Narrow is the Way

by Faith Martin

  Now he saw Hillary glance across at the tall, good looking brunette by his side and quickly introduced them, pleased to note the speculative look in Hillary’s eye.

  ‘Sorry, Detective Inspector Hillary Greene, this is Louise Bennett, a junior barrister. Louise, Hillary.’

  Hillary and the lawyer shook hands, Louise giving the older woman a far more speculative look than was perhaps strictly necessary. True, Paul wanted to remind Hillary that other women found him attractive, if only to nudge her out of her neutrality a little and make her take a fresh look at him, but he didn’t want trouble!

  Hillary shifted on the steps uncomfortably. Being sized up as a potential rival by Danvers’ latest love-interest wasn’t something she’d been expecting. Did the barrister seriously think that her boyfriend might fancy her? Hillary wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  Danvers was both younger, not to mention prettier, than herself. She could hardly take him seriously, right?

  ‘So, why the glum face?’ Paul asked curiously.

  Distracted, Hillary sighed and quickly related her tale of woe. Louise perked up a bit at this, and listened with interest, then told her that, in her professional opinion, her chances of a conviction were low, the technicality being serious enough to let Gordon walk.

  Hillary didn’t really need to be told. Still, as she smiled goodbye to the happy couple and walked inside the quiet, cold, legal halls of the Oxford Court House, she would do her damnedest to nail the old-time forger. She failed, of course. It was only in westerns that the underdog got to win. Or, depending on your point of view, where the forces of law and order always got their man.

  Defeated and spitting mad, she returned to The Mollern, her fifty foot narrowboat, just after dark.

  After her frustrating appearance in court, the constant grating of Frank Ross’s poisonous harping, and the will-they-won’t they see-saw that was the Mel-and-Janine cat and dog show, she was in the mood for a long hot bath and a long cold vodka. But she had fat chance of indulging in either.

  The Mollern boasted a feeble shower only, and although she had a bottle of vodka in the fridge, she had the rather distressing feeling that she wouldn’t be able to stop at just the one drink.

  When she’d first moved onto her favourite uncle’s boat, she’d thought of it as a strictly temporary measure, but then Ronnie had died, with all the subsequent problems of probate; then had come the internal investigation team; finally this threat from the barmy army animal people, and so, after nearly two years, here she still was, thinking of the Mollern as home, when she wasn’t cursing it.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee, glad that the boating season was almost over. During the summer, the Mollern was constantly bobbing about in the wake of passing tourist craft. Now, as she sat down in the single armchair in the tiny lounge, she closed her eyes and wondered if she could be bothered to put on the television. She couldn’t remember if she’d run the generator enough to chance it.

  In the end, her drooping lids made the decision for her. She turned off the lights and hit the sack. She felt bone weary and in need of a good solid ten hours’ kip. Things could only look better in the morning.

  Yeah. Right.

  *

  About ten minutes into the morning, just after midnight to be precise, she was woken up by the ringing of her mobile. She groped for the light switch, fumbled the phone to her ear and yawned a response.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Hillary? It’s Mel. We’ve got a suspicious death. Get yourself over to Three Oaks Farm, Steeple Barton. I’ve sent Janine and Tommy ahead of you.’ He paused. ‘Ross, too,’ he added apologetically.

  He, like everyone else, wished the aliens would come and take Frank Ross away. Rumour had it that the flatfoots up at the big house were all pooling in to buy a special radio that would transmit just that message, deep into outer space. He wondered where he could sign up to give a donation.

  Hillary muttered an assent and again yawned massively.

  ‘Oh, and Hill?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘From the few reports I’ve had in, it looks like being a bad one.’

  Hillary closed her eyes briefly. Great. Just what she needed.

  chapter two

  Hillary was on the move barely five minutes later. She turned right at the main road, heading for north Oxfordshire and the cluster of villages named Steeple something-or-other. She knew where Steeple Aston was, and North Aston, but had the map open beside her to make sure she didn’t bypass the turning for Steeple Barton. It was the smallest of the villages, culminating in a dead end deep in the middle of the lush Cherwell Valley that spread from Deddington to Rousham.

  Once on the back roads, the headlights began to pick out yellowing trees, rain-wet shaggy grass verges and the occasional glowing eyes of either deer or foxes. But not, she hoped, anybody’s cat. The last thing she wanted to do now was to run over someone’s pet Tiddles. She was going a little faster than the wet conditions called for, and she was conscious of the narrowness of the road, and the high hedges on either side. Occasionally she caught the odd glimpse of a house light, but traffic out here was virtually non-existent.

  But, as she passed a large collection of barns and sheds, and took a narrow, single-track lane to Steeple Barton, she quickly found the dark, deserted night giving way to a veritable light show. A big, square farmhouse was lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree, with lights blazing from nearly every window. Even with the car windows firmly rolled up against the autumnal chill, Hillary could hear the susurration of sound that only came from a large crowd, emanating from within the rooms.

  She frowned, wondering why a small village farmhouse should be host to so many gawkers on a weekday night in the middle of nowhere. Surely word of the death hadn’t travelled that far, that quickly?

  Since there were no signs of patrol cars or police personnel at the farmhouse, she carried on down the heavily mud-streaked lane, cursing tractors and farming machinery as she went. Abruptly the village ended with a five-barred gate, which was being guarded by a solitary, miserable-looking constable. She rolled down the window as he approached, but he obviously recognized her because he nodded his head respectfully and began speaking at once.

  ‘Ma’am, it’s about four hundred yards further up. The doc’s already here, and SOCO are on the way.’

  Hillary watched as he opened the gate, then drove through, wincing as she heard the mud from the farm track slam into the underside of her car. Puff the Tragic Wagon was going to need a visit to the car wash like never before.

  She felt the uneven, stone-and-mud track lurch beneath the wheels and sighed heavily. Just where the hell was she going? If someone actually lived at the end of this pitted track, they’d have cause to make a hermit jealous. Come to think of it, there were no power or telephone lines this far out either. Then her headlights picked out a cluster of vehicles, some patrol cars, others civilian, and saw the floodlights.

  The preliminary team had obviously been busy. The big lamps were all centred on what looked to her to be a large, corrugated-iron barn. It looked silver and ghostly in the artificial glare, like some unhappily constructed spaceship that had abruptly found itself the unwanted focus of attention.

  She got out, glad that she’d thought to wear her oldest pair of flatties, as mud sucked around her insteps with each step she took. Outside, the wet air promised more rain to come and, as she approached the barn, she felt her nose begin to itch. There was a pungent aroma all around that she couldn’t quite place, until she stepped onto the filthy concrete floor of the barn, and spotted the large black-and-white shapes moving around uneasily in their stalls.

  Cows. Lots of cows. Some chewed at the hay in wire baskets unconcernedly, others, more skittish, shied away as she walked past. All, however, were curious and watched her with those heart-breakingly lovely, brown, bovine eyes. No doubt, the herd of Fresians weren’t used to midnight visitors.

  A gaggle of white-suited people were clu
stered in a group about mid-way down the huge cowshed, and Hillary paused, not sure if the area had already been designated a protected crime scene. She’d seen no duckboards outside to protect footprints, presumably because the ground which a herd of cows used on a daily basis, wasn’t ideal for the preservation of footprints and other evidence.

  She coughed loudly, and Janine Tyler’s fair head appeared from the scrum and came forward. She was holding a sheaf of papers clipped to a board, the usual PDFs (personal description forms) and others, that were the bane of a sergeant’s life.

  ‘Boss,’ Janine said, nodding towards the group, signifying it was safe to come forward.

  ‘Hello everyone, I’m DI Greene, the SIO here,’ she introduced herself without preamble. Most of those present she knew, but not all of them. ‘What have we got then.… bloody hell!’

  She blinked, not at all sure that she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. The small crowd had parted, giving her her first view of their victim. She stared at the sight in front of her, trying, and failing, to take it in.

  For there, lying on a cow-shit splattered, foul and redolent concrete floor, was a young bride, dressed in a fabulous white gown.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. For a split second, she wondered if now wouldn’t be a good time to wake up. She’d had particularly vivid dreams before, that had abruptly wondered off in outlandish Monty Python-like directions, but this one took the biscuit.

  Then the surreal moment passed, and she shook her head. ‘What the hell?’ she said simply.

  The dead girl didn’t look a day over twenty, and had a mass of glorious, red-gold hair, swept up onto her head in what had once been a magnificent chignon. Now it was spread out in an untidy mass, and lay against the foul concrete like an ignominious halo. The wide-open eyes were a velvet pansy-brown, and beneath the voluminous, snow-white dress, Hillary guessed was a five-foot eight or so, lithe and willowy figure.

  The dress itself was sumptuous – all satin, lace, and handstitched pearl beadwork. The bodice had a wasp-like waist, with the skirt flaring out into ballooning shimmering satin. The only thing missing was a wedding veil and a bouquet.

  ‘Boss, there’s been a fancy-dress party up at the farmhouse,’ Janine said, reluctant to explain, but supposing she’d better. She so rarely got the chance to see her super-efficient DI lost for words that she wanted to revel in it for a few seconds more.

  ‘Oh,’ Hillary said flatly, then nodded. That explained the presence of the crowd back at the big house then. ‘Obviously this is one of the guests?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Janine agreed.

  Hillary stared down at the girl, noting the congested and contorted face, the protruding bluish-tinged tongue and tightly clenched fists. Even so, Hillary could tell that this young woman had once been very beautiful indeed. Kneeling down beside her, dressed in white coveralls, was a dapper man, currently inspecting the bride’s neck.

  ‘Has all the appearance of a manual strangulation,’ Hillary said out loud, not a question so much as an opening gambit.

  Doctor Steven Partridge looked up, and smiled briefly. ‘Looks like it. And before you ask, I’d say she’d been dead less than an hour. Poor cow.’

  Everybody groaned. Even Hillary.

  She wasn’t shocked by the bad-taste joke, because morgue-humour was something every cop quickly became used to. And she wasn’t fooled into thinking, as some did, that Steven Partridge lacked respect for the dead. In fact, she knew the pathologist was one of the most compassionate men around. It was just … dealing with stuff like this on a regular basis, most people preferred to use humour, especially macabre and politically incorrect humour, as a handy armour.

  Behind her, she heard the approach of another pair of feet, and automatically glanced down. But she could see why duck-boards hadn’t been set up here either. The chance of finding recognizable footprints on filthy wet concrete, trampled daily by cows, was pointless.

  Tommy Lynch and Frank Ross approached curiously.

  Frank took one look and whistled. Tommy Lynch seemed to pale visibly, although the big constable gave no other outward sign of distress. ‘Guv,’ he said instead and waited patiently for orders.

  Hillary turned back to the corpse. ‘She’s wearing a gold and what looks to me like a real, diamond ring. Also a gold locket, and a fairly expensive looking wrist-watch. Any sign of a handbag?’

  ‘Yes, guv,’ a uniformed officer, obviously the designated Evidence Officer, came forward with a pile of neatly tagged plastic evidence bags and a list of contents.

  ‘Was there a purse?’ Hillary asked, ignoring the lipstick and other items of make-up, perfume and assorted detritus associated with females.

  ‘Yes, guv,’ the evidence officer, a middle-aged WPC, said at once. ‘Contents: forty pounds in notes, two pound coins, and forty-two pence in change. Also two credit cards bearing the name Julia Reynolds, an organ donor card and driving licence ditto, a pack of condoms and a national lottery ticket.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘So the motive wasn’t robbery,’ she stated simply. She glanced around, shivering slightly as she did so. A damp autumn breeze could be felt penetrating the gaps in the corrugated iron walls and high, arched ceiling. Despite the steam rising from the many cattle, it felt unnaturally cold. The thud of hoofs and the shuffling of large, four-legged bodies, for some reason made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

  There was something primitive about this particular scene of death that set off superstitious nerves she never even suspected that she had. Perhaps it was because of the bridal outfit the victim was wearing. Or the fact that she’d been strangled. Whatever it was, Hillary felt as if she’d wandered into some sort of bizarre Grimm’s fairy-tale: The Beautiful Bride, Sacrificed in the Cow Byre.

  ‘All right, let’s get cracking,’ she said sharply, more to reprimand herself than anyone else. ‘Tommy, Janine, start with the interviews up at the farm. Call out some local help,’ she put in, before Janine could start complaining. ‘It sounds like they’ve got quite a crowd up there. Find me a local bobby, someone who knows the people and the area – I want a word. Doc, you’d better do what’s necessary. I think I can hear SOCO arriving. We’ll want to clear the place for them. Frank, find the farmer, or cowman, or whoever’s responsible for this barn and find out the routine.’

  Frank snorted. ‘What’s to know? There won’t be any security around here – who’s going to want steal cows? This ain’t “Bonanza”.’

  She shot him a look, and he muttered something about a similarity between cows and senior women police officers, and shuffled off. As he did so, he kicked at the metal railings of one of the stalls, sending the harmless animal behind it jumping hysterically to the back. The whole barn boomed like the inside of a gong as it hit the side of the wall, the reverberation making everyone jump.

  ‘Somebody ought to report you to the RSPCA, you wanker,’ someone called out, but Frank Ross could be selectively deaf when he chose.

  Hillary glanced across at Janine, who was busy sorting out witness statement forms. ‘Anything else before I lose you?’ Hillary asked, without much hope. She doubted Janine could have got here more than ten minutes before herself.

  ‘Boss,’ Janine muttered, the corner of one form gripped between her teeth as she rearranged others on top of her clipboard. She spat it out.

  ‘The vic’s name is Julia Reynolds, twenty years old, lived with her parents in Kirtlington. She was a guest of a guest at the party. She was found by the farmer’s son, one Michael Wallis, and his girlfriend … er …’ – she squinted at her notebook shorthand – ‘Jenny Porter, and they ran back to the house to call it in. They’re outside, in one of the cars. I think that’s about it.’

  Hillary nodded. She didn’t envy Janine and Tommy their night of interviews. The guests would soon been clamouring to be let home to their beds.

  ‘Oh and Tommy,’ Hillary called, making the young DC hurry back expectantly. ‘Gather up any cameras and film
taken at the party and get the police lab to print them off. You never know your luck.’

  Tommy nodded, jotting down the reminder in his notebook.

  Hillary, seeing the first of the SOCO team arrive, crouched down beside Steven Partridge. ‘Skin under the fingernails?’ she prompted.

  He held up one of the bride’s hands in his gloved own, examining the pearl-pink painted nails judiciously. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised. You don’t have someone’s hands around your throat, strangling the life out of you, without putting up a struggle.’

  Hillary grunted. That wasn’t always the case, but she wasn’t about to argue semantics now. She glanced around, and shivered again. ‘Why would a beautiful young party guest want to come out here to this filthy, smelly hole?’

  The doc grinned. ‘You’re asking me?’

  Hillary laughed. Doc Partridge was well known for his fussy and sartorial elegance.

  ‘Yeah, but let’s face it: it’s not the sort of place a pretty girl would agree to meet a lover, is it? And if she just wanted a breath of fresh air, this isn’t the place for it.’ she coughed, the pungent bovine perfume making her point for her. ‘And if she just wanted somewhere to have a quiet chat with someone, I’m sure the farmhouse had the odd quiet room — or even the garden, at a pinch. Could she have been kidnapped at the house and forced here?’

  Steven Partridge shrugged, and nodded at the long, tight-fitting satin sleeves. ‘Could be, but I’ll have to get her on the table before I can do even a preliminary search for any bruising on the arms.’