by Faith Martin
Crayle. It almost looked as if they’d come together, but he knew that couldn’t be right. Hillary’s boat in Thrupp meant she came in via a different route than Crayle, who had a house on the other side of the town.
It had to be a coincidence that they arrived at the same time.
He waited very carefully, making sure that neither of them was looking his way, before taking out the camera and taking photographs. He already had some good shots of Hillary taken with his long-range telephoto lens, but he preferred getting the closer shots. It felt more personal, somehow. More intimate. He liked her to know that he was always close, always watching over her.
Today, she was wearing a pair of black slacks, with a cream, black and mint-green blouse, and a matching mint-green jacket. The cool, classic colours complemented perfectly her dark russet hair. She hardly ever wore jewellery, he’d noticed, and she was wearing only her usual, plain, black-strapped watch today. Her make-up was minimal – but then, she didn’t need it. Her classical bone structure would make her beautiful, even when she was eighty.
She was class, through and through, Tom thought with pride, as he took another illicit snap and watched her turn and wait for the approach of Superintendent Crayle.
Her face looked thoughtful, composed and wary, as it usually did, but he didn’t like the way she smiled as the tall, elegant man approached her.
‘Hello, what’s up?’ she asked, as he reached her. ‘Why the rendezvous?’
He’d called her that morning, asking her to wait for his car on the Oxford road just this side of the turn off, and then to follow her in.
‘I just thought it would be a good idea for us to start showing up at the same time a couple of times a week,’ Steven said, reaching out and offering to take her briefcase.
‘Oh, the desk sergeant,’ Hillary said wisely. Through the big glass-fronted double doors in the foyer, the desk sergeants always had a good view of the car park and the various comings and goings. They liked to be in the know, and it added to their kudos of being the all-seeing, all-knowing heartbeat of the station house. And it wouldn’t take the eagle-eyed sods long to start noticing how Hillary and her boss were starting to arrive – albeit in separate cars – on each other’s heels.
‘Good thinking,’ she agreed with a smile, and handed over the briefcase to his waiting hand. ‘But isn’t that pushing it a little too far?’ she asked, nodding down at her case. ‘Gallantry of that kind went out with the fax machine.’
Steven smiled. ‘Well, we’re not exactly trying to be subtle, are we?’ he pointed out. ‘And just in case your friend is watching, we want to be sure he gets the message.’
In his car, Tom Warrington lowered the camera back under the steering wheel. He didn’t want to take any photographs of his Hillary now that he was in the frame.
He watched, morosely, as the smarmy superintendent took Hillary’s briefcase from her and they walked together into the building.
He should be the one carrying her case for her, of course. It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have let Crayle take it. He sighed heavily. Why did they always make it so difficult?
He could see that the text messages weren’t going to be enough to remind Hillary that she belonged to him now. He was going to have to think of something else. Something more worthy of her. After all, flowers and cards and texts were so predictable. He had to be original. To think up something unique and creative. She was Hillary Greene, the station-house legend. The best damned detective on the force. The smartest, the bravest. The best. He needed to think of something to engage her attention, to entice her out to play with him, to remind her that he was always thinking of her. Something unique to Hillary that would warm her heart but engage her spirit and mind as well.
He’d have to think about it. What did she like doing? What would please her? What would make her remember him, her true love, when the likes of the handsome, elegant distractions like Steven Crayle came her way, tempting her to stray?
With a sigh, Tom put away the camera and the folder and traipsed in to do his stint at the coal mine. He would ask Vivienne Tyrell out to dinner tonight, and see what she knew about Hillary’s current case. That way, he might be able to predict her movements, and maybe even arrange to ‘accidentally’ bump into her somehow.
She would like that.
Back inside his office, Steven Crayle paced about restlessly. He had a hard ache between his shoulder blades that was part tension and part unease. All throughout his conversation with Hillary in the car park he’d felt a bit jittery, as if he could sense hostile eyes watching him.
But the car park had been full of people coming and going, and cars parked with people in them having the first cigarette of the morning before entering the no-smoking zone of the office, or catching up on paperwork. There’d been groups of people, some in plain clothes, some in uniform, coming off night shift and chattering away, and a regular stream of people coming in, some of them looking at Hillary and himself, some of them not.
It had been impossible to pinpoint exactly where the trouble was. And maybe it was only the situation beginning to tell on his nerves anyway. Maybe there’d been nothing wrong at all. But if he was feeling this antsy, what the hell must Hillary be feeling like?
And yet, nobody would know there was anything wrong to look at her. None of her team was aware that she was under stress, of that he was sure. And so far, he hadn’t reported the situation any higher either – although if things did start to pop off, he’d have to tell Commander Donleavy. Although he and Hillary hadn’t discussed it yet, there was a tacit agreement between them that they wouldn’t bring the brass into this unless it became absolutely necessary.
He sighed and went to his desk, but only to swing restlessly from side to side on his chair as he did so.
He didn’t like to think of Hillary alone on that boat at night, for one thing. Although there were other boats moored up and down from her, it just felt so isolated. And the Mollern, whilst charming, was so restricted. If her stalker got inside, where could she run or hide? She wouldn’t even have much room in which to put up a decent fight.
Perhaps he should start staying the night? He was sure the seating arrangements in narrowboats could be transformed into single beds, so there’d be room. And it would certainly help their fake romance along if her neighbours saw him as a regular presence on the boat and started spreading it around.
The trouble was, he just couldn’t see Hillary going for it. She valued her independence too much.
Besides, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to be that close to her either – not on a regular basis. She was beginning to seriously get under his skin. He could recognize the signs. Already her welfare meant far more to him than that of a boss’s natural worry for a member of his team.
There was only one solution that he could think of: he reached for his phone and pressed two digits, giving him an internal line, and then pressed another two digits. He listened to the brief burring on the other end, and then tensed as the summons was answered.
‘Jessop,’ the voice said simply.
‘Jimmy, it’s Steven. Can you spare me a few minutes?’
‘Sir.’
The line went dead. Steven smiled. The ex-sergeant might be a man of few words and no social charm, but Steven had no doubt that he was reliable and, just as importantly, could be counted on to keep his mouth shut.
A moment later, he heard the knock on the door. ‘Come in.’
Jimmy Jessop looked worryingly old as he stepped through the door, but his eyes were wary and alert, and he walked like a man at least a decade younger than his grey hair and baggy face would indicate.
‘Jimmy, sit down.’
The superintendent waited until the older man was seated, then carefully marshalled his thoughts.
‘Jimmy, a situation has arisen that needs some delicate handling. And by that, I mean discreet handling. Off the record.’
Jimmy Jessop blinked and looked even more wary. Steven smiled a
shade grimly. ‘Don’t worry – it’s nothing bent.’ He wasn’t sure that he liked it that Jimmy was still so unsure of him that he didn’t know he played things strictly straight. ‘It’s Hillary,’ he carried on, seeing the surprise in the older man’s eyes. ‘She’s picked up a stalker.’
Briefly but leaving nothing out, Steven brought him up to date on the situation so far.
When he’d finished, Jimmy nodded slowly. Several people had approached him in the last two days who wanted to pump him for information on the Crayle/Greene romance, and he’d laughingly denied it.
Now, at least, it made sense.
‘And you’re sure it’s one of us?’ he asked glumly.
‘Someone working at HQ, yes. We think it more likely than not,’ Steven said.
‘I think you’re right,’ Jimmy agreed reluctantly. ‘And if Hillary thinks he’s probably done this kind of thing before, she’s almost certainly right, guv. She usually is.’
Steven nodded. Jimmy was obviously another Hillary Greene fan, which didn’t surprise him. The whole station was a Hillary Greene fan. In fact, he realized with a not-exactly amused inner smile, he was becoming one himself, wasn’t he?
‘You want me to see if I can find other victims of her stalker?’ Jimmy asked. The CRT records were the best there were, and if there was a serial stalker around, especially one who operated on their patch and right under their noses, the boffins and number-crunchers should be able to winkle out the names of other victims.
‘We’ve thought of that, but asking for official help makes it an official problem, and we’re not ready to do that yet,’ Steven said. ‘No, what worries me more is that in trying to make our pal jealous, we might just force his hand too far. And Hillary’s alone on that boat at night. It makes me nervous.’
‘Ah. Got you,’ Jimmy said at once.
‘Of course, I can’t just order some uniforms to keep obbo. It would be all over HQ by the next morning, and besides, I don’t have the budget for it. And again, it would make it official.’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Don’t worry, guv, I know what you need. I’ve got three or four pals from the old days who are bored stiff with fishing, or hanging out in their allotment sheds. A bit of night-time obbo will relieve the boredom. And it’s nearly May now, so it’s not as if we’ll freeze our balls off. And, besides, they’d do it for Hillary Greene even if we were up to our necks in snow.’
‘I haven’t told her I’m bringing you in on this, Jimmy, and I don’t intend to. Her instinct will be to keep you all out of it. So whenever you take your turn watching her, be sure she doesn’t catch you at it. And that goes for your pals, too. She’s sharp, don’t forget, and she’s already on the alert, looking out for chummy, so you’ll all have to be extra careful.’
Jimmy Jessop smiled grimly. ‘I know she’s smart as a whip all right, guv. Don’t worry – me and my mates might be old, but we’ve got plenty of experience under our belts. She won’t know we’re there.’ He only hoped he was right. Just how embarrassing would it be if his guv’nor nabbed one of his mates, thinking he was her stalker? He’d never hear the end of it – from either of them.
‘Good. I want you to both look out for her, and see if you can spot anybody tailing her. Check the faces around her and see if you can spot one that you see more often then you would expect to. Oh hell, you know the drill – I don’t have to spell it out.’
‘Yes, guv. I take it you don’t want us to apprehend?’
‘Hell, no. If you get a lead on someone, trail them, get a picture if you can, any details, but leave well alone. Well, unless there’s any clear and present danger to Hillary, naturally.’
‘Got it, guv,’ Jimmy said. ‘We’ll start tonight.’
‘Good. Oh, and Jimmy, don’t forget: he’s broken in to her car, her locker and her boat. If you can find enough mates to help, it might be useful if they keep watch on her property when she’s not around. Unless he changes his MO, we might just be able to catch him in the act.’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Good idea.’
Once outside the office, he began making a mental list of his pals best suited to the job. They had to be fairly fit, and still fairly young. Well, the right side of seventy, anyway.
And they had to know how to handle themselves without making a mess of it. Because they’d have to be tooled up – there was no way around it. Stalking tended to be a young man’s game, so chummy would already have an advantage over them.
But there were ways and means of evening the odds. Hammers, a weighty length of chain, even a good old-fashioned police baton. The choice of weapon would be down to individual choice. He himself had always preferred a stout hazel stick with a nobby end that had been soaked over and over again in a handed-down family recipe, until it had the density and weight of iron.
In her office, and oblivious to the arrangements that were being made to watch over her, Hillary checked through the murder book. It was well stuffed with the most recent and up-to-date facts and interview notes, but it didn’t provide much by way of inspiration.
Cold cases were annoying because there was little chance of the status quo changing through sheer momentum. Working a current case, you never knew when the phone might ring with new information coming in from forensics, or the uniforms doing house to house. You had the option of choices: going to the press with an appeal for information, for instance, or maybe staging a reconstruction in the hope of jogging someone’s memory. And you had the added bonus of pressure – both on yourself, and on the perp. Pressure, she knew, was a sometimes badly needed spur to egg on the SIO in charge to up their game. Likewise, it put pressure on the guilty. They dreaded the ring of the telephone, and jumped at the peal of the doorbell. Not knowing how the investigation was going but fearing the worst very often did a copper’s job for them, so that when you got around to questioning them, you could tell by the state of their nerves that you were on to a winner.
But there was none of that with a cold case. In a cold case, all sense of urgency and pressure had evaporated. And time had a way of making everyone feel safe. Motivation was never something that needed to be cultivated on a current case.
Hillary sighed and closed the murder book with a snap. All she could do was plug on, re-covering old, cold ground, and trying to keep her mind focused.
Her admirer, and the growing absurdity of her situation with regards to her relationship with Steven Crayle, were distractions that she could really do without right now.
She got up, grabbed her bag, and stepped across the corridor. Jimmy was nowhere in sight, but Sam Pickles looked up hopefully as she stuck her head through the doorway.
‘Marcie Franks?’ she said, her voice making it a question.
‘Down in the Smoke, guv.’
Hillary sighed. She was not a big fan of London, which probably put her in the minority. ‘Does the budget stretch to letting the train take the strain?’
Sam grinned. ‘Doubt it, guv, but I don’t mind driving.’
Hillary smiled grimly. ‘Just as well, Sam,’ she said. ‘Grab your keys.’
Luckily, the rather sci-fi-looking laboratory where Marcie Franks worked as a researcher was on the right side of London for them, so they only got lost twice. The nearest car park gobbled up coins like it was expecting a famine, and even though paying for the privilege, they still had to park at the top of a multi-storey sans roof. Luckily, the weather was still mild and sunny.
‘What exactly does this company of hers – Futech Corps, is it? – do?’ Hillary asked curiously, as they walked to the lifts and rode down in graffiti-decorated elegance.
‘All sorts, guv. Mostly stuff for the beauty industry, whatever that means.’
‘Perfume, face paint and moisturizers, I expect,’ Hillary said. She herself seldom wore perfume and had never yet resorted to anti-wrinkle cream. Come to think of it, she went shopping for make-up about once in a blue moon as well. Whoever paid Marcie Franks’s salary, they certainly didn’t get rich on what Hillary Greene
spent on their products.
‘No medical research at all?’ she asked curiously, thinking of the designer drug angle. What had her pal in Narcotics said? Oxford was rife with chemistry and biochemistry graduates coming up with ways to pay their tuition fees?
‘Marcie Franks was reading biochemistry, right?’ she asked.
‘Yes. But she was one of those who did a double degree. She also has a second in chemistry. And later a third degree in physiological sciences from Cambridge.’
‘Hmm. Sounds like a bit of a perpetual student to me,’ Hillary mused. ‘Either that, or she had a specific reason for wanting to hang around universities for a while.’
‘Guv?’
‘Never mind. Just thinking out loud. So, apart from moving to London and getting a high-paying job in the beauty industry, just what else has she been up to? Married? Kids?’
‘No. She bought a nice flat in a swanky area though, three years ago, when the prices began to fall. Now they’re starting to rise a bit again, she’s probably sitting on a gold mine.’
‘So she’s financially savvy as well as having brains,’ Hillary mused. ‘The two don’t always go hand in hand,’ she pontificated, as they walked the busy streets of the nation’s capital towards the high-rise modern monstrosity where Futech Corps hung its corporate hat.
Inside, the reception foyer was all glass bricks and modern sculpture, with a large board on one wall listing the businesses within. Futech Corps had the entire fourth floor to itself.
‘Nice,’ Hillary mused a few moments later, as the lift disgorged them into a gold, black and turquoise-accented room. Large posters of beautiful women wearing black lipstick, or glow-in-the-dark mascara or whatever, lined the walls. A large vase of white gladioli sat on a reception desk, where another beautiful woman rose to greet them.
She looked politely puzzled.
Hillary held out her ID.
She looked even more puzzled. ‘You have an appointment, Mrs Greene?’