MURDER IN THE GARDEN

by Faith Martin

  Hillary sighed. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Back home, sleeping it off. The paramedics got him round, and Goulder got some of Tom’s friends to rally round. They got him home in a wheelbarrow apparently. They’re probably still siphoning strong black coffee into him now.’

  Hillary sighed. ‘We’d better go and see what he has to say for himself, then.’

  * * *

  Tom Cleaves, it turned out, wasn’t in the mood to say much about anything. A tall, grey-haired and lanky man, who looked slightly sheepish when Hillary identified herself, answered the knock on Tom’s door.

  ‘Tom’s in the living room,’ he said. ‘He’s got a bit of a hangover, and is feeling rather sorry for himself at the moment,’ he added nervously. He opened the door to the living room but didn’t come in, murmuring something instead about making tea.

  Tom Cleaves opened his eyes briefly, saw police officers, and flushed. He made an effort to sit up straighter, then seemed to think better of it.

  ‘Hello, Mr Cleaves. I understand you’ve been under the weather?’ Hillary said, taking a seat unasked.

  ‘Huh. Making a fool of myself, more like.’

  ‘A bit too much to drink?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were found by a Mr Jim Goulder, I understand?’ Hillary pressed.

  ‘He’s got the allotment next to mine. Decent fella.’

  Hillary waited. Barrington waited. Tom Cleaves closed his eyes and looked as if he was going to go back to sleep.

  ‘I understand you’re not known for being a big drinker, Mr Cleaves,’ Hillary said, a shade more loudly than normal. The man on the chair jerked slightly and opened his eyes.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘And yet this morning you’d been drinking,’ said Hillary, assuming a tone of mild curiosity. ‘Rather an odd time, isn’t it? Most people drink at night.’

  Tom Cleaves shrugged.

  Hillary sighed. First Martha Hepton, now Tom Cleaves — recalcitrant witnesses were thick on the ground today. ‘Would your drinking have anything to do with the death of Edward Philpott, Mr Cleaves?’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Is there something on your conscience, perhaps?’

  ‘My conscience is fine, thank you.’

  ‘You know, Mr Cleaves, alcohol isn’t the answer to any problem. It only makes a problem even worse. If something’s preying on your mind, you should talk to someone.’

  Tom Cleaves began to close his eyes again, and a grim smile played around his lips. ‘Talk to you, you mean?’

  ‘Or a psychiatrist or counsellor perhaps. Maybe some kind of priest or pastor?’ Hillary said casually.

  Tom began to snore loudly. He was probably faking it, but then again, if the man really wasn’t much of a drinker, it could be genuine.

  Either way, she knew when she was flogging a dead horse. She got up, and with a head roll, indicated to Barrington to follow her out.

  Outside, she sighed heavily. It was trying to rain. Around her, hawthorn hedges were red with old berries, and their leaves were just beginning to yellow. Give it another few weeks, and the autumn colours would be spectacular. Somehow, she couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for that approaching natural treat.

  ‘What do you think, guv?’ Barrington asked curiously.

  Hillary shrugged. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to realise something’s eating him. We’ll just have to wait until he’s got a clear head, then try again. In the meantime, get cracking on his background check.’

  ‘Guv.’

  Barrington drove them back to HQ, his eye on the clock. He knew that round about now the barristers in the Moreland trial would be giving their final arguments. On the telephone last night, Gavin had been like quicksilver — elated one moment, and crowing about how his father had made the prosecutor look like a know-nothing idiot, then downcast the next, and convinced that the jury would bring in a guilty verdict.

  Keith had been following the trial as best he could, and even from such a distance had been able to tell that it was a complicated case. Fraud and financial cases often were. It largely depended on how much the jury had been able to understand about the complicated import and export laws, and the tax issues. But privately, Barrington thought that the actual physical evidence of the smuggled items found in Moreland’s possession would alone be enough to convict him.

  Of course, the sentence was something again. Moreland might get away with a non-custodial sentence.

  But Keith rather doubted it.

  He’d rung off, promising Gavin he’d try and get down that weekend. It was Friday tomorrow, and nobody expected the jury to want to have to stretch things out over the weekend. So a verdict seemed likely. But he doubted he’d be able to get time off, not with the case as stalled as it was. Besides, Moreland was bound to be home, and the last thing he’d want would be to have to make small talk with his son’s policeman lover over the cold cucumber soup and smoked salmon.

  ‘Have you had any luck placing either Hepton or Cleaves at the Philpott residence?’ Hillary’s sharp question made him draw a quick breath.

  ‘No, guv. No sightings and no forensics either. At least not yet.’

  Hillary nodded. Some forensic tests could take weeks, or even months. But just how much forensics would there be in a case like this? The killer walked up to Philpott, whacked him on the back of the head with the shovel, and walked away. How many fibres would have been shed, or microscopic skin particles? True, the killer might have got blood spatter on his or her clothes, but until you had a reasonable case against someone it was hard to obtain a warrant to get clothes.

  Rachel Warner’s clothes had borne traces of her father’s blood, of course, but then she’d found him.

  And that reminded her.

  ‘Any trace of the watch and ring?’

  ‘No, guv. We’ve put out warnings to all the usual lot to be on the lookout. But so far, nobody’s reported anything.’

  Hillary sighed. The ‘usual lot’ consisted mostly of local jewellers, market stallholders and pawn shops, plus a few copper-friendly fences. But Hillary didn’t think the killer of Edward Philpott would be stupid enough to try and flog his jewellery just yet. If at all. It seemed to her far more likely that the killer had simply robbed the body in an attempt to muddy the waters. If Edward Philpott had really been killed for profit by a passing opportunist, then the house would almost certainly have been ransacked as well and valuable items stolen. No junkie would have let such an opportunity slip by.

  But she knew from Gemma and Barrington’s careful research, and from Rachel Warner’s own input, that nothing had been taken from the house.

  ‘OK. Apply for a warrant to search both Tom Cleaves and Martha Hepton’s homes. Concentrate on their clothing. We need to examine what they were wearing that day.’

  ‘Guv,’ Keith said, without enthusiasm. Doing the paperwork for warrants was one of his pet hates. And he had the feeling that no judge was likely to grant such a request, not on the flimsy evidence they had to go on. But he could understand why Hillary had to try.

  No matter which way they turned, they seemed to come up against dead ends, he thought dispiritedly.

  * * *

  That night Gemma Fordham crawled under the covers, and snuggled up against Guy Brindley. The blind music don sighed contentedly, and moved his arm to one side to make it easier for her to nestle.

  ‘Bad day at the office?’ he asked sympathetically.

  Gemma sighed softly. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘That sounds interesting,’ he said cautiously. He knew that his lover had some issues with her boss, although he’d never enquired too closely. He was coming to know Gemma well, and knew that any probing into certain areas of her life on his part would net him a few mental bruises.

  ‘Greene’s not at her best,’ Gemma said unhappily. ‘She’s distracted by Janine Mallow for a start, and there’s something going on with the new super. Nobody’s sure what.’

  ‘So
unds ominous. But then, she’s still grieving for her friend, so I suppose you can’t expect her to be on tip-top form,’ Guy pointed out reasonably.

  Gemma sighed. ‘No. What happened to Superintendent Mallow was a nightmare for me, and I didn’t even know him that well. So what Hillary must have felt that afternoon . . .’ she broke off and shivered.

  Guy had listened with growing horror that evening, just over two months ago, when his lover had come home, blood-spattered, shaking slightly, and grim-voiced as she told him that her superior officer had just been shot dead in front of her.

  Being Gemma, of course, she’d tackled the trauma head on, and when Hillary Greene had taken two months’ leave, had typically grasped the opportunity her superior’s absence had afforded to consolidate her own position.

  It seemed unlike her now to be worrying about her boss’s mental health. ‘I thought you weren’t looking forward to having her back,’ Guy said casually. ‘But from the tone of your voice, you sound sorry for her.’

  ‘I am. And I’m not sorry she’s back.’ Gemma heard herself say the words with something close to shock. ‘You know, two days ago I wrote out my resignation?’

  Guy went very still. ‘Really?’ Ever since she’d agreed to move in with him, Guy had had a ringside seat from which to observe just how much his lover valued the identity her job gave her. So the bombshell of her words made his head spin.

  ‘Let’s just say the issue between me and Hillary Greene came to a head, but not in the way I’d expected. Or hoped.’ Although her voice sounded to Guy to be deeply ironic, he sensed something else underneath it.

  Amusement, perhaps? A hint of grudging respect?

  ‘Was the joke on you, my love?’ Guy asked softly.

  Gemma sighed deeply. ‘Sometimes, my love,’ Gemma mimicked him savagely, ‘you can be too damned perspicacious for your own good.’ She turned and rolled away, presenting him with her back.

  In the suddenly cool bed, Guy gave a small sigh, and closed his eyes.

  After about five minutes, Gemma Fordham suddenly reached for him savagely.

  But Guy didn’t mind. Making love to Gemma always involved both pleasure and pain.

  * * *

  Whilst Hillary’s current sergeant made love to her blind, wealthy partner, her ex-sergeant was doing something totally different.

  Janine Mallow parked her car behind a deserted warehouse, and turned off the engine. She left the headlights on, however, and waited patiently. Out in the dark, she knew, a pair of nervous eyes was watching her in the surrounding darkness of the night. Here, in a run-down area of Cowley, there were barely any streetlights, and the only living things scuttling about in the dark were drunks and urban foxes.

  After nearly ten minutes, Janine saw movement, and smiled grimly. Matthew ‘Skunk’ Peterson approached the car cautiously. He was wearing a hoodie and white trainers, and couldn’t have looked more conspicuous if he’d tried.

  He opened the door and slipped inside.

  ‘Hello, Sarge,’ he said nervously. He was in his early twenties, but had the acne of a teenager. The youngest of a family of nine, Skunk was on the fringes of the biggest Oxford gang. Once or twice, whilst in uniform, Janine had arrested him, and treated him decently.

  She’d wanted eyes and ears in the gang, but although Skunk wasn’t the brightest lamp in the lightbulb factory, even he’d been too canny to play along.

  Still, they’d kept a vague sort of contact over the years, and Janine put the fear of something nasty into him every now and then. Which was why she’d called him a few hours ago. He’d be frightened enough of her to do as she asked, and just wise enough to keep quiet about it. He’d also be able to get his hands on what she wanted.

  ‘You have it?’

  Skunk looked around nervously, then unzipped his hoodie and let a chunky item, wrapped in newspaper, drop into his lap. He was sweating now, and Janine could smell the waft of sour body odour rising from him that gave him his nickname.

  ‘What do you want it for, eh, Sarge? You being a copper and all, you could get your hands on one any time.’

  ‘Never you mind,’ Janine said sharply. ‘Just hand it over, and keep your mouth shut.’

  Skunk quickly did as he was told. Janine reached into her bag and withdrew a tightly folded roll of notes.

  ‘Hey, thanks, Sarge,’ Skunk said, evidently surprised. He’d expected to have to do the favour for nothing.

  Janine sighed heavily. ‘Just remember — we never met. You know nothing. You say nothing. Otherwise you’ll be behind bars faster than you can cough,’ she bluffed grimly.

  ‘Won’t say a word, will I? I ain’t no grass,’ Skunk said indignantly.

  Janine ignored his hurt feelings. ‘How hot is it?’

  ‘Not very.’

  Janine shrugged. What did it matter? ‘OK, Skunk, bugger off then, there’s a good lad.’

  The ‘good lad’ didn’t need telling twice.

  Janine Mallow drove back to her big, empty house in The Moors, and parked the car in her garage. Mel’s car was still housed inside it, and the sight of it made her burst into a bout of weeping.

  One day she’d have to sell it.

  She got out, carrying the chunky, newspaper-wrapped parcel with her. Inside the house, she laid it down on the kitchen counter and unwrapped it.

  It was an ugly, Russian-made ten-year-old weapon, but it would do. She checked it thoroughly, oiled it, and loaded it with bullets from a small store Mel had kept under lock and key in a gun cabinet.

  That done, she poured herself a glass of lemonade, and tipped the rest of the fizzy drink down the drain. The now empty plastic bottle would make a crude but effective silencer.

  She sipped her drink and wandered around the empty house, alternately weeping and then caressing the gun. Eventually at nearly three o’clock in the morning, she went to bed.

  But she wouldn’t sleep.

  * * *

  The next day, Friday 10 October, Detective Inspector Peter Gregg returned to his Kidlington home where, before the Myers case, he’d lived with his wife and three sons. It was nothing special — just a smart semi near the big Sainsbury’s by the roundabout. But it felt good to be back.

  There were no fanfares, and no big welcome home. His wife and kids were still safely in hiding in the Forest of Dean, where he’d been for the past two months. And none of the neighbours had known about his imminent arrival.

  But as he unpacked, drew back curtains, watered whatever houseplants were still alive, and generally began to reclaim his old habits, he was watched constantly.

  Last night, DCI Evans, faced with the inevitable closure of his operations, had decided on one last big gamble. And DI Pete Gregg had gone along with it.

  Myers was simply too cagey, too quick, too clever, or just too damned lucky to make a mistake. Which meant that the only way they were going to get him was to stake out a Judas goat and wait.

  Today, the news of Gregg’s return would be ‘leaked’ to the local papers, and Myers would then know where to find him. And even if he guessed it was a trap, Evans and Gregg were willing to bet that the opportunity to get the man who’d led his daughter’s rape case would be too tempting to pass up.

  Hence the intense watch on Gregg’s every move. Of course, a sniper rifle had a long range. And it was possible Myers might slip through the cordon. Consequently, his shoulder blades itched every time he walked past a window, even though Peter Gregg knew that Myers couldn’t possibly know of his return yet.

  But when he did, it was a distinct possibility that Gregg might go the same way as Philip Mallow.

  It was a chance Gregg was willing to take. Guilt gnawed constantly at his gut. The bullet that had taken Philip Mallow should, by rights, have had his name on it. Gregg knew it, and so did every other cop at HQ.

  This was his one and only chance of redemption. And it was why he’d argued for it so passionately over the objections of the top brass.

  Now, all he could do wa
s wait. And try not to go insane. Or get shot.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It wasn’t often that Hillary Greene had breakfast in the canteen at HQ, but that morning she’d been running late and had left the boat without even a cup of coffee. When she parked Puff the Tragic Wagon, she felt the first faint stirrings of hunger. On impulse, she detoured to the canteen for some fresh fruit and toast.

  Most of the tables were full, so she chose a free chair at a table where a solitary DS was finishing his fry-up. He looked up as she pulled the chair out, and nodded in recognition.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Hillary gave him a second glance and fought for a name for him from her memory. ‘DS Knighton, isn’t it?’ she said after a moment or two.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. We worked together briefly on that ram-raiding case a few years back, out Woodstock way.’

  Hillary nodded, then her eyes sharpened. ‘Aren’t you working with DCI Evans?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Knighton replied. He was nearly forty, and had long since given up on trying to pass his Boards. But he was happy at the rank he held, since he’d never been too keen on paperwork, and preferred to be out and about and doing things, instead of riding a desk. It was one of the reasons he’d always admired Hillary Greene, who seemed to share his attitude.

  He cleared his throat, then glanced around and leant forward, lowering his voice. ‘I just thought you might like to know, ma’am, that DI Gregg is back.’

  Hillary blinked. ‘Back? At HQ you mean?’

  ‘No, ma’am. Not on active duty, as yet. But he’s back in his own home.’

  Hillary slowly unwrapped a pat of butter and began to spread it on her toast. It didn’t take her long to figure out what was going on.

  ‘And he agreed to this?’ she asked, then made a disgusted grimace. ‘Damn, what am I saying — of course he did. The brass can’t be happy.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  Hillary met Knighton’s bland hazel eyes, and nodded grimly. ‘He’s a brave man, DI Gregg. And obviously trying to do right by Mel.’ She didn’t say it lightly. She knew her words would be passed along the grapevine via Knighton, and she knew how people would take it.