by Faith Martin
‘Boss,’ Janine said impatiently, wondering what Hillary was waiting for. She had handcuffs looped to her belt, ready and waiting. Hillary held a hand out to silence her.
‘Mr Matthews, you’re telling me that you’ve been plotting to murder Mr Dale for some time now?’ Hillary asked calmly.
‘Arr. But it’s not easy, see, not as easy as some people think,’ Percy sighed. ‘Thing is, you read all these whodunits that they have in the library van, or watch them on telly – Inspector Morse and whatnot – and you get the idea that it’s easy to kill somebody. I know I did. But really, when it comes right down to it, it ain’t,’ Percy explained in deadly earnest. ‘You have to do no end of research, and planning, and more often than not, just when you get a really good plan up and working, something scuppers it.’
Hillary nodded, but her eyes were on Rita Matthews once more. Slowly, as if aware of her gaze, the old woman turned around, then moved across to the armchair and sank down. ‘Don’t listen to him, love,’ she said tiredly. ‘He’s just a daft old fool. All talk and no trousers, that’s him. Surely you can see that?’
Beside her, Percy stiffened in outrage, then scrambled to his feet, his face flushed. ‘What do you know about it, eh? I’ll get him yet, you just wait and see.’
‘Mr Matthews, Malcolm Dale was murdered last night,’ Hillary said quietly, and watched as all the colour drained from the old man’s face.
‘What? What?’ he said. Then scowled ferociously. ‘You mean someone else got to him first?’ Again his voice rose to a squeak. ‘That’s not fair!’ And he all but stamped his foot in frustration.
Janine, who’d leapt from the sofa at the same time as Percy had, now walked slowly towards him, keeping her eyes fixed on him all the time. Hillary simply sighed.
This was bad. Really bad. The trouble with mental cases like Percy Matthews was, there was no way a cop could win. In her own mind, she was almost sure that Percy was the kind who endlessly planned and talked and did nothing. But if she didn’t take him in, and it later turned out that he really had killed Dale, then everyone from the media to the chief constable, from Mel down to her own mother, would ask her how the hell she could have been so stupid and not arrested him on the spot. On the other hand, if she did take him in, only for the police shrink to write him off as a fantasist, the press could get hold of it and ask how the unfeeling brutes at Thames Valley could victimize such an obviously confused and addled old boy.
So here it was – good old Catch 22. And here she was, right in the bloody middle, as always.
‘Mr Matthews, where were you last night?’ she asked abruptly, surprising the old man in mid-flow. He stopped his swearing, complaining monologue on how the world was against him, and stared at her. He blinked. ‘Last night? Well, I was here, wasn’t I? All night, with the wife, watching telly.’
Janine didn’t even bother to write that down, and when Hillary glanced at Rita Matthews, she just caught the tail end of the surprised look she gave him.
Now what?
The thing was, she really had no choice other than to take him in, at least for questioning. Once at HQ they could take his prints, and if they matched the as-yet-anonymous set taken from the Dales’ kitchen, then at least they’d have good enough grounds to hold him. Nevertheless, she’d have bet her next month’s salary that this man had never so much as set foot in the Dale house.
‘Mr Matthews, I’m going to ask you to come with me to Kidlington. It’s nothing to worry about,’ she added firmly, as Rita Matthews suddenly sprang to her feet, for the first time a look of real alarm leaping to her face. ‘I just need to take a formal statement from you both, and then take Mr Matthews’ fingerprints, strictly for elimination purposes.’
She quickly shook her head at Janine, who was reaching behind her for the cuffs. ‘Do you have someone you’d like to call?’ she asked Rita, who looked back at her blankly. ‘One of your children, perhaps?’
‘No,’ she said shortly.
Hillary nodded. ‘Right, then, let’s go.’
Back at headquarters, she split them up. Outside the interview rooms, she nodded to Janine. ‘You take Mr Matthews to room two. I’ll take Mrs Matthews in here.’ She wanted, if she could, to track down the source of that surprised look she’d given her husband when he’d claimed they’d been together all last night. ‘Get Mr Matthews fingerprinted,’ she added, ‘and ask Mr Stevens to sit in with you.’ Roger Stevens was a psychologist who consulted for them.
Janine grimaced but nodded and reached for her mobile to bring him in.
Hillary stepped into the interview room where Mrs Matthews was waiting and glanced at her watch. It was already nearly two. They’d have to feed them both. ‘Please, have a seat Mrs Matthews, I won’t be a moment,’ Hillary said. She left the old woman, still dressed in her pinafore, with a friendly-faced WPC to keep an eye on her, then nipped upstairs to find Mel.
Her old friend and immediate superior listened grave-faced as she outlined the latest developments. He didn’t need the pitfalls outlining to him either, and when she’d finished, sighed heavily. ‘Don’t arrest him until you get Stevens’ assessment of the old man’s mental state, and the results of the fingerprints through,’ he ordered curtly.
Hillary nodded, and was about to go when Mel called her back. ‘What’s your gut feeling about him?’
Hillary grimaced. ‘I just don’t see it, Mel. He’s hoarded up his hatred like a miser hoards his gold, but I think he gets too much pleasure plotting and planning and gloating over the idea of killing Dale to ever actually go ahead and do it. And I’m not happy about the state of his hands.’ Briefly she told him about what she suspected about his arthritis, and Mel agreed with her that they should get a medical opinion concerning the strength and flexibility of his hands as quickly as possible.
‘He got any form?’ Mel asked hopefully.
‘Not a whisper.’
Mel grunted, and Hillary left.
‘So, you’re sticking to it that you and your husband were together all last night?’ Hillary repeated, half an hour later, as Rita Matthews drained the last sip of tea from her mug and reached for the plastic triangle of sandwiches Hillary had ordered for her from the canteen.
‘Like I said, we had our tea – it was Welsh rarebit and tinned peaches, then watched that Weakest Link thing that Percy’s so damned fond of. Then I did some knitting, while he watched the gogglebox. Some sort of soap, don’t ask me, I don’t watch ’em. I made some cocoa about nine, and we were in bed by ten, our usual time.’
She spoke with a doggedness that alone made Hillary suspicious. She wondered how much of this would match with what Janine was being told next door by Percy Matthews. Depressingly, she thought that probably a lot of it would. The Welsh rarebit, for instance. The cocoa. That all sounded genuine enough. But the bit in between?
The trouble was, the Matthews had one of those sorts of alibis that meant nothing, but, on the other hand, sounded so reasonable when outlined in a court of law. It was particularly frustrating because Hillary was sure that Rita Matthews was lying about something.
Of course, it might not even relate to her murder case. Hillary knew that people lied to the police all the time – it didn’t make them killers. Rita was probably used to protecting her daffy husband from the consequences of his own actions. Perhaps she was worried that the social workers might put him in a home if it came to light how mentally ill he was. In which case, Rita’s reticence might indicate nothing more than general caution on her part. Which, whilst understandable, was not something that a copper investigating a murder needed!
They were forced to call a halt at three. Roger Stevens, having sat in on the Percy Matthews interview, was not at all happy about his continued questioning, and asked to speak to Hillary.
‘The thing is, Inspector Greene,’ Stevens told her outside in the corridor, ‘I suspect Mrs Matthews has probably been her husband’s keeper for some time. He’s not senile, exactly, but he’s not far off eith
er. I’d be inclined to take any confession he might make with a large grain of salt. Not that he’s confessed to anything yet, but I can see he might well be working his way up to it.’
It was all very much as Hillary had feared.
‘I need to have a quick word with Mrs Matthews, just to see how long her husband’s been going downhill,’ the psychologist added, ‘and get some sort of idea about the dynamics of their relationship. I should be able to give you a better idea of what’s what after that.’
The moment the psychologist went in to see Rita Matthews, and had shut the door firmly behind him, Janine went on the attack.
‘Come on, boss, the man’s as nutty as a fruitcake. By his own admission, he’s been stalking Dale for years. He has motive, and no way you’re going to tell me the wife isn’t covering up for him. If he was in all night watching telly, then I’m a Dutchman’s uncle.’
Hillary sighed heavily. ‘Do his fingerprints match the ones we found in Dale’s kitchen?’
Janine’s glare faltered. ‘Well, no. But that doesn’t mean anything. Even a fruitcake knows enough to wear gloves these days. Come on, boss, you can’t just let him walk!’
‘Janine, the press will crucify us if we get it wrong. Look, I’ll tell you what. See if you can get a search warrant for the Matthews’ place. If we can come up with a murder weapon, forensics, anything solid that’ll link him to the killing, I’ll feel a lot happier. Until we do, we’re not arresting him and that’s that.’
Janine nodded and went off, glad to have something positive to do, but Hillary had the nasty feeling that she was going to complain to Mel behind her back, maybe even try and persuade him around to her way of thinking. Hillary wished her the best of British luck. It was one thing for gung-ho sergeants to go rushing in where angels feared to tread, but those who had to take the backlash if things went wrong were a different breed altogether.
For now, though, the extraordinary Matthews pair would have to be left to simmer.
chapter six
* * *
Tommy got in a few minutes later and headed for his desk. He listened with a worried frown as Hillary filled him in on the latest development with Percy and Rita Matthews, and its possible repercussions, then wondered aloud if Janine would have any luck with the search warrant. During his time, he’d had to apply for many warrants, and the grounds for this one sounded perilously slim to him.
‘I’m not exactly holding my breath with anticipation,’ Hillary agreed glumly, then added firmly, ‘But you’ve brought me better news, right?’
Tommy nodded, opening his notebook and arranging his thoughts.
He was a big man, standing well over six feet, and had done a fair bit of running during his college days. He knew his dark skin and level gaze made many people uncomfortable – most of them his fellow cops. With villains, the appearance of Tommy Lynch on their patch was hardly a cause for celebration either, but rather for colourful and mostly racial comments – usually said from a great distance, for his speed was well known. But for all that, there was no noticeable chip on his shoulder, which Hillary, for one, greatly appreciated.
‘Valerie Dale did have a flat, guv,’ he said at once. ‘I talked to her this morning, and she pinpointed the place easily – it was just on the hill, as you come into Adderbury. Another couple of hundred yards or so and she’d have made it to Mrs Babcock’s front door. I found evidence of where a car had pulled in, and flattened grass where a tyre might have laid. Better than that, the spot was overlooked by two houses. In one, nobody was in, but in the other, I found a bloke who does the nightshift. He was going out the night in question, heading for work, and remembered seeing a car pulled up and a woman changing the wheel. His description was fairly spot on for Valerie Dale.’
Hillary sighed. ‘He give a time?’
‘Fits in with Valerie Dale’s statement, guv,’ Tommy said.
‘OK. So, it’s looking less and less likely it was the wife. Course, she could still have bopped hubby over the head before she went out – but that puts time of death right at the early outer limit. I want you to chase up Frank – see if he can find anyone who can confirm what time Valerie Dale left that night.’
Tommy grimaced. ‘Trouble is, it would have been dark, guv,’ he said, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘Hardly anybody out walking their dog, and most people would have got home and been putting their feet up in front of the telly round about the time in question.’
Hillary nodded. ‘I know. But try it anyway.’ She didn’t add that that should already have been covered by Frank – that went without saying. She glanced at Frank Ross’s empty seat and desk, and wondered when he’d surface. She was pretty sure he would have set up almost permanent residence in The Bell by now – Lower Heyford’s only pub. Still, while he was in there rotting his liver, he wasn’t getting in her hair, so she could hardly complain.
‘Forensics in yet, guv?’ Tommy asked.
Hillary nodded, and tossed over a thick document. ‘Nothing much we didn’t already know. The shower had showed signs of recent use, but not, they reckon, within a few hours of our vic dying, so if Valerie did kill her husband before leaving, she didn’t shower afterwards. And there’s nothing suspicious in the washbasin or U-bend. So the killer must have cleaned up somewhere else.’
‘Not looking like the wife, is it?’ Tommy muttered.
‘No, it’s not,’ Hillary agreed. ‘Forensics found evidence of car tracks on the roadway, but only the Dales’ own. So the killer either parked up on one of the village roads, or they walked.’
Percy Matthews could have walked it easy, and although his cottage was at the top end of the village, and the Dales lived in the valley, it would have been dark, as Tommy had pointed out. And he could have kept to the shadows between the street lighting, if anyone had been about.
She re-read the pathologist’s report, but it was all very much as Doc Partridge had said at the scene – Malcolm Dale had died as the result of several blows to the head with a heavy, rounded implement. Apart from that, he’d been relatively healthy, although the pathologist had marked him down as a heavy drinker from the state of his liver, and noted that he was headed towards clinical obesity. So no surprises there.
Fed up with reading reports and getting no further forward, Hillary reached for her jacket. ‘Come on, Tommy, I want to re-interview Marcia Brock. I’m sure she’s got more to tell us.’
Tommy drove to Witney, a small smile on his face. He was out alone with the guv, and the sun was shining, even if a cold wind was blowing. They were on the hunt for a killer, and he was sure he’d done well on his sergeant’s boards. He was also sure Hillary Greene would give him glowing reports. Who knows, by the time his wedding came around, he might be pulling in a sergeant’s pay. The only thing was, with two sergeants already on her team (even if Frank Ross hardly counted), he couldn’t see Mel keeping him on with Hillary. Far more likely he’d move him somewhere else, and assign another fledgling DC for Hillary to train up. She was known to be good at it – having both patience and the gift of imparting knowledge.
The logical part of him told him that this state of affairs would probably be a good thing. Jean, his fiancée, was the only woman he’d slept with in years, and he had no doubts that marrying her would be good for them both. And he wanted kids. Pining after his boss was just plain stupid.
‘This is it – the semi, here,’ Hillary said, jerking him out of his morose thoughts and bringing his foot to the brake.
Marcia Brock opened the door after the first ring, and took a surprised step back when she saw Tommy standing on her doorstep. Then she spotted Hillary behind him, and her shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, you said you’d be back,’ the campaign secretary acknowledged, standing to one side and trying to summon up a smile. ‘I just didn’t expect you back so soon.’
‘The first few days in any inquiry are vital, Ms Brock,’ Hillary said, and introduced Tommy. Marcia nodded without interest, and Hillary thought that Janine’s snap judgement abo
ut this witness’s sexual preferences were probably spot on. Not that it mattered to Hillary – unless it somehow impinged on the case. And since, somehow, she couldn’t see Marcia Brock and Valerie Dale as illicit lovers plotting to get rid of the unwanted male in their lives, namely Malcolm Dale, Hillary simply gave a mental shrug.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ Once more Marcia showed them into the kitchen, rather than the living area, and Hillary took her seat once more at the small table.
‘Coffee would be fine. Any luck at the job centre?’ she asked.
Marcia shrugged. ‘Sure, if I want to spend five months stocking shelves at Tesco’s or driving the home-delivery van for Iceland. Oh yeah, or working in a bakery.’
Hillary smiled. ‘I’d take the bakery job in a heartbeat.’ The thought of free chocolate eclairs was enough to corrupt any copper off the straight and narrow.
Marcia Brock managed a wry laugh, and returned with three steaming mugs which she set down, with some spillage, on to the table. She pushed the sugar bowl towards Tommy, who smiled but ignored it.
‘Well, we have a much better picture of our victim now,’ Hillary began, ‘but we’re still searching for things in his private life that might have led to his murder.’
Marcia gave a tight smile. ‘He hasn’t been fiddling the books at the shop then?’
Hillary, who had yet to read the reports from the constables who’d been assigned to check out Sporting Chance, shook her head. ‘Can’t go into details, I’m afraid. But I got the distinct feeling, the last time we spoke, that you were, shall we say, being somewhat less than fully candid with me?’ She let her voice drift up at the end, making it a question, and watched as Marcia’s hands tightened around her mug. The younger woman kept her head firmly bowed over it, then blew on her coffee, and finally shrugged. ‘I told you everything I know.’