MURDER IN THE GARDEN a gripping crime mystery full of twists

by Faith Martin

  What a pity she just didn’t seem to care.

  ‘Sir?’ She met Donleavy’s gaze placidly.

  ‘We’ve received a complaint about you, Hillary,’ Marcus Donleavy said, coming straight to the point.

  ‘Oh?’ she asked mildly, and without curiosity.

  ‘From the parents of Gary Firth,’ Brian Vane took over smoothly, in what was obviously a prearranged move. ‘Have you just been over there to interview them?’ he demanded.

  Hillary met his gaze blankly. ‘I’ve never set eyes on Mrs Firth in my life, sir,’ she said, utterly truthfully.

  Vane blinked.

  ‘But you were over at their house just now?’ he pressed. ‘Don’t deny it — you were seen by two officers who were watching the Firth residence.’

  Hillary smiled. ‘I wasn’t about to deny it, sir. I spoke, very briefly, with Mr Firth, and then with a young lad, presumably a younger son.’

  Vane let out his breath in a slow, careful exhale. His brown eyes gleamed briefly. He might just as well have said Gotcha out loud. ‘You’ve no right to be anywhere near that residence, Detective Inspector Greene,’ Vane said severely, as Donleavy watched the interplay between them with growing concern.

  It was clear now that Vane had some kind of serious issue with Hillary Greene, and obviously didn’t like her, but, potentially catastrophic as that was, it was Hillary Greene’s reaction — or lack of it — that was worrying Donleavy far more.

  She seemed almost totally indifferent. And this was not a feigned indifference either, employed as a defensive measure to either enrage or disconcert her superior officer. ‘No, sir,’ she agreed placidly.

  Vane looked momentarily nonplussed by the admission. He shot a quick glance at Donleavy, who looked on, blank-faced.

  ‘I don’t want you interfering in any way with DCI Evans’s investigation. Is that clear?’ Vane said sharply, feeling as if, somehow, this situation was getting away from him. Greene was clearly in the wrong, but for some reason, it was he who was feeling discomfited.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Hillary said clearly.

  ‘Very well. In that case, so long as it’s clearly understood, I’d best be getting back to my office.’ Vane glanced at Donleavy, who nodded. He turned and held a hand out to Hillary for her to precede him. She’d just started to do so when Donleavy’s voice halted her.

  ‘Just a few quick words, DI Greene.’

  Hillary turned back. Vane carried on walking. Hillary let him get to the door before saying softly, ‘Sir, do you want me to pass on the information I gained from my visit to the Firth house this morning to DCI Evans and his team, or would you like to?’

  Donleavy quickly hid a smile by placing his hand over his mouth. Now this, he thought, with some relief, was more like it.

  Vane hesitated at the doorway. ‘What do you mean? What information?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Hillary smiled briefly. ‘According to the lad I talked to, Gary Firth has gone to Wales, riding pillion on the motorbike of a pal of his named Johnno Dix. Dix has a caravan somewhere down there. They intend to get up to some mischief or other, no doubt.’

  Vane hesitated, glanced at Donleavy, then nodded. ‘I’ll relay that to DCI Evans,’ he agreed. ‘Although I’m sure he and his team are already conversant with those facts.’ Hillary doubted it, and the look on her face said so. When the door slammed behind him, she turned back to Donleavy, who looked at her warily.

  ‘What’s the problem between you and Vane?’ he asked abruptly.

  Hillary looked at him levelly, and said quietly, ‘Are you sure you want to know, sir?’

  Marcus Donleavy thought about that for a moment, and then sighed. Obviously Hillary could handle the man, and whatever the problem was, it was bound to be something that could cause trouble. ‘Probably not,’ he said, without apology. Then his gaze sharpened.

  ‘You’ve been keeping well clear of Mel’s case so far,’ he said cautiously. ‘And it’s not like you to go off half-cocked like this. What on earth possessed you to go and talk to the Firths?’

  It was not an idle question, and they both knew it. Hillary was no fool, and knew that she was, to a certain extent, on unofficial probation here. Not only had she been standing next to her best friend and superior officer when he’d been shot and killed, she’d also been on leave for nearly two months. She was bound to come under close scrutiny until she’d proved to everyone’s satisfaction that she was back to her old self and fighting fit — both mentally and emotionally, as well as physically.

  The last thing she could afford to do was show signs of bad judgement.

  Hillary sighed heavily. Ever since she’d stepped into Donleavy’s office she knew he’d ask her that question, and she’d been deliberating the pros and cons of telling him the truth all the time she’d been dealing with Vane.

  On the one hand, instinct and loyalty said she should keep Janine’s name out of this. But Hillary hadn’t got where she was without learning a thing or two. And sometimes, you just simply had to cover your own arse. Besides, she trusted Donleavy — to a certain degree — and knew that, with Janine gradually getting more and more dangerous, she might just need some heavy hitter on her side in the near future.

  ‘I got a call from Janine Mallow, sir,’ Hillary said at last, making sure she let her reluctance show. After all, nobody liked a snitch. ‘She was going to go over to the Firth house to interview the family herself. Naturally, I talked her out of it, but I could only get her to agree to calm down if I promised to go and talk to them myself.’

  Donleavy sighed heavily. ‘And with good results by the sound of it. Damn. I’ve spoken to DI Mallow myself. I have to say, I got the impression that she could be rather unpredictable.’

  Hillary shrugged. ‘She’s pregnant, a widow, a serving police officer, and her husband’s killer is still wandering about as free as a bird. I think unpredictable is the best we can hope for. Sir.’

  It was a loud and clear warning, and Donleavy felt himself tense. DI Greene knew the woman well, of course, having been her commanding officer for several years. And if she saw fireworks ahead, then it was time to start ordering the asbestos suit.

  ‘I’ll have a discreet word with DCI Evans,’ Donleavy said quietly. ‘Tell him the situation, and be sure to explain that you’ll be acting as a brake and restraint on DI Mallow. It’ll keep him off your back if you have to wander on to his turf again.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Marcus nodded. In spite of all the unforeseen problems with Vane and Janine Mallow, Marcus Donleavy felt it was good to have Hillary Greene back in the saddle again, and obviously bearing up well. He’d been worried for a minute there that she was finding it a struggle to get back in the harness.

  At least that worry had finally been put to rest.

  ‘Try to keep the woman from doing anything dire, DI Greene,’ he said flatly.

  Hillary sighed. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate already.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said grimly.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The moment Hillary walked back into the large open-plan office she noticed that Gemma Fordham was back at her desk. She wondered, briefly, how the younger woman was going to handle it, now that they’d at last dragged everything out into the open. To say that things could be a bit awkward from now on was putting it mildly.

  Hillary gave a mental shrug, walked straight to her desk and sat down. ‘Keith, before I forget,’ she turned to Barrington, careful to keep her voice casual, ‘I want you to ask around in the Philpott circle of friends and family and see if there’s been any known trouble between Rachel and her father.’

  Barrington blinked. ‘Right, guv. But you don’t really rate her as a contender, do you?’

  Briefly, she explained the SOCO results of the fingerprints found on the spade handle. ‘Which means that it was either Rachel, the as yet unknown juvenile, or a killer who wore gloves. The last seems most likely at this point, I admit, which means that Eddie
Philpott’s murder was almost certainly premeditated,’ Hillary concluded. ‘I think it’s more than likely that the killer came prepared, and simply used the spade because it was already there and handy at the scene. Gemma,’ she turned and looked deliberately at her sergeant, ‘at some point, we need to take the Warner kids’ fingerprints.’ SOCO had probably taken Rachel Warner’s prints on the morning of the original call-out, but her children had been at school at that time.

  ‘I’ll get on it, guv,’ Gemma said, wooden-faced.

  ‘Guv, before I forget,’ Barrington said. ‘Rachel’s GP. I tracked him down, and he can either see us today, this afternoon at three thirty, when the afternoon surgery ends, or the day after tomorrow.’

  Hillary grunted and checked her watch. ‘We’d better get our skates on then,’ she said briskly.

  Gemma watched them leave, and slumped in her chair in relief. She was still reeling from the revelations piled on her by her boss, and was relieved to have some time to herself at the deserted island of desks.

  Frank Ross, as usual, was AWOL, but nobody cared about that.

  Now that she’d had some time to get over the initial shock, Gemma stared blankly down at her desk. Just what should she do now?

  Funnily enough, she believed Hillary Greene when she said that her late husband Ronnie’s dirty money was gone, and that another bent cop had found and taken it. On the face of it, it seemed such an unlikely story, but the alternative was that Hillary Greene knew its whereabouts and was intending to retire on it at some point to a nice sunny clime where extradition was a bit of a grey area.

  And that just didn’t fit with the woman she knew.

  So Gemma’s dream of her future was over. Gone. There’d be no independent wealthy lifestyle, free of a rich lover or husband. Of course, she still had her man, Guy. The blind music don drew in a healthy stipend from his college, and besides which, came from a well-heeled family and had investments galore. He would, Gemma knew, marry her on the spot if she indicated that she’d say yes, if asked.

  But was that really what she wanted?

  She sighed, and turned to stare out of the window at the uninspiring view of the vast car park. It was cloudy and dull, a bit like how she felt.

  Slowly her mind turned to what else Hillary Greene had told her in the ladies’ loo. With Frank Ross gone, she’d be the sole DS on Hillary’s team. And she also believed her boss when she’d promised to give Gemma more and more responsibility and kudos. Which meant that within another year, maybe two, she could sit her Boards for DI. And be confident of passing, and of Hillary Greene’s written recommendations for promotion into the next available position. Which could mean a nick many miles from here. And a brand-new start felt attractive right now.

  But could she hack it for another year or two? Knowing that Hillary Greene had been on to her from the moment she started work at Kidlington HQ and had always been one step ahead was seriously messing with her head. Shit, the older woman must have been laughing up her sleeve all the time that Gemma had been sneaking around, trying to get a handle on that bastard Ronnie Greene’s money.

  Just the thought of it made her burn with shame and humiliation.

  And yet Hillary had also hit the nail on the head when she’d warned Gemma that to ask for a transfer right now could do serious damage to her career. With Mel dead and Ross retiring, it would smack very much of a rat deserting a sinking ship. And with Hillary’s status at HQ never having been higher — given an award for bravery only last year, a murder clearance rate second to none, and now back after two months’ leave — Gemma would be universally hated if she asked for a transfer now.

  So, the only other option she had was to quit. Marry Guy and live a life of ease and comfort. Gemma gave a mental snort of bitter laugher. She could just imagine what her fireman father and all her fireman brothers would say about that! The teasing would never stop. No, she simply couldn’t quit. Apart from anything else, she’d be bored out of her skull within a month, living in Guy’s big house off the Woodstock Road.

  So the decision was really made for her. She’d stay, get her promotion, and move on.

  She supposed she was lucky really. If Hillary Greene had been a different sort of woman, she could have made Gemma’s life miserable. But during their devastating chat in the ladies’ loo, there’d been no hint of one-upmanship, no trace of triumph or hidden smirking glee in her superior officer. And somehow that fact only added to Gemma’s discomfort. She felt shabby and small, and she didn’t like it.

  Slowly, her chin lifted. Well, there’d be no running away from it, that was for sure. And the only way she could win back her self-respect and get back on target was to be the best damn sergeant Hillary Greene had ever had.

  With that in mind, she grabbed her coat and left the office.

  * * *

  Rachel’s GP was situated in Deddington’s health centre, and driving back through the pretty ironstone village recalled to Hillary’s mind an earlier case. It had been just outside this village that a young artist had been found dead in a beautiful flower-strewn water meadow. A case she’d been able to bring to a quick and successful conclusion.

  She only hoped she’d be able to do the same with her current case. It would send a clear and resounding message that she still had the old magic.

  But did she? Somewhere, lurking at the back of her mind, was the niggling feeling that she wasn’t operating at anything like her best. And to make matters worse, she had the not unfamiliar feeling that something somebody had said to her was mightily significant, and she was damned if she could think what it was. If she could only handle Mel’s death better than she was doing would she already know who had killed Eddie Philpott? But last night she’d tossed and turned for hours, and now felt tired and muzzy-headed. Maybe she shouldn’t be in charge of this investigation.

  Pushing aside such painful thoughts — after all, a crisis of confidence now would really put the kibosh on her work — she looked around as Barrington carefully parked her ancient Volkswagen Golf. The car park was virtually empty, and a faint flurry of rain suddenly splashed across the windscreen.

  ‘It’s going to get dark early tonight, guv,’ Barrington said, turning off the ignition.

  Hillary agreed, and after that, the two police officers walked in silence to the open surgery door. After Barrington had pressed a large pad on the inside corridor wall the inner door opened and Barrington approached the reception desk.

  ‘Hello. DC Barrington. We’re here to see Dr Scudamore-Blaire.’

  ‘Oh yes. Straight down the corridor, fourth on the left.’ The receptionist watched them pass her glass-fronted window with interested eyes, then turned to her fellow receptionist for a gossip. On a wet and miserable quiet Tuesday afternoon, a little piquancy was always welcome.

  Dr Martin Scudamore-Blaire was a tired-looking man in his early sixties, lean and rather desiccated in appearance. He checked both Hillary’s and Barrington’s IDs carefully, and smiled a brief welcome over his gold-rimmed spectacles.

  Hillary pulled up a chair, but Barrington preferred to sit on the edge of the high examination couch, where he pulled out his notebook and waited.

  ‘Doctor, thank you for seeing us. Constable Barrington explained the circumstances?’ Hillary began easily.

  ‘Yes. I have to say, Inspector, I’m not totally comfortable discussing a patient with you.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘I understand, Doctor. But as you know, Rachel Warner’s father has been brutally murdered.’

  ‘Yes, I treated her for shock at the time.’

  ‘I noticed that she looked very ill,’ Hillary said, deliberately vaguely.

  ‘That’s self-evident,’ the GP agreed cautiously.

  ‘Would I be right in thinking that it’s a very serious illness?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Terminal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’s aware of this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘Does
she have much time left?’

  Dr Scudamore-Blaire frowned. ‘I really don’t like talking about a patient, as I said.’

  ‘Six months?’ Hillary pressed calmly. The doctor’s grey eyebrows rose impatiently.

  ‘Less than six months? Four?’

  ‘Let’s just say you’re not far wrong,’ the GP agreed reluctantly.

  Hillary quickly decided that pressing for medical details would be futile, and deliberately changed her tone to one of sympathetic concern instead.

  ‘She explained to us that she’s a widow. So she must, I imagine, have been relying on her father to look after her children until they came of age?’

  Dr Scudamore-Blaire sighed heavily. ‘Yes. We talked about it not so long ago. And I was able to reassure her that her father was still a very fit and active man. After all, in this day and age, sixty-five can’t really be considered old. She seemed anxious to know if the authorities would be likely to leave her children in their grandfather’s care. I did my best to reassure her that they would.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘Her eldest, Julie, is already twelve, so she only has four years to go until she’s sixteen. And even if you consider that the boy has another six years to go until he is independent, Edward Philpott would still only have been seventy-one.’

  Yes, she thought, the social services probably would have consented to such an arrangement all right. What with fostering and care services stretched to breaking point, they’d probably have been only too happy to go along with such a neat and mutually agreeable solution.

  ‘Had Mr Philpott agreed to look after the children, do you know?’ Hillary asked, always liking to get her facts confirmed.

  ‘Oh yes. He doted on those two. They were his only grandchildren, you see. And having lived in his house for the last three years, he was used to having them around.’ The GP sighed grimly. ‘But now this had to happen.’

  Hillary shook her head. ‘The poor woman must be distraught,’ she said, with genuine pity now. ‘So what’s the alternative? Fostering?’