by Faith Martin
Hillary, for one, didn’t need telling twice.
* * *
She awoke the next day convinced that things could only get better. When she arrived at work, the desk sergeant gave her such a cheerful welcome she actually wondered if something had broken during the night.
‘Hear the Yorkie Bars are trying to find a nice deep hole to crawl in,’ he said, and Hillary grinned, albeit a little hollowly. Oh. So that was it. Her humiliation yesterday had turned into triumph. No doubt the whole damned Big House was having a quiet party.
‘I take it forensics came through on the dabs,’ she said, knowing that the desk sergeant was the one person in the station who knew everything about everybody on every case. Forget the omnipotence of the chief constable. If you really want to be in the know, ask the man on the desk.
‘Sure did. The Pits, The Pits, and nothing but The Pits.’ The desk sergeant winked at her.
Hillary was still grinning when she walked into the office, but the sight of Curtis Smith and Paul Danvers seated at her desk, the blond bombshell comfortably reading the morning paper, his sergeant nosing through her drawers, wiped the grin right back off.
‘Gentlemen,’ she said dryly. She walked up to them, slung her bag under the desk, and spun her office chair, Curtis Smith and all, around to face her. ‘Off,’ she said simply.
The sergeant got off, looking rather more amiable than he had yesterday, and pulled up another chair to bring him into line beside his boss.
‘We’ve come to tell you the line-up is off,’ Paul said. He was senior, after all, so when it came to doing the dirty he did it, even if he blamed Curtis for yesterday’s cock-up. He hadn’t wanted to go chasing after Hillary Greene in the first place. But here he was, eating humble pie.
‘Yeah. A hundred and sixty-two grand ain’t nothing like the sum we figure your ex has squirreled away somewhere,’ Curtis put in, watching her closely.
He’d had all night to get over his fury of yesterday’s debacle, and was once again thinking clearly. He still wanted to nail her, but was beginning to think it wouldn’t be that easy. Hell, in fact he was beginning to come around to Paul’s way of thinking. If Hillary Greene was dirty, he certainly wasn’t getting the right vibes about it. He liked to think he was fair, and persecuting innocent coppers was as abhorrent to him as it was to the next bloke.
OK, she’d pulled a fast one yesterday. She could easily have said what she’d been doing in that outhouse with all that money and cleared it up within moments, but he could understand why she hadn’t. If she was innocent, she had a right to be pissed off at being treated like dirt, and getting her own back was only fair dos.
Still. She might still be dirty.
Hillary smiled. ‘Is that so? Your wit not quite so hot, hmm?’
‘We’re getting evidence coming in that your husband planned on retiring soon. No doubt to spend, spend, spend on the Costa Brava somewhere.’
Curtis carried on, ignoring the snickering that was going on behind him. He knew damned well that all the ears in the office were flapping, just waiting for them to make another stinker, but he was damned if that was going to stop him doing his job. ‘So what was the plan? Stay on here a few more years yourself, maybe even see the divorce through as a nice little smokescreen, then meet up with him later?’
Hillary leaned back. ‘Oh, please. The Costa Brava? Give us some credit. We had figured on the Seychelles at the very least.’
Paul Danvers grinned. He couldn’t help it. He glanced at Curtis, who was also, he knew from experience, trying to keep from smiling. The lady had style.
‘We’ll be in touch, DI Greene,’ Curtis said mildly.
‘Oh, be still my beating heart,’ Hillary drawled, and Paul found himself wishing that she meant it. He still thought it would be awfully nice to make DI Greene’s heart really race.
Hillary watched them go, wondering if those last words of the sergeant’s really meant that it was all over, and that they were finally giving up, or if he was just yanking her chain.
* * *
Mel watched the two Yorkie Bars retreat. He walked over to Hillary, nodding at their departing backs. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Fine,’ she said crisply. ‘I think they’re giving up.’
She felt drained all of a sudden. A feeling of lethargy, something that had never before attacked her in the middle of a case, washed over her.
It scared her.
She’d always had moments in between major cases when she got bored and tired, that old familiar is-this-all-worth-it feeling nibbling at her toes, but when it came this hard and fast while she was nowhere near finding a solution to her case, what did that mean?
Perhaps it was time to quit.
Tommy felt his stomach lurch at the sudden bleakness in Hillary’s eyes. He could see it clearly from his chair. He swallowed hard. Surely it would go soon? Yes, it had. Her shoulders were straightening, and she was forcing a smile, just as he knew she always would. She was tough. It would take more than the Yorkie Bars to keep her down.
But what about the rest? The looming, hulking great shadow that was that bastard of a husband of hers was still making her life miserable even now that he was dead and buried. Then there was Mel and Mike Regis constantly taking her work over, as if she were some damned green PC who needed constant supervision. And everyone knew she hated living on the boat. Until her solicitors got her husband’s finances sorted and the Yorkie Bars put in their final report, she was in limbo. She couldn’t even move back into her house.
Wouldn’t anybody buckle under all that pressure?
He thought about what life would be like if she quit, and the thought of Frank Ross’s glee, Janine’s quiet, well-hidden relief, and the dull acceptance of all the others that yet another cop had succumbed to burn-out only made his own expression as bleak as midwinter.
He turned back to his desk and stared hard at his computer screen.
* * *
‘Janine, a word,’ Mel said, when the sergeant walked through the door an hour later. Her shift started a little later than his own, and he’d been casting quick glances at the door all morning.
Janine slung her bag on her desk but made no move to join him halfway across the room.
‘Yes, sir?’ she said formally, as he approached.
Mel glanced around nervously. This was not what he had planned. ‘I was wondering if you felt like dinner tonight. I thought that place up in Summertown. You know, that fancy French place. I’ve been longing for an excuse to try it out.’
He spoke almost in a whisper, and it put her hackles up. Hell, if he was so anxious for people not to know about them, why take her out at all? A quickie in the back of his car probably had more appeal.
Tommy, who could hear them clearly, didn’t falter in his typing. So that was on the agenda, was it? He knew Mel had something of a reputation with women, but he was surprised that Janine had fallen for it. He’d have thought her too ambitious. Or did she think he’d be helpful? He kept typing steadily, writing up his report for the Yorkie Bars’ records, confirming yesterday’s events in Woodstock.
Would Janine sleeping with the boss actually help her? Tommy had no feelings one way or the other about Janine. He hadn’t been promoted for long and so hadn’t been working with her for much above three months. He wasn’t the sort of man who had a problem with women as bosses, and was perfectly willing to accept that Janine had earned her sergeant’s stripes because of sheer hard work and drive. But surely, her and Mel sleeping together could backfire on her? And him, if it came down to it. Tommy wasn’t sure about station politics. What was the current thinking on leg-overs with juniors?
‘Sorry, sir, I don’t think so.’ Janine, lower and softer-voiced, wasn’t so easy to hear.
‘Why? What’s wrong?’ That was Mel, sounding just a little too eager, and perhaps a shade petulant. Had he got it wrong? Was it the boss doing all the pushing? Tommy supposed he’d been keeping his head down, so to speak, since his latest d
ivorce. Perhaps he was ready to play away again.
But if Mel was taking advantage of his position as boss, should he, Tommy, do something about it? Hell, no. Even he wasn’t that green! And besides, if anyone could look after herself, it was Janine.
‘Nothing’s wrong, sir. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.’
Behind him, Mel opened his mouth to argue, and then shut it again. ‘All right,’ he said quietly, and took himself back to his office.
Janine watched him go, wondering if she’d done the right thing. On the one hand, it turned their night together into a tacky one-night stand. Cheapened it, maybe. But then, what the hell, she was a big girl. She and the rest of her sisters were supposed to take things like that in their stride nowadays. And besides, he hadn’t put up much of a fight, had he? Hadn’t tried to talk her round. OK, the office wasn’t the time or the place, but he could have looked just a little bit sorry.
She sighed angrily and pulled out her chair, realising that it didn’t even hurt her shoulders to do so any more. Come to think of it, last night she hadn’t dreamt she was being beaten up, either. She was beginning to feel more like her old self. So screw Mellow bloody Mallow.
Or rather not screw him.
She grinned and pulled a stack of paperwork towards her.
* * *
Mike Regis wasn’t happy to hear Makepeace had been released, but like Hillary, he was philosophical.
Questioning the tramp had proved worthless. He’d flat out refused to admit that he’d been anywhere near Woodeaton when the car had been dumped. Whether he was too drunk to actually remember or just too canny when sober to talk was neither here nor there. In his gut, Regis knew Gascoigne’s killing was going to be left open. He suspected Mel knew it as well. They’d given Fletcher one hell of a whack when they’d intercepted his drugs shipment, and now he sure as hell wouldn’t be using the barges again. It would take him a while to recover, but he would. And it wasn’t as if Makepeace was ever going to grass up his boss. Pitman and Gascoigne were dead. Whoever had done the hit on the latter was long gone. And even Frank Ross admitted nobody was talking, even in their sleep. Unless they could bring Pitman’s death to Fletcher’s doorstep, the bastard was going to walk.
He pushed open the door, spotted Hillary, and detoured from Mel’s office to her desk.
Frank Ross, he was glad to see, was absent. He didn’t know how Mel and Hillary could bear to work with the slob.
‘Hello. How are things?’
Hillary looked up. The Vice man was looking rumpled, tired and downhearted.
She knew just how he felt.
‘About as bad as they can get,’ she said sourly. ‘In fact not half an hour ago, I was thinking of quitting.’
Tommy Lynch stopped typing.
‘I’ve got a degree, I could always retrain. Do some teaching maybe. Adult learning. The pay’s better, the office hours easier, and I might even get to live in a proper house, with four solid walls and everything.’
Mike nodded. Who was she kidding?
‘Are you anywhere on Pitman? What are you reading?’
‘No. The autopsy reports,’ she said, answering him in strict order. ‘I keep coming back to them,’ she admitted.
‘Start from the beginning,’ Mike advised, then shut up, realising he was in danger of teaching his grandma how to suck eggs.
Hillary shot a warning glance at him, saw it wasn’t necessary, and smiled.
Watching her, Tommy didn’t like the smile, but at least she’d stopped talking about quitting.
‘I hear you gave the Yorkie Bars a bloody nose yesterday,’ Mike said, running a hand over his face.
It was a long, bony hand, Hillary noticed. Sensitive-looking.
‘It wasn’t hard,’ she said dryly.
Mike guffawed, loud enough to make Mel take notice. He looked up and beckoned through the glass.
Mike sighed and got up. ‘My boss is signing us off, for the time being. We’ve got the drugs shipment, busted up the distribution, and now we’re concentrating on Fletcher. Surveillance. Trying to figure out his next move. He’s got to start buying or selling and reorganising soon.’
He was right. Hillary nodded. ‘Good luck.’ It sounded heartfelt.
Mike smiled at her, and his eyes softened. ‘We’ll still be keeping in touch.’
Hillary’s eyes flickered. ‘Sure,’ she said carefully.
Things were looking up.
Tommy watched the Vice man go, the strength of his jealousy surprising him. He hadn’t thought the green-eyed monster was one of the things he had to watch out for.
He wheeled his chair over to Hillary’s desk. ‘Guv?’
Hillary sighed. ‘Tommy. Anything?’
‘No, guv. Nothing new.’
Was there ever?
‘OK. Go over everything again. I’m not in the mood for hanging around here.’ She was suddenly anxious to be gone. The office, so familiar, so much a part of her day-to-day life, suddenly seemed stifling. ‘We must have some leads to check down. Anything.’ She wasn’t even trying to hide her desperation.
Sensing her need for escape, Tommy wracked his brains. She needed him. That one sweet fact was enough. Trouble was, he had nothing to give her. There weren’t any leads.
Except . . .
‘Well, we still don’t know about the locket,’ he said. ‘Sylvia Warrender’s locket.’
Hillary groaned. ‘Is that all we’ve got?’
‘Well, it’s possible the rape allegation wasn’t kosher. I mean, The Pits might have had a regular girlfriend, who might have been Sylvia Warrender. Perhaps they argued and she brought the allegation to get back at him. They kissed and made up, and we know he had money enough to buy gold jewellery.’
Hillary shook her head. ‘Tell me about it again.’
Tommy brightened. At least he had a chance to shine a bit now. ‘Thing is, guv, I asked my . . . girlfriend about it.’ She shot him a hard look. ‘Not that I let on it was part of a case or anything.’ He hadn’t wanted to mention having a girlfriend at all, really, but he had to explain how he came by this new knowledge. ‘She’s something of a jewellery buff, you see? All I said was that I saw this necklace the other day, and I thought she might like one the same. I described it, making out it was one of the WPCs here who was wearing one. She had no idea it was related to a case.’
Hillary nodded. ‘OK, Tommy. No need to bust a gut. You were discreet. Go on.’
But she wasn’t really interested. She was fed up. More and more she wanted out. Out of this office, here and now, but more generally too. But there was nowhere for her to go.
‘So, anyway, I described it — gold box-chain, hand-made looking design, zodiac, all the rest. And she recognised it.’
Hillary’s somewhat glazed eyes focused on him and they widened.
‘What? You mean she knows Sylvia Warrender?’
Why that should be a surprise, she couldn’t say — she didn’t know Tommy’s girlfriend from Adam. It was a sure sign of how desperate she was to get a life of her own when even a titbit from a detective constable’s private life made her curious.
‘No, guv. She recognised the amulet. Said you could only get them from this one little jewellery workshop in the covered market. Apparently this Romanian or Hungarian or someone makes them. A woman. She’s getting quite a rep, apparently. You know, designing for bigger and bigger names. Local celebs, that sort of thing. Jean thinks it won’t be long before she’s off to London.’
‘Nobody else makes them?’ Hillary said. Well, whoop-dee-doo. Give the man a peanut.
‘No, guv. Thing is, they’re pricey. Right pricey. And I still don’t see how somebody like Sylvia gets to be wearing one.’
‘Well, come on then,’ she said, grabbing her bag. ‘Let’s check it out.’
* * *
The covered market stretched from Cornmarket Street to the High Street, taking up a good acreage of prime real estate. It had several entrances and exits, so they parked ille
gally and walked down the pedestrianised street.
No matter how famous the city, or beautiful its buildings, shopping precincts always looked the same. Hillary walked past a Burger King, trying to ignore the scent of hamburgers and fries, and those delicious ice-cream milkshakes.
The moment they stepped into the covered market, her appetite fled. The smell of fish, meat, fruit and vegetables turned her stomach, unwittingly doing her a favour. Hillary never had liked markets.
Scattered among these stalls of comestibles, however, was more esoteric fare. This was Oxford, after all. A second-hand bookshop, tiny, cramped and dark, was literally packed from floor to ceiling with everything from John Donne and Trollope to the latest Jilly Cooper.
There was an old-fashioned ironmongers, and then braces of pheasants hung up in front of a row of hares and partridges. A stall selling fine Belgian lace nestled cheek by jowl with a shop selling fragrant real leather belts and handbags.
‘Here it is, guv.’ Tommy pointed to a well-lit but rather ramshackle jewellery store. The costume jewellery, of course, was laid out at the front. Bizarre things in beads, pierced and tooled leather bracelets and chokers that looked like they belonged on dogs (Staffordshire Bull Terriers at that) were heaped in baskets for passing tourists and shoppers to manhandle and ooh and aah over.
Inside, a woman wearing protective goggles was bent over, busily at work with a soldering iron. It was here that the real stuff was kept. Gold, silver, copper, bronze, platinum. A veritable Aladdin’s cave.
And there, behind glass, were the zodiac necklaces. No two were quite the same. The scales of the Libra set, for example, were different, one set of scales being overlaid with mother-of-pearl, and another silver, set against gold.
‘Hello, can I help?’ The soldering iron was turned off, the goggles removed.
The woman looked to be in her fifties, and her hair, tied back under a bandanna, was silver where it escaped. She had big eyes and high cheekbones and her voice did indeed have Eastern European overtones.
Hillary could see why Tommy’s girlfriend thought Oxford would soon lose her to the richer pickings to be found in the capital.