There is no Fear in Love: (Parish & Richards #20)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Try it and see.’

  He pressed HOME and said, ‘Peter Peckham.’

  The phone called the number.

  ‘Well, I never.’

  ‘Put the loudspeaker on.’

  He did as she instructed.

  ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ Peckham called.

  ‘Oh sorry,’ Stick responded. ‘The DI was telling me about holding down the HOME button and . . .’

  ‘You didn’t know about that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve not taken the test, have you?’

  ‘I didn’t even know there was a test.’

  ‘You shouldn’t even have a phone if you haven’t passed the test.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Anyway, were you just practising using the button by calling me?’

  ‘No, no. The DI wants the name and address of the Boyds’ doctor, solicitor and bank.’

  ‘One minute, I think we’ve got that somewhere . . .’ There was silence at the other end and then, ‘Yes. Do you have a pen and paper ready?’

  Stick looked at Xena who stared back at him. He put the phone on the dashboard, took out his notebook and pen, and said, ‘Okay?’ He wrote down the names, addresses and postcodes as Pecker said them. ‘Thanks. The DI said thanks as well.’

  ‘She did?’

  Xena opened her mouth to respond, but he ended the call.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘You’re thankful he gave us the names and addresses, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why would I be? He was doing what he was paid to do.’

  ‘People like to feel that they’re appreciated.’

  ‘People! You mean you? It’s all about you, isn’t it? You think I don’t appreciate you, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Damned right it hasn’t. You can take it as read that if you still have a job, then I appreciate you. Only needy high-maintenance people want to be told continually how wonderful they are. Are you one of those needy high-maintenance people, numpty?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. And don’t say thank you for me again. If you do, you might find yourself out of a needy high-maintenance job – capisce?’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Excellent. Right, where to first?’

  ‘The solicitor?’

  ‘Okay. Where does he live?’

  ‘He is a she. We’re nearly there – 50 Park Lane. Attwaters, Clements & Townsend. Their solicitor is called Margaret Clements.’

  ‘Wake me when we get there.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Stick pulled back out onto Broxbourne High Road and headed towards Park Lane.

  She reclined the seat, stretched out her legs and closed her eyes. What the fuck was going on? They kept oscillating between Martin Boyd being a victim one minute and their main suspect the next. Did he kill his whole family? Was Ray Parry’s valuation what tipped him over the edge? Statistically, the husband and father was the most likely culprit, but she wasn’t convinced. He had his own shotguns – why hadn’t he used one of those? Where was he now? The final act in the tragedy was for him to have turned the gun on himself – had he lost his courage? If he had, why take the murder weapon and Land Rover? Why not sit down and wait for the police? It was possible he wanted armed officers to kill him – suicide by proxy. If that was the case, surely he’d want to be found. Why drive off and hide?

  ‘We’re here,’ Stick said, shaking her.

  ‘Why do you feel it necessary to poke and prod me? I’m surprised I have any clothes left on.’

  ‘I never would.’

  ‘I can see your slobbery mouth moving Stickynuts, but your little piggy eyes tell me something else. Just because Jenifer is withholding her sexual favours, don’t think I’m going to act as a surrogate.’

  ‘Should we go?’

  ‘That’s why you woke me up, isn’t it?’

  They made their way up the stairs of an impressive Victorian building that appeared to have been two semi-detached houses, but had long ago been converted into a single commercial property.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’ the young receptionist behind the counter asked Stick. According to her name badge she was called Hayley.

  He produced his Warrant Card. ‘Detective Sergeant Gilbert and Detective Inspector Blake from Hoddesdon Police Station. We’d like to see Mrs Clements, please.’

  Hayley smiled. ‘Don’t call her Mrs for goodness sake – it’s Ms Clements, and I’m sorry but she’s with a client for the next forty minutes.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Setting her jaw hard, Xena barged Stick out of the way, narrowed her eyes and leaned towards Hayley. ‘We’ll call Mrs Clements anything we damn well like, and if it hasn’t registered yet – we’re the police investigating a murder. So go and tell Mrs Clements that we’d like to talk to her now, not in forty minutes. The client she’s with can wait – we can’t. Of course, we could always arrest you and her for interfering in an active police investigation, which will involve fingerprinting, DNA samples, strip searches . . .’

  Hayley stood up. ‘I’ll go and see if Ms Clements can see you now.’

  Xena smiled. ‘Very kind.’ After Hayley had disappeared down a corridor, she looked at Stick. ‘Anything to say on the matter?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Wise decision, dipstick.’ She grunted. ‘Do you like that, diplomatic Stick – dipstick?’

  ‘Very droll.’

  ‘I’m not just a pretty face, you know.’

  ‘I’ve always known that.’

  Hayley returned, followed by a man in his seventies dressed in a suit who threw a look of disgust at them and muttered something about a police state. ‘Ms Clements will see you now.’

  ‘Co-operation costs nothing,’ Xena said to the receptionist. ‘You now know what to do the next time the police come calling, don’t you?’

  Hayley smiled, but kept her thoughts to herself. She led them along the corridor down to an office with an oversized dark wood door, which was standing ajar. Using the large brass doorknob, she opened the door wider and ushered them inside. ‘The police officers, Ms Clements.’

  ‘Thank you, Hayley,’ the woman behind the desk said. She was in her late forties with short black back-combed hair parted on the left, large pearl earrings and plucked eyebrows that seemed odd in some way, but Xena couldn’t quite put her finger on the oddity. Maybe one was higher than the other, or shorter, or a different shape . . .

  The door closed behind them.

  Ms Clements looked at Stick. ‘Now that you’ve got my attention Inspector, what do you want?’

  Stick grinned.

  ‘I’m the Detective Inspector, Mrs Clementine.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. And it’s . . .’

  ‘We’re here about the murders of Melissa Boyd and her three children,’ Xena said as she sat in one of the two chairs in front of the solicitor’s desk.

  ‘Dear God! Surely not?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The Boyds are your clients, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are, yes. What about Martin Boyd?’

  ‘Missing.’

  ‘Surely you don’t think . . .?’

  ‘We’ve come here to acquire information, not give it out. When was the last time you saw either Melissa or Martin?’

  ‘I’m afraid . . .’

  ‘If you’re going to spout Legal Professional Privilege at me you can grab your bag and coat and we’ll go down to the station. I have a special room there for torturing solicitors who use LPP to obstruct my investigations.’

  The corner of Clements’ mouth creased upwards. ‘You know you can’t do that, Inspector. The information you’re asking for doesn’t fall within the Proceeds of Crime Act 2002, and you don’t work for the National Crime Agency.’

  ‘No, I don’t, Mrs Clementine, but I’m the type of person who buys now and pays later. Well?’

  ‘Mrs B
oyd came to see me on Wednesday of last week.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Divorcing her husband.’

  Xena glanced at Stick. There was the motive for murder, but why kill the children? ‘And?’

  ‘I explained that there was a conflict of interest, because they were both clients. As such, I couldn’t act in the best interest of both her and her husband, which meant I couldn’t offer her any advice. I gave her the name of a divorce solicitor. That was the best I could do under the circumstances.’

  ‘What was the name of the solicitor?’

  ‘Helen Hunter at Hunter-Burton Solicitors on the High Street in Hoddesdon.’

  ‘No visits from Martin Boyd?’

  She went to a filing cabinet, withdrew a folder, ran her finger down a card list stapled to the inside front cover of the file and said, ‘I saw Martin last September, he was concerned about the viability of the farm following an EU Referendum result that took us out of Europe, and how the loss of European subsidies would impact on his ability to maintain it as a gong concern.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘It was too early to provide him with any useful advice. He was worrying unnecessarily. Even if the British people vote to leave, it’ll be some time before the Government trigger Article 50, and until that time the UK remains a full member of the European Union. Also, there’s been talk of the Government continuing to fund any lost European subsidies, but until we have a result, and more information to work with, nobody really knows what will happen.’

  ‘As far as we’re aware, they both saw an estate agent this morning who provided them with a valuation for the farm.’

  Ms Clements screwed up her face. ‘Really? That does surprise me. I didn’t think we were there yet. Unless, of course, it’s something to do with a possible divorce.’

  ‘According to the person they spoke to, they weren’t very happy with the valuation offered.’

  Ms Clements pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘Now’s not a good time to be selling property, especially a farm.’

  ‘That’s what the estate agent said. Can you speculate about what would happen to the farm if Melissa had divorced her husband?’

  ‘Divorce isn’t my area of expertise, but based on the smattering of knowledge I do possess I’d say that unless one of them could afford to buy the other one out, the farm would need to be sold to fund any financial arrangements.’

  ‘And Melissa would have been given custody of the children?’

  ‘In all probability – yes.’

  Xena stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Clementine. You’ll be relieved to learn that we won’t be taking you to the police station.’

  Ms Clements smiled. ‘Goodbye, Inspector.’

  ‘Come on, Sergeant.’

  Once they were outside and walking towards the car Stick said, ‘That’s our motive, isn’t it?’

  ‘You would think so, but why did he kill the children?’

  ‘Maybe he planned to kill himself last, but didn’t have the courage when it came down to it?’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m not happy, Stick – not happy at all. The pieces look as though they fit together, but I don’t think they do. The divorce solicitor or the doctor?’

  ‘The doctor and then the solicitor. That way, we’ll finish in Hoddesdon.’

  ‘Good thinking, Stickamundo.’

  ***

  Paige Belmont had kept her first two appointments on the Thursday of her disappearance. He looked down the list and decided to pay the third client a visit. After that, he’d reassess the situation and go from there.

  Mr Frank Taylor was a children’s book illustrator who had his own company called Bongo Illustrations. He lived at 36 Hainault Road in Chadwell Heath, which was within spitting distance of West Ham United’s training ground.

  It took him twenty-five minutes along the A118 to drive there and park up outside the house.

  He rang the bell, and was about to give up when the door was opened by a man in his mid-fifties shuffling his hands like an obsessive compulsive.

  ‘Sorry,’ the man said. ‘I was in my studio in the back garden.’ He wore a baseball cap over wiry hair, coloured beads hung around his neck, dark-rimmed glasses were perched on his nose and he had an unkempt grey-brown beard. ‘I keep meaning to put a sign on the door telling people to be patient, but intent and action are two different things, aren’t they?’

  Kowalski smiled. ‘Ray Kowalski. I’m a private investigator from Abacus Investigations.’

  ‘Great name.’

  ‘Thanks – third generation Polish.’

  ‘No, I was talking about Abacus Investigations.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘In fact, you’ve given me an idea for a new children’s series of books, Mr Kowalski – Abacus Investigations: Lead Investigator Penelope Posy investigates the case of the missing tricycle, or something along those lines. A precocious child who likes solving mysteries, always ropes her friends into helping her, and together they get into all kind of scrapes. What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds like a winner to me, Mr Taylor.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Taylor began to shut the door. ‘Well, thanks for coming . . .’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Taylor?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘Really?’ Taylor scrunched up his face and scratched his beard as if he had fleas. ‘Haven’t we just . . .?’

  ‘Apart from you stealing my idea about a precocious child investigator from Abacus Investigations . . .’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Stealing your idea?’ Taylor half-laughed. ‘Of course, Mr Kowalski from Abacus Investigations . . . What was it you wanted again?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about Paige Belmont – your accountant.’

  ‘Paige Belmont! Accountant! Oh yes – the blonde-haired woman who looks after my money – that’s the woman, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  He left the door open, headed back into the house and said over his shoulder, ‘Do you drink cranberry juice?’

  ‘More to the point, Mr Taylor – do you drink cranberry juice?’

  ‘Love it. I drink ten litres a day and haven’t had a urinary tract infection for as long as I can remember.’

  ‘Did you have a urinary tract infection before you started drinking cranberry juice?’

  ‘Well no, I don’t think so, but . . .’

  ‘I’m no nutritionist Mr Taylor, but ten litres a day seems rather excessive.’

  ‘Nonsense! You’re not a cranberry juice man then?’

  ‘No. I’m a coffee man.’

  ‘Coffee is very bad for you.’

  Kowalski looked at Frank Taylor and wondered if he was fully compos mentis. ‘Cranberry juice doesn’t seem to be the healthy option either.’

  ‘It’s a super drink, you know. Has some fabulous health benefits. So, would you like a coffee, Mr . . .?’

  ‘Kowalski. No, I’m fine thanks.’

  Taylor pointed at one of the chairs positioned around the wooden kitchen table. ‘I’m in the middle of something, so if you could be quick.’

  ‘Of course. Your accountant – Paige Belmont – came to see you last Thursday around midday?’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘According to her appointments list.’

  ‘Well, I suppose she must have done then.’

  ‘I need to know if she was here, Mr Taylor. It’s important. Don’t you have a diary, or an appointments schedule yourself?’

  ‘Ah! He walked to the fridge door. ‘Here we are. My wife . . . well, she’s not really my wife, but we live and sleep together, so she may as well be. She keeps a list of all the people I have to see. In fact, I’m not meant to see people on my own. I shouldn’t really be seeing you. I’ll get into trouble if she catches me. Yes! Here it is – Mrs Belmont accounts.’ He lifted up the baseball cap, scratched his head and then replaced it. ‘Did I see her? I don’t recall.’
/>   They heard the front door opening and closing.

  ‘Uh oh! Here’s . . . the woman I live with.’

  ‘Naomi,’ the woman said as she came into the kitchen carrying two heavy bags of shopping and putting them onto the table. She had tight curly dark hair that rested on her shoulders. There was an inch-wide streak of grey running from front to back like a go-faster stripe on a car, dark bags under her watery eyes and deep lines etched into the skin around her mouth. ‘What have I told you about letting people into the house when I’m not here?’

  Taylor stuck out his bottom lip. ‘I don’t suppose I’m going to like the answer to that question, am I?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in your studio, Frank?’

  His eyes opened wide. ‘You’re right! I should. I had this brilliant idea for a precocious child investigator from Abacus Investigations called . . .’ He squeezed his forehead between the thumb and fingers of his left hand.

  ‘Penelope Posy,’ Kowalski reminded him.

  ‘Yes, that’s her.’ He wandered out of the open kitchen door like a distracted genius.

  ‘And who are you?’ Naomi said.

  ‘Sorry.’ He offered his hand. ‘I’m Ray Kowalski, a private investigator from Abacus Investigations.’

  ‘So, it was really your idea?’ she said, shaking the hand.

  ‘No. I introduced myself and your . . . Mr Taylor had the idea. I was merely a stepping stone for his creativity.’

  ‘He is creative. He’s a gifted illustrator, but he has Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome, which is the result of a long period of alcohol abuse in his youth. Now, because of the thiamine deficiency, he suffers terribly with his memory.’

  ‘Is there no cure?’

  Sighing, she sat down in one of the other chairs. ‘The doctors think we left the condition untreated for too long. Frank’s been on a course of thiamine injections for six months now, but there’s been no substantial change. We just have to manage his condition as best we can.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  She shrugged. ‘That’s life! Sometimes up, sometimes down. So, why are you here, Mr Kowalski?’

  ‘Mr Taylor has an accountant . . .’

  ‘Paige Belmont from Bates-Belmont in Ilford.’

  ‘Yes.’