Walk a Narrow Mile

by Faith Martin

  Besides, Hillary had already taught him that men such as these liked to think of themselves as businessmen. And it was bad business to rile the cops and bring themselves to their attention when they didn’t have to.

  After the two excited youngsters had left to start nosing around the solicitor’s office in Summertown, Jimmy looked at Hillary with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘What was all that about?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘They’ve got to start getting their hands dirty sometime,’ Hillary said philosophically. ‘Besides, most of the costa villains are under constant surveillance by either one of our lot or the Customs people anyway. They’re not likely to get themselves into any dangerous territory.’

  ‘No, I know that,’ Jimmy said. ‘I mean, why do you want to know if Meg Vickary was a wannabe gangster’s moll? It can’t be relevant, can it?’

  Hillary shrugged helplessly. The truth was, she couldn’t really have said why she wanted to know. ‘Let’s just say, we can’t have too much information about these three women, and leave it at that.’

  ‘You think our stalker might be bent, as well as warped?’ Jimmy mused. ‘That he might be on the payroll of one of the villains, and is, or was, passing on information to them, and that’s how he came across Meg Vickary in the first place?’ Jimmy’s tone of voice said that he thought that it was a bit of a stretch. On the other hand, something had to connect these three women. Something they had done, or people they had in common, had somehow brought them to the attention of their stalker and killer. Who was to say that Marcas Kane’s office didn’t hold the key to that common factor somehow?

  Again, Hillary shrugged. ‘I’m just making sure that we don’t leave any stone unturned,’ she said, somewhat lamely. In the back of her mind, she was beginning to get that feeling that she’d caught the scent of something, but she was damned if she could yet figure out what it was. So she was operating almost entirely on gut instinct, something that was never a good idea at the best of times, as any copper worth their salt could have told her.

  Perhaps it was just as well that she had Geoff Rhumer working the case as well. The way things were going, it was looking far more likely that he would be the one to solve it anyway.

  She told herself off for being so negative and forced herself free from a growing sense of inertia. ‘OK, what’s next on the to-do list.’ She reached for her notebook and checked her notes. Nothing stood out as being any more important than anything else. She heaved a sigh. ‘It’s all so damned nebulous.’

  She considered the three victims again and wondered why she kept going back to Judy Yelland. Was it because she was the first to go missing? Or had she somehow seemed more like a victim to Hillary than the others?

  That thought made her scowl.

  From what they knew about Meg Vickary, she was probably the most thick-skinned and tough of the three missing women. She had been a beautiful woman who hadn’t been above using her looks to get her way, was ambitious and probably had more than her fair share of savvy. Did that make any difference? It didn’t to Hillary, but had it annoyed her stalker?

  But then, why wasn’t she more concerned about Gilly Tinkerton? She was obviously a gentle soul, restless, and seeking some way of life that would suit her. To think that she’d had all that curiosity and potential snuffed out of her by some selfish bastard to suit his own hideous needs was appalling.

  And yet it was still Judy Yelland, for some reason, that Hillary found herself thinking about first whenever her mind went to the missing girls. Why was that? Did she just feel more sorry for her than the others? Having met her parents, and the sterile home in which she had grown up, did it just feel as if her case was somehow more pathetic than the others? Did she matter more than the others?

  Hillary gave a mental head shake. No, that wasn’t it. She never made distinctions between victims of crime. It was one of the staples that she’d drummed into all of the young officers whom she’d mentored over the years. You stood for the victim – always and only. It didn’t matter if that victim was a young helpless child, or a six foot, twenty stone man. It didn’t matter whether the victim was sympathetic or got your back up. It made no difference.

  And with the dead, it made less difference than ever – because a dead victim only had you to fight their side – and it wasn’t your place to judge them.

  So why did Judy Yelland seem to be calling to her in a way the others didn’t? Or maybe she was just losing it. Perhaps the attack on her had actually severed some vital part of her that let her be a cop. Maybe she’d become a victim herself in some way and now couldn’t do her job.

  ‘Guv?’ She heard Jimmy’s sharp voice and gave herself a mental shake. ‘Sorry Jimmy – just wool gathering.’

  To cover up her slip, and the sudden sense of panic she felt at where her thoughts were leading her, she wandered over to Sam’s desk and went through his in-tray.

  ‘He’s been going through Rebecca Frost’s list of Gilly Tinkerton’s friends,’ she said with forced casualness. ‘We might as well interview some of them – if I can find someone still local.’ She ran through the boy’s notes, and nodded. ‘OK, this looks promising. Grab your coat, Jimmy.’

  At least action was better than contemplating the fluff in her navel.

  Naomi Clarkson lived in a caravan site in the former RAF village of Upper Heyford. The place turned out to be a park with the kind of mobile homes that looked like miniature houses built in one big but attractive unit, and set down on breeze blocks in a semi-permanent state. Laid out in neat rows, they had something pleasantly nostalgic about them.

  The park was on the very outskirts of the village, facing a small fallow field which ran downwards to a brook running through one boundary. The lower area was free of homes, and it had a slightly boggy look to it, and Hillary sensed that it might be prone to flooding in the winter. As Jimmy parked up beside a row of homes painted in various pastel shades, Hillary thought how charming it all looked. Most of the homes were pristine, clean, and surrounded by flowers. It had a sort of olde worlde look to it – like an archetypal village you might have found back in the fifties – the sort of place where Agatha Christie had liked to set her novels. There was even a shack of a ‘village’ post office-cum-grocery store.

  As she climbed out of the car, she half-expected to see a postman bicycle past, or some rustic farmer chewing a blade of grass, lean across a gate into the field and ask them if they were lost.

  Then she noticed all the satellite dishes, and the parked cars, and wondered what the place looked like in the dead of a wet winter. She shook her head at her own whimsy, and glanced around, setting out to find Crooked Spindle Cottage.

  It turned out to be one that was painted a pale mint green with large tubs of scarlet geraniums standing sentinel beside a white-painted front door. She went up the three wooden steps that led to it and knocked. Inside, a frenzied yelping chorus started up, and Jimmy glanced down automatically at his ankles. They looked rather vulnerable under his trouser legs.

  The door opened, and a young, plump woman stood there. Around her, three Yorkshire terriers danced and yelped, but more in excitement than in any apparent zeal to guard their pack leader.

  ‘Miss Clarkson? Naomi Clarkson?’ Hillary asked.

  ‘Yes?’ The woman had long, slightly curly mouse-brown hair and rather muddy-looking greyish eyes. She looked nervously from Hillary to Jimmy. ‘You’re not tax people, are you? I thought I got all that sorted out last year.’

  Hillary smiled and held out her ID. ‘No cause for alarm, Miss Clarkson. We were given your name by Gillian Tinkerton’s sister. She said you were a friend of Gillian’s? As you know, she’s listed as a missing person, and we were wondering if you might be able to help us.’

  ‘Oh, Gilly! Yes, of course, come on in.’

  She opened the door, and the Yorkies bounded ahead, ushering them through with a waggy-tailed escort to a small but neat front room, overlooking the field and brook.

  ‘P
lease sit down. The last time I saw Gilly was, what, must have been three years ago. Maybe more. So I don’t know if I can help, but I’ll do what I can. Drink?’

  A few minutes later, they were all sitting in comfortable chairs, a dog on each lap, and a mug of tea in hand.

  Hillary stroked her own canine friend’s silky ginger head and looked across at their hostess. ‘Gilly’s mother is sure that her daughter has found some temporary place of refuge where she’s probably trying out some alternative lifestyle and will show up eventually. Her sister thinks much the same. How about you?’

  ‘Oh sure.’ Naomi waved a plump hand in the air, and fed the dog on her lap a piece of biscuit. ‘The last time I spoke to her, she was asking me where she could take night classes for arts and crafts courses. You know – how to make stained-glass windows, that sort of thing. I think she wanted to design modern pieces for modern houses, rather than the traditional pieces for churches or whatever. She said that nowadays, what with all those telly shows on restoring old homes and doing up houses and what-not, there’d be a market for one-off original pieces of stained glass for front doors and windows in barn conversions and that sort of thing.’ She finally paused for air and a bite of biscuit.

  Hillary nodded. ‘Sounds like a sensible plan. Her mother said that Gilly, for all her hippy ways, had a good head on her shoulders.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s true. In a sort of way. I could imagine her learning the trade and doing OK at it,’ Naomi agreed, then grinned. ‘Though perhaps not sticking to it for long. That’s always been the real trouble with Gilly – she’s easily bored. I’ll bet, whatever she’s doing now, it won’t still be stained glass, but something else. Something she can make money at, and all that, but something different. She likes learning how to do stuff, more than actually knuckling down and doing it as a steady job like. Oh, and she’ll have moved on. She doesn’t like staying in one place too long.’

  ‘Itchy feet,’ Jimmy said, feeding the dog on his own lap a piece of his own biscuit. The dog on her lap gave Hillary a big brown-eyed look, but Hillary merely smiled down at it. Hard luck, mutt, she thought. You drew the short straw – she’d declined Naomi’s offer of the biscuit barrel.

  ‘Did Gilly ever talk about her secret admirer?’ Hillary asked casually.

  ‘The man who sent her flowers and stuff? Yeah, she did. But I don’t think anything ever came of it. She never said anything about him getting in real contact with her.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘You never noticed anyone following her, mooning over her, that sort of thing?’

  ‘No. Why? You think something bad has happened to her?’ Naomi’s muddy eyes widened suddenly in alarm, and the dog on her lap yipped suddenly, as if sensing her distress.

  ‘We have no reason to think so at this time, Miss Clarkson,’ Hillary lied smoothly. ‘We’re simply trying to trace her. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?’

  ‘Not really. Well, I can tell you where she won’t have gone, if that’s any help at all. She won’t have gone to a city, or even a town. I know that’s traditionally where most people who “run away from home” go to, isn’t it? The bright lights and glamour and all that. But Gilly hates cities and all that hustle and bustle – she’s a real country gal. So wherever it is, it’ll be some bucolic dream she’s living – a bit like this, really, I suppose,’ Naomi said with a grin, indicating the view outside. ‘I design and make my own jewellery. I have a stall on Banbury market, and some of the boutiques take my stuff and sell it for a commission. I get by.’

  ‘And you think Gilly, wherever she is, will be doing something along the same lines,’ Hillary nodded. ‘I don’t suppose she ever got in touch with you?’

  ‘Oh, no. But then she wouldn’t. Gilly never was much for that sort of thing. She lives in the moment, out of sight, out of mind. That’s Gilly.’

  ‘All right. Well, thank you, Miss Clarkson.’ Hillary gently lifted her lap-warmer to the floor. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ she added, again not particularly truthfully.

  Jimmy hastily swallowed the last of his biscuit, and drained his mug. Outside, they stood for a while, watching the spring butterflies on the buttercups in the field.

  ‘Not that I object to getting out of the office, especially on a day like this, guv, but aren’t we just spinning our wheels questioning the friends and family of our vics like this? Nobody seems to know anything.’

  Hillary nodded absently. But even as her head nodded, the mind inside it was paradoxically moving in the other direction, because that something nagging away at the back of her mind was telling her that the visit to Naomi hadn’t been a waste of time – if only she would pull her head out of a very different part of her anatomy and do some proper thinking.

  Her hand started to wander up to the scar on her neck and she ruthlessly caught it in mid-motion. To hell with that. And to hell with Lol. She had to get her priorities straight and start doing some serious work, damn it.

  Either that, or just hand in her notice, cruise off in the Mollern, and turn her back on all of this once and for all. She was no damned use to either herself or the three missing girls, floundering around like this, that was for sure.

  She shook her head. ‘Let’s get back,’ she said flatly. Not that she wanted to return to the office particularly, but because she couldn’t at the moment, think of anything else to do.

  And that thought, perhaps more than any other, was shameful.

  But as if fate or whatever passed for it had decided to give her a bit a break, she found something to do the moment she returned to her office.

  She had a visitor: and a not particularly pleased visitor at that.

  Ruth Coombs looked up from her chair in the lobby, and got to her feet the moment she saw Hillary. The desk sergeant had the grace to drop his pen and disappear behind his desk. It was his job to deal with members of the public, and the HQ was not exactly the local bobby shop, where people wandered in off the streets.

  But Hillary let the incident pass without even a sarcastic comment, as Ruth bore down on her.

  ‘Detective Greene. I need to speak to you,’ Ruth said, grim-lipped and obviously in no mood to be denied.

  But Hillary smiled at her and nodded. ‘Of course, Miss Coombs. Please, follow me down to the office. It’s not the best location in the house,’ she carried on, as they went downstairs, and installed Judy Yelland’s best friend into one of the chairs in the empty office. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ The big-boned brunette settled herself into Vivienne’s chair and fixed her gaze on Hillary. ‘Have you found out anything more?’ she demanded.

  Hillary smiled briefly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you, Miss Coombs. Even family isn’t always given access to official information, and you’re not, technically, even that.’

  ‘Oh those people,’ Ruth said dismissively. ‘Judy never cared about them or they about her. She only had me. And Christopher, of course,’ she added, reluctantly. ‘It’s about Christopher that I’m here, actually.’

  Hillary nodded, not surprised. ‘You seem to find Mr Deakin fascinating, Miss Coombs.’ She decided, abruptly to go on the offensive. Nothing else had worked so far, so perhaps it was time to rattle some cages. ‘Did Judy know that you fancied her boyfriend?’

  She sensed Jimmy perk up and reach for his notebook, immediately cottoning on to her line of thought.

  Ruth flushed. ‘He wasn’t her boyfriend – he was her married lover,’ she snapped. ‘And no, she didn’t know I fancied him, because I don’t. And if I appear to be fascinated by him, it’s because I know he did something to my best friend and got away with it. And you police don’t seem to want to do a damned thing about it. I thought you were different!’

  Ruth was breathing hard now and Hillary watched her closely. She looked and sounded indignantly outraged, and Hillary had no reason to doubt the sincerity of either of those emotions. But that, she was sure, wasn’t the whole story.

  ‘An
d why do you believe that Christopher is responsible, Ruth?’ she asked calmly.

  Ruth took a few deep breaths, and some of her high colour leeched away. ‘Because I’ve been watching him, that’s why. Ever since you first talked to me, I knew that for some reason you were working Judy’s case again. So despite what you say, something new must have happened. You don’t just reinvestigate old cases on a whim. Something must have triggered it off. So I decided to watch Christopher really closely.’

  Hillary said nothing but made a mental note to herself: Ruth was both clever and resolute.

  ‘If you’ve talked to me, you must have talked to Christopher,’ Ruth said, her chin angling up and almost challenging Hillary to deny it.

  Hillary didn’t oblige her, but merely nodded again. ‘Go on,’ she said, neither confirming nor denying it.

  ‘So it follows that he must be rattled now,’ Ruth concluded triumphantly. ‘Just think about it! After all this time he thought he’d got away with killing Judy, but now the police come sniffing around. So he’ll be worried. I hoped that he would be worried enough to give something away. I don’t know – maybe even check up on Judy.’

  Hillary blinked. ‘Check up on her?’

  ‘Yes. Go and check wherever it was he buried her. Make sure no wild animals had disturbed her grave, or whatever. He must have buried her somewhere, right? And I’ve read up on the subject – it’s not easy finding a place to bury a body where nobody can see you transport it or dig a hole. And even digging a grave is hard – much harder than you might think. People see it happen all the time on television dramas and think it’s easy, but it isn’t. You have to find a place that’s totally hidden, and that usually means woods. But you can’t dig a deep hole in a wood, because of all the roots. And besides, it’s hard, physical work to dig a proper grave – six feet deep and all that. Even most grave-diggers nowadays do it with one of those yellow digger machines. And although Christopher is fit enough, I suppose, he’s always worked behind a desk. So the most he would have been able to dig was a shallow grave somewhere.’