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

by Tim Ellis

  Eventually, a man – who was probably just in his twenties – with red livid spots on his chin, gelled wiry brown hair, and clothes that looked far too big for his skeletal frame and were cinched around his waist with a leather belt appeared.

  ‘Cops?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m the Manager – Wilson Musgrave. We don’t allow drugs or prostitutes in this establishment. As you can see, this is a family-friendly pub.’

  ‘CCTV?’ Parish said.

  ‘Yes, we have a reliable security system to keep our customers safe.’

  ‘We’d like to see the footage from Friday, February 19 if you still have it?’

  ‘We keep daily surveillance in compressed files for six months.’

  ‘February 19 will suffice for the time being. And could we also have a copy of the footage?’

  ‘Can I see your ID?’

  Parish produced his Warrant Card again.

  ‘Detective Inspector J Parish from Hoddesdon Police Station?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘We don’t permit that on the premises either.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. CCTV?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ He lifted up a hinged portion of the bar. They edged through the gap to the rear of the bar. ‘If you’ll follow me, please.’

  They followed him to the end of the bar, through the swing door and instead of going into the busy kitchen, they turned left along a short corridor until they reached a door with a plastic sign that had “Wilson Musgrave: Manager” engraved on it.

  ‘My office,’ he said unnecessarily. Inside, he pointed to the two chairs in front of the desk. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, we’re fine thanks.’

  He sat down behind his desk, logged onto the computer and said, ‘This won’t take a moment. Friday the nineteenth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘While you’re watching it, I’ll instruct the computer to make a copy. You don’t need me to stay here, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s good, because I have to keep a close eye on the staff.’

  Parish pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Always the way.’

  ‘And you know how a DVD drive works?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  He pointed. ‘When it’s finished, it’ll open automatically. If it doesn’t, just press the eject button.’

  ‘I think I can manage that.’

  After turning the monitor round to face them, and passing Parish the mouse, he moved his finger over the screen: ‘Fast Forward, Pause, Half-Speed, Stop.’

  ‘Got it.’

  Wilson Musgrave left the office.

  ‘Are you watching?’ he said to Richards.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘My eyesight isn’t what it used to be – probably all the “healthy” food I’ve been force fed.’

  ‘Which has probably been cancelled out by all the unhealthy food you’ve forced down your gullet. If mum only knew what you eat when you’re at work.’

  They put the CCTV recording on fast forward until it reached five o’clock on the night of Friday, February 19, and then began to watch the footage in normal time. The screen was spilt into six small screens to mirror the number of cameras linked into the security system. There were five cameras inside the pub, and one overlooking the entrance.

  ‘Let’s examine the entrance coverage first,’ Parish said. ‘See if we can identify Humbert arriving.’

  They saw Christy and Tuppence arrive at ten past seven, but according to the coverage Humbert never arrived. They saw Christy and Tuppence leave with the three men at eight forty and climb into a taxi, but they only saw the back of the men’s heads.

  ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ Richards said. ‘He knows where the cameras are, doesn’t he?’

  ‘It’s certainly looking that way. What does that mean, Richards?’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘It means he knows where the cameras are.’

  ‘Yes, but how does he know?’

  ‘Because . . . Ah! At some point prior to that night he came into the pub to identify the location of the cameras and the blind spots?’

  ‘Exactly . . . Or?’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘How else could he have known the camera locations?’

  ‘He could have hacked into the computer system?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t . . . Ooh! He could be working for the company that installed the CCTV system.’

  ‘Good. Or?’

  ‘Maybe it’s a different company that services or repairs the system.’

  ‘Okay, so we need to find out those details and check them out, don’t we?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  They watched each of the camera views, but according to the security footage Humbert was never there.

  ‘He knew exactly how to avoid the cameras, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Grab the copy of the footage for that night, and then go and sit in the manager’s chair.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Humbert might have come in earlier that day to reconnoitre, or it might have been another day. Send Toadstone an email with January and February’s compressed files attached to it and ask him to get one of his minions to check them out for someone casing the joint.’

  ‘Casing the joint! Is that really a saying?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  She moved round and sat in the manager’s chair. ‘Are we allowed to do this?’

  ‘If Mr Musgrave was here do you think he’d agree?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Just so there’s no misunderstanding, we’ll let him know what we’ve done on the way out.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘While you’re doing that, I’ll contact the Essex Serious Economic Crime Directorate, and let them know about the death of Abel Winter, and the fraud surrounding the crime statistics at the NAO and BetaStats, and hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces.’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t?’

  ‘Do nothing, you mean?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Evil triumphs when good men do nothing.’

  ‘And good women.’

  ‘You were just advocating doing nothing.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. So, should I phone them or not?’

  ‘What about an anonymous phone call?’

  ‘I’d have to tell them who I was to explain what had happened.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we have a choice then, do we?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He went into the corridor and called the Essex Serious Economic Crime Directorate at Chelmsford. After a circuitous route he was finally connected to a DCI Peter Quilty who wasn’t convinced that it had anything to do with them and tried to offload him onto various other departments who might be interested in his story, but at Parish’s insistence Quilty finally agreed to send someone to speak to him at Hoddesdon in the morning.

  ‘Done,’ Richards said, as she left Musgrave’s office holding up the DVD. ‘Did you make the call?’

  ‘They’re sending an assassin to the station tomorrow morning.’

  ‘At least it’ll be quick.’

  ‘Let’s go to the Maltster then, we might have more luck there.’

  On the way out, they informed Musgrave how they’d helped themselves to his January and February compressed CCTV files, and also obtained the name of the company that installed the system, which just happened to be the same company that serviced and repaired the system. Interestingly, their last service visit had been on February 14.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was just coming up to quarter to five when they arrived at Wormley Medical Centre and parked on the road in front of the building.

  There was a queue. She didn’t like waiting in queues, had never liked waiting in queues. In fact, she hated waiting in queues.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to ma
ke a scene?’ Stick said.

  ‘A scene! Me? You’re confusing me with someone who gives a shit.’ She barged to the front of the queue.

  ‘There’s a queue,’ the frumpy middle-aged receptionist said. She had grey hair that looked more like steel wool than hair, a plethora of moles on her face and the back of her hands, and glasses that hung from woven cord around her neck.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Xena said to a young woman with a baby in a buggy who was at the head of the queue. She eased herself into the gap at the hatch. ‘I know there’s a queue, that’s why I’m here at the hatch.’ She produced her Warrant Card. ‘DI Blake and DS Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station. I’d like to speak to a doctor, please.’

  ‘There’s a queue.’

  ‘It’s not for me . . .’ She turned to stare at the young mother. ‘Can you move back, please? I’m trying to have a private conversation here.’

  The woman pulled a face as she shuffled back behind the line with her buggy again.

  ‘Thank you.’ Xena turned back to the receptionist. ‘It’s about the murder of a mother and three children.’

  ‘There’s a queue.’

  ‘If you say that one more time, I’ll arrest you for hindering a police investigation.’

  ‘What do you want me to say? There’s a queue.’

  ‘We’re police officers investigating the murder of a family who are all patients here, we haven’t got time to wait in queues. I’d like to speak to the family doctor of Martin and Melissa Boyd who live at Hilltop Farm, please.’

  ‘There’s a queue.’

  ‘You’re trying my patience. If you don’t find me a doctor I can speak to, I’m going to close the place down and call in the drug squad, the fraud squad and forensics. There’ll be a fucking queue then, believe me. And you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll take you down to the police station, because I’ve had a tip-off that you’re heavily involved with the supply of drugs . . .’

  Stick appeared and said to the receptionist, ‘I’m sorry about this, but it would be a lot simpler if you just let us speak to a doctor. The more you say no, the messier it will get.’

  ‘There’s a queue.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Stick said. ‘Think of this as an emergency, and move us to the head of that queue.’

  ‘It’s highly irregular.’

  ‘I understand that, but you’d be helping everybody concerned and moving things along if you let us speak to a doctor and get us out of here as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I’ll do it for you – not for her.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She picked up a phone. ‘Sorry to bother you, doctor. I have two police officers here who want to jump the queue in order to speak to you about two of our patients – Martin and Melissa Boyd from Hilltop Farm.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She put the phone down. ‘If you walk up the corridor and take a seat, Doctor Lara Nielson will see you shortly.’

  ‘How shortly?’ Xena said.

  The receptionist’s lip curled upwards. ‘Did I say there was a queue?’

  ‘I hope you’ve got a good solicitor . . .’

  Stick stepped between Xena and the hatch. ‘The doctor is waiting for us.’

  ‘Good job as well. I hate people like that, dipstick,’ Xena said as they walked along the corridor. ‘They’re so used to colouring inside the lines that they can’t see any other possibilities.’

  ‘Colouring inside the lines is good.’

  ‘What makes you an expert on colouring books?’

  ‘It’s called following the rules. As police officers, we like people who follow the rules and colour inside the lines. It means there’s less work for us to do. Can you imagine the chaos if everybody wanted to colour outside lines? People wouldn’t obey traffic lights; they’d just help themselves to whatever they wanted in the shops; they’d walk on the road instead of the pavement; they’d go to work naked; they’d have barbecues in their front garden . . .’

  ‘You can stop now.’

  ‘I’m just saying that colouring inside the lines is what makes society function effectively for the good of all.’

  ‘You’re a social scientist now! There’s no end to your talents is there?’

  ‘Martin Boyd didn’t colour inside the lines.’

  ‘Boyd wasn’t even looking at the lines when he did his colouring.’

  The door of a consulting room opened and a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair parted on the left, diamond stud earrings and a weary expression came towards them. ‘Police?’

  ‘That’s our line,’ Xena said, holding up her Warrant Card. ‘DI Blake and DS Gilbert from Hoddesdon Police Station.’

  The quip fell on deaf ears. ‘You wanted to speak to me about the Boyds?’

  ‘Yes, but not out here.’

  She led them back into her consulting room.

  Stick shut the door behind him and they sat down in hard-backed chairs.

  ‘What’s so urgent that you have to jump the queue?’

  ‘Melissa Boyd and her three children were all shot and killed at Hilltop Farm first thing this morning, and Martin Boyd is missing.’

  Tears skittered down her face. She found a tissue on her desk and dried them.

  Xena glanced at Stick.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lara Nielson said. ‘I’m three months pregnant and my hormones are all over the place. Also, when you told me what had happened, my immediate thought wasn’t for the family, but that the waiting list would be reduced by four more people. I need to get out of this job and find something normal.’

  Xena pulled a face. ‘Do you want to lie down on the couch and tell me all about it, Doctor?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. So, I can spare you fifteen minutes. What is it that you think I can tell you?’

  ‘Has Martin Boyd been to see you recently?’

  ‘You have a Court Order?’

  ‘My request falls within the limits of Section 29 of the 1998 Data Protection Act. As I said, Martin Boyd is missing. The murder weapon – a shotgun – is also missing. Our best guess at this time is that he killed his wife and three children. As such, not only are we looking for a mass murderer, but he could also present a danger to members of the public.’

  Doctor Nielson thought about what Xena had said for a handful of seconds and then nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Boyd came to see me on Thursday of last week. He said that he felt really low, empty and numb; that everything seemed hopeless; and that although he was tired all the time, he couldn’t sleep. These are some of the classic symptoms of clinical depression.’

  ‘Did he say why he was depressed?’

  ‘It was disjointed, but I got the impression that he felt the farm was slipping from his grasp, and that he couldn’t provide for his family anymore.’

  ‘Did you give him any medication to help him cope?’

  ‘I gave him a prescription for a course of fluvoxamine – Faverin – which inhibits the reuptake of serotonin levels. In simple terms, they target the chemicals in the brain that affect a person’s mood.’

  ‘Any side effects?’

  ‘Nothing that would cause him to kill his wife and children – feelings of agitation or anxiety; feeling sick; dizziness; blurred vision; and a low sex drive.’

  Stick interrupted. ‘If he did get the prescription, he might not be taking it.’

  Doctor Nielson nodded. ‘Very true. If that’s the case his depression might very well have deteriorated significantly.’

  ‘Enough for him to kill his family?’ Xena pushed.

  Nielson shrugged. ‘Who knows? I’m not a psychiatrist, but it’s entirely possible, I suppose.’

  ‘What about Melissa Boyd? Has she been to see you recently?’

  ‘I last saw Melissa two weeks ago . . . You’re investigating five deaths, Inspector – Melissa Boyd was three months pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnant?’ She glanced at Stick. ‘Crap! I don’t suppose you know whether it was her husband’s, or not?’


  ‘No, I don’t know, but I do know that she was thinking seriously about having a termination. She said she was far too old at forty-three to have another child, and that three children were more than enough. We discussed the possible dangers of carrying a child to full term, but I think she’d already made up her mind anyway.’

  ‘And the three children – have they been into the Medical Centre recently?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen them since their annual check-ups. But . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You do know that David was adopted, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When they first got married Melissa was struggling to conceive, so they decided to adopt. David was six months old when they adopted him. Then, as luck would have it, the fertility treatment worked and she became pregnant with Mary, and then caught again almost immediately with Diane.’

  Xena stood up. ‘Thanks for your time. Doctor.’

  ‘Did I have a choice?’

  ‘No, but while I’m here, I’ll give you some free advice.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘There’s a whole world out there. You’re stuck in this eight-by-twelve office day-in and day-out listening to people moan, groan and complain. My free advice is to get a life.’ She waved her arm around the room. ‘This can’t be fun. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it’s the opposite of fun – it’s a waste of a life.’

  ‘In your opinion, Inspector. I help people.’

  ‘As I said, free advice. Take it, or leave it.’

  They made their way out of the Medical Centre.

  Xena wanted to show the receptionist the middle finger of her left hand as she passed the hatch, but she was disappointed because the woman wasn’t there.

  ‘The evidence is stacking up against Martin Boyd,’ Stick said as they climbed into the car. ‘His wife was probably having another man’s baby; she was going to divorce him and take the children with her; he’d more than likely lose his family and the farm; he needed medication for clinical depression . . .’

  ‘We don’t know she was having an affair. The baby could just as easily have been her husband’s.’

  ‘He wanted her to keep it, but she was determined to have an abortion . . .’

  ‘You can concoct as many scenarios as you like Stickamundo, but they all boil down to a bag of beans. Until we find Martin Boyd and ask him what the hell happened this morning, we’re shooting in the dark.’