “I’m not,” Joe replied. “They should answer for their crimes. But I don’t think either of them attacked your father, and whoever did, whether it’s you, your sister or brother, either of your husbands or Toby’s wife, they should answer for it.”

  “I quite agree. Where we disagree is on the identity of the culprit. My brother, sister and I may have our arguments with Father, but we nevertheless have the greatest love and respect for him. We would never harm him, and I insist that the same is true of Serena, Jeffrey and Quentin. Evil has wormed its
way into this house, Mr Murray, but now the forces of good are about to conquer it.”

  Joe was about to go on the attack again, but a flurry of activity and the noise of Driscoll’s voice from the drawing room caught his attention.

  “Get onto the station. I want the SOCOs and the doc down here ten minutes ago. You stay put, Hollis. Make sure no one leaves. And I mean no one.”

  A moment later, Driscoll burst out onto the terrace.

  “What’s going on?” Joe demanded.

  “Katya Nolan. We’ve found her.” Driscoll nodded across the vast expanse of lawn towards the woods. “She’s in there. Dead.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  From the terrace, they watched as Katya’s body, sealed in a black mortuary bag, was stretchered from the woods and out to the waiting mortuary van.

  With the time just turned five in the afternoon, an hour or more had passed since the Scientific Support team and the pathologist, all suited up in their forensic coveralls, went in, accompanied by Driscoll. Prior to that, Driscoll and his uniformed officers had hurried into the woods, and a short while later, a clearly distressed Constable Dickson had been led out by one of his colleagues. He was taken into the house to give his statement to Sergeant Hollis.

  Now, two of the half dozen or so individuals, still wearing the white coveralls and facemasks, followed the body out. The inspector was easily recognisable by his taller build. Joe assumed the smaller man to be the doctor, and although he could not hear what they were saying, he knew Driscoll would be badgering for a time of death.

  “I don’t need any doctor to tell me when she died,” Joe said to his two companions.

  “Friday night?” Brenda asked.

  “Early hours of Saturday morning, to be precise,” he replied.

  “It’s fairly obvious what happened, isn’t it?” Sheila speculated. “You said, Joe, that Rodney would have been happy with his share of the two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, but Katya pressured him into staying because she wanted more. She worked closely with Sir Douglas, and she knew he had mentioned Rodney in his new will. She told Rodney to stay because she wanted a share of the millions, and she threatened to expose him if he refused. He lured her out during the early hours, murdered her, burned her car, and then came back and set up the attack on Sir Douglas to make it appear as if she had done it.”

  “Almost right,” Joe agreed. “Only one minor detail you got wrong.”

  “And that is?”

  “Rodney didn’t do it. Or, let’s put it this way, if he did, I don’t know how he did it.” Joe gestured around at the family, all gathered to watch the sad spectacle of the young woman’s body being taken for post mortem examination. “But I do know any of these could have done it… almost. Again, I just don’t know how.”

  Alistair wandered between the family members keeping them supplied with hot and cold drinks. Gathering glasses and teacups, he made his way back towards the drawing room entrance.

  “Alistair, can I have a word?”

  “I’m busy. I have to keep the audience fed and watered.” He scowled back at them. “They think I’m some kinda bloody ice cream cinema usherette. Bloody ghouls.”

  “It’s better entertainment than TV,” Brenda said.

  “Ye think so? I’ll stick to Coronation Street if ye don’t mind. Now what do you want?”

  “Another glass of lemonade would be nice,” Sheila said.

  “I’ll bring ye a fresh jug.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Joe said. “I’ll come and collect it. I need to speak to you anyway.” Getting to his feet, he fell in step alongside the butler as the taller man entered the drawing room. “You know the air horn I gave the old man? Do you keep one in the house at all?”

  “Do we hell as like. The old fool likes his peace and quiet. Ye heard the argument on Friday, didn’t ye? Jeffrey blowing his bloody car horn. Aye, well, can ye imagine the old man going off on one if some eejit was letting off those sirens every five minutes?”

  They passed through the drawing room and along the narrow hall to the kitchen.

  “And it was no more than an hour before that I’d had to warn Quentin over the same bloody trick.”

  “Jeffrey claimed he caught the horn by accident when he was cleaning his car.”

  Alistair took down a fresh jug, opened the freezer and shovelled ice into it. “Accident my foot. They’re always doing it. The pair of ’em. They do it to wind the old boy up. And Quentin wasnae even in his own car. He was pratting about in Toby’s Alfa-Romeo. That coulda bin world war bloody three if Toby or the old man had caught him.” Reaching into the fridge, he brought out a jar of lemon slices, and added several to the jug, and replacing those, took out a two-litre bottle of supermarket lemonade.

  “You know, most wealthy families would go for the fresh stuff,” Joe observed.

  “And so would this family if the old boy let them.” Alistair cracked the cap on the bottle and began to pour slowly into the jug. “I tell ye, Murray, when he goes, so do I. I’m nae spending the rest of my life waiting on those toffee-noses.” Satisfied that the jug was full, he replaced the cap, and put the bottle back in the fridge. “There’s only one of ’em worthy of being Douglas’s bairn… aye, and even he’s turned out to be a wrong un.”

  “Rodney, you mean.”

  “Aye. Crooked he may be, but he fitted the mould right enough. And I suppose the police are gonna charge him wi’ murdering that young lassie, too.” Alistair passed the jug to Joe. “There ye go. You can keep your lasses happy, now, can’t ye?”

  Joe took the jug. “Thanks. Listen, Alistair, do you have a company credit card?”

  The butler laughed. “Away wi’ ye, man. I’m downstairs scum, aren’t I? They’d be scared I’d bankrupt them buying up beer and fags on their credit. There are only four cards. One for Douglas, one each for the three kids. That’s it. They’re the only authorised officers of the company.”

  “Katya didn’t have one?”

  Alistair’s scornful laugh filled the air again. “Ha. She was even lower down the pecking order than me and Dennis. She wasn’t even an employee.”

  Joe was crestfallen. Another theory gone. “Okay. Not important. Thanks again.”

  He made his way back through the drawing room, and reached the terrace at the same time as the ebullient Driscoll.

  “Got Asquith banged to rights now, Murray. Strangled. Doc’s guessing, but he reckons she’s been there since Friday night. All we need is forensic back up and he’s going down for life.”

  “And good luck to you.”

  Driscoll paused in the doorway. “You don’t think so?”

  Joe placed the tray on the table and while his two friends helped themselves, he re-joined Driscoll. “I’ve just been give some information which doesn’t clear him, but it confuses everything even further. I heard the air horn muted. As if it was coming through a couple solid brick walls, and across a corridor. Trouble is Verity did too, and she was at the other end of the corridor from me.”

  Driscoll thought about it for a few seconds. “Your conclusion?”

  “The only way that could have happened was if the air horn really did go off in the old man’s room, and I know for a fact that Rodney could not have done it.”

  “Katya—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re gonna say. Maddy’s famous theory. Katya was on the ladder and leaned back into the room, let rip with the siren, then threw it on the bed before legging it down the ladder and across the grass to the woods.” Joe’s eyes burned into the inspector. “But if that’s so, when did Rodney get over there to murder her? We were all virtually under house arrest until you got here on Saturday. No, Driscoll, take my word for it, Katya was dead a lot earlier in the night. Probably soon after her car was torched. I’m not saying Rodney is innocent, and come to that, I’ll tell you something else for nothing. I think he lied to us about the reason he stayed on after scoring the quarter of a million.” He shook his head with a weary sadness.
“Whoever did this, worked it out to the tiniest detail. It’s making my brain ache.”

  Driscoll sank into his thoughts for a moment, his gaze as distant as Pendle Hill upon which it appeared to concentrate. He shook himself out of his stupor. “Fancy having another bash at Asquith?”

  “I thought he was at the police station.”

  “We were trying to get it arranged when young Dickson turned up her body. That stalled it, and I still have him under house arrest upstairs.”

  “Let’s get to it, then.” Joe returned briefly to the table, where he helped himself to a glass of lemonade and followed Driscoll into the house.

  ***

  When they got to the study, before sending for Rodney, Driscoll explained his thinking, which tallied precisely with Sheila’s. Joe heard him out, and then repeated his objection to it.

  “I’m not saying Rodney is innocent,” he concluded, “but there are things which don’t make sense. The notes to begin with. Now it could be that Rodney turned the tables on Katya and threatened her, and she posted the notes as a form of protection for herself, but I don’t see it. They wouldn’t protect her at all. They would only encourage Asquith to kill her. Instead, I think they were designed to cast suspicion.”

  “On who?”

  “Rodney.”

  Driscoll made a note of it. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, and you’re gonna have to look deeper into this. The company credit card business. Someone used it at the Maitland Hotel in Manchester on May twentieth. According to Alistair Winters, there are only four cards and they belong to family members. No one else has one. So why did Katya have that receipt? My guess is it was insurance. It would ensure the other party didn’t try to pull a fast one on her. As it turns out, it didn’t work, which suggests to me that the party involved didn’t know she had it. It could be entirely unrelated to what’s been happening here. She may just have been having it off with a member of the family, but you need to find out which of the company cards was used. The Maitland may not know, but the credit card company will.”