Beside a Narrow Stream (12 page)

And somehow, Hillary didn’t think her name would be Annie. Damn. She chatted and flirted some more, and discussed various other villagers, but no obvious contenders stuck out.

So just who the hell had their murder victim come here to see? And just how had he expected to make his fortune in this unlikely oasis of carefully-guarded money?

She had the idea that once she knew the answers to those questions, her case would be all but solved.

G
emma Fordham woke early the next day. She rolled over in bed, scowled at the electronic ‘talking’ clock, and saw that it wasn’t yet six. She sighed and yawned, and felt the man beside her stir.

She watched him reach out a hand that touched first the table top, then the cord of the clock and, finger-walking along it, reached the clock itself, counted the buttons carefully along and pressed one.

An electronic voice said ‘The time is five, fifty-two, a.m.’

Guy Brindley sighed. ‘You’re awake early.’

‘It’s this case I’m on. I think it’s going to break soon.’

‘Got a lead?’

‘It’s not that so much. But Hillary Greene thinks it is, and I’ve been watching her. She’s good. So, naturally, I think it is too.’

Guy’s sightless dark-brown eyes frowned up at the ceiling. ‘You sound as if you trust her judgement, and you’ve only known her a week. It’s not like you to make up your mind about someone so quickly.’ It also wasn’t like her to give someone, especially another woman, so much credit, either. But, of course, he never said so.

He felt her shrug and curl on to her side, her long, lean length pressing against him. ‘I researched her before I transferred on to her team. I know DS Donleavy really rates her as
a detective, and her conviction rate is impressive. I can just see why, that’s all. She’s smart, methodical, careful, and
well-organized
. But she’s also good with witnesses, and intuitive. I’d back her instincts any day of the week. And Barrington fairly worships the ground she walks on, she’s best friends with the Super, and Paul Danvers, I reckon, fancies her and gives her a wide scope, so she’s got plenty of room to play her own game her own way. Why shouldn’t she be successful? Given all that, I’d be successful as well.’

Guy smiled. That was more like it. That was the girl he knew and wouldn’t let himself love. For his own instincts were fairly good too, and he’d known within one month of becoming Gemma’s lover that if he ever let himself fall for her, she’d tear him to pieces. She had ferocious ambition, and a love of the good life, and guarded herself and her emotions as carefully as Fort Knox cared for its gold. As long as he played the game by her rules, things ticked along nicely.

But after nearly three years together, he wondered exactly where a relationship such as theirs could possibly go. But again, he never voiced it. When it came time to leave, he knew, it would be Gemma who did the leaving.

‘Well, I’m as good at my job as she is,’ Gemma insisted now, and Guy’s hand grappled to find hers and squeeze it.

‘I know you are, sweetheart. You don’t have to keep proving yourself to me.’ He was of the opinion that Gemma’s family was largely to blame for her emotional make-up. Her father and all four brothers were firemen. Gemma, the youngest, was something of a cuckoo in the nest. The youngest and only girl, her mother had died when she was ten, probably just when she needed her the most. To go through puberty and teenage angst, in an all-male, testosterone environment, probably accounted for a lot of things in her nature. Her hard-headedness and cool heart for one. Her martial arts for another. She’d refused to enter the fire service, choosing the police as being different enough to be rebellious, but tough and challenging enough for
her to sneer at any sibling who might take pot shots at her chosen career. It was, he knew, her ambition to be a superintendent by the time she was forty, and commander by fifty. He thought she’d almost certainly make it. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised to see her as chief constable one day.

Now he felt her roll out of bed and get dressed. ‘Not going in already, surely?’

‘Like I said, the case is breaking. I want to get an early start. I’m still not sure where Greene is heading though. She keeps her thoughts to herself.’ She paused in the act of slipping on a pair of dark-blue slacks. ‘I don’t think she likes me,’ Gemma added. She didn’t sound worried, or even uneasy, but, nevertheless, it made Guy frown. It was simply not like her to care what
anyone
thought.

When she’d told him she was transferring from Reading to Kidlington, he’d instantly asked her to move in permanently with him, hoping, perhaps, that this was some sort of a sign that she’d decided to settle down with him permanently. And why not? His tenure at the college, plus the money he made on lecture tours and a private income from his father’s side of the family, meant that he was always in funds. He lived in a big house, and they took holidays abroad every time her working schedule allowed. He knew she enjoyed the lifestyle he could provide. But now that she was here at last, he was beginning to feel as if there was far more going on than he knew about.

He still wasn’t sure why she’d been so set on transferring to Hillary Greene’s team, for instance. And the way she seemed to be almost obsessional about her new boss was making him feel distinctly uneasy.

‘Does it matter if she doesn’t like you?’ he asked, cautiously. He knew, from bitter experience, that Gemma would shut down if she thought for one instant he was probing into her life – or, even worse, her psyche.

‘’Course not,’ Gemma said flatly.

‘I mean, is she the sort to make life hard for you, just because you don’t get on? Is she the spiteful sort?’

‘No,’ Gemma said, her voice sounding, to his acute ears anyway, almost disappointed.

‘Do
you
like
her
?’ he asked casually, and from the sharp movement the mattress made, realized that she must have turned to look at him more fully, perhaps sensing just a little too much curiosity on his part for her taste. He kept his face bland. Or at least, he hoped he had.

‘Don’t know yet,’ she said at last, and stood up, slipping a matching blue jacket over her shoulders. She finger-combed her hair, and slipped on her watch. A quick brush of her teeth, wash of her face and hands, and she’d be ready. Gemma despised women who took an hour to prepare themselves for the day. She doubted Hillary Greene, for instance, took much longer than she did herself.

Hillary Greene.

Just how
did
she feel about Hillary Greene now that she’d known her for a few days, and was working a murder case with the woman?

Once, of course, she’d hated her, though they’d never met. Then she’d pretended that she meant nothing. Now, working with her, watching her, always watching her, Gemma wasn’t sure any more what she felt.

She shrugged, leaned over the bed and kissed Guy hard, on the lips. ‘See you tonight.’ It sounded more like a threat than a lover’s promise, and Guy smiled wryly.

He listened to her leave, then put his fingers over his tingling lips. He sighed heavily, turned over, and closed his eyes.

But he never slept.

Gemma’s early start paid dividends almost at once. At her desk, she read through the murder book, then made a check list of all the ‘stay outs’ still pending. At seven thirty, she was
fairly sure of catching most of them having breakfast, and was lucky in two cases. She made an appointment to see one later tonight, after he’d finished work, but the other, a Mrs Sylvia Mulberry, was going to be in all day, and agreed to see her at once.

Gemma left a note on Hillary’s desk telling her where she’d gone and her estimated time back at the office. The drive back to Deddington was a fairly easy one at first, since most of the traffic was coming into Oxford, not out. Once nearer Deddington itself, the rush hour traffic for those going into Banbury began to clog the roads around her, and she turned on the radio to listen to the local news.

The more sensational aspects of Wayne Sutton’s murder – namely the red paper heart found with the body, and his career as a gigolo – had all been kept under wraps, so the story no longer even rated a mention. But that might all change when an arrest was made. And that an arrest
would
be made, she never for a moment doubted. Failure wasn’t part of her
make-up
, and this was her first murder case as second fiddle, so to speak. Even if Hillary Greene for some reason, fumbled this murder case (and that would be the first time she ever had) she, Gemma, would pick up the reins. After all, she knew everything Hillary knew. Her DI made it a point, with the murder book, to ensure that every member of her team knew all that she knew. A generous act, some would have said. Just asking for trouble, others might have said. But Gemma got the clear impression that Hillary Greene wasn’t a glory seeker. She took her training up of younger officers seriously, for a start. Gemma knew that both Janine Tyler and Tommy Lynch, the DS and DC on Hillary’s team before her own arrival, had both risen a rank and moved on, and that Greene seemed genuinely pleased about it. And she’d seen for herself how she was handling Barrington, showing him the ropes, giving him gradually more and more responsibility and firmly guiding him in the right direction.

What’s more, she knew from her own efforts at getting transferred to Hillary’s team, that both Mel Mallow, DS Donleavy, and her own DI back at Reading, were all happy to hand her over to DI Greene for the next level of her education. Without false modesty, Gemma knew that her superiors considered her a high flier. And they wouldn’t have transferred her unless they’d all agreed that Hillary Greene would be good for her.

The thought made her feel vaguely uncomfortable. Already Hillary was trusting her with high priority stuff. And she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder and checking up on her either.

If Gemma Fordham had been anyone other than Gemma Fordham, it might have occurred to her that her uneasy feeling could be put down to a guilty conscience. Instead, she turned off the radio and wondered when she could safely get on to Hillary’s boat and search it.

Keith Barrington drove into work early too, but even so, saw from the note on Hillary’s desk, that Gemma Fordham had been even quicker off the mark.

He sat down at his computer and stared morosely at his desk top. Gavin had returned to London yesterday, but hadn’t called him last night, or this morning either, so he had no way of knowing how things had gone at Sir Reginald’s questioning.

He suspected that Hillary Greene, who was popular with everyone, and had had twenty years to work up her own network, would be able to find out with a single phone call. If he asked her. But how could he ask her without explaining why?

No. He wasn’t ready to trust her with all that yet. Besides, it might all blow over. You never knew your luck.

Gemma rang the bell at the cottage opposite the victim’s residence, and smiled briefly at the woman who opened the door.
She already had her ID card out, and let the other woman scrutinize it.

Sylvia Mulberry was a short brunette with slightly myopic eyes. She looked to be struggling manfully against entering her sixties, but was failing. The fine crepe lines around her eyes and lips told their own story, as did the raised veins on her ageing hands.

‘Oh yes, you rang earlier. Please, come on in. I’ve only just got back from a business trip to Scotland, so I didn’t know about Wayne until last night. I suppose it’s about him, right?’

Gemma confirmed that it was, and followed the older woman into a small, neat living-room. The art, she noticed, was strictly of the old-fashioned school. So she was probably not one of Wayne’s clients.

Sylvia Mulberry sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. She was wearing a long plaid skirt and white blouse, and had a ring on almost every finger. She yawned now, and instantly apologized. ‘Sorry. Like I said, I only got back from Scotland late yesterday afternoon. What with unpacking, writing up my report, and then gossiping about Wayne, I didn’t get to bed till late. So, what can I tell you?’

‘When did you leave for Scotland, Mrs Mulberry?’

‘First of May. Travelled up by train, first thing.’ She gave a slight laugh. ‘I try not to fly if I don’t have to.’

Gemma smiled. ‘And you knew Wayne Sutton well?’

‘No, not well. He moved in over the road some time ago. An artist, I understand. Always seemed very pleasant. I was worried he might be loud – you know, being an artist, that he might throw all sorts of parties and invite around undesirable types, but luckily, that never happened. The only people I saw visiting him were mostly middle-aged women. Very respectable.’

Gemma wondered if she really was ignorant of what Wayne Sutton had done with those respectable middle-aged women, or if she’d guessed and was pretending not to know. Either way, she decided not to push it.

‘Did you see anything on the day before you left, Mrs Mulberry? That would be the afternoon and evening of the last day in April. Monday night, in fact?’

Sylvia opened her mouth as if to give an automatic ‘no’, in response, then promptly closed it again. A near-smile crossed her face, and then she frowned, as if at the inappropriateness of it.

‘Well, now that you ask, I
did
notice a bit of fracas over there. About five-thirty, six o’clock time. Mind you, I only noticed because I was upstairs packing for the trip. And it was so hot, I had all the bedroom windows open – as did Wayne I suppose, because I could hear the raised voices quite distinctly.’

Gemma felt her breath quicken, and forced herself to write calmly into her notebook. ‘Raised voices? Did you recognize them?’

‘Well, his, yes,’ Sylvia said. ‘But hers – no. Well, why would I?’

Gemma nodded. She had the feeling that Sylvia Mulberry was probably one of those rare women who really didn’t care much what their neighbours got up to. Nice for Wayne, probably, but a bit of a blow for the police.

‘Could you make out what the argument was about?’

‘No, not really,’ Sylvia said, instantly confirming her judgement. ‘I don’t much care for other people’s arguments. Besides, I was going back and forth from the drawers and to my wardrobe and back to the suitcase, and then into the bathroom for toiletries, and so on. So I only heard snatches.’

‘But those snatches?’ Gemma prompted, reluctant to give up.

‘Oh, well, I gather the woman was berating him for something or other. Another woman, I thought.’