Bound, page 4
‘That’s a bloody paper shredder,’ Smithy said as he followed his nose through a wooden office door embellished with the name ‘Blair Harvey-Boyd’ in black glass lettering.
‘And it’s been working overtime,’ I said as I followed him in.
Bent over the shredder, halfway through a wad of documents, was a thin man in his forties, dressed in what even I recognised as an extremely expensive pinstriped suit and looking for all the world like the kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. The hand concerned was adorned with an impressive rectangular emerald ring set in gold, which coordinated with his elegant cufflinks and vibrant green cravat. With his perfectly coiffed hair and eyebrows, which looked like they’d been combed and set into position, he was a symphony of perfect and well-considered taste.
‘Hey, you. Stop that immediately,’ Smithy said, and strode across the room ready to intervene.
Suit Guy didn’t look as if he was about to stop anytime soon. It was only when he realised the enormous detective bearing down on him meant business that he stopped feeding in the paper. Even then he stood there, puffed up, in a defiant, ‘you don’t intimidate me, I’ve done nothing wrong’ kind of way.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Destroying evidence is what it looks like. We ought to arrest you right here for obstruction of justice. You’d better explain yourself.’
‘No, no. No, I wasn’t doing that,’ the man said. The moment the words came out of his mouth I realised this man was gloriously camp. ‘I was just clearing some of my personal correspondence, nothing to do with Mr Henderson. I’m perfectly entitled to tidy up my own business in my own office, aren’t I?’
He was clearly lying his arse off, but I think his saving grace for now was the fact that even Smithy was trying not to smile. The man was a walking stereotype. It was like he’d researched every effeminate male who had ever existed and then cherry-picked the best bits to form the perfect gay package. Still, it was a package that was acting very dodgily and was caught shredding the crap out of a forest’s worth of paper. The end result was that, despite his elegance, he hadn’t made a good first impression on either of us. And we all knew first impressions tended to last.
‘And you would be?’
‘Blair,’ he said, and looked at us with undisguised suspicion. ‘Blair Harvey-Boyd. And you would be?’
I thought it was fairly obvious who we were, but undertook the formalities. ‘Detective Shephard, and this is Detective Smith. I believe you were expecting us?’ The fact he’d been destroying stuff told us he was expecting someone.
‘Oh, yes, they said a detective would be coming when they rang about John.’
‘Well, Mr Blair Harvey-Boyd, if you’ve finished with your wanton destruction of documents, perhaps you could answer a few questions for us about your employer.’
The man’s face crumpled first into a frown, and then to a version of grief-stricken. ‘Oh, I know. It’s just awful. That someone could do that to him – to both of them – and in their own home. It almost makes me ill to think of it. But I suppose you are hardened to this kind of thing; it wouldn’t affect you like it does the rest of us. For us it’s just hideous.’
It was apparent he’d also studied at the Dame Edna school of melodrama. It had been amusing for about the first thirty seconds, but with the whole ‘them and us’ thing he was starting to annoy me. Smithy too, judging by the look of irritation on his face.
‘Cut the theatrics. I’d like to have a sensible conversation, thank you.’
That was a bit harsh, even for Smithy, although I could understand the frustration. With his over-the-top mannerisms and bravado scattered with lapses into sorrowful expression, Mr Blair Harvey-Boyd was proving to be very difficult to read.
‘It has become apparent that Mr Henderson was … executed, shall we say,’ Smithy explained, ‘and Mrs Henderson has alluded to the fact that some of his business practices were questionable, which your skill with the paper shredder tends to reinforce. Naturally, we have to consider all possibilities in our investigation, which also includes you, so your cooperation would be recommended.’
‘Me, a suspect?’ Suit Guy said, aghast. ‘But I could never do something like that, and anyway, why would I? John was a good friend and a great employer.’ I looked at the expensive suit, silk cravat and blingy cufflinks. He certainly must have been a generous employer.
‘You had better help us figure out who would have, then. You can start by telling us exactly what Eros Global does and what it deals in.’
‘Certainly. Why don’t you take a seat?’ He indicated a pair of expensive-looking mid-century-design leather chairs. They weren’t as comfortable as they looked.
‘We’re an import-export business for nutraceuticals.’
‘Nutraceuticals?’ I asked.
‘For those that don’t know, they’re pharmaceuticals really, but we can’t call them that because in order to make any therapeutic claims for something you have to have it licensed by the Ministry of Health as a pharmaceutical, which costs a fortune and takes forever. You know what bureaucrats are like – you’re civil servants. So if we have them lodged as nutritional supplements, it’s a lot more straightforward.’
Well, that sounded dodgy for a start. The civil servants quip had left Smithy bristling. Suit Guy had a special gift for condescension.
‘What sort of products?’
‘Our main line is sexual-performance enhancers.’ One of Smithy’s eyebrows cocked upwards. ‘Although we have others.’
‘And these are imported, or do you manufacture here?’
‘A bit of both.’
‘And your manufacturing is done in Dunedin?’
‘Auckland, actually, that’s where it’s all happening. Dunedin’s too much of a backwater to bother with manufacturing, but we distribute from here. For some unfathomable reason, John liked this place.’
If Suit Guy was so fond of Auckland, why didn’t he do everyone a favour and go back there? My fingers twitched and I had to try very hard to keep my voice level.
‘And how do you market these so-called nutraceuticals?’
He blithely went on, oblivious to the chill in the air. ‘We have stockists around the country, but we also have an online business, which is the part that I run – in fact, it’s the area of fastest growth. That’s where the future lies; shopping from the comfort and discretion of your own home. We’re getting more and more business through the online store. In fact we are one of New Zealand’s largest suppliers of Viagra and Cialis; our prices and service can’t be beaten. I’ve captured that corner of the market.’ He was clearly proud of this achievement. But even my limited understanding of medicine made that statement ring little alarm bells.
‘I thought you said you didn’t do pharmaceuticals. And I thought drugs like that could only be supplied on prescription, and then they could only be dispensed at a pharmacy.’ Otherwise, surely, they’d be on sale everywhere from the local sex shop to the corner dairy.
‘Oh yes, you’re quite right there, but you see, I’m registered as a pharmacist and licensed to dispense, so we cover all the legal requirements. That’s the beauty of the computer age: prescriptions can be sent by email, it’s all paid for electronically with their credit card and then, voilà, we send it out. Easy.’
I was sure it was a hell of a lot less simple than that and my bullshit-o-meter questioned the legality of it all, but that was something that could be looked into later. It would be interesting to talk to the fraud folk on the matter as well as whoever did the registration of medicines and pharmacies in New Zealand. Was this what Jill Henderson meant when she said she had moral issues with her husband’s business dealings? Surely not. It must have been about something dodgier than old men popping a pill to get a leg over.
‘So Eros Global is essentially a company that imports stuff to help sad bastards who can’t get it up by themselves?’ Smithy hadn’t fallen for Harvey-Boyd’s evangelical spiel either.
‘Why? Do you need some assistance, Detective?’
Mr Harvey-Boyd stood there looking pleased with himself. His cockiness was severely misplaced. Smithy’s face changed from a look of distaste to dangerously impassive. As of recently he didn’t have to worry about enjoying a physical relationship with anyone as his wife, Veronica, had taken the kids and left. And, as much as I liked and respected Smithy, I had to side with Veronica on this one. Since the shooting, well, actually, since a significant issue before then, he’d been a different Smithy to the one we knew and loved. The new Smithy was moody and judgemental, and pretty bloody difficult too. I think we’d all hoped he’d get better. Veronica was the first one to admit that wasn’t about to happen and the man she had fallen in love with wasn’t coming back, so she had bailed. Naturally, that hadn’t improved matters. It was a raw nerve that Mr Harvey-Boyd had severely jangled. Smithy looked like he was going to detonate. I stood up and stepped between them, for everyone’s welfare, and started talking, fast.
‘Mr Harvey-Boyd, can we clear one thing up straight away, please? What were you doing last night?’ Jill Henderson’s description of the offenders was of a very large man and a man of medium height and thin build. Mr Harvey-Boyd was short and slight, so I was pretty certain he didn’t actually do the deed.
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ he said and looked very relieved at the question. It had finally dawned on him how close he was flirting with disaster. ‘I was out at our film-society night. The International Film Festival is on at the moment, so we went to the eight-fifteen session and then we all went to Nova for a drink. We left at about eleven, I suppose.’
‘We?’
‘Gregory, my partner, and I. He can vouch for my whereabouts, as can most of the society members.’
‘We’ll need to speak to Greg to confirm that,’ I said. Although, even if his alibi did stack up, that didn’t necessarily mean he was innocent. I was sure he was perfectly capable of paying someone else to do the hit. A little investigating into his financial affairs would be in order, to ensure there hadn’t been any very large outgoing payments recently.
‘If you must. But he likes to be called Gregory, Gregory Chingford-Owen.’ Gosh, they were the Harvey-Boyd-Chingford-Owens.
‘John Henderson had an iPhone, is that right?’
‘Yes, he was never without it. It was like his lifeline. He kept everything in there.’
‘Well it wasn’t on him last night, and we’ve been unable to locate it at his house. Is there any chance he would have left it here?’
‘Oh no. Like I said, he always carried it. We can look next door in his office, but you’ll be wasting your time. I’m absolutely certain he would have had it on him. Come this way.’
We exited Harvey-Boyd’s office (the paper shredder seemed to have recovered its composure by now), and moved through to what must have been John Henderson’s PA’s room. I checked my watch; she’d been asked to meet us here in about quarter of an hour’s time. The room was precisely what you’d expect of a PA’s office, with numerous filing cabinets, shelves of document boxes and ring binders. Dual computer monitors, keyboard and wireless mouse on a very tidy desk. The desk and shelving were all in a warm, brown mahogany-type finish, which complemented the brown textured carpet. The view of the waterfront out of the window was quite lovely. A healthy-looking large-leafed pot plant occupied one corner, and the earthy theme was completed with a spectacular canvas-printed photograph of Mitre Peak. I certainly wouldn’t have minded this office.
Where Astrid Allen’s office was elegant, John Henderson’s office was all style. The shelves displayed carefully arranged product – boxes of Viagra, Cialis and what I guessed were prescription medicines, along with what were clearly the nutraceuticals. I’d never come across a medicine called ‘Cock-up’ before, but the name certainly gave away the purpose. As did ‘Man-power’, ‘Thrust’ and what I guessed must have been the female equivalents, with names like ‘Vixen’, ‘Purr’ and my personal favourite, ‘Defrost’. He must have been very proud of his product lines, because I’d have been embarrassed to have them on display, let alone be seen by potential business clients.
Henderson had a large, almost sculptural glass desk, the transparent top supported by satin-finished steel disks sitting on the drawer units. His chair was dark-brown designer leather, as were the visitors’ seats. A fifty-five inch LCD screen was attached to the wall, and my mind could not help but wonder if it was to play ‘promotional DVDs’. Despite some of the product lines involved, the overall impression of the room was one of class, not kitsch. It was designed to impress and you could tell where the money had been spent.
‘Well, this is nice,’ Smithy said. He stood for a moment to admire the LCD screen.
‘Where’s his computer?’ I asked. ‘Did he use a laptop?’
‘No, John didn’t like the clutter of a computer on his desk, so it’s over here.’ Blair pointed to a vacant space on top of the waist-height cupboards to the left of the desk. Was I missing something here? There wasn’t any computer. Harvey-Boyd looked like he was enjoying his joke, before he reached over and pressed a switch. I heard a whirring noise before, hey presto, like magic, panels slid open and the latest iMac emerged up like a rabbit out of a hat.
‘Okay, that was cool,’ I said. The keyboard even slid out on a little platform so you could sit at it without having to amputate your legs. Smithy was salivating. It was boy-toy heaven.
‘If his iPhone had been here, it would have been on his desk, or charging over there by the computer.’ Both spaces were conspicuously empty.
‘Do you have the passwords to get on to this computer?’ I asked.
‘No, I’m afraid not, but Astrid may have.’ If she didn’t have it, the techie boys and girls would have fun cracking it. That would give them something to do for a few minutes.
I heard the front door of the premises open. It had to be Astrid. I didn’t want Suit Guy here while we were talking to her, and I didn’t trust him to wait quietly in his office without having another crack at destroying the evidence.
‘Mr Harvey-Boyd, we are going to need to talk to you again. In fact, if you could be down at the station at four o’clock, we can take a proper statement then. In the meantime, I’m afraid you won’t be allowed back onto these premises, so can we have your keys, please?’ I put my hand out, expectantly.
He looked at it, horrified. ‘But why? I’ve got so much work to do. We’ll have to let all of our clients know what has happened. There’s still the business to run.’
‘Business is closed for the day,’ Smithy said. ‘And then there’s the little matter of what you were doing with the paper shredder – which was a complete waste of time, I’m afraid to tell you, because our people will be able to piece that all back together, no problem. So be good, hand over the keys and run along.’
Blair Harvey-Boyd gave a theatrical humph, reached his hand into his trouser pocket, pulled out the keys and deftly removed the office ones from his substantial and flashy keyring. He then dropped them into my hand, turned on his well-shod heel and strode out of the room.
9
The moment Astrid Allen entered the office I understood why Jill Henderson had sounded wary when she spoke of her. Ms Allen was a bombshell in the traditional blonde sense of the word. Although dressed very conservatively in jeans, boots and a high-necked sweater, and with her hair swept back in an easy ponytail, there was absolutely no doubt as to her curvaceousness. I could see that, given the right attire, she’d completely erase any customer’s need for chemical enhancement.
I whispered to Smithy, ‘Wipe your chin.’ He closed his mouth.
‘Hi Astrid. I’m Detective Shephard and this is Detective Smith,’ I said as I reached out to shake her hand.
Her grasp was firm and she looked both me and Smithy directly in the eye as she greeted us in turn. I could see the smudge of dark circles under her eyes; she hadn’t tried to hide them with makeup. I guessed she was about twenty-five – the perfect blonde trophy PA, nicely complementing John Henderson’s gorgeous brunette trophy wife. Still, I could understand that the trophy wife might feel a little threatened by the help. John Henderson liked to surround himself with the best.
‘Thank you for coming in today,’ I said. ‘I realise this must be difficult for you.’
‘Yes, it’s truly awful. I still can’t believe it. Poor Jill and Declan, they’ll be devastated. And I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Jill, to see John being killed like that.’ Astrid had a quiet intensity about her. She was clearly upset, but not in the histrionic way that my prejudices would have expected from a young blonde thing. Her voice was low and rich, which, coupled with her sober demeanour, created an impression of a mature and capable young woman. ‘You have to catch whoever did this; they are sick, sick people. I’ll help in any way I can.’ And I believed she would.
‘What exactly did your job entail here, working for Mr Henderson?’ I asked.
The corners of her lips curled up in a hint of a smile. ‘We had a strictly professional relationship,’ she said, picking up on my subtext, and without any sign of offence. ‘John ran an international company and had a lot of overseas contacts, clients and suppliers to juggle. I acted as the intermediary, communicating across different time zones, organising times for teleconferencing as well as his travel. I also did a lot of traditional secretarial work. He did basic emailing, but his typing was lousy, so he preferred to dictate larger communications, which I’d type up for him. I also did the day-to-day financials and record-keeping. As for the business and web-development side of things, that was John and Blair’s domain.’
‘Did they have a good relationship? Was there any tension there?’
She looked around to make sure Harvey-Boyd was out of earshot. ‘To be honest, Blair can get pretty irritating.’ That wasn’t hard to believe. ‘And he’d occasionally get under John’s skin, but they seemed to be a good combination when it came to business. I guess you could say Blair is the flashy ideas man and go-getter, whereas John was the more considered, quieter person who made things work. I think they respected each other.’ She paused for a moment. ‘If you’re asking if I think Blair would have killed John, no, he wouldn’t be the type to get his hands dirty. And if you’re asking if he could have paid someone else to do it, then no also. He would have too much to lose.’ She laughed then, low and throaty. ‘Blair Harvey-Boyd is a high-maintenance man with expensive tastes and…’ again the pause, ‘…habits.’ Was she alluding to a chemical enhancement to keep him bouncing around like that? It wasn’t a great stretch of the imagination. ‘He is paid very, very well. I don’t think he’d be the type to risk upsetting the gravy train.’
