Narrow is the Way

by Faith Martin

  Janine sighed. ‘I was keeping watch. You should live dangerously some time, Mel,’ she chided, straightening up and moving back around the front of his desk. ‘You’d like it. You’re getting to be too much of an old man.’

  Mel winced, then grunted. He was already living dangerously. Hadn’t Marcus Donleavy told him that he’d lost out on the promotion, in part because he was shacked up with his young, blonde sergeant. Didn’t Janine get it? He couldn’t afford to take any more chances, especially with Raleigh, the new boy, looking around and nosing about to see what was what.

  She sat down opposite him and crossed her legs outrageously, allowing the skirt she wore to slide up, and shot him a wicked grin. Mel couldn’t help but smile back. Of course she got it, he admitted to himself, but she was young. Reckless. She still knew how to take life by the balls and squeeze. He used to do that once. When had he forgotten how?

  He pulled the brochure closer to him. The New Forest. It might be nice, this time of year. Provided the weather was good. Then again, if it rained all day, they’d have to stay in bed. He sighed. This was no damned good. He was going to have to tell her that it was over. He was staring fifty in the face. If he wanted a superintendency, he was going to have to shape up. And that meant telling Janine.

  But not just now.

  ‘Let’s just hope we get the weekend free,’ he said ambiguously.

  Janine grinned and nodded, well satisfied, and tossed her head as she walked out the door, letting her long blonde locks swing free. She even gave them a little flip with her hand as she went. She was vamping for fun, of course, but Mel still felt the impact deep in his groin.

  He sighed again.

  ‘Guv, nothing from Julia’s computers. The tech guys have checked for hidden messages, her e-mails, stuff like that. She was clean.’

  Hillary looked up as Tommy put the report on her table. She shrugged. ‘It was always a long shot. Still, if our vic had been into blackmail, the computer might have come up with something.’

  ‘I think it was just her men that kept her in clover, guv,’ Tommy said. ‘Her jewellery was all good quality stuff, and the real thing. This report from that jeweller in Bicester’ – he leaned across with another folder – ‘shows Theo Greenwood in particular spent a small fortune on her.’

  A uniform had trawled the local jewellery shops to trace the jewellery, and from the copies of the receipts, Hillary could see what Tommy meant. £1,420 on a pair of diamond and Ceylon sapphire earrings. And that was just the start of many such gifts.

  ‘I wonder she threw him over for the son,’ Tommy said.

  ‘Ah, but she couldn’t marry Theo Greenwood without him first getting divorced. And the wife could have taken him to the cleaners. But the son and heir was a different matter altogether,’ Hillary pointed out.

  ‘You still don’t like the boyfriend for it then, guv?’ Tommy asked cannily.

  Hillary didn’t. Not particularly. But was too wise to say so out loud. ‘Keep digging, Tommy. And don’t forget Max Finchley.’

  Tommy promised he wouldn’t, and packed up to go home. He wondered where Frank Ross was right now, and hoped it was somewhere cold and draughty.

  Frank Ross was parked outside a small row of Victorian houses that had long been converted into dingy-looking offices. Insurance companies, small retailers doing catalogue orders for herbal remedies, a tired-looking opticians and a bespoke tailoring outfitters, of all things, rubbed shoulders with the usual dental surgeries and pet-grooming salons.

  And one Innes Investigations Ltd.

  When he’d lost the PI, Frank had gone straight to the office, where, nearly an hour later, Innes had finally showed up. It made Frank wonder where he’d been and what he’d been up to in the meantime. He saw Innes glance around as he locked up the car and Frank made no attempt to duck or hide as the PI’s gaze skimmed the old Fiesta.

  He thought he saw the bastard smile.

  Incensed, he waited until the PI, cockily whistling the latest pop tune (the little snot), opened the door to the middle ‘villa’ and went inside. Frank watched as his sandy-coloured head passed the window on the second floor and guessed the PI’s office was on the top, ergo the cheapest floor. He hoped the bastard got leg-ache climbing all those stairs.

  Only then did he turn over the ignition and drive slowly down the leafy road. He knew the PI lived close, in a small semi in an estate of identical semis, and he wanted a recce before the PI called it a day. It wasn’t in his remit, of course, but when had he ever needed to follow the lead of Ronnie Greene’s old woman, when it came to good coppering?

  He was careful to park around the back, where council garages were already falling to pieces after only two years. He was doubly careful not to park in a way that blocked anyone’s egress, then walked, head down, along the narrow alleyway that ran parallel to the back of the houses. He counted until he was sure he had the back of Innes’s house, then cautiously peered through a gap in the tall, roughly built wooden fence, to see if there was a mutt in residence.

  Frank had a healthy regard for mutts. (He’d once been taught a proper lesson in humility by a porno-queen’s particularly well-trained Lurcher/cross/Doberman.) Unlike humans, they were fearless, couldn’t often be bribed, and were totally unreasonable. And the damned things nearly all came equipped with a fine set of gnashers.

  But there was no evidence of a mutt in the weedy, sad-looking backyard, and with a bit of a grunt and the application of his fat-insulated shoulder, he quickly broke open the padlocked door in the fencing and was inside. He carefully put the door back into position and looked to either neighbouring house once more, but there was still no sign of life. At this hour, most people would still be at work, contemplating the rush hour to come and what kind of a night it would be on the telly.

  He walked to the back of the house and the kitchen door, crouched onto his haunches, and peered through the keyhole. Blackness. He tried the door, but it was, of course, locked. He checked the windows, but none of them were unlatched. He shrugged, bent his elbow to the lower right-hand pane of glass in the door and smashed it. He reached in and turned the key, which he knew must be in the lock, and stepped inside a malodorous kitchen. It smelt a lot like his own.

  Unwashed dishes in the sink, open cereal packets on the small table; the smell of mouldy bread and slightly off milk competing with the smells coming from a laundry basket, full to the brim and standing next to a surprisingly clean-looking washing machine.

  He moved through into the living room, noting the average-sized TV, and eyeing the reclining chair with envy. Even if it was tatty, and dented from years of elbow-and-head resting, it was something Frank had long since coveted and hadn’t yet got around to buying.

  He didn’t know if the PI kept any files in the house. He thought it might be a long shot – after all, why rent an office and then use your home for work stuff? On the other hand, if the PI was anything like him, he’d want stuff easily and readily to hand, and it was at least worth risking a bit of B&E in order to make sure.

  What Frank really wanted was the gen on the PI’s latest case. It stood to reason that that was what had brought him sticking his unwanted nose into Thames Valley’s neck of the woods. And Frank badly wanted to know what it was.

  Hillary Greene had been having far too many successes recently for his liking, first of all nailing the Pitman case, then solving the killing of that good-looking French tart earlier this year. This time, he wanted to crack the case himself, just so that he could thumb his nose at the lot of ’em.

  ’Course, if he could find Ronnie’s money, and if it was enough to retire on, he’d put in his notice so fast the sods wouldn’t know what hit them. They’d soon find out how much work he actually did around the place then.

  Frank went to the set of drawers that stood adjacent to a gas fire, but came up with nothing but the usual crud – spare light bulbs, photo albums, balls of string, keys to who-the-hell-knew-what, boxes of pens and paperclips, a box of old t
oy soldiers and other such paraphernalia. But in the bottom drawer he struck gold with a hefty beige folder. He’d just picked it up, turned it sideways to read the name on the tab – Orne – when he heard a car door slam outside. Right outside. Had he read Tommy’s report on his interview with Vivian Orne the name might have rung a bell, but Frank never bothered reading other people’s reports.

  He looked up in time to see Innes getting out of his car. He swore, stuffed the folder back in the drawer, hot-footed it back to the kitchen, and nipped out the back.

  Innes would know he’d been raided, of course, and when he realized that he hadn’t actually been burgled out of anything, he’d have a pretty good idea who was to blame. But would he call in a complaint?

  Possibly.

  He was the kind of shitehawk who’d sue for sure if he’d caught Frank red-handed, of that there was no doubt. But Frank had been careful not to leave prints, and he’d even wiped his feet before stepping inside. There was no way Innes could prove it was him. Besides, Frank was convinced that Innes was dirty about something. And crooks, as a general rule, didn’t like to put themselves in the spotlight.

  Still, Hillary would be hell to live with if Innes did, in fact, lodge a complaint. As Frank knew only too well, even a suspicion of wrong-doing could blight a cop’s career for years afterwards. He was glad he’d parked out of sight of the house, and only began to truly relax once he was on the motorway and heading back to Oxford.

  He’d take his time and be careful what he put in his report. Apart from anything else, he had to think of a way to gloss over the fact that he’d lost Innes out near Leamington Spa way, unless he simply left that part out altogether and made up some fairy tale about Innes going straight back to his office. The thing was, lies like that sometimes came back to haunt you.

  Still, there was no hurry to put pen to paper. Hillary hardly ever bothered to read his reports anyway. Sometimes he suspected her of giving him jobs to do just for the sheer hell of it, or to get him out of the office.

  Not that he minded that.

  Frank checked his rear-view mirror all the way home, but there was no sign of the PI tailing him.

  Now wouldn’t that have been a kicker?

  Tommy glanced around the pub nervously, but it was as nice as his mate, Pete Thorne, had said it would be. It was a small freehouse, one of those old buildings of some historical merit or other, that could be found scattered throughout many Oxfordshire villages. This one had belonged to a local witch or something. Or maybe it was an alderman. He hadn’t really been listening when Pete had raved about it.

  All he cared about was that it sounded like the kind of place that Jean would like, and so it turned out. It was the usual low-roofed, heavy-beamed country-cottage affair, with a real fireplace big enough to roast an ox, and currently pushing out the heat via a couple of apple-wood logs. Padded seats with old black wood surrounds hugged the bulging, white-washed walls.

  Jean was looking really pretty tonight, Tommy had to admit. Had she guessed what he was about to do? He wouldn’t put it past her. Women seemed to know about stuff like that. But perhaps he was just being paranoid. He liked to take Jean out for a meal once in a while – when his pay check magically stretched that far.

  He looked across at the woman he’d been dating for most of his adult life, admiring the way the ruby-red dress, (although modest in cut and style, as befitting Jean’s Baptist upbringing and inclinations,) nevertheless clung to her skin, highlighting high and nicely rounded breasts, and slender thighs. She was wearing low-cut matching red sandals despite the rain outside, and silver and garnet earrings dangled from her exposed ears. Her hair, a mass of black crimped locks, had been pulled back into some kind of complicated French pleat, interwoven with little red and silver ribbons. Tommy knew that several men, even those accompanied by women of their own, had turned and looked when they’d walked in.

  And for once, he didn’t think it was the deep ebony of their skin that had been the cause.

  ‘This is nice,’ Jean said, glancing up from the menu. Like Tommy, she’d lived all her life in England and, like Tommy, her parents had emigrated from the Bahamas in the fifties. Jean had been educated at the local primary school, then the comprehensive, and had taken a one-year secretarial course after her A-levels, that had netted her a job as a secretary in one of the Oxford colleges. One of the Saint something-or-others. She was the youngest of a big family, and still lived with her mother, a fate Tommy shared.

  Well, at least Mercy, his mother, and Mavis Dixon, Jean’s mother, would be happy about tonight’s outcome. He himself wished he didn’t feel quite so sick.

  ‘But isn’t it a bit expensive?’

  Tommy glanced at the menu and smiled wryly. It was, rather, but then he’d bought plenty of cash.

  ‘Have what you like,’ he said sternly. Then added, ‘I’m having the prawns magenta, then the beef in ale pie, and pear tart.’

  Jean grinned, showing even white teeth, and an unusual dash of recklessness. Usually she counted pennies like an accountant. ‘Sounds good. I think I’ll go for the crab fritters, then the rack of lamb and, I think, the strawberry shortcake.’

  Tommy took the menus to the bar, gave the order, and asked what champagnes they had on offer. He chose the mid-range one and asked for it to be delivered in an ice bucket to the table after the meal.

  The landlord, sensing something in the air, grinned and promised he would.

  Tommy went back to the table, not quite able to feel his toes. He was feeling a combination of fear, excitement, and resignation.

  A bit like he felt when called out to riot duty, in fact.

  He asked Jean about her day, listening to tales of the local college gossip, and then reciprocating, being careful to keep it light. Tales of murder and mayhem weren’t the ideal conversational gambit over a meal that turned out to be very good indeed.

  Tommy wished they weren’t sat quite so close to the log fire, or perhaps it wasn’t that that was making his palms and upper lip sweat. When he saw the barman approaching with the ice bucket, his pulse rate rocketed.

  Jean looked surprised, and then went quite still, as the champagne was delivered. She watched Tommy open it, the cork giving a satisfying pop as he did so, then watched him carefully pour it out into the tall, fluted glasses, spilling not a drop.

  When he’d finished all that he sat back down beside her, and reached into his pocket. He opened the jeweller’s box, and wondered if the diamond had shrunk in size since the last time he’d checked. He glanced up at Jean, who looked as if he’d just offered her the Koh-i-Noor, so perhaps it hadn’t.

  He noticed a few diners around them were watching openly now, most with big knowing smiles, and wondered what he’d do if Jean turned him down.

  He’d rehearsed this moment any number of times – what man didn’t – and had never come up with a satisfactory way of doing it. Sure as hell, getting down on one knee was out. And he wasn’t the kind of man who could just come out with flowery words. On the other hand, a simple, ‘Jean, will you marry me,’ sounded so prosaic.

  But when he saw her turn her big black eyes on him, and saw the expectation in them, he suddenly knew he was committed. This, so his mother had drummed into him for many a month now, was the moment every young girl dreamed of; he couldn’t blow it for her now: it wouldn’t be fair.

  He swallowed hard.

  Here goes, he thought helplessly, opening his mouth and having no idea what was going to come out. He only hoped it wouldn’t be anything stupid or hurtful. Or inadequate.

  ‘Jean, I love you. Ever since we met, I’ve never thought of loving anyone else.’ He stopped. Was that true? Well, yes, in a way. He knew loving Hillary Greene didn’t count. It probably wasn’t love anyway, not in the true sense of the word. That was more of a fantasy. But when he thought of reality, whenever he thought of marriage and kids, it had always been Jean’s face that had leapt into his mind’s eye. Hadn’t it?

  ‘And I know, some
times, you have to put up with things from me, my job and all, that would have made other girls give up on me.’

  Once again he stopped. That didn’t sound right. It sounded too everyday. It needed to be more romantic.

  ‘And I want you to know that I know how good you are. No other woman understands me like you do.’

  That was better.

  ‘And, well, I want to marry you.’ Too blunt? Well, it was out now. ‘Jean, do you want to marry me, too?’

  Now that definitely sounded stupid.

  But Jean was throwing her arms around him, and kissing him, right there in public, something Mavis her mother would most definitely have frowned on.

  Tommy was dimly aware of a scattering of applause around about him, and then Jean was slipping on the engagement ring, and suddenly Tommy realized he was going to get married.

  He swallowed hard.

  chapter thirteen

  Gregory Innes couldn’t believe the silly bitch had sent cash through the post. And yet there it was next to his bowl of breakfast cornflakes, along with a credit-card bill, a reminder that his council tax was due, and a plea to subscribe to a footwear catalogue.

  He counted out the twenties yet again, still coming up with an even thousand. He supposed he could understand why she wouldn’t want her hubby to know what was going on, and so perhaps writing another cheque was out of the question. But even so, sending a thousand smackers via a postman? With the rate of thieving that went on? He’d have to come to a different arrangement than this. Perhaps he’d collect at a pre-arranged spot in person. ’Course, that might be dodgy if she called in the cops. And you never knew with women.

  But for now, the sight of all those purple twenty pound notes made even his stale cornflakes taste good. He could go on holiday somewhere – escape the upcoming winter. A month in Portugal maybe. With another £1,000 coming next month, and the month after that, life was looking much rosier. He’d see about raising the ante by another £500 sometime in the new year. Let her get used to paying regularly first. It would mean the kid would have to go without the latest pair of designer jeans, or the hubby would have to cut back on his flying lessons, but that was better than having the cops nosing around.