With a Narrow Blade (12 page)

Janine smiled and held out her ID card. ‘Detective Sergeant Tyler, sir. I believe you’ve already met DI Greene?’

‘Course I have. Come in. You found him yet?’

Janine blinked, her heart lurching. For one moment of madness, she thought he was asking her if she’d found her stalker. Then she realized, of course, that he meant Flo’s killer. ‘Inquiries are still ongoing, sir,’ she said blandly. ‘It’s early days yet.’ In truth, Janine knew that most murders were solved in their first week or not at all. But she was hardly going to tell Walter Keane that.

Hillary nodded pleasantly at the old man as he stepped aside, then followed as he led the way to the kitchen. ‘Cuppa?’

‘Lovely,’ Hillary said, though she’d have preferred coffee.

‘Have a seat. I tend to spend more of my time in here than in the living room,’ the octogenarian apologized.

The kitchen, though not big, had enough room for a tiny table and two comfortable-looking chairs. A small portable television rested on a Formica worktop. On the table was a copy of the
Daily Mirror
, opened to the crossword page.

Hillary noticed that he was filling in the Quizword section, and doing very well too. So, his mental faculties were still sharp. ‘Fourteen down,’ Hillary said, as she accepted a steaming mug from him. ‘John Donne.’

Walter Keane glanced at the question. ‘Poet known as the father of the Metaphysical School …’ and grunted a thank you before penning it in. ‘But you didn’t come here to help me do the crossword,’ he commented cannily, putting the pen down and looking steadily across at her. He’d taken the second chair at the table, since Janine had opted to stand leaning against the wall, jotting into her notebook.

Hillary smiled. ‘No. I understand you were a commando during the war. Decorated for it too.’

Walter glanced at her quickly, his old face as calm as a rock pool, the eyes wide and guileless. Then he smiled. ‘You saw the war photo of me and my mates. Recognized the insignia? Don’t miss much, do you?’ he added admiringly.

Hillary smiled. ‘Not much, no,’ she admitted.

Walter Keane nodded, knowing at once that she wasn’t boasting, or trying to scare him, but merely stating a fact. Although it had been over forty years since he’d been in the army – he’d stuck it until 1963 – he could feel himself slipping back into the old way of thinking. In his day, women were there to make the tea and man the phones, but Hillary Greene was, without doubt, a superior officer. He could almost feel his spine stiffening to attention. He smiled at the thought and reached for his tea.

Some of his so-called ‘superior’ officers during the war he wouldn’t have pissed on if they were on fire. Then there were the other sort – the sort who knew what they were doing. Hard as iron, those, like terriers with a rat. And brains. They always had brains. And whilst Walter wouldn’t have said this woman was exactly made of iron, she had something of a steel spine about her. And brains. Definitely brains. He was suddenly glad that she was heading Flo’s case.

Janine Tyler glanced sharply from her boss to the old man, and bit back a familiar feeling of respect and jealousy. Once again, Hillary Greene was weaving her magic on a suspect. Just how she did it, Janine had never been able to tell. But time and time again, she’d watched her boss tease and winkle and trick and cajole or simply magic the answers from any number of unwilling, bemused, frightened or downright shifty witnesses.

Now she saw it happening again. It was as if the old man and she were somehow telepathically linked. She saw Hillary nod, as if in acceptance of some silent question, then the old man smiled. ‘So, DI Greene, what can I tell you?’ Walter said affably. But his eyes were watchful.

Hillary decided that there was really only one way to go here. The Police Manual was insistent that an officer, when interviewing a suspect, gave away no information, only sought it. And ninety-nine times out of a hundred, Hillary agreed with that whole-heartedly. But there were always exceptions. And looking into the old soldier’s unwavering eyes, she could tell that this was one such time.

She took a sip of unwanted tea and sighed softly. ‘See, the thing is, Walter, we’re having a hard time finding a motive for anyone to kill Flo. Her grandson needed her alive, so he could continue leeching off her. Her friends were urging her on, planning to make her birthday party a big success. Caroline Weekes was planning to make a big chocolate cake for example. And you yourself were planning on helping out with the sandwiches and stuff. Flo had no fortune to leave, and hadn’t made any enemies as far as we can tell. What’s more, she was going to die soon anyway,’ Hillary continued softly, and spread her hands helplessly. ‘So why would anyone want to kill her? Her house wasn’t burgled, so it’s not as if she was some random victim of a mugger or thief. So what’s left?’

Walter nodded. ‘I see the problem. I’ve been wracking my brains too, trying to think. But there isn’t an answer is there?’ He sounded genuinely baffled.

Hillary smiled. ‘Well, there might be. See, the thing is, our medical man tells us that Flo must have been suffering these last few months or so.’

Walter nodded grimly. ‘Yeah, she was.’

‘Even with the pills and therapy, it must have been hard,’ Hillary agreed. ‘So hard, in fact, that who could blame her if she’d had enough?’

Walter’s slightly watery blue eyes suddenly sharpened. ‘Take the easy way out you mean? No, not Flo. Besides, she was stabbed in the chest, weren’t she?’

Hillary nodded. ‘We’re not saying she did it herself. But perhaps she asked someone to help her? An old, dear and trusted friend, maybe? Someone she knew could make a clean, painless, neat job of it?’

Walter Keane stared at her, then slowly smiled. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I get it.’ He leaned back in his chair, slowly nodding. ‘Now I follow you. Mercy killing. You think I might have bumped her off.’

Hillary watched the old man carefully. ‘Nobody would blame you if you did, Mr Keane,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve had cases like this before. The judges are nearly always lenient. It might not even come to trial. The public prosecutions office, given your age, and the fact that you’re no danger to society, might even decline to prosecute.’

Walter grinned, not sure how much he believed her, but instantly taking her point. ‘Meaning, if I did it, I’ve nothing to lose by saying so? Well, that maybe true, it may not. But I’m not scared of going to prison anyway. My wife’s gone, nobody would miss me or care if I did go down. So if I’d killed Flo, I’d just say straight out that I did it. There’s only one problem.’

Hillary smiled softly. ‘You didn’t do it.’

‘Nope.’

‘Would you have done, if Flo had asked?’

‘Yep.’

Janine blinked, and wrote the reply down, verbatim in her book, then glanced across curiously at her boss. Was she buying this? Yes, it looked as if she was, for Hillary was slowly rising to her feet.

‘You’ve got it all wrong, you know,’ Walter said, rising along with her. ‘Flo would never have taken that way out. She loved life too much. Yes, she had bad days, but that only made her more determined to live it up on the good days. She took the simple pleasures in life and magnified them. Like having a takeout on pension day. Like conning her friends out of a campari and soda when she managed to get down to the local. On a sunny day, Caroline used to drive her down to the park to feed the ducks. There was no way Flo would have killed herself. She wanted that birthday party and was determined to see one last Christmas.’

Hillary nodded. ‘I believe you, Mr Keane,’ she said truthfully. ‘Thank you for your time.’

Once outside, Hillary waited until she heard the door close behind her, then glanced around. Beside her, Janine shivered. ‘Well that was a waste of time,’ the blonde woman complained.

‘Not quite. Weren’t you listening?’ Hillary prompted.

Janine, who hated it when her boss suddenly put her on the spot like this, realized that she hadn’t been. Not really. ‘Sorry boss,’ she muttered, expecting a lecture. Instead, Hillary glanced at her sharply, and Janine felt herself go cold. It was almost as if her DI knew what she was going through. But that was impossible. She’d been careful to keep it well hidden. The last thing she wanted to do was leave her old nick on a tide of sympathy or sniggering.

‘He said that Flo liked to have a takeout on pension night,’ Hillary prompted. ‘Well, she was killed on pension night, wasn’t she? And Barrington’s witnesses said they saw a man, maybe carrying something, go to Flo’s house that night.’

Janine groaned and felt like kicking herself. ‘I’ll get right on it, boss,’ she promised. In a small town like Bicester, there couldn’t be that many places that delivered to the door.

As Hillary drove back to HQ, leaving Janine behind to follow up their new lead, her phone rang. ‘DI Greene.’

‘We’ve got him,’ Mitch’s voice said grimly. ‘His name is Martin Pollock. He works Traffic. What’s more, he’s got something nasty planned for your little DS, and I’ve got a fair idea of what it is and when he’s going to play it. What you doing tonight?’

Hillary, thinking of her distracted sergeant, smiled wolfishly. ‘What did you have in mind?’

She hadn’t stepped two paces into the lobby when the desk sergeant nobbled her again. ‘Hey, DI Greene!’

Hillary bit back a groan. ‘Sarge?’

‘The Silver Marauder wants a word.’

Hillary grimaced, guessing only too well what Marcus Donleavy wanted to talk about. ‘OK, I’ll go right up.’

She glanced at her watch. It wasn’t yet 10.30, and already her day was in the crapper. But for once, her pessimism was unwarranted. The moment she stepped into Donleavy’s office, she could tell the news was good.

Today, Donleavy was living up to his nickname, wearing a silver-grey spotless suit, with a pale pink shirt and an electric blue tie. His silver eyes watched her take a seat, and when she was comfortable, said simply, ‘They’ve questioned Raleigh. He says he left the force for personal reasons that had nothing to do with the Fletcher debacle. He claims an old friend rang to tell him that the internal inquiry had cleared him, so he felt he was morally clear to leave. He apologized very prettily, so I’m told, for not working out his notice, and basically told our man in Malta to sod off. Incidentally, he has no plans on returning to the UK in the future.’

Hillary cleared her throat, but said nothing.

‘What’s more, the brass aren’t willing to take it any further, and prefer to take his explanation at face value. I think we can safely say we’ve heard the last of it.’

Hillary didn’t try to hide her sigh of relief. So it was over. Finally. ‘That all, sir?’

Donleavy nodded, his silver hair catching the daylight streaming through the window, giving him a very deceptive-looking halo. He waited until she’d turned and was halfway to the door, before saying softly, ‘Oh Hillary, one last thing. The officer questioning him reported that Raleigh seemed to be living well. Very well indeed. Renting a top-end villa, driving an Aston Martin classic no less. Dressed by Armani. That kind of thing. Any idea where he got the money?’

Hillary, who knew damned well where he’d got the money, turned and looked at him blankly. And in the instant that she met those unnerving, reflective silver eyes, she knew that Marcus Donleavy knew as well.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d always known that it was only a matter of time before he worked it all out. Donleavy was too smart not to realize that, if anyone could track down where her dead husband’s dirty money had been stashed, it was herself.

She blurted out, before she could stop herself, ‘I never touched a penny of it.’ Then she clamped her lips shut hard. She knew that Marcus Donleavy rated her highly – though she’d never taken advantage of that fact. What she didn’t know was what Donleavy would do now.

A detective inspector working under him had just admitted to knowing the whereabouts of illegal money, and hadn’t reported it. He could suspend her on the spot and if he reopened the internal inquiry into Ronnie Greene’s activities, who knew where it would end? Now that he knew where the money was – namely, in Jerome Raleigh’s possession – he had a good place to start. If the banks cooperated, it could probably be traced back to Ronnie Greene.

But not to her. She’d been careful to leave no traces that she’d ever discovered its whereabouts. Yet the suspicion would be enough to actively finish her career. Even if they couldn’t dismiss her, and she’d fight any such move to the bitter end, they could easily sideline her. Move her over to Missing Persons. Or Records even. Her life as an investigative CID officer would be over.

It all rested on what this man decided to do.

Donleavy pretended not to hear her. Or understand her. He said mildly, ‘Well, I expect ex-Superintendent Raleigh had private means. He always struck me as a man who was well heeled.’

Hillary swallowed hard. ‘Yes sir,’ she whispered, barely able to believe it. He was letting her off the hook. Giving her another chance.

He almost certainly believed that she’d never touched the money, because she knew him well enough to know that he’d have had her guts for garters if she had. So he was willing to turn a blind eye. Maybe he simply didn’t want to lose a good officer, especially not one who had been recently decorated for valour. Perhaps he simply didn’t want another scandal. She might never know.

Without another word, she turned and walked out of his office.

She felt about two inches tall.

K
eith Barrington scratched the top of his arm as he pulled out his chair and glanced across at his boss, who was talking on the phone. A quick glance at his watch told him it was just gone eleven, and the old boy he’d left downstairs should, by now, be digging in to bacon sandwiches.

He scratched his arm again as he drew out his notebook and began to type up the interview. It had seemed to go well. He didn’t think he’d missed anything, or failed to ask anything obvious, but he was nervous as he typed, nonetheless. He just couldn’t afford to screw up something so routine, but potentially as important as this.

So far, Hillary Greene had been scrupulously fair in the way she handed out assignments to her team. The search of the victim’s house had been necessary, and he hadn’t minded the hours spent on hands and knees, or the dust he’d inhaled in searching Flo Jenkins’ house for evidence. Handing him off on the old photo, when Ross didn’t want it, might have smacked of downgrading, except that he genuinely believed Hillary Greene was the type of officer who left no stone unturned. So, one no-hoper assignment in a case like this wasn’t that surprising. Certainly Frank Ross had been given his share of footwork and even Janine Tyler had been left with more than her fair share of paperwork.

Now he’d been given a primary interview on the Hodge death. A feather in his cap, albeit a modest one. After nearly a year of being given nothing but shit work from his old boss at Blacklock Green, it felt good. Bloody good.

OK, last night he’d felt a bit mauled by his DI’s ambush, but he’d sensed that his explanation of the situation back on his home turf hadn’t done him too much harm. Maybe even some good. He’d still been smarting over it this morning, but since nobody had mentioned it, he’d been more than willing to play along. Now he was beginning to feel as if the first major hurdles were all behind him, and things looked set fair.

Apart from Ross, of course. But nobody liked him, and Keith had already decided that the best way to keep out from under him, was to ignore him, like everyone else.

He heard his DI hang up the phone and spun his chair away from the VDU. ‘Want a verbal update on the interview, guv? I’ll have my notes typed up in ten minutes.’

Hillary shrugged. ‘Might as well. How’s it looking?’

Keith, using his feet to push off on the floor, wheeled his chair closer to her desk. ‘Witness is Brian Chestin, or Braz, as he’s known on the street. Wino who usually hangs around Oxford, apparently. Last night, knowing it was going to be brass monkey weather, he went to the squat in Ardley – apparently he’s got some sort of running feud with another wino, and didn’t want to kip in the city. When he got there, Hodge, his girlfriend and several others were already in residence. One of them tried to roll him, found only a bottle of meths that he wouldn’t touch with a bargepole, and after that, left him alone. He says he was awake most of the night, and thinks he heard rustlings from Hodge’s sleeping bag. Some time later, he saw a small flame – can’t say for sure what, but it was probably Hodge stewing up some horse. Next morning, he wakes up when Phoebe Cole starts wailing and moaning.’

Barrington frowned and scratched his arm again. What the hell was wrong with it? It was itching like a son of a bitch. ‘Anyway, he rolls over, which is a bit hard, since he says he seizes up of a morning, and sees Phoebe thumping Hodge’s arm and railing at him for stealing her stash. According to Braz, she seemed particularly upset because it was an unusually good “hit”. A friend of a friend stole it from a pusher before it got its third or fourth cut.’

Hillary grunted in instant understanding. Drugs, as a rule, were purchased by the first in a chain of runners, who cut it – or mixed it with other materials to bulk it up and maximize profits – then sold it down the chain to someone else, who then cut it again, and so on. By the time it reached the street, and your average junkie, it could be as much as eighty per cent baby milk – or something far less benign. If Phoebe Cole had managed to get a stash from higher up the chain, the drug would be much stronger than she’d be used to.

‘Anyway,’ Barrington said, still scratching feverishly, ‘Braz asks if the boyfriend is dead, but by now Phoebe is dressing and packing, getting ready to split. When she’s gone, the old man goes over and finds him dead, then wanders outside and dials 999.’

Hillary grinned at Barrington’s frowning face, and said calmly, ‘Fleas.’

Keith looked up. ‘Huh?’

‘The itching. You’ve probably got a tiny hitchhiker from our Wit. If I were you, I’d head downstairs to the locker room, shower, and give your clothes a good shaking out.’

‘Shit!’ Barrington yelped, getting up and looking down at himself comically, as if expecting to see little black things jumping.

Hillary grinned. ‘Before you go – did our wino say if he heard anyone else coming into the room during the night?’

‘No guv,’ Keith said miserably. Ignoring the urge to start scratching everywhere, he carried on gamely. ‘Neither did he hear any sounds of a struggle or an argument, either between Hodge and his girlfriend or Hodge and anyone else.’

Hillary nodded. ‘He gets the impression that Hodge stole the stash from the girlfriend without her knowledge?’

‘Yes guv. And Phoebe didn’t let on how strong it was.’

‘The ME will probably find he died of a massive overdose,’ Hillary said flatly. ‘But liaise with Frank, make sure you cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s.’

‘Right guv,’ Keith said, and flushed when Hillary laughed, and waved him off. He all but jogged across the office, scratching viciously as he did so. Sam Waterstone, from his desk midway in the office, glanced across with a raised eyebrow, and Hillary grinned and shook her head, silently passing on that all was well. By the amused look several others gave the young DC, some had probably guessed what the problem was. After all, they’d all been there themselves. Hillary herself had had a close encounter with head lice during her young uniform days giving lectures to schoolgirls on the perils of drug use.

When her phone rang again, she reached for it automatically, wondering if it was Janine. So it took a moment to register the deep, sexy voice of DI Mike Regis. ‘Hey, it’s me. Think you can get free to meet me for lunch? The Old Oak?’

Hillary glanced at her watch. Barely twelve. It was a bit early, but what the heck. ‘Sure, but it’ll have to be quick. You already there?’

‘And waiting,’ Mike’s voice sounded warm and suggestive. It was so long since she’d had a sexy phone call from a man – literally years, in fact – that she felt her face getting warm. Damn it! But why the change in their policy of not making personal phone calls to the workplace?

‘I’ll see you soon,’ she said, a shade abruptly, and hung up. Once again, she felt that vague sense of unease that plagued her whenever her relationship with Mike protruded into her working life. What was it? Had she been celibate so long that she couldn’t bring herself to believe there was life after Ronnie Greene?

Sighing, and telling herself not to be such a twit, she grabbed her bag and headed out the door.

The Old Oak was one of those large, modern, characterless pubs that had sprung up everywhere over the last couple of years. Built just out of town, often within sight of a superstore like Tesco or Sainsbury’s, it had huge parking lots, and was no-smoking throughout. The decor was bland and pleasant, the menu reasonably priced and extensive, if correspondingly bland. The drink was reasonably cheap. For all that such pubs were popular, she preferred her more scruffy, lived-in, local.

She saw Mike the moment she stepped away from the bar with a pineapple juice in her hand, and headed towards the left-hand side of the huge seating area. He spotted her at the same moment and half rose. He was seated not far from a window, next to a tub of one of the many huge, fake ferns and bamboo that dotted the interior.

He smiled at her as she approached, remembering the first time he’d met her. She’d been SIO on her first murder case, and he’d been instantly attracted by the curvy figure, the intelligent eyes, the no-nonsense, experienced air she wore like most women wore expensive perfume.

He’d known her rep, of course – the disastrous marriage to a bent cop, the solid work, the fine conviction rate. She was popular with both the brass and the rank-and-file, and it hadn’t taken him ten minutes in her company to realize that she was his kind of copper. Despite the fact that she was OEC (Regis was strictly comprehensive school reject) they thought the same about crime, and fighting it.

Things had got off to a dodgy start when she’d realized he was still technically married, and for a few months there, he’d worried that he might have lost his chance with her. But he’d persevered, and now, here they were.

He noticed several of the men, dining early to make way for long and tedious business meetings that afternoon, turn in their chairs slightly, the better to watch her go by, and felt a warm glow that came with pride of ownership. Not that he’d ever put it quite that way, of course, and certainly not in Hillary’s presence.

But it was not surprising he felt that way. Even in her mid-forties, Hillary had the curvaceous figure of a Hollywood siren of the 1930s. Her skin was still flawless, her nut-brown hair well cut and always shining. Even dressed in a no-frills business suit of dark nutmeg, with a cream blouse, she managed to look both feminine and capable. Mike wondered how many of the horny gits were imagining her in stockings and suspenders, brandishing a whip.

The thought made him smile and catch his breath at the same time. Hillary, now nearly at his table, saw the flash of his teeth and wondered what had amused him. She put her glass down and pulled back her chair. ‘Thanks for getting me out of the office,’ she said, and meant it. It was beginning to feel as if she’d lived there for the last week.

‘No problems. Case still stalled?’

Hillary shrugged. ‘There are developments, but nothing major.’ As she filled him in, she checked the menu. The smoked salmon salad looked good.

‘Everything all right otherwise? At the office I mean?’ Regis asked, and Hillary stared at him blankly for a moment, before she caught on.

‘Oh, Danvers. No, that’s fine. Well, he did attend the Jenkins autopsy for me.’

Regis smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Earning himself some brownie points?’

‘I fear so,’ Hillary sighed. ‘Let’s not talk about him.’

‘Let’s not,’ Regis agreed. Danvers was younger than himself, a rank above, was better looking, and no doubt had a better body too. And he had an eye on his girl. He was going to have to do something about Danvers. And soon.

‘You think you’re gonna be free Saturday night?’ he asked, after she’d beckoned over a waiter and given her order. Regis plumped for the steak and kidney pie.

‘Might be. Why?’

‘Gilbert and Sullivan at the Oxford Playhouse.’

Hillary wrinkled her nose. ‘Think I’ll pass.’ Music wasn’t her thing, but when she did listen to it, she liked the 60s stuff. Stuff that had a tune, and people who could – more or less – sing.

‘OK.’

As if sensing she’d disappointed him, she found herself saying, ‘When are you due some time off? I thought we could take the boat up to Stratford, catch up with an old neighbour of mine, watch a show. Not a tragedy but something light.
Much Ado
, maybe?’ Now why had she said that? Spending five or six days on a small narrowboat with no escape from another person would normally have been her idea of hell. She instantly found herself regretting it.

‘I’ve got the weekend after next off,’ Regis said quickly, as if sensing it, and Hillary felt herself wilting with relief.

‘Not enough time,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Maybe sometime in the spring. The weather will be better anyway.’ She took a rueful glance outside.

‘Not enough time?’ Mike frowned, not getting it. ‘The whole weekend?’

‘It’ll take a couple of days to get the
Mollern
to Stratford,’ Hillary grinned. ‘She’s only allowed to go at four mph remember?’

‘We don’t have to take the boat,’ Regis said quickly. Just a shade
too
quickly. ‘We can book into a hotel. I know a place.’

Hillary bit back a sharp retort. Yes, she bet he knew a place all right. What was it with men, and all the ‘nice little hotels’ they knew? Then, realising that she was hardly being consistent – let alone fair – shook her head. ‘Well, I can’t really think about it until my case is over anyway.’

The waiter came with their orders just then, and for a moment they busied themselves with buttering bread and adding sauces. When Hillary lifted her fork to half-heartedly spear a tomato, she glanced up and thought she saw a worried look in his dark green eyes. Then he smiled, and began to talk about a film they both wanted to see, and the moment passed.

Janine Tyler was feeling pleased with herself when she pulled in at HQ, a nervous young lad sitting beside her. Tariq Kahn worked at the Golden Empress, just off Dean’s Court in central Bicester. It was an Indian restaurant that had a fairly large clientele of takeout customers, to whom it delivered on a more or less regular basis.

She parked her car, again near a CCTV camera, and smiled encouragingly across at him. ‘This shouldn’t take long, Mr Kahn.’ She wasn’t sure whether that was the truth or not, but he wasn’t to know that.

She’d tracked the Golden Empress down via the phone, the proprietor, a Mr Ram, confessing at once to knowing the name of Florence Jenkins. Janine had quickly driven over for a word, and Mr Ram confirmed that Flo Jenkins sometimes used their home delivery service. Not often enough to be called a regular, but often enough for the delivery boy, Tariq to remember where she lived without needing to consult his residential map.

Mr Ram, a fifty-something with shiny cheeks and equally shining, bald dome, had obligingly checked his records, and confirmed that the old woman had ordered a meal that night – the mildest chicken tikka masala they had, with a slice of blueberry cheesecake to follow. His wife, Mr Ram had said modestly, was famous for her cheesecakes. The owner also agreed that Tariq had delivered said meal, and had, with some reluctance, handed over the young man’s address.