by Faith Martin
‘So, you’ve left Superintendent Sale in the computer room?’ he said now.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I know it hasn’t even been a day yet, but do you have any thoughts about him that I should know about?’
Steven smiled slightly. ‘As you say, it’s very early days, but our initial impressions of him are favourable.’
Marcus nodded, not needing to be told whom Steven meant by the ‘we’.
‘Hillary’s met him then? She seems happy about it?’ he asked curiously. In truth, he’d chosen Sale mostly because he thought he was the best fit with Hillary. As far as Donleavy was concerned, there were any number of superintendents he could have chosen to take over from Steven Crayle, but Hillary Greene was almost irreplaceable. After all, the running of the CRT was mainly an admin job. Hillary was a detective right through to the marrow of her bones. And if there should prove to be any problems, it wouldn’t be Hillary Greene who would have to go.
‘She seems cautiously optimistic about him, sir,’ Steven said a shade coolly. Like most of the rest of HQ, he wasn’t entirely sure just how the professional relationship between Donleavy and Hillary actually worked. But everybody seemed to agree that she was in many ways his wing man, and that the two of them could, on occasion, be as thick as thieves. They certainly seemed to share the same ethos about their profession, but the scuttlebutt – maybe somewhat reluctantly – had it that it was strictly professional between the two of them.
Hillary herself had always talked about the man with a shade of wary caution teamed with a sort of wry respect that seemed to confirm that the scuttlebutt had it right.
Even so, Steven, no matter how much he told himself that it was ridiculous, couldn’t help but feel a little bit jealous when it came to proof of the commander’s interest in her, and felt himself tensing up.
‘But she might not feel the same way after the two weeks are up and the CRT becomes the new super’s sole domain,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s going to take some time for Sale to settle in and begin to do things his way. This is all new to him, after all. They might have teething problems.’ He shrugged, a shade helplessly. ‘Who can say?’
He still felt a little guilty about accepting the new promotion, as if he was somehow leaving her behind. Of course, it wasn’t the case. He didn’t doubt that Hillary had meant it when she’d said that she was a hundred per cent behind him. And he was only moving a matter of five miles or so up the road.
Even so.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Marcus said abruptly, dragging Steven’s mind back from his morose thoughts. ‘She’ll soon whip him into shape.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘And if he does turn out to be a dud, she’ll be perfectly capable of running that department on her own, and working around him.’
‘Of that I have no doubt, sir,’ Steven said blandly. And couldn’t help but wonder. Had she ever thought of doing that when he’d been in charge? Then he angrily shook the thought off. No damned way would she have got away with it if she’d tried, and they both knew it.
Commander Marcus Donleavy eyed him briefly for a moment, but then nodded. Although he, like everyone else at the station house, wondered from time to time about the status of their personal relationship, Marcus wasn’t about to pry into it. Besides, now that Steven Crayle was leaving the CRT it was hardly any of his concern. Hillary was, strictly speaking, a civilian now, and no longer bound by so many of the rules that governed serving officers.
He had no doubt that she still saw herself in her old role as his go-to DI, and, consequently, both of them behaved in exactly the same way as they’d always done.
‘Right. Well, I just wanted to touch base with you about your new position,’ Marcus swept on, draining his cup and putting it down on the coaster provided by his secretary. ‘As you know, in two weeks’ time you’ll assume the title and the salary of Acting Chief Superintendent.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Steven said crisply, placing his barely touched cup on a similar coaster.
‘If all goes well, after a three-month trial period, that promotion will become permanent. And you’ll be officially head of the new unit.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Steven said, hiding a grim smile as he contemplated the unspoken subtext.
So don’t screw it up.
‘As you know, your main priority will be breaking up the sex-trafficking gangs, seeking out and prosecuting those who prey on vulnerable young women – and men – and groom them for the sex trade. After that bloody awful show a few years ago,’ – he mentioned the name of an operation that had gained countrywide media attention after a gang of predominantly Asian men had been found guilty of sexually exploiting underage girls in council care – ‘we’re determined that nothing like that will ever happen again.’
‘Sir,’ Steven agreed, with feeling.
‘So, a large part of your job will involve liaising with the Social Services, both Cherwell and Oxford Councils, schools and a number of charity groups set up to help the young and vulnerable. Communication is the name of the game when it comes to prevention. As well as this, you’re going to need to recruit more than your fair share of female officers with expertise when it comes to dealing with the young and sexually exploited. With that in mind, I have a list here of officers who’ve also had special training in the areas of rape and domestic abuse.’
For the next hour or so they went through personnel files and pored over plans on the best way to liaise with the many disparate groups which all had their own agendas and operating procedures.
‘And, finally, you’ll need some kind of psychologist in place, perhaps civilian – we’ll have to see what the budget can manage – to help the victims get through the court process, and at least provide some sort of rudimentary after-care,’ Donleavy concluded. ‘I’ve set up meetings and interviews for that as well as with other victim-support charity groups which will have to help you take the strain.’
‘Sounds like I’m going to be busy,’ Steven said, not unhappily. He was only just beginning to see the size of the task he’d taken on, but he was by no means daunted.
‘I know. But if you want the promotion, you have to expect the workload that goes with it,’ Marcus pointed out.
‘I’m not complaining sir,’ Steven said, a shade stiffly.
Marcus smiled. ‘I never said you were. We chose you precisely because you’re still relatively young and energetic enough for the task, whilst being seasoned and experienced enough at setting up and running your own show. And it’s a good thing you’re eager, because this is just the start of it. Now, it’s time I introduced you to the main targets who will be your primary area of investigation. As you can image, there are no shortages of pimps and traffickers to choose from. You’ve got the Eastern Europeans to worry about, and that includes the Russians, as well as the domestic species of rat. And speaking of which, the biggest, worst, and most local villain of the lot is this chap.’
Donleavy punched up some data on his laptop and spun it around for Steven to see. ‘Do you know him?’
Steven read the profile quickly, one eyebrow rising. ‘I’ve heard of him, naturally. What copper hasn’t? I’m not surprised that he’s at the top of our hit list. I take it, sir, that this chat amounts to the “little word in my ear” that the brass want him to be our first priority?’
Donleavy nodded, and retrieved his laptop. He stared at the image of the man on the screen with a grim smile of disgust.
‘Yes, you can,’ he confirmed flatly. ‘Dale Medcalfe.’ He said the name as if spitting out poison. ‘Born and raised in Blackbird Leys, back in the day when it really was the sinkhole of the county. Now aged thirty-four, six foot one, slim build, brown eyes. Never been married,’ Donleavy continued, with a twist of his lips, ‘which is perhaps not surprising. No woman in her right mind would have him, and anyway, why would you marry at all when you can have the pick of any number of prostitutes who come and go in your stable?’
‘He runs actual brothels?’ Steven aske
d.
‘Oh yes, several. But that’s not really why we want him so badly,’ Donleavy said, eyeing the photograph of the man in the middle of his computer screen. With a strong jaw, fine nose, and high cheekbones, framed by almost angelic-like blond hair, it was only a few old acne scars that saved him from being too pretty, and made him, perversely, very attractive to women. Or so Donleavy had been told by any number of women who’d fallen foul of him over the years.
He sighed heavily. ‘The brothels are really neither here nor there in the grand scheme of things. In fact, as you know, there’s a growing argument for legalising them, like they do in Holland. It keeps the women off the streets, gives them a safe environment to work in, and, if run right, can even offer health initiatives and benefits. Not that our friend Medcalfe cares about any of that,’ he snorted.
‘Most of his girls are junkies, I take it?’ Steven said flatly.
‘Oh yes,’ Donleavy greed grimly. ‘If they are clean when they start working for him, they soon find cheap drugs on tap and don’t stay clean for long. And if they resist, they’re force-fed the stuff. But, as I said, it’s not the brothels that will be your main target. Medcalfe’s ownership of them would probably be impossible to prove anyway, since he employs teams of accountants and legal types to bind up his assets in so much red tape it’s almost impossible for our people to unravel it all. As you know, officially, he earns his filthy lucre from a string of car showrooms. He sells the new Mini, and low-range sports cars for the most part. But that’s just a front for all sorts of things: gambling, loan-sharking, extortion.’
‘None of which will be in my unit’s remit, sir,’ Steven felt obliged to point out.
‘No. But we know he’s grooming underage girls for his stables, and that is. Like those other bastards, he’s preying on young girls in care, girls from broken homes and families, those already at a disadvantage and desperate for love and attention. Girls and boys with no family or support system in place to look out for them. We’ve had any number of reports that he’s selling girls as young as ten to paedophile rings, setting them up in a series of houses that he rents. We want the bastard stopped, and that’s going to be the new unit’s first and primary objective.’
Steven took a long, slow breath. ‘It’ll be our pleasure, sir,’ he said. ‘But I’m presuming it won’t be easy. I take it we’re not the first ones to take him on?’
‘Hell no,’ Donleavy confirmed grimly. ‘Many have tried since Medcalfe first came on our radar ten years ago. But nothing sticks to the son of a bitch. He’s careful and wily. He surrounds himself with a string of trusted lieutenants who take the fall for him, as and when needed. Some are family, and the others, if not related by blood, grew up with him in the Leys and are almost invariably loyal to him. Needless to say, they’re well paid, and do their time without a murmur. Knowing they’ll get kneecapped, or worse, if they don’t, probably helps assure their co-operation. There are any number of brutal beatings that lead back to Medcalfe, not to mention one or two disappearances.’
Steven Crayle’s eyes narrowed. ‘How many do we suspect he’s had killed?’ he asked quietly.
Donleavy’s grey eyes regarded the man opposite him steadily. ‘You’ll be getting the full dossier soon. Study it closely. You’re going to have to be careful, Steven. This man is dangerous.’
Steven Crayle felt a small cold shiver snake up his back. ‘Understood, sir,’ he said quietly.
Hillary Greene, blissfully unaware of the nature of the conversation her lover was having with their commander, returned to HQ around lunchtime, and took her two young recruits up to the canteen, figuring that they might as well make use of it whilst they still had it. Once the latest round of budget cuts swept through the place, the canteen would probably be a thing of the past and they’d all have to make do with dry, supermarket sarnies and packets of crisps.
As they waited in the queue, Wendy eyed the vegetarian option with a forlorn look, whilst Jake Barnes was secretly amazed that anyone ate this kind of stuff anymore. Hadn’t they ever heard about the new wave of British cuisine? He selected for himself the least of the evils on offer – a sort of ploughman’s lunch option with a choice of fruit (he chose a rather wrinkled apple and a brown-spotted banana as the best of the bunch) and found an empty table at the back. As he poured out his glass of mineral water, Wendy sat opposite him with her plate of lacklustre salad. Hillary was the last to arrive, with a plate of some sort of white fish, swimming in what was alleged to be parsley sauce, with new potatoes and peas.
‘Right, Jake, fill in Wendy on what we learned this morning. Then you can start the murder book.’
The murder book was the file that Hillary always opened at the beginning of any new case. It was everyone’s job to keep it updated with everything they discussed; that way every member of the team could consult it whenever they needed to, and no clues, leads, or information was in danger of being lost or overlooked, because of a failure to communicate.
‘Guv,’ Jake said, and began to tell Wendy about Mary Rose Gentley. Hillary listened with half an ear as she ate her warm, tasteless fish, and wondered what Superintendent Sale was making of his new domain. No doubt the computer lads had him tied up in knots by now.
‘So how was Caulcott?’ she heard Jake ask, and listened distractedly as Wendy told them what she’d found out. When she had finished, the Goth handed Hillary her phone and she dutifully ran through the mass of photographs that had been taken.
In the grey November gloom, the small farming hamlet looked isolated, bleak and largely unlovely, but then, Hillary supposed fairly, nowhere looked its best in winter. Come spring, she could well imagine the little lane of cottages overlooking the fields would be a pretty enough place. Certainly their murder victim must have been happy enough living there, since she’d shown no inclination to leave after becoming a widow.
But as a place to commit murder, and not been seen whilst doing it, it did, she supposed grimly, have a lot to recommend it.
‘I’d go barmy within a fortnight if I had to live there,’ Wendy was saying. ‘I know Begbroke isn’t exactly city living, but at least being on a dual carriageway and only a few miles from Oxford, I don’t feel as if I’m living on the edge of nowhere.’
‘Some people must like it,’ Jake Barnes pointed out.
‘Must be mad,’ Wendy said dismissively, and speared a pieced of wilted lettuce. ‘Mind you, it is just the sort of place where you could get yourself murdered, and nobody would notice,’ she said, somewhat eerily echoing Hillary’s own thoughts.
‘Well, let’s hope that somebody, somewhere, noticed something that DI Jarvis overlooked, otherwise this is going to be a very short case,’ Hillary said drily. ‘Right, eat up. Next, we’re going to see what Sylvia’s middle daughter has to tell us. Wendy, you can drive. You have her address, right?’
‘Yes, guv,’ Wendy said eagerly. ‘I think she lives in Milton Keynes.’
Hillary sighed. ‘She would,’ she said laconically.
‘Somebody has to, guv,’ Jake Barnes said with a cheerful smile, his grey-green eyes crinkling attractively at the corners.
Wendy grinned back at him. ‘Got to be better than living on the edge of nowhere,’ she shot back.
‘You can keep your new towns,’ Jake said.
‘Not all of us can afford to live in swanky mansions in north Oxford,’ Wendy pointed out sweetly.
Hillary shook her head. ‘Play nice, you two. Anyone want dessert?’
With mutual shudders, Jake and Wendy declined. Hillary shook her head at them sorrowfully and went up to the counter to quickly select a jam sponge pudding swimming in a pool of glutinous custard.
That was the trouble with the younger generation. They had no stamina.
Lily Jane Barnard, nee Perkins, lived in a large estate of skinny, pale, stone-clad houses with eye-catching terracotta-coloured slate roofs that somehow failed to look even remotely cheerful, let alone Mediterranean. Each had a pocket-handkerchief-size
d lawn, with a small shrub planted neatly in the middle. Lily’s was a dwarf flowering cherry tree, Hillary noticed absently, as they walked up the paving-slab path to a front door that was painted a deep shade of blue.
‘She has just the one child, Milly. Mrs Barnard was recently divorced, guv,’ Wendy informed her helpfully as Hillary pressed the doorbell. ‘She, Mrs Barnard that is, not her daughter, works at the local Sainsbury’s as some kind of manager. The daughter’s currently at uni in Birmingham.’
‘Right, thanks,’ Hillary said, and meant it. She’d spent the time on the drive though Buckinghamshire reading up on the forensic evidence again, such as it was, and going through the post-mortem results, and now found, to her annoyance that translating all that legalese and medical jargon had left her with a slightly fuzzy headache.
She shook the inconvenience of it away as the door opened, revealing an obese woman with a pretty face, dressed in jeans and a long, cream-coloured pullover.
‘Hello, you’re the police? I’ve just been speaking to Mary Rose, she said you’d just been over to her place. Come on in, I’ll put the kettle on.’
Lily Barnard had a mass of dark curling hair that fell to her shoulders, and her face was free of make-up. In her mid-forties at least, Hillary gauged, she had the look of a younger woman, probably due to the fact that her chipmunk-like cheeks were too well padded to allow for any wrinkles.
She showed them straight through to a small but cheerful kitchen, done out in daffodil yellow and white and pointed them to a Formica table, surrounded by three ladder-back chairs. ‘Please have a seat. Coffee OK?’
‘Thank you,’ Hillary said. She watched as the other woman set about making three mugs of instant, whilst Wendy sat down and got out her notebook, resting it unobtrusively on her knee, and out of sight under the table. Hillary had long since taught her that witnesses, when confronted with someone portentously taking down their every word, often struggled to talk freely or feel at ease.