by Tim Ellis
‘I have news,’ Pecker said.
‘Feel free to share it,’ Xena encouraged him.
‘We checked the database for registered firearms. Martin Boyd has three shotguns against his name, which are all secured in a gun cabinet located in a utility room off the kitchen.’
‘But one’s missing?’ Stick said.
‘No. We cross-referenced the serial numbers. All three were there and the cabinet was locked.’
‘He had one that was unregistered?’
Pecker shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s possible, but unlikely. The ammunition was in the cabinet as well. He kept a record of what he bought, what he used and why – it was all accounted for.’
Xena’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘In which case, where’s Boyd?’
Nobody said anything.
‘At least there’s an All Ports Warning out for him,’ Stick said.
‘A fat lot of good that will do if he’s being held hostage.’
Stick scratched his head. ‘But why?’
‘That’s what we need to find out.’ She glared at Pecker. ‘I want the game controller sitting on the boy’s lap downstairs swabbed for DNA and dusted for fingerprints, especially the “Pause” button.’
‘We can do that?’
‘Do you know where the “Pause” button is?’
‘It’s the “Start” button. When the controller is on . . .’
‘I don’t need a detailed explanation, Pecker.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Have you got the list of contacts yet?’
‘There are people . . .’
‘You’ve got fifteen minutes. After that I’ll replace you with a crash test dummy. Come on Stick, let’s go and talk to the donkeys. We’re bound to get more sense out of them.’
‘A random killer wouldn’t have brought a shotgun with him, would he?’ Stick said, as they made their way out of the house. ‘If he had, that would have been pre-meditated murder.’
‘Which pours water on your crazy idea.’
Before following the signs for the Donkey Sanctuary, they stopped off at the ambulance where Heidi Ledger was still sitting.
She was a plump young woman in her early twenties. Her dark hair had been fashioned into a mushroom-like stalk sprouting from the top of her head. She was wearing brown canvas trousers, boots and a brown sleeveless body-warmer.
‘Heidi Ledger?’ Xena said.
‘Yes.’ Her face was pale and her eyes were puffy.
She showed her Warrant Card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Blake, and this is Detective Sergeant Gilbert. ’You found Mrs Boyd in the kitchen?’
She burst into tears. ‘Yes.’
‘I know it was a terrible sight, and you’re clearly upset by what you saw, but I need to ask you some questions.’
‘Okay,’ she said, trying to stem the flow of tears.
‘What time did you arrive?’
‘About quarter to eight.’
‘Before or after?’
‘Just after.’
‘Then what?’
‘I went to the office, opened up and put my bag and coat in there.’
‘Did you see or hear anyone else?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘What?’
‘As I was driving down the lane, I had to pull over to let a black Range Rover, or something like that coming up from the house, pass by.’
‘A Range Rover?’
‘Well, it was black. The windows were blacked-out as well.’
‘Did you see the driver?’
‘Yes, but I was more concerned with getting Sydney – my new Fiat 500 – out of the way of the vehicle, so I couldn’t tell you what he looked like. I think he was wearing dark clothes and had dark hair . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be – you’re doing good so far. What about the registration number?’
‘The last three letters were KIM. I remember, because I was thinking that Kim – Kim Bradshaw who’s one of my trainees – would have liked that number plate.’
‘That really helps us. It would be good if you could remember what type of vehicle it was?’
‘I don’t know any others. Maybe if I saw pictures of them . . .?’
‘That’s a good idea, Heidi. We’ll ask one of our forensic officers to come out here and show you the different makes on an iPad to help you remember.’ She glanced at Stick. ‘Ring Pecker and organise it.’
He nodded and made the call.
‘Did Mr and Mrs Boyd both work on the farm?’ Xena asked while they were waiting.
‘Yes. Mr Boyd looked after the farm, the animals and so forth, while Mrs Boyd was in charge of the house, the small animals like the chicken and geese, and the Donkey Sanctuary.’
‘Does Mr Boyd employ any farm workers to help him with the farm?’
‘Yes. He has two workers – Eddie Hayes and Andy Scully.’
‘Any idea where we might find them?’
‘Mmmm! I think they’re in the east field repairing the fences. At least, that’s where they were yesterday.’
Stick went back to the house and arranged for two uniformed officers to locate Hayes and Scully and bring them to the house for questioning.
‘Thanks for your help, Heidi.’
Once the forensic officer had arrived with an iPad, Stick and Xena followed the signs to the Donkey Sanctuary.
‘Hello?’ a young woman of about eighteen said. ‘We’re closed . . .’
‘Kim Bradshaw?’
‘Yes.’
‘Heidi said you were here.’ Xena showed her Warrant Card. ‘We’d like to question the donkeys.’
‘I think you’d get more sense out of the alpacas, they’re much more intelligent.’
‘What about the Shetland ponies?’ Stick said.
‘Daft as a brush.’’
‘Lead the way,’ Xena said.
Kim led them along a path to the field where the animals were allowed to run free and gave them each a small bag of carrots.
The animals began shambling up to the place where they’d stopped.
A white donkey approached them first and stuck her nose over the fence.
Xena held out a carrot. As the donkey began crunching it, she stroked its head.
‘This is Missy,’ Kim said. ‘She likes to be first in the queue even if she is smaller than the boys.’ She pointed to a grey donkey. ‘That’s Pancho, and the brown one next to him with the white nose is called Pedro – those two are inseparable.’
Stick fed them each a carrot.
Kim began pointing to each of the donkeys in the field and introducing them ‘That’s Monty, Bitsy, Shortcut, Huckleberry, Burrito, Copper, Pebbles, Senorita, Pickle, Peanut . . .’
‘What about the llamas and the ponies?’ Stick said.
‘They’re a bit shy. Sometimes we can coax them up here with food, but not very often. We only have two Shetland ponies – Poppy and Murphy. You won’t find those two very far apart either. And we have six alpacas . . .’
Stick raised an eyebrow. ‘They’re not llamas?’
‘No.’ She laughed. ‘They’re called Kelvin and Liselle; Albert and Winnie; and Rudolph and Marshmallow. Everybody confuses them with llamas, but they’re alpacas. Alpacas have shorter pointed ears, a blunter face and are a couple of hundred pounds lighter We make quite a bit of money from their fleeces . . . Well, when I say “we” I mean Mrs Boyd . . . Oh!’ She burst into tears. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to the Donkey Sanctuary now. I love these animals – they’re like my own family. What will happen to the donkeys?’
Xena put an arm around Kim’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, I can’t imagine the bailiffs would take them down to the abattoir.’
Kim cried harder.
Stick said, ‘I’m sure the Donkey Sanctuary will remain just as it is. If Mr and Mrs Boyd’s relatives don’t take over the farm, it will be sold as a going concern. Nobody in their right mind would get rid of this lovely place.’
‘Do you really think so?�
�
‘Definitely.’
‘People sponsor the donkeys, you know,’ Kim said, drying her eyes. ‘Do you want to sponsor a donkey?’
‘I’m sure we’ll both sponsor a donkey, won’t we, Inspector Blake?’
She gave Stick the evil eye. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Which one would you like to sponsor? Do you want me to tell you their names again?’
Xena pulled a face. ‘We haven’t got time for that.’ She pointed at one with long whiskers, a white nose and what looked like a smile. ‘What’s his name?’
‘That’s Huckleberry.’
‘I’ll sponsor him.’
‘It’s only five pounds a month . . .’
‘FIVE pounds a month!’ Xena said ‘Fucking daylight robbery.’
Kim half-smiled. ‘You get a Donkey Sanctuary badge and a signed picture from Huckleberry as well.’
‘Signed! By Huckleberry?’
‘Well, we actually sign it for him . . .’
‘I would never have guessed.’
‘Yes, but it’ll really be from Huckleberry.’
‘I’m ecstatic.’
‘What about you, Sergeant?’
He pointed to a forlorn looking donkey at the back. ‘The dark brown one there, with the end of its left ear missing.’
‘That’s Pickle. She was seriously mistreated until the RSPCA rescued her and brought her to us. She doesn’t trust humans, and who can blame her?’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ Xena said.
Stick tried to call Pickle over for a carrot, but she wouldn’t approach.
‘It’ll take time, Sergeant. You’ll have to visit her regularly.’
‘We have to visit them?’ Xena said.
‘Well, you don’t have to, but these are your children now . . .’
‘Children! They’re donkeys for fuck’s sake.’
‘Donkeys who need loving parents.’
She glared at Stick. ‘This is your fault.’
‘Sorry,’ he said and grinned.
They followed Kim into the office, signed the Direct Debit forms, and were given the Donkey Sanctuary badges and signed colour photographs of Huckleberry and Pickle.
Chapter Five
He called Bronwyn.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ was her immediate response.
‘You want to be careful. I read an article once that suggested thinking was the root of all evil.’
‘That’s money.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll be all right then – we haven’t got any.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘I was speaking for the business.’
‘Which is exactly what I was thinking about.’
‘Go on?’
‘If you’re out investigating a case, which you mostly are, the office is closed. Thus, no clients and no money.’
‘That’s because, as I’ve explained to you on numerous occasions, I’m the only employee doing any work.’
‘We should employ someone to run the office.’
‘You could run the office.’
‘As the senior equal partner I feel it would be unseemly for me to be sitting in an office all day.’
‘Doing some work?’
‘If I’m stuck in the office who would come and rescue you?’
‘On the rare occasions I need rescuing you could shut the office.’
‘There you go. The object of employing a man in the office . . .’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What?’
‘A man!’
‘I think so.’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘That could be arranged.’
‘If we’re employing someone to run the office it’ll have to be a female.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Definitely.’
‘You won’t be distracted?’
‘How can I be distracted if I’m not here?’
‘That’s true. Okay, I’ll organise an advert in the local paper.’
‘And how are we going to pay this person?’
‘She’ll reel in the clients, which will cover the costs of employing her.’
‘You’re forgetting one thing.’
‘That’s unlikely.’
‘Let’s say this person reels in the clients, as you suggest, and we’re up to our necks in cases . . . Who do you see investigating them? As I’ve said on numerous occasions . . .’
‘Ah well! That’s where I come in.’
‘I was wondering when you’d make an appearance.’
‘Oh ye of little faith, Kowalski. I’ll manage your time using some free Time Management software I’ve been able to get my hands on.’
‘You’ll manage my time?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘There seems to be something wrong with the connection. I thought I heard you say . . .’
‘Listen Bronwyn, enough pussyfooting around. We’re either equal partners in this enterprise, or we’re not. If we are, then you get your arse down here and run the office, do the research, provide me with back-up, whatever. If you’re not prepared to do that . . . Well, I think we’ll go our separate ways.’
‘That’s how you feel, is it?’
‘Yes – that’s exactly how I feel.’
‘Do you want to know how I feel about how you feel?’
‘No. I’ll expect you here in the office by two o’clock. If you’re not here, then I’ll be the sole proprietor of Abacus Investigations and I won’t bother you again.’ He had nothing more to say, so he put the phone down.
It was true what she said though – they did need someone to run the office while he was out investigating cases, but why would they employ someone else to do that when Bronwyn was the ideal and obvious person? Although he’d joked that he was the one doing all the work – many a true word was said in jest, and this was a case in point.
Grabbing his coat he left the office, locked the door, and walked to his Volvo estate parked in a space further along the road. He was retired and could please himself what he did. If he wasn’t out investigating a case then he may as well fester on the sofa at home watching daytime television, or take up the Chief Constable’s offer to go back to his old job. But that was a time-limited offer, and it would also require him to sit behind a desk, which was something that he wasn’t prepared to do anymore.
He input the Bates-Belmont Accountants’ address in Ilford into his satnav and set off. It was a straightforward journey down the M11 that would take him around half an hour.
Yes, he’d made his mind up that Bronwyn needed to be in the office. When it came to background research she was certainly a cut above the rest, but she should be doing more than that. They were either equal partners, or they weren’t. If they were, then she had to fulfil her fifty percent obligation, or the partnership just wasn’t going to work.
With all the brouhaha he’d forgotten to ask her to do any damned research. He needed background information on Paige and Lester Belmont – telephone records, bank accounts, online activity – the whole works, but he wasn’t going to call her back cap-in-hand and ask her to do the research now. If she was in the office this afternoon, all well and good. If not . . . Well, he’d just have to make other arrangements.
The M11 was busy, but the traffic was moving at a rate of knots in the right direction, so he reached Ilford in the half hour suggested by his satnav. Once there, it didn’t take him long to find the building housing Bates-Belmont Accountants on Riverdene Road with a view from the back over the River Roding and the North Circular.
Jenny Bates was with a client when he arrived. He should have called ahead and made an appointment, but he hadn’t. As a DCI he’d expected her to drop everything and see him, but he wasn’t a DCI anymore. He was simply Ray Kowalski – Private Investigator – and had to get used to a new way of working.
The pretty young receptionist called Tiffany offered him a c
offee, which he accepted and then sat down in one of the three easy chairs in reception. Oh, to be so young again! Would he have done things any differently? No, he didn’t think so. He’d had a good life with Jerry – was still having a good life with her, and had four wonderful children and a mother-in-law. Maybe he’d have made less of a fool of himself on occasions, avoided a few self-inflicted embarrassing moments, chosen the high road instead of the low road at times. Overall though, he couldn’t complain.
‘Thank you,’ he said as Tiffany passed him the coffee in a white bone china cup and saucer. ‘So, what’s it like working here?’
She smiled, showing perfect teeth. ‘Are you like one of those mystery shoppers?’
He laughed. ‘I hate shopping.’
‘I love it. I could be a mystery shopper, but how you get one of those jobs is a mystery.’
‘I’m not far off being a mystery shopper though – I’m a private investigator.’
‘Really?’ She sat down on the arm of one of the easy chairs.
‘Yes.’
‘That would have been my second career choice.’
‘So, is working here as a receptionist your third career choice?’
‘Maybe my hundred and third career choice . . . You’re not going to tell Mrs Bates, are you?’
‘No. I’m here about Mrs Belmont.’
‘What’s she done?’
‘As far as I know she hasn’t done anything, but she’s missing, isn’t she?’
‘Is she? Mrs Bates just said she was on a leave of absence and to refer all Mrs Belmont’s clients to her.’
‘Maybe I’ve said too much. You won’t tell Mrs Bates, will you?’
Tiffany laughed again. ‘I’m the soul of discretion.’
‘What can you tell me about Mrs Belmont?’
She edged closer. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Any strange goings-on?’
‘Strange as in “out of the ordinary”?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mmmm! I don’t think so.’
‘What about last Wednesday or Thursday?’
‘Mmmm!’ She stood, went to the computer on her desk, printed something off and brought it over. ‘Here,’ she said, passing him the sheets of paper. ‘Mrs Belmont’s appointments for Wednesday and Thursday. You won’t tell Mrs Bates I gave them to you, will you?’