by Tim Ellis
‘You could be asking the very people who are involved to get involved.’
‘That’s the dilemma I’ve got.’
Chapter Eight
According to Traffic, the black Porsche Cayenne Turbo S: EF16 KIM was registered to a Raymond Lionel Parry of 3 Fern Close in Broxbourne, overlooking the Lee Valley Regional Park and the River Lee.
They’d stopped off to have lunch at The Farmer’s Boy, which was located on the corner of Brickendon Lane. It’s claim to fame was that it had appeared in an episode of the children’s television programme Catweazle in 1970.
‘Before my time,’ Stick said.
‘Do you think it was before my time, Stickleback?’
He stared at her for a handful of seconds. ‘I would say so.’
Xena’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s forty-six years between 1970 and now. Also, to be able to have watched the programme, a person would need to have been at least five years old in 1970, which would make the said person fifty-one now – give or take a year or two. Do I look fifty-one years old, numpty?’
‘I have no idea what fifty-one looks like, so I have no point of reference.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-oneish.’
‘Do I look twenty years older than you?’
‘Absolutely not. Maybe twenty years younger.’
‘That would make me eleven years old.’
‘I’m not very good with ages.’
‘You’re fucking rubbish with ages. Right . . .’
‘So, how old are you?’
‘Are you crazy? If you want to live until the morning, you never ask a woman her age. How old do you think I am?’
‘What do you want for lunch?’
‘Wise decision, numpty. Are you paying?’
‘It goes without saying.’
‘Then I’ll have the grilled rib-eye.’
‘I think I’ll have the roast saddle of deer.’
They sat down with their drinks at a table not far from the open log fire and shed their coats.
‘So, tell me about you being a farmer’s boy,’ Xena said.
‘There’s not much to tell. My parents thought it would put some muscle on me . . .’
‘That clearly didn’t work.’
‘No. I did the usual things: Milked the goats; fed and watered the chickens; collected the eggs; brushed the goats; bottle-fed some of the baby animals; kept the goat and chicken pens in good condition to prevent the predators getting to them at night; raked up the leaves and branches; brushed the yard; watered the garden; harvested the fruit and vegetables; shovelled the snow in winter; painted fences; milked cows; cleaned and organised the tools; scrubbed and cleaned the animal feeders; helped to deliver the baby animals . . .’
‘Did you get paid?’
‘No.’
‘Sounds like slave labour to me.’
‘Money isn’t everything.’
‘Says the person who has lots of it.’
‘Working on a farm taught me many things, especially the love of animals. And when I had time, I began to carve some of those animals from old bits of wood.’
‘Sounds like you enjoyed it.’
‘In a way – I did. It was hard work, and I was exhausted at the end of each day. At the time, I thought I was being punished, but I look back now and believe it made me the person I am today.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, your parents did a pretty good job in making a man out of you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t get me wrong – you’re still a rubbish partner and an even worse detective.’
‘Very kind.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
When they arrived at Ray Parry’s address, they were met with closed electronic gates and a CCTV camera.
Stick had to get out of the car to press a button on an intercom system.
‘Yes?’
‘Detective Sergeant Gilbert and Detective Inspector Blake from Hoddesdon Police Station to see Mr Parry.’
‘Got an appointment?’
Xena shouted, ‘Open the fucking gates before I call in the Drug Squad, Immigration Control, the Fraud Squad, an armed support unit and . . .’
The gates began to open.
‘Bastards,’ Xena said, as Stick climbed back into the Lexus. ‘You need to be more forceful.’
‘I would have exhausted diplomatic channels before sending in the heavy mob.’
‘Fuck diplomacy. These cockroaches with money and secret handshakes think they own the place. Well, I’ve made it my mission in life to exterminate them.’
‘Did you know that cockroaches are prehistoric and can survive a nuclear holocaust?’
‘That’s not even vaguely interesting.’
‘Oh, okay!’
The Georgian country house must have had at least eight bedrooms. Wisteria clung to the lower half of the red brick building and had begun to creep up the corner of the brickwork towards the slate roof where tall chimney stacks rose above the apex at either end. There were six sash windows with matching dormer windows jutting out from the roof, a granny annexe on the side with its own entrance and a number of outbuildings.
‘Impressive,’ Stick said.
Xena made an unladylike noise with her mouth. ‘You’re easily impressed – the place is a dump.’
Before Stick could bang the brass lion’s head knocker the door opened.
‘Mister Parry will see you now,’ a middle-aged woman in a maid’s outfit said.
‘Damned right he will,’ Xena responded, climbing the three steps and walking through the door into the lobby. ‘Either that, or we’ll arrest him and lock him in a cell for twenty-four hours.’
There was a Persian rug covering the centre of the parquet floor, which appeared to match the carpet running up the wide stairs. An elaborately carved banister followed the curve of the stairs and the wood panelling as they disappeared round a corner. The pictures on the walls appeared to be originals.
The maid led them along the hallway to a study that also had a parquet floor. One wall was taken up by an enormous mahogany bookcase with integral writing desk incorporating an array of small drawers, cupboards and shelves. Another wall had an ornate marble fireplace, family photographs, portraits and more original-looking paintings. There were other items of mahogany furniture dotted around the room, as well as a corner full of musical instruments, which included a harp, two electric guitars and a violin.
A man pushed himself up from a chair behind a desk that was positioned in front of a large Georgian bay window. He was wearing the waistcoat and trousers from a worsted suit, a checked shirt and tie and looked like a country gentleman.
‘Always pleased to help the police with their enquiries. Can I offer you refreshments?’
‘No, thank you,’ Xena said.
‘As you wish.’ He indicated seats around an occasional table. ‘Please, sit down.’ He came to join them. ‘How can I be of assistance?’
Xena had decided she didn’t like Parry. ‘You went to see Mr and Mrs Boyd at Hilltop Farm in Brickendon this morning at seven-thirty?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘About what?’
‘I’m afraid that’s confidential.’
‘Nothing is confidential during a murder investigation, Mr Parry.’
‘A murder investigation?’
‘Well?’
‘I buy and sell property. Mr and Mrs Boyd had made an initial enquiry about selling their farm.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Not long . . . Maybe fifteen minutes. To be perfectly honest, what I had to tell them could have been communicated over the telephone, but I’m an old-fashioned type of chap – I like to deal with clients face-to-face.’
‘What did you have to tell them?’
‘They were disappointed with my offer. I don’t know for certain, but I had the feeling that they’d over-extended themselves – financially speaking, of course. My understanding was that they were hoping
to sell up, pay off their debts and walk away with a substantial profit. Unfortunately, now is not the time to be selling property. A year ago, their plan might have worked, but now we’re verging on a recession. The impending referendum result has created uncertainty in the market and changed the property landscape significantly.’
‘So you couldn’t help them?’
‘Not in the way they wanted.’
‘Do you own a shotgun?’
‘Doesn’t every English gentleman?’
‘Registered?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where do you keep it?’
‘Them – I have three shotguns. All are secured in a metal gun cabinet as required by law.’
‘In the house?’
‘Bolted to the wall just before entering the kitchen.’
‘And when did you last fire any of them?’
‘I’m a pheasant man myself. Do you shoot?’
‘Only humans who shoot at us first. Answer the question, Mr Parry.’
‘Last month I spent a long weekend between the 22nd and 25th at Pentillie Castle in St Mellion, Cornwall. Excellent shoot, wonderful hospitality, bagged a good few birds, had a spiffing time. Of course, that’s it until October now when the pheasant-shooting season opens again – sadly, the season closed on February 1st.’
‘So, you’re telling us that Mr and Mrs Boyd and their three children were still alive when you left this morning?’
Parry’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s this about, Inspector?’
‘Mrs Boyd and the three children were murdered this morning between six and eight o’clock, and Mr Boyd is missing.’
‘Goodness me! I imagine that the reason you’re asking about my shotguns is that . . .?’
‘If you didn’t kill them Mr Parry, then you were the last person to see them alive.’
‘I definitely didn’t kill anybody, Inspector. So, whoever did kill them would have been the last person to see the Boyds alive.’
‘How did Melissa and Martin appear to you?’
‘You mean – did they appear normal?’
‘Yes.’
‘They seemed fine to me.’
‘Forensics will need to inspect your shotguns.’ She nodded at Stick, who called Peckham to send someone to take Parry’s shotguns into custody.
‘Of course. I have nothing to hide. The shooting season is closed, so it’s a good time to have your guns inspected by the police.’
‘Did you hear or see anyone other than the Boyds?’
Parry shook his head. ‘I didn’t see any of the children either, just Martin and Melissa. Oh! I did see a young woman in a dinky little light-green car driving down the lane towards the farm. I’m afraid I made her pull in, because the lane isn’t wide enough for two cars.’
‘What about any other vehicles?’
‘It really was a flying visit. I do, however, recall parking next to a dark green Land Rover, which I believe belongs to Martin Boyd.’
Xena glanced at Stick.
Stick pulled a face.
Neither of them had seen a Land Rover – dark green or otherwise.
‘You’re not planning to leave the country are you, Mr Parry?’
‘No.’
‘We might want to talk to you again.’
‘I’m at your disposal, Inspector.’
‘Thank you for seeing us.’
‘My civic duty.’
They began making their way out.
‘Nice house you have here by the way,’ Xena threw over her shoulder.
‘It keeps us warm in the winter.’
As they were driving out through the electronic gates Stick said, ‘I thought you said the house was a dump.’
‘And I meant every word of it. I was simply being polite, which is half good manners and half good lying.’
‘You’re certainly a good liar.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘What about the manners?’
‘What about them?’
‘Are they good as well?’
‘As well as what?’
‘Pull in up here,’ she said, pointing to a small lay-by.
He pulled in. ‘Are you going to kill me and dispose of my body?’
‘Maybe later. For now, call Pecker again. Find out where the Land Rover is. If it’s not there, where is it? And have they included the details of the vehicle in the APW?’
Stick called Peckham again, spoke for a handful of minutes and then ended the call. ‘He says that the Land Rover isn’t there, nobody’s seen it and yes it was included in the APW.’
Xena stared out of the window at the trees swaying in the wind and then said, ‘Let’s say that Mr Parry left at seven forty-five this morning and the Boyds were still alive. Heidi Ledger saw Parry leaving, so he has a witness. Let’s also say that he didn’t kill Mrs Boyd and the three children . . .’
‘I’d go along with that,’ Stick nodded. ‘I don’t think that Mr Parry murdered the Boyd family.’
‘Okay. So Heidi parked her car up, put her coat and bag in the office at the Donkey Sanctuary and then went to the farmhouse to see Melissa Boyd at around eight o’clock . . .’
‘If we believe her?’
‘There’s no reason not to – she’s a credible witness. When she got to the kitchen, Melissa Boyd was already dead. That leaves roughly a fifteen-minute window of opportunity between Parry leaving and Heidi arriving, for the killer to shoot Melissa Boyd and her three children.’
‘It’s possible . . .’ Stick hesitated.
‘If you’ve got something to say – say it, numpty.’
‘I’m wondering if the killer was still somewhere in the farmhouse when Heidi entered the kitchen.’
‘An interesting idea, but what about Martin Boyd – where was he? Admittedly, Heidi didn’t go anywhere else in the house, but ran back to the Donkey Sanctuary office and called the police.’
‘Mmmm! It’s looking more and more as if Martin Boyd killed his own family, isn’t it?’
‘I’d say so. I mean, let’s hypothesise that a killer carrying a shotgun did wander in with the early morning mist, he’d have had only fifteen minutes to incapacitate Martin Boyd and then shoot Melissa and the three children. Not only that, he’d have had to move Martin Boyd. I don’t see how anyone would have had enough time to do all of that.’
‘No other bloodstains were found, so Martin Boyd wasn’t shot and then moved, and he didn’t crawl away injured.’
‘So we’re agreed – Martin Boyd is our main suspect?’
‘Yes, but there’s another possibility.’
‘Is it me, or are you becoming a half-decent detective?’
‘I try.’
‘What’s this other possibility you’ve concocted then?’
‘Another person could have arrived with the early morning mist carrying a shotgun, but he was there with Martin Boyd’s blessing.’
Xena’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘That would certainly explain the whole shooting match, Stickamundo.’
***
Paige Belmont had visited the first client on her list – Bowden-Kady Precision Engineering – and left. He looked at the appointment list and keyed in the postcode for the second client into his satnav, which informed him that it would take him thirty-eight minutes to reach his destination. He set off in the direction the satnav was pointing.
Bronwyn was in the office, which was good news. When she was doing her own thing, he’d felt as though he was running Abacus Investigations on his own. And if she was going to lounge about in her squat in Highgate doing what she wanted when she wanted, then he may as well be a sole proprietor. He understood that she was a free spirit and didn’t really want a conventional job, but she’d been the one to suggest a partnership. He’d been happy enough to retire and put his feet up in the full knowledge that he’d probably be dead within ten years if he did, but who wanted to grow old and decrepit anyway?
The answer seemed simple to him – she had to m
ove closer to the office. She wouldn’t like it. She’d kick and scream like a banshee, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d see that it made sense – eventually. He’d had to make adjustments to accommodate his new life, now it was her turn.
Following the A13 all the way, he arrived at the Chocoholics factory on the Ilford Trading Estate in Basildon. He parked in a spot reserved for “Visitors”. Climbing out of the car, he hoped he wouldn’t have to wear a hairnet to talk to someone.
The factory seemed to be in three sections – a two-storey building with the reception on the ground floor and a long row of opaque windows on the second floor; a connecting tunnel-like building with a glass roof that led to the third section; which was a warehouse where, presumably, the chocolates were made.
A young man was sitting behind a counter in the main reception, which always surprised him. Ninety-nine percent of the time the receptionist was a female – young, pretty, polite, well-dressed – that’s what people expected to see. Lasting impressions were formed based on the first person you met in a business, which made him think about Bronwyn with her piercings, over-the-top make-up, spiked dog-choker and her unconventional dress-sense. They’d never get any clients if she came to work looking like that. And maybe she would – just to make a point.
‘Yeah?’ the young man said. He had dry, wiry hair; acne on his cheeks; yellowing teeth; a shirt that was two neck sizes too big and a tie that had probably been stolen from a charity shop.
‘I’d like to speak to the managing director, please.’
‘Managing director!’ He looked down at a stapled sheet of paper and began turning the pages. ‘I don’t think we’ve got one of those.’
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Ah! That’ll be Mrs Frampton.’
‘Would it be possible to speak to her?’
‘You got an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘Suppose I’d better call her then.’ He picked up the phone and dialled an internal extension number. ‘That you, Mrs Frampton? . . . Yeah, you’re who I wanted . . . What? . . . Oh yeah . . . Got a bloke down here who wants to see you . . . Just a minute.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘What’s your name, Mister?’
‘Ray Kowalski. I’m a private investigator.’