Murder in the Village (DI Hillary Greene)

by Faith Martin

  ‘Only got the one car and it seems daft for me to take it to work when the camp’s only a mile away, and the missus works in Bicester.’

  Janine nodded impatiently. ‘Right. So every night you get out the bike and push it up the hill?’

  ‘Can’t ride it up. Legs ain’t as good as they used to be.’

  ‘And on that night, the night Malcolm Dale died, you saw Percy Matthews walking towards you. That is, coming from his house at the top of the village, and heading downhill?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was the same night that Malcolm Dale died?’ she pressed.

  ‘Course I’m sure. The wife was full of it when I got back the next morning.’

  ‘And you saw him clearly?’ Janine insisted.

  ‘Yeah. He was just coming out from under one of the streetlights.’ Oliver Rogerson grunted. ‘Don’t know why the council bothered putting them up in the first place.’

  Janine’s fingers tightened on the pencil. ‘You say he was just coming out from under the light? But you could see his face? He wasn’t in darkness, or half in darkness?’ She knew only too well what defence barristers could do to witness statements of this sort.

  ‘He was still under the light when I saw him,’ Oliver said, narrow brown eyes watching her through the smoke haze. ‘Don’t know why you’re getting so excited. I sometimes see Percy, now and then. He does live in the village, you know.’

  ‘But you’d be willing to swear in a court of law that you saw him that night, at about six thirty-five or thereabouts?’

  Oliver Rogerson suddenly looked nervous. Janine knew this reaction too. The old I-don’t-want-to-get-involved syndrome. ‘Mr Rogerson, this is important,’ she said severely, and the older man shrugged reluctantly.

  ‘Suppose so,’ he grunted.

  Janine grinned and stood up. That was good enough for her.

  * * *

  Tommy’s call came just as she’d taken her seat on the bus back. The bus was nearly empty, since it was still only three o’clock in the afternoon, but one old lady gave her the gimlet eye as the cell phone’s ringtone disturbed her.

  Hillary quickly snapped it open and put it to her ear. ‘DI Greene,’ she said. And the old lady quickly stopped giving her the eye and faced front again. Hillary smiled wryly. That was her all right — the scourge of little old ladies everywhere.

  ‘Guv,’ Tommy said. ‘You wanted to be kept informed about the Dale case. Janine just arrested and charged Percy Matthews.’

  Hillary blinked. ‘That was quick. What’s up?’

  Tommy told her the latest, and on impulse, Hillary told him she was going to drop in. Ostensibly to show everyone she was all right and touch base, but they both knew she was hot to see how this latest development panned out.

  She got off at the stop opposite the station, but found the walk up the short drive and across the big parking lot more arduous than she’d expected. She stopped at the main entrance to dry-swallow two more painkillers, then pushed inside. The desk sergeant hailed her, and she spent several minutes accepting congratulations and commiserations, and swapping war stories about injuries of the past. They agreed that his split skull beat her bullet, and then she took the lift upstairs. Normally she’d have had no trouble trotting up the stairs, but by now she was beginning to feel distinctly iffy. A hot-cold thing was going on, making her alternately sweat and then shiver, and she knew that she should really be back at the boat, taking it easy. The nurse was due to change her wadding soon, too.

  She made her way to her desk without stopping, accepting the calls and queries of all the others in the big open-plan office without detouring. Once sat down, she felt a whole lot better.

  Tommy was the first to come to her desk, since he was expecting her. Taking one look at her pale face, he went to Mel’s office, where the CI kept his own personal coffee machine, and pinched some of his finest roast and brought her back a mug.

  Hillary accepted it with a smile. ‘So, what’s happening?’

  ‘Mel’s down there interviewing Percy now. Janine’s hopping about it.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Hillary said. ‘What do you think?’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘Percy Matthews was definitely lying about staying in all night. The wit Janine found seems sound. It puts Matthews out and about without an alibi at the time of the murder.’

  ‘So Mel’s happy with it?’

  Tommy frowned. ‘Dunno, guv. I think he thinks Janine jumped the gun in charging him. And I think he’s annoyed that she didn’t consult him first. But he hasn’t given her a rollicking.’

  No, he wouldn’t, Hillary thought, hiding a grin. He’d be stepping on eggshells around Janine Tyler for some time yet. Serve him right.

  ‘Well, let’s go down and observe, shall we?’ she said, the mug of coffee giving her a new lease of life. Even so, she took the lift back down.

  There was no one else in the observation room. She took the only chair and sat down, but even through the glass, she could feel anger and excitement shimmering off her blonde sergeant. Mel, doing the questioning, was as smooth as ever.

  ‘But, Mr Matthews, we have a witness, a very reliable witness, who says he saw you on Freehold Street, at six thirty or thereabouts, on the night that Mr Dale died.’

  ‘Must have been wrong then,’ Percy Matthews said belligerently, folding his thin arms over his scrawny chest. He was dressed in a white shirt and a dark green V-neck, hand-knitted sweater over black trousers. He didn’t look the least worried. In fact, he looked positively chipper.

  ‘He’s the sort who likes to scrap,’ Hillary said thoughtfully. She’d met a lot of people like that — but very few of them had, funnily enough, been prone to real violence.

  ‘Come now, Percy,’ Mel said, slipping in the Christian name craftily. It always helped if you could do that — it gave the inquisitor a distinct psychological advantage. ‘Don’t you see that you’re not helping yourself by continuing to lie?’

  Percy Matthews shrugged. ‘Can’t help it if you’ve got it wrong, can I?’

  Mel abruptly changed tack. ‘You do realise, don’t you, Percy, that you’ve been charged with first degree murder?’ He paused to let it sink in. ‘That’s very serious. You could be looking at life inside — twenty to thirty years. And with a man your age . . .’ Mel shrugged eloquently. ‘Well, let’s face it, Percy, you’d die in prison. Don’t you think it would be better if you just told us what happened? Who knows, if there was adequate provocation, perhaps the Crown Prosecution Service might consider reducing the charge to manslaughter?’

  Hillary sighed. Careful, Mel. She turned to Tommy. ‘Did Mr Matthews waive his right to a solicitor?’

  Tommy nodded. ‘Yeah, he did. Right away. Said he didn’t need him.’

  Hillary didn’t like the sound of that. How fast would a good defence barrister claim that Percy had been unfit to make that decision, thus rendering anything he said here and now inadmissible in court? If it had been her in there, she’d have insisted he have legal representation.

  She had to remind herself that this wasn’t her case anymore. Not that it did any good. It still felt like her case.

  Someone knocked on the door to the observation room, and Tommy opened it. Hillary heard him murmuring quietly for a moment, then he came back. ‘Guv, Mrs Matthews is here. She’s mad as a hornet, apparently, and demanding to see someone in charge.’

  ‘Wasn’t she there when Janine brought Percy in?’

  ‘No. She was doing the grocery shopping, it seems.’

  ‘Oh hell! Is there an interview room free?’

  ‘Five is, guv.’

  ‘Have her in there then,’ Hillary said, getting up with a wince.

  Tommy frowned. ‘Guv, you’re still on sick leave.’

  ‘I know. But it won’t hurt to see what she has to say.’

  Tommy went reluctantly, and Hillary had only just sat herself down in room five when he came back in with Rita Matthews. She was dressed in a shin-
length brown dress, and a long raincoat in more or less the same colour. Her face was flushed red, and her eyes glittered as she sat down. ‘What’s all this nonsense about our Percy being arrested?’ she asked, without preamble. ‘I hadn’t stepped off the bus when Julie told me about it.’

  Hillary didn’t ask who Julie was. She didn’t need to. In any small village, information was relayed faster than the speed of sound.

  Hillary quickly set the tape running, introduced herself, Rita Matthews and Tommy Lynch, and stated the time and place. Only then did she answer the question. ‘I’m afraid we’ve found a witness who saw your husband in Freehold Street at around six thirty, on the night Mr Dale was murdered, Mrs Matthews,’ she said. ‘Won’t you tell me why you lied about your husband’s whereabouts that night?’ she asked gently.

  Rita Matthews sighed heavily. ‘Because the daft sod had already said we were at home together, hadn’t he?’

  Hillary nodded. ‘But you knew that wasn’t true?’

  ‘Course I did. He was where he always is every Monday night. Playing cards with his mates in Fred Turnkey’s garden shed.’

  Hillary opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘Tommy, I think you’d better get Sergeant Tyler in here,’ she said quietly, and then for the tape, added quietly, ‘Detective Constable Lynch has just left the room.’

  * * *

  Janine Tyler could feel her face flame as Rita Matthews snapped, ‘Listen, you daft bugger, stop playing the fool and tell them what’s what.’

  Rita and Percy Matthews, Mel and herself, were now all in interview room three. She’d taken Rita Matthews’ testimony in interview room five with a stony face, suspecting that Hillary Greene was watching her from the observation room and crowing with glee.

  In that, she was wrong. Hillary, after Janine had returned with Tommy, had left to go home. She knew Tommy would explain everything, and she had no desire to watch her young sergeant’s humiliation. Besides, she had to get back to meet the district nurse.

  In the parking lot she’d snagged a patrol car going out, getting a lift to Thrupp. The two youngsters had been only too pleased to do it, and Hillary knew that her status would remain high for some time to come. She was now the cop who’d got shot bringing Fletcher down. Whatever the actual facts of the matter, she knew that’s how she’d now always be known. But she didn’t buck it. Better that than to be known as corrupt Ronnie Greene’s missus.

  Now, with her wound cleaned and the bandaging changed, she lay out on her bed, trying to doze, but unable to do so. Although the painkillers had made her drowsy, she couldn’t help but wonder what was happening back at the station.

  Although she was fairly sure she knew.

  * * *

  Janine listened, feeling herself shrinking further and further into a small ball, as Rita Matthews continued to harangue her husband. ‘You’ve got no more sense than to fly a kite in a thunderstorm. What were you going to do? Just sit here and let them bang you up? You tell them where you really were, or I’ll . . . I’ll . . . box your ears, you twit!’

  ‘Mrs Matthews, please calm down,’ Mel said sternly, but he was trying not to laugh. ‘Mr Matthews, is what your wife said true?’

  Percy Matthews looked sulky. ‘Well, I was playing cards with Fred and the others, yes. We always play on Mondays. For bottles of beer, and cheese and stuff. We all bring something and bet with it. Winner takes the pot. I took a farmhouse cake that night.’

  ‘I baked it,’ Rita put in, looking less ferocious now that her husband had capitulated.

  ‘I see,’ Mel said. ‘I need the names of all the others who were there.’ Rita provided them quickly, and once more Percy Matthews sulked. Janine wanted the floor to open and swallow her up, but nothing happened.

  ‘Right. Now, what time exactly did you arrive at Fred Turnkey’s house?’

  ‘His garden shed,’ Percy corrected. ‘I went straight to the shed — we all did. His son-in-law’s an electrician. Fitted it out nice. Electric fire and everything.’

  Mel nodded. ‘What time, Mr Matthews?’ he persisted.

  ‘Twenty to seven, I ’spect it was.’

  ‘Were you first to arrive?’

  ‘Course not. Fred was there first. It was his shed. Vern was there as well. Cyril and Harry came last.’

  Mel nodded. ‘Sergeant Tyler, perhaps you’d like to take DC Lynch and confirm Mr Matthews’ alibi?’ Mel said, careful not to catch her eye. ‘They all live in the village?’

  ‘Cyril and Harry live in Rousham,’ Percy said. ‘Cyril’s got a car, and gives Harry a lift.’ He provided the addresses and without a word, her face averted, Janine got up and left.

  Mel watched her go, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  * * *

  That night, Tommy dropped by. A big man, he found the boat a bit of a novelty. It reminded him of a child’s Wendy house. He insisted that Hillary stay seated, and as he made drinks for them both, filled her in.

  When he was finished, he was sitting on the floor, his back to the bookshelves. There was only one armchair in the tiny room, but he seemed comfortable enough.

  ‘So it all checked out?’ Hillary said. ‘I hope Janine’s OK?’

  Tommy grimaced. ‘She’s embarrassed, but trying not to show it. Frank isn’t helping.’

  Hillary grunted. So what else was new? ‘Is she still in charge?’

  ‘Mel hasn’t said anything. Janine’s got Ross checking out the loony animal rights movement, see if any of them were active that night. He’s carping on about needing help with it. I’m just hoping she doesn’t send me.’

  Hillary nodded. After a radical animal rights group had tried to sue her for possession of her house, she wasn’t exactly keen on the breed. Ronnie Greene had made his dirty money from an illegal animal parts smuggling racket, as investigation into his corrupt activities had proved. But they hadn’t found where he’d stashed the money, and an animal so-called charity had tried to scare her by threatening to sue her. Their argument had been that Ronnie had bought their house with illegal money obtained through animal suffering — and so the house should be sold and the money donated to their ‘charity.’ Hillary had asked a friend, who was also a first-rate solicitor, to defend the case, but it had never come to court, with the animal rights people eventually backing off.

  Thinking of it made her eyes move to the Dick Francis novel, now sitting on the shelf not six inches from Tommy’s head.

  It had been her stepson Gary who’d given it to her. Ronnie’s son by his first marriage, Gary had cleared out an old locker of his father’s at Bicester nick, and had thought she might like to have the book back, because of the personal inscription inside.

  Hillary had been puzzled to read the rather sick-making message inscribed by her to Ronnie on the inside page. Very puzzled, actually, since she’d never written it. It was only then, leafing through the pages, that she’d noticed several words underlined. ‘Too, heaven, ate,’ etc. And realised they were all numbers. Two, seven, eight, and so on. From there it had been a quick jump to realise that they probably belonged to a numbered account in a bank in his favourite spot in the Caribbean. She’d surfed the net and found the bank some months ago, and also found the missing money. All million-plus of it. Since then, she’d dithered about what to do with it.

  ‘Anyway, it looks as if we’re back to square one on the Dale case,’ Tommy said, wrenching her thoughts back to the here and now.

  Hillary sighed heavily. ‘It sure looks like it,’ she agreed glumly.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The train service to London from Oxford was good, and within an hour, Hillary found herself in Paddington. The first woman she wanted to see lived not far from the station, and the office where she worked was even closer.

  Marilyn Forbes was a woman on the way up, if the size of her office in the well-established PR firm was anything to go by. A window with a view of endless traffic was double-glazed, letting only a mild whisper permeate the beige-and-cream space. Black leath
er and chrome chairs grouped around a smoked glass table, while colourful and successful advertising campaigns adorned the walls.

  Marilyn still looked very much like her photograph, taken at a large charity ball a few years ago, which Hillary had found on the internet. She still wore the same short cap of ash-blonde hair, and her big grey eyes were highlighted with careful make-up. There were a few more wrinkles around the nose and mouth perhaps, but her figure was still reed-slim. Hillary disliked her on sight.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ Marilyn said, indicating a chair. ‘Ms Welles, I think you said?’

  Hillary smiled and held out her hand. ‘Yes. Thank you for agreeing to see me. I know a lot of people don’t have time for journalists.’

  Marilyn laughed. ‘Except for people in my profession.’

  Hillary smiled again. Marilyn’s professional instinct to be kind to the press was exactly the reason why she’d chosen to take on the persona of a reporter.

  ‘You’re freelance, I think my secretary said?’ Marilyn prompted, taking a seat opposite the table, and reaching unrepentantly for a cigarette. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ she said, waving the offending article in the air. ‘I don’t care what the current thinking is, I need a fag every four hours to get me through the day. And since this is my office . . .’

  Hillary shook her head with a smile, and opened her notebook. ‘Of course I don’t mind. And yes, I’m freelance for my sins, but hope to sell the story to several quality magazines. Superintendent Raleigh is very much man of the moment back in Oxford.’

  Marilyn made a small approving sound around her cigarette, and lit it. ‘Yes, I heard. Good for him, I say.’

  Hillary nodded, trying to look earnest. Obviously, their split had not been acrimonious if she still wished him well. ‘You and he were an item once, I understand?’ she asked delicately.

  Marilyn Forbes grinned. ‘A while ago now, but yes, we were close for about six months or so.’

  ‘And what do you feel comfortable telling me about him?’ Hillary left the question deliberately open-ended and unthreatening and, as hoped, Marilyn quickly launched into a careful but seemingly candid description of the man, both as a policeman, and as a partner.