by Faith Martin
Of all the officers working under him, Jerome Raleigh suspected this woman might turn out to be the most interesting of all – and potentially the most dangerous to himself. If she ever got wind of what had really brought him to Thames Valley, he could be deeply in the shit.
‘Please, DI Greene, sit down. This is strictly an informal chat.’ He watched her sit, noting the wary eyes and sharp observation, partly concealed behind a vague smile. He understood how she felt. He was the new boss – he could make things easy or hard for her.
‘Marcus thinks very highly of you, DI Greene,’ he began cordially. ‘He said, of all his DIs, you had a flair for real detective work. Reading up on some of your previous cases, especially the Pitts case, and that of the French student just recently, I’m inclined to agree with him. You’re currently working a murder investigation now, is that right?’
‘Yes, sir. Julia Reynolds, strangled in a cowshed. She’d been attending a fancy dress party at a local farm.’ Briefly she ran down the current status of the investigation although, strictly speaking, this was Mel’s immediate province.
‘Sounds straightforward enough,’ Jerome said.
Hillary hesitated for a scant second, then nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
But Jerome didn’t miss it. And after a moment’s consideration, believed that Hillary Greene hadn’t intended him to.
‘You think not?’
Hillary shuffled on her chair. ‘I’m not sure sir.’ She opened her mouth to say more, then shut it again. The truth was, she wasn’t really sure what was bothering her about the Reynolds case exactly, so how could she explain it to her new boss?
At first, it had all seemed straightforward enough. A beautiful girl gets strangled – so look for a jealous man. Nine times out of ten, the simple answer was always the right one. So when had she begun to have doubts? Talking to Mandy Porter, perhaps? Certainly, a whole different avenue of possibilities had opened up after that interview. Had Julia been blackmailing someone for instance? She’d certainly had the nerve and hard-headedness needed to carry it off. Or had she managed to piss somebody off in a way that had nothing to do with sex? Theo Greenwood, for instance, who didn’t want his son marrying her?
She might not be sure of her ground, but she was glad she’d planted the seed of doubt with her new super. It meant that if things didn’t pan out as quickly as she hoped, she would at least have a life-line, of sorts, left dangling.
Jerome Raleigh nodded, and Hillary wondered if he had read her far more accurately than she’d wished.
‘Well, if your gut tells you something may be off, there’s probably a reason. Keep me informed. I see you live on a boat?’
Hillary obligingly talked about the delights of houseboat living, and after a while, was dismissed.
She made her way back to her desk thoughtfully.
Jerome Raleigh was still definitely something of a mystery. He’d played his cards as close to his chest as she had, and she left the room feeling as if they’d been playing a game of chess that had ended in a respectable and mutually acceptable stalemate, with perhaps a few more points going to the super.
She definitely got the feeling that there was more to the man that met the eye. Now that she’d had a first-hand look for herself, she couldn’t understand why he’d ever left the Met. A big city, with all its possibilities, seemed the ideal environment for someone like him.
‘Been in with the big chief then,’ Janine said, the moment she sat down at her desk. ‘He’s a dish, isn’t he?’
She’d had her own interview with him an hour before, and was wondering if she might not be able to use the unattached Jerome Raleigh as a very handy stick to beat Mel with. She was sure it wouldn’t take much to make Mel sit up and take notice, as jealous of the new super as he already was. If he thought Janine’s eye was wandering in Jerome’s direction, her country weekend break was bound to be a sure thing.
‘Yes, he is,’ Hillary said absently. She’d have had to have been blind not to appreciate the man’s attributes, and although she’d been celibate for far too long, after that confidence-busting shambles that was life with Ronnie Greene, she wasn’t exactly immune from male charm, as she’d found out shortly after meeting a certain DI Mike Regis.
No. She wouldn’t think of Regis now.
Tommy, staring at an interview form he was reviewing, felt his heart sink to his boots. Jerome Raleigh, so he’d been reliably informed by one of the janitors, was unmarried. And he’d be daft not to take notice of a widow as attractive as Hillary.
‘So, is he a shirt-lifter or not?’ Frank Ross demanded, with all his usual tact and diplomacy, and Hillary sensed those within earshot prick up their ears. It was gratifying to know that her opinion was so widely rated.
She glanced across at Frank thoughtfully. ‘If I had to lay my bets now, I’d say not,’ she said, calmly.
But she felt it was going to be a long time before anyone knew anything definite about their new super, and until she had him at least partially sussed out, she’d be treading on eggshells – and so would everyone else if they had any sense.
She had the distinct impression that Jerome Raleigh was not the kind of man to be messed with.
When Tommy got back to his desk he found a report waiting for him from one of the uniforms helping with the house to house inquiries in Julia Reynolds’ neighbourhood. A woman bringing in her washing had noticed a purple Mini (‘one of them new ones’) parked in the lay-by outside Julia’s house in the early evening. Needless to say, the witness could not remember any of the letters or numbers in the number plate. It was probably nothing, but it still had to be checked out.
Tommy sighed. It was going to be a long day.
chapter five
Gregory Innes cursed as the smell of cow shit wafted across on the damp autumn breeze and threatened to clog his sinuses. What’s more, he was sure that the makers of the waxed so-called waterproof coat he was wearing could have been had up under the Trades Descriptions Act. His feet felt cold and damp in the unfamiliar wellingtons, and were threatening to develop blisters. To top it all, his nose wouldn’t stop dripping. He was not very happy. It was not only physical discomfort that was making him miserable though. He wasn’t looking forward to the next few minutes at all, either.
He crouched down even further behind the thick hawthorn hedge as the Wallises’ cowman carefully shut the gates behind him, climbed into his disreputable-looking Land Rover and drove away. A black and white collie, sitting in the back of the open trailer attached to the van, went into a series of frenzied barking as it spotted him, making Gregory cringe and wince at every frenzied warning the sheepdog howled. Luckily for him, the cowman must have been used to the animal making a din, for he didn’t bother to stop and investigate.
Eventually, the outraged barks were silenced as the cowman headed out on who-the-hell-knew, or cared, what task, and Gregory straightened up with a sigh. His back was aching.
He was a tall, rangy, fair-haired man, who looked older than his thirty-eight years. He rubbed his hands together, surprised at how cold they were. He should have worn gloves. This damp weather was far worse than frost or snow for getting into your bones. He should know – he’d become used to being out and about in all weathers during the course of his occupation. He rubbed his hands briskly to get the circulation back and cursed silently, acknowledging to himself, somewhat glumly, that he should have known better, and come better equipped.
Still, in his defence, it had to be said that he was far more used to Birmingham and the sprawling burbs than this. This was his first big job right out in the sticks, and if this was an example of country living, you could keep it. He simply couldn’t figure out why plonkers wanted to retire out here, amongst all this filth and stinging nettles.
He glanced left then right, seeking a weaker spot in the hedge to push through, swearing as the thorns scraped bloody lines across the backs of his exposed hands. Once clear of the hedge, he trotted carefully over to the cowshed, and g
ave another quick look around. No matter how often he snooped – and snooping was as familiar to him as breathing – he always felt a bit like Peter Sellers in one of those Inspector Clouseau films. He could almost hear The Pink Panther theme tune playing in the background as he checked that the path was all clear.
Mind you, he thought with a silent grunt, this whole case was becoming like something from a farce. Here he was, shivering, wet and miserable, sneaking around a bloody cowshed of all things. It was a far cry from his usual beat of tracking dirty politicians, ferreting around in public records and sitting outside buildings in the relative warmth and comfort of his car, fighting off boredom and just waiting for something – anything – to happen.
Going around to the front of the farm building, dodging yet more stinging nettles lying in wait for the bare exposed bits of his legs, where his socks and trouser-leg didn’t quite connect, the first thing he noticed was that the yellow police crime scene tapes were now gone.
He wasn’t surprised. He’d been holed up in a spinney all day yesterday with his best pair of binoculars, and had seen the last of the SOCO team leave. He’d had an uncomfortable feeling that the woman copper who seemed to be in charge of the case had spotted him climbing the gate leading to the field on the opposite side of the spinney earlier that day, but if she had, she’d not been interested enough to send anyone out to scout around. She’d probably thought he was a journo.
He just hoped that she didn’t make another call to the farm any time soon. The last thing he needed was to get his collar felt now.
He pushed open the clammy steel-grey corrugated door and winced as it screeched on rusty runners. Inside, the place was deserted, with only the unmistakable whiff of cow left behind. He stared around somewhat blankly, not really sure what he was doing here. The place would have been gone over with a fine tooth comb by the experts, so there’d be no fleas left for him to find.
Perhaps he just wanted to get a feel of the place. He poked around, trying to imagine the scene. The dead girl, dressed bizarrely in a wedding dress. The shuffling of the disturbed cows. The police lights, the chatter of the various people called out to the scene of unexpected, illicit death.
Gregory Innes didn’t consider himself to be a sensitive man. Hell, in his line of work, how could he be? Nor was he particularly introspective, although he was always vaguely aware that life had done him down, right from the cradle. And he knew for a fact that the damned world didn’t consider that it owed him a living, and the feeling was fully reciprocated. So, it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t consider that he owed Julia Reynolds a damned thing either.
He was out for number one. Always had been, and always would be.
The doctor for instance. Now he might just prove to be a valuable source of income in the future. He was sure he wouldn’t want anyone, police, media, and certainly not the medical council, to know just what he’d thought of Julia Reynolds.
Still, as he stood in that bleak, bare and cold place, Gregory felt himself shiver, unusually touched by some kind of pity. She’d been so young and beautiful after all, and too stupid to know that life was an even bigger bitch than herself. But she’d found out all right, and Gregory thought he might just know who’d taught her.
The problem was, he didn’t know for sure. But if he could only find a scrap of proof, even if only circumstantial proof, he could be on easy street for once. Well, easier street, then. Nobody in this affair was a millionaire, after all.
He tensed suddenly, hearing the sound of a motor. He cursed, slipped to the door, saw the farmer, Owen Wallis’s more up-market Range Rover heading his way and understood at once that there was no way he was going to get away without being spotted.
He slipped through the open door and headed across the muddy ground towards the hedge as fast as his spindly legs would carry him. His running technique might not be pretty, but it was effective. He heard an outraged ‘Oi!’ coming from behind him and then he was back through the hedge, hardly noticing the scratches this time round, and running downhill, arms cartwheeling comically as he quickly veered out of control. He hit the bottom of the slope still running, however, and managed to stay on his feet, the adrenaline rush making him feel like laughing once more.
Inspector Clouseau strikes again!
Theo Greenwood indicated an overstuffed leather chair in a billiard-table shade of green and smiled briefly. ‘Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, a cold drink, or something stronger?’
Hillary smiled back and shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine thanks. Sergeant?’
Janine also shook her head, well aware that the older man was trying desperately not to look at her breasts. It wasn’t that she was dressed in any way provocatively. She tended to wear the clothes her mother insisted on buying her for birthdays and Christmases to work, on the sound basis that it was the only place they were fit for. Consequently, she was wearing a demure white blouse, under a hand-knitted slate-grey cardigan with a complicated rib-pattern. Her mother, a dedicated knitter, could always be relied upon in that department.
‘You’ve come about that poor dead girl, yes?’ Theo Greenwood said, sitting down in a similar green chair, and gazing at them across the width of a massive, mahogany desk. They were in his ‘den’ at the Hayrick Inn.
Hillary had been reluctantly impressed by the older, near-Elizabethan part of the Hayrick, but much less so by the ‘sympathetic’ conversions at the back. The old stable blocks had, of course, long since been converted into bedrooms, and although the accommodation block had been built in matching stone, and had newly planted creepers already blazing in red glory around door lintels and mullioned windows, it had none of the charm of the original coaching inn. But from the moment she’d stepped into the hotel’s lobby, she could tell it was successful. Part of the reason for that had to be due to its prime location on the old Oxford to Banbury road. Legend had it that back in the eighteenth century, the local highwayman, Claude Duvall, had regularly robbed the patrons of their valuables, but one glance at a list of charges whilst waiting for the receptionist to inform Theo Greenwood of their presence, had convinced her that good old Claude wasn’t the only one who indulged in daylight robbery around here.
Still, she was perfectly willing to concede that the Hayrick had all the facilities conference-goers and tourists could possibly want. For the tourists, it was within comfortable driving distance of Oxford, Warwick Castle, the Cotswolds and Stratford-Upon-Avon. For the conference-goers, it wasn’t far, but far enough, from both London and Birmingham, to provide authentic country-house hotel living. The conference rooms no doubt boasted the latest in conferencing satellite links and who knew what else.
She was only surprised that Theo Greenwood had kept a whole room for himself. She suspected he was the kind of man who’d use every available inch of space to its maximum earning potential. On the other hand, she supposed if he had to play the genial host, he needed a showpiece office that looked as if it had been nicked from a turn-of-the-century local squire.
She admired the genuine Victorian green enamel, ebony and ivory inkstand and pen set that held pride of place on the desk, even as she doubted the authenticity of the signed oil over the fireplace. Mind you, she thought the hand-painted Delft tiles surrounding the fireplace were genuine enough, and would probably retail for a small fortune.
‘Yes, we’ve come to talk about Julia Reynolds,’ she said now, getting the interview underway. ‘But I must say, I’m surprised to hear you talk about her that way. From what we’ve learned so far, you seemed to have had nothing good to say about her.’
Theo Greenwood shifted uneasily on the chair. He had rather fine, wide grey eyes, but the way they drifted about the room, as if trying to find somewhere to settle, made him look shifty.
Janine, beside her, abruptly crossed her legs, revealing shapely calves, and ankle-length boots of soft butter-coloured suede. Both women noticed the hotel-owner’s eyes assess her knees before drifting on to inspect a vas
e of copper-coloured chrysanthemums on the windowsill to his left.
‘Well, yes, I suppose that’s fair,’ Theo conceded unhappily. ‘I mean, I have to admit that we didn’t see eye to eye. But the poor girl is dead, and naturally, one doesn’t like to be cruel. Not when someone can’t fight back.’
Hillary nodded. She had no reason to doubt he was being honest enough, although she could sense that Janine didn’t like him. Hillary wasn’t so quick to judge. She’d dealt with too many witnesses, over too many years, not to look before leaping. ‘What was your problem with Julia, Mr Greenwood?’
‘Specifically? I didn’t want her to marry my son,’ he admitted, bluntly enough. ‘Roger’s a good boy, but he’s young for his age. He was infatuated with her, of that I have no doubt, but I think he was finally beginning to see through her. For all his naïveté when it comes to women, I was pretty sure that he wasn’t as serious about her as she thought he was.’
Hillary nodded. ‘But some might say that was wishful thinking, Mr Greenwood. From the witnesses we’ve questioned so far, it seems everyone else thought that they were still very much an item.’
Theo sighed heavily. ‘I’m not saying that he wasn’t still keen.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘That he was beginning to notice things about her, that’s all,’ Greenwood senior said, flapping his right hand about in a vague gesture of annoyance. ‘He’d begun to suspect that she might have feet of clay after all. Too many people were telling him that she was stringing him along, that she had other men on the side, that kind of thing. At first, he wouldn’t hear of it, but I think, with so many people telling him the same thing, he was beginning to doubt her. I know for a fact he asked her outright if she had another man.’
Janine scribbled furiously in her notebook, knowing from the itch on her leg that the hotelier was eyeing up her thighs.