A Narrow Return (6 page)

The houses had probably been considered modest affairs back in the 1990s, but would probably now sell for a sum that would have made Anne McRae’s eyes shine with delight.

‘Nice enough area,’ Jimmy said, glancing around, as a pair of amorous robins flitted past them.

‘Yes. What number were they?’

‘Eleven. That one there.’ Jimmy pointed.

Number eleven looked like all the others: yellow-bricked, grey-tiled and double-glazed. A small front garden held host to a forsythia bush that was just beginning to flower. ‘They’d have back gardens stretching back almost to the road, I reckon,’ Hillary said, remembering from the file that a neighbour had seen their murder victim working in the back garden on the afternoon of her death.

‘Don’t suppose there’s any way around to the back?’ she asked, setting off for the end house. But they were in luck, for a narrow pavement did in fact circumnavigate the area. A near twenty-foot tall wooden fence screened the houses from the road beyond, so no one driving by could see into the windows. At the rear of the houses, most of the gardens were also protected from prying eyes by wooden fences, but she could imagine that the linear boundaries were probably a bit less stark. Privet hedges maybe, or lattice-work festooned with climbers. It would have been easy for neighbours to chat across them, and see one another from their own windows.

They went all the way around and back out to the front again. On the other side of Cherry Tree Crescent was a scrubby-looking field being cropped now by some placidly grazing sheep.

‘Not much passing foot-traffic,’ she said flatly. ‘No wonder DI Squires had so much trouble finding witnesses. Unless you had business here, nobody had any reason to be passing by. And the houses can’t be seen from the road.’

Jimmy nodded. ‘Doesn’t look the sort of place you’d expect a young mother to be coshed to death, does it?’

‘No,’ Hillary said thoughtfully. ‘It doesn’t.’

‘You’re thinking it’s unlikely to be a random thing, guv?’ Jimmy guessed.

‘Yes,’ she agreed flatly. She and Jimmy both knew that a fair number of young women who were murdered were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. That they were unlucky enough to catch the attention of a mental patient tossed out of an asylum and onto the non-existent mercies of the care-in-the-community. Or fit the hit-list of some psychopathic misogynist who plucked his victims at random. But whoever had killed Anne McRae had had to come to this place, come to her own home, to kill her.

‘She knew him. Or her,’ Hillary said softly. ‘She had to have done. This can’t have been a random killing by a passing stranger.’

Jimmy nodded. ‘We’re looking at nearest and dearest then?’

Hillary sighed. ‘But not necessarily that near, or that dear. Don’t forget, she felt safe here. If someone she only knew casually, or in passing, called at her door, she’d probably have invited them in without thinking about it. Unless she had reason to be afraid of them, and then she might try and shut the door in their face. But forensics found no sign of a struggle, right?’

‘Right, guv. She was just standing at the table, making a fruit pie. Someone just grabbed the rolling pin off the table and bashed her. So it looks as if she was taken by surprise.’

Hillary sighed.

‘Seen enough, guv?’

‘Yeah. Back to the office.’

After her two unexpected visitors had left, Debbie Gregg sat in thought for a while, then got up, got changed, and left the house. She didn’t have far to drive to reach Banbury, but finding a parking spot that she didn’t have to pay for was the usual hassle. As it was, she had to walk nearly a quarter of a mile to her destination.

The ugly red-brick building that she walked to housed more than fifty poky flats, and depressed her instantly. The street lamps were all broken, dog shit lined the sparse grass verges, and the whole place stank of unemployment, despair and resentment.

She pushed open the lobby door, which was supposed to be kept locked but never was, and trudged wearily up three flights of steps that reeked of urine.

She knew better than to try the lift.

Once she reached her destination, she rang the bell and waited. Eventually, the door was opened. The woman who looked back at her did so without any sign of notable enthusiasm.

‘Hello, Auntie Debbie.’

Debbie Gregg smiled and stepped inside. Having someone in your home who was generally believed to have got away with murder, would be enough to cause alarm to most people.

But Lucy McRae, it had to be said, didn’t look particularly frightened.

‘I
haven’t seen you in ages,’ Lucy said, watching her aunt pace around the tiny living room, whilst she herself made some mugs of tea. Her kitchenette area boasted little more than a stove and a fridge tucked into one corner, and both appliances were filthy. A tiny sink and a breakfast stool pushed up against a solitary work surface comprised the rest of the less than lovely dining area.

At the age of thirty-three, Lucy had never learned to love housework. She loved fine clothes, and jewellery and expensive perfume and champagne and foreign holidays. And, in the past, had occasionally managed to indulge in them all – though sadly, not all at once. The thing was, they usually came with the men who paid for them all, and nowadays, men were getting less and less easy to come by. Lucy still kept her figure by religiously exercising, and any precious pennies she earned went on face creams, make-up and flattering clothes, all of which she needed to lure the next male. Spending money on detergent was a waste of time as far as she was concerned.

‘No. Well, we’re not really a family that keeps in touch much, are we?’ Debbie said, moving aside a fashion magazine and sitting down in a cheap velour armchair, made even shinier by age. ‘I keep expecting to get a wedding invitation though, from either you or Jenny. Don’t want to settle down, is that it?’

Lucy smiled and poured hot water over the tea bags in badly chipped mugs. She had long blonde hair that she carefully looked after and large green eyes – her best feature. But she was wise to take such good care of herself, for already the slight signs of ageing were beginning to creep in: the odd crow’s foot here; the slight thickening in her thighs that portended the dreaded cellulite. Trust Aunt Debbie to pick up on her insecurities with a question about matrimony.

‘I wouldn’t mind getting married,’ she said glibly. If he had a few million in the bank, she added silently. And didn’t want kids.

Lucy was never going to have kids. Ever. The thought made her shudder.

‘I’m surprised you’re still here. Weren’t you moving out to somewhere in Cropredy, the last letter I had from you?’ Debbie said, reluctant, now that she was here, to actually broach the reason for her visit.

‘I did. I mean I was. Gerry, the bloke I was going to live with, died,’ Lucy said flatly.

Well, he overdosed, to be more accurate, but she wasn’t about to say so. It still made her angry whenever she thought about Gerry. Middle-aged, divorced, with a good job in real estate, he was going to be her meal ticket for life. He had a nice house in a swanky village, a big car, and with two grown kids, didn’t want any more. He’d been ideal. But the silly bugger obviously didn’t know how to handle the coke.

‘Oh luv, I’m so sorry,’ Debbie said, then added, ‘ta,’ as her niece handed her the mug of tea.

Lucy, dressed in tight-fitting black leggings and a spangly blue top, sat down opposite her aunt and took a sip from her own mug, careful to avoid the chips. The last thing she needed was a cut lip.

‘So. How’s things with you and … er …’ she sought in vain for the name of her aunt’s fellah, and let her voice trail off.

‘Colin. Col.’

‘Right.’

‘Fine. He’s fine. How’s Jenny and Peter? I get Christmas cards from Peter, but I haven’t heard from Jenny in years.’

‘They’re doing all right. Well, Peter is, any way. You know Pete – fall in the proverbial brown stuff and he’d come up smelling of clover. But Jenny,’ she put her hand in the air, palm flat down, and waved it from side to side in a gesture of doubt, ‘not so much. She’s made some bad choices in life, I can tell you.’ Lucy laughed bitterly and looked around, then grimaced. ‘I mean, I might have made a few corkers in my time too, but nothing compared to hers. But you know Jenny. She can’t be told anything.’

Debbie nodded, then sighed, put her cup down on a ring-stained bit of cheap pine, and said, ‘Look, love, the reason I’m here. I just had a visit from two coppers.’

Lucy blinked. For a moment, she couldn’t understand why she thought her aunt could possibly think that she’d be interested. What was up? Been caught shop-lifting or something, had she? Or had the man she was shacked up with been found out carting things off from the back of a lorry?

And then, at the same moment that she understood, Debbie said, ‘It’s your mum’s case. They’re looking into it again.’

Lucy opened her mouth, seemed about to say something, then closed it again. Finally she took a sip of her tea. ‘Oh. Well, I suppose it’s about time. Not that they’re likely to find out who did it after all this time, are they?’

Debbie met her niece’s green eyes, so like her mother’s, and sighed. ‘No. I suppose not.’

For a few moments, the two women drank in silence, Debbie fiddling with her chipped mug and glancing everywhere around the room, except at her niece.

Finally, she nerved up the courage to speak. ‘You’re so like your mum in many ways, our Luce. You’ve got her pretty looks, and you’ve got her ways too. She was clever, our Anne, but she never made the most of it.’ She took a quick look around the sorry flat, and said grimly, ‘and you’re just the same. Why haven’t you got a job? You could work in an office, you’re good on a computer. All you youngsters seem to be, these days.’

Lucy laughed. ‘I don’t like working, Aunt Debbie, you know that. Nine to five, same thing, day in, day out, kow-towing to a boss, waiting for a bus, fetching coffees for twits with pimples and BO who want to grope you. No thank you.’

‘No, you want it all handed to you on a plate I suppose, just like Anne.’

Lucy’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She didn’t like being lectured. Or having her lifestyle choices questioned. So she was on a downer at the moment, reduced to this tatty flat, but soon she’d be on the up again. And luckily, she knew just how to teach her aunt to keep her opinions to herself.

‘So the police are looking at you again for it, are they, Auntie? That must be a bit of a pain. I bet you thought all of that was behind you, too?’

Debbie paled slightly and bent her curly blonde head defensively a little further over her steaming mug. ‘I don’t like it, that’s all,’ she said quietly. ‘They’ll be raking it all up again, you’ll see. They should just leave it alone.’ Then she lifted her head and looked at her niece sharply. ‘You’ll have to be careful, our Luce. Promise me you will.’

Lucy laughed grimly. ‘Aunt Debbie, it’s not me who has anything to worry about. We all know that.’

Debbie swallowed a mouthful of tea, but wondered. Was Lucy right?

She didn’t know, that was the trouble. She didn’t know anything for sure.

But she had to do something. Lucy didn’t understand how dangerous it was not to let sleeping dogs lie. And that woman copper who’d come to her house – Debbie had recognized her all right. Or rather, she recognized her type. She was clever, that Greene woman. And persistent. And good at her job – Debbie would have bet her house and last shilling on that. She’d keep on digging and upsetting things, and hurting everyone with her questions about Anne.

Bloody Anne. Twenty years dead, and still causing everyone grief.

No, Debbie knew she’d have to do something to keep the coppers happy. Toss that Greene woman some sort of bone, give her something to chew over. She’d have to think about it.

In the meantime, she could only hope that her niece didn’t do anything stupid.

Or Melvin either, for that matter.

Back at HQ, Hillary Greene reached for the phone in her so-called office, and dialled one of the numbers from the new updated McRae folder.

Sam and Vivienne had done a good job on it, chasing up all the information they could and accumulating new data. In twenty years a lot could change, and had. Witnesses died or moved away, and new addresses and phone numbers had to be found. People changed jobs, their circumstances altered. Melvin McRae, for instance, had moved and remarried.

But the youngsters had obviously worked hard – even Vivienne had done her fair share.

And first on the list was Melvin McRae’s latest telephone number. She dialled it, but it rang for so long that she almost gave up, before it was at last answered.

‘Yes?’

The voice was male and sounded distracted.

‘Mr McRae? Melvin McRae?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Hillary Greene, sir. I’m a consultant with the Crime Review Team, at Thames Valley Police Headquarters in Kidlington. You may have received a letter in the post, concerning you wife’s – that is Anne McRae’s – case? I wanted to know when would be a convenient time for us to meet.’

In his home, Melvin McRae sat down suddenly. He was in his living room, and through the window he could see the square tower of the nearby church. He swallowed hard.

Bloody hell, that was quick. He’d only just got the letter that morning. He thought he’d have more time. A lot more time. Weeks, or at the very least, days. He wasn’t ready for this.

‘Oh, yes, right. Well, whenever you like really. But look, I don’t want the kids upset, yeah? Do you have to talk to them as well? They were only nippers when their mum died.’

Hillary leaned back in her chair, reaching for her diary. ‘I understand that, sir. We’ll have to speak to them, of course, but I don’t think we’ll have to take up too much of their time.’ And they weren’t nippers any more she thought, but then, she fully understood that to their father they’d always be his children and in need of protection. Even when they were in their sixties and he was a doddering ninety-something.

Melvin sighed heavily. ‘How about tomorrow then?’

‘Fine. What time?’

They agreed on a time late the next afternoon, and Hillary hung up. She sat there for a few moments, wondering about Melvin.

Whenever someone was murdered, the spouse was always looked at first. It was inevitable. Nearly all of those not killed by strangers, were killed by family members, lovers, or close friends. And normally someone with a rock-solid alibi made Hillary look very closely indeed.

But she couldn’t see how Melvin could be in the frame for this. Andrew Squires had done a good job checking him out, even going so far as to see if any of Melvin’s holiday makers had known him beforehand, thus giving rise to the possibility of collusion. But none had, and no connection between any of them to each other had ever been found either. And the last group of people to be dropped off from Melvin’s coach that day had been six in number, all comprised of married couples. So for his alibi to be false, it would require a conspiracy of at least seven people.

And that, as any copper would tell you, was just not doable. Forget about all the conspiracy theories that become so popular nowadays. It was hard enough for two people to share a secret and not come unstuck. Let alone seven.

Besides, why would six strangers agree to lie for him? Most people could be persuaded by money, of course, but Melvin was hardly a man with enough dosh to tempt three respectable middle-aged to elderly couples to wander from the straight and narrow.

Besides, the coach’s mileage had also been checked out. And then there were all the office workers and garage people who’d confirmed his timings and whereabouts.

No. Melvin McRae definitely had to be out of the picture. Unless he was clever enough to think of a way to get home and kill his wife in such a way that neither Squires, herself, nor anyone else working on the case had been able to figure out.

Which wasn’t impossible, of course. There were a lot of very clever people about, and until she’d seen Melvin for herself and assessed him, she had no way of guessing at his possible intelligence.

Still, it was a long shot.

He could have had an accomplice, of course, but that presented its own difficulties….

She sat upright as a tap came at the office door and Steven Crayle looked in.

‘Hello. I heard you were back. Just checking in to see how you’re settling in, and if you need anything?’

‘Thanks, no I’m fine. The phone’s working, and I’ve been allocated a password for the computer, which is up and running. There’s no room or a power point for a coffee pot, though.’

Crayle smiled briefly. ‘I keep a stash of the good stuff in my office. South American blend. Feel free to come in any time you need a caffeine hit.’ He draped his tall, slender frame against the doorjamb, and crossed his arms loosely across his chest. ‘So, how’s it feel to be back in the harness?’ He looked long, cool and elegant in a black suit with a pale mint-green shirt, and bottle green tie.

‘Getting into stride already, sir,’ she said blandly.

‘And the case?’

‘Interesting.’

Crayle nodded, and his dark brown hair flopped a little over his forehead.

Hillary continued to gaze at him steadily.

‘Well, I’ll let you get on with it. Let me know if you run into any problems. My door’s always open. I mean that.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You
can
call me Steven, you know. I’m not exactly your superior officer any more.’

‘No, sir. Sorry – Steven. I suppose you’re not,’ she said thoughtfully. Just my boss in fact, she added silently. And a lot of people called their boss by their first name, right? And probably harboured secret lustful thoughts too!

Crayle smiled, displaying even white teeth and took himself off.

Hillary let out a long slow breath, and swore softly to herself.

Then reminded herself again not to talk to herself out loud.

Steven Crayle made his way from his fiefdom in Hades and up to the lofty heights of the police canteen, on the third floor. It was late, and most of the lunchtime crowd had gone, but there was still a cluster of uniforms sat at some tables, discussing an upcoming football match at Oxford’s stadium.

Most were expecting a little aggro from the visiting team’s supporters and would be on duty to keep the peace. Crayle didn’t envy them. He hadn’t been on the beat for more than a couple of years, and he’d been glad to leave the experience behind him.

He selected the vegetarian option and took a seat, looking up in surprise as a shadow fell over him, and Marcus Donleavy took the chair opposite. The noise from the tables nearest to him dimmed suddenly, as if the lofty rank of the commander demanded they all suddenly start talking in whispers.