A Narrow Margin of Error (15 page)

‘And how did Rowan react to this?’

‘Oh, he played it up to the hilt. Made out he was this big
bad-wolf
Lothario who would have to go to outrageous lengths to circumnavigate the ever-observant Victorian-attitude father. You know, in clever Oxford academic-speak. It was all very gratifying and ego-massaging for a fifteen-year-old.’

‘But it didn’t go to your head?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘He never got you into bed?’

‘Oh, no.’

Hillary nodded and sipped some more of her pint. ‘Did you ever hear him admit to being afraid of anyone?’

‘Rowan? Definitely not. He was fearless.’

Hillary sighed. ‘Well, thank you, Miss Hargreaves. And sorry to have had to take you away from your work.’

‘Oh think nothing of it. I doubt Geoffrey’s even aware I’ve been gone,’ Natasha said with a small laugh, and with another graceful unfolding, stood up in one lithe movement, turned, and walked away.

Sam finished his orange juice rapidly as Hillary drank up.
Outside, the clouds were finally beginning to roll away, and a cheerful blackbird sang loudly from one of the old cedar trees lining the gravel drive.

‘So what do you think of her story, Sam?’ Hillary asked, as they made their way back to the little Mini.

‘A beautiful girl, guv. Way out of my league, mind,’ he added ruefully. ‘Her sort wouldn’t give the likes of me a second look. What do you think?’ he asked curiously.

Hillary Greene smiled wisely. ‘I think that woman wouldn’t know the truth if it bit her on the backside,’ she said simply.

When she got back to HQ, a note was waiting on her desk from Sergeant Handley. It was short and to the point.

Hillary leaned back in her desk and let out a long slow breath. She hadn’t realized, until then, just how very tense she’d been.

Ah well.

She rose, stretched, and reached for the pile of paperwork on her desk.

Time to re-read every scrap of paper once again in the Thompson case. With a sigh for the eyestrain that would inevitably follow, Hillary opened the first file.

J
immy glanced at his watch, and saw that there was still a good two hours left until clocking-off time. He knew that Hillary was closeted in her office re-reading every scrap of paper on the case, but he was so tired of doing his own paperwork that he checked his to-do list in an effort to find something better.

So far, he’d ticked off several items, and had currently reached the entry marked ‘The Freeling Brothers – check circs.’ Of course – these were the two brothers who’d competed for and slept with their victim. He grinned, remembering Hillary’s advice to take Vivienne Tyrell with him for protection when he went to talk to them. As if anybody, a pair of gay brothers or anyone else, would look twice at him, let alone make so much as a pass!

But it would be good experience for Sam.

‘Doing anything, youngster?’ Jimmy asked, standing up and reaching for his coat.

Sam looked up from the laptop in front of him, his eyes
sharpening
with interest when he saw that the older man was getting ready to go out. Although he loved working for the CRT, and was definitely going to join the police as soon as he could after getting his degree, like nearly everyone else he preferred to be out and about and away from the office. Doing actual police work, instead of babysitting computer programs and staying on top of the seemingly never-ending stream of boring office routine was what he’d actually signed up for.

Not that he was complaining or anything. He might still be as
green as a cabbage and wet behind the ears, as nearly everyone he ran across at HQ often told him, but even he could appreciate that having Hillary Greene for a boss was like winning the jackpot.

Superintendent Crayle made a good commander, of course, but for on-the-spot training he knew that he’d learned more about the job in the few weeks since Hillary Greene had joined the team, than he had in all the months that had gone before.

Jimmy, too, knew his stuff, of course.

‘Where we going, Sarge?’ he asked eagerly, as he followed the old man up the stairs and into the light of the afternoon. He often felt like a mole emerging into unfamiliar daylight after a few too many hours down in the basement.

‘We’re going to see a pair of gay brothers about an orgy,’ Jimmy said, deadpan.

‘Oh,’ Sam said. Was the sarge joking?

No, he realized, some half an hour later, as they walked into a bicycle shop in the suburb of Botley, the sarge hadn’t been joking.

He’d read the murder book every day, of course, and the sign outside the shop telling tourists and students alike that bicycles could be hired by the month had triggered his memory.

‘These are the two that Rowan Thompson slept with, right?’ he asked, as Jimmy pushed open the door of the shop and they both heard the old-fashioned bell ring overhead.

‘Right. By the name of Mark and Jeff,’ Jimmy said, without having to refer to his notes.

Inside, a range of racing bicycles lined the walls, amid some rather more mundane machines. A few of them even hung suspended from wall brackets. There were even some really old models in the shop window. One old bone-shaker, Jimmy was sure, was a dead ringer for the first grown-up bike his Dad had bought him, back in the late fifties.

‘I can see you’re a man of taste,’ a voice said behind him, and Jimmy quickly turned. The man in front of him looked to be a very well-preserved fifty-something, with dyed black hair, big blue eyes that looked disconcertingly wide-eyed and innocent,
and a slim build. His eyes kept straying from Jimmy to Sam, who was shifting a shade uncomfortably from foot to foot and
beginning
to go a dull red.

‘Mr Freeling?’

‘Yes, I’m Mark Freeling. Let me guess – you used to have a bike like that one when you were a young stripling,’ he said,
indicating
the red-painted model that Jimmy had been eyeing up.

Jimmy smiled. ‘A real bone-shaker, yes. I’m surprised you still deal in them now,’ he said, looking at another, even older,
black-painted
relic, complete with what looked like its original wicker basket fastened in front on the handlebars.

‘Oh, those are mainly for the dons who like to play the part,’ Mark Freeling said, rolling his big blue eyes in mock-despair. ‘What can you do? They like to play up to the tourists, and cycling around in full regalia on a machine you or I wouldn’t be seen dead riding is part of the thrill for the old dears.’

Jimmy pulled out his ID, and although the blue eyes flickered slightly, Mark Freeling didn’t look particularly put out to find a member of the constabulary in his establishment, even a retired, civilian version of the same, as Jimmy’s ID clearly indicated.

‘Is your brother Jeffrey here, sir?’ Jimmy asked. ‘It would just save me some time and some leg work if I could have a little chat with both of you together.’

‘Oh yes, he’s around somewhere. Just a mo. Jeff! JEFF!’ he yelled, making Sam jump nervously.

The two customers in the shop, two young lads who were arguing over the best mountain bike, momentarily paused in their bickering. But they only gave the shop owner a mild look of annoyance before getting back to discussing which was, and
definitely
wasn’t, the best time to change gear when going down Mount Snowdon in a blizzard.

A moment later, a younger version of Mark Freeling emerged from a door at the rear, where, no doubt, they kept their office. He was slightly taller than his brother, slightly leaner, slightly
better-looking
and appeared to be a good decade younger.

He could well believe that the Freeling brothers regularly competed and argued over everything. Including a prize like Rowan Thompson.

‘What are you shrieking about?’ Jeff Freeling asked in a disgruntled voice that didn’t seem to match the speculative look in his eyes as they went from Jimmy, and then fastened
speculatively
on the tall, tender redheaded youngster behind.

‘Hello there,’ Jeff said, clearly addressing Sam.

Sam went a brighter shade of red.

‘I saw him first,’ Mark said, purely out of habit, Jimmy was sure, because he then went on with barely a breath, ‘These two gentlemen are with the police. We haven’t been doing anything naughty recently, have we?’ And he shot his brother a fulminating look.

‘No, we haven’t,’ Jeff shot back. ‘We check the stolen bikes register regularly, and record all serial numbers religiously.’

Sam knew that bicycle theft in Oxford was something of an epidemic, and said shortly, ‘This isn’t about stolen property, sir. We’re working on a murder inquiry.’

He’d always wanted to say something like that, but the moment he’d done so, he instantly wondered if he’d overstepped the mark. He gave Jimmy a quick, anxious look, but the older man didn’t seem that put out.

The Freeling brothers, on the other hand, started to twitter like a pair of disturbed starlings. Quickly they ushered the two of them back into the office, and ordered a morose, middle-aged woman who was working on a computer to go and mind the shop.

She went with a huge, put-upon sigh.

‘Who’s been murdered? Was it a gay bashing?’ Mark asked at once. ‘Oh, can I get you a coffee or anything?’

‘No, thank you. We work for the Crime Review Team. We’re taking another look at the Rowan Thompson case, sir,’ Jimmy explained patiently.

‘Oh, for goodness sake, why didn’t you say!’ Jeff said. ‘Please, take a seat. Poor Rowan.’

There was a general bustle as all four men found various seats in the small office. Mark sighed heavily. ‘He was a wonderful boy, Rowan. A bit of a bastard, mind you, but lovely.’

‘How was he a bastard, sir?’ Jimmy asked, glancing at Sam to make sure that he was taking notes.

He was.

‘Oh well, you had to know Rowan to know that,’ Jeff said, and then said, ‘What?’ as his older sibling snorted at him.

‘Well, they
didn’t
know him, did they?’ Mark said scornfully. ‘That’s why they’re asking. Let me tell you, Rowan was
something
of a sexual gymnast, Officer. He could not only bend and cavort his own body, but he could twist and manipulate anyone around him. Young, old, male, female, one at a time, two at a go or even a group – he was up for it. He was really quite
spectacular
, wasn’t he, Jeff?’

Sam, busily scribbling, went even redder.

Jimmy pretended not to notice.

‘We have witnesses who claim that he, er, mucked you and your brother about. Is that true?’ he asked, his eyes on Mark.

‘Oh, he had us jumping through hoops like trained poodles, didn’t he, Jeff? I tell you, sometimes I thought I’d wandered into Crufts by mistake. I’m only surprised he didn’t make us go ‘woof’ and sit up and beg.’

Jimmy did his best not to grin. ‘I see. It must have created bad feeling at the time?’

‘Oh, yes. Well, no. Well, sort of yes and no,’ Mark said, and this time it was his younger brother who snorted in scorn.

‘Now who’s the one not making sense?’ he drawled. ‘See, Officer, it was like this. Rowan came in one glorious afternoon to hire a bike for the term. I served him first, and we got chatting, and I knew that I was on to a winner straight away, let me tell you. Anyway, we go out for drinks, but nothing doing. Sort-of blowing hot and cold, like he couldn’t make up his mind. Well, all right, I thought, I don’t mind a bit of teasing. But when he comes back to the shop the next day to collect his bike,
someone
’ – here
the younger man shot daggers at his older brother – ‘tried to muscle in. Well, this confused poor Rowan. Or so I thought.’

Mark snorted inelegantly. ‘Of course, he knew just what he was doing, playing us off against one another.’

‘Anyway, in the end, just when we thought neither one of us was going to bag him,’ Jeff said, and took a breath, ‘he just ups and says that he can’t choose between us, so he’ll take us both!’ Mark put in, and then laughed. ‘And that was Rowan.’

Sam scribbled furiously and went a very interesting shade of cerise, Jimmy thought.

‘I see. And this happened …?’ he probed delicately.

‘Oh, just the once,’ Mark said, with obvious bitter regret.

‘More’s the pity,’ his brother chipped in. ‘It was lovely.’

‘This must have made you angry?’ Jimmy said curiously.

‘Oh, as hornets,’ Jeff agreed at once.

‘JEFF!’ his brother shrieked.

‘What?’

‘Don’t you see, the man thinks we killed him? And you go around saying we were mad at him.’

Jeff turned his big blue eyes Jimmy’s way. ‘Oh, but we didn’t kill Rowan,’ he said. ‘Why on earth would we do that?’

‘Perhaps you wanted him back? You went to his house to ask him to come back to you – er, either one of you. Or both,’ Jimmy said, floundering suddenly.

‘Oh, no, we wouldn’t do that,’ Mark said. ‘We made the frat oath, see.’

Jeff nodded seriously.

‘Frat oath?’ Jimmy repeated blankly. Somehow, this interview was beginning to get away from him.

‘Yes. Ever since we were kids, we’ve always fought like cat and dog,’ Mark explained. ‘Mostly we enjoyed it really, and it didn’t mean much. I mean, it never really hurt, or was meant to hurt, you see. But sometimes, it could get out of hand, and then it wasn’t fun anymore, so whenever we realized things were getting too heavy for one of us, we’d agree to settle our differences with
a fraternal oath. If I was going insane because he would keep using my favourite razor, for instance, I’d scream at him, “
Frat-oath
. No more.” And he’d know I was serious, and not use the razor again.’

‘I see,’ Jimmy said faintly.

‘So when we both got all hot and bothered about Rowan, and very nearly went bald pulling each other’s hair out, we both did the frat-oath thing and promised not to see him again,’ Jeff said. ‘Either one of us. On pain of death.’

Both brothers turned their big baby blues Jimmy’s way. ‘So you see,’ Mark said.

‘We never went near Rowan after that,’ Jeff said.

‘So it couldn’t have been one of us,’ Mark said.

‘You see?’ Jeff said.

Jimmy took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I think that’ll be all for now.’

Sam slapped his notebook shut at the speed of light and shot to his feet. Jimmy, wisely not wanting to be stampeded, stood well to one side and let the youngster leave first.

Once outside, Sam stood by the car, watching Jimmy approach. He had, Jimmy was glad to note, turned back to a paler pink colour.

‘Bloody hell, Sarge, were they having us on or what?’ he asked indignantly.

Jimmy had to grin. ‘I’m not sure, son. But I’m telling you this, if the guv wants that precious pair reinterviewed, she can do it herself.’

Hillary’s next interview, however, was already set up with Romola Perkins, formerly Hargreaves. She had relocated to Bristol, and for once, Vivienne had been in the office, and had been happy enough to get out of town for what remained of the rest of the day. She was less than happy to have to take Hillary’s car, however, and even less than happy not to be allowed to drive.

Romola had gone into the acting profession, according to her
updated background check, but this consisted more of am-dram than RADA. Now comfortably married to an advertising
executive
, she lived in a nice little detached place in Clifton, with a quite spectacular view of the famous bridge.

Vivienne navigated with surprising accuracy, and they made good time in the light-early-afternoon traffic.

When they arrived, Vivienne got out and looked around with the bright enquiring eye of a blackbird spotting a worm. She was dressed in black leggings, with a leopard-print top, and carried a knock-off black leather bag that was pretending to be Prada.

‘This isn’t too bad,’ Vivienne said, then added with searing scorn ‘for suburbia.’

Hillary nodded. It wasn’t bad at all. Mr Perkins, she thought, must be seriously high-up on the pecking order in the advertising firm.

‘I called ahead, so she should be in,’ Hillary said, walking up a set of garden steps towards the house, which, like its neighbours, had been built on a ferocious angle on a steep hill. Cleverly terraced gardens frothed with spring colour, and the dull roar of the perpetual traffic in the city spread out below and beyond was almost drowned out by the drone of buzzing insects.