With a Narrow Blade

by Faith Martin

  Keith, obligingly crouching down, saw a row of amateurish, but perfectly legible bound books, all bearing the name St Mary’s Eleven, and a date.

  ‘You want 1940, you say? Bring it out and let’s have a butchers,’ old Albie chivvied him along.

  Keith duly selected the one they wanted and handed it over to the old man, who reached into his baggy cardigan pocket and produced a pair of small glasses that he perched onto the end of his nose and peered down through. He then shot a sudden look up at them, to see if either Hillary or the young man were laughing at him, and gave a small grunt of satisfaction to see that they weren’t. ‘Damn doctor insisted I get my peelers checked,’ Albie Finch muttered. ‘Told him I can see perfectly well, but bloody optician made me have ’em. Never cost me a penny though,’ he added fiercely.

  Hillary nodded. She wasn’t sure whether the elderly were still entitled to free glasses on the NHS, but they probably thought, in Albie’s case, it was easier just to give them to him, rather than try and pry money out of him.

  ‘Huh, here we are. Full team. Now then, let’s have a look-see. Not him. Nope. Nuh-uh. Ah, here he is. Roger Glennister.’

  Keith walked over to peer over the old man’s shoulder, and got a fierce glare for his trouble.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of matching one photograph to another, sonny. I ain’t senile yet.’

  ‘No sir, I can see you’re not,’ Keith said soothingly, and nodded briefly at Hillary, confirming the identification. Not that Hillary was in much doubt. If her memory served her right, Flo had written on the back of the original the man’s initials: RG.

  ‘Do you remember this man, Mr Finch?’ Hillary asked hopefully, but the old man shook his head.

  ‘Not really. Dad was running the show then.’

  ‘Any idea what happened to him?’

  ‘Dunno. Killed in the war, I ’spect, like most of ’em.’ Albie sighed heavily. ‘I was with Montgomery meself. Bloody desert. Bloody hot. Bloody flies. I was glad to get home, I can tell you.’

  Hillary nodded, thanked him and left.

  Back in the car, she smiled across at Barrington. ‘Well, constable, now you have a name to play with, I want to know all about Mr Glennister. Did he die in the war? Has he got any family still living around here? And what connection did he have to our victim?’

  ‘Guv,’ Barrington said happily.

  Martin Pollock pushed his way through the door from the vault, still whistling, and glanced across at the WPC still typing furiously on her keyboard. It looked as if she hadn’t moved during the five minutes he’d been gone. But she had.

  ‘Much thanks, darling.’ He walked to the desk drawer and bent down. ‘Just returning your paper clips.’

  He quickly reattached the keys to her key ring and left, still whistling happily. In his pocket, wrapped carefully in a piece of tissue, was a wad of Blu-tack with the impression of a key pressed into it.

  Felicity Burke carried on typing for a moment, then stopped, walked to the door, opened it cautiously, and looked around. Once she was sure he was gone, she went back to her desk, dialled a single number that put her onto the internal phone system, and dialled an extension number she knew off by heart. ‘Hello Jem? Yeah, it’s me, Flick. You were right. He just lifted my keys. Yeah, the keys to my locker and the women’s locker room. How did you know that?’ She listened grimly for a moment, then smiled savagely. ‘OK, have fun. And give my love to your Dad. Tell him I’ve still got a list of all the advice he ever gave me, tacked up on my bedroom wall.’ She listened to Jem Titchmarsh’s laconic reply, grinned widely, and hung up. Before she turned back to her keyboard, she gave a two-fingered salute to the closed door. ‘And screw you too, darlin’,’ she murmured.

  Keith Barrington hit the Internet running, and logged first onto Friends Reunited. Using St Mary’s Eleven, Fritwell, Football, 1940 and other key words, the search engine was soon spewing out names and contact numbers.

  Next he tried the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages, then the office of the Census, and finally, the myriad number of websites that dealt with planning permission, building permits, and the like. It would take him hours to sort out, but he was sure, come tomorrow lunchtime, he’d have something to show Hillary Greene.

  Hillary was at her desk when Frank Ross checked back in. She looked up, expecting a quick update on the Hodge inquiry, and was surprised to see the fat-faced sergeant walking at a fast clip across the office. He was deathly pale and looked sick to his stomach.

  Janine, who was wondering if she should ask the boss if she could leave early to get her hair done in preparation for tomorrow’s ceremony, did a quick double take too. It wasn’t often you saw Frank Ross hurry anywhere.

  ‘Guv, you heard?’ Ross hissed loudly, which was his version of a discreet whisper. Probably only herself, Tyler, Barrington, and anyone sitting within two desk-lengths of them heard it.

  ‘What Frank?’ Hillary sighed.

  ‘They’ve arrested Raleigh.’

  Hillary’s eyes sharpened on him in warning. ‘Relax Frank, that’s old news.’ She wasn’t surprised Ross had only just got to hear about it, though. Even though it must have been all over the station for hours, nobody ever volunteered information to Frank. ‘And wrong, as usual,’ she said calmly. ‘Raleigh was spotted in Malta, and the brass were interested enough to ask a local lad on holiday out there to have a word.’

  Frank, his knees feeling distinctly weak, sat down heavily in his chair. ‘And?’ He noticed Janine give him a hard-eyed stare, but ignored her.

  ‘And nothing,’ she said flatly, her eyes warning him to calm down. ‘Superintendent Raleigh left the force for personal reasons, and won’t be coming back. And that’s that,’ Hillary added, an unmistakably hard edge in her voice now. ‘Not that it’s any of our business, right Frank?’

  Ross flushed angrily. ‘Right guv,’ he muttered. But they both knew that wasn’t quite true. After all, Raleigh had been ready to frame Frank for the Fletcher killing, if the internal inquiry hadn’t gone the way he wanted. And they both knew it was Hillary who’d saved Frank’s worthless neck, yet again.

  Now Janine glanced across at Barrington and rolled her eyes. She’d already told him that there’d been something iffy about Jerome Raleigh and the whole Luke Fletcher raid last summer, and here was yet more proof that Hillary Greene knew far more about it than anyone else. And Frank Ross too, by the looks of it.

  It made Janine’s blood boil to think that Ross knew more than she did, and couldn’t wait for the day that she’d be out of there. Next week couldn’t come soon enough as far as she was concerned. ‘Boss, I need to leave early today, that OK?’ she said, her tone of voice making it clear that it would be just too bloody bad if she didn’t.

  Hillary, who was in no mood to make anything of it, merely nodded. Just then her phone rang, and she reached to answer it.

  ‘Hello, is that Inspector Greene?’

  Hillary recognized the halting, female voice at once. ‘Yes, Mrs Weekes, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I was wondering if you were going to be in Bicester today?’

  Hillary glanced at her watch. ‘I can be there in thirty minutes,’ she said at once.

  ‘Oh, it’s not important. That is, I haven’t remembered anything or anything like that. But I wouldn’t mind having a quick word, if you were in the area,’ Caroline said.

  ‘It’s no problem, Mrs Weekes,’ Hillary assured her, and hung up. When she reached for her car keys, Barrington looked at her hopefully, but she shook her head. She didn’t need a sidekick for this. ‘I’ll be back within the hour,’ she said, to nobody in particular.

  As she drove out of the car park, she passed, without knowing it, PC Martin the Pillock Pollock, who was just coming back from a quick visit to Oxford, and a small key-cutting shop that he knew on St Michael’s Street.

  Caroline Weekes looked terrible. When she opened the door to Hillary’s ring, the policewoman almost didn’t recognize her.

  �
��Oh, you didn’t need to come right over,’ Caroline said, obviously flustered. ‘Please, come on through.’

  She seemed to have lost weight drastically over the last few days, and huge black bags had been deposited under her eyes. She led Hillary through to the same elegant room as before, but the policewoman could hear sounds coming from the kitchen.

  ‘My mother,’ Caroline said, spotting her quick glance towards the sounds of crockery clanking. ‘She’s been staying with me for a few days, but she’s going back to Cowley tomorrow.’ She smiled miserably. ‘My husband gets on really well with his mother-in-law, but, well, it’s not a good idea for her to stay too long is it?’ Caroline said, as if unaware that her words, and their intended meaning, totally gainsaid each other.

  Hillary nodded, not sure what to say. The other woman looked and sounded so fragile, she was almost expecting her to break any minute.

  Just then, a buxom woman with wildly improbable bright-red hair pushed through into the living room carrying a tray. A delicate rose-patterned tea service resided on it, complete with a plate bearing a triumphant Victoria sponge. ‘Hello there, I’m Martha Hoey. Caroline’s mum.’

  Hillary rose to shake hands, and watched as Martha Hoey put the tray down. She cut a large slice of cake, transferred it to a matching plate, and handed it to her daughter, who stared down at it blankly. ‘You eat up, lovey. You need to take the pills, and the doctor said it’s best to take them with food. My daughter’s trying to conceive,’ she said conversationally to Hillary, as if discussing the best way to grow daffodil bulbs. ‘I never had any difficulty in that department, I have to say, having three boys and two girls … Cake?’

  Hillary eyed the delicious looking sponge, sighed regretfully and shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘That husband of hers is dead keen to get a bun in her oven, but I’ve told him, she’s not well. He shouldn’t be thinking of things like that at a time like this. I mean, you can see she’s not well, can’t you?’ Martha Hoey ploughed on, and Hillary wasn’t surprised that Caroline’s husband wanted her gone. Although she agreed that Caroline Weekes probably shouldn’t be worrying about IVF treatment and such like, when she was obviously feeling so distressed.

  ‘Mum, please,’ Caroline said weakly. ‘We’re here to talk about Flo, remember? DI Greene, are you any closer to catching who did it?’

  Meeting the other woman’s eyes without flinching, Hillary nodded. ‘Oh yes, progress is ongoing.’

  ‘There, see, what did I tell you?’ Martha Hoey said at once, obviously anxious to change the subject. ‘Now, eat your cake.’

  Caroline Weekes obediently picked up her piece of cake, but made no attempt to eat. ‘I saw Walter this morning, Walter Keane,’ Caroline said. ‘He told me you thought Flo might have wanted to die? I mean euthanasia. Do you really think that’s true?’

  Hillary smiled briefly. ‘It’s hard to say at this point, Mrs Weekes. We have to consider every eventuality.’

  Caroline Weekes nodded, then slowly broke off a tiny piece of cake and put it into her mouth. She had to force herself to chew and swallow, the effort being so obvious that Hillary had to quickly avert her gaze.

  She took her gently through things again, but as she’d expected, Caroline Weekes had nothing new to offer the investigation. Hillary, sensing her need to talk, let her ramble on anyway, watched over by her fretful mother.

  It was dark by the time she drove back to HQ and she still had lots to do.

  chapter thirteen

  * * *

  Hillary glanced at her watch and saw it was nearly a quarter to eight. Outside, she could see a few residential houses, already lit up with multicoloured Christmas lights and gave herself a mental shake. She hadn’t even started her food shopping yet, and as for presents – her mind was the usual blank.

  She sighed, then hid a smile as she glanced across at Keith Barrington. No doubt the new boy was planning on hanging on to the grim death, only leaving after she herself had gone. She wasn’t surprised that Barrington felt that he still had to prove himself, and normally she’d let him, but tonight she had other plans. ‘OK Keith, that’s it for the night. See you tomorrow,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Guv,’ Barrington said, gathering his things. He wondered how much longer she’d stay at the office, and as he walked outside to his old banger, he felt a decided spring in his step. His new boss couldn’t be more different from his lazy, good-for-nothing old one, and for the first time in months, he felt a distinct sense of optimism. Perhaps this posting to the middle of the sticks wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  Back upstairs, Hillary noticed that most of the night shift were now ensconced, and she gave a loud yawn, getting up from her chair and stretching. Stuffing her bits and pieces into her handbag, she snapped off the anglepoise lamp on her desk, and headed for the main door, scattering ‘goodnights’ in her wake.

  Once on the stairwell, however, she carried straight on down to the basement level and cautiously pushed open the fire door. As expected, down there, the corridors were deserted. Dim lighting gave the building a horror-film ambience that made her smile. In here, the horrors were real. For crooks, that is.

  She glanced left, then right, then turned towards the woman’s locker room. Why Mitch wanted them to meet here she wasn’t sure. Unless the old reprobate had simply wanted to see what they were like.

  The thought that a grizzled old veteran like Mitch might harbour such schoolboy curiosity made her grin. At the door to the locker room, she paused and listened. Hearing nothing, she pushed the door open and walked inside. It had been many years since she’d maintained a locker herself, preferring to keep a large bag for all her knickknacks. But she knew a lot of officers were glad of the extra storage space.

  She looked around sharply as a shadow fell across one wall, the ancient cream paint looking dirty and dingy under the low-watt light bulbs. The shadow disappeared, then quickly emerged in the very substantial form of Mitch the Titch Titchmarsh.

  ‘So this is where you girls hang out,’ he said, glancing around the ancient wire-racked dividers, the battered tin lockers and cold, rather dirty, red tiled floor. ‘Very chic.’

  Hillary grinned. ‘Only the best will do. Why are we here?’

  Mitch turned his head to indicate a row between the lockers, where a backless wooden bench stretched nearly the entire length of the room. He took a seat about halfway down and Hillary joined him. ‘I think our boy is about to place a dead cat in Tyler’s locker,’ Mitch said, and recounted Martin Pollock’s adventures that morning. Hillary listened, grim-faced, then nodded when Mitch finished.

  ‘I agree,’ she murmured quietly. ‘A dead cat’s a real find, and not one he’d be likely to pass up.’

  ‘And he’ll want to stash it before it gets too ripe, and if your DS comes in here tomorrow morning, on the very day of her wedding, and finds a little wedding present waiting, it would be right up the sick puppy’s alley.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘He hasn’t been in yet?’

  ‘Nope, he’s lingering though. I’ve got a WPC from MisPer keeping an eye on him.’

  Hillary looked at him carefully. ‘No regrets, Mitch?’ she asked softly. Pollock, to all intents and purposes, was still one of ‘his lads’ – which was how Mitch had always looked upon the uniform rank and file. It must rankle, just a bit, to be setting him up like this.

  Mitch grunted. ‘Force is better off without him,’ he said. ‘If he’s like this now, when he’s only twenty-three, what would the cocky sod be like by the time he hits forty, when he’s had a chance to accumulate some real anger? Nah, you can’t afford to let his sort get away with shit like this. He’s the kind who likes to spread the rot and all. Before long, he’d have his own little band of merry men, making life for the lasses nigh on unbearable.’

  Satisfied, Hillary slowly leaned her head back against the locker behind her and closed her eyes. Now it was just a question of sitting and waiting.

  Back at their house in th
e Moors, Janine Tyler soaked in a hot bubble bath. Tomorrow she’d become Mrs Janine Mallow. Her mother was coming down from Liverpool on the morning train, and seemed determined to pretend that she wasn’t disappointed that her only daughter wasn’t have a big white wedding. Her father, remarried and living in France, wasn’t able to make it, which wasn’t much of a loss as far as Janine was concerned. It wasn’t as if he was needed to walk her down the aisle, after all.

  She sighed and reached for a foam loofah, squeezing a dollop of honeysuckle-scented liquid soap onto it.

  While she didn’t really mind the registry office herself – she was hardly a church and orange blossom sort of gal – she wouldn’t have minded a bit more pomp and ceremony to go with it, at least to have the day off and go for a meal in a posh hotel afterwards. Just a touch of romance to make the day special would be nice. To go to work before and afterwards smacked of taking the business-as-usual thing a shade too far, but she understood Mel’s reasoning. They wanted to give the brass nothing to beat them over the head with. And he had promised to take her on a spectacular belated honeymoon to the Maldives later that spring.

  She heard the door bell ring, and her heart leaped. Clambering quickly out of the bath, she grabbed a terry cloth robe and struggled into it. Next, she padded out onto the landing and peered over the railings and was just in time to see Mel cross the hall and open the front door.

  But it wasn’t the postman (who sometimes managed to squeeze in an evening delivery) as she’d feared, but only the paper boy, calling for his monthly payment.

  She trooped back to the bath and climbed in again, but it was no use. The water felt too cool to relax her suddenly tense shoulders. There was no reason to suppose that Mel would get a delivery of the fake pictures anyway, but as she closed her eyes and began to soap her arms, Janine could only hope and pray that her stalker wouldn’t put in an appearance at the wedding tomorrow.