With a Narrow Blade

by Faith Martin

  Hillary sighed. ‘We might have to put out an appeal on the local radio, then. If whoever it was had a legitimate reason for being there, they might come forward. On the other hand, if he’s our man, he’ll be alerted that he was seen. I’ll have to give it some thought. Anything else you picked up on the vic herself?’

  ‘No guv, everybody liked her. She wasn’t one of those cantankerous sorts who put people’s backs up, apparently. Lived there for donkey’s years, never complained about anyone or anything. Salt of the earth.’

  Hillary sighed again. ‘It’s looking more and more like robbery was the motive.’

  And yet, what kind of burglar or home mugger actually stabbed a victim through the heart with an ornamental paperknife? It was overkill to such an extent that it worried her. Also, the room had been too tidy. Flo hadn’t put up even a token struggle. Surely if a youth, or even gang of youths had forced their way in, or even conned their way in, there’d be more evidence of their presence in the victim’s home?

  ‘You don’t like robbery, guv?’ Barrington said cautiously, and Hillary glanced at him. So, he was reading her was he? Well, why not? She’d have done the same in his place.

  ‘It doesn’t smell right to me,’ she said. It was, after all, part of her job to train this young man, to teach him to think, to use his eyes and reason – if he was to be an asset, and not a liability. ‘I’ve seen more than my fair share of the elderly who get mugged, beaten, robbed even raped,’ she went on. ‘But this is just too … neat. She was sat in her chair, looking as if she was asleep. The doc tells me there was only the one blow, and no signs of a struggle or defence wounds. Does that sound like many muggings or robberies you’ve come across?’

  Barrington shook his head. ‘No. It didn’t strike me that way either.’

  Hillary nodded. So the new boy knew how to read a scene, and had at least enough experience to be confident in his own assessment. That was good. It was more than Frank Ross tended to bother with nowadays. ‘It has all the makings of a deliberate killing. And yet, why would anyone want to kill a harmless old lady who seemingly didn’t have an enemy in the world? It doesn’t make sense yet.’ She shrugged. ‘OK, we …’ she broke off as she spotted Frank Ross weaving his way through the desks, grunting at those who bothered to greet him. Not many did.

  ‘Guv.’ He sat down, smelling faintly of beer. ‘You were bang on the nose with that old geezer next door. Walter Keane reckons our description of the murder weapon fits exactly the paperknife Flo Jenkins kept in a vase on her mantelpiece. Apparently her daughter bought it for her on her last holiday to Spain. Flo cut her fingers badly on it once, and never used it again. Reckoned it was lethal, but she didn’t want to chuck it, on account of it was her dead daughter who gave it to her.’ Frank sniffed heavily and unbuttoned his jacket, letting his beer belly rest more comfortably on top of his desk. ‘Reading between the lines, I got the impression that Liza, that’s the dead daughter, never did much for her old mum, let alone buy her pressies, so the paperknife was of real sentimental value,’ he finished, flapping his notebook shut.

  Hillary was already reaching for her copies of the crime scene photos that had come in a half hour ago. Quickly she sorted through them, paused at the ones showing the mantelpiece, then pushed them over to Keith.

  The mantelpiece did indeed have what looked like a black-painted, papier mâché vase standing on it, which housed some pens and pencils and what might have been a back-scratcher.

  But no paper knife.

  ‘So the killer didn’t bring a weapon,’ Barrington said, and would have said something more, if Ross hadn’t interrupted.

  ‘No shit, Sherlock. This might not be the big city, but us country bumpkins don’t need the bloody obvious pointed out to us by detective constables.’

  Hillary sighed. There was no way she could fight Barrington’s battles for him, but she shot Frank a dirty look. ‘OK, Frank, I want you to start the rounds of your snouts. Find out whose turf Holburn Crescent covers. See if you can find out if there’s anything on the street about number 18 being turned over recently. Roust the local junkies, chase down anything they might have pawned today. You know the drill.’

  Frank sighed heavily and rose ponderously to his feet. ‘That’s what real police work’s about,’ he sneered to Barrington, who looked back at him blank faced and unimpressed.

  ‘Frank, today,’ Hillary growled, knowing he was about to launch into the usual lecture about how he was under-appreciated.

  Ross snorted and walked off, in a reasonably straight line. As he went, Hillary reached for the preliminary forensic reports. They didn’t make for very happy reading. Oh, there was lots of trace, but there always is when a crime scene happens to be in the victim’s own home. There were, for instance, fingerprints galore, but she had a hunch that all of them would turn out to belong to either the vic, Caroline Weekes, Walter Keane, or a host of other people who had a legitimate reason to be there – home help, if the victim had qualified for it, meter reader, postman, Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

  Similarly there were fibres, hair samples, tiny amounts of blood trace and DNA to spare, probably. But unless they could isolate something specific that had no place being there, and then matched it up to a definite suspect, there was nothing to help them.

  Hillary soldiered through it, but with dwindling hope. Nowadays, the public watched those forensic crime scene programmes and thought cases could solve themselves, simply on the evidence. If only!

  Much as she hated to say it, Frank Ross and his knowledge of the resident low-lifes had probably the best chance of cracking open this case. Unless it had been a planned, deliberate murder.

  She leaned slowly back in her chair, her eyes narrowing. Unless someone had gone to 18 Holburn Crescent specifically to kill Florence Jenkins. Now if that was the case, there had to be a reason. And once you found the motive, the chances were good that you’d be able to find the killer. But she was back to that same old question. Who would have reason to kill an old lady?

  ‘Keith, I want you to check the financial angle,’ she said abruptly. ‘Who knows, perhaps our vic has got thousands squirrelled away somewhere. She wouldn’t be the first old codger to live like a pauper but have thousands stashed away under the floor boards.’

  ‘Guv.’ Barrington swivelled his chair around, rode it to his own desk a few feet away, and reached for the computer keyboard. Time was, he’d have had to wear out his shoe leather, and he might still have to make a personal visit to the vic’s bank, armed with a warrant.

  Hillary continued to sit and stare vaguely ahead of her, her mind racing. With the money angle being checked out, what other reasons could there be for Flo’s murder? Sex? Hardly. Unless she was a flirtatious tease, and had pushed Walter Keane too far. Hillary smiled grimly at the image, and moved on to the other classics.

  Revenge? Could Flo Jenkins have done something to somebody that had so pissed them off that they’d resorted to murder? On the face of it, it seemed very unlikely – there was so little a frail old lady could do to anyone. Blackmail wouldn’t be beyond her of course. But blackmail had a certain smell about it that Hillary was sure she would have picked up on before now.

  Flo might, of course, have done something long, long ago, that was only now catching up with her. But that was venturing way too far into Agatha Christie territory. In reality, the blast from the past coming back to wreak havoc very rarely happened.

  Not revenge then. Probably not money, and almost certainly not love or sex. What did that leave?

  Restlessly, she went back to reading the list of house contents, and paused, frowning, over Janine’s carefully typed list of Flo Jenkins’ medicine cabinet. Along with the usual Milk of Magnesia tablets, aspirin, and various creams promising to relieve the usual aching muscles and joints that tormented the elderly, were several long-sounding, unfamiliar names that raised her eyebrows.

  She knew, from her own mother, that seventy-somethings could be struck down with all sorts
of things requiring no end of pills. Diabetes, thyroid problems, angina, high blood pressure. Even so …

  She was vaguely aware that Janine had returned to her desk as she picked up the phone and dialled the morgue. ‘Hello. Doctor Steven Partridge please. DI Greene. Yes, I’ll wait.’

  She leaned back in her chair, watching Janine carefully, but the blonde woman made no move towards her in tray. Seeing her boss on the phone, she simply slung off her coat, settled herself in front of the computer, and began to type up her case notes, breaking off now and then to enter things of significance into the ‘Murder Book’. This was a folder that she was usually responsible for, which detailed every significant fact about the case as it became available, and that any member of the team could consult. It was a way of keeping everyone up to speed, without constantly reporting and repeating information.

  ‘Hello?’ Steven Partridge said in Hillary’s ear, and she sat up straight in her chair.

  ‘Doc, got a pencil? I’ve got a list of drugs our vic was taking and I wondered if they meant anything to you. They don’t look run of the mill to me.’ So saying, she rattled them off, more often than not simply spelling them out rather than trying to pronounce them. When she’d finished, Steven Partridge whistled thoughtfully down the line.

  ‘Well, I can tell you straight off, our poor old dead gal had something seriously wrong with her. One of those is a serious painkiller.’ He mentioned one of the more easy ones to say, and carried on. ‘The other two can be used for a variety of conditions, none of them good.’

  ‘The painkillers,’ Hillary said sharply. ‘Worth much on the open market?’

  ‘Oh, there’d be a market for them, all right. Mix them with some downers, you’d be zonked for up to forty-eight hours.’

  ‘I’ll have to get on to her GP then,’ Hillary mused, squinting at the list. ‘It looks as if the bottle she had was fairly full, but if she’d been prescribed more than one bottle, we could be looking at a junkie hit.’

  ‘I doubt the GP would have prescribed too many in one batch,’ Steven cautioned her.

  ‘Oh,’ Hillary said, with instant understanding. ‘And the other stuff? Much market for them would you say?’

  ‘Not so much.’

  ‘OK, thanks, doc. Have I tempted you to move her up your schedule any?’

  Partridge laughed. ‘You don’t get me that way. I’ve still got a death by drowning, a probable suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning, and two RTAs to get through yet.’

  Muttering to herself, Hillary hung up, then glanced at Janine. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Old lady across the street, confirms Flo Jenkins had a paperknife that fits the description, boss,’ Janine said. ‘Thinks it was dangerous. Apparently our vic cut herself badly on it once.’

  Hillary nodded. It bore out what Walter Keane had said. ‘So, either the killer didn’t go there with murder in mind, or the killer knew about the paperknife and intended all along to use it. It was no secret how sharp it was, apparently. And it would be a smart move. How many times have we nailed someone by pinning the murder weapon to them?’

  Janine nodded. ‘From what the old gal had to say, Flo Jenkins didn’t have two ha’pennies to rub together, boss. Telly was rented, and the only sound system she had was a radio and ancient tape recorder. Found that in the cupboard under the window in the living room. All the appliances were old and well used. Cooker was probably twenty years old if it was a day. According to the neighbour, Flo’s grandson used up any money left over from her old-age pension. Although she did say Flo was determined to hold on to her money this month in order to do herself proud on her birthday, and have a nice Christmas.’

  ‘Right. And perhaps that didn’t sit well with … what’s his name…?’ she reached for her notes, but Barrington was there first.

  ‘Dylan Hodge, guv,’ he said, from memory.

  Hillary nodded, not missing it, but not about to start lavishing praise just yet. ‘Right, Hodge. If he’s used to relying on granny as a banker, he might have gone round for his usual handout, and not been pleased to be sent away with nothing. Her pension money was not in her handbag, so it must have gone somewhere. If she was determined to spend it on herself for a change, she might have felt the need to hide it somewhere. Keith, when SOCO give the all-clear I want you to turn that house upside down. Little old ladies can find clever hiding places sometimes. Think of it as a test for you ingenuity.’

  ‘Guv,’ Keith said.

  Just then, Paul Danvers came out of his office, saw Hillary was at her desk, and headed over. She gave him a quick, precise and full report of her case so far. She left nothing of importance out, and managed to convey, without being obvious, that everyone was pulling their weight.

  Maybe, for once, even Ross.

  ‘You’ll be pulling this boy Hodge in then?’ Danvers asked, and Hillary nodded.

  ‘First we’ve got to find him. I don’t think we’ve got an address. It’ll probably be tomorrow before uniform roust him out of whatever squat he’s found. But it won’t do him any harm to have a day free and clear. Maybe find a score. That way, he might be in a mood for a nice chat about his granny,’ she said, grinning savagely. He wouldn’t be the first junkie, high from his place in nirvana, to blissfully admit to murder.

  ‘OK. Reason I called over was to invite everyone out for an early Christmas drink. Maybe tomorrow, or day after, depending on how free you are. What with Janine leaving us, and our new recruit just coming in, it seemed like a good time for a social get together.’

  Hillary hid a sigh. ‘Sounds nice, sir. I’m sure we can all make it.’ She glanced at Janine, who grinned, and Keith Barrington, who looked a shade nervous. ‘Frank might be too busy, though.’

  ‘Hell yes,’ Danvers said, with feeling. ‘Oh, and feel free to bring a date, if you want. I’ve just split from my partner, unfortunately, but Janine, if you want to bring Mel, or Barrington, if you’ve got a girl, feel free.’

  ‘Only just moved here, guv,’ Barrington murmured, and Danvers nodded and looked casually across at Hillary.

  Hillary smiled briefly, and said nothing.

  Danvers, after a moment, nodded and went back to his cubby hole. Janine shot Hillary an admiring look, but had to wonder why she was giving him such a hard time. Danvers was single, good-looking, and a rank above her. What was holding her back? She was free and single. With a mental shrug, Janine turned back to her desk, shot a tight, hard look at her In tray, then reached for the printouts waiting for her, from her background research into their victim. She’d collate them for Hillary then head off for home. Maybe she’d cook Mel something special. She’d be Mrs Mallow in a few days’ time, after all. But somehow, she was finding it hard to feel the old excitement.

  She studiously avoided her In tray, and reached for the stapler.

  *

  It was nearly eight o’clock that night before Hillary finally put away the last of the reports and stretched out in her chair. Danvers had just left, and her team had long gone – Barrington being careful to be the last of them to leave.

  At some point she was going to have to ask him flat out why he’d lost his cool and decked his sergeant. But that could wait. One problem at a time.

  She put on her coat and walked out into a windy, wet night. On the main road, the council had already put up the Christmas light decorations, and they cast a cheerful, multicoloured hue in the background. The rain had come back with a vengeance however, so she dashed to her car, and once inside, delved into her handbag for her oldest filofax. The name she was looking for went back many years now. Finding the number she wanted at last, she punched in the buttons, hoping the man hadn’t moved. Or died.

  ‘Hello, Titchmarsh residence,’ the precise female voice took Hillary by surprise for a moment, before she remembered that ‘Mitch’ Titchmarsh’s missus was supposed to be from the upper crust. An old desk sergeant had once told her that she’d been a primary school teacher in Windsor before she’d married Mitch from Bunko, and living s
o close to the royal family had given her airs.

  Now she bit back a grin as she said cheerfully, ‘Is Mitch there please?’

  There was moment of painful silence, and then the voice said, ‘Certainly, Thomas is here. I’ll just get him.’

  Thomas. So that was Mitch’s real name. The legendary Mitch the Titch. Tom Titch. Well, well.

  ‘Hello?’ the voice asked cautiously, and Hillary felt herself grin.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mitch, this isn’t some old lag with a grudge.’

  ‘Hillary?’

  ‘Thought you might have forgotten me.’

  ‘Not you, you’re unforgettable, girl. Still got all those curves? I used to watch you go by in that tight little uniform and salivate.’

  ‘Pervert! But I’ve got even more curves than ever nowadays. I need to go on a diet.’

  ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’ And then, some of the laughter dying out of his voice, he said craftily, ‘You need something, gal?’

  Hillary sighed. ‘Couldn’t I just be ringing up an old pal, a departmental legend no less, just for the hell of it?’

  ‘Course you could,’ Mitch Titchmarsh said stoutly. Then added, ‘But I bet you ain’t.’

  Hillary nodded in the dark of her car. ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ve got a problem, Mitch. A particularly nasty, dirty problem. I might need your help. The kind only you can provide. Know what I mean?’

  There was silence for a moment, then he said thoughtfully, ‘OK. Want to meet for lunch? You remember the old pub?’

  ‘That fleapit? Didn’t public health and safety close it down long ago?’

  Mitch gurgled with laughter. ‘Hell yes. But it got resurrected. It’s respectable now. Well, almost.’

  ‘Can you make it tomorrow?’ Hillary asked anxiously.

  ‘For you, darlin’, anything.’