‘Yes.’ Ventnor sat forward. ‘I hear the same.’
‘It’ll be good to finish off there. My dad keeled over when he was in his early sixties; he had a massive heart attack. It runs in the family, weak hearts, so I am also probably two-thirds through my race. Nothing good behind me and I bet there’s nothing good ahead of me.’
‘So, tell me about your father,’ Ventnor pressed.
‘That’s why you’re here?’
‘Yes, I am not soft-soaping you to get your spill on unsolved crimes or to grass anyone up.’
‘Good job.’ McKenzie spoke with a sudden menacing edge to his voice. ‘I wouldn’t do that anyway.’
‘Understood,’ Ventnor replied. ‘I hear what you say, but I am here because I am interested in anything you can tell me about a bit of work your father probably did once. You’d be a mid to late teenager. It was probably legitimate work, a bit of labouring for hard cash. It could also have been iffy . . . it could have been very iffy in fact. There is just the possibility that you know a little about it.’
‘Fair play.’ Robert McKenzie leaned forward and rested two muscular arms on the tabletop. ‘That sounds fair. I can’t say that I dislike the police. You have a job to do and you’ve always been fair with me. You have never planted evidence on me, never lied on oath to get a conviction, not like some in here who claim to have that happened to them, and I have long decided that I want to have something to think about when I am dying, something that I can feel good about myself for. So, how can I help you?’
‘Thank you.’ Ventnor held eye contact with McKenzie. ‘Thank you very much. Well, your father fits the description and has been identified from this photograph of the man . . . as the man who once hired a small mechanical digger from a plant hire company. He collected it using a trailer pulled by a Land Rover and he returned it the following day. He is reported to have paid for the hire with a large wedge of hard cash. I can tell you he was entrusted with a large amount of money . . . a suitcase full of the stuff, by all accounts.’
‘Entrusted.’ McKenzie took a breath. ‘Or someone had something to hold over him, something that made the old man scared of stealing it, because the old man was a tea leaf. He was just so light-fingered, it wasn’t true. I don’t know about a suitcase full of money, but it does make sense of what he once said when he was on the way out . . . and a mechanical digger . . . a small one. I did go and dig a hole with him one night in a field.’
‘You did?’ Ventnor’s interest rose sharply.
‘Yes, it was out in the sticks one night. It was a freshly harvested field; I can remember the stubble underfoot.’
‘That sounds like the incident we are interested in. Go on . . . please go on.’
‘So, it was the people who were found, that missing family? It was that hole?’ McKenzie asked.
‘Yes.’ Ventnor sat back in his chair. ‘Yes, it was that family. It was that hole.’
‘Well, well, I never figured the old man for the big “M”. I thought he was nothing more than a small-fry tea leaf. He’s just gone up in my estimation.’ McKenzie grinned. ‘So, like father like son, only I got caught.’
‘Possibly, but he was also possibly no more than a gofer.’ Ventnor glanced round the room again, finding it hard and functional. ‘He was probably not a murderer.’
‘Probably you’re right, but even if he dug a hole and helped to put bodies away, that makes him a conspirator, doesn’t it?’ McKenzie spoke eagerly. ‘He was an accessory after the fact?’
‘Yes,’ Ventnor agreed. ‘Yes, it does.’
‘So he was bigger than I thought.’ McKenzie seemed to Ventnor to be glowing with sudden pride. ‘Good for the old boy.’
‘Do you know who paid him to collect the digger and excavate the hole?’
‘The landowner,’ McKenzie replied quietly. ‘My old man told me it was the landowner who wanted the hole dug on his land but it had to be done at night. I was the lookout . . . I kept the edge. Then, when the hole was dug, the old man told me to take a hike, so I went, not too far away really, just into a nearby wood, took cover and looked back. Then I saw headlights approaching, driving across the field . . . but it was a four-by-four, I could tell by the way it bounced across the field. It stopped hard by where the hole was, then a few minutes later it drove away and I heard the digger start up. When I got back the old man was filling the hole in. So, he was more than a gofer.’ McKenzie’s chest swelled. ‘He put those bodies away, my old man did, conspiracy to murder . . . not bad.’
Ventnor paused. He felt he should be used to the misplaced sense of pride exhibited by criminals but it still came as a shock to him whenever it was met. ‘What was it he said when he was dying? You mentioned it just now.’
‘Oh . . . yes . . . that he was given a large bag of cash once and he was tempted to run away with it, but he didn’t because it would mean running out on his family. He had a sense of honour, my old man.’ McKenzie smiled. ‘He did have a sense of duty to his family. He also said the people he was working for were a heavy duty team. They were, he told me, not the sort of people you’d want to mess with. He said the wedge he got for the job was a good size so he settled for that. You know he probably saved his life by taking that decision, putting his family first.’
‘He probably did.’ Ventnor nodded in agreement. ‘But your father definitely told you that he was paid to dig the hole by the landowner?’
‘Yes. A guy called Farrent, I think. The old man often did work for Farrent, so they knew each other and he knew Farrent wasn’t to be messed with,’ McKenzie added. ‘Not to be messed with . . . not at all was he a man to mess with.’
‘Heavy duty.’ Ventnor stood.
‘Very heavy. You don’t want to take a statement?’
‘No point.’ Ventnor tapped on the door of the agent’s room. ‘It would be hearsay but, nonetheless, it has been very useful hearsay. Best of luck in the grey house when they do decide to move you.’
Yellich and Webster stepped out of the dim interior of the chambers of Oldfield and Fairly into Camden Street, which was bathed in the brilliant sunshine of a late afternoon in mid September. The white-painted buildings reflected the glare of the sun and caused the two officers to half close their eyes.
‘So you survived the Great Camden Ice Maiden?’ Mr Tipton stood by the railings close to the steps leading up to the premises of Oldfield and Fairly.
‘Mr Tipton.’ Yellich beamed at the elderly gentleman. ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognize you . . . the sun . . .’
‘Yes, it glares angrily at times,’ Tipton replied.
‘I thought you had a dental appointment?’ Yellich enquired. ‘I hope you didn’t miss it on our account, sir.’
‘Tom . . .’ Tipton smiled. ‘Please call me Tom. No, no dental appointment, but I doubt ye Ice Maiden will check the book, and if she does, well, do I care? I am allegedly totally invaluable and I am beyond retirement age anyway. There are things in life which no longer concern me, such as becoming HIV positive or losing my job. They and other issues are for younger persons. Come; let us go to The Eagle. I can tell you a few things that might interest you, gentlemen.’
‘The Eagle?’ Yellich queried.
‘The nearest pub and a very nice one too. This way, gentlemen.’
At The Eagle they were served by an alert and polite young barmaid. Tom Tipton ordered a whisky while Yellich and Webster both requested tonic water.
‘You don’t drink, gentlemen?’ Tipton indicated a vacant table in the corner of the pub. ‘Let’s sit here.’
‘Duty.’ Yellich followed Tipton to the table. ‘Also, it’s a trifle early and we have a journey home ahead of us. We are Somerled and Reginald.’
‘Strange name . . . Somerled, how is it spelled?’
‘It’s Gaelic,’ Yellich explained and told Tipton how his name was spelled as he sat at the table.
‘Somerled and Reginald. Here’s health.’ Tipton raised his glass. ‘Tell you the truth, the honest truth, it’
s this stuff that keeps me going, not working for Oldfield and Fairly.’ Tipton spoke in a different, quite normal voice, without a trace of the hissing speech of before.
‘So why carry on working, Tom?’ Yellich sipped his tonic and glanced round the pub. He saw polished wood, solid furniture, rural scenes in frames on the wall. No music, he noted. The Eagle was blessedly free of music.
‘Because it gets me up in the morning and because it gets me out of the house. It’s a big house to be alone in after forty-five years of happy marriage. Now, being at home is like bouncing round inside the Albert Hall . . . just me and my shadow and my echo . . . all three of us.’
‘I see,’ Yellich replied. ‘And your voice, Tom, it’s changed.’
‘Hasn’t it just.’ Tipton grinned. ‘It’s a game I have kept up throughout my time at the firm, just my little joke. I am an actor . . . drama school . . . just couldn’t get a part, hardly at all, and took a job as a clerk in a firm of solicitors to see me by. Always dreamed of going back to acting but it never happened. Clerking continued, but my voice at work, that’s the only real acting I have done.’
Yellich and Webster smiled warmly at Tom Tipton.
‘So,’ Tipton continued, ‘I usually stay here until seven p.m. and go home after the rush hour. I get home at about eight p.m., with just two hours to kill before I retire at ten p.m. So, you gentlemen want to know about the Parr case?’
‘Yes,’ Yellich replied. ‘Yes, we do, anything and everything you can tell us.’
‘I remember the case. The clients were comfortably off . . . this being Camden.’
‘I can bet.’ Webster grinned. ‘From what we have seen, they must indeed have been comfortably off.’
‘Well, you’ll need a million plus to buy a modest two bedroomed flat in a conversion. Minimum.’ Tipton savoured the aroma of his whisky.
‘Again, I can bet,’ Webster replied.
‘Their solicitor,’ Tipton continued, ‘Mr Hillyard, the one who you really must speak to, he has retired to Barnet.’
‘Where is that?’ Yellich asked.
‘North London . . . still on the tube network . . . just. In fact the northern line stops there, or starts there, depending on the direction you are travelling in. I mean the northern terminus of the Northern Line is High Barnet.’
‘I see.’ Yellich sipped his tonic water.
‘The useful thing is,’ Tipton continued, ‘is that Mr Hillyard and Mr and Mrs Parr seemed to “click” as personalities. They just seemed to get on with each other very well, so on that basis I think Mr Hillyard will be very keen to help. While Mr Hillyard never did any pro bono work in those days, he did not feel Mr Parr’s pockets as deeply as he otherwise might have done.’
‘Interesting,’ Webster growled as he turned his mind to the size of his own recently levelled conveyancing fee, which had seemed and still seemed to him to be unreasonably large. His pocket had evidently been quite deeply plundered.
‘But the case in question,’ Tipton continued, ‘it became known as the “Altered Case”. It was a land dispute: ownership of.’
‘The “Altered Case”?’ Yellich sat forward intrigued.
‘Yes.’ Tipton nodded. ‘The case reaches back in time quite a long way. I believe the land in question was up in your neck of the woods and was a large amount of land, hundreds of square miles, a very substantial amount of land indeed . . . about half of Yorkshire.’ Tipton paused. ‘I understood that Mr Parr is the . . . was the direct descendent of the family who lost the dispute.’
‘I am beginning to understand,’ Yellich replied. Beside him he felt Webster was also listening intently.
‘It was Parr’s claim that the title deeds had been unlawfully altered,’ Tipton explained.
‘Hence the “Altered Case”?’ Yellich offered.
‘Yes, Somerled, it was a form of theft.’ Tipton sat forward. ‘It was, I believe, the case that during the confusion and turmoil that followed the Civil War, one family somehow acquired the deeds of the land in question, but did so unlawfully. The details are known only to Mr Hillyard, but what I can tell you is that the family who are now the apparent owners of the land are also direct lineal descendants of the family who allegedly acquired the land unlawfully.’
‘So the issue of land ownership is just as immediate as if the land had changed ownership last week?’ Yellich clarified.
‘More or less,’ Tipton confirmed, ‘but you’ll have to talk to Mr Hillyard for the details and legal position to be made clear.’ Tipton shrugged. ‘I, being a humble clerk with a decayed ambition to be an actor, have friends who lament that they never played the Dane. You’re lucky, I say; me . . . I never played anything.’
‘So we really need to speak to Mr Hillyard in Barnet?’
‘Yes. I made a phone call before I left chambers. He’s expecting you. This is his address.’ Tipton handed Yellich a piece of paper. ‘It’ll mean a late return for you two gentlemen tonight.’
‘For this we don’t mind.’ Yellich took the piece of paper.
‘Take the Northern Line,’ Tipton suggested. ‘The nearest tube station is at the bottom of the hill, a few hundred yards away. If you go now you’ll easily miss the rush hour.’
‘You’re staying here, Tom?’ Yellich stood.
‘Yes.’ Tipton drained his glass and smiled. ‘Many whiskies to drink between now and seven of the clock. Many whiskies.’
‘So I want to know what you’ve done with her,’ Farrent snarled. ‘You’ve done something with her, haven’t you?’
Standing on the other side of the enquiry desk and beside the uniformed officer who had asked for his presence, Hennessey remained silent.
‘What have you done with her?’ Farrent repeated.
‘Nothing.’ Hennessey remained calm and softly spoken. ‘We have done nothing, nothing at all.’
‘Well, she’s not at home. Not home. She’s either at home or at the shops . . . nowhere else. So where is she?’ Farrent raised his voice. ‘Where is Mrs Farrent?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.’ Hennessey continued to remain calm.
‘You were talking to her . . . not you . . . the other one, the other officer, talking in the middle of York, in the street, talking to my wife. She wouldn’t tell me what was said. She said nothing was said but who stands next to a policeman and says nothing? Who? Who?’ Farrent paused and held angry eye contact with Hennessey. ‘Then this morning she was gone . . . gone. You took her in the night . . . You took her! She wouldn’t leave me, she knows better than to do that. You’ve taken her . . .!’
‘Please take a missing person report in respect of Mrs Farrent of Catton Hill,’ Hennessey said to the officer. Then he turned to Thomas Farrent. ‘It’s all we can do.’
Sara Yellich sat on the settee in the living room of her house in Huntingdon. Jeremy, aged twelve, had just been returned by the escort from the school he attended and was sitting cross-legged in front of the television. ‘Hope he stays calm,’ Sara Yellich hissed with a smile to her neighbour who was sitting in the armchair sipping a cup of coffee. ‘Somerled has just phoned me on his mobile telling me he’s going to be late tonight and Jeremy can be difficult if he’s upset. The psychologist says he is frustrated because he can’t express himself. It must be difficult for him, body of a twelve-year-old, with the mind of a five-year-old.’
‘Yes.’ Mrs St John, the neighbour, nodded her head sympathetically. ‘I must say you are doing a magnificent job. I doubt—’
‘We just found it makes us love him all the more,’ Sara Yellich explained. ‘We knew disappointment at first, but he’s been such a source of joy.’ She reached forward and closed the dictionary which lay open on the coffee table. ‘Don’t want to get coffee on this; it’s Victorian . . . quite valuable.’
‘Looking up an obscure word?’ Mrs St John asked.
‘“Mendicant”,’ Sara Yellich replied. ‘Not so obscure.’
‘It means a beggar, doesn’t it?’
‘
Yes, it’s leaving the language now, few people know of the word but originally, so I found out, it had a high moral value,’ Sara Yellich explained, ‘and meant a holy man, a priest or a monk who had taken a vow of poverty and wandered the land existing on whatever folk put in their begging bowls, be it food or coin. Then, in Victorian times, it suffered semantic spread and became a word used in a derogatory sense to mean beggar, and now it’s leaving the language altogether, as some words tend to do.’
‘As you say. Why look it up?’
‘Somerled asked me what it meant. Apparently someone described someone else as a “mendicant” and neither he nor his boss knew what that meant. I said I thought that it meant “beggar”, but when he gets home I can let him have a fuller answer.’ Sara Yellich stretched her arms. ‘I am so pleased my degree isn’t being totally wasted.’
Yellich and Webster both thought Harold Hillyard Esquire to be every inch what they imagined a recently retired solicitor from a successful London firm of the manner of Oldfield and Fairly should look like. The two officers and Harold Hillyard sat in the drawing room of Hillyard’s house just as the sun was setting over the north London suburbs. The house itself had, the officers found, been a little further from the tube terminus at High Barnet than they had anticipated, but the walk through the well-set and leafy suburbs to Hadley Green Road was no mean compensation. Hillyard’s house proved to be a late Victorian detached property with a U-shaped ‘in and out’ driveway leading up to a porticoed front door. The building was painted a pleasant shade of off-white under a red-tiled roof and blended, it seemed, very sensitively with the surrounding area. The front of the house looked out across a narrow road to a small area of grassland, which had evidently been allowed to remain as a wilderness.
‘So, quite a turn up for the books.’ Hillyard was a portly man who, Yellich and Webster thought, looked much younger than his sixty-seven years, and who was casually dressed in denim jeans and a blue-and-white rugby shirt. The athletic dress, Webster saw, contributed much to his youthful appearance. Put the selfsame man in a tweed jacket and brogues, Webster pondered, and then he would look much nearer his actual age.
The Altered Case Page 16
