By a Narrow Majority (4 page)

She watched Steven get carefully to his feet and peel back the thin rubber gloves he was wearing. ‘I’ll see if I can post him tomorrow – but I doubt it. Probably won’t get around to him until the day after.’

‘From what I hear, he was a politician – or about to become one or something. You might get pressure to do it fast.’

Steven grunted, unimpressed. ‘Well, I must get back. My better half was beating me at billiards when I got called out.’

Hillary blinked at the mental image this conjured up and followed him out. Outside she told the constable at the gate to keep everyone but forensics out of the kitchen, and to make
sure that her team, as they arrived, stayed on the rolls of
polythene
sheeting that he’d already put down.

Just then she saw Janine Tyler’s car, a classic Mini, arrive, with Tommy Lynch not far behind her. Of Frank Ross there was no sign, so at least she was having some luck tonight.

‘Constable, has anyone contacted Mrs Dale yet?’

‘No, ma’am. I wasn’t sure that that was advisable.’

Hillary nodded. It was good thinking. Sad fact though it undoubtedly was, whenever a spouse was found dead, the remaining spouse was firmly in the frame until eliminated. And she herself wanted to see Valerie Dale’s face when she was informed of her husband’s death.

‘You have the address of this friend where she’s playing bridge?’

He didn’t. He radioed his friend inside, who asked the secretary, and then relayed the information back with an address in Adderbury, a large village not far from Banbury.

Hillary nodded and started back towards her car. Normally she wouldn’t leave a crime scene so early, but until forensics had been and gone, there was little she could do here but hang around and get impatient. She greeted Tommy and Janine, who crowded round her, and filled them in.

‘Right, Tommy, I want you to keep the Murder Book on this one. Janine, you can appoint the evidence officer. Doc’s been and gone, so you can get the body removed when all the photographs have been taken and SOCO give the all-clear. Janine, get a preliminary report from this secretary, Marcia Brock. What was she doing here at this time of night, whether there was any argy-bargy going on – you know the drill. I’m off to inform the wife.’

‘Boss,’ Janine said briefly. Unlike most coppers, she balked at calling anyone ‘guv’ and had come up with her own title for Hillary, who didn’t seem to mind. Janine walked up to the uniform and had a few words, then disappeared inside. Tommy Lynch watched Hillary climb into her car, an ancient Volkswagen Golf that she’d nicknamed ‘Puff the Tragic
Wagon’, and watched her back up towards the drawbridge. He wished he was going with her.

He sighed and headed towards the house. ‘Has a DS Frank Ross checked in yet?’ he asked the constable at the gate, who shook his head. ‘Good,’ Tommy said succinctly, making the younger man smile. Frank’s fame tended to go before him.

Valerie Dale’s bridge-playing friends lived in a large property across the village green from the pub, that looked to Hillary as if it had once been two or maybe even three terraced cottages, now converted into one. It had an uneven grey slate roof, and had been newly whitewashed. Even in the dark she could see latticed woodwork climbing the walls, and suspected that in the summer it was awash with climbing roses, clematis and maybe even wisteria. Very nice. She
appreciated
gardens – mostly because her own needs in the horticultural department stopped and ended with a few tubs of pansies slung on to her roof.

She knocked on the door and waited. The curtains were all closed, but light glowed behind most of them, and when the door was finally opened, she could hear the muted voices of several people coming from inside. The woman facing her looked to be about forty, with a neat pageboy blonde cut and carefully treated wrinkles at the sides of her eyes and mouth. ‘Yes?’

Her pale grey eyes widened as Hillary held out her ID. Is there a Mrs Valerie Dale here, Mrs Babcock? It is Mrs Babcock?’

‘No, I’m Celia. Celia Dee. Gale’s inside. I’m dummy.’

Hillary, who knew a little about bridge, wasn’t too
disconcerted
by this somewhat candid revelation. If she remembered right, Celia Dee wasn’t commentating on her own intellectual shortcomings, but referring to the fact that she wasn’t playing the card game for this particular rubber.

‘Please, come inside.’ Although she wasn’t the hostess, she was too polite to leave her standing on the doorstep. Besides,
if Hillary knew people –and Hillary did – Mrs Dee was too busy wondering if her tax disc on the car was up to date or if any of her tyres were bald to worry about upsetting any of her fellow bridge players with her usurped hospitality.

Inside, the country cottage theme was being done to death, with the owner even going so far as to hang bunches of dried flowers from the genuine wooden beams. Brass wall clocks ticked ponderously from thick and bulging lime-washed walls, and Laura Ashley was being worshipped wherever the eye settled. She was led to a large, knocked-through lounge, where a real log fire was roaring away in the fireplace, surrounded by horse brasses, naturally. Sets of four people, seated at two individual round tables, turned to look at her.

‘Four no trumps,’ a small, grey-haired woman said in the sudden silence, then looked up and blinked, wondering why nobody was paying attention to her. At another table, a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in black slacks and a black silk blouse with a Chinese collar, slowly stood up. She looked not to Hillary, but to the woman standing beside her, an obvious question in her eyes.

‘Oh, Gale, this is … er …’

‘Detective Inspector Hillary Greene, Mrs Babcock,’ Hillary said, walking forward. Although the house and company screamed ultra-respectable upper middle class, Hillary didn’t feel one whit intimidated. She’d taken an English literature degree from Radcliffe College, and although it wasn’t one of Oxford University’s affiliated colleges, hardly anyone knew that, and back at HQ she was known to be an OEC – an Oxford Educated Cop. Her own upbringing had been as middle class as anyone’s here. OK, her suit was probably the cheapest article of clothing in the room, and she worked for a living because she had to and not because she needed a hobby, but who the hell cared? She had a badge. That trumped even a Range Rover.

She smiled to reassure everyone, and said firmly, ‘I’m looking for a Mrs Valerie Dale? I was told by Marcia Brock
that I might find her here?’ As she spoke she glanced around, instantly dismissing all the men, and the grey-haired woman. That left two possible contenders – an elfin-faced redhead, and a tall skinny blonde. It was the tall skinny blonde, looking nonplussed, who rose hesitantly from the table.

‘Yes? I’m Valerie Dale. Is anything wrong? The children?’ Her voice rose sharply.

Hillary mentally cursed. This was the first she’d heard about children. She took a step forward and smiled. ‘I’m sure your children are fine, Mrs Dale,’ she lied. The truth was, she had no idea whether they were or not. ‘They’re back at your home, Tangent Hall?’

‘No, no. Jeremy’s at boarding school and Portia’s with my mother for the night.’

Hillary nodded, relieved. Not at the house then. That explained why no-one had mentioned them. Children at a murder scene were a nightmare scenario.

‘But what’s wrong? Why are you here?’ Valerie Dale suddenly demanded, her voice rising just an octave. Either she was a very good actress or she was genuinely alarmed. Naturally pale, her thin face seemed to go a milky colour and the pinched look that tightened her cheekbones couldn’t be faked.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Dale, but I’m afraid I do have bad news. Would you prefer to talk outside?’

Even before she’d finished speaking, she noticed Gale Babcock take a step closer, and from her position beside her, Celia Dee also moved forward, coming to stand the other side of the distressed woman. Obviously Valerie Dale had friends. Protective friends. And she was going to need them in the months to come.

‘What? No, no, just tell me what it is. Is it Mother?’ Valerie asked. ‘I know she’s not been well, but I thought she was over it. It was only a tummy bug, wasn’t it?’

Hillary took a deep breath. There was never a right way of going about this, and after years of having to deliver bad
news, she’d never found any way that was easy. In the end she chose simply to state the truth as clearly and calmly as possible.

‘I’m afraid your husband, Malcolm Dale, has been found dead at your home, Mrs Dale.’ She was sure she was safe in stating this so certainly, because Marcia Brock had formally identified him as such. ‘We’ve launched a murder enquiry,’ she added quietly, and saw a blank dullness suddenly darken Valerie Dale’s pale eyes. What colour were they exactly? Not blue. Green, perhaps.

She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. Celia Dee said sharply, ‘Bloody hell!’, and grabbed Valerie Dale’s wrist. But it was Gale Babcock who took control.

‘Come on, Val, sit down. Jim, get a glass of brandy, will you?’ One of the men peeled off obediently from the table and went to a drinks cabinet. Hillary said nothing as her witness was led to one of the black leather sofas grouped around the fireplace, and was pushed down. The man returned with a snifter glass and pushed it into Valerie Dale’s shaking hand. She took it, and raised it automatically to her lips. Hillary wondered if she was even aware of what she’d done.

But all this show of shock and grief meant nothing, of course. She’d had a case once, while still in uniform, when a man had murdered his wife. On being informed of her death, he’d looked and reacted very much as Valerie Dale was doing now, and she’d been convinced because of it that he must be innocent. But her governor at the time, far more experienced and wily, had instantly liked him for it. And the evidence and an eventual confession had proved him right. See, he’d explained to her a little while later, some people could kill in a moment of rage or ‘temporary insanity’ then go off and manage to forget about it so completely that, when informed of their loved one’s death, they were genuinely shocked. Other killers felt genuine remorse, too, and when it was brought home to them the reality of their deeds, were genuinely
distraught. Just because someone was physically shocked or genuinely upset didn’t make them automatically innocent. It just meant they weren’t cold-blooded.

Or were bloody good actors.

Hillary had come across some of those, too, in her time. Men and women who could make Olivier look like a ham.

Hillary sighed, and slowly walked over to an empty seat and sat down. It was going to take some time, and a lot of gentle persuasion, to ease Valerie Dale away from her friends.

In the meantime, now was as good a time as any to see how strong Valerie Dale’s alibi might be. She turned to the man now sitting opposite her – the man who’d brought the brandy – and lifted out her notebook.

‘If I could just have your name, sir, and the time you arrived here?’ she asked quietly. After a startled pause, the man complied. Hillary wrote it down then asked as casually as she could, ‘And what time would you say it was when Mrs Dale arrived here tonight?’

Nearly half an hour later, Hillary was driving back to Lower Heyford, a silent and shocked Valerie Dale sitting in the passenger seat beside her, Celia Dee having promised to drive Valerie’s own car back to her door tomorrow morning.

Hillary didn’t question the new widow on the drive back, only asking her if she was warm enough, and then turning up the heater (with little hope of coaxing more heat out of the ancient car) when Valerie had said that she wasn’t.

Back at Tangent Hall she could feel the tension emanating from her passenger ratchet up a notch at the sight of all the squad cars flashing blue lights, and the rather eerie sight of men and women walking around encased from head to toe in ghostly white. It almost looked like a scene from a low-budget alien abduction movie.

‘If you’ll wait here a minute, I’ll see if it’s all right for us to go inside,’ Hillary murmured. She got out and nodded to a constable, who instantly trotted over. ‘This is the wife,’ Hillary said, all but whispering. ‘Stay with her – tell her she can call her mother’s, if she wants, to break the news and see if her daughter’s all right, but make a note of what she says.’

According to the bridge players, Valerie had arrived a little late, citing a flat tyre and the need to change it as an excuse. She’d have to set Tommy the task of trying to prove or disprove her story. Until he did, she wasn’t going to give Valerie Dale any breaks.

‘Guv,’ the constable said in acknowledgement, then slipped in behind the steering wheel. She could hear his low voice rumbling a greeting as she walked away. The mortuary van was parked near the wooden plank bridge spanning the river, and two men stood quietly beside it, one of them smoking, awaiting the all-clear to remove the body. Just then, Janine came through the garden gate and beckoned them over. Obviously SOCO had finished. Her DS spotted her and began to meet her halfway up the track. As they walked back into the garden, Hillary gave her a quick update.

Even though it was now approaching midnight, in the bright moonlight Hillary could make out light patches of daffodils, and larger bushes of what would probably turn out to be forsythia in the morning light. It was a simple,
low-maintenance
garden, with plenty of paving and large tubs filled with the usual spring assortments. The landscaping alone must have cost a good bit. Hillary wondered how much the Dales were worth. Surely enough to make money a viable motive? Did the house and trappings belong to Malcolm Dale? And if so, had a divorce been in the offing? She would have to talk to the Dale solicitor soon and find out about the Will. Plus any life insurance policies the dead man might have taken out.

It was Hillary’s belief that the would-be Tory politicians of this world knew how to handle money. Had he had his wife sign some sort of pre-nup that would leave her too poorly off to consider divorce a viable option? Had murder seemed the only way out? All of these questions and more would have to be answered in the next twenty-four hours. She knew a detailed background report on both the victim and his spouse would be ready for her sometime tomorrow. While others might despise it, Hillary had always thought that there was a lot to be said for basic routines.

‘Don’t forget to keep Tommy updated. It’s his first time holding the Murder Book.’

‘Boss,’ Janine said, unimpressed. Hillary sighed. When would
Janine learn that, if she wanted to get on and earn her
promotion
, people management was as necessary a skill as knowing any of the technical questions that she might be asked at her Boards.

‘Janine, I want you to escort Mrs Dale to her bedroom, then bag and tag her clothes.’ It was almost beyond the realms of probability that the killer wouldn’t have some splashes of the victim’s blood on his or her clothing, as well as other forensic evidence. Besides, if Valerie Dale really had changed a car tyre that night, there’d be proof of that on her clothes and hands too. ‘And give her hands a swab while you’re at it. Ask the lab to check for traces of grease, motor oil, that sort of thing. And when we take Marcia Brock back, the same for her.’ Hillary sighed. ‘But with her finding the body, any
forensics
we get on her might not indicate much one way or another. Unless she’s got a splatter pattern on her that gets the lab team excited.’

Whenever a victim was coshed, shot or stabbed, blood patterns on walls, floors and on the clothes of the killer could often testify to the what, where, how and when of it.

Janine nodded, wishing Hillary Greene wouldn’t keep trying to teach her granny how to suck eggs. She could do this sort of routine work in her sleep. ‘SOCO are almost done. Do you really like the wife for it?’

Hillary waved her hand in the air in a rocking motion. ‘So so. Anything earth-shattering come up here?’

‘No. Forensics took away a lot of possible murder weapons, but nothing that looks very likely. The fireplace poker, the wooden broom handle, stuff like that. They’re dusting for fingerprints now, then they’ll be finished.’

Hillary grimaced. That explained why Janine had come outside. The grey powder SOCO used to highlight dabs got everywhere – in the folds of your clothes, your hair, on your lips, you name it. ‘You’ve taken a preliminary statement from Marcia Brock?’

‘Yes, boss, just the basics. She got here about 8.50 found the door shut but unlocked, and when nobody answered the
bell, pushed her way in. Found him, palpitated a bit, swears she didn’t touch him or anything else, and came out into the hall and used her mobile to phone us. Says she didn’t go back in, but waited outside. Oh, and by the way, she’s his campaign secretary, not his work secretary. She said she’d come tonight in order to go over an interview he was due to give on Radio Oxford tomorrow. You know, do some last-minute coaching. It all sounded legit enough to me.’

Janine didn’t like to go into her own take on the witness too much, knowing that Hillary preferred to form her own opinions of people during interview. And Janine was well aware that her superior could often bring things out during an interview that she herself would never even have thought of. This ability her superior officer had to see things she’d missed, or think of things that had passed her by, both annoyed her and aroused envy and respect in equal measure.

‘OK, they’re coming out,’ Hillary said abruptly, ‘Mrs Dale’s in my car.’

Janine nodded and moved away, and Hillary stepped to one side as the two mortuary assistants came out with the body bag on a stretcher. She hoped Valerie Dale wasn’t watching, but couldn’t see how the poor woman could possibly avoid it. Hillary always had it in mind that, if the spouse wasn’t the killer, then he or she was a grieving victim as well, and deserved any consideration that could be given. The trouble was, an investigating officer very often didn’t know which scenario was true until all the evidence was in.

She found Tommy in the kitchen, watching the last of the SOCO team leave. ‘Tommy. Mrs Dale was late arriving at her bridge meeting. She says she had a flat tyre and had to change it. First thing tomorrow, see if you can get an exact location from her where this took place, and see if you can get any corroboration. If it happened on the open road, we’ll have to do a newspaper and radio appeal for witnesses to come forward. If she was near some houses, we might get lucky straight away.’

‘Wouldn’t someone stop and offer to help?’ Tommy asked thoughtfully. ‘A pretty blonde woman all alone at night?’

Hillary shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Nowadays, it wasn’t always easy to tell. Many men who would have been gallant, say, ten years ago, might now think twice. And many women, too, would probably feel safer changing their own tyre rather than looking for help.

‘I’d better phone Mel with an update. When things are finished here you can get off. I want us all fresh first thing in the morning.’

‘Guv.’

Marcia Brock drove herself home, with a convoy of two following. She lived on the outskirts of Witney, in what had once been a council estate, but had long since been gentrified by first-time buyers and hopeful families.

She parked her six-year-old Toyota half on the pavement and locked it; Hillary pulled up behind her, and Janine Tyler overshot and parked up in front. Without a word, she turned and walked up a crazy-paved path to a front door with an afterthought of a porch. There she waited for them to catch up, still without speaking, then stepped inside and flicked on the hall light.

‘Kitchen’s through there.’ She nodded towards a door that stood ajar. ‘Don’t mind the cat.’

She slipped off her overcoat and reached for a small
thermostat
, turning it up a notch. Hillary thought the house needed it. It felt distinctly chilly. As if noticing, Marcia Brock smiled grimly. ‘Sorry, Inspector. I’m doing a masters at Reading – I’m in a gap year – and student habits die hard. I never waste electricity, or anything else, if I can help it,’ she added ruefully.

‘Really? What are you studying?’

‘Political science with a slant towards sociology. What else?’

Hillary smiled an answer and walked on through to a
small, functional kitchen. Sitting on one of the cheerfully yellow Formica worktops was a black and white tom, with battered ears and baleful green eyes. Janine, spotting it, sidled around it carefully, and pulled out one of the plain wooden chairs set against a small square table.

‘Tea?’ Marcia asked, picking up a kettle. ‘Or something stronger?’

From Janine’s preliminary interview, Hillary knew that Marcia Brock was thirty-one and unmarried. Janine had wryly twisted her lips as she recounted the lecture she’d been given when she’d mistakenly referred to her as ‘Mrs’. ‘A closet lezzie if you ask me,’ Janine had added, making Hillary wince. Sometimes Frank Ross’s malevolent influence reared its ugly head in unexpected places.

Now Hillary shook her head. ‘Tea will be fine. I just need to go over a few things with you, Ms Brock. As you can appreciate, I know next to nothing about the victim, which is where I need your help. What can you tell me about him?’

Marcia Brock sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Where to start? OK, facts first. He’s a little old to be going into serious
politics
, but then again, he’s still just about young enough to make the real veterans sit up and take notice. I reckon
somewhere
down the line he had some pretty good advice, because he seemed to be relatively savvy. He’s been a lifelong member of the party, of course, and knew how to walk the walk and talk the talk long before he hired me, which was just as well. He married well; his wife – I expect you’ve met her – is the only daughter of a local property developer. Very upmarket real estate, that sort of thing. So he knows a lot of very useful people, and his father-in-law is behind him one hundred per cent. Fancies seeing his daughter as the wife of a cabinet minister, I expect,’ she added dryly.

The kettle boiled and Marcia broke off to pour the tea into three thick mugs.

She was small and rather chunky, with short black hair and rather startling, clear blue eyes that didn’t seem to miss much.
As she handed over the steaming mugs, she dished out spoons. ‘You’ll have to fish out your own tea bags.’

Hillary smiled and did so, wondering why this woman was working for a wannabe Tory politician. If she’d had to guess she would have thought Marcia Brock would be a strictly New Labour girl. At a push a Lib Dem. And if she’d had to bet money, she’d have put her down for a Green.

‘So you think he would have made it then? You know, got elected as MP?’ she asked, and Marcia Brock snorted.

‘Hardly! What do you know about local politics, Inspector?’

Hillary gave an inward groan and admitted it was next to nothing, in the sure and certain knowledge that, in the next hour or so, she’d learn far more than she’d ever want to know. Beside her, she could sense Janine’s shoulders slumping, and knew that her sergeant was anticipating the worst too.

And Marcia Brock didn’t disappoint. By the time she’d finished giving her the rundown on in-party fighting, the desperation that surrounded soliciting support, and the general back-biting and at times almost hysterical argy-bargy that went on when a MP’s constituency became unexpectedly available, Hillary was glad that she never bothered to vote.

‘So, basically, leaving out the by-rules and exemptions, it boils down to this. It’s the Tory Party members, not the members of the public, who get to put forward nominations for those who want to run as MPs?’ Janine said, clarifying her shorthand. ‘And the current MP for this area suddenly announced that he is retiring next year, and Malcolm Dale managed to win enough votes to put him in the running?’

‘Right, along with two others,’ Marcia said firmly. ‘But one’s a sop to the left, so the only real competition he had was George McNamara.’

Hillary could feel her eyelids drooping. What was it about politics that put her right to sleep? She forced herself to sit up and pay more attention.

‘Was this Mr McNamara considered a real threat?’ she asked quickly.  

‘In my opinion, yes,’ Marcia Brock said. ‘But Mr Dale was confident he’d win, if only by a narrow majority.’  

‘Which would mean he would stand as this region’s Tory MP at the next general election?’

‘Next by-election,’ Marcia Brock corrected. Then launched into a truly bewildering narrative about the rules and
regulations
concerning the difference. When she’d finished, Janine looked ready to spit tin tacks.  

‘OK. Let’s shift emphasis a minute,’ Hillary said hastily, knowing her sergeant would probably kill her if she didn’t. They could always trawl the internet later to build up a more solid idea of what happened in local Tory politics. ‘What kind of man was he? Did you like him?’  

Marcia shrugged. ‘He was all right,’ she said, then flushed, as if aware that she didn’t sound all that enthusiastic. ‘What I mean is, he ran his own business, so at least he knew more than most of them when he talked about economics and the plight of the small businessman.’  

‘Really? What was his business?’  

‘He owns, or owned, rather, I suppose I should say, Sporting Chance. You might know it – it’s in that new
shopping
centre they built by the canal in Banbury.’ Hillary didn’t know it, but had no doubt that she would, before long.