by Faith Martin
THE WORK OF A
NARROW
MIND
FAITH MARTIN
ROBERT HALE • LONDON
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER ONE
Ex-DI Hillary Greene pulled her old Volkswagen Golf, Puff the Tragic Wagon, into the car park of the Thames Valley Police HQ in Kidlington, and turned off the ignition. Puff coughed once before falling silent, and Hillary sighed in sympathy. The old car’s MOT was due soon, and she had no idea if the old boy was going to pass.
She climbed out into the early morning air, smoothing down her navy-blue skirt as she did so, then pulling her warm winter coat a little tighter around her as the brisk wind whistled past her ears. It was the first week of November, and soon the fireworks of Bonfire Night would be terrifying every neighbourhood dog and cat in Creation. And, as she walked towards the entrance to the large, not particularly pretty building, she supposed, glumly, that both uniform, and the ambulance service, would have their usual hard work cut out for them, one arresting drunken revellers, and the other treating their burns.
After a lifetime of such experience, the stupidity of the human species invariably failed to amaze her.
She pushed through the doors, but instead of heading to her office, made straight for the desk sergeant instead.
She’d worked as a DI in this building for more years than she cared to remember before taking early retirement two years ago. Unable to withstand the tedium, however, she’d soon returned, accepting a civilian post working cold cases for the Crime Review Team, which hung its collective hat in the basement, down amid the old paper files, antiquated heating system and spiders.
When she’d first started there, the small investigative team that she worked for had been headed by Superintendent Steven Crayle. But Steven was now heading on and up to better things, and today, the new man in charge had arrived to learn the ropes. And this was why she was headed for the desk sergeant.
She hadn’t been a raw, wet-behind-the-ears green recruit for more than a week before she’d learned the very valuable lesson that if you wanted to know anything – and that meant anything – the person to ask was the desk sergeant.
As she approached the reception counter that was his fiefdom, the particular specimen on day duty looked up and was patently ready for her. A big, beefy man, with thinning hair and a wide grin, his big brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he beamed a welcoming smile at her.
‘All ready to meet the new boss then, Hill?’ he pre-empted her cheerfully.
She undid her coat, giving the sergeant a quick peek at her smart navy-blue skirt suit and warm, paler-blue poloneck sweater combo, and her low-heeled, comfortable and sensible black leather boots. She wore no jewellery (in her younger years as a humble WPC she’d quickly seen that ear-rings could be ripped out of your ears in a fight, and a necklace used as a choker – literally). Her make-up was discreet but effective, and her usual bell-shaped cut of chestnut brown hair hung just to the top of her shoulders.
‘I expect I’ll pass muster,’ she said laconically.
In response, the sergeant gave an appreciative wolf-whistle.
‘Does your wife know you’re safe to be let out?’ Hillary grumbled with a smile. She’d reached her half-century just last year, but had finally managed to lose the stone or so in weight that she’d always been meaning to shed, so she knew that she looked good.
Or so a certain, very good-looking superintendent was always telling her.
‘So, come on then,’ she said, rolling her sherry-brown eyes in a telling gesture. ‘what do you know about our Rollo?’
Commander Marcus Donleavy had appointed Superintendent Roland “Rollo” Sale, from today her new boss, as head of the investigative branch of the CRT. And although Hillary had put out her own feelers about him, she knew that the desk sergeant would have by far the best gen.
‘What exactly do you need to know?’ he teased with mock innocence, widening his eyes elaborately and leaning a meaty elbow on the counter, before propping a whisker-darkened chin into his cupped hand and fluttering his non-existent eyelashes in her direction. ‘He’s a perfect pillar of the community and what not, surely? Being a super and all, and passing the commander’s scrupulous interviewing techniques and vetting.’
Hillary sighed heavily. Just why did every desk sergeant and his grandmother enjoy taking the piss whenever possible? On the other hand, she might just as well ask why cats miaowed.
‘Come on, come on, give,’ Hillary grumbled, waving a hand briskly in the air in the universal gesture to hurry up. ‘I need to know just how far and how fast I need to cover my arse.’
The desk sergeant grinned. One thing you could say about Hillary Greene – she was an old trooper who knew just how the game was played.
‘Well, there’s not much juicy stuff, so you can relax,’ he said, settling down for a good chat. ‘He’s out of Aylesbury, originally. Not a university graduate, so no fast track for him, which I say has to be a blessing. He’s had a few good collars, but nothing spectacular. He’s not’ – he mimed rolling up a trouser leg – ‘one of that lot, so there’s nothing iffy there either.’
Hillary blinked, wondering vaguely if Masons really did roll up their trouser legs, then wondered why everyone she knew (but mostly the men, it had to be said) seemed to be so paranoid about who might, and might not, belong to their ranks. For herself, she’d never cared a jot, and had made it quite clear. Which just might explain, she mused, why nobody had ever bothered to approach her to sound her out about joining.
A flea in the ear did tend to offend.
‘He came up in a steady rise through the ranks, like I said,’ the desk sergeant rambled on. ‘Been married to the same missus for yonks, like thirty years or something like that, three kids, all boys, all grown up. None of them joined up with us though,’ he added significantly, and tapped the side of his nose.
Hillary nodded. Now that was genuinely interesting. A lot of coppers joined the force because their fathers, uncles or brothers had already done so. It became, in effect, the family business. So the fact that her new super had three sons, but none in the police service, gave her pause for thought. Had he actively encouraged them not to join? If so, what did that tell her about his attitude? Or, conversely, had he always hoped or assumed that at least one of his sons would follow his career path, and was, therefore, now a disappointed man?
‘We’ll have to see if he’s sensitive about that,’ she muttered thoughtfully.
‘Yeah, we’ve already got feelers out about it,’ the desk sergeant informed her complacently.
‘So, what else?’
‘He’s in his mid-fifties, so not too long off retirement himself I reckon. Three or four years tops. He hasn’t had any trouble with the Complaints, no disciplinary issues, and doesn’t seem to like the media much. So you won’t catch him trying to hog the camera or press for telly interviews.’
‘He’s not all bad then,’ Hillary said happily.
‘No. So the fact that he’s not out to up his profile with a view to promotion tells you something else, don’t it?’ the canny sergeant offered innocently.
Hillary nodded. It certainly did. ‘He’s not about to step on anybody’s toes.’
‘And that can only mean one thing, right?’ the desk sergeant nodded his head sagely.
Hillary smiled
slightly. ‘The brass regard him as a safe pair of hands,’ she said succinctly.
The sergeant nodded in agreement. ‘Right. Well,’ he said with a small sigh, ‘it makes sense, when you think about it. Your Steven set it all up and got the ball rolling. And since you’ve been getting good results that way, now that the commander has booted him upstairs, all they wanted was someone with experience to keep everything nicely on track and ticking over; someone without too much ego, or without anything to prove, as they would only go and muck it about just so that they could make their own mark.’
The desk sergeant grinned wolfishly. ‘And there’d be plenty of them to chose from. So a safe and steady super coasting to retirement is just what the doctor ordered. ‘Sides’ – he cocked a knowing eye at her – ‘we all know that Commander Donleavy sees you as the real star of the show anyway. So who does it matter who’s technically in charge anyway?’
Hillary shot him a sour look. ‘Don’t know why you lot keep coming up with that old chestnut,’ she said flatly. ‘The commander and I are hardly like that.’ And she held up a hand, her two fingers crossed firmly together, indicating closeness.
The desk sergeant grinned, but held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘OK, OK, have it your way. But we all know better. Oh yeah, one other thing about Sale,’ he added seriously.
Hillary, who’d been about to move off and head for the stairs, turned back.
The desk sergeant crooked a finger to beckon her further in and leaned over the counter, casting a pantomime-obvious look around to make sure that they weren’t being overheard. ‘One thing I did hear about him, that you might like to keep in mind,’ he said darkly, lowering his voice as he did so.
Hillary, willing to play along, leaned across the desk and cocked her head to one side. ‘What?’ she whispered back.
‘Word has it – there’s no dirt on the old man when it comes to a bit of how’s your father!’
Hillary reared back, putting a lock of mock-horror on her face. ‘Crikey!’
The desk sergeant’s lips twitched. ‘I know. Scandalous, ain’t it? A man who doesn’t cheat on his missus? I mean, what can you do with a super who doesn’t like to chase the WPCs around the desk?’
Hillary shook her head woefully.
‘My old man said you should never trust a boss who didn’t have wandering hand trouble,’ he said gravely. ‘Know why?’
Hillary blinked, thought about it for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yeah. It probably means the bugger is up to something else, and who knows what unsavoury substance you might accidentally tread in before you know just where it’s safe to put your feet.’
The desk sergeant roared with laughter, making a couple of passing PCs grin across at them. ‘Got it in one.’
‘Great,’ Hillary said, twisting her lips wryly. ‘Well, when I find out just what it is that we need to watch out for, I’ll be sure to let you know. You can spread the word to the others.’
‘Righty-o, Hill. Oh, by the way, exactly when is your fella due to head over to St Aldates?’ he asked, super casually.
Hillary shot him a nice-try look. ‘If you’re talking about Superintendent Crayle,’ she said blandly, ‘his new posting begins officially in two weeks’ time.’
‘Better watch himself in the big city then,’ the desk sergeant grinned. ‘A good looking boy like that.’
Hillary laughed. The ‘big city’ of Oxford lay all of three miles up the road. ‘I’m sure he’s old enough and mean enough to watch his back,’ she said drily.
‘Word is that you do that for him, Hill.’
Hillary said something very pithy and extremely Anglo Saxon in origin to this blatant bit of cheek, and left the desk sergeant smirking knowingly and in a very good mood.
Still smiling herself, she headed downstairs into the depths of the building, her mind still very much on Superintendent Steven Crayle. Her thoughts, however, weren’t so much particularly amused, as rather more pensive.
Steven Crayle was six years her junior – hardly a ‘boy’ in anybody’s language. He was good looking, sexy, smart and ambitious. And when she’d first joined his team nearly two years ago, he hadn’t been particularly welcoming, seeing her as Donleavy’s choice, an ex-DI with something of a mixed reputation, being foisted on to him by the top brass.
And just a week or so ago he’d asked her to marry him.
Now that he’d accepted a promotion, and moving on from the CRT meant that he’d no longer be her boss, he was expecting her answer any time soon.
And she still had no idea, yet, what that answer was going to be.
With a sigh, she walked down the labyrinthine corridors to her own tiny office, that had once, literally, been a stationery cupboard, and unlocked the door. There was just room inside for a tiny desk, one chair, a filing cabinet and her computer. She hung up her coat on the hook on the back of the door, slung her bag under the desk and booted up the computer.
She dealt quickly with her e-mails, and tackled some of the seemingly endless supply of paperwork in her IN tray, then walked back through to the larger communal office, where her team worked.
Her eyes went first to Jimmy Jessop, her 62-year-old right-hand man.
Jimmy had been a sergeant for most of his forty-year career on the force, and had retired after putting in his time. He’d confidently expected to take up an allotment, enjoy the holidays he’d never got around to taking, and generally get to do all of the things that his beloved and long-suffering wife had always wanted them to do but hadn’t been able to, because of his job. But, barely six months after retiring, he’d suddenly lost his wife.
And the waiting list for an allotment was nearly three years long.
So now, here he was, back at HQ, and working as a civilian consultant on the CRT and thinking himself very lucky indeed. Hillary Greene was, in many ways, the best boss he’d ever worked for. Although she’d been married to the late, unlamented, and extremely bent copper, Ronnie Greene, everyone knew that she herself was as straight as they came. What’s more, she’d had a conviction rate second to none during her days as a DI, even earning a medal for valour after getting shot saving her former boss and best friend, Phillip ‘Mellow’ Mallow. Since joining the CRT she had yet to fail to solve every cold murder case given to her by the super. Speaking of which, Jimmy expected them to be getting another case soon. Maybe even today, given that the new boss was being shown the ropes. It made sense to show him how the process worked from scratch.
The thought of a new case made him very happy, like an old hunting dog spotting the white tail of a rabbit disappearing across the field. Not that he didn’t already have a fair bit on his plate as it was, though.
‘Guv.’ He nodded a greeting at her and gave a brief smile.
She nodded back, and her eyes moved on to the two newest recruits.
The majority of the team was comprised of computer and forensic boffins, who solved the bulk of cold cases by comparing old, stored, DNA samples and matching them to new crimes, as well as using all the other, latest scientific methods available. Databases were also used to cross-reference past crimes and pick up the traces of repeat offenders still at work.
But some of the more one-off, mostly murder, cases needed a more active, old-fashioned approach to detection, and that was where she came in. Because of budget cuts, however, the small investigative team within the CRT was always going to be a low priority. Consequently, it was now manned only by herself and Jimmy, as two civilian ex-police personnel, and by two youngsters who were, ostensibly anyway, thinking about joining the police force in the near future. Because they weren’t actually in uniform however, and hadn’t yet been through police training college, they were also civilians, worked part-time, and thus could be used as relatively cheap labour.
It was part of Hillary’s remit to train up these assorted ‘wannabes’, sorting out the wheat from the chaff, and eventually passing the best of them on up the line, where it was hoped they’d become official, not to me
ntion semi-seasoned police officers.
Sam Pickles, who was now in his last year at university, had been one such success story, and Hillary missed seeing his cheerful, freckled face about the place. But she was confident that, after finishing his degree, he was going to join up, and would probably, one day, make chief constable.
Now that he was gone, however, she had two more green kids to deal with. Well, Wendy Turnbull at least fitted that category, as far as Hillary was concerned. At twenty-four she almost certainly wouldn’t regard herself as a kid, but her Goth appearance didn’t do her many favours in wanting to be seen as an adult. Today, she was wearing black leather leggings, with a black and red lacy top and what looked like a knitted black shawl, tied over her skinny shoulders. Her short spiky hair was dyed at the tips in a vibrant lime green colour, and full black mascara, eyeliner, and eyeshadow, plus pale face powder, made her look like an escapee from an Addams Family film set.
She was busy tapping away at her computer and was so engrossed in what she was doing, that she hadn’t even realized Hillary was there. She was a cheerful kid, which was always a bonus, a bit gung-ho and still naïve in many ways, Hillary mused, but she was at least eager to learn. Whether she’d actually make a good police officer was still up for debate, in her opinion.
With a wry smile, Hillary turned to the last member of her team and by far the most problematic: Jake Barnes.
Jake, at thirty-three, was poles apart from Wendy in almost every way. At six feet tall, with short brown hair, and grey-green eyes, he was a fit and good-looking man, who was dressed today in an expensive navy blue suit. It looked like it had cost a thousand pounds, and probably had, for Jake had made his fortune young and early, during the dot.com boom, and had retired at the ridiculous age of twenty-five, a very wellheeled young man indeed. Divorced, childless, he’d joined the CRT supposedly because he wanted to ‘give something back to the community’. And with his computer skills, unquestionable business prowess and forward thinking, media-smart savvy personality, it was hardly surprising that the brass had snapped him up like greedy vultures when he’d volunteered for the programme.