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

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ the DCI said. ‘We’ll just have to make sure we catch the madman before the end of the week, won’t we? I’m surprised that the press haven’t already found out about The Lover anyway.’

  ‘Oh, there’s one final thing before I make way and you show me yours, Sir. Richards and I are running the London Marathon in April with the money we raise going to the Police Benevolent Fund, which is why I look like a gazelle . . . Anyway, Richards is a bit shy about asking for sponsorship, but I’m not. I have lots of sponsors, but if you could all sponsor her for a pound a mile, we’d both be grateful.’

  ‘A pound a mile!’ the DCI said. ‘How many miles is a marathon?’

  ‘It’d cost you twenty-six pounds fifty if she completes the marathon, Sir.’

  ‘Is she likely to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Money is not something I like parting with, but I suppose it’s for a good cause.’

  A red-faced Richards handed him her sponsorship form. ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  ‘And the rest of you,’ the Chief said. ‘Don’t think I’m sinking into penury all by myself.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  After briefing the Chief and agreeing to do a press briefing at four-thirty once Pecker had provided her with the forensic data, she made her way to the incident room. As she’d expected, her coffee had a thin layer of ice on the top.

  ‘Where’s the pastries?’

  ‘I went to the pastry shop, but it was closed. I knocked on the window, but they wouldn’t let me in. I slipped a note under the door, but when they read it they laughed . . .’

  ‘You can stop now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You can find a cake shop later and buy me some.’

  ‘Some?’

  ‘Ten might satiate my craving.’

  ‘Ten!’

  ‘Some for this afternoon.’

  Stick finished his coffee. ‘When was the last time you had a decent meal?’

  ‘That would have been last night?’

  ‘What did you have?’

  ‘Number fifteen.’

  ‘Peking duck with ginger and spring onion?’

  ‘What could be more decent than that?’

  ‘Come for lunch on Sunday. I’ll ask Jenifer to cook a proper roast dinner, but you can’t talk about sex, pregnancy or babies.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No! Why not?’

  She pulled a face. ‘Is it likely that I’m not going to talk about any of those things? And now that you’ve said that I can’t – I have a biological imperative to talk about them.’

  ‘Maybe I could warn Jenifer that you might like to . . .’

  ‘Interrogate her? Cross-examine her? Apply the thumb screws? Put her through the wringer?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’ll be a disaster. Maybe you shouldn’t come.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I’m not the ideal lunch guest?’

  ‘I never would.’

  ‘You just did.’

  ‘Why have you been so long?’

  ‘I was on my way back here looking forward to a hot mug of coffee and the non-existent pastries when the Chief abducted me and had his wicked way with me.’

  ‘You had to brief him?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Did Peckham have anything for us?’

  ‘Martin Boyd was having an affair with someone called Alicia Collins, which is where we’re going now. The question is, do we take a team of armed officers with us?’

  ‘It’s possible that he’s holed up there. It’s also likely that he has the shotgun with him that he used to kill his family. He has nothing to lose. I’d say that we should take the Armed Response Unit with us. Also . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We should check where Alicia Collins is. She might be working, or she could be at the house. I’m sure it would be useful to know. We should bring her in for questioning.’

  ‘Phone the Duty Inspector and arrange it. Tell the ARU to meet us in the car park in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Address?’

  ’Heronsgate Road in Turnford – Number 39.’

  ‘You’re definite that’s the address? We don’t want to be all over the news for smashing down the door of the wrong house, giving an old woman a heart attack and shooting three teenagers playing shoot-em-ups on their Xbox.’

  ‘Make the call, numpty.’

  Stick made the call.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Half an hour.’

  ‘I said fifteen minutes.’

  ‘They have to put on their bullet-proof vests, helmets, ski masks, and sign out their weapons and ammunition from the armoury – it all takes time.’

  ‘It’s a good job nobody’s dying.’

  ‘As you know, I used to be in Special Operations. Rushing can cost lives.’

  ‘Rushing! You call half-an-hour rushing?’

  ‘No, but at least we’ll be alive to tell the tale.’

  ‘What tale? That it took us half-an-hour to even get out of the station?’

  ‘We’ll have to buy the pastries on the way back.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘Back here.’

  ‘If we come back here.’

  ‘Where else would we go?’

  ‘The Mortuary at King George Hospital to obtain the post-mortem results from Doc Paine.’

  ‘Oh yeah!’

  ‘To see Travis Farrow at S&P Investigations.’

  Stick’s forehead creased up. ‘Ah! You didn’t tell me that you’d found out who Melissa Boyd had used to spy on her husband.’

  ‘Well, now I have. And seeing as we’ve got half-an-hour to kill, call them up and tell Travis Fowler to stay in the office until we can get there to speak to him.’

  ‘Do you have the telephone number?’

  She stared at him.

  ‘I’ll look it up, shall I?’

  ‘One of these days, when the Easter Island statues crumble to dust, they’ll replace them with your head.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Definitely. You have the same gormless expression and far-away look in your eyes.’

  ‘Very kind.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  Stick did an internet search and then made the call.

  ‘They said he was on a stake out.’

  ‘I hope you told them that I like my steak well-done?’

  ‘They gave me the address that he’s staking out and his phone number.’

  ‘Okay, that’ll do. How long have we wasted now?’

  ‘Five minutes.’

  Xena sighed. ‘Phone Doc Paine at the Mortuary and tell her we’ll get there when we get there.’

  ‘I think she already knows that.’

  ‘Do you know the difference between an order and a request?’

  He made the call.

  ‘How much time has fizzled away now?’

  ‘Seven minutes.’

  ‘Okay, tell me what you’ve been doing on the whiteboard, and . . .’ She craned her head sideways. ‘What’s that face doing on the side of the board?’

  ‘It’s Kilroy – I got bored waiting for you.’

  ‘Can you imagine the Boyds’ relatives coming in here and seeing comic doodles all over our incident board – what do you think their reaction would be?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Wipe it off, and don’t do anything like that again, dipstick. Sometimes, I wonder what you’ve got between your ears. So, where are we?’

  Stick wiped his Kilroy doodle off the side of the board, and then wrote down the information on Martin’s affair with Alicia Collins, and the details relating to Melissa’s employment of Travis Farrow from S&P Investigations. ‘Forty-three-year-old Melissa Boyd and her three children – David, 12; Mary, 9; and Diane, 8 – were murdered in that order yesterday morning in a fifteen-minute window between quarter to eight and eight o’clock at Hilltop Farm in Brickendon even though the farm isn’t actually on a hilltop . . .

&n
bsp; ‘Stick to the facts.’

  ‘It is a fact.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘They were murdered by a person or persons’ unknown with a shotgun, but our main suspect is the husband and father – fifty-one-year-old Martin Boyd – who’s been missing since the murders and we have an All Ports Warning issued for him and his green Land Rover. You’ll notice that I haven’t put any photographs up on the board apart from that of Martin Boyd . . .’ He pointed to a stack of photographs supplied by Forensics. ‘I’d rather not have to keep looking at them. I think we both remember what the crime scene looked like.’

  ‘I agree. Carry on.’

  ‘The Boyds had a meeting with a property developer called Ray Parry at seven-thirty to discuss a valuation for the farm, which didn’t meet their expectations. Parry left at around twenty to eight in a black Porsche Cayenne, which can be verified by Heidi Ledger who works at the Donkey Sanctuary and met him in her car coming the other way as she was driving along the lane to the farm. After putting her bag and coat in the Sanctuary office, Heidi walked over to the farmhouse and found Melissa dead in the kitchen. She ran back to the Sanctuary office and called the police. Forensics arrived first, and we got there shortly afterwards. We walked the crime scene – Melissa Boyd was in the kitchen; twelve-year-old David was in the basement games room; nine-year-old Mary was on the bed of the second bedroom upstairs, and eight-year-old Diane was in the en suite bathroom of the same bedroom.’

  She was thirsty, and even though the coffee Stick had made her was cold, she took a swallow anyway. It was like an iced latte without the fifty sugars or chocolate powder.

  ‘We interviewed Heidi Ledger, Eddie Hayes, Andy Scully, Kim Bradshaw and sponsored a donkey each – Huckleberry and Pickle . . .’

  ‘I still can’t believe I let you talk me into that. I must be losing my fucking marbles.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to building a relationship with Pickle.’

  ‘You never had any marbles to lose, so you wanting to have a relationship with a donkey is hardly surprising. God knows what Jenifer will say when she finds out that you’re cheating on her with a donkey called Pickle.’

  Stick ignored her. ‘From the crime scene we obtained a list of contacts from Melissa’s mobile phone, which we haven’t had chance to examine yet . . .’

  ‘I’ll look through the list on the way to the siege.’

  ‘Let’s hope it isn’t a siege. That would really put the cat among the pigeons.’

  ‘What cat? And what pigeons?’

  ‘We also obtained the addresses of Ray Parry from Traffic; the family doctor, solicitor and bank from Mr Peckham . . .’

  ‘You can call him Pecker, you know.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s derogatory.’

  ‘Rubbish. Think of it as a call-sign. Your call-sign is Stick, Richards’ is bitch, the Chief’s is Chief and mine is Inspector – what could be simpler?’

  ‘We’re still waiting for the results from Forensics . . .’

  ‘Pecker’s coming down here at four o’clock this afternoon to give us all of his analysis.’

  ‘That’s quick.’

  ‘It’s amazing what results a friendly chat will produce.’

  ‘A friendly chat!’

  ‘You don’t think I’m a friendly person who has friendly chats?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Is that it then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long before we have to be in the car park?’

  ‘Seven minutes.’

  ‘Get a move on then.’

  ‘We discussed the possible motives for the murders such as Martin Boyd being mentally unstable, although that’s not really a motive it’s a reason.’

  ‘You’re being pedantic today, numpty – stop it.’

  ‘Sorry. Other motives we considered were that the Boyds were in financial difficulties; that either or both of them were having an affair; that she threatened to leave him and take the children; and that she threatened to divorce him, which would have resulted in him having to sell the farm and Melissa being awarded custody of the children. Finally, we rejected the random killer wandering in with the early-morning mist.’

  ‘At first glance it all seems to make sense, but there are gaping holes, Stickleback. Where’s Martin Boyd? And where’s his Land Rover? Why didn’t he use one of his own shotguns and his own ammunition? Why didn’t he kill himself? Or, why didn’t he at least wait for a police marksman to shoot him? Why did he appear normal first thing this morning and then have a psychic break?’

  ‘I don’t have answers to any of those questions. So, we pursued those lines of enquiry. First, we went to see Ray Parry and found out that he’d been asked to provide them with a valuation for the farm, which they weren’t very happy with. Also, if we believe that Parry didn’t kill Melissa and the three children, it provides us with a fifteen-minute window for the murders, and we decided that the only person who could have reasonably killed four people in that window of opportunity was Martin Boyd. Having said that, we arranged for forensics to take Parry’s three shotguns away for analysis.’

  ‘They’ll draw a blank.’

  ‘Next, we visited the family solicitor – Ms Clements, who said that Melissa had come to see her last week about divorcing her husband, but because she represents both husband and wife she couldn’t act for one against the other, because it was a conflict of interests. So she directed Melissa to a divorce lawyer called Helen Hunter in Hoddesdon. Also, Ms Clements told us that Martin had been to see her last year concerning an EU Referendum result that would take Britain out of Europe, because he was concerned about the loss of EU subsidies and the viability of the farm . . .’

  ‘There’s a definite pattern associated with Martin Boyd’s behaviour,’ Xena said.

  ‘Then we went to see the family doctor and discovered that Martin had been diagnosed with clinical depression on Thursday of last week. He was prescribed anti-depressants, but we don’t know if he obtained the prescription, or if he did whether he’s taking the tablets. Also, we found out that Melissa was three months pregnant, but had probably decided to terminate the pregnancy, and we’ve asked Doctor Paine to carry out a paternity test to determine if the child is her husbands. Finally, we discovered that the eldest child – David – was adopted, and that the two girls were born as a result of in-vitro fertilisation.’

  ‘Don’t forget Alicia Collins and S&P Investigations.’

  ‘Of course. We now know that Martin Boyd was having an affair with a woman called Alicia Collins, which is where we think he’s hiding and we’re on our way there to coax him out. Also, we know that Melissa employed Travis Farrow from S&P Investigations to obtain evidence of Martin’s adultery and we’ll be going to speak to him afterwards.’

  ‘Probably to screw Martin for every penny she can get her hands on and limit his access to the kids.’

  ‘I think divorce is heavily weighted in favour of the wife now.’

  ‘You do, do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t think that females have been subjugated by the male of the species for long enough and that it’s about time men got what was coming to them?’

  ‘I think we need to go now. We have one minute to reach the car park.’

  ‘Don’t think you’ve heard the last of my reflections on your misogyny.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ***

  As he pressed the bell on the intercom system for the second-floor flat at 23 Shere Road in Redbridge, he could just about hear the arrivals and departures from Gants Hill underground station. In between, the sound of the traffic on Woodford Road, which he’d just turned off down Gants Hill Crescent, was a constant noise.

  ‘Yes?’

  The corner of his mouth creased upwards.

  The owner of the voice sounded out-of-breath.

  ‘Mr Belmont?’

  ‘What’s it to you?�
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  ‘My name is Ray Kowalski. I’m a private investigator.’

  There was a pause and then, ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘I’d rather not discuss the disappearance of your wife and the illicit affair you’re having with Riley Quinn on the doorstep, Mr Belmont. Unless that’s what you want to do, of course.’

  The door clicked open.

  He stepped inside and made his way up to the second floor. There was a small hallway and a door.

  The door opened.

  Lester Belmont was a man of average height – five feet nine at the most. He had dishevelled black hair that was greying at the temples and in desperate need of cutting. His sideburns were uneven and had begun to creep down to the bottom of his ears. There was an off-white bath towel wrapped around his white flabby midriff, which showed his hairy arms, chest and back.

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Do you want to let me in?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You’d rather we discussed your grubby private business here on the landing, so that all the neighbours can hear?’

  Holding onto the towel, Lester opened the door wider and stepped to one side. ‘That’s right, it is my private business, so why are you sticking your nose into it?’

  Kowalski walked inside the flat. The smell of cheap perfume rushed up his nose and made him clear his throat. ‘I’ve been asked to investigate the disappearance of your wife.’

  ‘She’s left me for another man – what’s to investigate?’

  ‘I’ve heard the story, but I can’t find any evidence that’s what actually happened.’

  ‘Who’s asked you to investigate her disappearance?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s confidential information, Mr Belmont.’

  ‘So is my private life.’

  The living room was sparse. The walls were bare. There was a two-seater sofa with a beige throw over it, and five cushions – that were different sizes, shapes and colours – piled up at one end; an oblong wooden coffee table with circular stains on it where people hadn’t used coasters for hot and cold drinks; and a large rug with tassels that had been turned around to hide a threadbare patch just visible in front of the sofa. What there wasn’t – was a television. There was a sturdy wooden crate in the corner upon which a television might have stood, and wires sprouting from the wall, but there was no television.