by Faith Martin
She reached for the hot-air hand dryer and banged the big silver button, deliberately turning her back on the younger woman in order to give her some much needed privacy. ‘Just think carefully about your options and don’t do anything rash. You’d be a fool to let wounded pride drive any decisions you might make.’
Hillary rubbed her hands together under the hot air, and wondered if, at this rate, she’d have any of her team left.
Mel was gone, and the hole he left was gaping like a bottomless well ready for her to tumble into the moment she put a foot wrong.
Frank Ross was going, which, although a cause for celebration, was also, in its own way, ringing in the end of an era.
Now, if Gemma Fordham decided to go too, she’d be left only with Barrington who, although keen and eager to learn, also had problems — and a secret of his own to deal with.
At this rate, she might be the only one left. The lone bloody ranger. Perfect.
She turned and walked from the ladies’ loo, leaving behind her a stricken and silent Gemma Fordham.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hillary walked slowly to her desk and slipped off her jacket. She sat down at her chair and checked her e-mails, then pulled out of her in-tray the first of the forensic reports to reach her desk.
It was a SOCO report on the murder weapon. As expected, the spade bore the prints of both the murder victim and his daughter Rachel, and also a set of prints belonging to an as yet unidentified individual — possibly Eddie Philpott’s grandson, Mark. With a pang she could picture the old man teaching the lad how to use the spade to dig up unwanted Brussels sprout plants or create trenches for the planting of new potatoes.
She made a note to get Gemma to oversee the taking of the children’s fingerprints for elimination, and frowned thoughtfully as her telephone rang.
The lack of any other prints on the spade was faintly puzzling for it probably meant that the killer had worn gloves. But from her memory of the murder scene that morning, the victim had almost certainly been working with the spade himself on the onion and leek patch, which indicated that the killer had probably grabbed the spade to use as the first convenient weapon to hand. But if that was the case, why had he or she been wearing gloves? The day hadn’t been a particularly cold one. Of course, either Rachel or her son could be the killer, but that seemed, on the face of it, vastly unlikely. A ten-year-old boy would almost certainly not have the upper body strength or height to be the culprit, and what possible motive could the victim’s obviously ill daughter have?
She picked up the receiver, still puzzling over the problem. Of course, the killer might have been wearing gloves simply because he or she had to. Some sensitive skin condition perhaps, or some unsightly blemish on the hands? She’d have to remember to tell the team to watch out for any such person they might come across in the course of the investigation.
‘DI Greene,’ she said automatically into the receiver.
Of course, she hadn’t actually seen Mark Warner yet — the lad might be exceptionally big and hefty for his age. But even if that turned out to be the case, why would he want to kill his granddad?
‘Hillary, it’s me, Janine. One of the rapists is missing.’
Hillary blinked, having to take a moment to switch her thoughts in mid-gallop. ‘The Myers case, you mean?’ she asked blankly, and heard Janine Mallow snort.
‘Of course the Myers case,’ she confirmed impatiently. ‘I just got word from somebody who’s keeping an eye on things for me. It’s the break everybody’s been waiting for,’ she confirmed, her voice hot and tight with excitement. ‘It’s got to be.’
‘Slow down a minute,’ Hillary warned instinctively.
Janine swore under her breath, but Hillary caught it. ‘It has to be Myers now, right?’ Janine Mallow pressed on. ‘I mean, with Gregg in hiding, the only targets he can get to now are the bastards who raped his girl. This blows the sniper killer copycat theory right out of the water.’
Hillary rubbed a hand across her aching forehead. DI Gregg had been in investigative charge of the rape of young Evelyn Myers, and ever since the case had collapsed, and Detective Superintendent Philip Mallow had been shot, he’d been transferred out of the region, on the top brass’s instructions, and was keeping his head down.
‘I’m going over there,’ she heard Janine say, and at once she tensed.
‘No! Janine, don’t be so stupid.’ Hillary realised she was almost shouting in her anxiety, and quickly lowered her voice. Even so, she knew those closest to her desk must have heard her. ‘Mel’s team are bound to already be on it. You need to keep out of it and let them do their job.’
‘They’ve been and gone,’ Janine shot back angrily, then muttered, ‘or so I heard.’
Hillary didn’t comment. She and Janine both knew that, officially, Janine wasn’t supposed to be involving herself in her husband’s murder investigation in any shape or form. But, of course, everyone also knew that the grieving widow had friends on the task force who were keeping her in the loop. Every copper had friends who knew the score, and Hillary herself could probably call on half a dozen or more of the Oxford-based officers who were working Mel’s case and confidently expect to get the low-down.
‘Then what’s the problem?’ Hillary hissed, casting a quick look around, but everyone was studiously ignoring her. Janine was still a working copper, and although she was on shortened hours, she was still pulling in a full salary from the Witney nick where she worked. If word got out that she was planning serious interference with the Myers case, she could find herself suspended.
‘I don’t trust any of those cack-handed know-nothings to get anything useful out of the little shit-heel’s parents, that’s the problem,’ Janine hissed back in her ear. She was sounding more and more uptight as the conversation wore on, which couldn’t be good for her blood pressure. And a five-months-pregnant woman needed to be careful.
It would be a tragedy upon a tragedy if Janine lost Mel’s baby now.
Hillary sighed. ‘Look, just sit tight. I’ll call around and try and have a quiet word. See if I can see how the land lies. All right?’
From the end of the line came a few seconds of silence, and then a soft sigh. ‘OK. Call me back as soon as you can.’ It had, of course, been what Janine had been hoping for, and they both knew it.
Hillary muttered a few words of promise and then hung up. The last thing she wanted to do was go over to Blackbird Leys, where all three lads accused of raping Evelyn Myers still lived. But if she didn’t, she knew her one-time sergeant was perfectly capable of barging round there herself and causing a huge cock-up, which was bound to come to the attention of the media and cause embarrassment all round.
She left her desk and went to the main stairwell, but instead of going down she climbed one flight to the canteen. There was something she needed to do first.
All coppers worked irregular hours, and she was fairly confident that she’d find someone on Mel’s squad up there at any time in the day, snatching late or early breakfast, lunch or tea. As she pushed into the large, airy room, the usual food and coffee smells assaulted her nose, making her feel vaguely nauseated. As she’d thought, a quick scan of the half-full tables showed her one DS Charlie Gimmeck, a man who’d entered the force at the same time as herself. They weren’t particularly close, but then, they didn’t need to be.
She got a plate of salad from the counter, then walked over casually to join the DS and the two DCs sitting with him. The moment Charlie spotted her he said something to the two younger men, who got up and just as casually strolled away.
‘Hey, Charlie,’ Hillary said, putting down her plate. Charlie was a portly, genial-looking man who could sometimes have a nasty temper, and had a reputation for coming up with surprising insights that his so-called more able, higher-ranking colleagues missed. As a choice for Mel’s case, he’d been inspired. Although he’d known Mel, he’d never worked under him nor could he be said to be a pal, so wouldn’t be likely to have any emot
ional or psychological problems working on his murder. He also knew the area thoroughly, was known to be able to graft for long periods of time, and had no axe to grind with the Met man who was in charge.
‘Hillary,’ he responded amiably.
‘I heard that one of the Myers rapists had gone missing,’ she said very quietly, making no attempt to slide into the matter gracefully. They both knew why she was here, and they both knew Charlie was going to spill his guts.
So far, Hillary Greene had given Mel’s case a wide berth — something that had both pleased and just ever so slightly puzzled the top brass. It was also something of a cause of speculation amongst the Oxford-based element, who knew Hillary and her reputation well. Now that she was at last calling in some markers, it made Charlie Gimmeck feel almost relieved.
‘Right. Gary Firth. The chief instigator,’ he confirmed at once.
Hillary’s face tightened. It was well known that the sixteen-year-old Gary had been the only one to have actually forced sexual intercourse with the fifteen-year-old Evelyn Myers on that night, although two other, younger boys had been present to egg him on.
‘Reported missing late yesterday afternoon,’ Charlie carried on, glancing around. Probably everyone in the canteen knew what was happening, but everybody was very carefully paying attention to eating their food or talking to each other, or looking out of the window. ‘According to the parents, he gave them no warning he was going off, although scuttlebutt has it that the little scrote very often goes off for days at a time before coming back with dosh, booze or electrical equipment that he can’t account for.’
Hillary nodded. ‘And Myers?’
‘Was under surveillance the whole time,’ Charlie said positively. Hillary, who’d been listlessly pushing a tomato around her plate, looked up sharply at that.
‘Reliable?’
‘Hell yes! The teams watching him even have photos of him fiddling around with his lawn mower at the time Gary Firth was last seen leaving his parents’ house. Whatever happened to him, Myers had nothing to do with it.’
Unless he has an accomplice, Hillary thought, but didn’t say.
‘So the team think Firth’s just doing one of his usual thieving walkabouts?’
Charlie nodded. ‘That’s the guv’s thinking at the moment,’ he confirmed.
Hillary smiled, pushed her plate away, and murmured her thanks. Charlie watched her go thoughtfully. He knew that a young DC way down the pecking order was Janine Mallow’s pet, and had almost certainly reported to the widow by now. Unless he was totally losing his touch, he reckoned she’d then got straight on to her old boss, and demanded some action. He’d had to interview Janine Mallow on a few occasions before now, and guessed she could be volatile if not handled carefully.
He could only hope that she didn’t land Hillary Greene in too much trouble.
* * *
Hillary parked in a park-and-ride service a long way from the notorious Oxford estate and took the bus into town. She not only didn’t want her car stolen by the roving gangs who saw any parked car as a source of scrap, she also didn’t want her number plate noted and marked down by any plainclothes men who might still be hanging around.
She took the back roads on foot, and approached the house of Gary Firth’s parents from the rear. As she walked up the back garden path, strewn with the usual decorations of dog shit, perennial weeds and scattered car engine parts, she felt her chest tightening.
She knocked on the door and heard a huge dog, somewhere inside, set up a ferocious barking. It was probably an illegal pit bull, for the Firths and several other families around here were well known to be a part of the illegal dog-fighting fraternity.
She braced herself as, after some moments, the door opened. A man stood there, dressed in baggy brown trousers and a dirty vest. Unshaved and bleary-eyed, his pale blue eyes narrowed on her aggressively.
‘What the hell do you want?’ he barked. ‘I work nights, and I’m trying to get some sleep. Been bloody impossible today, I can tell you. You better not be trying to sell me something. And if you’re one of them bloody Jehovah’s Witnesses I’m setting the dog on you.’
Hillary smiled grimly. ‘None of the above, sir,’ she said pleasantly, reaching for her card, using a well-placed thumb to hide her actual name from sight. She felt her heartbeat rocket as he reached out and snatched it from her, scrutinizing it carefully.
‘Another one of you bloody lot. I’ve had you here all morning. Why don’t you just sod off?’
Hillary held out her hand for her card, and refused to wince as he slammed it down into her palm.
‘You don’t seem overly concerned about your missing son, sir,’ she said, again mildly.
‘Little sod’s just gone off, ain’t he?’ the boy’s father — or maybe stepfather or even ‘uncle’ — said flatly. ‘He’ll be back when he’s ready.’
Behind him, she could see a young lad’s face peering around an interior door.
‘Do you have any idea where he may have gone, sir? A friend’s place, perhaps, or a dossing-down site he likes to use?’
The man grunted and closed the door in her face. Through the wood she could hear him swearing profusely, and heard a female voice reply. She guessed it was Gary Firth’s mother, likely the one with enough sense to have called in his disappearance given the Myers situation, but Hillary knew knocking again to speak to her would be a waste of time. She sighed and turned, walking back up the path, but as she reached the gate, she heard the door behind her open again.
A young lad of about fourteen or so came through the door. Reaching behind a brown and a green wheelie bin, he emerged with a top-of-the-range mountain bike that was far too big for him. Cynically, she wondered where Gary Firth or his father had stolen it.
‘Hey,’ she said in greeting as he headed up the path towards her, wheeling the bike carefully. The boy shot her a quick, knowing glance.
‘You’re wasting your time back there,’ the boy said, both his words and his world-weary attitude those of a much older individual. But then, Hillary supposed, growing up as a Firth on this estate probably made for a very short childhood indeed. If any.
‘Dad won’t say nothing, even if he was really worried, which he ain’t. Speaking to the coppers will get him a thrashing see?’
Hillary nodded, not bothering to ask who’d be doing the thrashing. It would have been pointless.
‘Besides, Gary’s all right,’ the boy said, nodding at the gate. Obligingly, Hillary opened it, stepping to one side to let him pass.
‘Glad to hear it,’ she said, not altogether truthfully, it had to be said. ‘And you’re sure of that, are you?’
‘Oh yeah,’ the boy said, sounding amused. ‘I heard him on the phone to Johnno Dix night before last. Johnno’s got this motorbike, and he called round for Gary yesterday morning. I was still in bed, but I heard ’em talking underneath me window, like. Johnno’s gonna take Gary down to Wales to some poxy caravan his old man’s got down there. Gonna buy some porn and pull a few jobs.’
The boy shrugged, climbed on to his expensive mountain bike, and, with some difficulty, got one foot on a pedal. Hillary wondered what Gary Firth had done to piss off his little brother so much. It must have been something pretty dire for him to shop him to the cops. But then, sibling rivalry was a bitch.
‘Hey, you tell the other coppers this?’ she asked, before he could make off.
‘Nah. Wasn’t here then,’ the boy tossed casually over his shoulder and, standing up on the pedals — since his arse couldn’t reach the saddle — he shot off.
She got the bus back to the park and ride, wondering whether Mel’s squad had managed to get the information of Gary Firth’s probable whereabouts from anyone else. But it seemed unlikely, since they’d hardly be the kind to talk to the cops. So, the chances were, she was in possession of knowledge that Mel’s team didn’t have. Of course, the little sod on the mountain bike might just have been feeding her a line. Winding up the cops and setti
ng them on a wild goose chase probably passed for entertainment in the Firth family circle.
She sighed as she pulled into HQ and climbed the stairs wearily back to her office. She’d been gone for less than an hour, and didn’t need to phone Janine yet. She was just heading towards her desk when Danvers caught her eye from his cubicle and beckoned her over.
She knocked on his door and walked in.
‘Hillary. Glad I caught you. I’ve got Frank’s papers.’ He reached into his tray and withdrew a slim beige folder. ‘All he needs to do is sign. I’ve had a word with the admin and pensions people, and they’ll make sure it’s plain sailing.’ He grinned widely. ‘None of them wanted to put any obstacles in the way of finally getting rid of him.’
Hillary smiled her thanks and took the papers. She was just turning to the door when her DCI’s desk phone rang. She stepped through and was turning to shut the door behind her when Danvers said sharply, ‘Hang on,’ and she paused, raising an eyebrow in query.
‘Yes, sir, she’s just here now,’ Danvers said, lifting a finger to detain her. ‘I’ll send her right up,’ he added. He hung up and met her eye thoughtfully.
‘Donleavy wants to see you in his office.’
* * *
Hillary smiled a brief greeting at Donleavy’s secretary as she walked past her desk, then knocked briefly on his door and received a curt invitation to come in. She shot the secretary a quick look, and because of the way the normally friendly woman avoided her eyes, felt her heart sink.
Not a friendly call then.
When she opened the door and walked in, her eyes went straight to the man rising to his feet in front of the detective chief superintendent’s desk and, with a distinct sense of déjà vu, she felt her face smooth out into blank insolence.
Brian Vane watched her approach with a tight look of his own. Marcus Donleavy didn’t rise, and didn’t indicate the chair next to Vane’s own for her to sit down, either. The unusual lack of courtesy amused Hillary more than anything. She really was in the dog house about something.