Beside a Narrow Stream (5 page)

He felt a sleepy body stir on the other side of the bed, and then a warm hand slipped up his back, resting between his shoulderblades. ‘Come on, Kee, it’s still way too early. Come back to bed.’

Keith smiled. ‘Some of us don’t have rich daddies to keep us in luxury. Some of us have to work for a living.’

‘How bloody boring! Come on, come back to bed. If you
have
to live in this shit-hole, the bed’s the only place habitable.’

Ignoring the invitation, Keith got to his feet. ‘You’ve already made me late once, and don’t think my boss didn’t notice. Besides, I have an appointment with a dead body. Gotta go see that it’s sliced and diced properly.’

‘Ugh, don’t. Who’d do your awful job? I don’t know why I put up with you. And as for leaving London – I still think you’re out of your tiny mind. If you come back, you know I can always line you up with something. A job with a bit of class.’

Keith laughed at the thought of himself in a stockbroker’s office, and shaking his head, reached for his clothes. Doc Partridge would be starting the autopsy at 8.30 on the dot. And he meant to be there.

He thought it would probably be a good idea to skip
breakfast
though.

Gemma Fordham wasn’t surprised to find the office still largely deserted. It wasn’t yet seven, and whilst the night shift was preparing to leave, most of them buggering off early, the day shift had yet to arrive. Which was just what she wanted. Some peace and quiet and privacy.

She settled herself down at her desk, pouring a cup of camomile tea from her thermos before reaching into her
capacious
bag for the first of the files she’d checked out of records.

It was Hillary Greene’s first murder case.

If anybody saw her reading it, they would only assume that she was boning up on her new boss. A worthwhile, maybe even necessary, precaution on her part, some would say.

But, in truth, she had little interest in how clever the woman had been, or thorough, or even lucky. In fact, the murder of David Pitman didn’t interest her at all. She only wanted to discover what could be gleaned about the investigation into corruption that had been going on at the same time. Gemma already knew that some officers from York had been brought
down to investigate the corrupt Ronnie Greene’s missus, and had gone back with their tail between their legs. Ronnie, as had already been proved by then, had been running a very
lucrative
and illegal animal parts smuggling operation for years before he was caught. The fact that he’d died in a car accident had been the only thing to save him from prosecution. The money had never been found.

But what Gemma desperately wanted to know was what they might have found out about his saintly spouse. Needless to say, those records were sealed. All she’d been able to find out was what had circulated on the grapevine. Namely, that no case had been made against her, and that nobody had ever
seriously
considered that she was in on it.

But since Hillary was investigating her first murder case at the same time as all this was going on, there was no knowing what might be discovered from some astute reading between the lines.

Quickly, she opened up the file and began to read.

Steven Partridge looked across the naked body of Wayne Sutton and assessed the young, red-haired constable opposite. A little green around the gills, but holding up. Best of all, no tell-tale swaying back and forth. He might even not have to rush out to the loo.

Good for him.

‘Well, you can tell your boss that cause of death has been confirmed. Water in the lungs and the diatoms say that he was drowned at the scene. And my original guess at time of death hasn’t changed significantly, either.’

Barrington nodded, but wasn’t bothering to take notes. Everything the medico was saying was being recorded, and before he left, he’d get a copy and transcribe it on to the computer back at HQ. Hillary would expect a full summary of it by the end of the day.

‘Also, see the bruising here, and here.’ The small, wiry
doctor rolled the larger and heavy corpse of Wayne Sutton from side to side with a strength and ease that spoke of long practice. Keith forced himself to look. ‘These small, round-ish bruises on the small of his back. They’re consistent with someone holding him down with their knees.’

Keith swallowed hard. ‘Poor bastard,’ he muttered.

‘Yes,’ Steven Partridge said softly. ‘But I think the bash to his temples had probably rendered him all but senseless. A man flailing about on a riverbank, fighting for his life, not to mention his breath, would almost certainly rip out mud and grass with his hands as he tried to get free. But there was nothing like that under his fingernails. I think he drowned without any significant struggle.’

‘So a woman would have had the strength to do it?’ Barrington asked, mindful of that red paper heart found on the body. And from what he’d learned yesterday from house to house, Wayne Sutton had something of reputation as a ladies’ man. If they weren’t looking for a female killer, he’d be very surprised.

‘Oh yes,’ Partridge confirmed. ‘A woman could certainly have done it. And now, something that’ll please your boss. It’s over here, at trace.’

Keith, glad to leave the gaping cadaver, followed the doctor to one of the side tables, where the victim’s clothes had been meticulously searched. The doctor lifted one, apparently empty, tiny plastic envelope.

‘This hair, found on the victim’s shirt, does not match his own. As you can see, the victim’s hair is black. This hair is a dark-brown. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t dyed. I’ll know if I’m right once the lab has a go at it.’

Barrington nodded. ‘DNA?’

‘Oh yes, it’s got a root. Not torn out, I would have said, just naturally shed. The stone weighing down the paper heart is with the lab now. If the DNA from the skin particles on that match up with the DNA from this little beauty,’ he rattled the
plastic envelope jauntily, ‘then all your boss has got to do is find a suspect to match. And you do know how juries like DNA at crime scenes that match the one on trial. Gives ’em no end of confidence to bring in a guilty verdict. Oh, and tell Hillary that the piece of paper in his pocket is drying out nicely. I’ll be able to let her know its contents soon.’

Keith nodded, eager to leave and glad to bring such good news to his boss.

Hillary pushed open the door to the office and saw Gemma Fordham glance up, move forward in her chair and
unobtrusively
thrust the folder she was reading back into her voluminous bag. She was leafing through her note book when Hillary reached her.

‘Morning, guv. Another scorcher.’

Hillary stared out at the bright morning sunshine. According to the radio it was going to hit over 90 degrees before the day ended. But she doubted that that would worry her new sergeant much. She couldn’t see the lean Gemma Fordham so much as breaking out in a sweat, despite the fact that she was wearing dark slacks and a jacket.

‘Gemma, can you do the biog for me?’ Hillary said,
shrugging
off her own lightweight jacket, and reaching for her coffee mug. ‘I forgot to assign it yesterday.’ At the beginning of a murder investigation, information about the victim came from lots of various sources. As well as the bread-and-butter stuff that could be gained from access to a computer, friends could relate telling incidents that gave insight into character. Witness statements, scrap books, photos, diaries, and anything else needed to be collated together to produce a detailed picture of their victim.

‘Sure, guv, I’ve already started on it,’ Gemma lied. ‘Once Keith is in, and Frank, I can add their stuff to mine. Give me an hour.’

Hillary smiled and walked over to the side, where a
perpetual coffee pot was on the go. It was nice to have an
efficient
sergeant who didn’t need to be supervised all the time. Someone competent and able, who didn’t give her any grief or back chat.

Janine Tyler, her last DS, had upped and married Mel Mallow, had taken orders with reluctant grace, and was so ambitious she needed to be checked constantly.

Gemma Fordham’s cool, self-assured nature could only be an asset.

And as soon as her back was turned, Hillary was damned well going to find out what was in that file she’d been reading and had oh-so-casually put back in her bag.

Frank Ross turned up a few minutes after Keith Barrington, smelling faintly of stale beer and cigarettes. Whereas Barrington had been to an autopsy, Frank had no excuse for rolling in two hours before lunchtime. But Hillary merely gave him a sour look, and gathered her team together for a confab.

‘Right, Keith, you can kick off.’

They listened to the pertinent titbits provided by the
pathologist
, all of them relieved by the potential of the DNA evidence.

‘Sounds like it’s a straightforward case of
cherchez la femme
to me,’ Frank said, strangling the French, and picking his teeth with a paper clip. ‘From what they were telling me at his local boozer, our Wayne was a randy git, who specialized in
middle-aged
crumpet. The doc said the brown hair was dyed, so we’re probably looking at a fifty- or sixty-something old gal who didn’t like to share the young meat around.’

‘Very elegantly put, Frank,’ Hillary said dryly. But he had a point. ‘Any thoughts about the red paper heart anybody?’

‘Just goes to prove my point,’ Frank said, before the others could open their mouths. ‘Typical over-the-top gesture. I dare say the poor old dear who bumped him off was having trouble with her hormone replacement therapy or something. A red
paper heart is just the sort of soppy, goofy thing that would appeal to a randy tart with no sense. Probably thinks she’s committed some grand crime of passion. Silly cow.’

Hillary let him run down, then glanced at Gemma. ‘I don’t like that heart. I didn’t like when I first saw it, and I don’t like it now.’

Gemma Fordham nodded. Her short spiky blonde head bobbed forward as she selected a slim folder from the stack in her On-Going tray. ‘I did some research on serial killers who leave a “signature”, guv. Thought it might prove useful.’

She handed it over, and Hillary glanced at it briefly. ‘I’ll be sure to read it later. But I’ve been wondering since, whether the heart wasn’t so much a calling card, as a bit of misdirection. I mean, here we have Wayne Sutton, a bit of a Casanova, and more likely than not, a straight out-and-out gigolo. And when he dies, someone leaves a red paper heart on his chest.’

Gemma’s grey eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Too much icing on the cake, you think?’ she asked sharply. ‘Yes, possibly. If someone wanted to lead us up the garden path, that’s the obvious direction to take us.’

‘What, you think it’s got nothing to do with his private life?’ Keith asked, catching on.

Frank Ross grunted. Typical. Shoot down his suggestion without even bothering to give it a proper airing. He didn’t know why he kept on doing this job.

‘It’s only a thought,’ Hillary said sharply. ‘So don’t let’s get too hung up on it. Chances are, Frank’s spot on. If it waddles like a duck, swims like a duck, and is always quacking, it
probably
is
a duck. Wayne Sutton may well have been killed by one of the women in his life….’

‘Or one of their hubbies who didn’t like being made a fool of,’ Frank Ross butted in.

‘… So let’s concentrate on them first,’ Hillary carried on. ‘I want a list of all the women who might have had an interest in him….’

‘’Course, it needn’t be an actual husband,’ Frank Ross said. ‘Could be an ex-husband, who doesn’t like the fact that his big fat alimony cheques are being spent on a poncy lothario.’

‘… And find out how many of them have solid alibis,’ Hillary went on. ‘I take it time of death is confirmed as the evening of the 30th of April?’

‘Yes, guv,’ Keith said quickly.

‘OK. Gemma, any response to the radio appeal yet?’

‘Filtering through, guv. You want to be kept appraised?’

‘Please.’

‘One other thing, guv,’ Gemma said. ‘Before you pulled me off house-to-house, I was talking to a woman who goes to
night-school
in Banbury, and she was telling me that she thought she saw an art club advertised that had Wayne Sutton as either
president
or founder or something. Want me to check it out?’

‘Yes. It sounds like a good place for our vic to find more potential customers to me. Get a list and start interviewing them. Keith, you help her out. I want a short précis on them all when you’ve finished. I might want to re-interview.’

Keith, who was beginning to learn her methods, was already nodding. His guv had a way with witnesses, and was no desk jockey. She liked to get out and about and do things hands on. Gemma Fordham, however, looked slightly surprised, but quickly got to work, phoning the college in Banbury and asking if she might come over and photocopy something from their notice board. Given the go-ahead, she grabbed her car keys and quickly left.

Taking her bulky, file-filled bag with her.

Hillary ground her teeth.

Frank strolled off, talking about more interviews – no doubt at Wayne Sutton’s local pub – and Keith began to transcribe the autopsy notes.

Hillary sighed, and reached for a pile of witness statements, but barely ten minutes later, she was buzzed from downstairs by the desk sergeant.

Someone had come into the station after hearing the radio appeal that had been repeated on that morning’s breakfast news. And she wanted to talk to the officer in charge.

G
emma Fordham stood at the top of a flight of concrete steps and looked around at the technical college spread out before her. The sight, sound, and smell of it, was taking her right back to her own student days, and she sighed, just a shade regretfully.

At nineteen she’d just got her first belt at karate; studying criminology, she was half-shacked up with a chemistry student and worked a bar at nights to make ends meet. But she hadn’t yet met Ronnie Greene. Looking back at her life then, she wondered what she’d have done if she could have
time-warped
herself ten years to this spot, and this moment. Would she recognize herself?

Probably not.

She scrutinized the signs pointing out various departments, and decided that her best bet was probably the Administration Office. At this time of day, the students were all in classes, and the institutional corridors were eerily empty. At Admin, a secretary listened to her request, obviously dying to ask
questions
, but restraining herself.

‘Sounds like you want the common room,’ she said, when Gemma had explained what she was looking for. ‘If the woman was at night school here, that’s where she’d probably have seen the general notice board. Take the stairs back down to the front, turn left, and you’ll see a big green door. Go
through, take the first right, then it’s the second door on the left. Or maybe the third. Anyway it’ll have a sign on the door. There’s a small office just opposite – the Principal’s secretary’s place. She’ll have a photocopier and if you ask, she’ll run some copies off for you.’

Gemma thanked her, and followed her instructions with ease. The witness had indeed remembered it correctly. The ‘Ale and Arty club’ promised a combination of pub crawls where real ale was the primary motivating force, plus ad-hoc ‘art lessons’ by, amongst others, Wayne Sutton. Founder members were listed, as well as some endorsements by happy recruits.

With the notice copied and in her bag, Gemma returned to her car and slipped inside. She glanced at her heavy tote bag beside her, and frowned. Was she just being paranoid in believing that Hillary Greene would have gone through the bag had she left it behind? Were her own less than lily-white motives for joining the team colouring her own judgement? She didn’t think so. There were no flies on her new boss, and Hillary
had
noticed her slipping the folders out of sight when she’d come into the room. No, she was going to carry on being just as careful. Before she went back to the open-plan office she shared with the rest of her colleagues, she’d take the
incriminating
reading material back to records.

With this in mind, she opened up the file to where she’d left off and began to scan it quickly.

Hillary pushed open the door to Interview Room 2, and smiled as a woman rose slowly to her feet. A watchful WPC stood in one corner, saying nothing, as Hillary approached the single table, which was bolted to the floor, hand held out in greeting.

‘Hello, I’m DI Greene.’

The visitor was short, about five feet one, with curly brown hair and large hazel eyes. Her handshake was passive and slightly damp. She was wearing a voluminous, rainbow-hued kaftan of pure Indian silk, over lightweight white slacks. The
outfit probably cost more than Hillary made in a month. Or two months. She was wearing long dangling turquoise and silver earrings, and her make-up was light but clever. A diamond and platinum lady’s watch adorned one small wrist, that was already tanned a deep brown.

‘I asked to speak to the man in charge,’ the woman said, her voice accentless but high-pitched. ‘But I suppose he’s busy?’

As the woman sat down again, Hillary smiled wryly. ‘I dare say he is,’ she said, disinclined to put her right. She was
obviously
one of those women who played off her dainty, feminine charms, a woman who much preferred the company of men. It had probably never occurred to her that a member of her own sex might be heading up a murder inquiry, and Hillary was in no mood to enlighten her.

‘Mrs Berdowne, isn’t it?’ Hillary said, glancing at the scrap of paper the desk sergeant had given her.

‘Stella Berdowne, yes. Of Berdowne Ceramics.’

Hillary nodded. She’d never heard of it. Probably the woman made pots in her expensive studio conversion and sold them to long-suffering friends.

‘You have something to tell us about Wayne Sutton?’ she asked, coming straight to the point.

‘I heard on the radio this morning that he was dead. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the radio said that you were treating his death as suspicious?’ the voice rose even higher in pitch. Stella Berdowne had long, peach-painted fingernails that fiddled with the clasp of her bag, then moved up to stroke one earring, then went back to the table top, where she absently scratched a loose sliver of wood.

Hillary watched all the twitching, trying to decide whether the woman was on something, nervous, or terrified. Or all three.

‘Yes, it is officially a murder inquiry, Mrs Berdowne. I take it you knew Wayne Sutton?’

‘Yes.’

‘Socially?’

‘Oh no. Well, sort of. That is, I took private art classes with him. I’m a potter by inclination, but I wanted to improve my general painting skills. A friend of mine told me about him. I admired one of her paintings at a coffee morning, oh, about four months ago now, and she told me it was a Sutton original. When she told me he also took on a few select students, I asked for his number, and …’ the peach-painted nails spread wide before moving to the toggle on her kaftan and pulling on it, ‘… he came to my studio to see my work, and liked it, and agreed to give me some classes. He was a wonderful artist, a generous man with his time and talent.’

Hillary nodded. She’d just bet he was. ‘And you became friends?’

‘Well, of course,’ Stella Berdowne laughed falsely, and her nails went up to her hair, patting the curls, fluffing, smoothing. ‘He was a friendly young man. Interested, and so supportive of my work. Throwing pots isn’t all that easy, and the market for original works isn’t all that great.’

‘You make a living at it, Mrs Berdowne?’

‘Oh, well, not really. My husband is a market research analyst for a major pharmaceutical company.’

Hillary nodded, her face perfectly straight. ‘We’re looking for anyone who saw Mr Sutton on the thirtieth of April, the day before May Day. Did you see him that day?’

Stella was already shaking her head before she’d finished speaking. ‘The last time I saw Wayne was for my regular Friday afternoon lesson.’

‘He came to your studio, you said?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you happen to know how many other students he had, Mrs Berdowne? Or their names? Did he visit all of them at their own homes, or did some of them go to his place?’

As she expected, the question made the other woman very
uncomfortable, and the restless fingernails went into
overdrive
.

‘Oh, well, I’m not sure. I mean, I didn’t like to pry. I know he saw several other students, that’s all. Some, to be honest, didn’t sound very exceptional. One woman in particular he was rather annoyed with.’

‘Oh?’ Hillary asked sharply. ‘Why was that?’

‘I’m not quite sure. Wayne didn’t talk about his other students very much – it wouldn’t have been nice, would it? But I got the impression that this woman wasn’t very talented. From what he let drop, I got the feeling she was jealous, you know the type. A bit of a drinker, maybe, clinging. I mean, a man like Wayne, he was very good-looking, and charming, and had a warm heart. He didn’t have it in him to turn anyone away.’

‘But you don’t know her name?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’

‘Or where she lived?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘And can you tell me where you were on the evening of the thirtieth, Mrs Berdowne? And please, don’t take offence, it’s a question we’re asking absolutely everybody,’ Hillary assured her, seeing her start to protest.

Stella Berdowne ran a peach-painted nail across her lower lip and then shrugged graphically. ‘I was throwing a little dinner party for Duncan. My husband. He had some Danish party over – his company’s got contacts over there. Or were they Swedes? Anyway, I did a nice little salmon and dill mousse for starters, duck of course, then tiny little wild-strawberry tartlets with home-made elder flower ice-cream afterwards. I spent a year taking cookery lessons when I got married. I think it’s so
important
to be able to help your husband in his career, don’t you?’

Hillary thought briefly of her corrupt, womanizing, late and totally unlamented husband, and smiled widely. ‘Of course, Mrs Berdowne.’

Back upstairs, Hillary wondered how much Mrs Berdowne paid their victim for her ‘lessons’ and supposed that however much it was, her husband had been well able to afford it.

Then she made a note to assign Frank to check out the Berdowne woman’s alibi, sighed, and returned to her stack of witness statements.

Keith Barrington jotted down the last of the list of names that Gemma had just rattled off over the phone, and said, ‘Got it. How do you want to split them up?’

Still sitting in her car outside the technical college, Gemma Fordham scanned a report signed by DCI Philip Mallow. ‘I’ll take the 1st page,’ she said distractedly into the mouthpiece of her mobile. ‘You take all those on the 2nd.’

Barrington assented amiably and hung up. He checked the list, then radioed into dispatch for a current address on a Mr Marcus Lyman.

Hillary Greene tossed aside the last statement from the
house-to-
house inquiries, glanced at her watch, and decided it was time to get out of the office. She grabbed her bag and checked her papers, deciding to interview the owner of their victim’s cottage, a Mrs Margaret Eaverson.

Driving back to Deddington, she turned the radio station to a golden oldie channel, smiling as The Move began to sing all about a ‘Night of Fear’. Outside, the sun baked the tarmac, causing a shimmer of heat-haze to dance before the car. On the pavements, pedestrians dressed in shorts and skimpy tops looked cheerful and oblivious. She wondered what Claire and Davey Sutton were doing right now, and doubted that the bright sunshine would be making any difference to their world.

As always with a murder case, she could feel the heavy weight of responsibility sitting on her shoulders, and when she
parked outside a large, detached house in the older part of Deddington village, she scanned it carefully. According to Monica Freeman’s father, the woman who rented Wayne Sutton his cottage was another donator to the Wayne Sutton fan club and benevolent society.

Which made her definitely suspect.

The gardens were large and well-kept, with late-blooming cherry trees, flowering, pruned bushes, and manicured lawn. A tiny fountain tinkled merrily away by a large and shady porch, making Hillary feel instantly cooler. She rang the bell and the door was answered almost at once, as if the occupant had been expecting her, and had been lurking closely nearby.

‘Yes?’ the woman who held open the door was short and dumpy, with a red sweating face and white hair that clung to her forehead and cheeks.

‘Mrs Eaverson?’ Hillary asked, uncertainly.

‘She’ll be out by the pool, luv. Come on in,’ the cleaning lady stepped back and closed the door behind her. ‘Straight on down the tiled corridor, luv, and on into the conservatory. The pool’s tacked on, off to the right. Gotta get on with these
banisters
.’ So saying, she retrieved a tin of furniture polish and her orange cleaning rag and set to on the wooden staircase.

Hillary followed the directions easily, pausing only to admire a grandmother clock ticking away melodiously in a small recess. The conservatory was full of overpoweringly fragrant mock orange blossom, and the instant, sticky heat made Hillary gasp. She was glad to step through to a slightly less warm, half-glass, half wooden construction that housed a large, aquamarine pool.

The water itself was undisturbed, and Hillary quickly spotted a woman lying on a sun lounger at the far end. Beside her was a long glass filled with ice, a pale lemon liquid and fruit, with one of those jaunty little paper umbrellas to cap it off. She was reading a paperback novel, but glanced across curiously at Hillary as she moved around the pool to join her.

‘Hello, did that gormless charwoman of mine let you in? I keep telling her to escort visitors herself, but I might as well talk to the wall. If you’re selling something I’m not interested. You’re not a burglar are you?’

Hillary grinned and held out her ID card. ‘No, I’m with the other lot, Mrs Eaverson.’

‘Madge, please. Everyone calls me Madge. Oh my, the coppers no less.’

She made no move to get up. She was one of those women with short honey-coloured hair, heavily tanned faces and laughter-lines around the eyes, who could be any age between thirty and sixty. She was wearing an apricot-coloured swim suit with a matching beach jacket, and still had the figure – just about – to carry it off. A pair of sunglasses loitered on the table next to the drink, which smelt faintly of rum, pineapple and coconut.

It’s all right for some, Hillary thought, with just a pang of envy.

‘You’re here to talk about Wayne, of course,’ Madge Eaverson said, her light and bantering tone suddenly gone. ‘It was a bloody tragedy what happened to him. He always managed to cheer me up. My old man is a bit of a grumpy bugger, but Wayne was always good for a laugh. And he was talented too. I asked him to paint that mural for me,’ she added, pointing to the wall opposite. Because it was on the same side as the door through which she’d entered, Hillary had had her back to it during her brief walk to the lounger, and now she turned and looked back.

And blinked.

The wall was covered with flowers, but flowers that were actually comprised of individual cars. The petals consisted of Cortina’s and Rovers, racy old Morgans and sleek elongated
E-type
Jaguars. Leaves were petrol station pumps, stems were hose pipes. Stamens were exhaust pipes and the blue sky had painted over it, very lightly, what looked like a map from a road atlas.