MURDER IN THE VILLAGE a gripping crime mystery full of twists

by Faith Martin

  * * *

  Mike Regis stared at her nightgown and tried not to smile. Hillary twirled one of the pink ribbons that rested coyly just below her chin and grinned. ‘My mum’s.’

  ‘That’s a bloody relief,’ Regis said with a laugh, and indicated a big plastic bag. ‘Brought you some of this muesli mix stuff. Nuts and raisins and whatnot. Don’t know if you like it.’

  Hillary didn’t either. It wasn’t something she’d normally try. ‘Considering the food in this place, I’ll take it,’ she said, and opened the bag for a rummage. ‘So, what’s the latest?’

  Mike drew up a chair and shrugged. He was wearing a pair of dark grey slacks, white shirt, and black leather jacket. With his thinning black hair and penetrating green eyes, she’d noticed all her other ward-mates giving him the sly once-over. Now they pretended to be reading or watching daytime TV.

  ‘I reckon your boss, Donleavy, is going to do a gloss-over on Raleigh,’ he said flatly. ‘Can’t blame him. Why give the press ammo? Apart from your mishap, it was a bloody good night.’

  Hillary grinned. She couldn’t help it. ‘Next time you get shot, I’ll come over and sit by your bedside and say the same.’

  Regis watched her nibble a hazelnut and smiled. ‘Seriously, I’m glad you’re all right.’

  ‘Seriously, so am I. So, how does it feel to have Fletcher out of the way?’ she asked curiously. As a Vice officer, Fletcher must have always been more of a thorn in his side than in most. She herself was glad the villain was off the streets, but she couldn’t help but wonder who’d be taking his place in the pecking order, and when. Still, during the vacuum, Vice should be able to make a good sweep of a lot of low-lives who’d be scuttling for cover and panicking now that the big kingpin was dead.

  ‘Don’t really know, to be honest,’ Mike said. ‘I think I’d have preferred to see him banged up. See how he liked to swap his swimming pool and his holiday villa in Marbella for a fourteen-foot cell and a toilet that doesn’t flush.’

  ‘But you’ll go to his funeral?’ she asked, biting down on a surprisingly chewy, but nice and sweet, sultana.

  ‘Oh yeah, I wouldn’t miss dancing on his grave for all the tea in China.’

  ‘Nice,’ Hillary said. ‘I think I’ve just cracked a tooth on a piece of barley. Do people really eat this stuff for pleasure?’

  Regis shrugged. ‘Beats me. I’m a pizza man myself.’

  ‘So, you any closer to figuring out exactly what went down that night? There seems to be some confusion,’ Hillary said, and Regis laughed bluntly.

  ‘You can say that again. Neither Col nor me can quite figure it out.’ Hillary had wondered where his sidekick, the ever-present, ever-quiet Colin Tanner was, but didn’t ask. It was just one less male to see her in her mother’s tent-like nightie.

  ‘We were upstairs when we heard the shots, the ones that must have killed Fletcher,’ Regis said. ‘We both headed for the stairs at a rate of knots, along with nearly every other TFI guy up there. Col was nearest the stairs first, and didn’t see anybody come out of the kitchen, where Fletcher got it. Not a TFI guy, not your guv’nor, and not the bloke who shot you.’

  ‘Brian Conroy?’

  ‘Right. They’re doing his PM now, by the way.’

  ‘That’s late.’

  ‘They’re backlogged. Fletcher’s was done yesterday.’

  Hillary shrugged. ‘Then Conroy must have got out the kitchen the moment he shot Fletcher, and you weren’t in time to see him.’

  ‘That blonde sergeant of yours was in the left front room. She says she saw movement, but thought it came from the room opposite.’

  Hillary frowned. ‘Is there access from the right-hand living room into the kitchen?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Hillary frowned. ‘Wait a minute. According to what Mel said, Raleigh and Ross were in the other living room, and went to the kitchen after they heard shots. That must have been what Janine saw.’

  ‘I didn’t see them, neither did Col. They must have moved bloody quick. Mind you, that boss of yours does have a tendency to jump the gun. But if you were in the house and heard gunshots, and you were unarmed, would you go rushing to see what was happening?’

  Hillary gave him the eagle eye. ‘You know damned bloody well I wouldn’t. And didn’t. Which is probably what got me shot! Now what does that say about life?’

  Regis grinned. ‘That sod’s law is alive and well?’

  * * *

  It was dark when Hillary looked up from the copy of The Mill on the Floss that she was reading, and saw Tommy Lynch. He was hesitating in the wide opening, a big bunch of lemon-coloured chrysanthemums in his hand.

  She was out of bed, having had yet another walk about and this time moving much easier and almost without pain, and she was now sitting in the chair beside her bed. She held up a hand so that he could spot her, and when he did, he smiled and came towards her.

  ‘Hello, guv. Mel told me you were seeing visitors.’

  He glanced down somewhat helplessly at the flowers in his hand, and a nurse spotted him and came to take them away. She smiled at him as she took the flowers, but Tommy didn’t seem to notice. Hillary would have to let it drop that the DS was due to get married in June. And that reminded her — she still hadn’t got them a wedding present yet.

  ‘Sit down.’ Hillary put the book away on the wheeled tray beside her bed, and watched him as he took a seat. He looked tired and drawn. When he sat down on the moulded plastic chair, he let his big hands drop between his splayed legs and leaned forward, an obvious sign of fatigue.

  ‘How’s the Dale case going?’ Hillary asked at once. ‘Any new developments?’

  Tommy nodded. ‘The guv made Janine acting SIO. First thing she did was pull Percy Matthews back in.’

  Hillary winced. Great going, Janine. No doubt Mel would have something to say about that.

  ‘You got anything else on him? Forensics?’

  ‘Nah, but the wife gave us permission to search the house. We spent all afternoon tossing the place, but there was nothing obvious. Janine kept at Percy and Mrs Matthews all afternoon, but they’re both sticking to it that they were in together all that night.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘And that’s all they’ll have to keep saying,’ she mused glumly. ‘It’s up to us to disprove it.’ If, indeed, there was anything to disprove. Rita Matthews letting them search the house was a fairly sure sign that she thought they had nothing to hide. Or that she was sure there’d be nothing for them to find — which was not quite the same thing. But somehow, Hillary just couldn’t see Percy Matthews as the culprit. He was not a doer, in her opinion, but a planner. An endless prevaricator. Still, she could be wrong.

  ‘Janine’s been out all afternoon questioning the neighbours, trying to break his alibi. Trouble is, with him living on that top road, he hasn’t really got neighbours to speak of,’ Tommy carried on. ‘The sarge is determined to interview everyone in the village. All the uniforms are complaining about having to do third and even fourth interviews again.’

  Hillary shrugged, but wasn’t about to criticize. She knew how Janine felt. This was her first time leading a case, and she wanted results, fast. Especially if Mel, the prat, had already given her the push. Her ego would be smarting, and her pride would demand even more that she close the case fast, just to show him and the brass that she had the smarts and could be trusted with more responsibility.

  The trouble was, Hillary was not at all sure that she was barking up the right tree.

  ‘Well, they’re letting me out of here tomorrow,’ she said, and nodded as Tommy looked surprised. ‘Need the bed, I reckon. Nowadays they get you out as quick as possible. I’ve got to have the district nurse in once every two days to change the dressing, but apart from that, and a really bad limp, I’m free and clear. They’re giving me enough painkillers to fell an elephant, so I’ll be OK.’

  ‘Won’t getting around on the boat be a bit of a hassle, though? The narrow steps down and all?’ Tomm
y asked

  Hillary shrugged. ‘Less room to fall over in,’ she said philosophically.

  * * *

  The next day, Hillary left hospital in a taxi. Getting down the narrow set of steps was a bit of a grind, but once settled inside, Hillary felt much better. To be surrounded by the familiar was wonderful. She made herself a cup of coffee just how she liked it (a real luxury after hospital java) and sat in the single armchair in the tiny living area and listened to the sounds of the canal.

  A blackbird was singing in the hawthorn right beside the boat, and across the canal on the other side, where a field of winter barley was growing, a skylark was competing. Even the sun was shining, and tomorrow the clocks went on, giving her another hour of light at night.

  All those hours, and nothing to fill them. She could take up watercolours, except she couldn’t paint for toffee. Pity, because the stand of bulrushes she could see out of her window across the way would make an ideal subject. She could catch up on her reading, of course — an English Lit major could never get enough books. Trouble was, you could only read for so many hours a day.

  The painkillers were doing a good job, and for someone who’d been shot only two nights ago, she was feeling fairly fit and relaxed. It was not as if she felt ill. She’d only been in the boat an hour, and already she could feel it closing in on her. And it had nothing to do with claustrophobia. No. It had to do with incipient boredom. By the time she’d fixed herself some beans on toast for tea, she knew she was going to go mad unless she could come up with some sort of plan of action for the next week or so.

  The trouble was — what could she do? If she went in to work, Janine would throw a fit and Mel would only chase her out again. Her eyes fell speculatively on the Dick Francis book in the shelves of classics. She could do something about that, she supposed. But that would mean notifying the brass. Raking up the scandal that was Ronnie Greene all over again. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be hanging over her any more. And since her credit as a ‘hero cop’ was running high, now might be a good time to tell the brass she’d miraculously discovered where her corrupt, late and totally unlamented hubby had stashed his million-plus in ill-gotten gains. Then she shook her head. Why rock the boat? Best just to ignore it.

  As darkness fell, she heard moaning coming from the next boat. Her neighbour on Willowsands was entertaining her latest. Nancy Walker, a very merry widow of uncertain age, liked her students young.

  It was all right for some, Hillary thought grumpily. She tried the TV, but it was all rubbish. Restlessly, she turned it off and finally thought about the night she was shot. Faced up to it, relived it, cried a bit, felt sick, had a slug of whisky, and got past it. She felt shaky, but better. She was now confident that she wouldn’t wake up with the sweats in the middle of the night. Better yet, she was fairly sure she hadn’t lost her nerve either, but couldn’t know for certain. And she’d never be certain until she faced physical danger again.

  Always something to look forward to.

  In the meantime, she’d forget about that particular sword of Damocles hanging over her head, and think about Luke Fletcher instead, and the way he died.

  And the more she thought about it, the more she didn’t like it. Things just didn’t add up.

  By the time she finally went to bed, she knew just how she was going to survive the boredom of her recuperation.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hillary took the bus into Oxford rather than drive herself, just to be safe. Although her side was still painful, she found she was able to manoeuvre on and off the boat with growing ease, and the bus presented her with no difficulties. Walking for any length of time tended to ratchet up the pain a bit, and she made a mental note to herself not to hoof it too much.

  Luckily for her, the internet café in St Giles wasn’t far from a bus stop, and she treated herself to their best blend of Brazilian as she surfed the net. She took a fresh notebook with her, and was glad, since she found that Jerome Raleigh had quite a few hits to his credit. Most of it consisted of newspaper reports of his busts back in London, but once or twice she found some good titbits about his social life. Surprisingly, she could find no trace of a previous marriage. A bachelor boy then, obviously, but only of the wolf variety, for she’d found several pictures of Raleigh taken at fairly high-profile social events, with a different and attractive woman on his arm each time. She made careful note of the women’s names, and details of the busts that had made the headlines.

  After a couple more hours of solid digging, she could see why the man was a superintendent at forty. He’d played the game well, and had obviously cultivated the right people carefully. With some perseverance (and a lot more coffee), she managed to trace his rise from humble police constable beginnings to his current position. And as she did so, making a scrupulous timeline as she went, a single fact began to stand out more and more.

  Raleigh had been born and bred in London. His father had been a solicitor at a large firm, his mother a dentist. He’d enjoyed all the privileges of a good, solid, middle-class upbringing, and had attended a local grammar school, following it with a degree from his local university in political science. Perhaps joining the police had been a surprising choice, but it was obvious right from the start that Jerome Raleigh had intended to go places. And go places he had. His rise to sergeant had been swift, following a brilliant showing at his Boards. A bare three years later and he made inspector. A long stint followed, with Raleigh logging up a good record of solved cases, but he’d also volunteered for several committees and high-profile initiatives that had been bound to get him noticed. His position as chief inspector had been all but a foregone conclusion. He never put a foot wrong as far as Hillary could tell, and none of his immediate superiors had anything but praise for him.

  So why, last year, had he made the sudden move to Thames Valley? Why would a Met man, born and bred, suddenly move out to Oxfordshire? He hadn’t pissed anybody off that she could tell; in fact, quite the opposite. Reading between the lines, an ACC seemed to have been grooming him to take on a superintendency in his own department.

  So why had he left? It wasn’t for more immediate promotion prospects, that was for sure. He had no family commitments. It wasn’t for more money. Burnout might be a possibility, but in that case, why go for a superintendency on one of the largest and most active forces in the country?

  The net was great, but it couldn’t tell her everything. After another two hours, Hillary walked slowly and carefully to the nearby South Park, opposite the red and white brick monstrosity that was Keble College, and found a quiet bench on which to think. Her only neighbour was a squirrel looking for a handout. Occasionally, mothers pushing well-wrapped toddlers in pushchairs went by.

  The more Hillary had learned about Raleigh, the more uneasy she had become. Now, taking out her mobile and her personal telephone diary, Hillary started making calls.

  Over the years she’d made friends and contacts in all sorts of places, both high and low, some of whom were living and working in London. One, a sergeant she’d trained up many years ago now, and was now a chief inspector in the Met, owed her more than a few favours, as did some snouts who would have crossed Jerome Raleigh’s patch.

  But after an hour of careful digging, Hillary was still none the wiser. Which could mean only one of two things — either all her sources were lying to her, or nobody really knew why Jerome Raleigh had left London. And she wasn’t paranoid enough yet to think that everyone knew something that she didn’t.

  As she sat on the park bench, shivering a little in the cold March afternoon sunshine, Hillary thought about the Fletcher raid. And the more she thought about it, the more something about it kept sending back to her the distinct whiff of something rotten.

  Well, at least she wasn’t bored.

  * * *

  Janine Tyler tried not to sound excited as she watched the man opposite her pull out a cigarette and light up. She was in a small cottage in the village of Lower Heyford’s main thorough
fare, Freehold Street, and had all but given up hope of finding anyone who could put Percy Matthews out and about on the night of the Dale killing.

  She’d done nothing all day but re-interview people who were all eager to please but unable to help. The murder of Malcolm Dale was still a matter of high interest, of course, and would be for years to come, if Janine knew villages, and everyone she met had a theory and wanted to try it out on her. Opinion seemed to favour Valerie Dale as the culprit, but only, it seemed, because most killings were done by spouses. Some favoured a political angle, although none could offer any real basis for this when challenged. Two old dears were convinced that animal rights fundamentalists had done him in because of his very public promise to get fox hunting re-established if he’d been selected to run as their MP, and Janine had given Frank the task of seeing if any of their local animal nutters could indeed have been responsible. He’d griped about it continuously since, so that was a definite bonus.

  But house after house, interview after interview, nobody believed Matthews could have done it. Loony but harmless was the general consensus when it came to the retired shoe salesman. And certainly nobody had seen him that night.

  Until now. Sitting opposite her, looking rather bleary-eyed because she’d woken him up, Oliver Rogerson puffed long and hard on his fag. ‘Been trying to give them up, but can’t. Wife keeps nagging me. Good job I work the night shift, otherwise I’d never get a drag.’

  Janine nodded. Rogerson worked as a night watchman on ‘The Camp,’ what Lower Heyfordians referred to as the now abandoned RAF/USAF air force base at Upper Heyford. Now it housed a giant car lot, and Rogerson patrolled it at night to prevent car thieves. Janine wondered how many hours he spent smoking around the back of his little cubby hole and how much patrolling he actually did. But she wasn’t about to carp. Not after what he’d just said.

  ‘So, just to make sure,’ she said, glancing at her notes. ‘You leave for work at six thirty p.m.?’

  ‘Right. Have my main meal at five — I cook it, ’cos the wife comes home from her job then.’