Narrow is the Way (5 page)

‘Never mind, darlin’, you’ll soon be picking over his bones,’ Janine said cheerfully and, standing beside him, bent over to open the folder. ‘I’ve been thinking about getting away for a weekend somewhere, just you and me. You know, one of those country hotels, where they serve four-star food and we can learn archery or something totally useless. What do you think of this one – it’s in the Cotswolds, so it’s not much travelling? Or maybe the New Forest, or the Norfolk Broads? The rates are cheaper out of season, plus places won’t be so crowded.’

Mel glanced unenthusiastically at the brochures. He couldn’t afford to be seen to take time off now, even if it was a legitimate weekend he was entitled to. Introducing Raleigh had been a salutary lesson that was going to rankle for some time yet.

‘Come on, it’ll be fun,’ Janine pushed, sensing his distinct lack of enthusiasm. She was looking forward to a little pampering, and nearly all the hotels had spas and massages, aromatherapy treatments and beautician services as part of the package.

‘Not now, Janine,’ Mel said irritably. ‘And you’ve got a big case on, haven’t you?’

Janine’s eyes flashed, and Mel knew what that meant. ‘Look, leave these with me, and I’ll see which ones I like the look of, and when things are quieter, we’ll see,’ he said quickly. He knew he was placating her, and the continual need to do so was becoming more and more annoying. ‘Now, I have to get on. Anything new on Julia Reynolds?’

Janine gritted her teeth and smiled. She hated it when Mel pulled rank on her. But she should have known better than to pick a fight with him whilst she was at work. It gave him a
heaven-sent opportunity to put one over on her. No, she’d wait until tonight to bring this up again. If Mel thought he was going to get away with this shit, he had another think coming. What was the point of having a better-off, older and
good-looking
boyfriend, if he couldn’t splurge on her now and then?

‘Sir,’ Janine said negatively, and left. And all the office heard her slamming the door on the way out.

Jerome Raleigh finished reading the last of the personnel reports Marcus Donleavy had left for him, and pushed them away, putting the cap back on his pen and tossing it down
restlessly
on the folder. He had an office on the top floor, overlooking the leafy, rather pleasant streets of Kidlington. He wasn’t sure he particularly liked it – either the office or the town.

Kidlington was, technically, a large village he supposed, although he expected the inhabitants looked on it as more of a town. It was certainly a far cry from the Capital, but then, that too, suited his purposes for the moment. Here he’d have far more leeway. And since all his friends had been left behind, and had no idea what he was up to, he’d be able to get on with things with a free hand.

But he’d have to be careful. And patient. Very patient.

All in all, he thought the morning had gone reasonably well. None of the faces he’d seen had been openly hostile, which was a relief. Philip Mallow wasn’t a particularly happy bunny, but Jerome had a good idea why that was. His own speech to the troops had gone down well, striking the right balance between leadership and approachability. It would take some time for them to get to trust him though. He’d moved about enough in his earlier career to know that these things took time.

Still, he was reasonably confident that the team here was a good bunch. With the exception of one or two slackers, the usual time-servers and rank-and-file incompetents, the only really bad apple was Frank Ross.

Donleavy had warned him that the best friend of the
notorious
Ronnie Greene was universally loathed, and with good
reason, though on occasion he could prove useful. The
low-lives
were scared of him, and he had an extensive list of narks that was second to none. He could generally be relied on when it came to the hard stuff, and was a good man to have guarding your back during a riot or public disorder. He was less of an asset otherwise, and Jerome had wondered (and very carefully asked) why he’d been assigned to Hillary Greene’s team.

He’d had to tread carefully there, suspecting that Ronnie and Hillary Green might have had reasons of their own for keeping a man like Frank Ross close, but he’d been quickly disabused of that idea.

Every superintendent – if he was good, and Marcus Donleavy, Jerome had quickly realised, was
very
good indeed – knew his patch and his people like the back of his hand, and Donleavy had been very clear that not only was Hillary totally clean of any of her husband’s dirty dealings, but was one of the best, if not
the
top cop, on his team.

Frank Ross had simply been foisted on her because nobody else could stand or deal with the bloke. Not that Hillary had appreciated the vote of confidence in her patience at the time, Donleavy had chuckled. Now, everyone supposed that she’d simply got used to having the poisonous little cretin around.

After reading DI Greene’s file, Jerome had found himself similarly impressed by her capabilities. He knew, as did Marcus, that not every cop was a natural detective. Some worked strictly by the book because they lacked the
imagination
, skill, or experience, to do otherwise. Most played politics, with some seeing the catching of villains as barely a means to an end. Only a golden few had a flair for solving cases, and he could see from Hillary Greene’s conviction rate, why the public prosecutions office regarded her, too.

He hoped they’d get on. If he had to baby-sit Philip Mallow’s hurt feelings for any length of time, he’d need all the allies he could get.

Raleigh closed her file thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair, stretching. Whether or not she’d be useful to him, was another matter. She might be
too
good.
Too
clever. She might
even find out what had brought him to Thames Valley, and that simply wouldn’t do. No, it might just be that Frank Ross would be a far better bet after all. Men like him could be useful, if given the right incentive. He’d have to sound him out carefully and see, and if he seemed to be up for it, Jerome would then set about cultivating him – as distasteful as that might be.

Hillary watched the fox slink across the road a few yards ahead of her and lightly touched the brakes. In daylight, the single-track road to Steeple Barton seemed even more
treacherous
than in the dark. Clumps of patterned mud, fresh from a tractor’s gigantic wheels, gave the surface a greasy look, and the high hedges on either side gave her a vague feeling of
claustrophobia
. The fox, spotting her at last, broke into a panicked run and promptly disappeared. Unlike many of her colleagues, Hillary had never felt the yen to leave Oxfordshire for the bigger, badder cities. At heart, she supposed, she preferred to see trees and fields than factories and housing estates.

As the hedges opened up to reveal the tiny village green, Hillary noticed a man climbing awkwardly over a field gate. There was nothing particularly odd about that, except that he didn’t seem very comfortable doing it. People who lived in the countryside quickly developed an easy climbing manner for negotiating stiles, fences and gates, but this man looked clumsy. He wasn’t helped by having gangling legs and arms, and being dressed in a green anorak that was too new. His wellingtons were also fresh-from-the-shop clean. He struck her as someone trying to look like a local, and not quite making it.

Press, Hillary thought grimly. Had to be. But she’d have thought they would be all gone by now. Those who had
gathered
like ghouls in the early hours, had taken their mandatory shot of the mortuary van being driven away, and had no doubt long since pestered the Wallises for an interview and filed their stories. Now it was the police press liaison officer who’d be taking the brunt back at HQ. There could always be
scavengers
left hanging about, she supposed.

She watched the sandy-haired man thoughtfully as he set off over the field. From her mental map of last night, she was pretty sure the pasture would lead towards Three Oaks Farm.

She went past the small cluster of pretty cottages, a tiny old schoolhouse (long since converted to a private residence) and single post box, and followed the road to the end. The gate to the cowsheds now stood unguarded, the police sentinel having been gratefully dismissed. If there’d been even a small
gathering
of press, the uniformed officer would have been obliged to remain and secure the premises, but nowadays, murders didn’t get the sensational attention they once did. Although, Hillary suspected, once word got out that the victim had been dressed as a bride, they’d soon come traipsing back. The macabre always attracted them. She could almost see the gory and highly inaccurate headlines now.

She turned and parked the car facing back the way she’d come, then walked the short distance back up the road to the farmhouse itself. The sun had come out, and rosehips gleamed scarlet in the hedgerows, and a lonely jackdaw called for company as it flew low across the fields towards a colourful spinney.

The Three Oaks farmhouse was one of those solid, square, grey houses, that had once been unfashionable, but which would now probably fetch a breathtaking sum if it ever came up for sale. Built not so far back that it was uncomfortable, it was old enough for the workmanship to be immaculate and long-lasting. Hillary found herself comparing the edifice to the Mollern and almost seeing the funny side.

The door was answered by a young woman in jeans, who introduced herself, surprisingly as, ‘Madge, I’m the daily.’ Hillary stepped inside an old-fashioned hall that smelt of damp umbrellas and wet wool. ‘The missus is in through there.’ Madge pointed to a closed door. ‘Want tea?’

‘Coffee, if you have it,’ she pleaded, never one to overlook a caffeine hit. Madge grinned and nodded.

Hillary knocked on the door and heard a startled summons to enter. Inside, a green-eyed, heavy-set man, with attractive waves of iron-grey hair, got up from the sofa, a question on his
face. From the armchair opposite, a forty-something woman with carefully dyed blonde hair, wearing a tan-coloured silk blouse and clotted-cream coloured linen trousers also watched her curiously. The woman looked as if she should be beautiful, but when Hillary looked at her closely, she could see that, in fact, she was not.

‘Mr Wallis? Mrs Wallis?’ She reached into her bag for her wallet. ‘Detective Inspector Hillary Greene. I’m in charge of the Julia Reynolds’ murder investigation.’

‘Ah, Inspector, glad you’re here,’ Owen Wallis said, even as his wife was opening her delicately pearl-pink lips to greet her. ‘I’ve been trying to get someone to see reason about my cows, but everyone says I have to talk to the man in charge. But I’ve been ringing the station all morning and getting the run around.’

Hillary blinked. ‘Sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘Yes, yes, but can I see to my cows?’

Hillary, who now knew what Alice had felt like when she disappeared down the rabbit hole for the first time, blinked again. ‘Er, your cows, sir?’

‘Yes. They’re being kept in the shed. But they’re milkers, and pretty soon the poor sods will be feeling the pain from their udders. I need to move ’em out to the milking sheds, but those Johnnies in white overalls don’t seem capable of seeing reason. Even after the last of ’em left, I was told I couldn’t move ’em.’

Hillary nodded, holding up a placatory hand. ‘Let me just see if I can do something about that, Mr Wallis,’ she said,
flipping
open her mobile. A quick call the police lab confirmed SOCO had everything they needed.

‘Please, feel free to see to your cows, sir,’ Hillary said, on finishing the call. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been worried.’ The last thing she wanted was a hostile witness. As it was, Owen Wallis was already heading for the door, and she quickly added, ‘Perhaps I can have a word or two with your wife, whilst you’re busy, and then I would like a word or two with you later, sir?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll be right back when I’ve seen my cowman,’ the farmer said, disappearing out of the room.

Hillary took a seat on the sofa, and Wendy Wallis smiled knowingly. ‘My husband has a one-track mind, I’m afraid. I’m used to it. So, what can I tell you? I have to say this is the first time I’ve had any contact with the police. And I still can’t believe that poor girl was killed in our cowshed. I mean it’s so … so … bizarre!’

Hillary could well understand how Wendy Wallis felt. According to what she remembered from the paperwork, Wendy Wallis had been the daughter of the local schoolteacher. She’d married well, and no doubt had led a fairly comfortable and insulated life ever since. It remained to be seen whether or not she was the kind of woman who also liked to live with her head buried in the sand. Or if, paradoxically, her isolated life on the farm had given her a rabid interest in the outside world.

‘What can you tell me about the victim, Mrs Wallis. Julia Reynolds. Did you know her?’

‘Not really. I mean, I’d seen her about the village. A friend of mine, Davina McGuinness, has her in to do her mother’s hair. So I’ve seen her once or twice at Davina’s place – she had a granny flat added on for her, when she fell down the stairs at her own place. Her mother, I mean.’

Hillary nodded, having no trouble following the rambling explanation. ‘So were you surprised to see her at your party?’

‘Well, only at first. And then someone told me she was here with Roger Greenwood. So that made sense. My husband was closeted with Theo Greenwood, his father, for a good
half-hour
in the study, and I was not best pleased, I can tell you. At our silver wedding anniversary party! The things I have to put up with with that man,’ Wendy said, but she didn’t sound particularly angry.

Hillary had the feeling that her conversation was just a bit off, as if her mind was on something else. But then, she was probably just nervous.

‘So, did you see Julia Reynolds leave the party with anyone? To go outside at any time?’

‘Oh no. But then I wasn’t paying much attention to her.’