Through a Narrow Door (5 page)

‘I noticed. But nobody volunteered why,’ Janine added wryly, having met this phenomenon before. Nobody liked to speak ill of the dead. Particularly not the recently murdered dead. And that probably went double if it was a kid.

‘You’ll have to do follow-ups in a few days’ time. See if you can get to the bottom of it.’

Janine sighed. ‘Right. Back to HQ, Boss?’

Hillary nodded. She was going to have to confront Danvers sooner or later. Might as well be sooner.

‘Yeah, then you can get off home. Start fresh tomorrow. Arrange to get Tommy relieved at midnight, yeah?’

Pulling into the parking lot at HQ half an hour later, Hillary had to queue to get in, and realized that, at nearly 6.30, she’d hit the changeover in shift. After dropping off Janine, she parked quickly and detoured down to Juvie, where she was relieved to find Melanie Parker still at her desk.

Melanie Parker was approaching sixty, but wasn’t about to retire, a fact that most officers gave up prayers of thanks for every night. Melanie had worked the young offenders unit since its inception, and what she didn’t know about the local youth scene wasn’t worth knowing.

‘Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,’ Melanie said, leaning back in her chair. She had a moon-shaped face, and a thick thatch of white hair. She never wore make-up, and there’d been rumours hovering around for the last twenty years or so that she was gay. Rumours that never got confirmed or denied.

‘Congrats on the gong by the way, and sorry about the promotion. Is it true they put that prat Danvers in Mellow’s place?’

Hillary grimaced. She supposed she was going to have to put up with this for some time to come. ‘Thanks, and yes, it’s true.’

‘Bummer, as the yanks would say,’ Melanie said, then added bracingly, ‘What can I do you for?’ Her time was precious, and a hungry cat and the latest Ian Rankin novel awaited.

‘William, or Billy, Davies. Ring any bells?’

Melanie pursed her lips, which showed up her many wrinkles, and began tapping frantically at the computer keyboard. ‘Can’t say it does,’ she admitted. ‘Which means he hasn’t been hauled in for twoking, vandalism, drugs,
rent-boying
or any of the other usual fun and games.’ She tapped some more, frowned, and shook her head. ‘Nope, he’s not known to us. Why?’

‘Somebody killed him, and I’ve been getting some curious vibes from the kids I’ve been interviewing who knew him.’

Melanie scowled. She hated getting news about dead kids – although, in her job, she heard it more often than most. ‘What school’s he at? Kidlington?’

Hillary shook her head. ‘No, Bicester Comp. I think it’s that brand-new place they built in the east of the town.’

‘Oh, that rat hole,’ Melanie said darkly. ‘It might be new but it’s already got a rep. Drug heaven. Let’s see … nope. No bites there either. Your boy probably isn’t a dealer, because I’ve got a nice little mole well in there. Give me a bell if you should find you need him.’

Hillary nodded her thanks. ‘I might just do that. Thanks.’

She climbed the stairs to the main office thoughtfully, and used her key card to let herself in. The dayshift had largely deserted, and the nightshift was barely trickling in, so the office was all but empty. She glanced towards her one-time cubicle as she passed by, wondering if anyone was at home. Due to the lengthening nights, there wasn’t a light on yet, but that meant nothing. The sun was only just starting to go down.

Putting off the evil moment when she’d have to check in with her new boss, she went to her desk and caught up on messages and her e-mail. A hit-and-run case looked like it was turning sour, with a witness who’d given a number-plate now looking as if she was having second thoughts. A spate of burglaries in Woodstock showed no signs of abating and her mother wanted to know if she was coming to dinner on Sunday.

She felt, rather than heard, his approach. She looked up and forced a smile at the handsome blonde man who slipped into the chair opposite Janine’s desk and wheeled it the short distance across the floor to face her.

‘Hillary.’ Paul Danvers smiled genuinely back. She was looking good, if a little tired. ‘Congratulations.’

Hillary looked at him blankly.
Huh? For what?

Paul’s smile widened. ‘On the medal.’

‘Oh,’ Hillary said. That. She’d already forgotten about it – it seemed like a lifetime ago already.

Paul laughed. ‘You know, if it had been anyone else, I’d swear that was false modesty.’

Hillary felt her heart plummet. Oh hell, was he flirting with her?
Already
?

When Danvers and his sidekick had been seconded from York to check out the allegations of corruption about her late and unlamented husband, Hillary hadn’t been pleased, naturally. Still it had to be done, and she had to admit that Danvers had done a first-class job and had been
meticulously
fair. Once or twice she’d thought she seen admiration in his eyes – the kind that no woman could mistake – but when he’d gone back to York, she hadn’t given him a single thought.

Until he’d come back. Barely six months later, he’d accepted a transfer south, and to this very nick. At the time, he’d asked her out for a drink and she’d accepted,
understanding
that it was necessary. Danvers wasn’t a regular at investigating other cops, but he still needed to earn himself some brownie points if he was to be accepted in Kidlington. And the only way he could do that, was to get Hillary’s
official
forgiveness. So she’d accepted the drink, let everybody see there was no hard feelings between them, and had once more forgotten about him.

When Danvers had asked her out again a week or so later, she’d been surprised, and had politely turned him down. She had an idea he fancied her, and definitely didn’t think it was a good idea. He must have got the message, since he’d never asked her again, and since then, she’d heard he’d kept his head down and his nose clean, and had got a few good results. Slowly and grudgingly, he’d become accepted by the rank and file and top brass alike.

But now that he’d been thrust right under her nose again, there could be no forgetting about the man. He was her immediate superior officer, and she’d have to find a way of working with him, or her life was going to be impossible. And she didn’t want to have to transfer to another nick at this stage of her life. With the boat moored at Thrupp,
barely a mile down the road, she was well settled here. She could only hope she’d got her wires crossed, and was wrong about him being attracted to her. After all she was not only older than him, she was hardly a glamour puss.

‘Tell me about William Davies,’ Danvers said, and listened attentively as his SIO outlined her case. He didn’t interrupt, and when she was finished, asked a few pertinent questions. Whatever else she might have reservations about, she could tell he knew his job.

‘It sounds like it’s going to be a tough one,’ he added. A dead kid wasn’t the easy start to his new position that he’d hoped for. And Hillary was obviously going to be very busy and distracted for some time to come yet. But he could wait. He was good at that.

‘You look all in,’ he said at last. ‘Go home and get some sleep. I’ll be here until late, if SOCO calls in with any requests. And Hillary,’ he said, as she nodded gratefully and reached for her bag. ‘I know we can work well together. I’m not a bad boss, and what’s past is well and truly past as far as I’m concerned. OK?’

Hillary nodded quickly. ‘That’s how I see it too, sir,’ she said firmly. She was not about to slap down any olive branches, even if she didn’t think it was going to be as easy as all that. Danvers might not see any trouble ahead, but Hillary saw plenty.

‘Please, call me Paul.’

Hillary swallowed hard, but said nothing. Paul smiled and watched her go. She really had a wonderful figure. And great legs. And she was so sharp too, as sharp as he remembered. Just being with her for a few minutes left him feeling
stimulated
and upbeat.

He began whistling softly as he walked back to his office.

Outside, Hillary was just crossing the foyer, when the desk sergeant nobbled her. ‘DI Greene! Here, just a minute ma’am.’

The respectful ‘ma’am’ told her that the desk sergeant
wasn’t alone, and sure enough, when she turned around, there was a member of the public standing by the counter. ‘This is Mrs Richardson, ma’am. She wanted to speak to whoever was in charge of the William Davies case.’

Hillary nodded and moved forward at once. ‘Mrs Richardson, I’m DI Greene. Would you like to follow me to an interview room?’

‘Oh, of course. That is, I realize it’s getting late, but I just heard the news on the radio and thought I should speak to you as soon as possible.’

Hillary led her to the first interview room available, and collected a WPC. ‘Your full name please.’

‘Phyllis Yvonne Richardson. And it’s Ms, not Mrs.’

Hillary nodded, making a note. ‘And you have something you think might help us?’

‘Well, I’m not sure. That is, I know people are supposed to come forward if they knew the murder victim. And I teach Celia Davies at primary school. And I taught her brother before that, but that would be four years ago now,
naturally
.’

Hillary nodded. They’d have got around to interviewing Ms Richardson at some point – probably a PC already had her on his list. But since she’d taken the time and effort to come in, Hillary wasn’t quibbling.

‘So you know the Davies children quite well?’ she began casually.

‘Yes, Celia more than Billy. Girls seem to relate to teachers better, and Celia’s quite bright. She’s quite a little artist. Of course, she didn’t get on with her brother very well, but then I find teenage boys and pre-pubescent siblings never do get on.’

Hillary smiled and nodded. She and her brother had always fought like cat and dog, too.

‘And Celia is definitely the favourite of both the father and mother, which didn’t help.’

Hillary made a very careful note of that. Now that might be significant. Had Billy Davies felt isolated from his family?
Resentful and jealous maybe. Did he resent his princess of a sister getting all the attention, and sought to find attention of his own, from somebody else? Paeodophiles found such kids irresistible. It sent a cold shiver down her spine.

‘What do you remember most about Billy, when he was in your class, Ms Richardson?’

‘Well, Billy was one of life’s boasters, I’m afraid,’ Ms Richardson began. She was a washed-out blonde, with a thin face and very narrow hands, but her pale blue eyes looked shrewd. She was neither too young to be fooled or surprised by kids, but not so old that she’d become jaded. For the first time, Hillary began to hope that she was going to get a clear and unbiased opinion of their victim.

‘Sometimes – and it’s usually the boys – children tend to see themselves as a hero in their own private Hollywood production, and Billy was one such. Even at ten, he was convinced the world owed him a living, I’m afraid. I didn’t see much of him after he left school, but I heard things about him from time to time, sometimes from Celia, sometimes from the parents of other children. I’m afraid Billy became something of an arrogant young man as he grew older.’

‘You say Celia shows some talent as an artist. Would it surprise you to hear that Billy had become rather a good photographer?’

Phyllis Richardson thought about that for a moment, then slowly shook her head. ‘No. No, can’t say as it would. He was always technically minded. Very practical. Some kids are like that, so a camera would suit him very well. I’ll bet he didn’t have any pretensions about using his talent in any artistic way though,’ she added flatly.

Hillary had to smile. ‘No. He wanted to be a paparazzi.’

Phyllis Richardson sighed and nodded. ‘Ah yes, that makes sense. That’s our Billy all right. Probably saw himself taking a picture of a VIP in the nude, and making millions from it. It was the kind of way his mind worked, I’m afraid. He was always very avaricious. Once or twice I’m sure he bullied some of the younger children out of their pocket
money. He liked his chocolate bars, and such. Of course, I kept a sharp eye out, but Billy was crafty.’

Hillary sighed. And going to a big, new comprehensive school that already had a reputation would have presented a lad like that with many more opportunities to get up to mischief.

The kind of mischief that led to his being killed, perhaps.

By the time the interview was over, Hillary was beginning to feel vaguely depressed. Something told her that the Davies family were in for even more heartaches in the months ahead.

Hillary woke up when a passing craft rocked her boat, a sensation that would, at one time, have jerked her awake with a pounding heart, but which now felt oddly comforting. She lay still and waited a moment, letting her tiny cabin settle on to an even keel, then sat up on the narrow bed and put her feet to the floor. She could open her sliding-door wardrobe door just by reaching out her hand and, selecting a pair of lightweight beige slacks and a matching jacket with a navy blue trim, she tossed them on to her unmade bed and then headed for the shower.

She’d got a two-minute shower down to a fine art after three years of living on her narrowboat, the Mollern, and within ten minutes she was heading along the towpath, HQ-bound.

Even at eight in the morning, the sun was shining hot and strong and, just past her mooring, a row of red hawthorns were beginning to bloom. A pair of moorhens, nesting in the reeds opposite, had produced three fluffy black chicks, and in the farmer’s fields skirting the canal, dark green wheat shone with health. A chiff-chaff was calling his monotonous but cheerful song, and Hillary heard gruff male laughter from her neighbour’s boat, ‘Willowsands’, as she passed. It made her wonder who Nancy Walker had lured into her web this time. The
forty-something
divorcee had told her a few days ago that she feared her trawl of Oxford students was coming to an end,
and that she might chug off to Stratford-upon-Avon to see what the pickings of impoverished actors was like.

Hillary rather hoped she wouldn’t go. Although she had no sex life of her own, she’d always been able to live vicariously through Nancy’s. And thoughts of her non-existent sex life lead her straight to a certain detective inspector in the vice squad, but as she started up Puff the Tragic Wagon she firmly pushed all thoughts of Mike Regis away, which was not easy when she’d heard on the grapevine that his divorce was final, and that he’d begun openly dating again. But, so far, he’d not turned his head her way. Which was her own damned fault, of course. A few months ago, when he’d asked her out, she’d more or less told him to sling his hook.

And slung it, he had.

As she walked across the foyer, the morning-shift desk sergeant greeted her as she passed by, but had nothing of interest to report be it news of her case, or the latest in station-house gossip. As she keyed her way into the main office, noting that she was the first of her team to arrive, she wondered if Danvers was already at his desk. If it had still been Mel in there, she’d have gone in and chewed over the case, sharing her feeling for how it was beginning to taste and getting his input. But Danvers was still very much uncharted territory, so she went straight to her desk and checked for messages. Her in-tray, as ever, was towering. She gave it a quick trawl through, dealing with the most urgent, scowling to find that a court appearance she had been due to give on a stolen-identity case had been put back yet another week. At this rate, the perpetrator would still be walking around, free and clear, next Christmas.

By 8.30 everyone was in except Frank, and Hillary began dishing out assignments.

‘Tommy, I want you and Janine to start off by
interviewing
every member of Billy’s form. I daresay there’ll be thirty or so, but it has to be done.’

Janine groaned. Just what she needed. A morning spent talking to resentful teenage girls, who always saw her blonde good looks as a personal challenge or insult, or, even worse, cajoling teenage boys to stop looking at her boobs, bum or legs (depending on preference) and answer her bloody questions.

‘I’ll talk to all his teachers,’ Hillary said, and quickly filled them in on her visit from Billy’s former primary school teacher.

At nine, Frank still hadn’t arrived, and she was just writing a note on his desk, asking him to question all the allotment holders at Aston Lea, when Janine’s dry warning cough had her head shooting up. Walking towards them, dressed in an expensive-looking navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and pale electric-blue tie, was her new boss. His blonde hair had been freshly washed and cut, and gleamed even more golden in the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. He had the lean look of a regular
squash-player
, and Janine gave a subtle whistle as he approached.

Hillary shot her an appalled look. The last thing she wanted was for Janine to start sleeping with
this
boss as well. Surely she’d learned her lesson over Mel?

‘Hillary, glad to catch you before you go. I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you. You can update me when you next get in. I just wanted a quick word with everybody.’ He looked around, and chose Janine first. It was probably just protocol – with Frank absent (who had senior status, at least officially), Janine was first in the pecking order; or at least, Hillary hoped that was all it was. To be fair, she could detect nothing lascivious in his manner as Danvers shook her hand. ‘DS Tyler, isn’t it? We’ve met before, of course, but not like this. I’ve been impressed with your CV. You’re awaiting the results of boards, aren’t you?’

‘Yes sir,’ Janine said, and added at once, ‘I’m hoping to get a DI posting soon, of course, but this is a great team to work for.’

Hillary bit back a smile. A typical Janine Tyler remark if
ever she’d heard one. She thought she saw a similar
cynicism
briefly gleam in Danver’s pale blue eyes, but she couldn’t be sure, for he’d already turned to Tommy Lynch. ‘Tommy, congratulations on the promotion. Headington’s a good nick, so I’ve heard. I’m sure everyone’s going to miss you here, though.’

‘Er, thanks Sir,’ Tommy said. ‘I’m sorry to be going, to be honest. Working for DI Greene has been a privilege. I’ve learned a lot.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ Danvers said, and although there was nothing even remotely suggestive in his tone, Hillary could feel herself flush. She cursed silently under her breath, and wondered if she was always going to be this sensitive around the walking Moss Bros advert that was her new boss. She hoped not. Life would be intolerable.

‘Well, good luck with the case, obviously. I understand it’s a bad one, so if anyone has any problems, I hope they won’t hesitate to come to me,’ Danvers carried on smoothly. ‘I’d like to think I was the kind of boss you could come to, if need be. I know this situation isn’t ideal, but DI Greene and I have already had a chat and we’re both sure things will work out smoothly.’

Hillary, knowing her cue when she heard it, smiled briefly and said, ‘I’m sure it will. We’re all here to get the job done, after all.’ She was glad Frank wasn’t here right now. The poisonous little git wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from guffawing out loud. As it was there was a brief moment of awkwardness before the DCI nodded and went back to his office.

Janine glanced at Hillary curiously, wondering what it must be like to have to report in to the man who’d once tried to put you behind bars, but her boss was already reaching for her bag. ‘Right, we’d better each take our own cars,’ Hillary advised. ‘And don’t forget, it’s the brand new comprehensive we’re going to, not to be mistaken for Bicester Community College up near the sports centre in King’s End. OK?’

‘I got the feeling he was always bright enough, but like a lot of ’em these days, he had a severe case of idle-itis. Lazy through and through, but get him interested in a subject, and he was like a sponge, lapping it all up.’

The speaker was a Mr Colin Brentwood, and he taught modern history. He was saying pretty much what Mrs Wilkins (sociology), Pat (no Mr for him) Dringle (English literature) and Pam Dawber (mathematics) had all said.

‘And what did interest him?’

‘The sixties,’ Colin Brentwood said shortly, surprising Hillary who hadn’t thought that the sixties was included on the modern history syllabus. When she’d been at school, modern history had meant the Victorians, empire and both world wars.

‘He was fascinated by the culture of stardom,’ Brentwood went on, which given his ambition, didn’t surprise Hillary at all. ‘And of course, the sixties was when London ruled the world, pop music and fashion-wise.’

‘Were you surprised to hear that he was dead, Mr Brentwood?’ Hillary asked, more to shake the man out of his matter-of-fact attitude than anything else. She had talked to several of his teachers so far, and although all had seemed shocked and appalled, none of them had seemed to feel any particular pity. And it was beginning to grate.

‘Of course I was. You read about things like this, of course, but they always seem to be happening in the big cities. Manchester, Birmingham and so on. You don’t expect it in a small market town in Oxfordshire do you?’

Another thing she’d been hearing a lot that morning.

‘Do you know of any reason why anyone would kill Billy Davies, Mr Brentwood?’

‘No, I don’t,’ the history teacher said, a shade huffily now. He was one of those small, sandy-haired men with a little goatee, wire-rimmed glasses, and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, who seemed to advertise their
profession. She’d almost expected him to start smoking a pipe, but so far he’d shown no signs of this ultimate in academic props. ‘He wasn’t the nicest kid around, and when he and that Lester Miller got together, they could be a real pain, but to actually kill the poor little blighter … no. I don’t know why anyone should do that.’

Hillary sighed and nodded. It was all very much as she’d feared. Still, perhaps someone, somewhere, had a little snippet that could get them started on the right track. ‘Is there anything you think I should know? I mean, can you remember some small incident that struck you as odd? Something about his personality that made you uneasy. Anything like that?’

Colin Brentwood shrugged his puny shoulders. ‘Not really. He was a greedy child, always wanting things. The give-me-more culture that seems to pervade nowadays had a willing acolyte in Billy. And he was a big lad, well able to take care of himself, and he wasn’t all that averse to throwing his weight around if he felt like it. The other kids tended to give him a wide berth, but he wasn’t an obvious bully. It was more as if he saw school as a necessary evil, and one he didn’t have much patience with. He wouldn’t have been one to hang around after sixteen in search of a higher education, I can tell you
that
. He wanted to be out in the world, earning, consuming, getting his hands dirty, impatient to be free and independent. He was that sort of a kid, you know?’

Hillary did know, only too well. They were often the kind she ended up arresting.

‘Oh, Billy was definitely the leader,’ Viola Grey (her real name, apparently) said a quarter of an hour later. ‘Tea? I keep a kettle and illicit chocolate wafers in a cubby hole. Nobody’s supposed to know about them.’ Viola Grey taught biology, and the scent of acid and the nearness of Bunsen burners and singed wooden desktops, for some reason, put Hillary right off the thought of chocolate. Something she’d previously thought was impossible.

Ms Grey was talking about the close relationship that had existed between their victim and Lester Miller.

‘No, thanks,’ Hillary waved down the offer of elevenses. ‘I understand Lester Miller is well off? That is, his father owns his own company. I’m surprised he didn’t put his son into a private school.’

Viola Grey, a plump woman who could only just be out of her teens herself, pushed a strand of long dark hair behind a rather prominent ear, and shrugged. ‘Who knows? Perhaps he isn’t that rich, or perhaps he’s got socialist leanings, or maybe he just doesn’t think Lester needs a proper education, since he’ll be going straight into the family firm. I think he supplies oil to domestic customers. Or is it anthracite? Or does he just supply the lorries the fuel companies use? I dunno, something like that anyway.’ She gave a massive shrug. ‘All very lucrative, no doubt, in these days of burgeoning fuel prices, but I don’t think you need know the finer details of the reproductive cycle of a herring gull to be an office manager.’ She pointed at a poster on the wall, depicting the life cycle of a seagull. ‘And Lester doesn’t seem to think so either, according to his mock exam results.’

‘Is there anything you can tell me about Billy that might shed light on why someone would want to kill him?’

But although Viola Grey could have told her what a
two-week-old
seagull chick might eat for breakfast, she had no idea who might want to stick a pair of shears into a
fifteen-year-old
boy’s chest.

‘You ask me, that boy was cruising for a bruising sometime, but I can’t imagine what he’d done to deserve this.’ Christine Bigelow, French.

‘He spent most of his time secretly reading photography magazines in class, which didn’t worry me, to be perfectly honest. At least it kept him quiet. He sure as hell didn’t care how the Cairngorms had been formed.’ Jeffrey Palmer, Geography.

‘I don’t understand it at all.’ Maurice Jenkins, Art. ‘He
was a smashing kid, very enthusiastic. He did a “
coffee-table
book” for his special project this year, you know, a mock-up of those expensive illustrated books that nobody ever buys. It’s theme was Oxford, rural and academic. Great shots of the colleges, but also of the countryside. One photo in black and white, of a tractor pulling a plough and being followed by this huge flock of black-backed gulls was superb. I had him put it in for the Collingsworth Prize, and it got an honourable mention. Great kid. He had talent.’

‘Did he ever confide in you, Mr Jenkins?’ Hillary asked, sensing at last, a teacher who actually cared that Billy Davies was dead. Who actually felt some kind of loss. ‘Did he ever say anybody was bothering him? Was he depressed or worried recently?’

‘No, nothing like that. In fact, the reverse seemed to be true. The last few days he seemed very upbeat. You know, he’d come in whistling through his teeth and grin a hello at you. He was always bored by paints and sculpture, and bookwork was something he loathed, but even the day before yesterday, the last time I saw him now that I come to think of it, he smiled all through my talk on Degas’s ballerinas.’

Jenkins was approaching retirement age, Hillary guessed, and had prematurely stooped shoulders and an unfortunate dandruff problem which had no doubt earned him some horrific nickname from his pupils, but he seemed bright enough. Probably after a lifetime in teaching, he’d become very observant of the young. Hillary felt her
pulse-rate
accelerate a little. At last, a nibble.