by Faith Martin
‘Not married, but no odds yet on whether he’s in the closet,’ the sergeant said now with a quick smirk. ‘Got plenty up here, though’ – he tapped his temple – ‘and didn’t do the usual stints in press liaisons or records. Met rated him all right, but nobody’s yet sussed out why he moved.’
Hillary shook her head woefully. ‘And is that all you know?’ she asked, rolling her eyes. ‘You’re falling down on the job, Harry.’ Everyone called the sergeant Harry, although Hillary had heard that wasn’t his actual name.
‘Give us a chance, guv,’ the desk sergeant grinned back. ‘Give me another hour, and you can place your bets along with the rest of ’em.’
Hillary wondered what, other than the sexual orientation of the new super, would be available for the big house’s gambling aficionados by lunchtime. No doubt there’d be some sort of pool on whether he’d been pushed or had jumped from the Met. Odds on there’d be much jockeying and shoving around about any potential scandals in his background. She might put a fiver down on him being a secret drinker, but she’d have to check the state of his eyes first.
She used her key-card and code to gain access to the main office, and made her way to her desk. None of her team was yet in, and she wasn’t surprised. After pulling an all-nighter, who could blame them? She shifted through the paperwork, noting the preliminary interview reports handed in by the uniforms. She speed-read her way through them, feeling her spirits sink as she did so.
Apparently, the Wallises 25th wedding anniversary party hadn’t confined itself to the main living-room, but had spilled over in to the kitchen, the new conservatory, the library, and various rooms in between. Some hardy souls had even been dancing in the garden, to the music of the live band.
So nobody would have an air tight alibi, unless they had stuck with one person the whole night. And who did that at a party? Any one of the – she did a quick mental assessment of the numbers – fifty-five to sixty or so male partygoers could have sneaked out for ten, fifteen minutes, and killed Julia Reynolds.
She began sorting through them, working up a pile of more-or-less non-starters. Into these she tossed the too old and the three physically incapacitated (one in a wheelchair, one with debilitating arthritis in both hands, and one who’d broken an arm at golf – a pity the report didn’t say how the prat had managed to do that!) and, after a moment’s thought, the two openly gay couples who had been at the party. She was not dismissing any of them as such, only putting them at the bottom of the pile.
That still left a depressingly large list of suspects. And since there was no such thing as a happily married couple – at least, not to a copper investigating a murder – she couldn’t see how she could cull the list any further. The very young – how old did a lad have to be to be able to strangle a woman? – she also downgraded. Up to the age of fourteen, anyway. Still, teenagers were notorious for being prey to their hormones, and she couldn’t see the beautiful, confident and ambitious Julia Reynolds being particularly kind to love-struck teenagers. There were five between the ages of fourteen and nineteen at the party, most of them sons of invited guests.
Naturally, the married men would have a lot to lose if Julia was threatening to tell the wife about their little fling and had to be prime suspects, until eliminated.
Then there was her boyfriend. She’d noted that several of the witness reports confirmed that Julia had arrived with Roger Greenwood, and that they were considered to be an item. He would have to be top of the list for now. Nor was she forgetting the farmer’s son. Suspicion often fell on the finder of the body, sometimes with cause, sometimes without. The only thing in Michael Wallis’s favour was that he hadn’t been alone. Hillary supposed Jenny Porter could have been an accomplice, but she didn’t think so. But there was nothing to say Wallis hadn’t killed Julia earlier, then suggested the walk to Jenny in order for him to have a witness to the ‘discovery’. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. Killers knew a lot about the pitfalls of forensic evidence nowadays, thanks to pathology dramas on the television, and forensic-based thrillers. Wallis might have been afraid he’d have left traces at the scene, and returning there to find the body was as good a means as any of explaining away any traces of him found there.
She’d have to get one of the uniforms to press Jenny Porter on who it was who’d suggested the little sojourn in the barn, and who’d been leading the way.
Over the course of the morning, first Janine and then Tommy trickled in, looking heavy-eyed and slouch-footed. Of Frank, mercifully, there was still no sign. Perhaps the aliens had finally come for him and done everybody a favour.
‘Guv,’ Tommy said, glancing at the preliminary forensics reports Hillary was now reading. ‘Anything good?’
‘Not so far. As we thought, the cowshed floor was too contaminated for any really good evidence. There are still one or two things pending, but I think most of our bread and butter is going to come from the corpse itself.’
Tommy, who was drinking coffee, gulped a bit too much and began to cough. Janine half-heartedly slapped him on the back. ‘Got to toughen up, Tommy,’ she muttered, teasingly.
‘Glad you think that way,’ Hillary said sardonically. ‘You can attend the post-mortem.’
Janine sighed heavily. ‘Yes, boss,’ she said. Then added immediately, ‘Why can’t Ross go?’
Hillary rolled her eyes. ‘What have you got against Doc Partridge? You know we have to keep him sweet. If we sic Frank on him, the next four bodies we send over will be put to the back of the queue. That’s what he did last time.’
Janine sighed again, but didn’t argue with Hillary’s logic.
‘Tommy, I want you to get a list of all Julia’s clients,’ she carried on. ‘And no, I don’t think some silver-haired matron strangled her because she hated the colour of her latest rinse, but people talk to their hairdressers. And vice versa. You never know what titbits they might have learned about our vic and be willing to pass on. And since we’re dealing with a strangling, and statistics show that we’re almost certainly looking for a man and that sex is going to come somewhere in the equation, concentrate on her male friends. Stalkers. Some overenthusiastic admirer. You know the drill.’
‘Guv,’ Tommy said. He wasn’t sure, being big and black and male, that he was the ideal candidate to go talking to middle-aged or timid old ladies, but he’d give it his best shot. For Hillary Greene, he was always willing to give things his best shot.
He watched her now as she reached for the phone, and saw that she was allowing her hair to grow longer than her usual shoulder-length bob. Was that deliberate, or had she simply not realized? He thought she’d look good with long hair - it was a lovely, dark-brown colour, like a hazelnut. He imagined her walking across the car-park, a breeze blowing it back off her face, like one of those advertisements for shampoo. Then he saw Frank Ross pushing through the door and quickly got on the phone himself. The last thing he wanted was for that bastard Ross to know how he felt about the boss. His life wouldn’t be worth living.
‘Guv,’ Ross said sourly, scratching under his armpit, leaving no one downwind of him in any doubt that he’d skipped his morning shower. ‘The cowshed is never locked. The steel doors shut with a simple latch and there’s some dim overhead lighting, for the winter months. There’s no valuable milking equipment or anything, it’s just a shelter for the cows, so there’s no security alarm or system. It’s just a bloody iron barn in the middle of nowhere.’
His tone said that he could have told her that without traipsing all over Steeple Barton to find the cowman and asking him about it.
Hillary nodded. ‘Do they have a problem with dossers? Tramps sheltering overnight, new age travellers, that kind of thing?’
Frank hadn’t thought to ask. ‘No, guv, nothing like that,’ he said firmly. He was buggered if he was going to go back to ask either. It was as plain as the spot on his nose that the vic had been done in by a jealous boyfriend. Everyone knew Hillary Greene went over the top
when it came to checking out long shots. And she was always giving him, one of her oldest-serving and best sergeants, the scut work. He was getting sick and tired of it. No point in complaining to Mel though; he and the bitch from Thrupp were in each other’s pockets.
Hillary nodded. So the passing-tramp theory didn’t look likely. Still, it had been a wet and nasty night and couldn’t be totally discounted. But even if some gentleman of the road had been kipping down there in the straw and body warmth of a dozing cow, why would he up and strangle Julia Reynolds? And come to that, why had Julia Reynolds been there in the first place?
She’d almost certainly rented the wedding dress, so the last thing she’d want to do is get it dirty and have to pay for cleaning. And a cow-shit infested shed was surely the last place she’d choose to go in a voluminous white gown. Voluntarily, that was.
No, she just couldn’t see how an anonymous tramp would fit in the frame. Something of a relief, that, considering how hard it would be to track down an itinerant.
‘Frank, I want.… Hey up, heads up. Looks like we’ve got company,’ she hissed, straightening up in her chair and closing the folder in front of her, out of habit.
Janine and Tommy, whose desks faced hers, swivelled around in their chairs as Mel Mallow stepped out of his office and cleared his throat loudly. Beside him stood a tall, lean man, with neatly cut dark-gold hair. He was dressed in a dark-blue suit and anonymous tie. His eyes, which were scanning the room, didn’t look as if they were missing much.
So this was the new super. The may be gay, may be scandalous man from the Met.
‘If I could just have your attention for a minute,’ Mel yelled, although the room had very quickly fallen silent. ‘I’d like to introduce you to Superintendent Jerome Raleigh. Superintendent Raleigh, as you know, is taking over Marcus Donleavy’s old patch. Sir?’
Mel stepped back and Janine winced, knowing how much he must be hating every moment of this. It was no secret between the two of them just how hungry Mel had been for the promotion.
‘I won’t keep you,’ Jerome Raleigh said crisply, ‘I know you’ve all got more cases on than you need, and the last thing you want is to listen to a speech. I just want to tell you that I’m a hands-on copper, and I look after my people. That means I want to be kept informed, and I want anyone with a problem to come to me immediately so that it can be straightened out before it becomes a problem for everyone. It’ll take me a while to learn the patch, so I’d appreciate some patience. I’ve spoken for some time with Chief Superintendent Donleavy, and his methods and mine pretty much gel, so I’m not anticipating too many teething pains. Right, that’s it.’
He nodded once, then glanced back at Mel, who walked him to the door. When he returned, DCI Mallow went straight back to his office and the room held its collective breath, wondering if he’d slam the door. But Hillary could have told them that he wouldn’t. Mellow Mallow hadn’t got his nickname through irony. But she and Janine weren’t the only ones to guess just how much he must be smarting, right about now.
‘Wow, what a hunk,’ Janine said thoughtfully. ‘Did you see the colour of his eyes?’
Hillary, who hadn’t (and had been wondering, on and off for some time, whether she should bite the bullet and get an eye test) shrugged. ‘Can’t say as I noticed.’
‘Sherry,’ Janine said definitely.
Frank Ross snorted. ‘You mean red? I bet he’s a boozer. That’s why the Met jettisoned him.’ But he sounded cheerful at the thought of another kindred spirit, and one in a high-ranking position at that, occupying his nick.
Janine didn’t deign to reply. Instead she transferred the brochures she had in her desk drawer into a plain beige folder and made her way nonchalantly to Mel’s door. A few grins broke out as she knocked and entered, but nobody begrudged the DCI some loving comfort just then.
‘Hey, he didn’t look anything special to me,’ Janine lied, shutting the door carefully behind her. ‘I bet he’ll be gone by the end of next year.’
Mel, who was staring out of the window, looked back at her and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. He’s a close sod, I’ll give him that. I spent nearly all day yesterday with him, and didn’t get even a hint of what made him tick.’
‘Never mind, darlin’, you’ll soon be picking over his bones,’ Janine said cheerfully and, standing beside him, bent over to open the folder. ‘I’ve been thinking about getting away for a weekend somewhere, just you and me. You know, one of those country hotels, where they serve four-star food and we can learn archery or something totally useless. What do you think of this one – it’s in the Cotswolds, so it’s not much travelling? Or maybe the New Forest, or the Norfolk Broads? The rates are cheaper out of season, plus places won’t be so crowded.’
Mel glanced unenthusiastically at the brochures. He couldn’t afford to be seen to take time off now, even if it was a legitimate weekend he was entitled to. Introducing Raleigh had been a salutary lesson that was going to rankle for some time yet.
‘Come on, it’ll be fun,’ Janine pushed, sensing his distinct lack of enthusiasm. She was looking forward to a little pampering, and nearly all the hotels had spas and massages, aromatherapy treatments and beautician services as part of the package.
‘Not now, Janine,’ Mel said irritably. ‘And you’ve got a big case on, haven’t you?’
Janine’s eyes flashed, and Mel knew what that meant. ‘Look, leave these with me, and I’ll see which ones I like the look of, and when things are quieter, we’ll see,’ he said quickly. He knew he was placating her, and the continual need to do so was becoming more and more annoying. ‘Now, I have to get on. Anything new on Julia Reynolds?’
Janine gritted her teeth and smiled. She hated it when Mel pulled rank on her. But she should have known better than to pick a fight with him whilst she was at work. It gave him a heaven-sent opportunity to put one over on her. No, she’d wait until tonight to bring this up again. If Mel thought he was going to get away with this shit, he had another think coming. What was the point of having a better-off, older and good-looking boyfriend, if he couldn’t splurge on her now and then?
‘Sir,’ Janine said negatively, and left. And all the office heard her slamming the door on the way out.
Jerome Raleigh finished reading the last of the personnel reports Marcus Donleavy had left for him, and pushed them away, putting the cap back on his pen and tossing it down restlessly on the folder. He had an office on the top floor, overlooking the leafy, rather pleasant streets of Kidlington. He wasn’t sure he particularly liked it – either the office or the town.
Kidlington was, technically, a large village he supposed, although he expected the inhabitants looked on it as more of a town. It was certainly a far cry from the Capital, but then, that too, suited his purposes for the moment. Here he’d have far more leeway. And since all his friends had been left behind, and had no idea what he was up to, he’d be able to get on with things with a free hand.
But he’d have to be careful. And patient. Very patient.
All in all, he thought the morning had gone reasonably well. None of the faces he’d seen had been openly hostile, which was a relief. Philip Mallow wasn’t a particularly happy bunny, but Jerome had a good idea why that was. His own speech to the troops had gone down well, striking the right balance between leadership and approachability. It would take some time for them to get to trust him though. He’d moved about enough in his earlier career to know that these things took time.
Still, he was reasonably confident that the team here was a good bunch. With the exception of one or two slackers, the usual time-servers and rank-and-file incompetents, the only really bad apple was Frank Ross.
Donleavy had warned him that the best friend of the notorious Ronnie Greene was universally loathed, and with good reason, though on occasion he could prove useful. The low-lives were scared of him, and he had an extensive list of narks that was second to none. He could generally be relied on when it came to the hard stuff, and was a
good man to have guarding your back during a riot or public disorder. He was less of an asset otherwise, and Jerome had wondered (and very carefully asked) why he’d been assigned to Hillary Greene’s team.
He’d had to tread carefully there, suspecting that Ronnie and Hillary Green might have had reasons of their own for keeping a man like Frank Ross close, but he’d been quickly disabused of that idea.
Every superintendent – if he was good, and Marcus Donleavy, Jerome had quickly realised, was very good indeed – knew his patch and his people like the back of his hand, and Donleavy had been very clear that not only was Hillary totally clean of any of her husband’s dirty dealings, but was one of the best, if not the top cop, on his team.
Frank Ross had simply been foisted on her because nobody else could stand or deal with the bloke. Not that Hillary had appreciated the vote of confidence in her patience at the time, Donleavy had chuckled. Now, everyone supposed that she’d simply got used to having the poisonous little cretin around.
After reading DI Greene’s file, Jerome had found himself similarly impressed by her capabilities. He knew, as did Marcus, that not every cop was a natural detective. Some worked strictly by the book because they lacked the imagination, skill, or experience, to do otherwise. Most played politics, with some seeing the catching of villains as barely a means to an end. Only a golden few had a flair for solving cases, and he could see from Hillary Greene’s conviction rate, why the public prosecutions office regarded her, too.
He hoped they’d get on. If he had to baby-sit Philip Mallow’s hurt feelings for any length of time, he’d need all the allies he could get.
Raleigh closed her file thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair, stretching. Whether or not she’d be useful to him, was another matter. She might be too good. Too clever. She might even find out what had brought him to Thames Valley, and that simply wouldn’t do. No, it might just be that Frank Ross would be a far better bet after all. Men like him could be useful, if given the right incentive. He’d have to sound him out carefully and see, and if he seemed to be up for it, Jerome would then set about cultivating him – as distasteful as that might be.