by Faith Martin
‘Because then she’d have to be the one to do the swallowing,’ Keith said, following Hillary’s reasoning. ‘She’d have to take an active part in it. But being stabbed – well, she wouldn’t actually have to do anything then, would she?’
‘Except sit there and take it,’ Hillary said flatly, and the image of that quickly dampened any enthusiasm they might have felt for the theory. As she knew it would.
‘Can’t see it boss,’ Janine said at once. ‘Suppose whoever it was bungled it? Bottled out, even. Only wounded her or scratched her? No, I don’t think it would work. Besides, the thought of a cold blade piercing your flesh …’ She shuddered. ‘No. I can’t see anyone opting for that.’
‘Nor me, guv,’ Keith confirmed. And he didn’t appear too worried that his new boss might not like having her thoughts shot down in flames by a mere DC.
Good, Hillary thought. He was beginning to trust her. ‘No, neither can I. But what if she didn’t know it was coming? Not specifically then, I mean?’
‘I’m not with you, boss,’ Janine said, intrigued by where Hillary was going with this, but in no way convinced.
Hillary sighed. ‘When I was talking to Walter Keane, I noticed an old army photo of his. I’m not an expert on war uniforms or insignia, but I’ve got an idea he might have been in some sort of special ops corps. Commandos maybe. He’s a man, anyway, who’d know how to go behind enemy lines in the dead of night and silently dispatch the enemy. With something like a very sharp knife. A man who would know just where to thrust a blade, quickly, cleanly, and painlessly.’
Janine blinked. ‘I got the feeling from the other neighbours I questioned that Flo and Walter were close. Oh, not doing the terrible deed …’ Janine’s face wrinkled with disgust at the thought, ‘but proper friends. Tight knit, like. If she was going to ask anybody to help her out, I suppose it would be him.’
‘But that still doesn’t get us past her birthday, guv,’ Keith said. ‘I mean, everyone commented on how much she was looking forward to having this party. So, say she did ask her good friend Walter Keane to put her out of her misery, she’d wait until she’d had her birthday at least, wouldn’t she? If not Christmas.’
‘Not if she told him she didn’t want to know when it was coming,’ Janine said, then stopped, as if suddenly struck by the absurdity of what she was saying, and shook her head. ‘Come off it, boss,’ she scoffed. ‘We’re in cloud cuckoo land here. Can you honestly see some batty old lady asking her eighty-year-old ex-commando neighbour to sneak up on her at some point and bump her off before she knew what was happening?’
Hillary grinned widely. ‘No. But I expect you to think about it, and then give it a little tweak.’
Janine stared at her, then slowly nodded. ‘I get it,’ she said softly. ‘It was all Walter Keane’s idea. Flo didn’t know anything about it. Being genuinely fond of the old girl, he can’t bear to see her suffering getting worse and worse, so one night he nips around to her place, takes the dagger and ends it all, quick and painless.’
‘Now that could work, guv,’ Keith Barrington said judiciously.
Hillary sighed. ‘Not so fast. It answers a fair few questions, that’s all,’ she agreed. ‘Questions like: why kill a woman who was already dying? And it would explain the lack of defence wounds, the neatness of the stabbing. As an old soldier, he’d be efficient at least. But it doesn’t explain the inconsistencies, such as Flo’s missing pension money or our favourite junkie spending so much cash the night Flo died.’
Janine frowned. ‘Unless Hodge came to see his gran later that night and found her already stabbed.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, what’s he going to do? Pick up a phone and ring the police?’ Janine snorted. ‘Not bloody likely. Besides, he’s got the shakes bad, seeing his old gran dead like that, and he needs a fix more than ever. He knows it’s pension day, that’s why he’s there, so he goes through her bag.’ She was talking faster now, warming up to her hypothesis.
‘Right, she won’t be needing the money now, will she?’ Keith put in, putting himself in the mind of a junkie.
Janine shot him a quick impatient look and charged on. ‘So he grabs the money and legs it to one of Benny Higgs’ runners. Gets off his head. Probably doesn’t even remember much about that night now.’
‘But when we pull him in, something in his fried brain makes the connection.’ Keith picked up the baton. ‘And he has a flashback. Maybe even thinks he might have done the killing. Who knows?’
‘And does a runner,’ Janine finished triumphantly.
Hillary smiled and slowly clapped her hands. ‘Well done. A lovely house of cards. Now let’s see how it stands up to scrutiny. First, Keith, I want you to do some background research on Walter Keane. Find out what his regiment was, where he served, and see if you can prise out of the army any of his old records, especially any psychological evaluations he might have gone through. If he was special ops, I think they had the shrinks check them over for suitability.’
Janine laughed. ‘For all the good that’ll do. Psychology was in the dark ages in them days, boss.’
Hillary sighed. ‘That’s it, make me feel better.’
She watched her team set to work with renewed vigour, and wished she could feel so energized. The fact was, she had very little faith in their latest ‘lead’. If it could even be called a lead at all, when the truth was, Hillary had just created it out of thin air. A chilling example of just how desperate she was. Forensics was no help. The few witnesses they had weren’t really of much use. Unless they could find a motive, at the very least, the case was almost certainly going to stall.
‘Janine, I want you to put on your best radio voice. Ask for anybody who might have visited Florence Jenkins that night to get in touch. Speak to the PR officer about it – see if they can get a piece in the Bicester Advertiser, the Banbury Cake, you know the drill.’
‘Right boss,’ Janine agreed.
‘If it wasn’t Hodge who was seen that night, I want to know who it was, and what he was doing there. What about …’
‘Guv, I’ve got him.’ Frank Ross’ triumphant shout cut across the busy office, temporarily silencing the ever present murmur of voices, as Hillary, Janine and the new boy, all rose to their feet.
Frank Ross, charging across the room, a wide cheesy grin lighting up his features, puffed up to them. ‘One of my snouts told me about this safe house near the railway station. Nothing more than an abandoned old electric shed – you know, six foot by six foot concrete block where there used to be an electricity sub-station. Used to service the railways when they were still using steam, by the looks of it. Anyway, Hodge was there, right enough, snoring away in a pool of his own piss.’
‘Oh great,’ Janine said, sitting back down. ‘Barrington, you can take the interview if you like.’
Hillary laughed drily. ‘Get the custody sergeant to clean him up a bit. Is he conscious? Talking sense?’
‘More or less, guv,’ Frank said cheerfully.
‘Right then. Let’s have another go at him.’ She wanted to take Barrington with her, but it was Frank’s collar. She sighed. ‘Frank, you’re with me.’
Hodge smelled of carbolic soap by the time he was led into interview room two. He was also wearing a loose white cotton overall, over a faded black T-shirt. Hillary glanced at them curiously, recognizing them as ‘emergency togs’. These were old clothes donated, usually by serving officers, to be used as and whenever circumstances dictated. As Frank set up the tape and introduced all those present, she looked over at the constable standing by the door.
‘I sincerely hope you didn’t burn his clothes, constable.’
‘No ma’am.’
‘Good. I want them taken to forensics along with the rest of his gear. Frank, you retrieved his gear, right?’ she asked sharply, and beside her Frank Ross sneered.
‘Course I did. Logged it in to the evidence officer the moment I came in.’
Hillary nodded, but it wouldn�
�t have been the first time Ross had ignored the protocols. Then she glanced sharply at Hodge. ‘I hope you’re listening to all this, Mr Hodge,’ she said. ‘We now have all your worldly possessions, which will be gone over by our forensics department. All we need is one speck of your grandmother’s blood to place you at the murder scene.’
This was not, of course, strictly true. Any good defence barrister could argue that Hodge could have got his grandmother’s blood on his clothes at any time. He was, after all, a regular visitor to her home. Perhaps she’d had a nose bleed, your Honour, or had even, given her condition, coughed up some blood into a handkerchief, which her dutiful grandson had then dealt with.
Hillary, ever mindful of the tricks lawyers liked to play, and even more mindful just how tenuous her evidence against this man was, knew she had to be careful now. And balanced against this need, as ever, was the even greater need to get the man talking. It was a tightrope every SIO had to walk, and sometimes it led to you falling flat on your face.
‘We know you stole your grandmother’s pension money, Dylan,’ she said sharply. ‘We’ve been having a word with Benny Higgs.’
At this, Dylan Hodge suddenly straightened up in his seat. He’d been lounging forward sleepily, like a lizard that hadn’t quite had enough morning sun to heat his blood, but at the mention of his supplier, his torpor vanished.
Hillary smiled. ‘Yes, thought that might interest you. He told me something very interesting. Know what that was?’
‘Oh man,’ Dylan Hodge whined. ‘You ain’t really been talking to Benny have you? Everyone knows Benny don’t like talking to cops. That last stretch he did inside really bent him out of shape. Made him paranoid as hell. He won’t want to know me now,’ he wailed. ‘I’ll have to find another connection. You cow, you really screwed me.’
Hillary sighed heavily. ‘Dylan, try and pay attention will you? Listen to what I say.’ She leaned forward, forcing eye contact, and then said slowly and clearly, ‘We know you visited your grandmother on the night of her murder. You were seen,’ she said, being just a little bit over-indulgent with the truth there. ‘We have a witness who can prove you were flush with money that night. We know your grandmother withdrew her old age pension that day. Your clothes and gear are with forensics now. All it takes is one scrap, one molecule, one little hair, and you’ll be tied in to her murder. Why are you worried about finding another connection, when the chances are that you’ll be serving life for first degree murder? Wise up, will you, and do yourself a favour.’
Dylan Hodge’s jaw had slowly swung open during this speech, and now a trail of saliva trickled over his chin. Hillary sighed and leaned back in her chair.
‘Look, Frank, why don’t you explain to Mr Hodge the score, hmm? I’m running out of patience.’ She knew she could trust Frank to handle this stage of the interview. In fact, he was very good at putting the wind up people.
For once, Frank was glad to oblige her. ‘See, Hodge, when you’re looking at a dead old lady, it’s all in the details,’ he began, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘Was it premeditated? Can you wangle manslaughter out of it? What about diminished responsibility? Then there’s temporary insanity and mitigating circumstances. If you acted whilst under the influence of the old skank, well then, a clever lawyer might be able to get you off in ten years. But you’ve got to do yourself some good here and now. Get it?’
Frank Ross tapped his temple, but Hodge, as far as Hillary could tell, was only staring at him for something to do with his eyes. She doubted if any of it was getting through. He was still worrying about where he’d find a new connection.
‘See, this is when the deals are done. Here and now.’ Frank wasn’t giving up. ‘You scratch our back, make our job easier, and we scratch yours, know what I mean?’
Hodge obviously didn’t.
Hillary stirred in her chair, one eye on the tape machine. Frank was sailing very close to the wind now. She coughed a warning, and when Frank flicked a glance at her, pointed at the machine. Frank scowled.
‘Look, if you didn’t really mean to do the old lady in, if she wouldn’t let you have her pension money and you just lost it and grabbed the knife, well, see, that’s not premeditation is it?’ Frank ploughed on. ‘That’s not twenty-five to life.’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Dylan Hodge said flatly. Then glanced across at Hillary. ‘I didn’t. I didn’t even touch her. Didn’t go nowhere near her.’ And then, quite suddenly and shockingly, he began to grin, a big, wide grin, as the wonderful truth seemed to dawn in his brain. ‘So it don’t matter if you’ve got my gear, or nothing else. I didn’t do it, so you can’t prove I did, see? Now, I want a lawyer.’
Frank sighed heavily and glanced guiltily over at Hillary Greene. Once they’d asked for the lawyer, and it was on tape, they had to stop questioning and bring one in.
Hillary nodded and without a word stood up. Outside, Frank Ross swore, long and hard. ‘Sorry guv, don’t know how I lost him.’
But Hillary was already shaking her head. She had the sinking feeling that forensics wouldn’t find any of Florence Jenkins’ blood on Dylan Hodge’s clothes. She was, in fact, almost certain that he’d been speaking the truth – or at least, a junkie’s version of it.
No, she suspected they had it right before. Hodge had called round to do his usual scrounging, and found his grandmother dead in her chair. He hadn’t gone near her, just as he’d said, but simply stolen her money and ran.
‘When his brief gets here, keep at him,’ Hillary said. It had to be done, and it kept Ross out of her hair for a while. ‘You never know, he might still give us something useful.’
‘Right guv,’ Frank said listlessly. Like herself, he could already sense it was a lost cause.
Hillary walked upstairs and towards her desk, but instead of sitting down, carried on to the nearest window and stared out over the dark car park. The orange street lights stared back at her and the wind threw raindrops against the window pane. No help there, then.
Hillary had headed up five murder investigations in her career to date, and she had solved and closed all of them. Now, fear of failure bit deep. This case seemed to be drifting away from her. It was as if she was floundering, forever looking in the wrong places, or chasing her own tail.
Then there was the dark cloud that was Jerome Raleigh, and the Luke Fletcher fiasco, threatening to break over her head, drowning her in hot water. No way around it, things were beginning to look distinctly bleak. And to cap it all, she was still feeling uneasy about her relationship with Mike Regis, and where it was going, or might end up.
Well, she mused grimly at her reflection, at least things couldn’t get any worse.
And then Paul Danvers came out of his cubby hole, walked over, and rubbing his hands said brightly, ‘Right everyone, what say we go for that drink I promised you?’
chapter nine
* * *
Mitch ‘the Titch’ Titchmarsh had not been idle since his unexpected call for help from Hillary Greene.
In truth, he was finding retirement something of a mixed blessing. At nearly seventy, he was glad to lie in of a morning, contemplating nothing more onerous than coaxing a spurt of growth in his Brussels sprouts so that the wife might have some home-grown fresh veg ready for Christmas dinner. The allotment had been her idea, of course, designed to get him out from under her feet, but Mitch hadn’t objected too strenuously. He enjoyed sitting in the allotment shed during the long summer evenings, drinking cider with his fellow toilers of the soil, talking about the poor state of British football and, just for a laugh, the state of the Labour Party.
Even so, he missed the excitement of the old days back in uniform, and Hillary’s call to arms was giving him a taste of it once more.
It hadn’t taken him long to alert the three of his sons who were serving at Kidlington HQ to the problem, although Jonathan, the oldest, hadn’t seemed that impressed. As far as he was concerned, a blonde bombshell sergeant from CID should be capable of looking
after herself. Mitch soon put a flea in his ear however, and now all three were keeping their eyes and ears firmly open.
Geoff, the youngest, had alerted him to one PC Brian Conleve, who’d been at the nick for a year just before Mitch left. Conleve, it seemed, had a bit of a rep for being a misogynist, one of those men who never married but lived with his mother. Sainted mother excepted, he seemed to see the female gender as one step below him on the food chain.
Mitch remembered him only vaguely, but thought that anyone that openly anti-female was unlikely to be their man. In his experience, it was the ones who kept things bottled up who were most likely to explode into nasty action. No, a far better bet seemed to be one that Jonathan had noticed, a young PC in Traffic called Martin Pollock. Pollock, according to Jonathan, had been trying to get into plain clothes for some time now, without success. Thwarted ambition, as Mitch had seen only too often, could twist itself into dangerous paths. Added to that, he’d learned from an old mate only this morning that Pollock had been used to make up numbers on a house-to-house inquiry on an estate in the Leys – a particularly nasty mugging that had nearly killed a 42-year-old father of six. Janine Tyler, interestingly enough, had worked that case too, so their paths had definitely crossed.
But the thing that twitched Mitch’s radar the most about Pollock was the news that he’d recently been given the elbow by his girlfriend – a pretty blonde, by all accounts. Apparently, according to one of Traffic’s biggest gossips – a divisional section head who liked to tie one on on a Saturday night – the girl, who worked in a travel agency, had dumped young Pollock for the manager.
Mitch didn’t need a degree in psychology to read a whole volume into that. Janine Tyler, pretty, blonde, a fully fledged member of CID, and about to marry her boss. Pollock might as well be walking around with arrows pointed at him.
Mitch, who was at that moment sitting in front of the telly pretending not to watch EastEnders, glanced at his watch, and once more reached for his mobile phone. He’d tried to call Hillary at work, only to learn she’d just left, but she wasn’t answering her mobile. He called her number again and got the ring tone. He waited for several moments, and was about to switch it off and try again, when it was suddenly answered. A blast of jukebox music and some loud voices nearby told him she was in a pub.