A Killing in the Family

by David W Robinson

  Katya was at once astonished, overawed and delighted. “Oh my god, you know Maddy Chester?”

  “He’s met her once,” Brenda said, with obvious disdain.

  Brenda was wrong, but only Joe knew that. With the thought that Brenda was always a little catty with any woman who could be considered competition, he pointed out, “We keep in touch by email. She’s a friend.”

  “Oh my god,” Katya repeated. “She’s, you know, a god.”

  “You mean a goddess,” Brenda corrected.

  His friend’s remark caused Joe to smile. There had been a brief thing between him and Brenda a year or so back, but it had fizzled out naturally and quickly, and yet she still went on as if she had some interest in him. Worse, she carried on as though this young woman, a quarter of a century his junior, was interested in him. Many people accused Joe of many things, but no one could ever accuse of him of suffering delusions, particularly when it came to himself.

  “Maddy taught me everything I know about researching family history. Through her books, natch. It’s not like I’ve ever met her. But, you know, if it wasn’t for her, I’d still be working nights in a taxi dispatch office. She is the authority on genealogy. Do you, you know, watch her on TV?”

  The words came so fast that Joe found her hard to follow.

  “Er, no,” he said, at last sorting out her question from the previous gush. “She’s on TV in the mornings and we’re usually busy in the café at that time.”

  It was not true. The TV was always on in The Lazy Luncheonette and since the move they were rarely busy at 9.30 am. But Joe was never interested in TV and the women preferred alternative channels to the one Maddy appeared on.

  Before she could get into another surge of astonishment and/or praise, Joe brought matters to the business at hand.

  “Katya, Sir Douglas was telling us that you followed up on young Rodney after the DNA analysis confirmed he was the boss’s son.”

  She appeared taken aback. “That’s right. Why? I mean, all I did was follow Sir Douglas’s orders. It’s not like I was, you know, up to anything.”

  “No, no. I didn’t imagine you were,” Joe assured her. “Tell me what you did.”

  She helped herself to tea and a sandwich. Through mouthfuls of bread and cheese, she outlined her actions.

  “First thing I did was check on his mother, and everything he told us was bang on. Trouble is, if I can get that information, so could he. So when he went back to Birmingham, I followed him down there, and checked up on him. He worked at this huge hospital, and when I spoke to one or two of his colleagues, they told us just how important he was to their team.”

  “They were happy to talk about him?” Sheila asked, a frown of doubt creasing her forehead.

  “Well, I made out I was a reporter for the union magazine, and we were doing a feature on senior nursing staff, so yeah, they weren’t worried to speak about him. After that, I went to see his solicitor. She was a bit less free with the information, but she still confirmed all that he’d told Sir Douglas. Finally, I did a search on probate for his mother’s will, but she didn’t have one. She died interstate.”

  “You mean intestate,” Brenda corrected again.

  Again, Katya appeared unconcerned at Brenda’s forceful interjection. “Yeah, course I do. Sorry. Brain’s a bit tired at this time of the week. The heat. You know. Anyway, you know what I mean, don’t you? Then I checked on his mother again, and she did die when he said, where he said and of the trouble he said. Non-Hodgkin’s.”

  “So as far as you were concerned, everything about Rodney was above board?”

  “Totally.” Katya had no hesitation answering Joe’s question. “All right, so all the information I got, he could have dug up, but that wouldn’t explain where he got the photos from, and it wouldn’t account for what his colleagues and his lawyer said about him.”

  “And the laboratory the lawyer suggested?” Joe asked.

  “Top drawer place,” Katya replied. “Smart new building near Rugby. All glass and girders.” She laughed. “Wouldn’t let me in. Not even when I mentioned that Annabelle Immerman, the solicitor woman, had put me onto them. They knew her, right enough, but it still wouldn’t get me through the door. But I got a coupla brochures off ’em.” She shrugged. “As far as I can see, Rodney is just who he says he is, and I think Sir Douglas is happy with that.”

  She looked to her employer, who nodded his agreement. “So you see, Joe, Rodney is exactly who he says he is.”

  Joe nodded but did not answer. He was still busily sifting through the information seeking a loophole. When he could not find one, he said, “That still wouldn’t rule him out, Douglas.”

  Sir Douglas frowned and with his face turned away from Katya, darted his eyes towards her, sending a clear signal to Joe, who apologised with a silent grimace.

  “Rule him out of what?” Katya asked.

  “Nothing for you to worry about, m’dear,” Sir Douglas reassured her.

  A glance at his friends told Joe that both Sheila and Brenda had registered the warning given by Sir Douglas and accepted by Joe, but Katya appeared puzzled.

  “Tell us about the Ballantyne family history you’re working on, Katya.” Sheila kept her voice bright and amiable, in an effort, Joe guessed, to divert the young woman’s attention.

  “Biggest commission I’ve had,” Katya enthused. “And I was so pleased when Sir Douglas appointed me.”

  As the conversation drifted off, Sir Douglas nodded to Joe and jerked his head slightly towards the woods indicating that they should take a walk.

  Getting to his feet, the old man said, “We’ll leave you ladies to chat,” and ambled off onto the broad expanse of mown grass.

  Joe was quick to follow, hurrying to catch up and falling in step alongside the old man. “Now that we’re out of Katya’s earshot, tell me why you’re so sure it can’t be Rodney.”

  “The truth is, Joe, I’m no more certain of Rodney than I am any of the other three, but I can say that everything he has done tempts me away from him. He’s shown absolutely no interest in my wealth or personal gain of any description. I had to force the money on him. Even then he said he would give most of it away to charity.” Sir Douglas smiled. “Naturally, I can’t say whether he has done or not.”

  “Double bluff?” Joe speculated. “Insisting he doesn’t want it, knowing full well you’d press it on him.”

  “Possible I suppose,” Sir Douglas said as they approached the treeline. “But why go to that trouble? He is who he says he is. The evidence in his favour would be accepted in a court of law, and he would be within his rights to file a paternity claim. I can see what you’re saying, Joe, but don’t you see, if that’s true, he’s done too much.”

  “He’s the one who gets the remaining holding in Ballantyne Distribution?”

  “Yes, but understand this, Joe. He doesn’t know. I made him comfortable with a gift of a large amount of money and he insisted he didn’t want it. He also insisted he wanted nothing from my estate, but that’s not the kind of man I am, my friend. He is my son, and I could never leave him out. So I’ve bequeathed him the final two percent of my stake in the company.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain he doesn’t know?”

  “Technically, no one knows, but like any other large house, there is a grapevine, and my other three children may be aware. However, you can take it from me that they would say nothing to Rodney. All three treat him with suspicion and barely concealed contempt. That goes for my daughters’ husbands and my eldest son’s wife, too.” Sir Douglas shook his head good-humouredly. “No, Joe, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t even know if there’s anything going on, but if there is, then it’s from one of the other three or their husbands – wife in Toby’s case.”

  They reached the treeline and Joe understood Sir Douglas’s earlier remark on the impenetrability of the woods. The trees were clumped close together and the ground was a mass of vegetation.

  “There a
re several paths through the woods,” Sir Douglas said, waving with his walking stick, “and there are odd clearings in amongst the trees, but only someone who knew them well – a member of the staff or family, f’rinstance – would venture in there.”

  “The perfect, natural burglar deterrent?” Joe suggested.

  “Absolutely.” Sir Douglas walked on, heading towards the tree-lined drive, a hundred yards away, where Quentin was still practising his golf swing.

  “Tell me about your other son and your daughters,” Joe invited. “Why would they want to threaten you?”

  “I find it hard to believe that they would, Joe, but once you’ve eliminated Rodney, you’re left with them. Toby is the managing director of Ballantyne Distribution. When I die, he will become the new Chief Executive. He and I have disagreed on a number of policies and procedures down the years, and I’ve always refused to give way. Transport and distribution, for instance. If Toby had his way, we’d get rid of all our drivers and trucks and put the job out to parcel delivery companies. I won’t allow it. I won’t throw two hundred men and women out of work on an altar of increased profits. It’s not as if we need the money.”

  “I know where you’re coming from,” Joe said, “but I don’t run a huge company like yours, so I can see Toby’s point of view, too. And I know a lot of businessmen who’d take the same stand as him.”

  “I suspect, Joe, the vast majority would, but I’ve never been swayed simply because I’m in a minority.”

  They reached the gravel drive. Sir Douglas gave Quentin a wave, and the golfer waved back as Joe and the old man turned back towards the house.

  “What about your daughters?”

  The old man shrugged. “I was very hard with Hermione and Verity when they were growing up. Far stricter than I was with Toby. To some degree I maintain that disciplined hand. They’re both in their forties now. Independent women, husbands of their own. Both childless – by choice I hasten to add. My iron hand doesn’t have the same effect as it used to, but I make sure they know who is in control. It paid off, of course… well, in Hermione’s case it did. She’s the historian I told you of. Highly respected woman in her field. What she doesn’t know about the House of Lancaster isn’t worth knowing.”

  “And Verity?”

  The old boy grimaced. “Takes too much after my father for my liking. Wild child in her teens, but she calmed down when she met Mr wonderful.” Sir Douglas threw an arm out in the direction of his golfing son-in-law, who mistook it for another greeting and waved back. “Berk,” the old man commented, and then returned to discussing his daughter. “Like Hermione, Verity is a good, honest woman, but also like Hermione and Toby, we’ve had our share of disagreements in the past.”

  The flood of information had begun to coalesce in Joe’s mind, and a shaky theory formed.

  “Consider this, Douglas. You’ve just told me that your three children are suspicious of Rodney. Is it possible that one or more of them have produced these threatening notes in order to point the finger at him and turn you against him?”

  “Anything is possible, Joe. And if that is the case, then I shall deal with the matter, once you can identify the culprit or culprits.”

  Joe wanted to press further, but the sound of a car engine from behind silenced him before he could speak. He turned to watch a late model Vauxhall saloon rumble its way sedately along the drive.

  “You’ll get to know more as we go along, Joe,” the old man said. “In the meantime, this is Rodney.”

  The car passed, the driver tooting his horn and waving at the old man, who raised his hand in acknowledgement. Joe noticed that across the lawns, Quentin ignored the car.

  From the fleeting glimpse, Joe had the impression of a tall, powerful man who crowded the driver’s seat, and the notion was borne out when they reached the large parking area outside the house, where Rodney waited by his car, a suit in a dry-cleaning cover held in one hand.

  Over six feet in height, with broad, square shoulders and massive hands, a thin jacket covered his arms, but Joe noticed that the sleeves were filled, hinting at a well-developed physique. His black hair was neatly trimmed above a beaming, boyish face.

  “Rodney, my boy.”

  “Sir Douglas,” Rodney greeted.

  With a wry smile, the old man said to Joe, “Confirmed as my son, but still won’t call me father, or even dad.”

  “I don’t feel I know you well enough to be so familiar,” Rodney replied.

  “Rodney, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine. Joe Murray. Joe, this is my second son, Rodney.”

  Joe shook hands, his fingers buried in the huge mitts. “Good to meet you.”

  “You too, Mr Murray.”

  “You needn’t be so formal with me. Call me Joe. Everyone else does.” Joe nodded to the suit. “Been shopping?”

  “Special do tonight. Katya said my suit was looking a bit, er, worn. I had it cleaned up. If you’ll excuse me.” With a departing smile, Rodney turned and hurried into the house.

  “Still a little on the shy side,” Sir Douglas said.

  “And the other kids don’t like him?”

  It felt strange referring to three forty-somethings as ‘kids’ but Sir Douglas did not seem to mind.

  “They see him as a fortune hunter. Even after I demonstrated that he is their half-brother, there was still that, er, wall between them and Rodney’s natural reticence doesn’t help. I suppose he still feels a little out of his depth.”

  The roar of an engine again caught Joe’s attention. He turned to look back along the drive, where a dark Mercedes was approaching; whoever was driving showed scant regard for safety. At that speed, he could never have stopped in an emergency, and anyone crossing the drive would be in mortal danger.

  On hearing the car, Quentin gave up his practice swings, and tossing the club casually on his shoulder made his way towards them.

  The Mercedes, meantime, slewed into the parking area and ground to a halt.

  “My other son-in-law, Jeffrey Claremont.” Sir Douglas kept his voice down. “Works at our Blackpool depot. Surprised you didn’t meet him there. Terrible snob.”

  “Married to…?”

  “Hermione,” the old man confirmed. “He’s the Accounts Director. Fancies himself as a bit of a ladies’ man. Not that you could say as much to Hermione.”

  Jeffrey climbed out of his car. A tall, rangy man, with a head of distinguished grey hair making him look older than his forty-five years. Quentin, Joe noticed, was slightly shorter, but more athletically built, and his casual dress, twills and a short-sleeved shirt, contrasted keenly with Jeffrey’s more sober business suit.

  The pair stood chatting for a moment by Jeffrey’s car, and sufficient glances came across the car park to let Joe know he was the main subject of discussion. Eventually, they walked across, Jeffrey’s patent leather shoes crunching the gravel.

  “Afternoon, Douglas,” Jeffrey greeted.

  “Jeffrey. Quentin.” The old man nodded a greeting. “Allow me to introduce a friend. Joe Murray. Joe, this is Jeffrey Claremont and Quentin Olsen.”

  Joe shook hands with both men.

  “Curious coincidence,” Jeffrey said. “Had a chap named Murray poking his nose into some affair at the depot back in April.”

  “So I heard,” Joe replied. “I believe he solved the problem before the cops, didn’t he?”

  Jeffrey was not put out by the obvious challenge. “It was you, then?”

  Joe badly wanted to take Jeffrey on, tell him the reason he had been asked to join the party, but his agreement with the old man forbade it, so he confined himself to a curt nod.

  “Not a golfer by any chance, are you, Murray?” Quentin asked.

  “Not really my scene. Snooker, yes. It’s not as far to walk round the table. Sir Douglas tells me you’re a professional.”

  “Hmm, yes. Minor tour. Nothing grand. You won’t have seen me on TV or anything, but it keeps the missus in the style to which she’s become accus
tomed.”

  “Neo-poverty,” Jeffrey said. “If you’ll excuse me.” He made his way to the house.

  “Snooty git,” Quentin grumbled. “Suppose I’d better be getting in, too. Get myself tarted up for the evening. Looking forward to it, are you, old man?”

  The question was directed at Sir Douglas, who laid a gimlet eye on his son-in-law. “I’m hoping it’ll be more entertaining than your performance at the Belfry in June.”

  Joe felt the old man meant it as a jibe, but Quentin laughed.

  “Had a bad first and second round,” he explained. “Five over and eight over. Father-in-law made a special trip to watch me make an ass of myself.”

  “It happens to the best of us,” Joe said and Quentin went on his way whistling cheerfully to himself.

  “Not the pride of the litter, neither of ’em, but we can’t choose our daughters’ husbands, can we?”

  “I have no daughters, so it’s not a problem I ever had,” Joe replied, and ambled across to his car, where he flipped up the boot. “Listen, Sir Douglas, I took the liberty of bringing this along.” Digging under the wheel-changing equipment, he came out with a plastic carrier bag, and withdrew an air horn from it. “I want you to keep it with you.”

  Sir Douglas laughed. “Joe, I told you, I don’t expect anything to come of this. I just want to know who’s trying to put the frighteners on me.”

  “I appreciate that, but keep it with you. Just in case.” Joe pressed the horn into the old man’s hand. “Alistair tells me I’m right across the landing from you. If I hear that thing go off, I can be there in seconds.”

  Sir Douglas put it in his pocket. “All right, Joe. If it keeps you happy. But I’m telling you, I won’t need it.”

  From overhead came the sound of a low-flying helicopter, its rotor chattering through the sweating air. They both looked up to see the small aircraft descending and making for them.

  “If he doesn’t watch it, he’ll crash,” Joe said.

  Sir Douglas smiled. “No. He’s landing.”

  “Landing?”

  “My eldest boy, Toby.”

  “A qualified pilot?” Joe was impressed.

  “Private licence, obviously. Because the Blackpool depot is so close to Squires Gate Airport, he commutes by helicopter rather than one of his cars. As long as the airport’s not too busy, it takes him less than half an hour.”