‘Police.’ Yellich showed his ID. ‘DS Yellich of the Vale of York Police.’
‘York!’ The woman gasped. ‘You’re a long way south, sir.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Yellich returned the smile. ‘This is DC Webster. We would like to see someone about the Parr family estate.’
‘The partners don’t see anyone without an appointment, I am sorry, gentlemen.’ The woman wore her hair short; she was dressed in a blue business suit. She was, it seemed, more of a personal assistant than she was a secretary.
‘Please will you ask them to make an exception.’ Yellich continued to smile. ‘As you have just observed, we’ve come a long way and this is in connection with a murder investigation.’
‘Multiple murder in fact,’ Webster added.
‘Oh . . . I see.’ The woman reached for the phone on her desk and dialled a two-figure internal number. The other two women continued typing and did not even glance at Yellich and Webster, though both officers sensed that they were listening carefully and that they were missing nothing.
‘Mrs McNair will see you, gentlemen,’ the first woman said after having spoken to someone and informed them of the arrival of the two police officers from Yorkshire. ‘If you would go up the stairs to the first floor, Mrs McNair’s office is on the right, more or less above this room.’
‘Thank you.’ Yellich and Webster turned and left the reception area and climbed the deeply carpeted stairs, and both did so sensing that Mrs McNair was agreeing to see them without an appointment because of a personal curiosity rather than a desire to be public spirited.
Moments later Yellich and Webster were seated in richly polished Chesterfield-style armchairs in front of Mrs McNair’s desk. Yellich commented on the calmness of the office.
‘Yes, I am familiar with the sort of solicitors’ office of which you speak, Mr Yellich.’ Mrs McNair revealed herself to be a middle-aged woman whose facial features, Yellich thought, might best be described as ‘handsome’, in a feminine way, having, it seemed, a certain strength of bone structure that the word ‘beauty’ would not convey. Mrs McNair was dressed in a black, pinstripe suit with a white blouse beneath. She wore a gold watch, a heavy-looking gold necklace, gold and silver bracelets on each wrist, and wedding and engagement rings. Her office was lined with wood panelling, all highly polished, save for the wall behind where she sat, which was shelved from floor to ceiling with said shelves containing thick and expensive-looking law textbooks. Yellich noticed that none of them had creased spines, which indicated that they had not been much consulted, and were there mainly for purposes of show and impression. ‘Offices of frenetic activity,’ Mrs McNair suggested, ‘where every ten minutes has to be accounted for.’
‘Yes.’ Yellich smiled. ‘That describes them well.’
‘Small firms struggling with poorly paid crime work, all done for Legal Aid.’ She paused. ‘Well, thankfully that is not the manner of Oldfield and Fairly, as you have observed. Our clients are prestige clients, minor aristocracy, major entrepreneurs, and large, established companies. We represent airlines, shipping companies, stockbrokers. We do a little conveyancing work and no crime . . . unless, unless it is white collar crime . . . infringement of patents, that sort of thing, and that can be very lucrative indeed. So we can appear a little “laid back”, as my son might say, but the firm’s turnover is never less than nine figures per annum. And the partners or salaried solicitors still have to account for every ten minutes of their day.’
‘Impressive.’ Yellich inclined his head.
‘We are not unhappy,’ Mrs McNair replied with what seemed to the officers to be very evident smugness. ‘Our reputation is excellent and the engagements and instructions keep coming. So, how can I help you, gentlemen from the North?’
Yellich shuffled in his leather-covered chair thus causing the fabric to squeak. ‘Well, it is in respect of a client of this firm, or an ex-client, one Mr Parr who, along with his wife and daughters, disappeared. They vanished when visiting York some thirty years ago.’
‘Thirty years! And York!’
‘Yes.’
‘Time and distance,’ Mrs McNair replied sniffily. ‘I must tell you that I have never been north of London in my life and I never want to. Thirty years . . . I was still at school then, so well before my time.’
‘It would be,’ Yellich replied. ‘Before our time also.’
‘I read Wuthering Heights once so I know all about Yorkshire . . . such a desolate, windswept landscape. But the client’s name Parr; it means nothing to me, except as being the name of one of the wives of Henry Tudor. Catherine Parr. She was the one who outlived him. Doubt it is the same family.’
‘Whether or not, they vanished thirty years ago . . . caused quite a splash in the media, as we have said . . . the firm Oldfield and Fairly must have records?’
‘Oh yes, of course, going back a few hundred years would you believe. We are a very old firm and our archives are kept in a vault in our cellars . . . down in the dungeon.’
‘The dungeon?’ Yellich smiled.
Mrs McNair also smiled showing teeth of such whiteness and such perfection that Webster was certain they were dentures. ‘That’s what the girls in the front office call the cellar and they never like having to go down there. In fact, they are convinced it’s haunted. They often report a sense of a presence in the cellars and so usually they go down in pairs, one to retrieve the bundle and the other to lend moral support.’
‘So, a case file, or bundle, of just thirty years old could be easily accessed?’ Yellich pressed.
‘Accessed?’ McNair queried. ‘What do you mean by accessed?’
‘Accessed by the police,’ Yellich explained, ‘if it was relevant to a murder investigation.’
‘A court order would be required of course, but with a court order, then, yes, yes, access can be arranged.’ Mrs McNair nodded gently. ‘It wouldn’t be a problem, but only with a court order compelling us to release the documents in question.’
‘I see.’ Yellich took a deep breath. ‘I wonder . . . would there be a solicitor in the firm who might have a personal recollection of the case to whom we could speak. We might be able to pick his brains?’
‘I don’t see why you should not talk generally.’ Mrs McNair paused. ‘But not in detail. Anything said would be off the record of course.’
‘Of course,’ Yellich agreed.
‘Accessing documents would be a different matter, but talking about the case . . .’ Mrs McNair picked up the phone on her desk and dialled a two-figure number. When her call was answered she asked, ‘Sandra . . . is Mr Tipton within chambers . . .? He is? Good. Can you ask him to come to my office, please? Thank you.’ Mrs McNair replaced the receiver. ‘Mr Tipton is a long-serving employee of the chambers . . . a clerk, not a fully qualified solicitor, but if you want to pick brains, then his are the brains to pick.’ She fell silent and then asked, ‘Are you gentlemen planning to remain in town overnight?’
‘No . . . no . . .’ Yellich replied. ‘We plan to return to the desolate landscape upon picking Mr Tipton’s brains. Even calling here was unexpected.’
‘Good.’ Mrs McNair smiled a cold smile. Her response was said in such a manner that both Yellich and Webster tried hard not to read too much into her reply, though both had before met the charming way of insulting which had been polished by the English middle-classes; their practised way of wrapping an insult within what first appears to be a compliment. Mrs McNair and Yellich and Webster continued to sit in a stony silence until there came a reverential tap on the door of Mrs McNair’s office. Mrs McNair pointedly waited for a few moments before calling out, ‘Come.’ Not, Yellich and Webster noted, ‘Come in’, or ‘Please come in’ or even ‘Enter’. Needlessly haughty they both thought.
The office door opened and a short but broad-chested man, who seemed to Yellich and Webster to be over retirement age, and who was dressed in a black three-piece suit and wearing highly polished black shoes, entered the room. A bl
ack tie over a white shirt completed the image he presented, suggesting an undertaker rather than a clerk to a firm of solicitors. ‘Yes, ma’am?’ He addressed Mrs McNair. ‘You sent for me?’
Both Yellich and Webster stood in deference to the elderly gentleman.
‘Ah, Mr Tipton, thank you.’ Mrs McNair did not look at Tipton; rather she kept her eyes focussed on the surface of her desk. ‘These gentlemen are from the police in York.’
‘York!’ Tipton smiled at Yellich and then at Webster. ‘A most delightful city.’ He shook hands with the officers as he spoke, pronouncing ‘delightful’ as ‘day-layt-ful’, and then he said, ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, gentlemen, I am sure.’ Pronouncing the sentence as ‘Day-layt-ed to make your haquaintance, hi ham sure.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Yellich replied, equally delighted. He was very pleased to find Mr Tipton’s handshake very appropriate, a gentleman’s handshake, not challengingly firm nor yet offensively loose. It was in fact, he thought, just right.
‘Do please take a seat, Mr Tipton,’ Mrs McNair invited as Tipton and Webster also shook hands. Tipton then sat in one of the two vacant chairs in front of McNair’s desk. The officers similarly resumed their seats.
‘Mr Tipton,’ Mrs McNair began, ‘is the clerk of this firm and I must say that he is utterly invaluable to us . . . utterly, utterly invaluable.’
‘So kind, ma’am.’ Tipton bowed his head slightly. ‘So very kind.’
‘No . . . no . . . you really are, Mr Tipton, invaluable. Perfectly filed documents are all very well but only the human brain can keep the overview and recall details that are otherwise difficult to see. We are indeed fortunate Mr Tipton has elected to stay on after his retirement age.’
‘Again, so kind, ma’am.’ Tipton replied in his sibilistic speaking voice, ‘but it is the work that keeps me going, it’s the work that keeps me alive. Mrs Tipton went before, you see, and I would doubtless have soon followed were it not for Oldfield and Fairly, who allowed me to continue in my position. It is as my dear father was oft wont to say, “Life can be a dog at times, but you’ll be in the clay soon enough, my good boy, so you may as well keep walking the dog as long as you are able”.’
‘Fair enough.’ Yellich noted how the outside noise didn’t penetrate Mrs McNair’s office as it had at Nigel Parr’s home even though the two buildings were only a few hundred yards distant from each other, yet the double glazing was not evident from the window frames. ‘I can understand the attitude, Mr Tipton,’ Yellich explained. ‘My father had a similar attitude; he’d say, “Carry on . . . just carry on regardless, while there’s breath in your body . . . carry on”. He was an old soldier, you see.’
‘Indeed.’ Tipton smiled.
‘Well, Mr Tipton,’ Mrs McNair interrupted, ‘the officers are inquiring about a brief handled by this firm some thirty years ago.’
‘The Parr family,’ Yellich added. ‘Mr and Mrs Parr and their daughters.’
‘Oh yes, the family who disappeared while in York and hence, I assume, the interest of the York police?’
‘Yes, that family,’ Webster confirmed. ‘Parents, two daughters and another female believed to have been living with them at the time and who was of the same age group as the daughters.’
‘Yes, I do recall those clients. I remember it very well, but the fifth person, the family friend, that is news to me. I really have no recollection of a fifth person in the situation. Have they been found?’
‘Yes,’ Yellich replied.
‘Alive? Alive after thirty years?’ A note of optimism was in Tipton’s voice.
‘Sadly, no,’ Webster replied solemnly. ‘All five are deceased. They were found in a hole in the ground, quite a deep hole, so not the conventional shallow grave, but very deep. They were clearly not intended to be found. Ever.’
‘Oh,’ Tipton sighed. ‘So sorry. Were they dug up by some form of building work?’
‘No, in fact two schoolboys came across the grave when it was freshly filled in,’ Webster explained. ‘It took them thirty years to realize the significance of what they had found and to come forward and give information.’
‘Well I never.’ Tipton heaved a deep breath. ‘Thirty years . . . And it took them that long to realize what they had seen?’
‘Yes,’ Webster replied, ‘but at least they came forward, which is the main thing.’
‘There is that in their favour.’ Tipton opened his palm.
‘And in fairness it was a freshly harvested field, so not so obviously a grave,’ Webster explained.
‘I see,’ Tipton replied softly.
‘Do you know who was the interested partner?’ Mrs McNair asked.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Tipton addressed Mrs McNair. ‘That was Mr Hillyard.’
‘Retired,’ Mrs McNair explained, ‘just in the last year or two.’
‘So we might still be able to speak to him?’ Yellich asked.
‘You might, if he agrees to speak to you,’ Mrs McNair replied icily. ‘If not, you’ll have to subpoena him.’
‘Yes,’ Yellich answered drily, ‘we know the procedure.’
‘Do you know anything of the Parr case, Mr Tipton?’ Mrs McNair asked.
‘I can recall only the gist.’ Tipton glanced at Yellich.
‘And the gist, even the gist will have to remain confidential, Mr Tipton. The gist is too close to the details.’
‘As you say, ma’am’ Tipton stood. ‘I would like to leave early today, ma’am; I have a dental appointment. I did put it in the book, ma’am.’
‘Of course, Mr Tipton.’ Mrs McNair smiled a thin smile as if to say, ‘Thank you for towing the party line,’ and then added, ‘Thank you for your time.’
Mrs McNair waited until Mr Tipton had left her office before speaking. ‘Not much of a useful visit for you, gentlemen. I am sorry that we could not have been more helpful.’ She stood and extended her hand, then held Yellich’s hand for an instant, very loosely, before pushing it away from her, as if handing it back to him. She did not extend her hand to Webster.
‘Well, we only called here on the off chance anyway.’ Yellich turned to go. ‘We really travelled south to interview the Parrs’ surviving son and that proved to be very useful indeed.’
‘Very useful,’ Webster echoed, with a smile.
‘Oh . . .’ Mrs McNair looked crestfallen. ‘I assumed . . .’
‘And we will be able to obtain a subpoena to oblige Mr Hillyard to provide a statement and for Oldfield and Fairly to allow the police to access all the relevant documents held in your vault,’ Webster added. ‘So, quite a useful trip south. Good day.’
‘It’s the breathtaking wonder of the microchip.’ Thomson Ventnor sat opposite Robert McKenzie in the agent’s room in Full Sutton prison.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really, and it shows the value of methodical recording, and keeping hold of all records and all photographs no matter how dated. We put your father’s details into our search engine: Scottish, approximate age, description, ginger hair, married . . . at least one child.’
‘You can do that?’ Mr McKenzie sounded genuinely surprised.
‘Oh yes, and it threw up one name . . . Robert McKenzie . . . but Robert McKenzie senior and also Robert McKenzie junior. The man in our dated files, identified by a member of the public, had a son whom he called after himself. We are interested to know all about the man who hired a mechanical digger thirty years ago.’
‘Well I never.’ McKenzie reclined in the metal chair and looked across the table at Ventnor. ‘My old man reaches out from the grave and gets me visited by the police . . . that is so very nice of him.’ He paused, and then added, ‘Mind you, I am very pleased that my dad isn’t here to see this.’
‘Oh?’ Ventnor looked round the room, crimson-painted walls up to waist height, cream thereafter, white ceiling, a block of opaque glass set high in the wall to permit a little natural light to enter. Metal chairs, metal desk, a large metal, blue polished door with a
heavy brass lock. ‘He tried to keep you out of trouble?’
‘He tried.’ McKenzie nodded gently. ‘It was a difficult thing to do when he was a petty crook himself, but he did try; always going on about keeping on the right path, saying, “Look what crookin’s done for me”, and that old baloney. I suppose it’s true but it’s also true that the apple never falls far from the tree.’
‘I see,’ Ventnor replied, ‘but, as you say, at least he tried.’
‘So, I still followed him, didn’t I, became a career criminal?’ McKenzie raised his eyebrows in a gesture of despair.
‘Do you think you’ll turn yourself around?’ Ventnor asked.
‘If I can, but it’s not easy. Hardly any job opportunities for someone with a record like mine.’ Robert McKenzie sighed. ‘You try to keep out of trouble but the dole money goes nowhere . . . I mean, nowhere. You have contacts, they offer you a job – I mean a criminal job – if a crew needs a driver or a bit of muscle. The offer is made. You think you’ll get away with it, but sooner or later you’re back inside; it’s the old revolving door. So, will I turn myself around? Dunno . . . it’s not easy, but, tell you the honest truth, I sometimes wonder if I want to. I sometimes wonder if I am not better off in here. I get the opportunity to exercise, I get three meals a day, I get an education . . . I am doing an Open University course, it could lead to a degree . . .’
‘Good for you.’ Ventnor smiled approvingly.
‘Possibly. The course is useful because it keeps my mind focussed on healthy things but what can I do with a degree?’
‘It’s a positive thing to do as an end in itself,’ Ventnor encouraged. ‘It’ll make you feel good about yourself. It’s a healthy use of time.’
‘Well, I’ve got plenty of that, but I’m still on the wrong side of the fence. It’s OK for you, sir; you’ll retire at fifty-five with an index-linked pension.’
‘I wish I could say something to help you, but I can’t.’ Ventnor felt at a loss.
‘That’s honest of you anyway.’ McKenzie nodded. ‘I am old for a lag; turned forty some years ago. I’m overdue for the grey house; I’ll be sent there soon. It’s for old lags, anyone over fifty. They say it’s calm and quiet, like the reading room in a public library, they say.’ McKenzie had hard and cold eyes, thought Ventnor, set in a scarred face.
The Altered Case Page 15