Kay dropped her sunglasses over her eyes before running a hand through her hair to free the wayward strands that caught in one of the arms, and checked the dashboard GPS.
Tangled overgrown hedgerows crowded the pool car from both sides, the narrow and twisting lane leading away from the main Staplehurst road.
She braked at the top of a steep decline, slowing her speed to negotiate a sharp turning to the left and then the car rattled across a metal cattle grid.
Tufts of grass appeared between the cracks in the asphalt and she zigzagged to avoid the worst of the potholes on either side as a rabbit shot across the road in front of her.
‘You’d think the council would do something about the bloody holes,’ Barnes grumbled, looking up from his phone. ‘Look at the state of it.’
Kay smiled. ‘We left the council-owned road half a mile back. This is all private land.’
Barnes lowered his phone, his jaw dropping as he cast his gaze around the woodland on each side of the car, sunlight strobing through leaves that were starting to turn a golden hue.
‘Bloody hell. I knew this bloke owned some land, but I didn’t realise it was this much.’
‘Wait until you see the house.’
A second cattle grid shook the suspension, and then the thick swathe of oak and hornbeam gave way to pasture. Kay changed gear, settling her speed to walking pace while she admired the small herd of deer grazing to their left.
The pitted asphalt was replaced with a newer surface and widened out as the driveway curved around to the left, and she grinned at her colleague’s ill-disguised gasp.
In front of them was an imposing late-seventeenth century Grade II listed house nestling amongst rolling lawns that abutted the fields.
Tall stone chimneys rose into the air from each end of the gabled roof, the afternoon sunlight catching the upper windows.
‘I thought you said this bloke had a few sheds?’ said Barnes, finally recovering from his shock.
Kay laughed. ‘He does. They’re round the back, out of view.’
‘And who did you say he was?’
‘Porter MacFarlane. He’s been supplying props and equipment to film and television production companies for the past forty years. The big stuff, too – horse-drawn carriages, things like that. If you or Pia have watched a historical drama lately, chances are that you saw some of Porter’s collection being used.’ She switched off the engine. ‘And he has an armoury business that supplies guns. A lot of guns.’
‘Ah, right.’
‘That’s how I first met him. Every time a production company wants to film a scene involving weapons, they have to notify us in advance so we can avoid any problems. Things like members of the public panicking thinking it’s a real situation and calling us to sort it out. I was asked to provide support on a TV drama a few years ago and got chatting to him.’
Climbing from the car, she led the way over to the enormous front porch where a stocky man in his early sixties with a shock of white hair waited beside open oak doors, a wide smile forming as she drew near.
‘Kay, how delightful to see you.’ He gripped her hand. ‘I was so sorry to learn about the attack on Adam. How is he doing?’
‘He’s fine now, thanks Porter. That herd of yours has got bigger since I saw you last.’
‘A few additions from a local rescue centre. Two of them were too young to be released into the wild.’ He gave an indulgent smile. ‘They’re safer here, at least.’
Kay turned to Barnes, introducing him. ‘Porter’s a bit different to some of the other local landowners around here. He actively allows the deer to roam on his property rather than let anyone hunt them.’
‘Hence why he knows your Adam.’ Barnes shook the man’s hand.
‘Are you the police?’
Kay peered past MacFarlane as a slim man in his late twenties appeared at the front door, rolling down his shirt sleeves and straightening his tie as he walked towards them.
‘Ah, Detective Hunter – meet my son, Roman.’
She nodded to the newcomer. ‘We’re here to ask your father some general questions in relation to an ongoing investigation.’
‘I understand you have quite a collection of weaponry as well,’ added Barnes.
‘Ah, yes. This wasn’t a social visit, was it?’ MacFarlane’s smile faded. ‘Do you want to take a look?’
‘Thanks, Porter.’ Kay jangled her keys in her hand. ‘Shall we follow you down to the sheds?’
‘No need.’ The man gestured towards an oversized golf cart parked beside the front steps. ‘Hop in that, and I’ll take us. I can give your colleague a tour of the place at the same time.’
Kay bit back a sigh, knowing how much the man enjoyed his work. ‘The short tour, Porter. I’ve seen how much stuff you’ve got, and we don’t have all day unfortunately.’
‘Understood.’
‘Don’t forget we’ve got that video conference with the producer from Manchester,’ Roman said. ‘We’ve already had to postpone it once.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said MacFarlane, giving his son a wave over his shoulder as he started up the cart. ‘Don’t worry.’
Five minutes later, the golf cart halted outside two corrugated iron sheds, each the size of a small aircraft hangar and casting shadows over a well-worn concrete apron.
‘Quickest way is through the vehicle shed,’ said MacFarlane, giving Kay an apologetic glance. ‘Sorry.’
‘Why’s he apologising?’ Barnes hissed under his breath while they waited for the props owner to find the right key from a bunch he withdrew from a pocket.
‘Probably because he knows what your reaction is going to be when you see what he’s got in here,’ she replied. ‘Just remember we’re due at the other place by four o’clock otherwise they’ll be closed before we can speak to the curator.’
‘Here we go.’ MacFarlane pocketed the keys and swung open a wicket gate in one side of the large doors. ‘Hang on a moment, there’s a light switch just… Ah, there.’
Kay blinked as a series of lights flashed to life in the rafters high above her head.
Four rows of various carriages, vehicles and bicycles filled the space as far as she could see, a slight mustiness in the air. Dust motes sparkled around her despite the highly polished paintwork and chrome, evidence of the collection being maintained rather than used on a regular basis.
Her gaze fell upon a reconditioned eighteenth-century curricle to her right.
‘You’ve had it repainted,’ she said as they followed MacFarlane along the far left-hand side.
‘Yes, for a job up in Northumberland in March,’ said MacFarlane, a hint of disgust in his voice. ‘The director was quite insistent, even though I told him the colours aren’t consistent with the period. Apparently, he wanted it to look pretty.’
Kay watched as Barnes’s jaw dropped at the sight of a vintage Lancia.
‘How old is this?’ he managed.
‘Early nineteen fifties. One of only a very few left in the country,’ MacFarlane replied, his chest visibly swelling. ‘I’ve run it at the Goodwood Revival a couple of times in the past. A long time ago, mind. These days I only let her out of sight for very special occasions.’
‘Not for wedding hire, then?’
‘Perish the thought, dear boy.’
‘The rifles, Porter?’ Kay prompted with a smile.
‘Oh, yes. This way.’
Barnes tore himself away from the classic car and fell into step beside her as the props owner hurried towards the back of the cavernous space.
The end of the shed appeared shorter on the inside than the outside, a design quirk that was soon revealed when MacFarlane used a second key to open an inner door.
A blast of warm air washed over Kay, evidence that the secure room was both airtight and heated by the confines of the reinforced ceiling that cocooned the collection.
When they stepped over the threshold, Kay swept her gaze over the rows of steel gun cabinets lining the walls. A large workbench took up the space in the middle of the room, with an array of tools lined up along one side of it and the distinct scent of gun oil in the air.
‘Okay, let’s make a start,’ she said. ‘You said on the phone that everything’s where it should be, right?’
‘Absolutely,’ said MacFarlane, unlocking the first cabinet to reveal three rows of assault rifles similar to the ones she had seen Paul Disher and his colleagues using on Wednesday night. ‘We haven’t had a request for weapons since May, and the next scheduled production doesn’t require our services until January.’
‘Is your work always during the winter?’ said Barnes.
‘Usually, yes. It’s quieter, you see. Less people around, so it’s easier for the film crews to get on and work without being interrupted.’
‘Do you train the actors as well?’ Barnes asked as MacFarlane closed the cabinet door and waited for the next one to be opened.
‘Sometimes we’ll have the actors meet here first, especially if they’ve never handled a weapon before,’ he replied, wrinkling his nose. ‘Nothing worse than watching someone holding a weapon the wrong way. Pure Hollywood, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Do you have anyone working with you?’
‘Just my eldest son, Roman, who you met up by the house. He’s taken over doing all the administrative work from me, which frees up my time to meet with prospective clients and take the guns wherever they’re required for filming.’ MacFarlane moved to the next cabinet. ‘With all the streaming services available, there’s a high demand for content so we’re never at a loss for work.’
‘But you’ve had nothing since May, you said.’
A genial smile crossed the man’s face. ‘That’s right. It’s a bit quiet at the moment but I’m sure it’ll pick up again soon. Always the way in this business.’
‘Are we the only visitors you’ve brought down here recently?’ asked Kay.
‘You’re the only ones who’ve seen the collection in the last four months.’
‘Don’t you show this lot to prospective clients, then?’
‘No – most of them know what they want and just tell me when and where. If they’re not sure and want to see something, then I’ll meet with them up at the house and take three or four weapons from here to show them.’ MacFarlane paused, and slid out a battered laptop computer from a shelf between two cabinets. ‘We keep a stocktaking system on here, and we record everything that’s removed from this room. Even the samples I show my clients are recorded so we know where any weapon is at all times.’
‘Sort of like our evidence logs.’
‘Exactly.’
‘We’ll need a note of the last visitors,’ said Kay. ‘Just to rule them out.’
‘No problem. I’ll email you their contact details once I’m back in the office. It was a small production outfit from Leeds.’
‘There’s one last thing, Porter, and this is something we’re asking everyone – where were you between the hours of eight and midnight on Wednesday?’
The man’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushing, and then he spluttered. ‘Are you…? Of course, you’re serious. I’m sorry. Yes, I can vouch for my whereabouts. I was here, having a late video conference call with a counterpart in Los Angeles who’s shipping one of my carriages over to New England for a film next week. I’ll send you the details if you like.’
‘Thanks, Porter. I appreciate it.’
After twenty minutes, the armourer closed the last cabinet door and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with a cotton handkerchief.
‘Let’s get some fresh air,’ he said with a smile.
Barnes gave the Lancia a last longing gaze when they passed it, then shook his head in wonder as Kay grinned at him.
‘Now I understand why you didn’t let any of the others come here,’ he murmured. ‘We wouldn’t have seen them for hours.’
‘Thanks again for your time this afternoon, Porter,’ said Kay when they reached the door.
‘No problem at all. I hope you catch the bastard.’ Locking the shed, MacFarlane tucked the keys into his pocket and gestured towards the golf cart. ‘Shall we?’
‘Just one final question,’ said Barnes. ‘Those keys. Are they the only set?’
‘They certainly are. And if I don’t have them on me, they’re kept in a fireproof safe at the back of my wardrobe.’ MacFarlane gave a grim smile. ‘We don’t take any chances here, detective.’