Narrow is the Way (17 page)

He walked to the back of the house and the kitchen door, crouched onto his haunches, and peered through the keyhole. Blackness. He tried the door, but it was, of course, locked. He checked the windows, but none of them were unlatched. He shrugged, bent his elbow to the lower right-hand pane of glass in the door and smashed it. He reached in and turned the key, which he knew must be in the lock, and stepped inside a malodorous kitchen. It smelt a lot like his own.

Unwashed dishes in the sink, open cereal packets on the small table; the smell of mouldy bread and slightly off milk competing with the smells coming from a laundry basket, full to the brim and standing next to a surprisingly clean-looking washing machine.

He moved through into the living room, noting the
average-sized
TV, and eyeing the reclining chair with envy. Even if it was tatty, and dented from years of elbow-and-head resting, it was something Frank had long since coveted and hadn’t yet got around to buying.

He didn’t know if the PI kept any files in the house. He
thought it might be a long shot – after all, why rent an office and then use your home for work stuff? On the other hand, if the PI was anything like him, he’d want stuff easily and readily to hand, and it was at least worth risking a bit of B&E in order to make sure.

What Frank really wanted was the gen on the PI’s latest case. It stood to reason that that was what had brought him sticking his unwanted nose into Thames Valley’s neck of the woods. And Frank badly wanted to know what it was.

Hillary Greene had been having far too many successes recently for his liking, first of all nailing the Pitman case, then solving the killing of that good-looking French tart earlier this year. This time, he wanted to crack the case himself, just so that he could thumb his nose at the lot of ’em.

’Course, if he could find Ronnie’s money, and if it was enough to retire on, he’d put in his notice so fast the sods wouldn’t know what hit them. They’d soon find out how much work he actually did around the place then.

Frank went to the set of drawers that stood adjacent to a gas fire, but came up with nothing but the usual crud – spare light bulbs, photo albums, balls of string, keys to who-the-
hell-knew
-what, boxes of pens and paperclips, a box of old toy soldiers and other such paraphernalia. But in the bottom drawer he struck gold with a hefty beige folder. He’d just picked it up, turned it sideways to read the name on the tab – Orne – when he heard a car door slam outside. Right outside. Had he read Tommy’s report on his interview with Vivian Orne the name might have rung a bell, but Frank never
bothered
reading other people’s reports.

He looked up in time to see Innes getting out of his car. He swore, stuffed the folder back in the drawer, hot-footed it back to the kitchen, and nipped out the back.

Innes would know he’d been raided, of course, and when he realized that he hadn’t actually been burgled out of anything, he’d have a pretty good idea who was to blame. But would he call in a complaint?

Possibly.

He was the kind of shitehawk who’d sue for sure if he’d caught Frank red-handed, of that there was no doubt. But Frank had been careful not to leave prints, and he’d even wiped his feet before stepping inside. There was no way Innes could prove it was him. Besides, Frank was convinced that Innes was dirty about something. And crooks, as a general rule, didn’t like to put themselves in the spotlight.

Still, Hillary would be hell to live with if Innes did, in fact, lodge a complaint. As Frank knew only too well, even a
suspicion
of wrong-doing could blight a cop’s career for years afterwards. He was glad he’d parked out of sight of the house, and only began to truly relax once he was on the motorway and heading back to Oxford.

He’d take his time and be careful what he put in his report. Apart from anything else, he had to think of a way to gloss over the fact that he’d lost Innes out near Leamington Spa way, unless he simply left that part out altogether and made up some fairy tale about Innes going straight back to his office. The thing was, lies like that sometimes came back to haunt you.

Still, there was no hurry to put pen to paper. Hillary hardly ever bothered to read his reports anyway. Sometimes he suspected her of giving him jobs to do just for the sheer hell of it, or to get him out of the office.

Not that he minded that.

Frank checked his rear-view mirror all the way home, but there was no sign of the PI tailing
him
.

Now wouldn’t that have been a kicker?

Tommy glanced around the pub nervously, but it was as nice as his mate, Pete Thorne, had said it would be. It was a small freehouse, one of those old buildings of some historical merit or other, that could be found scattered throughout many Oxfordshire villages. This one had belonged to a local witch or something. Or maybe it was an alderman. He hadn’t really been listening when Pete had raved about it.

All he cared about was that it sounded like the kind of place
that Jean would like, and so it turned out. It was the usual
low-roofed
, heavy-beamed country-cottage affair, with a real fireplace big enough to roast an ox, and currently pushing out the heat via a couple of apple-wood logs. Padded seats with old black wood surrounds hugged the bulging, white-washed walls.

Jean was looking really pretty tonight, Tommy had to admit. Had she guessed what he was about to do? He wouldn’t put it past her. Women seemed to know about stuff like that. But perhaps he was just being paranoid. He liked to take Jean out for a meal once in a while – when his pay check magically stretched that far.

He looked across at the woman he’d been dating for most of his adult life, admiring the way the ruby-red dress, (although modest in cut and style, as befitting Jean’s Baptist upbringing and inclinations,) nevertheless clung to her skin, highlighting high and nicely rounded breasts, and slender thighs. She was wearing low-cut matching red sandals despite the rain outside, and silver and garnet earrings dangled from her exposed ears. Her hair, a mass of black crimped locks, had been pulled back into some kind of complicated French pleat, interwoven with little red and silver ribbons. Tommy knew that several men, even those accompanied by women of their own, had turned and looked when they’d walked in.

And for once, he didn’t think it was the deep ebony of their skin that had been the cause.

‘This is nice,’ Jean said, glancing up from the menu. Like Tommy, she’d lived all her life in England and, like Tommy, her parents had emigrated from the Bahamas in the fifties. Jean had been educated at the local primary school, then the comprehensive, and had taken a one-year secretarial course after her A-levels, that had netted her a job as a secretary in one of the Oxford colleges. One of the Saint something-
or-others
. She was the youngest of a big family, and still lived with her mother, a fate Tommy shared.

Well, at least Mercy, his mother, and Mavis Dixon, Jean’s mother, would be happy about tonight’s outcome. He himself wished he didn’t feel quite so sick.

‘But isn’t it a bit expensive?’

Tommy glanced at the menu and smiled wryly. It was, rather, but then he’d bought plenty of cash.

‘Have what you like,’ he said sternly. Then added, ‘I’m having the prawns magenta, then the beef in ale pie, and pear tart.’

Jean grinned, showing even white teeth, and an unusual dash of recklessness. Usually she counted pennies like an accountant. ‘Sounds good. I think I’ll go for the crab fritters, then the rack of lamb and, I think, the strawberry shortcake.’

Tommy took the menus to the bar, gave the order, and asked what champagnes they had on offer. He chose the mid-range one and asked for it to be delivered in an ice bucket to the table after the meal.

The landlord, sensing something in the air, grinned and promised he would.

Tommy went back to the table, not quite able to feel his toes. He was feeling a combination of fear, excitement, and resignation.

A bit like he felt when called out to riot duty, in fact.

He asked Jean about her day, listening to tales of the local college gossip, and then reciprocating, being careful to keep it light. Tales of murder and mayhem weren’t the ideal
conversational
gambit over a meal that turned out to be very good indeed.

Tommy wished they weren’t sat quite so close to the log fire, or perhaps it wasn’t that that was making his palms and upper lip sweat. When he saw the barman approaching with the ice bucket, his pulse rate rocketed.

Jean looked surprised, and then went quite still, as the champagne was delivered. She watched Tommy open it, the cork giving a satisfying pop as he did so, then watched him carefully pour it out into the tall, fluted glasses, spilling not a drop.

When he’d finished all that he sat back down beside her, and reached into his pocket. He opened the jeweller’s box, and wondered if the diamond had shrunk in size since the last time
he’d checked. He glanced up at Jean, who looked as if he’d just offered her the Koh-i-Noor, so perhaps it hadn’t.

He noticed a few diners around them were watching openly now, most with big knowing smiles, and wondered what he’d do if Jean turned him down.

He’d rehearsed this moment any number of times – what man didn’t – and had never come up with a satisfactory way of doing it. Sure as hell, getting down on one knee was out. And he wasn’t the kind of man who could just come out with flowery words. On the other hand, a simple, ‘Jean, will you marry me,’ sounded so prosaic.

But when he saw her turn her big black eyes on him, and saw the expectation in them, he suddenly knew he was committed. This, so his mother had drummed into him for many a month now, was the moment every young girl dreamed of; he couldn’t blow it for her now: it wouldn’t be fair.

He swallowed hard.

Here goes, he thought helplessly, opening his mouth and having no idea what was going to come out. He only hoped it wouldn’t be anything stupid or hurtful. Or inadequate.

‘Jean, I love you. Ever since we met, I’ve never thought of loving anyone else.’ He stopped. Was that true? Well, yes, in a way. He knew loving Hillary Greene didn’t count. It probably wasn’t love anyway, not in the true sense of the word. That was more of a fantasy. But when he thought of reality,
whenever
he thought of marriage and kids, it had always been Jean’s face that had leapt into his mind’s eye. Hadn’t it?

‘And I know, sometimes, you have to put up with things from me, my job and all, that would have made other girls give up on me.’

Once again he stopped. That didn’t sound right. It sounded too everyday. It needed to be more romantic.

‘And I want you to know that I know how good you are. No other woman understands me like you do.’

That was better.

‘And, well, I want to marry you.’ Too blunt? Well, it was out now. ‘Jean, do you want to marry me, too?’

Now that definitely sounded stupid.

But Jean was throwing her arms around him, and kissing him, right there in public, something Mavis her mother would most definitely have frowned on.

Tommy was dimly aware of a scattering of applause around about him, and then Jean was slipping on the engagement ring, and suddenly Tommy realized he was going to get married.

He swallowed hard.

Gregory Innes couldn’t believe the silly bitch had sent cash through the post. And yet there it was next to his bowl of breakfast cornflakes, along with a credit-card bill, a reminder that his council tax was due, and a plea to subscribe to a footwear catalogue.

He counted out the twenties yet again, still coming up with an even thousand. He supposed he could understand why she wouldn’t want her hubby to know what was going on, and so perhaps writing another cheque was out of the question. But even so, sending a thousand smackers via a postman? With the rate of thieving that went on? He’d have to come to a different arrangement than this. Perhaps he’d collect at a pre-arranged spot in person. ’Course, that might be dodgy if she called in the cops. And you never knew with women.

But for now, the sight of all those purple twenty pound notes made even his stale cornflakes taste good. He could go on holiday somewhere – escape the upcoming winter. A month in Portugal maybe. With another £1,000 coming next month, and the month after that, life was looking much rosier. He’d see about raising the ante by another £500 sometime in the new year. Let her get used to paying regularly first. It would mean the kid would have to go without the latest pair of designer jeans, or the hubby would have to cut back on his flying lessons, but that was better than having the cops nosing around.

Yeah, she’d continue to pay up all right.

Gregory fanned his face with the wad, and grinned. He liked reasonable women. The smile faded, however, as he
contemplated
Detective Inspector Hillary Greene – as unreasonable a woman as it was possible to meet. What had possessed her to chase him across the field like that? Even now he broke out in a sweat whenever he remembered the hot, diesel-smelling rush of wind as the train had thundered by just behind him. What if he’d tripped over the track? Got a shoe stuck? He’d have been hamburger meat, and all because of that crazy bitch of a cop.

Gregory knew for sure that she’d sicced one of her lackeys on to him yesterday, and was damned sure that the fat sod had been the one responsible for the broken window in his back door. He’d have to move the Orne folder, that was for sure. Still, he was fairly sure the cop hadn’t read it. He’d left a fine tracing of powdered sugar on the top piece of paper in the file, which had been undisturbed, and he’d also stuck a single strand of his hair on a photocopy of a lab report further in, which hadn’t been displaced either. (He’d read of both these methods in an old Ian Fleming novel, and had used it
religiously
ever since. That this was the first time it had ever proved useful simply didn’t occur to him.)

Yes, all in all, things were looking up. And even if the Kidlington cops did get on to Orne, she’d keep her mouth shut. For the sake of her hubby and what was left of her family, if not for the sake of her own neck.

So, there was no reason why a cosy future, padded with thousand-pound nest eggs every month, shouldn’t long continue. Especially if he could get the doc to chip in with some readies as well.

But he’d have to find somewhere safe to keep the file in the meantime. Now that that fat geek of a copper knew where to look, how long would it be before he lifted it and read it through from cover to cover? And that file represented months of hard slog. Why should the cops reap the benefit of his graft?

Greg stuffed the notes into his wallet, the rest of the
cornflakes
into his mouth, and stepped outside. There was a raw
wind blowing the promise of hail-ridden rain before it, but luckily, no sign of a dingy Fiesta. Greg got behind the wheel and drove to his bank, keeping a careful eye on his rear-view mirror. Still no Fiesta.

At the bank, he waited in line to deposit the money into his current account, then enquired about a safe deposit box.

He never noticed a white-haired fat man walk in behind him, but then, neither had he noticed the same white haired OAP pull out and join him at the end of his busy residential street – probably because he’d been driving a sporty red Mini.

Frank felt extremely stupid in a white wig and fake beard, and it only made him more than ever determined to nail this cunning bastard of a PI.

One of Frank’s narks was a make-up artist at the Oxford Theatre and had been willing to help out, so that at least Frank would look legit. Frank believed the nark had been too scared to say no when leaned on, but in reality Nobby Barnes, the cosmetician, had been simply too thrilled with the idea of seeing whether or not he could actually make the disgusting sergeant look like an honest-to-goodness human being, that he simply hadn’t been able to turn down the chance to find out. But even he’d been astonished at his prowess. (If only he’d been able to show his boss the transformation, he was sure he’d get the job as chief make-over artist whenever the
production
of
Cats
came back to Oxford.)

Now an artfully unrecognizable Frank carefully moved up to within ear-wigging distance of his mark, and felt the back of his neck prickle at the mention of a safe deposit box. He also carefully noted the rather tatty leather briefcase that Gregory Innes clutched protectively to his chest as he followed one of the tellers into a back room.

Frank abruptly veered off to one side, much to the surprise of the man in the queue behind him, made a show of picking up a form at random from the stand by the counter, then stepped outside. His chin itched under the glue sticking his fake beard to his chin, and he wanted to scratch his head, but daren’t, in case the wig came off. That bloody poof of a nark
had put hair clips all over the place, but it still didn’t feel safe to him. Grumpily, he reached for his mobile and jabbed in some numbers.

‘Guv, it’s Frank. The dick just asked for a safety deposit box at his local bank. I think he’s stashing evidence.’

Hillary, on the phone at the other end, instantly felt her hackles rise, and leaned forward, elbows on her desk. It was not like Frank to be so diligent, let along gung-ho. And how did he know Innes was stashing evidence? Come to that, what had happened to the report he was supposed to have dropped off detailing yesterday’s activities?

Whenever Frank Ross was up to something – which was fairly often – Hillary’s internal radar always went berserk. It was doing a fine hokey-cokey right now, in fact.

On the other hand, the poisoned cherub was probably right. A poverty-stricken PI didn’t pay out hard-earned money on a box rental unless he had to. And since he hadn’t had to before being interviewed by the Thames Valley Police, she had no doubts that whatever was in that box would be of immense interest to her indeed.

But could she convince a judge of that? They needed a court order to open the box, no two ways about it. On the other hand, this was the brutal murder of a young and beautiful girl she was investigating, and judges, despite wide-ranging
opinions
to the contrary, were only human.

She racked her brains, trying to think of the softest touch she knew on the judicial bench, and the best time to strike. At least the request would be both simple and to the point and narrow in its dealings. They wanted to examine the contents of a box which had been opened by one Gregory Innes on the morning of the 18th. Nice and simple and no fishing
expedition
attached. The kind judges liked. She might just be able to swing it.

‘OK. Hang tight, I’ll see what I can do,’ Hillary said,
grudgingly
.

‘Right, guv,’ Frank Ross said, and snapped his mobile shut. Hang around here at the bank? In a pig’s eye.

He found the public gents and removed all the gunk from his face and head, then found a suitably dirty pub, with no noisy pin ball machines going but with plenty of beer stains on the carpet and unemployed men complaining bitterly over their bitter. He promptly ordered a pint. This was definitely Frank’s kind of pub. They didn’t have a telephone directory of course, so he had to go and nick one from a phone box.

If he was right, Orne wasn’t that common a name.

His mobile’s battery was running low, but when he tried to change a twenty pound note for ten pences at the bar, he was quickly informed what he could do with his paper money (not a physical impossibility, but painful and smelly nonetheless) and was forced out yet again into the wide cruel world in search of a bank.

A bank, of all things.

Finally, all settled down with his pile of change and a second pint, Frank began to let his fingers do the walking.

Tommy still couldn’t believe he was getting married. He’d carefully picked up Max Finchley’s trail when he’d left home for work that morning, and had followed him all the way to the construction site, still not believing he was getting married. Now he was parked in a row of cars and trying to get
comfortable
.

He could make out Finchley in the crowd because of his bright blue construction helmet, his size, and the rolling gait with which he walked. So far he wasn’t doing anything more suspicious than overseeing a cement mixer.

He scrupulously noted the times that Max stopped for tea from his flask and a bite to eat – which was roughly every two hours – and whenever he disappeared into the portacabin office on some admin quest, or visited the loo.

But his mind wasn’t on the suspect, but on Jean.

Last night already seemed as if it had happened last month, and to somebody else.

When he’d tried to drop Jean off at her mother’s, she’d insisted that he came in with her to spread the good news,
which he had, and been thoroughly kissed by an excited Mavis Dixon for his pains. (And somewhat disconcerting
that
had been too.) Then his prospective mother-in-law had
immediately
set about planning the wedding there and then. Consequently he got home late. Naturally, Mavis had rung up her good friend Mercy in the meantime, which meant that Tommy’s mother had been waiting for him with a big grin on her face and suggestions for the wedding of her own – most of which went directly against Mavis’s ideas, from the colour of the bridesmaid’s dresses right down to the choice of caterer.

The only thing on which the two women seemed to agree was the date – June. A June bride, apparently, had the best luck, or something. So, next June, there’d be a Mrs Tommy Lynch, walking around.

No matter how many times he said that in his head, he couldn’t make himself believe it. Was that normal?

He supposed he should have told Janine and Hillary at the office that morning that he’d got engaged, but somehow he hadn’t done so. Of course, gossip and the station grapevine would quickly do the job for him, saving him the
embarrassment
. Still, he wanted to see Hillary’s face for himself when she heard.

Tommy snorted at the fantasy that shot immediately through his mind and ran a hand across his eyes. So what if her face did fall? What if a puzzled, hurt look should make her eyes darken. What if his wildest dream actually came true, and she suddenly, in one fell swoop, realized in the best Mills & Boon tradition, that she’d fallen head over heels for her
handsome
DC, without even knowing it.

What would he do then? Realistically? Call the newly ecstatic Jean, her mum, his mum and all of Jean’s friends (who’d know by now) and tell them it had been a mistake?

Yeah, right.

Besides, it would never happen. Hillary, when she did finally learn of it, would be happy enough for him, give a moment’s thought to a possible wedding present, and then promptly forget it all.

Tommy sighed and reached for his own thermos. It was
nearly one o’clock, and time for lunch. He glanced inside his orange Tupperware lunchbox and discovered that his mother had made all his favourites – cheese and pickle sandwiches, a slice of coffee and walnut cake, and a couple of kiwi fruits. Now when the hell had she had the chance to bake the cake, Tommy wondered, bemused. He felt like a 6-year old being treated to an ice-cream after scraping his knee.

The cake tasted good though.

Through the chainlink fence, Max Finchley also was chowing down, though from the way he’d been dipping into that big old-fashioned lunch box of his all morning, Tommy wondered what could possibly be left.

He drearily noted the time Max went back to work – on the dot of two – and then, a half-hour later, went off with his lunch box further into the site, where he disappeared into a heavy iron-clad shack. Did the man do nothing but eat? No wonder he looked like a walking barrel.

Tommy leaned back in his seat, and tried not to think about getting married. But that was impossible. Instead he watched Max Finchley return with his lunch box, set it straight down on the ground in front of him, then start to shovel sand into the cement mixer.

Suddenly Tommy sat up straighter. Wait a minute. There was something off again. Something that was niggling him about the man’s demeanour. What was it exactly? Tommy tried to pinpoint it. Something about the way he put the lunch box down on the ground so carefully? Come to think of it, why
did
he keep it with him at all times anyway? None of the other construction workers guarded their food so assiduously.

Slowly, Tommy got out of the car, wondering if he should report in. But say what, exactly? He wandered over to the gate, where the man on duty looked up at once and fixed him with a gimlet stare. No doubt a big youth was just the sort of
tea-leaf
he was paid to watch out for. Tommy found himself reaching for his ID in self-defence before fully realizing what he was doing. Now how was that for a Freudian moment? ‘DC Lynch, sir. Is the site foreman around?’

The guard nodded quickly. He was a flabby forty-
something
, but had sharp eyes and probably sharp ears as well. He also had an Alsatian that was lying at his feet, eyeing Tommy as if he were an interesting lunch option.

‘Sure. Wanna have him come out here, or do you want to go in?’

‘I’ll go to him,’ Tommy said. ‘He’s in the portacabin, right?’

‘Yeah.’

The guard watched him go with open curiosity, wondering what gives. Nothing had gone missing from the site as far as he knew. Well, nothing had walked lately. Well, nothing really,
really
valuable.