By a Narrow Majority (17 page)

‘Sounds good to me.’

He duck-walked under the low door and followed her down the length of the boat, glancing around as he did so. He’d been on her boat before, and it still felt as claustrophobic now as it had then. ‘Take the good chair,’ Hillary said, indicating the armchair. ‘There’s a deckchair under the foldaway table. I’ll have that.’

But when she returned with two glasses of Pinot Noir, he was sitting in the deckchair. ‘Injured heroes get priority,’ he said, accepting the glass.

Hillary sat with a shrug. ‘So, what’s up?’

‘They found a secret exit,’ Regis said, taking a sip and wincing. He was a red-wine man himself.

‘Huh?’ Hillary said blankly.

‘At the farm. Fletcher’s place. In the kitchen, there was a secret door – a real Heath Robinson affair hidden behind an
Aga. The Aga doesn’t work, obviously, but a section of the brick wall behind it swings out enough to let someone get into the barn next door. SOCO found it not long ago. The fact that the Aga seemed so movable gave it away, apparently.’

Hillary sipped her wine, thinking it through rapidly. ‘So they think someone got away that night, out the bolt-hole? Shot Fletcher and legged it, whilst our attention was on good old Brian Conroy outside, shooting me?’

Regis shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility.’

Hillary snorted. ‘Not much of one. How’d he get out of the barn without being seen? And didn’t the Tactical Unit have somebody under guard in there?’

‘The scouse driver,’ Regis agreed. ‘But he was in the second barn along.’

‘Still,’ Hillary said. ‘Are they really saying that someone shot Fletcher, got out of the kitchen through the secret door, and then somehow magically slipped away into the night without anyone – us or Tactical – seeing him legging it? Do me a favour.’

‘Then there’s the question of the missing gun,’ Regis said, and filled her in on that too. ‘So the bullet that killed Fletcher didn’t match any gun there,’ Regis concluded, ‘be it a cop’s gun or that of a gang member, or one of the scouse drug runners. So unless someone did manage to get away, taking the gun with him, I don’t know how the hell else it
could
have happened,’ the Vice man said.

Hillary stared at Regis for a long time in silence. This was a night for shocks. First of all the missing book, now this. ‘Something’s off,’ she said finally.

Regis sipped some more of his wine before finally agreeing. ‘It was a bit of a dog’s dinner,’ he said, reluctant to admit that she was right. ‘But the result was good. There’ll be no squaddie on the streets of Oxford, or at least not just yet,’ he qualified, with typical Vice pessimism, ‘and Fletcher, the bastard, is as dead as the proverbial doornail. So what’s wrong with that?’

Hillary shook her head. There was nothing wrong with that. Any of that. Except that something was off. And she’d been shot, dammit.

Next morning she couldn’t resist going in to work again before heading back to London. Janine and Tommy were out, presumably rousting McNamara for his fingerprints, and Mel came out as soon as she walked in, shaking his head. ‘Just can’t leave the place alone, huh?’

Hillary shrugged. ‘I’m only staying a minute. Besides, I had a visit from Vice last night,’ she said, following him back into his office, and quickly told him the latest. Mel, who wasn’t on the investigation team into the Fletcher shoot-out, and wished like hell that he was, listened avidly. When she’d finished, he too was sceptical. ‘I don’t get it. How could someone shoot Fletcher and then leg it without us seeing him? But if there was a hidden way out of the kitchen … I suppose, when you were shot and we were all gathered around you someone could just have managed it if he … Oh, hell, here’s trouble,’ he added, looking over her shoulder as the door opened.

Hillary didn’t bother turning her head to look. She knew who it must be. ‘Guv,’ Frank Ross said. ‘Looks as if the Fletcher thing is sorted at last. About time too, if you ask me. You’d think somebody had shot the prime minister instead of some bloody dealer, the fuss they’ve been making.’

‘Come in, Frank, and shut the door,’ Mel sighed, and Hillary watched as the fat sergeant walked in and flung himself cheerfully into a chair. He looked almost hyper now, and so damned pleased with himself that Hillary felt sick. What was with the dipstick? Down as a sick dog one day, and looking like he’d won the bloody lottery the next.

‘Yeah, I heard about the secret door. Behind the Aga, wasn’t it?’ Mel said, happy to see the sergeant’s face fall. He mightn’t be in on the investigation, but it didn’t hurt Ross to know that he had eyes and ears everywhere.

‘The super says they’ll be wrapping things up now,’ Frank
muttered, shooting Hillary the usual gimlet eye. He even managed to put some sneer into it.

Nice to have some things back to normal.

‘Well, since you’ve finished fooling about upstairs, you can get back to some real work,’ Mel snapped. ‘Anti-hunting lobby. Anybody have it in for Malcolm Dale?’

‘Not in particular, guv,’ Frank whined. ‘I think it’s a blind alley. I mean, if they didn’t pop off fox hunters when it was legal, why bother bopping them off now?’

Mel sighed, secretly thinking the same thing. ‘Well, get out there and see if Dale had any specific run-ins with any of them when he
was
hunting, then. And check with records – see if any particularly violent animal libbers have just got out of jail. It could be he pissed someone off, and they only now had the opportunity to get some payback.’

Frank Ross hauled himself to his feet and went off, muttering under his breath.

‘He seems chipper again, don’t he?’ Mel said dryly, doing his atrocious Bugs Bunny impersonation. ‘Seems to put a lot of store in his new best pal, Superintendent Raleigh. Hill, what the hell gives there? Can you figure it?’

Hillary automatically shook her head, but, in truth, it was possible that she might have a glimmering of an idea why Raleigh seemed so pally with the office leper. The only trouble was, the more she thought about it, the less she liked it.

As she walked slowly across the reception on her way out, heading towards the large glass external doors, Hillary felt the hairs go up on the back of her neck, and quickly looked around. Then she relaxed. Walking towards her, smiling a greeting, was Marcus Donleavy.

‘Hillary, surely you’re not back to work yet?’

Hillary smiled wryly. ‘Not officially, guv, no. But the Malcolm Dale case seems stalled.’

Donleavy nodded. That was the thing about coppers like Hillary – the best ones were always relentless. ‘Any ideas?’ He
had a vague overview of all the prominent cases in his remit, and he was glad Hillary was still working on this one. Even if she was doing it on the sly.

‘Not really, sir,’ she said. ‘I’ve been distracted.’

‘Oh?’

For a second, Hillary was tempted to confide in him. It would be easy enough to go for a coffee somewhere and drop some gentle hints about what was bothering her. She knew Donleavy was a good cop, and trusted him – up to a point. But at the last moment, innate caution got the better of her. After all, what did she really have to go on? Frank Ross’s odd behaviour, cock-ups that shouldn’t have happened in the Fletcher bust, and evidence that just didn’t make sense? She needed more than that.

‘Oh, nothing specific, sir,’ she lied. ‘I guess the shooting took more out of me than I thought.’

Marcus nodded, not believing it for a second, and walked with her to her car. It was a nice morning and the sun had some real warmth to it at last, but as Chief Superintendent Donleavy watched one of his favourite detectives drive away, he was not a happy man.

Something was bothering Hillary Greene and it didn’t take a genius to guess what it was. Something reeked about the Fletcher bust, but none of his superiors were too interested in finding out what. And although nothing was official yet, with the finding by SOCO of the secret door into the barn, the writing was on the wall. Fletcher was killed by a gang member who then absconded, taking the murder weapon with him.

He supposed it could have happened that way. But he guessed that Hillary Greene was being kept in the know about the bust, which in itself wasn’t unusual. Coppers who got shot during a raid were entitled to know what was happening, and one way or another, they tended to be told.

And if she wasn’t happy with it, then it bore watching.

If Geraldine Brewer was surprised to see her visitor back again so soon, she showed no signs of it when she opened the door and smiled a welcome. ‘Oh, it’s you back again, dear. Come on in, I’ve just made a Victoria sponge.’  

Hillary followed the old lady into her home, and accepted the delicious offering without a second thought. Well, maybe just one thought – namely, that if she forgot about lunch, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.  

‘I still haven’t remembered the name of Sylvia’s
daughter-in-
law,’ Geraldine warned her the moment they were both seated and sipping tea. ‘Well, not strictly her daughter-in-law, since they never married, but nowadays, it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?’

Hillary sighed and nodded. It was no more than she expected, of course, but perseverance was something she’d come to rely on during her years in the force, and there was always room for yet more persistence.  

‘So, tell me what you do remember about her,’ Hillary said brightly. ‘For instance, was she younger than Jerome, do you think?’  

‘Oh, not much. Not so’s you’d notice. I reckon they were much the same age.’

Hillary nodded. ‘And was she pretty in your opinion?’ She didn’t really need to know any of this, but once a witness was
relaxed and got in the habit of talking, it was surprising what you could pick up.

‘Well, I always thought she was too skinny for my taste. Blonde, though, and blue eyes. Men always seem to fall for that, don’t they?’

Hillary, thinking of her philandering husband, grunted. ‘Don’t they just,’ she murmured.

During the night, she’d had one or two thoughts about how she might track down Jerome Raleigh’s secret family, and now she smiled and took a big bite of cake, eyes narrowing in bliss. Just how was it that old ladies could always get sponges so nice and fluffy, but whenever she tried it, they came out like doorstops? ‘So, where did the little girl – Elizabeth, I think you said her name was – go to school? Was it the primary school around here?’

‘Oh no, dear, I don’t think so. She’d have gone to whatever school was nearest to her mother’s place, I expect. Jerome and the mother never lived together, you see, far as I know.’

Damn, Hillary thought. Bang goes that avenue.

‘And do you remember if Elizabeth’s mother met another man? Was that why they split up?’

‘Don’t think so, dear. It was the job, like I said, made her move up north.’

‘So you don’t remember the name of any man Sylvia might have mentioned. You know, the man who finally ended up with her son’s girl, that kind of thing?’

‘No, but I do have some photos. I’ve been thinking about it, ever since yesterday. Would you like to see?’

Hillary would, but it turned out that the only relevant photograph Geraldine had was of her friend, Sylvia Raleigh, holding her granddaughter as a baby. It had the slightly faded quality of old photographs – even though it had only been taken in the late seventies, early eighties. Hillary studied the snapshot carefully. The old lady, Jerome’s mother, was framed in what looked like a stone arched doorway. A church, maybe? Yes, come to think of it, the baby was dressed in a
flowing white shawl, far too intricate for everyday wear. She felt her heart given a sudden leap. ‘Was this taken at her
christening
, by any chance?’ she asked casually.

‘Yes, yes, it was, now I think about it,’ Geraldine said, looking at the photograph again. ‘I took this snapshot with an old camera of mine, after all the official photographs had been taken. Not that I’m much good with a camera, really.’

‘Can you remember the name of the church?’ Hillary asked, and saw the old lady’s face fall. ‘Sorry, I can’t. It wasn’t our local church, you see, St Thomas’s, but the mother’s local church. It was over in Islington somewhere, I think. Or was it … no, I’m pretty sure it was Islington.’

Which meant it was probably in Notting Hill, Hillary thought wryly. This was not good. She needed either the name of a specific church, or the surname of mother or child. ‘She looks very proud,’ Hillary murmured, smiling down at Sylvia Raleigh’s faded face. ‘Who were the godparents, do you know?’ she asked, without much hope.

Geraldine suddenly laughed. ‘You know, it’s funny you asking me that! I don’t remember the name of the godfather – I think it was an uncle of the mother’s family or something – but the name of the godmother stuck in my mind because it was so unusual. Ophelia Gosling. Can you imagine?’

Hillary laughed. ‘No wonder you remember it,’ she agreed, and now that she had something solid to work with, accepted a second slice of cake and another cup of tea in celebration.

If Ophelia Gosling had married since being godmother to Jerome’s baby daughter, Hillary knew her chances of finding her were remote. But sometimes luck smiled down on her, and the first O Gosling in the Islington phone book was answered by a woman, who did indeed answer to the name of Ophelia. Intrigued by Hillary’s polite but circumspect request to meet, she chose a small café nearby, and Hillary agreed to be there within the hour. She took the tube and found the café easily, but had to wait a nerve-wracking quarter of an hour before a
middle-aged woman, dressed in a silver and maroon caftan, walked in.

Hillary had no doubt, after one look at the wild orange hair and chunky silver and amber jewellery, that this was Ms Gosling. She half rose, catching the woman’s eye, and smiled as she walked across the small room. She was the kind of large woman who immediately drew the eye, and she was obviously well known in the small café, for the waitress nodded, and mouthed something to her. Ophelia Gosling nodded, then sat down opposite Hillary, eyeing her openly.

‘Can’t say I get many mysterious phone calls asking for meetings nowadays,’ she said by way of greeting, seating herself into a chair that groaned under her weight. ‘You a copper?’

The question came out sharply, and Hillary smiled. So much for keeping up the journalist fiction. Women like this could spot the law a mile off. ‘Let me guess,’ Hillary mused, eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘Greenham Common or USAF Upper Heyford?’ She had the look of one of those women who protested against nuclear-armed fighter planes on British soil. Or maybe she was a tree-hugger and by-pass saboteur.

‘Both, actually,’ Ophelia Gosling said coolly.

Hillary nodded. ‘Well, the yanks are gone from Upper Heyford,’ she said, tacitly admitting that she was, indeed, a copper. Though she’d never had to police the CND marches or protesters of the eighties.

‘But not from Lakenheath,’ Ophelia shot back, then grinned. ‘Still, I like you. You’ve got a good aura. Strong.’

Hillary blinked. Oh goody. One of those. ‘Thank you.’

The waitress came to the table with a tray laden with some kind of muesli bars, a dish of dried apricots soaking in water, and a big carafe of what smelt like very dodgy herbal tea. Hillary gave a silent prayer of thanks for Geraldine Brewer’s sponge cake, and declined all offers to partake of the tray.

Ophelia poured herself a large glass of the tea and took an apricot to nibble. ‘So, what can the plod want with me? I’m
not wanted for anything – well, not last time I looked anyway.’

Hillary grinned. ‘Nothing like that. I just need a bit of information.’

‘I’m not a grass.’

‘Never thought you were. And like I said, I’m not after anybody. I’m just trying to trace a missing child.’

‘Ah, well, that’s different,’ Ophelia said at once. ‘Who, and how do you think I can help?’

And with those simple but genuine words, Hillary suddenly found herself liking this woman very much. ‘Can you cast your mind back to the late seventies, early eighties? You were godmother to a baby girl called Elizabeth.’

‘Lizzie Burns? Good grief you’re right. Haven’t thought of her in – oh, ten, twelve years. Just shows what an
irresponsible
godmother I turned out to be. Typical of Alicia for asking me. Wonderful girl, but a rotten judge of character.’

Hillary smiled. ‘Elizabeth Burns. Her father was Jerome Raleigh, right?’

‘Right. Another copper. Don’t know what Alicia saw in him. Well, I do, he was tasty. But still the plod.’ Her large blue eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘Nothing’s happened to Ally has it? Or little Liz?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Hillary said, truthfully enough. ‘I just need to get in touch with them. I don’t suppose you have an address where I could reach them?’

‘Good grief, no,’ Ophelia said. ‘It’s been yonks. And I don’t think I’d give it to you, even if I had,’ she added flatly. ‘But I lost touch with Ally when she moved to Sunderland. Bloody awful place to move to, if you ask me, but she would go. I used to send Christmas cards for the first few years, but then she moved again, and I lost the address. You know how it is. Lizzie must be grown up now. I wonder how she turned out?’

Hillary wondered too. And wondered if Alicia Burns and her daughter had moved to Oxford any time recently.

‘Well, thanks a lot. You’ve been most helpful,’ Hillary said, starting to rise.

‘Yes,’ Ophelia Gosling said slowly. ‘That’s what I was afraid of.’

Hillary couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

‘Seriously, though, I haven’t dropped them in it, have I?’ Ophelia asked anxiously.

‘Why do you think you might have?’ Hillary asked, genuinely curious. ‘Was your old friend Ally likely to get her collar felt by the plod?’

Ophelia snorted. ‘Hell, no,’ she laughed. ‘Middle-class respectable through and through. The most daring thing she ever did was have a child out of wedlock. That was about as much of a rebel as it got, with Ally.’ Ophelia’s blue eyes
twinkled
. ‘So, why are you trying to find them?’

‘I just need to ask them something relating to a recent inquiry. Nothing to worry about, I promise.’

Ophelia Gosling snorted, her large chest rising and falling with the effort, silver and amber jewellery clanking. ‘Right! And we know how much a copper’s word is worth.’

Hillary shrugged. ‘About as much as a politician’s,’ she agreed cheerfully.

And this time, it was Ophelia who burst into laughter.

It didn’t take her long to track down the church where one Elizabeth Burns had been christened. The rector, a young man still eager to help, had gone through the records himself, and came up with date of birth and confirmation of the surname.

Hillary, resolutely ignoring lunch, found an internet café and trawled the public databases. Armed with both first name, surname and date of birth for Jerome Raleigh’s daughter, she quickly pulled up her birth certificate. It did indeed name Jerome Raleigh as the father, and Alicia Margot Burns as the mother, so there had obviously never been any of this ‘father unknown’ business. Which seemed to confirm the honest and friendly nature of Jerome and Alicia’s relationship.

Whilst she was there, she trawled the database for the marriage registers, but Elizabeth Sylvia Burns had, so far, not married. She probably considered herself to be far too young, just yet. Hillary paused for a moment, then punched in the name of Alicia Burns. She had never married either. Surprising, that. Most women, even the wary, still tended to get married at least once in their lives. Perhaps Alicia Burns was one of those rare women who were able to learn by other people’s mistakes.

Of course, she might have died. That would be one reason why she never married. It might also explain why Jerome Raleigh had moved to Oxford. Although she’d be fully grown now, Elizabeth would have felt the loss of a mother keenly if she had died, and might have contacted her father for some support and succour.

Hillary quickly tapped into the registry of deaths, but when she typed in Alicia’s details, no record came up. More out of the habit of thoroughness than anything else, Hillary typed in Elizabeth’s name next and almost spat out her mouthful of coffee all over the screen when it popped up with the relevant details.

Elizabeth Sylvia Burns had died on 13 March 2003, at the age of twenty.

Hillary stared at the screen, her mind racing. There might be more than one Elizabeth Burns in the world, of course, but surely not someone born on the same day as Jerome’s daughter? With a hand that was shaking now, Hillary put her coffee cup back down and hit the keyboard to go through the procedure a second time.

But it was definitely the right Elizabeth Burns.

For a moment, Hillary simply sat there and stared. Twenty was an awfully young age to die. She called up the death certificate again, and turned her attention to cause of death.

The medical jargon was technical and brief, but it was one that was very familiar to Hillary, since it was one that she’d seen on many a teenager’s death certificate.

Elizabeth Burns had died of an accidental overdose of cocaine.

Back in Kidlington, Frank Ross ordered a second pint of beer and watched his quarry do the same. Nelson Bonnington, a lanky tree-hugger with delusions of grandeur, was the only animal rights activist that he’d found so far who might have been daft enough to kill Dale. His elder brother ran a wildlife sanctuary that specialized in rescuing foxes and grey squirrels, both vermin under law. Nelson was local, and had been inside once before for beating up a master of hounds at a local hunt. What’s more, he had the reputation for favouring violence over peaceful demonstration.

Frank took his pint to the darkest corner of the pub and watched and waited. He wanted to see if the pillock met up with any of his buddies. If so, he might have boasted to them about doing Dale and they might just be persuaded to turn him in. In Ross’s opinion, all crooks were stupid. But
do-gooding
crooks were the most stupid of the lot.

As he pondered buying a pork pie and a packet of crisps for his lunch, Frank hoped that it was true that the investigation into the Fletcher killing was now winding down. Rumour had it that they were about to present their findings, and certainly the boss thought so. It would be good to have the thing over and done with.

Somewhat to his surprise, Frank found himself breaking out in a cold sweat when he thought about Superintendent Jerome Raleigh. Not that he was a bad bloke or anything. He was hard, sure. Harder even than Ronnie Greene, and that was saying something. He knew how to treat scum, all right. But Ross didn’t mind hard, so long as the man in question was also trustworthy. And in his opinion, Raleigh was as straight as a die. He’d look after him. The boss might be tough, but that was because he was old school. And old school knew what loyalty meant. No, he had nothing to worry about there.