by Faith Martin
But even the dragon couldn’t keep him from taking his regulation lunch break, so at just about half past one he wandered out of the boring office and down into the foyer. He hardly ever actually drank any tea or coffee on his breaks, and never ate food from the HQ, since the muck they served in the canteen wasn’t fit for a dog. Usually he preferred to grab a sports drink from his locker and wander around outside if it was nice, with some fresh fruit or cereal bars.
Being in records might give him access to the files he needed, but the stuffiness of the office environment made him crave fresh air in his lungs.
He’d just found an impromptu seat on the wooden wall surrounding some rather desultory square flowerbeds that were scattered throughout the parking area, when he noticed Jimmy Jessop’s car pull in. His heart lifted at the sight of the woman in the passenger seat. Just a glimpse of the familiar bell shape of dark chestnut hair made his spirits soar. And again he felt a longing to actually feel that hair in his fingers, to smell the scent of her shampoo. Worshipping her from afar was all right, but it was rapidly becoming frustrating. He could feel the familiar momentum building up inside him. He must make flesh-and-blood contact with her soon. The pressure to actually hold her in his arms was so strong it was an almost physical ache.
But the time just didn’t feel right quite yet. Not whilst she was in the middle of a case. It wouldn’t be right to distract her. Tom nodded to himself, pleased with his own thoughtfulness. Yes, he respected her so much, surely she would appreciate that? But once the case was over – when she’d solved it, as he knew she must, because she always did – then he would reward himself.
Pleased and reassured by this promise to himself, Tom let his mind wander aimlessly.
He knew all of Hillary’s team by sight, and was less than impressed with any of them. Jimmy Jessop was all right, he supposed, and being so old and past it, he wasn’t any kind of rival to Tom. And from what he’d gleaned here and there, Jessop had been a well-respected sergeant in his day, but he really should have been put out to graze long ago, and never let back in. If his Hillary got into any kind of trouble with a thug, just what kind of back-up would a grey-haired wrinkly like him be to her? She needed someone like himself, young and alert, fit and strong, to protect her.
In his fantasies he always found a way to get assigned to her team, and regularly rescued her from various knife-wielding scumbags.
Vivienne Tyrell was proving useful to him, since he could get her to talk about anything and everything, but she annoyed him with her sickening vanity and her girlish, flirting inanity. It was also very obvious that Vivienne didn’t like Hillary, and had no respect for her and her accomplishments. She was a stupid, ungrateful cow and he didn’t know how someone like Hillary could stick her. He’d have to be careful not to lose his temper around her, but the urge to shut her complaining mouth and get her out of Hillary’s hair for good was something he’d have to be careful to control. At least for a while. Right now, he needed her eyes and ears on what was going on, more than he needed to indulge his own wants.
And as for Sam Pickles – Tom gave an inner snort. He hated Pickles more than anyone, because he had the job Tom craved. Just to be in Hillary’s orbit every day was something that he could only dream about, and the fact that Pickles was living the dream, and seemed oblivious to the honour, made him want to chew the walls. Not only that, he was a gormless, lanky git who was more interested in his textbooks than in being a copper.
It made Tom rage at the second-class people she had to work with. Hillary Greene was a star, and everyone knew it. Her solve-rate made Commander Donleavy and the rest of the brass salivate, so he’d heard, and with her gallantry medal, and her reputation for standing by her colleagues, she was in a class of her own. And she was so beautiful. He wasn’t going to let Steven Crayle get his damned hands on her.
As he watched her get out of the car, she seemed to Tom to walk like a model. She had real curves, and maturity and grace. His green eyes bore into her back as she headed towards the HQ’s main doors. If only she would turn and look his way. She must know he was there; she must have seen him: she noticed everything.
But, of course, she had Jimmy with her, so she couldn’t openly acknowledge him. He understood that. He’d seen for himself how everyone in this place just loved to gossip. But he couldn’t wait until they could make their love public. Then everyone would know that she was his.
He slowly raised the bottle of sports drink to his lips and took a swallow. He wondered what her narrowboat looked like, bedecked with his flowers. Everywhere she’d look, she would be reminded of him.
He smiled at the thought.
Just then, Steven Crayle pushed through the double glass doors and headed for his BMW. He stopped and looked up, as he heard his name called.
‘Superintendent Crayle.’
The voice was female, and totally familiar. He stopped, wondering why he wasn’t ‘Steven’ anymore, then saw that Hillary had Jimmy Jessop with her. He watched them approach, and nodded a greeting.
‘I think we should be on first-name terms by now, Hillary, don’t you?’ he said easily, and just to make the point, nodded towards the older man. ‘Jimmy. How are things?’
‘Fine, guv, thanks,’ Jimmy said. He glanced at Hillary, who smiled. ‘Go ahead and write up the Dr Cox interview for the murder book, Jimmy. I’ll be in in just a minute.’
Steven shifted his briefcase to his other hand. ‘This is the young student killed in Oxford, right?’
‘The Rowan Thompson case. Yes, sir, I thought you might like an update,’ Hillary said, pausing until Jimmy had entered the building, before turning to look at him properly.
‘Thanks for sending your friend over,’ she said. ‘I was glad to see the back of those damned flowers.’
Steven nodded, looking at her closely. ‘Beginning to get on your nerves, is it?’ he asked quietly, smiling a little as she stiffened perceptibly.
‘It’s nothing I can’t handle, sir,’ she said flatly.
‘I never said it was,’ Steven took her arm and began to walk her towards his car. ‘Relax,’ he said quietly, lowering his head a little towards her. ‘I wasn’t implying that you were about to need the services of a funny farm. But you wouldn’t be human if you weren’t feeling a little bit tense by now. Having a stalker is one of the most stressful things that can happen to a woman. You don’t need me to tell you that.’
‘No, sir, I don’t,’ Hillary agreed deadpan.
‘And stop calling me sir,’ Steven shot back, just as deadpan. ‘A couple of hours ago we were snogging like teenagers, after all.’
Hillary’s lips twitched. He had a point.
‘So, how is the Thompson case going, anyway?’ he asked, rather belatedly, and again Hillary’s lips twitched.
They were still walking towards his car, their heads close together, as she briefed him on what she’d done so far. Spoken out loud, it didn’t seem like much, but then, he could hardly expect miracles. It was still very early days, and she was still playing catch-up with the earlier investigation.
‘So far, I can’t see any glaring omissions or mistakes made by the original investigation,’ she concluded, knowing that this was one of the CRT’s worst scenarios. Nobody liked to make trouble for another team by exposing bad policing. It riled the troops, allowed the press to get their sanctimonious knickers in a twist, and put you on the brass’s shit list for years to come.
‘Good. You getting any feelings for it yet?’ Steven asked curiously.
‘Nothing overt, sir. Just putting out feelers, and seeing what sets my spider senses tingling,’ she said sardonically.
Steven cast her a quick, puzzled glance, wondered what had put her back up, reviewed the conversation, and held out a placatory hand. ‘All right, all right. I wasn’t trying to suggest you rely on woman’s intuition or anything like that. I just know you’ve got a good copper’s nose for things, that’s all.’
Hillary sighed, then nodded. ‘Fai
r enough, guv,’ she said. She supposed she was getting a bit tetchy. But she was feeling a bit wrong-footed by this were-they/weren’t-they pretend courtship they seemed to have fallen into. It made his every word and gesture open to question and interpretation.
From behind a horse chestnut tree, Tom Warrington watched them closely. Why were they walking so close together? And didn’t Crayle know enough to keep his damned hands off her? What right did he have to take her arm like that? Why didn’t she shake it off?
He watched them stop by Crayle’s sleek car, and his hands tightened on the bottle in his hand as he watched them chatting. They looked friendly, and close, standing together like that.
And was she smiling?
Tom rather thought that she was.
‘So, what’s your next move?’ Steven asked, reaching out to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen across her left eye.
Hillary went still and looked a question at him.
‘In case he’s watching,’ Steven Crayle said softly.
Yeah, Hillary thought. Right. She reached up and rested her fingers against his wrist. Surreptitiously, with two of her fingers, she took his pulse.
It was racing.
Her lips twitched again.
‘We’ll interview Barry Hargreaves next. Gorman, the original CIO, liked him for it,’ she said. ‘But then he also liked the girlfriend for it. He just couldn’t bring it home to either of them.’
Tom Warrington began to move parallel across the car park, always keeping them in sight, but being careful not to actually turn his head to look their way. He knew any sort of movement of that kind attracted attention. Those who suspected they were being watched tended to get a heightened sensitivity to such gestures.
He was making his way towards his own car at a steady pace. He still had nearly an hour of his lunch break left, and he suddenly badly needed to be somewhere.
‘Well, I’ve got a meeting to get to,’ Steven said regretfully, reaching into his jacket pocket for his keys. ‘Keep me up to date on everything. And call me, if you need me.’
Hillary nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll do that,’ she said, and stood back as he got in the car. She gave a brief salute as he pulled away, then turned, and watched another car pull out across the aisle. She couldn’t tell, from the angle, who it was who was driving, but it probably wasn’t significant. She’d begun to take note of which cars were behind her nowadays, but surely her stalker wasn’t interested in trailing her boss.
She made her way back to the office, deep in thought.
Just how far did Steven think they were going to take this public courtship thing? At some point, one of them was going to have to come out and admit that all this romantic play-acting for the benefit of her potential watchful stalker was just so much pie-in-the-sky. That, underneath it all, lay a serious attraction that was going to have to be addressed and sorted out, one way or the other.
Which probably meant that it would have to be her. Men were such wusses.
Tom trailed Steven Crayle only so far as the entrance to the HQ, for the superintendent’s car turned left, towards Oxford, and he needed to go right.
He drove for barely ten minutes, before turning down a minor single-track lane that dead-ended at a five-barred country gate. He got out quickly and vaulted lithely over the obstacle, all but jogging down a farmer’s rutted track towards a small copse in a large field of greening wheat.
Sometimes, the need to visit his special place just overwhelmed him, making it impossible for him to ignore its siren call. Whenever he needed reassurance, or peace, or simply to remember the glorious past, he always came to this spot.
Here there was a small rill and a damp, boggy patch of ground, with a cluster of hazel, hawthorn, and mostly sycamore trees. It made for a perfect escape from prying eyes and nosy parkers. It resembled a small leafy oasis in a sea of wheat, since the farmer didn’t have the money or inclination to drain the bog and fell the trees, and nobody ever came here, since there was no public footpath or right of access.
Tom had discovered it many years ago as a boy, it being within biking distance of a ten-year-old, and was just the sort of place a lonely child could imagine was a den of highwaymen and pirates. He’d even built a rough shelter here, many moons ago, which had long since been reclaimed by the elements. Once or twice the farmer had caught him on the land, but when he’d been a boy, he hadn’t minded, and in later years Tom rather thought it pleased the landowner to know that a copper was ‘keeping an eye’ out for him. Nowadays, the thefts of tractors, combine harvesters, and other expensive farm equipment was sky-high, after all.
Of course, as a boy, he’d had no idea how useful the little copse would be to his future self.
Or to what use he would put it.
But now, as he approached his rather ordinary, rather scrubby little personal kingdom, he felt the healing magic of it wash over him. Here he could leave behind the petty, ugly realities of his humdrum day-to-day existence, and really come alive.
The peace of the copse in the midst of the green fields always soothed him. Birds always sang here, and the little rill in the middle of the dampest patch of ground always shone, even on the dullest of days. On a warm, sunny April day, it looked like a seam of silver, glittering in the dappled shade.
He made his way to one side of the bank, where a single silver birch tree grew. It was still barely twenty feet tall, and looked delicate and lace-like against the more prosaic native species. But then, he’d only planted it here, what, six years ago?
He’d needed something beautiful to honour his ladies, and the tree he’d spotted at Yarnton Nurseries had looked just the thing. The metallic sheen of its trunk and branches seemed to echo the theme of the silver rill. Its romantic, slightly ethereal appearance would, he knew, have pleased all of the ladies here – especially, perhaps, Gillian, who had liked to think of herself as a bit of a gypsy.
‘Hello, ladies,’ he said softly, as he made his way to the grassy bank, and sat down, a few yards from the tree. ‘I know it’s been a long time since I visited, but I haven’t forgotten you. I’ll never do that, you know that.’
Overhead, a pair of nesting robins flittered about in agitation, but Tom barely noticed them.
‘I hope you haven’t been arguing amongst yourselves,’ he admonished, patting the grassy earth beneath him. ‘You ladies need to play nice.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Especially since you might be getting a new friend for company.’
He shivered suddenly, and hunched forward.
He shook his head.
No, that wouldn’t really have to happen, would it?
He didn’t think so, but then, he’d always thought that before. And he had sensed a new kind of intimacy between his Hillary and that bastard, Steven Crayle. Something new, something that hadn’t been there before.
‘No,’ he said out loud. She wasn’t like these others. He glanced around the copse, and then up through the lace-like leaves of the silver birch. Hillary was the one. This time, he’d got it right. He was sure he had.
It couldn’t all go wrong again. He wouldn’t let it.
But he still felt a suffocating kind of dread clawing at the back of his throat which made him feel vaguely nauseous, and his fingers clawed compulsively at the grassy turf underneath his hand, lodging soil underneath his fingernails.
When Hillary returned to her office from seeing Steven off in the car park, she caught up on her paperwork, which was never designed to put her in a good mood. Then, once that chore was over, she called her contact in Narcotics, and explained the circumstances surrounding her latest cold case. And although he didn’t give her the runaround, as his colleague had done with Vivienne, and definitely didn’t treat her to the same amount of scorn, the results were pretty much the same.
‘The trouble is, Hill,’ her old pal told her, ‘twelve years ago might have been back in the Stone Age as far as designer drugs are concerned. From what you tell me, your vic had been snorting something pretty rece
nt for the time, probably home-made and brewed up locally. And being Oxford, do you know how many ex-biochem majors there always are just milling around and more than ready and willing to pay the old tuition fees by making up some kind of makeshift buzz?’
‘I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess,’ she said with a shudder.
‘Exactly. Whoever made the drug your vic had in his system was probably only in operation for a couple of years at most, before earning their degree and moving on. Then you’ve got the problem that it’s almost impossible to pin down the exact components from a slight trace from an ME report, and without the “signature” of the drug, there’s no way we can compare it with other cases of around the same age. Even then…’
‘OK, OK, I get the picture,’ Hillary said with a sigh. ‘Any chance you can look back in your records from around that time and see if any significant arrests were made? You must have had a few more likely lads and lasses who were probably behind whatever the current craze was. If I can just track down who supplied the gear, it’ll give me a starting point at least.’
Her friend snorted derisively. ‘Do you know the facts and figures involved here?’ he asked with a weary laugh.
Hillary didn’t, but had a sinking feeling she was about to find out.
‘To begin with, the vast majority of drug designers and peddlers for a close-knit and targeted clientele are never caught in the first place. Very few know who they are, and even less are willing to grass on them if they’re caught in possession. And of those pushers we do nab, the crafty sods usually hold such a small amount of gear at any one time, the CPS are reluctant to take up court time by prosecuting them at all. When you factor in plea bargaining and what-have-you, the likelihood of the perp you want even being in the system at all is … well … think up a metaphor of your choice.’