Narrow is the Way

by Faith Martin

  Hillary said nothing. In truth, there was nothing she could say. If Owen Wallis did indeed confirm that Theo Greenwood had offered him a cigar at around 11.45 that night, then that was that. And somehow, Hillary got the feeling that Owen Wallis was going to up and do just that.

  ‘You haven’t got any plans for a foreign holiday in the near future, have you, Mr Greenwood?’ she asked, rising to her feet.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ The relief in Theo Greenwood’s voice and face was palpable as he suddenly realized the ordeal was over. ‘And if I was, I’d cancel it, before you ask.’ He even managed a smile.

  Outside, Janine muttered something in disgust under her breath. Then added more audibly, ‘Back to the farm, boss?’

  Back to the farm.

  Frank Ross looked up as Hillary and Janine trooped in, faces as long as wet weekends. Now that was much better. That was how things should be. Now the laws of the universe were back in their proper working order.

  Time to show them how real policing worked.

  ‘Guv, I’ve found out where our pal Leo Mann was on the night of the killing. He and some pals of his were out forcing cash machines. It’s got Mann’s MO all over it, plus we’ve got a positive sighting of him in Summertown that night, around the time the girl got it. I reckon it’s enough to rule Mann out.’

  ‘Oh great. Another dead end,’ Janine snarled. First Owen Wallis confirms what Theo Greenwood had said about going out for the cigars and now this. She wasn’t best pleased when Hillary told her to go with Frank and bring in Mann and have a chat with the sergeant in charge of the robbery. She left, muttering under her breath.

  Frank Ross trudged off behind her, wondering gleefully if the blonde wonder was going to complain to lover boy that Hillary Greene kept giving her all the crap jobs. And he wondered, even more gleefully, just what Mel would do about it.

  Hillary sat down at her desk, wondered if she dared get off home on time for once, then wondered what would be the point if she did? All she had to go back to was an empty narrow boat and a Dick Francis novel that might, or might not, hold the key to Ronnie’s dirty dosh. She’d be better off thinking up new lines of inquiries for her team tomorrow. Unless they came up with some new leads, they were buggered. Already the first forty-eight hours were over and, as everyone knew, the majority of cases that were going to get solved, were already solved by then.

  She sighed and reached for the first of Tommy’s reports.

  chapter ten

  Gregory Innes turned into a small cul-de-sac on Nuneaton’s northernmost boundary and cut the engine. Now this was more like it. Houses, shops, streets, gardens. No barbed wire fences, cowshit or railway embankments here. Even now it made him break out in a cold sweat when he remembered being chased by that mad farmer and that crazy female cop.

  Detective Inspector Hillary Greene.

  Since she’d chased him, almost into the path of an oncoming train, Gregory had been learning all about DI Greene, and what he’d learned hadn’t exactly filled him with joy and inner serenity. Word had it, around those in the know, that she had a good nose on her and all the leniency of a pit bull on downers. And a good copper’s nose was the last thing he wanted poking around in his business – especially now that he’d finally struck paydirt.

  He slid his lanky frame out of his rusting second-hand Volvo, and once again checked out the house. The first time he’d come here, nearly three months ago now, he hadn’t paid it all that much attention, except to ascertain that anyone living here could afford to pay for his services. Mock-Tudor in style. Good garden, clean windows. There had to be a reasonable amount of money here sure, but not, he supposed glumly, huge gobs of it. Which was just typical of his luck. A perfect blackmail opportunity had come his way, but how much would they really be good for?

  Vivian Orne, the wife, was an aerobics and dance-class instructor as well as part-owner of a local gym. She brought in enough readies to help pay the mortgage on this place, run a nice new Mini and put her kids into a good school, but she was not exactly Rockefeller. Likewise her hubby was the proud owner of a garage that also sold second-hand cars. A nice little earner, no doubt. Perhaps he could ask for two thousand a month? They’d cough up that much, surely? After all, they had their own lives to think about – not to mention the happiness of their one remaining kid, the little girl he’d seen the last time he’d been here.

  He could take a nice holiday for a change. Play the gee-gee’s maybe. Kick back and relax a bit. Wait a few months, then up it to three thousand. And there was still the doctor. He’d be good for another thousand a month easy. Probably more. He’d have to check around and see how much GPs earned. All his life, Gregory had been a grifter, with nothing coming easy. It was time he had a slice of the pie. Nervous, but determined, he walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell.

  Tommy watched Max Finchley shrugging into his heavy black duffel coat. He was parked by the construction site of what was soon to provide both underground and high-level parking for the city of Oxford’s long-suffering motorists. At the moment, it looked more like a bombsite than a building site, and Tommy re-read nervously the placard on the chain-link fencing warning members of the public that detonations would be happening tomorrow at 10.15.

  That would probably gather a crowd.

  Tommy, who still had memories of Molotov cocktails at public riots, couldn’t see the fascination in explosions and fire himself.

  He lifted his binoculars and focused them once more on his mark. Funny, he’d never expected Max Finchley to be a construction worker. Remembering Vera Finchley drinking her expensive vodka in her big and impressive bungalow, he had been expecting her husband to be some kind of executive.

  Tommy noted in his book the time Max Finchley clocked off and watched a steady stream of workers – brickies, carpenters, demolition guys, scaffolders, steel workers – all head for the main gates.

  Max Finchley was about five foot ten, Tommy reckoned, mid-forties and going bald. And was a possible crook. Well, Tommy snorted, in this line of work, notorious for scams, what couldn’t he have been getting up to? How many times had he been called on to sites just like this by irate and incensed site-managers. ‘Buggers will take anything not nailed down’ had been the general complaint. But surely this sort of thing wouldn’t be enough to provide a motive for murder? Julia Reynolds knowing Max Finchley was a tea-leaf wasn’t a strangling offence, surely?

  He frowned as Max Finchley picked up his lunch box, one of those old fashioned, black tin boxes with an arched hinged lid, and got in line to filter out. And something, some little jarring note that wasn’t big enough to register fully-formed in his mind, but was enough to niggle, nonetheless, made him sit up and take notice.

  But what the hell was it?

  He watched like a hawk, but all the man was doing was shuffling in line, waiting to get past the watchman on the gate. Nothing.

  He sighed, then reached into his glove compartment and, not for the first time, drew out the small jewellers’ box inside and opened it. He stared down morosely at the small, star-shaped diamond, sure that Jean would like it. A solid-minded Baptist herself, just like Tommy’s mother Mercy, Jean knew the value of things. She’d be pleased with it, he was sure.

  They’d been going steady for over four years now, and there’d been nobody else for Tommy and, he was certain, not for Jean either. Marriage was the next logical step. He wanted kids and he wanted to see his mother made happy, holding a grandson or granddaughter in her arms. So why the hell had he been hanging on to this diamond for almost a month now?

  He shook his head, knowing why, and snapped the lid shut just in time to see Max Finchley walk towards his car in a makeshift parking area on the far side of the site.

  Tommy was careful not to be seen as he followed Finchley’s nondescript Ford Mondeo through Oxford’s hideous rush-hour and out into the open countryside. When he was sure he was only heading back home to Upper Heyford, Tommy dropped back and returned to HQ. He would
be back, bright and early, to get on Max’s tail when he returned to work next morning. Perhaps then he could spot whatever it was that was bothering him.

  Hillary had just got off the phone, when a uniform from downstairs stuck his head around the door and told her that they had a member of the public downstairs wanting to speak to the officer in charge of the Julia Reynolds’ murder inquiry.

  ‘Off the street?’ Hillary asked, picking up her notebook.

  ‘Phoned the number in the Oxford Mail, guv, about the police artist’s sketch of the bloke you chased. They directed her here.’

  Hillary nodded. She knew by now that her ‘heroics’ of the other night would be all over the station. As usual, opinions would be mixed. There were those who held fast to the belief that only those holding the ranks of sergeant and below had any business being out and about in the field in the first place. The likes of DIs should be kept chained safely behind their desks, where they couldn’t do so much damage. Then there’d be the young and eager beavers who’d joined up just so that they could indulge in midnight chases across open fields, who would be green with envy. Then there were the more seasoned coppers, who’d just be glad she hadn’t got hurt – and rather her than them.

  The young officer who followed her down to the interview-room was one of the envious ones. ‘Word has it, guv, you nearly got sliced-and-diced by the inter-city?’

  Hillary laughed. ‘Very damn nearly, Constable. Take my advice – if you’re ever going to chase suspects in the dark, take along a seeing-eye dog, and make sure the bugger goes in front.’

  He was still grinning about that as he opened the door to interview room three, slipped inside, and then closed it behind him. He took up position by the door and waited, po-faced.

  Carole Morton looked at him nervously then straightened up visibly as Hillary took a seat opposite. ‘Hello. It’s Mrs Morton, isn’t it?’ Hillary asked, glancing down at the piece of paper the constable had given her, which bore the witness’s name, address and contact number. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Hillary Greene. I hear you contacted us about the artist’s drawing of a man we’d like to question. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes. Well, not to know his name. I’ve seen him before.’

  Hillary nodded. Not ideal, but at least she seemed positive. ‘You got a good look at this man? In daylight?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right. I showed the paper to Betty, and she remembered him, too.’

  ‘Betty?’

  ‘She works with me on reception. At the health centre in Oxham.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hillary nodded. Oxham was a large village between Oxford and Middleton Stoney, which was still able to boast a village shop, complete with a functional post office, as well as a thriving health centre that catered for locals from up to five villages away in any direction. In point of fact, unless her memory was playing her false, it was where Julia Reynolds herself had been registered as a patient.

  ‘This man, he’s a patient there?’ Hillary asked.

  ‘Oh no. He came in, it must have been early last month some time, and asked to see Dr Crowder. He hadn’t got an appointment, and I tried to explain that before he could see any of the doctors he needed to be registered as a patient, but he was insistent. Said that it wasn’t a medical matter anyway but something else, something personal, and that he’d wait until the doctor had finished his morning surgery. As I said, he was most insistent, but polite enough, so I couldn’t see the harm in it. And he was as good as his word. He sat there in the waiting-room for over an hour.’

  ‘He didn’t give you a name, I suppose?’

  ‘Not that I can remember, no.’

  ‘I see,’ Hillary said philosophically. ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Well, when Dr Crowder had seen his last patient, I went in and told him about the man, and he told me to send him in. He was there for about – I don’t know. Ten minutes or so. Then he left. I haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘But you’re sure it’s him, the man in the paper?’ Hillary asked, making notes as she went.

  ‘Yes. Well, as sure as I can be. I mean, a drawing’s not as good as a photograph, is it, but it’s certainly a good likeness.’

  ‘Do you think you’d be able to pick this man out of a lineup of say, six or eight men, Mrs Morton?’

  Carole Morton took a deep breath. ‘Yes. I think I could. And Betty as well.’

  Hillary nodded. She’d obviously had to screw herself up to come here, but having done so, Hillary couldn’t see her backing out now. ‘Well, I hope that won’t be necessary. At the moment, we have no evidence that this man has committed any crime, but we do need to speak to him. So you’ve nothing to worry about, and you’ve been very helpful. Thank you. We’ll be in touch if we need you again.’

  Carole Morton looked surprised and perhaps just a shade disappointed that it was all over so soon, and had been rather a banal and run-of-the-mill affair after all. Hillary imagined she’d have thought her interview with the police would be a much more interesting experience.

  After she’d gone, Hillary remained seated in the now empty interview room, tapping her pen thoughtfully. So, the mystery man had been to see a local doctor. But not on a medical matter. Curious. She walked out into the main lobby and back up to her desk, quickly checking the Reynolds file. Yes! Not only was she registered at Oxham, but Dr Crowder was also Julia’s doctor.

  She quickly checked her watch. Nearly 5.30. What time did doctors clock off nowadays? She went outside, surprised to find Tommy Lynch crossing the car-park. ‘Guv,’ he said, spotting her and doing a quick detour to intercept. He told her about his surveillance of Max Finchley and his gut instinct that there was something ‘off’.

  Hillary nodded. ‘Better keep on it then,’ she said flatly, then added, ‘You off, or do you have time for another interview?’

  Tommy, of course, had time.

  On the way to Oxham, she filled him in on the nibble they’d got on the man who had been hanging around Three Oaks Farm.

  ‘Beginning to sound less and less like a journo after a follow-up, doesn’t it?’ Tommy said. ‘Especially as this puts him in the area nearly a month before Julia was murdered.’

  Hillary nodded. So far, they’d been working on the assumption that the Julia Reynolds killing had been an opportunistic crime. A sudden rush of blood to the head and wham. But what if it had been well thought out and meticulously planned, the seeds of it going back maybe a month or even longer?

  Still, it was hard to see what Julia’s doctor would have to do with anything. She’d noted in the file that he’d been interviewed as part of the routine, but nothing useful had come of it.

  She was somewhat relieved to see the health centre still open, but even before she was halfway to the reception desk, the grey-haired woman behind the glass partition was already telling her that the doctors were finished seeing patients for the night.

  Hillary pulled out her ID and introduced herself and Tommy. ‘I was hoping to have a quick word with a Dr Crowder? Is he in?’

  The receptionist, now a little flustered, buzzed them through. ‘Straight down the corridor, turn left, and first on the right.’

  Hillary nodded, passing posters giving dire warnings about all manner of dread diseases, and was glad to reach her destination. There a sign on a door told her she’d found the rooms of Dr Lincoln Crowder. A host of letters followed his name. Sounded as if he was the chief of the Indians. She knocked and entered, Tommy coming in awkwardly behind her. The room was small, and already he seemed to fill it.

  Dr Crowder, a small, grey-haired, precise-looking man, leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at them with curious eyes.

  Hillary sat in the chair indicated. ‘I’m currently heading a murder investigation, Dr Crowder,’ she began crisply and calmly. She’d quickly learned that when it came to talking to well-educated and professional people who had every reason to consider themselves well up on the totem pole, they responded better to something that caught their a
ttention. She saw that she’d succeeded by the way Dr Lincoln Crowder slowly put down the pen he’d been holding, and turned his swivel chair around a little more to face her.

  ‘Yes? We’re talking about Julia Reynolds, I imagine?’

  Hillary nodded. Not a hard guess to make, under the circumstances. She didn’t think a country doctor had that many patients murdered.

  ‘I spoke to an officer some days ago.’

  ‘I know, but we have some further questions, Doctor. About a month ago, a man came to see you. He wasn’t a patient,’ she added quickly, before the doctor could begin to tell her what he could and couldn’t discuss. She quickly passed over a copy of the identikit drawing. ‘You may have seen a copy of this before, in the Oxford Mail, Dr Crowder?’

  ‘I don’t take it,’ the medico said at once, and took the leaflet. He stared at it for a good few seconds, but Hillary had no doubts at all that he recognized the man. She felt, rather than saw, him stiffen. He seemed to draw in on himself slightly, reminding her of the way a hedgehog will curl into a prickly ball at the approach of danger.

  ‘You recognize the man?’ she asked needlessly. Hillary watched him closely, seeing the way his face closed over. From the way his eyes flickered, she could tell his mind was racing. What did they know? What should he tell them? How much?

  ‘You seem to be on the horns of a dilemma, Doctor,’ Hillary said, willing to go halfway, whilst at the same time letting him know that she wasn’t going to be messed about. ‘But as I said, this is a murder inquiry, and you are obliged to co-operate. Now, do you know this man?’

  ‘Yes. His name is Gregory Innes. I only met him once. As you say he isn’t a patient, and didn’t consult me on a medical matter.’