Reader's Digest Australia Dec/Jan 2025

68   December 2025/january 2026 reader ’ s digest Davis, Redman realised. He steadied himself then said, “Oh, I must have the wrong man.” Redman thanked the gentleman and hurried to his car. He had to get back to the station and make an urgent call. When Clenahan answered, Redman said, “Something’s up.” Fateful Encounter “Good God,” said Clenahan when he heard the sergeant’s report. Hang- ing up, he went straight to Sincock’s office. “That Davis fellow who’s helped us out with the Platt case,” Clena- han began, “the man who said he was the dead man’s friend. He’s been living under Platt’s name.” And he added one more damn- ing detail: Davis had a boat down in Devon somewhere. Suddenly the Platt case was no longer a low priority. The next day DCI Sin- cock convened a meet- ing with Clenahan and other detectives. He ordered them to put Little London Farm and its resi- dents under a microscope; get hold of documents such as local government records, banking records and phone bills. Clenahan tracked down Platt’s former girlfriend Elaine Boyes in the name of Davis’s house. That left the other two. The odds are 50-50 , thought Redman. He went to one of the houses and knocked, and an older gentleman answered the door. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but is this Little London Farm?” “This is Little London House ,” the man said. “That,” he said, stepping out onto the porch and pointing next door, “is Little London Farm .” “Thank you very much,” Redman said, and began to walk away. Then it struck him that he’d better make sure. He turned around. “That is where Mr David Davis lives, isn’t it?” “Dear boy,” the el- derly man replied, “you’re mistaken again. There’s no Mr Davis who lives there. That is where Ronald Platt lives.” R e d m a n w a s s t u n n e d . “ R o n a l d Platt?” “Yes. And his wife, Noël. And their two children.” “May I ask what this Mr Platt looks like? I may have the wrong address.” “Oh, he’s about 50. An American chap. Outgoing, friendly, dark hair, beard. A retired banker from New York. He spends a lot of time on his boat down in Devon.” It was a precise description of “You’re mistaken again,” said the elderly man. “There’s no Mr Davis who lives there. That is where Ronald Platt lives” readersdigest.com.au   69 Bonus Read “I’ve been watching you,” the man replied. “You’ve got people traipsing through here, the phone’s ringing, and you treat everyone so well. I could use someone like you.” “I beg your pardon?” “I’m planning on starting up a little fine arts and antiques company myself. I’m over here quite a bit now, and I’ll be moving permanently from America soon. I’d pay you well, you could travel, we could even take some courses together down at Sotheby’s in London. But you must know a lot already, working here.” “Not as much as I’d like,” Boyes said, still flustered. “I could teach you all about busi- ness. We could work together. I’m sure of it.” “You don’t even know me.” “David Davis,” he said, extending his hand, bowing slightly and smiling as he did so. “Elaine Boyes,” she replied, shaking hands. “But this is ridiculous. I can’t even think about changing jobs, Mr Davis. I’ve promised my boyfriend we’ll move to Canada. He grew up there, and all he ever talks about is going back. It’s his dream.” “Well, you can’t blame a man for chasing a dream, can you?” Davis encouraged her, almost fatherly now. “Was he born there?” he asked. “No, no. Ron’s father was a teacher in Canada. They went over from Liv- erpool when Ron was about ten. He came back in ’63 and later joined the Harrogate and made an appointment to meet with her in late October. Wearing glasses and dressed con- servatively, she seemed genial and trusting. With him Clenahan carried a pho- tograph of the back of the dead man’s hand with the maple-leaf tattoo. Yes, a shaken Boyes confirmed after viewing the photo, it was Ron. The police had notified a David Davis too, Clenahan told her. “How long has he known?” she asked. “A couple of months now.” The woman froze. She said she had spoken to Davis only about a week before and had asked him about Platt. All he said was that he had seen him off to France. Still stunned by the news, Boyes went on to tell Clenahan all about her life with Ron Platt and how she and he came to befriend David Davis. It began in the summer of 1990. She was a 31-year-old reception- ist at Henry Spencer and Sons Fine Art Auctioneers in Harrogate, a posh Victorian spa town in North Yorkshire, 290km north of London. One day a man walked in and asked to see some paintings. Just then the phone rang. Boyes answered it, fielded other calls, and handled que- ries from colleagues, every now and then giving a nodding smile to the patiently waiting visitor. “At last,” Boyes said. “How can I help you?”