Kay swept her gaze over the stony turning circle outside the Maxtons’ red-brick farmhouse, and wondered how much money Royce was making from day trading on a regular basis.
A brand new four-by-four sparkled off to one side of the driveway, its paintwork freckled by a recent rain shower that had Barnes reaching for the wipers on their way out of Maidstone.
‘So when was the last time she saw this bloke?’ she said to him as they walked towards the front door.
‘Last month, which ties in roughly with when the blokes at the garage said Dale Thorngrove had a go at shooting for the first time. Too much of a coincidence for my liking.’
‘But she couldn’t give you the man’s name?’
‘No. Apparently her husband never introduced her.’ He rang the doorbell, then shrugged. ‘I figured it was worth a punt anyway.’
‘Nothing ventured…’
She jumped as a security panel behind her squawked to life, and a voice bellowed from the speaker.
‘Who is it?’
Barnes pointed to a small camera above the door, and she held up her warrant card.
‘Detective Inspector Kay Hunter, Kent Police. I’d like a word please, Mr Maxton.’
‘What about?’
‘Easier to talk face-to-face, Mr Max…’
‘I’m in the middle of something.’
‘Or we can do this down the station. It’s up to you.’
She heard him curse under his breath, and then there was a rattling sound at the other end before he returned. ‘Come around the side of the house. The office has its own entrance.’
A clatter ended the call, and she hurried past the front windows to a gravelled path that ran down the side of the house.
‘These stones are a good burglar deterrent,’ Barnes murmured appreciatively.
‘So are those.’ She pointed to the security cameras at each end of the house, then knocked on a thick wooden door below a protruding stone arch. ‘Fancy place.’
‘Doing all right with the share trading then.’
The door was wrenched open a moment later, and Royce Maxton appeared.
A shock of grey hair framed bushy eyebrows, under which piercing blue eyes glared at them.
‘This is most inconvenient,’ he snapped. ‘The US market is about to open, and there’s an IPO up for grabs. If I don’t…’
‘The sooner you answer our questions, the sooner we can have you back to your computer,’ said Kay.
‘Fine. Come through here. At least I can keep an eye on things while we talk.’
They stepped over the threshold into the utility room for the house, a washing machine and dryer side-by-side next to a sink unit and a selection of dog bowls and scattered cat litter spread across the tiles in one corner beside a tray that reeked of urine.
‘Sorry – the woman who cleans for us is running late.’
A door to the left led through to what turned out to be Maxton’s study, where two large computer screens took up a desk, one displaying a complicated spreadsheet that hurt Kay’s eyes just to look at, and the other showing a share trading website.
Maxton gave the screens a forlorn glance, then crossed his arms and turned to them. ‘Okay, let’s make this as quick as possible.’
‘We understand that you have a regular private shoot in the woods adjacent to your land,’ Kay said, after reciting the formal caution.
‘The woodland belongs to us, detective. We can do what we like there.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Has that idiot Tapper been making complaints again? You do realise they’re unfounded? His property boundary is nowhere near our fence line.’
‘Nothing like that. When was the last shoot you held here?’
‘About four weeks ago, I think.’
‘Can you check that?’
He pulled a mobile phone from his trouser pocket and dabbed at the screen. ‘Yes. Four weeks ago. A Sunday.’
‘How many of you were there?’
‘The usual three. Myself, Ambrose Weatherley, and Mark Redding. Plus a guest of Mark’s – Dale someone or other.’ He lowered the phone. ‘Hang on a minute. You already know all of this. I spoke to someone only a few days ago.’
‘You did, yes. Thanks for that.’ Kay waited until he put the phone away. ‘Which one of you owns an illegal firearm?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The bushy eyebrows disappeared under his shaggy fringe while his jaw dropped open.
‘One of the men you invited here that day doesn’t have a firearms certificate, and yet we have reason to believe he brought his own rifle with him. Who was it?’
‘I…’
‘Careful, Mr Maxton.’ Kay moved closer, taking some satisfaction in the man’s discomfort. ‘I’ll remind you, you’re under caution and my colleague here has a tendency to take extremely accurate notes. Any failure on your part to tell the truth right now could result in you losing your own firearms licence as a minimum.’
Maxton swallowed, then flushed. ‘I wondered at the time… I didn’t want to embarrass Ambrose, that’s all, and I did want to ask about it but I never got the opportunity. My wife came outside as we were getting ready to set off, and I was worried she’d overheard us.’
‘And you never thought to ask him after that day?’
‘No.’ His gaze slid to the computer screens, then back. ‘Look, I’m terribly sorry.’
‘This Ambrose Weatherley – how long have you known him?’
‘Years. We went to university together, and stayed in touch. He retired from his architecture practice last year, and took up shooting soon after. Mind you, I was happy to vouch for him when he applied for his licence. No problems there.’
‘Hang on. Which one of your guests that day has no licence?’ said Kay, confused. ‘Are you saying Weatherley lost his licence less than a year after it was approved, or––’
‘Good God, no. I was talking about Mark Redding, of course. I don’t know – I suppose I thought he was a safe pair of hands, and it was only the first time I’d seen him with his own gun. Other times, he was always happy to use mine. Said he lost his licence but was hoping to get it back. That’s sort of why I didn’t worry too much. He didn’t seem bothered by it at all, so I assumed by the end of the day that he’d had his licence reinstated and all was well…’
Kay exhaled at the sound of Barnes snapping shut his notebook, and turned for the door. ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Maxton. We can see ourselves out.’
They left the day trader standing in the middle of his study, stunned.
‘What do you think, guv?’ Barnes said as they sprinted back to the car. ‘Is Redding our killer?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Kay, staring through the windscreen as the front curtain twitched back into place. ‘I still can’t work out what his motive might be.’
She thrust the car into gear, peering over her shoulder as she reversed it to face the exit, and then stomped on the accelerator.
‘Where are we going, guv?’ Barnes asked, adjusting his seatbelt after the rapid manoeuvre.
‘To bring in Mark Redding for formal questioning again. If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that he’s been lying all along.’