Adam’s thumbs moved to the base of her spine, and she groaned.
‘Told you,’ he said. ‘Physio for you as soon as you can.’
He patted her arms, then kissed her hair before moving to the back door.
‘How are the chickens settling in?’ she said, turning in her seat.
‘Happier.’ He smiled. ‘Hopefully within a week or so they’ll perk up a bit more. They need to start growing some more feathers before the cooler weather comes.’
Picking up the sack of corn he’d opened, he disappeared from sight. Moments later, Kay could hear him talking to the chickens as he tossed a couple of handfuls of the food into the caged pen and then locked them away for the evening, safe from harm.
She grinned as he returned. ‘Have you given them names?’
‘I might have done,’ he said, a sheepish expression crossing his face before he too broke into a grin. ‘Yes, all right – I did. I kind of felt sorry for them not having names. It makes it feel like they’re pets from now on.’
‘You won’t be giving them up for adoption at this rate.’
Adam winked, and ran water into a glass jug before heading back outside.
Kay picked up her phone, made sure there were no new messages, and then pushed it aside and rose from her seat. She busied herself sorting through the post that had been delivered that morning, threw all the advertising circulars into the recycling box under the sink, and then slid a notebook towards her and jotted down a reminder for supplies from the supermarket later that week.
By the time Adam had finished outside, she felt she’d at least organised one aspect of her life – even if her workplace was like a disaster zone.
Adam locked the back door, then turned to her with a frown on his face. ‘I forgot to tell you – sorry – your parents phoned.’
‘Everything all right?’ Kay heard the fear in her voice, and bit her lip.
‘Nothing to worry about. They were just calling to let me know what time they were planning to get here tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Shit, I’d forgotten about that.’
Kay returned to her bar stool and twirled her wine glass in a pool of condensation. Months before, her father had been rushed into hospital, subsequently having a pacemaker fitted.
He’d undergone a series of appointments with specialists over the course of spring and early summer before receiving his consultant’s blessing not to return for more check-ups for another six months. He’d been ecstatic, promptly booking a two-week holiday in France – even if he’d had to agree to Kay’s mother taking some of the driving responsibilities.
Kay had been terrified when his condition had first been diagnosed, but his steady recovery had made her realise that he was going to enjoy the new lease of life he’d been given.
His condition had also served to bring Kay and her mother closer together.
Her mother had never been happy with her choice of career, and after finding out that a wrongful Professional Standards investigation had led to Kay having a miscarriage that meant she could no longer have children, she’d been inconsolable. They’d been estranged for almost two years before Kay’s father had nearly died.
‘Kay? You okay?’
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. ‘Sorry. Yes. Just thinking.’
Adam smiled, then turned his attention to the open refrigerator door. ‘Do you think you could manage something a bit more substantial tonight? I’ve got some tuna steaks in here that need eating up. I could do them with a salad and some new potatoes.’
‘Sounds perfect, thanks.’ She stifled a yawn.
‘Heard that.’
‘You think I’m bad – you should’ve heard Gavin this afternoon. I think Barnes has banned him from drinking coffee. It’s not working well.’
‘I can’t imagine what it must be like in that incident room at the moment,’ said Adam, seasoning the steaks and warming olive oil in a pan.
‘You’re right – it’s not good. Especially with the realisation that it was Alice’s father who was the victim.’ Kay shivered. ‘What sort of person kills their brother?’
‘Do you think he did it?’
‘I don’t know. He’s certainly our main suspect until we can start piecing together all the information we’ve got about the pair of them.’
‘Are you in early tomorrow?’
‘Yes. I thought I might set the alarm and go in an hour before I’m due, just so I can have a read through some of the new reports before we have the morning briefing and get a handover from Sharp.’
‘Don’t forget we were going to take your mum and dad to Elizabeth’s grave tomorrow afternoon. They wanted to leave some flowers.’
She folded her arms on the worktop and frowned. ‘I should phone Mum. Cancel. They’ll be home quicker anyway if they don’t divert here first, and it’ll save them the expense of staying at the motel. The spare room’s a tip at the moment – I’ve been sorting through all those boxes of books and stuff I was going to donate.’
‘You’ll only make her worry. She wants to spend the time with you. She’ll be even more determined to come here if you try to put her off.’
Kay exhaled. ‘I hate it when you’re right.’
Twenty-Four
Carys groaned as a red warning light flashed on the printer and the machine ground to a halt.
She slapped the documents she’d been clutching into the output tray, and then walked across to Debbie’s desk and located the keys for the stationery cupboard. Out in the corridor, she grabbed two reams of paper before returning the keys and scribbling a note to the police constable to let her know what had been taken.
Debbie West had a reputation for guarding the stationery supplies better than the Federal Reserve at Fort Knox, and Carys didn’t want to fall into her bad books.
She stuffed some of the paper into the printer tray, and then stood back as the machine whirred to life and went back to reading the report as the remaining pages emerged.
Before leaving for the night, Kay had requested that Carys take a closer look at Robert Victor’s employers. Unimpressed at the company’s laid-back attitude with regard to providing information, the DI had decided that an audit of the company’s public financial records and day-to-day activities be added to the lines of enquiry that the team were pursuing.
Grateful that she had some experience working with a forensic investigator in a previous case, Carys found she was actually enjoying reading through the information.
Wandering back to her desk, her eyes glued to the page, she pulled out her chair and sank into it while she finished the report.
The company had celebrated its first decade of trading the previous year, and Carys found a series of press releases on its website extolling its successes.
Originally set up in the kitchen of its owner’s home, the wine merchant had won favourable contracts with some of the finest boutique vineyards on the Continent in a short space of time.
A photograph of the owner showed Kenneth Archerton as a sixty-something man with tanned features, the skin at his eyes crinkling as he posed for the camera with a glass of red wine in his hand.
Dressed in a chambray shirt open at the collar and dark-blue jeans, he leaned nonchalantly against an upright oak barrel beside lush green vines.
A light breeze had caught his hair when the photograph had been taken against the setting sun, the effect giving him a rakish look.
‘Is that the owner?’ said Laura as she walked behind Carys’s chair.
‘Yes. Kenneth Archerton.’
‘He looks pleased with himself.’
‘Probably making a small fortune.’
‘Nice to see someone doing well. It’s not easy running a business these days, is it?’
‘True.’
Carys lowered her gaze to her work once more. Typing the company name into the Companies House website, she located the recent balance sheet submitted for the business and made a note of the current assets and liabilities.
Laura’s passing comment wasn’t far from the truth – Kenneth Archerton was doing extremely well.
She moved through the available reports on the website, and made a note of the progress of the business. Archerton had had a rough start, setting up the wine merchants a few months after the financial crisis that had struck businesses at a worldwide level. He had been frugal, though, always making sure his liabilities were managed. Then, five years ago, his business had surged forward.
Carys closed the Companies House details and went back to the wine merchant’s webpage.
She continued scrolling through the brief history of the company set out beside Kenneth’s photograph, noting that he had turned his love for wine into a business after being made redundant from his role within a financial insurance brokerage firm.
‘“It was my wife’s idea,” he said. “She told me if I wanted to continue drinking the vintages I enjoyed, then I’d better find a new job”.’
Carys smiled at the clever branding. Bringing his wife and a little humour into the official biography lent a softer approach to an otherwise dry business proposition for suppliers and clients alike.
None of his staff members were mentioned on the website – a simple contact page provided a form that could be completed in lieu of an email address, as well as a main telephone number. The physical office address had been replaced with a post office box number, and Carys assumed that it wasn’t the sort of business that encouraged its customers to call in.
Kenneth Archerton intrigued her though, and after pushing the reports to one side, she typed his name into a search engine.
A list of results was displayed within seconds, and she scrolled down until she found articles from local newspaper sites.
The first two links she clicked were stories based on press releases about new deals Archerton had secured for the business. The language used was dry, full of corporate speak, and accompanied by the same confidently posed photograph used on his website.
Carys close the tabs and scrolled further through the search results.
She ignored the listings relating to the company’s social media pages, but stopped when she spotted an article posted by the Kentish Times the previous Christmas.
Wine merchants celebrate another successful year in style.
Carys skimmed the report, a puff piece about Kenneth’s ongoing success, support for local charities, and a burgeoning list of clients and lucrative deals.
She yawned, moved the mouse to close the page, and then stopped as her eyes fell upon the photograph of Archerton with some of his staff, all raising their glasses to the camera. Each of their names had been printed below the image.
A familiar face stared at her from the screen.
‘What the hell?’
Laura looked up from her work. ‘What’s up?’
Carys jabbed her finger at her computer screen, her heart racing. ‘Robert Victor’s boss – Kenneth Archerton – is his father-in-law. Why didn’t Annette tell us?’
Twenty-Five
Carys rapped her knuckles against the door, and then pressed the doorbell for good measure.
Footsteps echoed on the other side before Hazel wrenched it open, her face concerned.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Where’s Annette?’ said Carys, and stomped over the threshold. ‘I need to speak to her.’
‘Hang on.’ Hazel closed the door. ‘You can’t speak to her given the mood you’re in. What’s up?’
Carys took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Rummaging in her bag, she drew out a copy of the newspaper article and handed it to the FLO.
‘This.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Hazel’s eyes widened.
‘That’s what I said. Has she said anything to you about her father?’
‘Nothing, no. She spoke with him earlier today after DI Hunter left, but she didn’t mention anything about Robert being employed by him.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘No, not at all. Maybe she assumed we knew?’
Carys wrinkled her nose. ‘Bit of a long shot.’
‘What about her mother – has she mentioned her?’
‘Died a few years ago, she said. ‘Are you all right now? Calmed down a bit?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
Hazel smiled. ‘I’d have been pissed off too, don’t worry. She’s out in the garden, on the patio. I just made myself a cup of tea. Do you want one?’
‘I’m good, thanks.’ Carys wandered through to the kitchen and then opened the back door.
She found herself on a wide-tiled patio that wrapped around the back of the house, screened on all sides by shrubs that provided privacy from the neighbouring properties.
A purple-blue twilight hugged the evening sky, the sun shredding clouds to pink and yellow tones on the horizon, and Carys lifted her chin to watch a lone passenger jet carve a vapour trail over the house. In another garden beyond the Victors’ house, a family were being called in by their father, the desperation in his voice palpable.
She wondered how many other parents were keeping a close eye on their children tonight, perhaps double-checking the locks on the doors before heading to bed themselves.
Alice’s disappearance had torn a gaping hole through the community, and she wondered if they would recover – or remain paranoid forever.
Annette sat with her back to her, and Carys detected a whiff of nicotine before noticing the tell-tale wisp of smoke above the woman’s head.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Victor?’
Annette spun around in her seat, her mouth open. ‘Christ – you made me jump.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Carys held out her warrant card and introduced herself. ‘Could I join you? I have a few questions I’d like to ask as part of our ongoing investigation into Alice’s disappearance.’
‘Sit down.’ Annette gestured to a matching wicker chair beside her before picking up a glass of red wine and taking a sip. She grimaced, then took another drag on the cigarette before coughing. ‘I don’t usually smoke. These are – were – Robert’s. He thought I didn’t know he smoked. I found these stuffed at the back of his desk drawer earlier. I thought it might calm my nerves. He always told me that he only smoked because it helped him relax.’
Carys placed her bag on the paving stones as she eased into her seat, taking a moment to observe her.
The woman seemed shrivelled within her clothing, a tiny frame swamped within the folds of a thin cashmere jumper and jeans. Chipped nail varnish stained toes that poked out from tan leather sandals, and she’d tied her hair back into a loose ponytail that cast stray strands around her face and ears.
Annette turned to her with red-rimmed eyes that were slightly unfocused. ‘What did you want to ask me?’
‘I’d like to know more about Robert’s work. How long had he been at the wine merchants?’
‘Six years.’
Carys frowned, but before she could do the maths in her head, Annette spoke again.
‘I met him there. Bumped into him – literally.’
‘Oh?’
Annette shuffled in her seat, put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled. ‘I was helping out for a few weeks there, admin stuff and the like while one of the personal assistants was away on holiday. Robert crashed into me while I was carrying a pile of new brochures that had just arrived. They went everywhere. He offered to buy me a drink after work to apologise.’
‘You didn’t take on a permanent job there?’
The woman choked out a bitter laugh, smoke spilling between her lips. ‘God, no. Not my thing.’ She contemplated her toenails, her mouth downturned. ‘No, I wanted to do something different. And then I fell pregnant with Alice a few months later. Robert was his ever charming self about it and immediately asked me to marry him.’
Carys reached into her bag and pulled out the photocopied newspaper clipping. ‘Why didn’t you tell us your father was Robert’s boss?’
Annette ran her eyes over the photograph, but she
didn’t reach out for it.
A single tear ran over her cheek as she dabbed the paper tissue to her nose. ‘I’m sorry – I wasn’t thinking. I was so upset about Alice, and then Robert, that it didn’t occur to me.’
Carys bit back the reply that entered her head, and waited while the woman regained her composure before continuing her questioning.
‘Did your father and Robert get along?’
‘Yes, I think so. I never heard them arguing. Dad dotes on Alice.’ She sat straighter. ‘He says he wants her to take over the business one day – he’s already putting aside money for her to go to university.’
Annette blinked, then turned her attention away from the photograph.
Carys folded it away.
‘How much involvement does your father have in the business?’ she said as she zipped up her handbag.
‘Not so much these days. He probably goes in a couple of mornings a week. He tends to work from home.’ She flicked ash from the end of the cigarette before taking another drag. ‘He isn’t very well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Annette shrugged, then stubbed out the cigarette on the sole of her shoe and placed the butt next to her wineglass. ‘He went downhill earlier this year. Took weeks for a diagnosis because he refused to go and see a doctor. Typical man, right?’
Carys didn’t answer.
‘Anyway, he came back from an appointment with his doctor in late March, and told us he had MS – multiple sclerosis. He’s seeing a specialist up in Manchester– some sort of new-fangled treatment offered by a clinic he found. I don’t think he has a lot of faith in what the doctors down here are telling him. Some days are worse than others, so I think that’s why he prefers to work from home.’ She shook her head, sadness in her eyes. ‘Dad sees it as a weakness. He thinks if his staff see him like that, they’ll worry what will become of the business and leave. He doesn’t want to lose them – he’s got good people working for him.’
Cradle to Grave Page 10