by Faith Martin
It might not be a big do, but it was her wedding, and she wanted to enjoy it in peace. Such as it was.
Keith Barrington parked his car on the side street, as close to a street light as it was possible to get, and climbed out. He didn’t think the car would get stolen – it was too much of a rust bucket to tempt any self-respecting car thief, but it might attract the attention of joy riders or vandals. Not that Summertown had much of that element – not like his old stomping grounds. It was tame by comparison around here. But with money so tight, losing his transport at this juncture would be a catastrophe.
His room was on top of a laundromat, overlooking a set of traffic lights, and as he climbed the creaking wooden stairs, he suddenly felt dog tired. Reaching for his key, he unlocked the black-painted door and pushed it open, then froze, his hand halfway up to the light switch.
He could smell cologne. And, in the corner of the room, his solitary arm chair creaked, as if someone was sitting on it and had moved their weight.
Swallowing hard, Keith slowly moved his hand up a few inches and flicked the light switch.
‘What a dump,’ a voice drawled from the far corner of the room. ‘Don’t tell me you left me for this rat hole?’
Hillary felt Mitch tense beside her, and quickly opened her eyes. She too had heard the quiet ‘snick’ of the outer door as it opened. Mitch instinctively froze, and Hillary did the same. Whoever had just come in had paused inside the door and was listening hard. Why would anyone who had legitimate business in here be doing that?
In her mind’s eye, Hillary could see a young man, waiting and poised for flight, one hand still on the door handle as he stood straining his ears for the slightest sound. One tiny indication that he wasn’t alone, and he’d be gone.
For several moments, all three occupants of the locker room acted like statues. Then, eventually, Hillary heard the second quiet ‘snick’ as the door was carefully shut.
She knew Mitch would have chosen their location carefully, being fully out of sight, yet within easy reach of Janine’s locker. She herself had no idea where that might be.
A moment later they could hear the soft suck-suck-suck noises of rubber-soled shoes on hard ceramic flooring, and then Mitch rose carefully to his feet. It was an old trick her own sergeant back at Headington had taught her. Once a target was moving, his ears were full of the sound of his own movements – the rustle of his trouser legs as they rubbed against each other with every step, his footfalls, his own breathing even. It made it far more difficult for him to hear someone else softly moving some distance away.
When the sounds of footsteps stopped, so did Hillary and Mitch. It wasn’t until they heard the metallic rasp of a jemmy against metal that they moved again, rounding the end of the row of lockers and peering round.
With no need for finesse, Martin Pollock was using a tyre iron to jemmy open Janine’s locker. At his feet was a shopping bag. Without a word, Mitch unhinged his phone, turning away slightly as he pressed a series of buttons, so that the sound would be muffled and couldn’t possibly reach their quarry.
Hillary was impressed. Her own mobile phone did nothing more exotic than put through and receive phone calls. But then, it was ancient. Perhaps it was time for that upgrade she’d been promising herself for the past two years.
She watched, smiling grimly, as Mitch turned the viewfinder back towards Martin Pollock and taped him reaching down into the bag and taking out the carcass of a dead cat.
Martin Pollock carefully moved aside Janine’s gym bag on the second shelf and positioned the cat inside. Apparently, he wasn’t satisfied with the dramatic effect it presented, because he took it out again and placed it on the shelf above, letting the stiffened head poke out. In the morning, when rigor had passed, Hillary guessed that its head would hang pathetically down, dangling over the top shelf and onto the shelf below. Far more artistic.
Martin Pollock grinned at his handiwork, pushed the door on the locker so that it looked, at first glance, to be shut, then turned around to walk away and yelled.
Mitch was walking towards him, looking into the lens of his mobile. ‘Very photogenic you are, Pillock old son,’ Mitch rumbled. He was wearing a pair of new-looking dungarees and a well-worn, well-washed white shirt underneath. With his leonine head and large feet, encased in a disreputable pair of white sneakers, he looked like most people’s idea of an off-season Father Christmas.
‘Shit, Mitch, you scared the daylights out of me,’ Martin Pollock said, with a high, painfully false laugh. His face was pasty white, and when his gaze slid over Mitch’s meaty shoulder to Hillary Greene, his colour turned to a sickly grey. ‘What you doing down here, Mitch?’ Martin asked, only now noticing the phone in his hand, and registering his opening words. His colour, if anything, became worse.
Hillary saw a rather nondescript young man, neither ugly nor handsome, and supposed, sadly, that that was probably part of his problem. She would have, and must have, passed him any number of times around the place, and never given him a single thought. Was that why he’d taken to stalking the beautiful, bright, successful Janine Tyler? In order to be noticed? In order to make a difference, no matter how unwanted and ugly a difference?
The human condition. We all wanted to be noticed. Acknowledged. Hillary began to feel depressed.
‘We’ve got it all on here, old son,’ Mitch said, walking up to Martin and draping an arm over his shoulders. Martin’s knees almost buckled under the weight, and she could tell by the way he winced that Mitch was putting a lot of pressure on that friendly looking arm.
‘What? Sorry, I’m not with you,’ Martin Pollock mumbled.
Mitch, still with one arm draped around the stricken man’s shoulders, leaned forward and opened up Janine’s locker. Then, raising his phone, keeping Martin Pollock’s profile firmly in shot, he filmed the inside of the locker. ‘We’ve got you bang to rights on this,’ Mitch said. ‘I’ve also got you on film this morning making unsolicited deliveries to Mel Mallow’s place.’ He turned to look at Hillary, his big meaty arm turning the hapless Martin in the same direction. ‘What do you think, Hill? Was he delivering a Happy Wedding Day card?’
Hillary regarded Martin Pollock and shrugged. ‘I somehow doubt it, Mitch.’
‘I do too. So what was it Martin?’
‘I don’t … shit, you’re breaking my neck,’ Martin Pollock hissed as Mitch bent his elbow, the better to cradle Pollock’s neck in the crook of his arm.
‘What was it Pollock?’ Mitch said again, not altering his tone by so much as a note. Even Hillary felt a sense of menace.
Martin Pollock swallowed – with some difficulty – and gave another false laugh. ‘It was only a joke, Mitch. You know, a laugh.’
Mitch grinned mirthlessly. ‘Well, we all like a good laugh as much as the next man, right, Hill?’
‘Too right. Never have too many laughs, that’s what I say.’
‘So let us in on it,’ Mitch carried on conversationally. ‘What did you put through Miss Tyler’s letter box this morning, Martin? And don’t lie to me.’
‘It’s nothing, I told you. Just a joke photograph. I was playing around on the computer, thought the sarge would appreciate the joke. DS Mallow too, maybe. You know a bit of stag-night humour for his wedding day.’
‘I’m sure Sergeant Tyler would have thought so too,’ Hillary said drily. ‘She’s no prude. Shall I phone her and ask her what it was?’ she continued, reaching into the bag for her phone. ‘I’m sure she’d let me in on it. After all, she’s off to Witney next week, and I won’t be her guv’nor any more. She won’t mind sharing with me.’
‘It was just a photo. An obvious fake,’ Martin said desperately, staring at Hillary like a mouse would stare at a snake. ‘A naked lady, with her face on it, nothing more. Nothing major. It was taken in the canteen, for Pete’s sake. Just a lark, see?’
‘And who else did you send these joke pictures to?’ Hillary asked quietly, thinking how mortified Janine must have fel
t. Fake or not, having your family, friends or colleagues see images of a naked body with your face on it would be hard to live down. For a serving police officer, saving face and maintaining the respect of others was essential. As this little bastard knew only too well.
As did Mitch. ‘If any of those pictures show up, Pollock …’ he said softly, and Martin Pollock abruptly bent forward and threw up all over his shoes.
Mitch stepped smartly back, as did Hillary. When he was finished, Pollock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened up. He was now visibly trembling. ‘I’ll delete them off the computer,’ Pollock said, his voice little more than a whisper.
‘Then you’ll write a letter of resignation,’ Mitch said, and when Martin Pollock’s head shot up and around, his eyes narrowing with half-hearted defiance, Mitch smiled grimly. ‘Oh no, I can’t make you,’ he agreed, as if Pollock had actually said the words aloud. ‘But if you don’t, I’ll have a few words in a few ears. And you know how many ears listen to me, don’t you, Pollock? You won’t be able to function in this nick or any other.’
Martin Pollock began to cry.
‘And Pollock,’ Hillary said, waiting until he’d turned and looked at her. ‘I’ll be keeping tabs on Janine. If I even get so much as a hint that you’ve gone anywhere near her …’
Mitch shook his phone in front of Pollock’s face. ‘This makes its way to the desk of a woman DI I know in Sex Crimes who’s always happy to put away one of her own. Her ex made her very bitter.’
Hillary nodded. ‘And you don’t want to do jail time, Pollock,’ she advised softly. ‘You really don’t.’
‘Now piss off out of our sight,’ Mitch said, withdrawing his arm. When Martin moved to step around him, he added, ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
Pollock looked at him blankly, and Mitch opened the locker door a bit wider. ‘Tiddles?’
Without a word, Martin Pollock collected his dead cat and crept away.
‘My treat, what you having?’ Hillary asked pushing open the door of the Boat and glancing around. Her local at Thrupp wasn’t very busy on a week night, but the first person she saw was Mike Regis.
She saw his eyes widen as he realized she was coming in with a man, then smile as he recognized the legendary Mitch the Titch.
‘A friend of mine from Vice is in,’ Hillary said quietly, as Mitch let the door close behind him.
‘OK,’ Mitch said, understanding at once that she didn’t want anyone else to know about Janine’s woes. ‘Do I know him?’
‘Mike Regis,’ Hillary said casually.
‘Only by rep. Seems solid,’ Mitch agreed.
Hillary led the way, and made the introductions. ‘Mike, Mitch. An old friend from way back. We meet up for a brew every now and then and to have a good moan.’
Mike shook hands, smiled and said, ‘What you having?’
‘My shout,’ Hillary repeated, wondering if she sounded as awkward as she felt. ‘Mitch?’
‘Pint of cider, thanks.’
Mike indicated his still full glass and Hillary went to the bar. She was just ordering herself a large gin and tonic when she spotted a flash of blond hair out of the corner of her eye. She turned around and felt her heart do a little jig. She almost groaned out loud. This was not good. Not good at all.
Chief Inspector Paul Danvers spotted her at the bar, and smiled. ‘Hello. I was hoping to catch you. Just a quick word about the Jenkins case.’
‘Sir,’ Hillary said, wishing she’d made the drink a treble.
With no other option, she led Danvers and his pint of Guinness to the table where Mitch sat and who lifted an eyebrow in silent inquiry.
‘DCI Danvers, ex-Sergeant Mitch Titchmarsh. Mitch, my boss.’
Danvers nodded, but if he was aware of Mitch’s legendary status, he gave no sign of it. Being originally from York, he might genuinely not have known him. Instead his eyes went immediately to Regis, and the smile on his face stretched just a little bit wider.
‘Chief Inspector,’ Regis said unenthusiastically.
‘Paul, please. It’s DI Regis, right?’
As if he didn’t remember, Hillary thought, wondering why men had to play such silly buggers. Mitch, who could never be accused of being slow on the uptake, looked from Danvers to Regis, then gave Hillary a sly wink.
Hillary kicked him sharply under the table.
She awoke the next morning feeling deeply unhappy. She stared at the ceiling, barely a foot above her head, and frowned. Talk about getting up on the wrong side of the bed.
Then it all came back. That ugly business with the pathetic Martin Pollock. Then the fiasco in the pub. With a groan she pushed the covers aside and took a step to the right, coming out into a tiny narrow corridor, and then taking two steps forward and one to the left, which put her in the tiny cubicle that was her shower. She’d got the two-minute shower down to a fine art, and five minutes later she was dressed and heading down the narrow corridor to her tiny galley.
At first living on the boat had seemed like a nightmare, but now she couldn’t imagine herself living in a house. All those acres of carpets to hoover. All those dirty, inaccessible windows to wash. Now she spent about half an hour a week on housekeeping, if that. And, come the summer, all she needed was a few days off, and she could push off from her mooring and tootle off to Oxford for a spell, or head out towards the Cotswolds, taking her home with her. Instant stress relief.
She put on the coffee pot and popped two slices of bread into the toaster, trying not to remember last night. Not that that was possible. Regis and Danvers had been like two fighting dogs sniffing each other’s backsides, each getting ready to launch into the fray and land the first bite. Only the presence of the highly entertained Mitch, and Hillary’s warning, flashing eyes had stopped them.
Well, one thing was for sure. Her romance with Regis was now well and truly out of the bag. Danvers could hardly have failed to read the signs, even if Mike hadn’t gone out of his way to drop hints the size of house bricks that he and she were now a couple. And Mitch would certainly foghorn the news all over the county. Like all men, he loved to gossip.
Hillary had felt so cheesed off, she’d refused to go back to Mike’s place last night, even though he’d practically begged, and she wondered now with a flash of defiance if she’d ever go back again.
She didn’t like to be claimed, as if she was a mining stake in the Yukon. She was nobody’s property. Damn it, what was it with men?
She got to HQ early, and was in no mood to find Keith Barrington already there. Not that he said much by way of greeting. In fact, he seemed uncharacteristically preoccupied.
When Janine came in, dead on time, a small ragged cheer went up. Anyone who could make it was invited to the registry office that afternoon at two o’clock for the ceremony, and most of her colleagues were genuinely happy for her and Mel. Some, no doubt, would be glad to see her go to Witney, but on a girl’s wedding day, most people were willing to give her a break.
She grinned widely and gave the room a general good-natured finger, but Hillary saw the tension around her eyes. The moment she sat down at her desk, Hillary handed her a large card. ‘For you.’
Janine smiled a somewhat awkward thanks and opened it, reading the inscription without much thought. Then her face went pale, then red, then pale again.
Inside, written underneath the usual Hallmark pleasantries, Hillary had scrawled:
One wedding gift – no more hassle. No more fake photographs. No more little notes. No more stalking. The bastard’s resigned and gone and won’t dare bother you again. If he does, just let me know, and he’ll do time. Happy honeymoon. Your old boss, Hillary Greene.
Janine swallowed hard, and felt tears flood her eyes. She swallowed them back, and when she finally looked up, her face was shining. ‘You’re the bloody best, boss,’ Janine whispered hoarsely. ‘Sometimes I think there’s nothing you can’t do.’
Hillary grunted and shook her head. ‘I wish! This Je
nkins case has got me baffled for a start.’ She didn’t know, then, that she would solve the case before the day was out.
chapter fourteen
* * *
Keith Barrington gave his computer the command to print, and watched the piece of paper go through the machine. His thoughts, however, were firmly back at his bedsit, and his unexpected visitor. He blinked when the machine beeped at him, letting him know that the function had been completed, and he keyed back onto his screen-saver and collected the sheet of paper.
He glanced across at Frank Ross’ desk, more than usually relieved to see it empty. He knew only too well what the likes of Frank Ross would have had to say about Keith’s visitor. And although he was almost sure that Hillary Greene wouldn’t agree with him, Keith had no desire to put it to the test.
He was already treading on thin ice as it was. So far, it seemed that the fiasco back at Blacklock Green wasn’t going to be held against him here. But that didn’t mean that he wanted another question mark, if not a black mark, held against him so soon.
‘Guv, I’ve got the name of Roger Glennister’s nearest living relative – a younger brother called Paul.’ He handed her the piece of paper and recounted his researches.
‘Glennister’s parents both died in the sixties, and his brother moved to Fife. Now he’s retired, and moved back to his old stomping ground. The Glennisters did live in Bicester, as you thought they might have, but now Paul’s retired to a dot on the map called Northbrook. Know it?’
Hillary did. ‘It’s a tiny hamlet not far from here. Funnily enough, my first murder case involved a body found in the canal near there.’ She took the sheet of paper and read it through quickly. The Glennisters were a typical working-class family, the father a roofer, the mother a home help. Paul had been the only one to go to university, and had subsequently gone into the oil industry. Hence his move to Scotland, she supposed. Married, but now widowed with one child, a boy, who was following in daddy’s footsteps.