Narrow is the Way

by Faith Martin

  All her life, she’d done the right thing – had even obeyed her parents as a teenager. She’d certainly never been in any trouble with the law, and considered herself to be a good neighbour and an upstanding citizen. Her instinct was to ring the number and get it over with. She knew herself well enough to know she’d only fret if she didn’t.

  Then again, she’d always been innately cautious as well. It paid to be careful. Finally, she decided to wait and show the newspaper to Betty tomorrow. She’d been working the same day, and although it had been Carole who’d spoken to him, Betty had a good memory for faces. If Betty thought it was the same man, she’d definitely call.

  Feeling better for having come to a decision now, Carole turned the next page of the newspaper and began to read about the upcoming attractions at the Oxford Playhouse. Pity you had to wait until Christmas time for a good panto.

  Muffet heaved a sorrowful sigh as all the vigorous stroking came to a sudden end, and yawned widely.

  Tommy looked up at the house number to make sure he had it right, and then nodded to himself. It was a nice place, only a bungalow, but a large and old one. It had lovely gardens too, bursting with autumnal colour. There was some money here, and no mistake. He only hoped there’d be no grieving parents behind this door.

  Tommy rather liked having a rural beat. He enjoyed driving through the small Oxfordshire villages, and often found himself admiring thatched cottages, converted mills and such like, and wishing he and Jean could afford such a place. Of course, they never would. But still, he could take picnics on village greens, feed friendly ducks, and walk along canals and river-banks whenever the fancy took him. Now he glanced around at the village of Upper Heyford and wondered how often that row of terraced, rose-bedecked cottages had been photographed for calendars and postcards, or been snapped to adorn tourist pamphlets.

  The door in front of him swung open and the woman inside stared out at him curiously. She was dressed in a white, wrap-over dress, four-inch high heels and was smoking avidly. She had wild-looking wavy blonde hair, more make-up than Joan Crawford on a bad day, and looked to be approaching sixty.

  Tommy gulped. ‘Mrs Finchley? Vera Finchley?’ he asked, holding up his ID. ‘Detective Constable Lynch, ma’am. It’s nothing to be alarmed about, I just wondered if I could have a little chat?’

  Tommy never knew how women were going to react. And from the briefing Hillary had given him, this one was also a possible lush, which only added to the variables. He only hoped – oh how he hoped – that she wouldn’t come on to him.

  ‘Police? Well, I suppose you’d better come in then,’ she said, her voice showing no signs of slurring. Mind you, with dedicated drunks, that meant nothing.

  Tommy smiled his thanks and walked in. Mrs Finchley led him down a short corridor and into a large and spacious living-room, overlooking the back of the garden, and a field of peacefully grazing sheep. A panoramic view of the valley stretched away to Lower Heyford, a mile down the road, and to Steeple Aston, at the top end of the valley. With the trees turning colour, it was a simply stunning vista.

  ‘So, what’s up? There hasn’t been a car crash has there? My husband’s all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, ma’am. It’s nothing of that nature,’ Tommy said quickly, wondering if he should sit down or wait to be asked. ‘It’s about Julia Reynolds.’

  At this, Vera Finchley’s face began to crumble. ‘Oh poor Julia. I heard about that.’ Her voice wobbled, then seemed to right itself. ‘I think I’ll have a drink. Can I get you something, Constable?’ Tommy quickly shook his head. ‘Well, I’ll have just a dash,’ Vera Finchley said, pouring out nearly a half-bottle of vodka into a tall straight glass. She added lime segments from a dish, and ice. It looked like a very elegant drink. Tommy had no doubt that had he drunk it, it would have had him under the table in nought-to-sixty seconds flat.

  He got out his notebook. ‘I understand Julia did your hair for you, Mrs Finchley? Was she a good hair stylist?’

  Vera Finchley took a hefty gulp then slid into a chair, waving a hand vaguely about for him to also sit. ‘Of course,’ she said, and self-consciously touched her errant locks. ‘Don’t you think so?’

  Tommy agreed quickly. The truth was, he hadn’t seen such rampant blonde hair on a woman since the days when Farrah Fawcett made the windblown look popular. ‘And when she was here, you liked to chat, I suppose?’ he nudged her along hopefully.

  ‘Oh, all the time. She was getting married you know. To that millionaire’s son – the one who owns that fancy hotel up on the main road. Full of it she was. Told me she wanted to go to one of those fancy ocean islands on her honeymoon.’

  Her glass, Tommy noticed aghast, was almost half empty, and yet he had no clear picture of her drinking from it. How did dedicated drunks manage that? He decided to hurry up the questions before she became comatose.

  ‘And you talked to her about your life. Your husband?’

  ‘Max?’ Vera Finchley snorted inelegantly and loudly, making Tommy jump. ‘What would I want to talk about Max for? Boring old fart, he is.’

  Tommy nodded, and this time caught her out taking a swig. He knew neither Hillary nor Janine (and certainly not Frank Ross) would ever hesitate about taking advantage of a drunk witness if it meant getting results, but Tommy felt vaguely ashamed of himself as he let her take yet another swig before carrying on.

  ‘Oh? That’s strange. A friend of Julia’s said you’d told her something a bit racy about your husband. We were wondering what that was.’

  ‘Huh?’ Vera looked up from the clear but vanishing liquid in her glass and stared at Tommy flatly. She looked, suddenly, very sober indeed. ‘Racy? Max? You’re having a laugh. Besides, what interest would Julia have in Max?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting anything like that, Mrs Finchley,’ Tommy said reassuringly. ‘In fact, we rather gathered that you told Julia your husband had been involved in some high-risk business venture.’

  He couldn’t, after all, come right out and say that Mrs Finchley had all but said that her husband was a crook. But a sly appeal to the old ego might just open reluctant lips.

  Vera Finchley’s lips pinched closed and Tommy sighed. ‘We understand that some businessmen, whilst not exactly breaking the law, can be very aggressive when it comes to making money. I can’t say as I blame them. If you have the brains for it, why not?’ He smiled disarmingly.

  At least, he thought he smiled disarmingly. From the look on Vera Finchley’s face, however, you’d have thought he’d just done a Rottweiler impersonation.

  ‘Sorry, don’t know what you mean,’ Vera said, sitting up straight and slamming her drink down hard and dead centre on the nearby occasional table.

  ‘Oh? You never told Julia Reynolds that Mr Finchley was doing some clever, maybe underhanded business deal?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. He don’t work for the Bank of England you know.’ Vera suddenly gave a loud snort. Tommy wondered if it was her version of laughter. ‘All this,’ – she waved a hand at the bungalow and the gorgeous view – ‘is down to me. My side of the family did all right.’ She nodded vigorously, then went promptly to sleep.

  Tommy blinked, wondering if she was all right. Her head had lolled back on the chair, her lower jaw swung open and she gave a sudden, violent snore. Tommy decided that whoever it was that said discretion was the better part of valour, most definitely knew his onions from his turnips, and scrammed while the going was good.

  Hillary decided to treat herself to a late lunch at HQ’s local pub, and was perusing the menu, trying to talk herself out of the scampi and chips and into the herb omelette with salad, when she felt someone slide into the booth beside her.

  Detective Inspector Mike Regis grinned back at her. ‘Hello, long time no see. I didn’t expect to see you in here.’

  Mike Regis worked Vice, and had been called in on the Dave Pitman inquiry, which Hillary had solved, in spite of being sidelined. But she’d never held a grudge against
Mike Regis – it wasn’t his fault that Mel had pulled rank on her, and Regis had been instrumental in shutting down a drugs distribution ring on the same case. He’d also helped her in her last murder case as well. Moreover, she’d sensed, right from the first, that they thought the same way and seemed destined to get on like a house and fire, and perhaps, who knew, maybe just start a little fire of their own. Pity he had turned out to be married. An even greater pity that she’d only found out about it by overhearing gossip, instead of from the man himself.

  ‘Eating?’ she asked succinctly.

  ‘Just finished. Me and Tanner had business with Luke Fletcher.’

  Hillary whistled silently. Luke Fletcher was quite easily the biggest thorn in Thames Valley’s collective backside. Drug dealer, pimp, extortioner, and almost certainly a murderer, although nothing would stick. ‘And how was he? Really pleased to see you, I’m sure.’

  Mike Regis grinned, the crows’ feet appearing attractively around his dark-green eyes. ‘Oh he was, he was.’ He paused as a waitress came over, and Hillary gave her order for omelette and salad. He pushed a hand through his thinning dark-brown hair and leaned back against his chair. ‘Reason I was glad to see you, is this,’ he said, and reaching into a briefcase by the side of his chair, shuffled some papers around, and came out with a thin folder in a plain beige cover.

  Hillary raised an eyebrow. As far as she knew, she wasn’t working on any cases that might overlap with Vice. And if she were, why this hole-in-the-corner exchange?

  Curious, and wary, Hillary opened the folder and began to read. She managed to stop her mouth falling open, but only just. Inside, was a rap-sheet on one Mr Thomas Palmer, founder member of the Oxford branch of ESAA. Her eyes widened as she took in the fraud charges in his youth, and opened even wider at the obtaining-money-with-menaces stretch he’d done only four years ago. Graham would be very pleased with this. Very pleased indeed. Even if he couldn’t get a member of ESAA’s past misdeeds legally introduced into any civil court action, she knew he had ways and means of ensuring that judges and other people who needed to know discovered the truth about such naughty goings on. Totally illegal, of course, and downright unethical, which was why Hillary, as a serving police officer, would have nothing to do with it. She’d just fax the whole lot over to him and then forget all about it, like a good little girl.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said flatly, when she’d read it through. She closed the folder and slipped it into her own, voluminous bag then leaned back as the waitress returned with her dinner. The omelette steamed appetizingly with heat, and the salad looked crisp and fresh and green, the tomatoes juicy. Very healthy and good for her. Damn it, she wished it were scampi and chips.

  But her thighs and hips were thanking her. They’d bloody better be. She reached for the salad cream and splodged it on, then sighed and took a bite. Eventually, she had to ask. Just as Mike Regis, damn him, had known she would. ‘And just how did you know those charming people at ESAA were giving me grief?’

  Regis grinned and shrugged. ‘Oh, through a friend of a friend. He knows Palmer’s solicitor. Don’t ask.’

  Hillary wasn’t about to. Usually when somebody did you a favour, you not only looked the gift horse well and truly in the mouth, you checked its fetlocks, mane and chest too while you were at it. Not to mention keeping a wary look out for mange, foot rot and fleas. Well, you did, if you were a serving copper.

  But Hillary trusted Mike Regis. Well, when it came to things like this, anyway.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said again, and meant it. Suddenly, she had a lot more confidence in the outcome of the up-coming civil battle to keep her hands on her own property. ‘So, how’s … what’s her name? Your wife?’ Hillary said flatly, and saw Mike Regis’s eyes narrow.

  ‘Laura? She’s fine. Didn’t know you knew her,’ he said, just as flatly.

  Hillary speared some egg and chewed. ‘I didn’t. Didn’t know of her, either,’ she added, carefully.

  ‘So that’s why you blew me off in the canteen that day,’ Regis said candidly. ‘I did wonder.’

  It was typical of him not to offer a useless apology. And now that the ball was firmly back in her court, she supposed she could play it coy, but what was the point? They were all grown ups here, and unless she’d seriously misread Mike Regis (and she didn’t think she had) he’d appreciate the cards-on-the-table approach.

  ‘Look, Mike, let’s be frank. When we first met, I liked you right off. I felt we could get on. And we worked the Pitman case together well. I didn’t think I was kidding myself when I thought you might be interested in starting something a bit more personal than simply jogging along as workmates, did I?’

  Mike Regis, who was watching her closely, shook his head. ‘No, you didn’t get it wrong,’ he admitted quietly. He’d become very still in his chair, and Hillary was aware that the ends of her fingertips had started to tingle. She took a deep, calming breath.

  ‘OK. So you wouldn’t have been wrong if you’d got around to thinking that maybe I was willing to give it a go,’ she admitted honestly. ‘But when I found out you were married, that was it. You have to know the scuttlebutt about Ronnie. The man was about as faithful as Don Juan with a harem full of nymphomaniacs. I’ve been the ‘wronged wife’ too many damned times to ever play the other woman to some other poor unsuspecting cow. It’s as simple as that.’

  She forked a tomato and ate it, waiting calmly. She watched him thinking, weighing his words, and found herself half interested and half dreading what he had to say in response.

  ‘I understand all that,’ Regis said at last. ‘It just didn’t occur to me that you didn’t know the rest. Everyone else does. Or so I assume.’

  ‘The rest?’

  ‘Laura and I will be filing for divorce. We were only waiting until Sylvie – our daughter – was old enough to hack it. Our marriage has been over, like, for ever. Hell, she’s been seeing this chartered accountant bloke for nearly eight years. I’ll be moving out as soon as I can get another place.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘Well, when you have, and when the decree nisi comes in, if you’re still interested, let me know.’ It sounded hard and bold, but Hillary knew he was already reading between the lines, something that was confirmed by his next words.

  ‘You think I might be handing you the old married man’s mantra? The “my wife doesn’t understand me, and we’re going to get divorced as soon as the kids are older?” speech?’ Mike said harshly. Then he laughed. ‘Yeah, well, can’t say as I blame you. I just thought you might have given me the benefit of the doubt. Hell, it doesn’t matter.’

  He slid out of the booth and headed for the door, where she finally noticed his sergeant, the silent and all-knowing DS Colin Tanner, waiting patiently for him.

  Hillary watched him go and smiled bleakly. What if he didn’t come back? What if, a year down the road, she heard that the newly and amicably divorced Mike Regis was seen out and about with a new woman? Someone who’d actually trusted him?

  Hillary grinned. She couldn’t help it. Life was a bugger, but you had to laugh, right?

  She shook her head, paid for her meal and left the pub.

  Walking back to HQ, she tried to talk herself into believing that she’d just done the right thing. Let’s face it, she thought grimly, apart from anything else, Mike Regis was such a bloody good copper that if they had got together, he’d have eventually sniffed out the fact that she knew where Ronnie had stashed his dosh. Then he’d nab her. Of that she had no doubts whatsoever, simply because, were the situation reversed, she’d sure as hell nab him.

  So, all things considered, Romeo and Juliet they definitely weren’t.

  Back at HQ, Dr Steven Partridge caught her as he was leaving. Today he was dressed in something that the actor who played Hercule Poirot might wear. She could swear she could even smell pomade on his hair. She wondered, not for the first time, what the doc’s wife made of her husband’s sartorial love affair with himself.

  ‘Ah, Hillary, glad
I caught you. I’ve left the reports on your desk. Your bride in the cowshed. I’ve done the autopsy – and by the way, thanks for sending DS Ross. His comments as I cut and diced were, as ever, riveting.’

  Hillary grimaced. Hadn’t she told Janine to go? She’d have to have a word with her sergeant. ‘Sorry, Doc, but Frank’s like a toxic substance. I have to spread him around evenly, giving everyone their fair share of misery, because if I leave him concentrated in one place too long, people start dropping like flies.’

  Steven Partridge smiled bleakly. ‘So it was just my turn with the poisoned cherub then? That’s a relief. For a moment, I thought I’d somehow found my way onto your shit list.’

  ‘As if you could. So, give me the highlights.’

  ‘Strangled, as you thought, and manual strangulation at that. She was definitely drunk, although probably not falling down drunk. She put up a bit of a fight, and there were traces of skin and blood under her fingernails, I’m glad to say. DS Janine Tyler and Tommy Lynch were hitting the computers for a DNA match as I left. They seemed excited, bless them.’

  Hillary grunted. That was all well and good, if their boy had previous form, and had his DNA in the system. But she had the feeling this was a one off. ‘Well, it means I can start to get our list of suspects in to donate DNA, if they feel so inclined,’ she mused thoughtfully.

  ‘And if they don’t, you’ll turn your beady little eye onto them faster than a speeding bullet?’

  Hillary laughed. ‘Oh, a lot faster than that, Doc. A lot faster than that!’

  *

  Upstairs, Tommy confirmed that so far they’d had no luck with a DNA hit. But the computer could run for hours yet. He also filled her in more fully on Vivian Orne, and the reasons behind the very short interview.