A Killing in the Family

by David W Robinson

  “You were good,” Joe went on. “Very good. It took me until lunchtime today to work out how you did it. But like all killers, you made a couple of mistakes, and they pointed me straight at you.” He gestured at the cassette player. “Recording the horn, for instance. It would have been better if you’d used your own car somewhere out in the open instead of Toby’s Alfa-Romeo.”

  “I never—”

  “Yes you did. Alistair had to warn you about it, didn’t he? Before the argument with Jeffrey over exactly the same thing. And, of course, you had to use the open top, didn’t you, because the sound quality would have been different in an enclosed car in the garages.” Joe shook his head, sadly. “You should have done it out in the open with all your windows open, too. I’m certain that when the police audio specialists compare the sound on the cassette tape to Toby’s Alfa-Romeo, they’ll match. And that wasn’t your only error. Annabelle Immerman, for example. You didn’t have to kill her, or if you did, why do it on the very weekend you’re playing at The Belfry Invitation Tournament? Bloody stupid that was. The Belfry is less than ten miles from Sutton Coldfield, and only two miles from where the poor kid was found.”

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “It’ll be interesting to see what the waiters at a certain Indian restaurant have to say about that. Then there was using Verity’s company credit card to pay for the room at the Maitland. Tight-fisted? Stupid? Or were you running low on funds by then?”

  “I’ve already told the police that over the weekend of May twentieth, I was playing in a tournament at Pannal. Harrogate.”

  “How did you know it was on May twentieth?”

  The colour rushed to Quentin’s cheeks. “I, er… you just said so.”

  “No I didn’t. I just accused you of using the credit card at the Maitland. I never even mentioned the month.” Joe smiled. “And I know where you were. But Pannal is less than fifty miles from Manchester. I checked on your scores in that tournament. First round, two over, second round, a disastrous eighty-three, eleven over par, and in the third round, a five over seventy-seven.”

  Quentin shrugged bleakly. “So I had an off weekend.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But while it’s not exactly the British Open, these tournaments are much the same, and tradition has it that the leaders go out last every day, meaning the stragglers tee off first. According to the club records, which I also checked on the web, you teed off at just after nine in the morning, and you were back in the clubhouse at one thirty. Plenty of time to drive over to Manchester, sort out Katya, and get back to Harrogate for the following morning’s round.”

  Quentin gave another false laugh. “You haven’t proven one damn thing, Murray.”

  “True, but I don’t have to. Inspector Driscoll will do that. Forensic on the two bodies, traces of you on the cassette tape or the player. And then again, there’s the credit card receipt. Y’see, Quentin, Katya didn’t entirely trust you, which is why she left that receipt behind. Chances are she nicked it from your wallet. If everything went according to plan and she got her cut, she would have burned it, but if you did anything to her, if you even threatened her, she had left it where someone would find it. The receipt itself doesn’t tell us which of the four cards were used, but the credit card company will know, and I’ll bet next week’s profits that it’s your wife’s.”

  “How could I use my wife’s card?” Quentin protested. “It would mean forging Verity’s signature, are you—”

  “You didn’t have to. Chip and pin.” Joe smiled. “As a golfer, you should know all about that.”

  ***

  Throwing his suitcase in the car boot, Joe watched Driscoll’s car disappear along the drive, following the patrol car which was taking Quentin away for questioning.

  “Well done,” Maddy congratulated him. “You managed to work your way through what was a complex web.”

  “It’s not over yet, Maddy. The cops still have a lot of work on to prove it, but there is the credit card angle, and with luck, there’ll be traces of him on Katya and Annabelle, and he has to explain how he knew the date the credit card was used at the Maitland. There should be enough to send him down.”

  “I hope so. He deserves it.” Maddy frowned, and just as swiftly turned to smile at him. “Listen, Joe, Majorca. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. If you really don’t want to come, it’s fine.”

  He drew a deep breath. “Maddy, it’s okay. It was just me being old-fashioned, like Brenda said. I’d be more than happy to come with you. But be warned, I’m not one for disco dancing.”

  Maddy opened her car door and prepared to climb in. “What makes you think I’ll be interested in discos?” She laughed. “I’ll be in touch, Joe.”

  “Email me.”

  He watched her drive off, indulging himself for a moment in recollections of Saturday and the time spent in her company, and then allowed the memories to wander off into light fantasies of what would be to come in Majorca.

  “Grow up, Joe,” he muttered to himself, and turned back into the house.

  To his consternation, the first person to greet him was Verity. Her pale face gave away noting. She was prim and dour as he had ever seen her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I—”

  She held up her hand for silence and he did not argue.

  “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Mr Murray, and none is more mysterious than sending an annoying little man like you to show me the error of my ways.”

  Joe chose to ignore the piety. “Error of your ways? I don’t know that you did anything wrong?”

  “No? I brought Satan into this house in the shape of Quentin Olsen. I married that abominable man, didn’t I? Had I not done so, two young women would still be alive, and my father would not have been hurt. He never wanted me to marry Quentin, you know. I should have listened to him in the first place.”

  “Anyone can make a mistake, Verity. If you were perfect, you wouldn’t need God.”

  “And you think I am not aware of that? He chose to teach me my imperfections through you. I cannot fault Him for that. My lesson is well and truly learned. It is not a mistake I shall make again. Good day to you, sir.”

  Joe watched her climb the stairs, her back straight and stiff. “I don’t think you’d find anyone potty enough to help you make the same mistake,” he muttered, and went on his way to the drawing room.

  Jeffrey stopped him in the doorway.

  “Can’t say I was too impressed with the way you put me down, Murray.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you were, but consider this: if you really were the lothario you think you are, you would have been well in the frame for this business.”

  “Ah, but—”

  “That’s the trouble with men like you, Claremont. You don’t know when you’re well off. You’re part of a good and wealthy family, and you have an intelligent wife, but more importantly, she’s a wife who believes in you. She doesn’t shout it from the rooftops, but while everyone else was making snide remarks about you and your alleged philandering, she carried on believing in you. Personally, I’d give my right arm for a woman like that… with or without her millions.”

  Joe carried on into the room where Sheila and Brenda waited. “Well, girls, if we’re ready, I think it’s time we took our leave of this family. Let them get on with their lives.”

  Brenda and Sheila agreed and stood. While they shook hands all round, Toby joined Joe.

  “Thanks, Murray. Dad was right about you. You really are the best.”

  “No problem. Glad to be of help.” Joe shook hands.

  “Don’t forget, the old boy wants to see you before you head back to Yorkshire.”

  “We’ll call at the hospital on our way.”

  “Oh. Your bill…”

  “I’ll speak to him about it.”

  With everyone ready, Joe and Toby led them out into the hot afternoon.

  “You’re away then?” asked Alistair as they passed through the front door.

/>   “Yes.” Joe gave him and encouraging smile. “You know, if ever you’re looking for work, Alistair, give me a bell. You’d be just what those truckers need at six o’clock on a morning.”

  The Scot laughed, the first time Joe had seen him exhibit the remotest sign of mirth. “Me work for you? How long d’you think it’d take before you sacked me for putting the truckers off their breakfast. Beside, Doogie’s gonna need me. Thanks anyway.”

  ***

  As they had been informed, Sir Douglas was out of High Dependency and occupying a room in the private wing. Compelled to wait while his elder daughter and daughter-in-law were with the old man, Joe and his two companions commented upon how much quieter it was waiting in a select little room rather than mingling on the general wards.

  At just after three o’clock, the door to Sir Douglas’s room opened and Hermione and Serena stepped out. Joe, Sheila and Brenda prepared to go in.

  “May we have a word, Mr Murray?” Hermione asked.

  Joe nodded to his companions to carry on ahead of him, and turned his attention to the Ballantyne women. “What can I do you for?”

  “I may have been a little hasty in my judgement of you,” Hermione said. “You were right about Rodney, and so were we, but you were also correct when you said he hadn’t attacked Father.”

  “Had it not been for you, the real attacker would still be free to try again,” Serena said.

  “We got him. That’s all that matters, and trust me, when people have a go at me, I don’t take it personally. There are no hard feelings, and if you’re ever in the Sanford area, pop in to my caff. We’ll feed you well.”

  Hermione was surprised. “Filet mignon?”

  Joe smiled thinly. “Steak and kidney pudding.”

  “Crêpe Suzette?” Serena asked.

  His smile this time was thinner. “Spotted dick and custard.”

  They shook hands and with a broad grin at their backs, Joe made his way into Sir Douglas’s room.

  Sat in an armchair beside the bed, Sir Douglas looked even older than his years. He was pale faced; his eyes looked gaunt and empty. His normally perfect grey hair was dishevelled, and through his open pyjama jacket, the hair on his chest showed almost pure white. Intravenous tubes led to cannulas on his left hand, and were connected to various bits of machinery and drips.

  “I’m back on solid food,” he was saying to Sheila and Brenda, “which is just as well. At my time of life, I don’t have a lot of weight left to lose.” He turned to greet Joe with a broad smile. “And here he is, the man of the moment. Joe, I owe you a debt of gratitude. Toby rang earlier and told me everything, and Hermione and Serena have just confirmed it.” His features clouded. “I never liked that man.”

  “Who?” Joe asked. “Rodney or Quentin.”

  “Quentin. I warned Verity not to marry him. Bloody golfers. All gadabouts. As for Rodney…” he trailed off, a brief flash of anger running across his features. “What was it Alistair said the other day? No fool like an old fool? Well I was a damned old fool and I deserved to be robbed like that.”

  Joe disagreed. “No. You were taken in by a very clever woman, a very clever man, another very clever woman, and a greedy young man willing to play his part. Well, the women have paid a terrible price, and Quentin will pay for that according to the law, but Rodney…” Joe sighed. “Listen, Douglas, there is no excuse for what he did. No excuse for the scam, and he deserves to spend as long as he should in jail. But he and I were the first to you on Friday night, and to put no finer point on it, he saved your life. He knew what was going to happen, and he knew it could be bad news for him if he didn’t play their game, but when it came to the crunch, saving a life was more important. At some point, the courts may ask for a victim statement. I hope you’ll bear in mind what I’ve just said.”

  “I will. And thanks, Joe.”

  Hinting that Sheila and Brenda should shuffle along and give him some room, Joe perched on the edge of the bed. “I believe you’re giving Toby even greater control of Ballantyne Distribution.”

  “I am.” Sir Douglas drew in a shallow breath and let it out with a shudder. “Right or wrong, like it or don’t, my friend, this world is for the young’uns, and there’s no place for an old rocker like me. It’s time I let him make of the company what he will, the same as I had to when I took over from my father, the same as my father had to do when Granddad retired. As for me, I shall enjoy sitting on the terrace and soaking up the sun.”

  “While listening to Thin Lizzie,” Brenda teased.

  Sir Douglas gestured at his mp3 player. “I’m just getting into Motley Crue.”

  Joe laughed generously. “On that note, I think it’s time I was getting this motley crew home.”

  “Don’t go yet, man. We haven’t discussed your fee.”

  Joe hesitated a moment, looking to Sheila and Brenda for silent guidance. Their stone faces told him all he needed to know.

  “Douglas, I told Dave Kane back in April, I’ve investigated plenty of killings in my time, and I’ve never charged a single penny for my services. I’m not about to change that now.”

  Sir Douglas’s voice brimmed with disbelief. “Good God, man, you’re not a charity.”

  “The most I ask and all I’ll ask of you is that you let me write it up as one of my casebooks.” Joe’s features drooped glumly. “They all went up in smoke with The Lazy Luncheonette, but this is the perfect case to start a fresh set. Naturally, the names and locations will be changed.”

  The old man tried to get up, but Sheila and Brenda stayed him with gentle, yet firm hands.

  “No one, Joe Murray, no one works for me for nothing. I’m telling you now, you will be rewarded for your efforts.”

  “Take it easy, Douglas, or you won’t be here to reward anyone.” Joe offered his hand and the older man shook it. “When you’re well again, gimme a bell and I’ll let you buy me a pint at the Miner’s Arms.”

  Sir Douglas smiled. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The downsized morning rush was over, the café was empty, but for the staff. Sheila and Brenda were washing up and cleaning down, Lee was already preparing lunches. Joe stared solemnly through the windows, his thoughts on the events of six weeks previously at The Sorting House.

  “So, Inspector Driscoll rang you last night, Joe?” Brenda asked from behind the counter where she was helping with the washing up.

  He turned back from the window and came to join them, leaning on the customer side of the counter. “Yep. They finally cracked Quentin Olsen yesterday. The forensic people came up with half a fingerprint on the radio/cassette player, and it’s his. They’ve also found fibres on Katya’s body which came from his clothing. He’s banged to rights.”

  “But he hasn’t confessed?” Sheila asked.

  “No. Driscoll feels there’s enough evidence to convict him of Katya’s murder, and they’re pressing for a confession to Annabelle’s killing, too, but he’s holding out for now.”

  Sheila tutted and shook her head. “Those poor girls. And young Rodney. Their lives cut short like that, his ruined, and all for what? A few pounds.”

  Joe grunted. “I’d hardly call several million of the Ballantyne fortune a few pounds, but I take your point. Greed. That’s what was behind it all.”

  “Justice, though,” Brenda said, drying her hands on a towel. “You helped bring them to justice, Joe. You did well.”

  “I did what I always do.”

  He gazed out through the windows again. With August torn from the calendar, the summer heat wave had come to an end, and heavy rain, driven by strong, September winds, lashed at the streets, threatening a bad winter. Trade was slack and Joe knew it would dwindle further before Christmas.

  On the upside, Maddy had booked them both for Alcudia, Majorca, for the second week in October. Contrary to his initial pessimism, Joe was looking forward to it.

  A white limousine pulled up outside the door. They all noticed it.

&n
bsp; “Ooh. Sir Douglas. Out of hospital and on the mend,” Brenda said. “You never did get paid for your work, did you, Joe?”

  “Didn’t Sir Douglas say he would ensure you were rewarded for your efforts?” Sheila asked.

  “He did, but I’m not gonna ring him and say, ‘hey, where’s me money, you miserable old skinflint’.”

  “If he has a cheque for a couple of million, don’t forget who your friends are,” Brenda insisted.

  Joe waved a hand at the limousine. “This isn’t Sir Douglas. He drives a Rolls, not a Bentley, and he has a chauffeur. Dennis. He doesn’t drive it himself.”

  Both women stood alongside him, and they all watched as the driver climbed out, pulling up the hood of a dark cagoule.

  “Who is it then?” Brenda asked.

  “There’s only one man we know with a white Bentley,” Sheila said.

  Before she had time to say his name, the door opened and Gerard Vaughan walked in.

  Joe’s features coloured and his anger began to rise, but he was nowhere near as grim as Vaughan.

  “I thought I told you if you ever set foot in here, I’d mince you up and stick you in the pies.”

  Vaughan ignored the threat in Joe’s voice. “Do you know how much I loathe you, Murray?”

  “No, but don’t beat about the bush. Whatever’s on your mind, just say it.” Joe called over his shoulder. “Lee, throw this scum out.”

  “Coming, Uncle Joe.”

  “Stay where you are, you moron.” Vaughan’s words were aimed at Lee, and having delivered the order, he concentrated his venom on Joe. “For your information, Murray, Gleason Holdings has been taken over. Bought out, lock stock and barrel.”

  Joe applauded. “And you’re redundant, are you? Couldn’t have happened to nicer tosspot. If you’re looking for work, don’t come here.” He gestured around the cabin. “Thanks to you, we’re so busy, I’m struggling to find work for the four of us.”

  “No, I have not been made redundant. I have been kept on as managing director. I have, however, had clear orders from Ballantyne Investments, our new owners. This downmarket dump of yours will be offered a prime position in the new building when it’s completed in November. The contracts will be ready for signing the moment the builders hand over the new parade and you can expect to move in sometime in early December. And for the first two years, you’ll pay only sixty percent of the market rent. That’s to allow you time to rebuild your trade.”