Narrow is the Way (12 page)

And so it went on.

Hillary smiled slightly at Tom Palmer over the top of her tea cup and turned her mind back to more important things. How was Janine doing with Leo ‘The Man’ Mann? It would be nice to think when she got back to HQ there’d be a confession, all neatly typed up and signed, waiting for her. But she had grave doubts.

And just what was the story with Jerome Raleigh? By now, the whole station should know everything there was to know about the man, from why he’d moved from the Met, why he hadn’t married, was he gay, who did he have the gen on, why there’d been a delay in his transfer, and what kind of music he preferred, right down to the name of his pet budgie.

But nobody seemed to know dick.

And that, in itself, was enough to scare the living daylights out of Hillary. In the office, as on the street, she liked to know who she was dealing with. She liked to keep up with the current state of office politics too, just so that she could keep well out of the way of it and avoid taking any knives to the
back. Having an enigma for a boss wasn’t a state of affairs inclined to promote a dreamless and restful slumber at night.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she heard Graham make winding down noises, and put down her empty cup on the table. She saw Tom Palmer look at her curiously, and realized the other man must have guessed that she’d zoned out. Good. That would tell him just how ineffective his war of attrition on her nerves had been.

‘So, we’ll see you in court, Mr Palmer?’ Hillary said, rising, and holding out her hand. Only when it had been taken and rather bemusedly shaken, did she add, ‘and please, give my love to ESAA. The last time I had any dealing with animal rights fanatics was when I helped Sergeant Sam Waterstone send one of them down for the murder of a security guard at an animal lab.’

Graham Vaughan coughed into his hand like a startled turkey. It was his way, Hillary knew, of disguising his rather high-pitched giggle.

‘So, how did it go with ‘The Man’?’ she asked, as soon as she’d returned to the office and spotted Janine hunched dejectedly over her computer terminal. ‘Has he got much to say for himself?’ She sat down at her own desk and checked her watch, feeling guilty at the hour and a half she’d just taken off work.

‘Not yet, boss,’ Janine said grimly. ‘Trouble is, I’ve got no real ammo to lob at him. None of his priors are for violence against women. And he sticks to it that he didn’t care that Julia was sleeping with Roger Greenwood.’

‘He give an alibi for the time she was murdered?’

‘No,’ Janine said, her eyes resuming some of their old fire. ‘He says it’s none of our business.’

‘Ah. A comedian,’ Hillary muttered. ‘How long’s he been cooling his heels?’

‘About an hour. I took an early lunch.’

‘Where’s Tommy?’

‘At the lab. Oh, the results came back on Roger
Greenwood’s clothing. Nothing conclusive. There were
microscopic
traces of cowshit on his shoes, but then there would have been on anyone’s walking up the road to the farmhouse. There were fibres of Julia Reynold’s white wedding dress on his clothes, but then there would have been. They’d been dancing together and what not.’

Hillary sighed. Great. ‘So we can’t rule him in, can’t rule him out,’ she grumbled.

Janine shrugged helplessly. Sometimes them was the breaks. With the advent of clever forensic science docu-crime dramas on the television, the general public had been fooled into thinking that science, DNA, and clever gizmos and gadgets could just hand you the identity of a killer, more or less on a plate. Cops and scientists knew better. As did barristers. And defence barristers knew it better than any one else.

‘OK. Let’s have another go at Mr Mann,’ Hillary said wearily. ‘Then you and Tommy had better get off to Nuneaton.’ Although the way the day was going, she didn’t expect miracles from their purple Mini lady either.

Leo Mann grinned as they came in. ‘Two lovelies for the price of one. Must be my lucky day.’

Hillary grinned at him openly. ‘Ah, a ladies’ man. I do like that. You’d be surprised how many ingrates and Neanderthals we have to deal with in here every day. Right, Sergeant?’

Janine grunted and Leo Mann grinned, showing slightly yellow teeth. ‘Don Juan, at your service.’ He half-bowed over the table.

Janine rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, please!’

‘So, tell me about Julia,’ Hillary said simply.

‘Ah, too good for the likes of me,’ Leo said, totally ignoring Janine now, who was left feeling abruptly lost. It was as if her DI and the scumbag she’d been interviewing all morning had taken one look at each other and found they were both Masons, or something. Where the hell did this instant rapport come from?

‘I knew she was only stringing me along for the sake of
variety,’ Leo said now, with a winsome grin. ‘But, what the hell? It meant I could walk into the local boozer with a stunner like Julia on my arm, and all my mates would be treating me like the next best thing since sliced bread for months to come – trying to get me to give them the secret of pulling a stunner. Get me?’

Hillary did. ‘She was worth the hassle. Yeah, I get it. The fancy term for it is quid pro quo. So you knew all along she had a fiancé? And really didn’t care?’

Leo shrugged. ‘Good luck to her, I say. The boy was loaded. You could see why she was anxious to get him down the aisle. And why not? Julia was like one of them birds from that telly series, you know, about them chicks married to footballers. She deserved the good life.’

‘Even so. It had to have been a bit damaging to the old ego?’

‘Nah, not really. I gave her what fancy-boy couldn’t. She liked me.’ Something wistful, a touch of pain perhaps,
fleetingly
touched Leo Mann’s multi-pierced face, and Hillary sighed.

‘Men often kill the women they love, Leo,’ she pointed out softly.

‘Yeah. But I didn’t kill Julia.’

‘So why don’t you tell us where you were the night she was killed?’

‘Don’t have to, darling,’ Leo said, waving a playful finger in front of her face. He was rather enjoying this interview. The older bird was something to look at in a way. Reminded him of those actresses in the old black-and-white movies his mother used to love watching. All curves and class.

‘Let me guess. Out ram-raiding were you? Breaking into some warehouse? Lifting videos?’

Leo grinned. ‘I do like a woman who understands me.’ He laughed modestly, and Hillary couldn’t help but grin back. Sometimes villains brought out the softer side of her nature. Not often, but sometimes.

‘I try my best to understand all my customers, Mr Mann,’ she said, then let her face fall. ‘The thing is, Leo, I have to do
my best by Julia, too. She’s the one who’s dead. And someone killed her. Don’t you
want
to help me out?’

Leo frowned, leaned forward, then fiddled with one of the silver rings looped through his eyebrow. ‘I hear where you’re coming from, but I ain’t a nark.’

‘No. But you were Julia’s lover. She was your bird, and someone strangled her to death. Surely she deserves some loyalty from you?’

Janine felt her jaw drop open. She couldn’t believe this. Hillary Greene was playing the poor sap like Vanessa Mae played the violin. She’d have him blubbering into his tea next.

‘I don’t know who killed her,’ Leo Mann said at last, his voice suspiciously thick with repressed emotion. ‘But if I was you, I’d look at the men she was shagging.’

‘We have been,’ Hillary said crisply. She didn’t want him blubbing either. ‘But although there had been many men in her past, there was only you and Roger Greenwood in her present.’

‘It’s not Roger Greenwood I was thinking of so much,’ Leo said reluctantly. ‘Talk to his old man.’

‘We already know Theo Greenwood didn’t want her for a daughter-in-law,’ Janine put in, but Hillary held up her hand. For a second, she simply stared at Leo Mann, and then slowly shook her head in disgust. ‘I missed it,’ she said sadly. Damn, she must be getting old.

Leo Mann grinned, then shrugged. ‘They kept it very quiet,’ he said consolingly. ‘I often wondered if Theo Greenwood didn’t bung her some of the old readies, now and then, just to help her keep her mouth shut.’

Janine’s eyes rounded as she finally caught on. Julia Reynolds had been doing the double – boffing the old man
and
the son. The father must have been both green with jealousy and rage, and sick with fear and spite. Hell! No wonder Theo Greenwood didn’t want to see their vic walk up the aisle with his precious son!

‘This is probably going to be a waste of time,’ Janine
grumbled
, as they pulled up outside a neat house in one of
Nuneaton’s better ’burbs. ‘Let’s just hope she’s in,’ she muttered, ringing the doorbell and glancing around. A nice garden, but looking a bit neglected perhaps? She was almost quivering with impatience. Hell, they should be back at base, grilling Greenwood senior, not out here, questioning
housewives
. But what Hillary wanted, Hillary got.

The door opened, and a tall, gaunt-featured brunette stared back at them. ‘Yes?’ she said blankly. Her gaze, Janine noticed, was fixed at some point over her left shoulder.

‘Mrs Vivian Orne?’ Janine held up her ID, as did Tommy. ‘Thames Valley Police, Mrs Orne. Nothing to worry about, we just need to ask you a few questions.’

‘You’d better come in then,’ Vivian Orne said dully. As she stood back to let them pass, Janine shot Tommy a quick, frowning look. It wasn’t very often they were received with such a lack of emotion, and for a wild moment she wondered if they might be on to something here after all. ‘Just through there,’ Vivian Orne waved vaguely to an open doorway. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No, thanks,’ Tommy said immediately. There was
something
about the way she’d asked the question that made him wonder whether she even knew where the kitchen was, let alone what a kettle was for. He looked again at Janine, the question in his eyes. Was she on something? Ludes, maybe?

Janine gave a quick shrug back and went into the
living-room
. It was pleasant enough but needed dusting. On a mantelpiece was a picture of a young boy of maybe eight or so. In front of it a candle burned.

‘Please, sit down.’ Vivian Orne indicated the sofa, then moved to one of the big armchairs grouped around a mock fireplace.

Janine brought out her notebook. ‘It’s about what you did three nights ago, Mrs Orne. The middle of the week. Your car was photographed in a small village called Kirtlington. We need to know what you were doing there.’

Vivian Orne blinked. ‘Was I speeding? Sorry.’ She stared at the carpet for a moment that then stretched itself into half a
minute. Still she said nothing. Janine coughed. ‘Kirtlington, Mrs Orne. What were you doing there?’ she prompted.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Vivian Orne said, surprisingly. ‘I mean, I didn’t intend to go there. I was driving back from visiting my mother you see, and there was an accident on the motorway, according to the radio, so I got off and tried to make it through on the country roads. But I think I got a little lost. I remember pulling off to the side of the road at one point to check the map, but I’m pretty hopeless at that sort of thing. Sorry,’ she said again.

Tommy was staring at the lit candle in front of the picture of the boy. He was thinking of a woman on tranquillizers. He was thinking about the lack of emotion. The undusted
living-room
. He tried desperately to catch Janine’s eye.

But Janine wasn’t looking at him. ‘Does the name Julia Reynolds mean anything to you, Mrs Orne?’ she asked crisply.

Vivian Orne was staring at the carpet again. Slowly she looked up. ‘What? No. Sorry.’ She shook her head.

Tommy coughed loudly, waited until Janine glanced at him curiously, then deliberately turned his gaze back to the candle. Janine followed the direction of his look and frowned, not getting it.

Tommy sighed. ‘I think that’s all we need for now, Mrs Orne,’ he said gently, risking Janine’s ire. She did, in fact, shoot him a furious glance but rose reluctantly to her feet as Tommy did the same. She knew better than to argue in front of a witness. But what was the silly sod playing at?

Vivian Orne showed them out listlessly, not even bothering to ask what it was all about. And Janine didn’t like that. Why no curiosity? It wasn’t natural. She waited until they’d walked back to the car before rounding on Tommy.

‘What the bloody hell’s got into you? Couldn’t you tell something was a bit off in there?’

‘Yeah, I could,’ Tommy said flatly. ‘Their kid’s just died.’

Janine, her mouth already open to let rip, found the words drying up on her tongue. Suddenly, she understood the picture, the candle. The shrine. ‘Oh shit,’ she said. That would explain
the lethargy and the lack of interest all right. What did it matter if the cops came calling when your kid was dead?

Janine shook her head wordlessly, slipped behind the wheel, and made a brief call back to headquarters. She told Hillary that the purple Mini situation was a non-starter, and that they were headed back to base.

Beside her, Tommy said nothing.

Carole Morton pushed open her front door, bent to pick up the mail and a copy of the local paper, and headed for the kitchen. She switched on the kettle, fed her cat, and began rifling through the envelopes, finding nothing but the usual bills and advertisements. At least there were none of those demanding forms from the Inland Revenue; not that her little bit of alimony, coupled with her part-time job as a receptionist at the local health centre ever paid her enough to land her in hot water with Her Majesty’s Inspector of Taxes.

She made her tea, went through to the small, warm living room, and settled down with the paper. Muffet, her beautiful white and ginger spayed feline, jumped onto her lap with a chirruping sound of contentment, turned in a neat circle and settled down.

Carole took a sip from the mug and idly turned to page two to run her eyes down the letters column, and abruptly found herself looking at one of those police artist’s drawings you sometimes saw in the paper. She wondered idly what he’d done. Rapist perhaps? She stared anew at the picture, and then had one of those earth-moving-beneath-your-feet moments that put your heart in your mouth and punched a sick fist into your stomach.

She knew him.

Slowly, with a slightly shaking hand, she put her mug down on the coffee table and began to stroke Muffet’s silky fur in a subconscious desire for comfort. The cat began to purr in
appreciation, although her mistress hardly noticed. With a dry mouth, Carole quickly read the article, but it told her less than nothing. The police at Thames Valley Headquarters in Kidlington would like to hear from any member of the public who knew this man. He was said to be between twenty-five and forty, which fited, but the description of the clothes he was last seen wearing meant nothing to her.

Carole slowly reached for her tea again and began to drink, her hand shaking. She was beginning to lose that momentary feeling of having stepped into the Twilight Zone, but whilst the sharpness of shock was beginning to fade, it was leaving behind it a very real aftertaste of apprehension.

Should she telephone the police? That was the logical thing, the
right
thing to do, and there was a local number to contact. But what if she was wrong? Or simply mistaken? After all, she’d only seen the man once, and that had been, what, a month ago? Maybe not quite that. Yes, she could definitely be wrong about it. But the more she gazed at the sketch, the more sure she was that she wasn’t wrong.

If only she knew what he’d done!

Carole watched more than her fair share of television of a night, and knew all about those films where innocent members of the public ‘helped police with their inquiries’ and became prime suspects themselves, or were framed, or got chased by maniacs. Of course, that was just the television. She knew
that
. Even so, reprisals by gangs and such like, really did happen in real life. She knew that, too. People being too afraid to talk in case their houses got burnt down, or their pets got killed. She began to stroke Muffet just a little more quickly. The cat stretched and clawed, and purred louder.

But that was usually about teenagers, hooligans, drug dealers, all that sort of thing. This man, well, he looked so normal. And when she’d seen him at the health centre, he hadn’t seemed in any way dangerous. But then again, you never knew did you? Perhaps the police only wanted to talk to him as a witness or something. The article didn’t actually say he was a wanted man, exactly. Just that the police needed to talk to him.

All her life, she’d done the right thing – had even obeyed her parents as a teenager. She’d certainly never been in any trouble with the law, and considered herself to be a good neighbour and an upstanding citizen. Her instinct was to ring the number and get it over with. She knew herself well enough to know she’d only fret if she didn’t.

Then again, she’d always been innately cautious as well. It paid to be careful. Finally, she decided to wait and show the newspaper to Betty tomorrow. She’d been working the same day, and although it had been Carole who’d spoken to him, Betty had a good memory for faces. If Betty thought it was the same man, she’d definitely call.

Feeling better for having come to a decision now, Carole turned the next page of the newspaper and began to read about the upcoming attractions at the Oxford Playhouse. Pity you had to wait until Christmas time for a good panto.

Muffet heaved a sorrowful sigh as all the vigorous stroking came to a sudden end, and yawned widely.

Tommy looked up at the house number to make sure he had it right, and then nodded to himself. It was a nice place, only a bungalow, but a large and old one. It had lovely gardens too, bursting with autumnal colour. There was some money here, and no mistake. He only hoped there’d be no grieving parents behind
this
door.

Tommy rather liked having a rural beat. He enjoyed driving through the small Oxfordshire villages, and often found himself admiring thatched cottages, converted mills and such like, and wishing he and Jean could afford such a place. Of course, they never would. But still, he could take picnics on village greens, feed friendly ducks, and walk along canals and river-banks whenever the fancy took him. Now he glanced around at the village of Upper Heyford and wondered how often that row of terraced, rose-bedecked cottages had been photographed for calendars and postcards, or been snapped to adorn tourist pamphlets.

The door in front of him swung open and the woman
inside stared out at him curiously. She was dressed in a white, wrap-over dress, four-inch high heels and was smoking avidly. She had wild-looking wavy blonde hair, more
make-up
than Joan Crawford on a bad day, and looked to be approaching sixty.

Tommy gulped. ‘Mrs Finchley? Vera Finchley?’ he asked, holding up his ID. ‘Detective Constable Lynch, ma’am. It’s nothing to be alarmed about, I just wondered if I could have a little chat?’

Tommy never knew how women were going to react. And from the briefing Hillary had given him, this one was also a possible lush, which only added to the variables. He only hoped – oh how he hoped – that she wouldn’t come on to him.

‘Police? Well, I suppose you’d better come in then,’ she said, her voice showing no signs of slurring. Mind you, with
dedicated
drunks, that meant nothing.

Tommy smiled his thanks and walked in. Mrs Finchley led him down a short corridor and into a large and spacious living-room, overlooking the back of the garden, and a field of peacefully grazing sheep. A panoramic view of the valley stretched away to Lower Heyford, a mile down the road, and to Steeple Aston, at the top end of the valley. With the trees turning colour, it was a simply stunning vista.

‘So, what’s up? There hasn’t been a car crash has there? My husband’s all right?’

‘Oh yes, ma’am. It’s nothing of that nature,’ Tommy said quickly, wondering if he should sit down or wait to be asked. ‘It’s about Julia Reynolds.’

At this, Vera Finchley’s face began to crumble. ‘Oh poor Julia. I heard about that.’ Her voice wobbled, then seemed to right itself. ‘I think I’ll have a drink. Can I get you something, Constable?’ Tommy quickly shook his head. ‘Well, I’ll have just a dash,’ Vera Finchley said, pouring out nearly a
half-bottle
of vodka into a tall straight glass. She added lime segments from a dish, and ice. It looked like a very elegant drink. Tommy had no doubt that had he drunk it, it would have had him under the table in nought-to-sixty seconds flat.

He got out his notebook. ‘I understand Julia did your hair for you, Mrs Finchley? Was she a good hair stylist?’

Vera Finchley took a hefty gulp then slid into a chair, waving a hand vaguely about for him to also sit. ‘Of course,’ she said, and self-consciously touched her errant locks. ‘Don’t you think so?’

Tommy agreed quickly. The truth was, he hadn’t seen such rampant blonde hair on a woman since the days when Farrah Fawcett made the windblown look popular. ‘And when she was here, you liked to chat, I suppose?’ he nudged her along hopefully.

‘Oh, all the time. She was getting married you know. To that millionaire’s son – the one who owns that fancy hotel up on the main road. Full of it she was. Told me she wanted to go to one of those fancy ocean islands on her honeymoon.’

Her glass, Tommy noticed aghast, was almost half empty, and yet he had no clear picture of her drinking from it. How did dedicated drunks manage that? He decided to hurry up the questions before she became comatose.

‘And you talked to her about your life. Your husband?’

‘Max?’ Vera Finchley snorted inelegantly and loudly, making Tommy jump. ‘What would I want to talk about Max for? Boring old fart, he is.’

Tommy nodded, and this time caught her out taking a swig. He knew neither Hillary nor Janine (and certainly not Frank Ross) would ever hesitate about taking advantage of a drunk witness if it meant getting results, but Tommy felt vaguely ashamed of himself as he let her take yet another swig before carrying on.

‘Oh? That’s strange. A friend of Julia’s said you’d told her something a bit racy about your husband. We were wondering what that was.’

‘Huh?’ Vera looked up from the clear but vanishing liquid in her glass and stared at Tommy flatly. She looked, suddenly, very sober indeed. ‘Racy? Max? You’re having a laugh. Besides, what interest would Julia have in Max?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘I wasn’t suggesting anything like that, Mrs Finchley,’ Tommy said reassuringly. ‘In fact, we rather gathered that you told Julia your husband had been involved in some high-risk business venture.’

He couldn’t, after all, come right out and say that Mrs Finchley had all but said that her husband was a crook. But a sly appeal to the old ego might just open reluctant lips.

Vera Finchley’s lips pinched closed and Tommy sighed. ‘We understand that some businessmen, whilst not exactly breaking the law, can be very aggressive when it comes to making money. I can’t say as I blame them. If you have the brains for it, why not?’ He smiled disarmingly.

At least, he thought he smiled disarmingly. From the look on Vera Finchley’s face, however, you’d have thought he’d just done a Rottweiler impersonation.

‘Sorry, don’t know what you mean,’ Vera said, sitting up straight and slamming her drink down hard and dead centre on the nearby occasional table.

‘Oh? You never told Julia Reynolds that Mr Finchley was doing some clever, maybe underhanded business deal?’

‘Don’t be daft. He don’t work for the Bank of England you know.’ Vera suddenly gave a loud snort. Tommy wondered if it was her version of laughter. ‘All this,’ – she waved a hand at the bungalow and the gorgeous view – ‘is down to me. My side of the family did all right.’ She nodded vigorously, then went promptly to sleep.

Tommy blinked, wondering if she was all right. Her head had lolled back on the chair, her lower jaw swung open and she gave a sudden, violent snore. Tommy decided that whoever it was that said discretion was the better part of valour, most definitely knew his onions from his turnips, and scrammed while the going was good.

Hillary decided to treat herself to a late lunch at HQ’s local pub, and was perusing the menu, trying to talk herself out of the scampi and chips and into the herb omelette with salad, when she felt someone slide into the booth beside her.

Detective Inspector Mike Regis grinned back at her. ‘Hello, long time no see. I didn’t expect to see you in here.’

Mike Regis worked Vice, and had been called in on the Dave Pitman inquiry, which Hillary had solved, in spite of being sidelined. But she’d never held a grudge against Mike Regis – it wasn’t his fault that Mel had pulled rank on her, and Regis
had
been instrumental in shutting down a drugs
distribution
ring on the same case. He’d also helped her in her last murder case as well. Moreover, she’d sensed, right from the first, that they thought the same way and seemed destined to get on like a house and fire, and perhaps, who knew, maybe just start a little fire of their own. Pity he had turned out to be married. An even greater pity that she’d only found out about it by overhearing gossip, instead of from the man himself.

‘Eating?’ she asked succinctly.

‘Just finished. Me and Tanner had business with Luke Fletcher.’

Hillary whistled silently. Luke Fletcher was quite easily the biggest thorn in Thames Valley’s collective backside. Drug dealer, pimp, extortioner, and almost certainly a murderer, although nothing would stick. ‘And how was he? Really pleased to see you, I’m sure.’

Mike Regis grinned, the crows’ feet appearing attractively around his dark-green eyes. ‘Oh he was, he was.’ He paused as a waitress came over, and Hillary gave her order for omelette and salad. He pushed a hand through his thinning dark-brown hair and leaned back against his chair. ‘Reason I was glad to see you, is this,’ he said, and reaching into a briefcase by the side of his chair, shuffled some papers around, and came out with a thin folder in a plain beige cover.

Hillary raised an eyebrow. As far as she knew, she wasn’t working on any cases that might overlap with Vice. And if she were, why this hole-in-the-corner exchange?

Curious, and wary, Hillary opened the folder and began to read. She managed to stop her mouth falling open, but only just. Inside, was a rap-sheet on one Mr Thomas Palmer, founder member of the Oxford branch of ESAA. Her eyes
widened as she took in the fraud charges in his youth, and opened even wider at the obtaining-money-with-menaces stretch he’d done only four years ago. Graham would be very pleased with this. Very pleased indeed. Even if he couldn’t get a member of ESAA’s past misdeeds legally introduced into any civil court action, she knew he had ways and means of ensuring that judges and other people who needed to know discovered the truth about such naughty goings on. Totally illegal, of course, and downright unethical, which was why Hillary, as a serving police officer, would have nothing to do with it. She’d just fax the whole lot over to him and then forget all about it, like a good little girl.