by Faith Martin
‘I’m sorry, guv,’ he said again, miserably.
Hillary straightened up. ‘No point apologizing to me,’ she said dismissively. ‘Think of it as a game of snakes and ladders, Constable. For the last six months you’ve been steadily climbing ladders. Now you’ve just slipped down a ruddy great snake. If you want to regain lost territory, I suggest you start climbing again. But it’s no skin off my nose, either way. If you don’t shape up, I just ship you out.’
Keith blanched.
‘Right. Now that’s clearly understood, you can start by finding out where Frank Ross is and get him to help you make up a profile for me. Of Heyford Sudbury. I want to know its layout, the name of every person in every house. I want to know if anyone has form, if anyone’s been in trouble with the tax man, if there are any old or new scandals associated with the place. I want you to go through the census, check with the council offices, check out any old newspaper reports wherever the village is mentioned – in short I want to know everything about that village. And in particular, I want to know who has the most money. And if anyone who has it is a female by the name of Annie. And make sure Frank Ross pulls his weight. Is all that clear?’
‘Yes, guv,’ Barrington said crisply.
Hillary nodded and walked out of the room. She left behind her one seriously worried man.
Once outside the interview room, Hillary turned, not left and towards the stairs, but carried on straight across the main lobby to the main doors.
Outside, she walked across the baking car park to her car and undid all the doors and windows again.
She was confident that the fire she’d lit under Barrington would do its job. He’d come to Thames Valley as a last resort to begin with, under a cloud, after thumping his old sergeant. He’d been wary at first, but had quickly settled down, and Hillary knew he’d come to like and respect her. More than that, he’d begun to realize that, on her team, he was not only in an ideal position to learn the job, but would, if he did it right, receive promotion in due course. She didn’t play favourites, and she wasn’t power-hungry. All her previous team members had left for bigger and better things, and she’d made it clear to him that he was going to be no exception, as far as she was concerned.
Now all that was in jeopardy. Or so he thought.
In truth, Hillary didn’t really know how serious the problem was, and would cut him some slack. He was having trouble with his love life – well, who wasn’t? The fact that he was gay was more problematical. OK, in this enlightened day and age, it was supposed to be different, and the police force even had a gay rights movement. But in reality, she could understand why he was in the closet.
And she thought he was wise.
If the likes of Frank Ross ever found out about him, for instance, she’d never be able to keep him on her team. Ross would make his life intolerable, and Barrington himself would be back in the same position he’d been in back in London – namely, on his sergeant’s shit-list. He’d have to be transferred yet again, with two strikes against him.
Her phone rang and she answered it automatically, not realizing that she’d sighed deeply until Mike Regis’s voice said cheerfully, ‘You sound about as fed up as I feel. Case not going well?’
Hillary sighed again, then laughed. ‘No, just the usual office problems. Nothing I can’t handle. What’s up?’
‘Does there have to be something up for me to call? I just wanted to see if you could make dinner tonight. My place, I’ll cook.’
His place meant staying over. Another offer to make room in his wardrobe for her gear. Another conversation about taking their summer holidays together this year – getting away to somewhere hot and exotic. Fiji maybe. She could almost see the entire evening mapped out in her head. Regis was a fair cook – it would be something with red meat in it. Her favourite. He’d have bought a bottle of wine. Maybe flowers. Later, of course, sex in a large, comfortable double bed. No excuses for her to slip out in the middle of the night.
And what was wrong with any of that?
Nothing at all.
So why wasn’t she already saying yes?
‘I can tell it’s a bad time,’ Regis said, and Hillary swore softly as she suddenly realized how insulting the long silence must have been.
‘It’s just that I think the case is about to break,’ she said. ‘We’ve got something, a nibble, if not a lead, that’s got that feel about it. You know?’
Mike did know. And he knew her well enough to tell she wasn’t lying. Nevertheless, as he said something cheerful, and got from her a promise of ‘meeting up soon’, he hung up feeling morose.
Hillary slipped her phone into her bag feeling guilty. Then she got behind the wheel and shook her head. Hell, here she was, being all wise and superior about Keith Barrington’s love life, when she couldn’t even handle her own.
Angrily, she thrust the keys into the ignition and gunned the engine.
Puff the Tragic Wagon growled tragically, coughed and died.
Hillary sighed heavily, and tried again, more gently.
Nearly three-quarters of an hour later, she stood in front of Heyford Sudbury’s church and admired the spire. There was a lot to admire in Heyford Sudbury. The graveyard, for instance, was recently mown, and even the oldest stones were free of ivy. The iron gates had been recently painted black. There was not a scrap of litter to be seen in the immaculately clean streets. Nearly all the mellow Cotswold stone houses sported a plethora of hanging baskets, and front gardens frothed with spring colour. Even the old-fashioned telephone kiosk had been newly painted a dazzling scarlet.
A letter on the village notice board informed all proudly that the village had been short-listed for ‘The Best Kept Village award’ again that year, which probably explained it all. No doubt the WI had regular marches around the place to make sure no malingerer or backslider was allowed to ruin their chances.
The village was old, dating back to somewhere around the time that William the Conqueror first dipped his toes in the English Channel, and one or two buildings looked Elizabethan. Most cottages were of that pale lemon coloured stone, so beloved of the area, with grey-tiled roofs and porches. Windows were mullioned, oriel, and honeysuckle-festooned.
There was a lot of money here, no doubt about it. She didn’t need to see the Jaguars and top-of-the-range four-wheel-drive vehicles parked outside the local pub to know that.
Eyeing the pub thoughtfully, Hillary made her way over. In most English villages, the pub, the church, the vicarage and the manor house, were all cobbled closely together. There was a good reason for that. In the old days, the lord of the manor and the vicar liked to keep an eye on the peasantry to make sure they all went to mass, and the publican liked to keep an eye on them as they all came out. That way, attendances in both establishments could be relied upon.
Heyford Sudbury was no different. As she turned from the church and headed towards the pub, she saw, off to her left, a large set of wrought-iron gates, and an expanse of gravel. Somewhere behind the high walls, she suspected, was the village manor house, and as pretty a piece of prime real estate as you were likely to find.
And the pub was the best place to find out who owned it.
Inside the Three Horseshoes it felt almost chilly, and her eyes blinked in the relative gloom. It was late, nearly closing time, and she made her way over to the bar quickly to order a lemon and lime.
‘Like ice with that?’ the barman was a youngish, sandy-haired man with a winning smile and very white teeth.
‘Swimming in it please,’ she replied, hitching herself on to the barstool. ‘It’s baking out there. Still, brings out the tourists I suppose.’
‘You said it. The place would be dead without them.’
Hillary took a long sip and sighed in satisfaction. ‘Nice village though.’
The barman smiled. ‘Nice if you can afford it. Me, I share a three-bed old council house with two mates in back-of-beyond Burford. We’re buying the place together. Only way we can affo
rd a mortgage. Who the hell knows what we’ll do if ever one of us wants to get married and have kids.’
Hillary grimaced. ‘Know what you mean. Me, I live on a narrowboat. Only thing I can afford,’ she lied.
The barman nodded thoughtfully. ‘The canal, huh?’
‘Mind you, even they’re getting pricey nowadays,’ Hillary warned him.
He sighed. ‘I hear you. Still, it’s a thought.’
Hillary grinned. ‘I wouldn’t mind living in that big house next door,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t even see it from the road, but I know I want to live in it.’
The barman laughed. ‘Heyford Court. Yeah, it’s choice. A bit run-down now though. Could do with renovating, know what I mean? One of those big barns of a place, nearly three hundred-years-old.’
‘A young family living there?’
‘No, which is a shame. Could have done with some youngsters to cheer it up. No, there’s just the one bloke living there. Lucky sod. Still, it’s often the way, isn’t it? I think his family’s been there for donkey’s years, but he’s the last of his line. Sad in a way. There’s no place for the likes of them in this world now. Everyone’s waiting for him to get married and have a few kids, but he’s in his fifties, so he’d better get a move on, if he’s going to.’
‘Sounds to me like some woman should have snapped him up by now,’ she said craftily.
‘Oh, I expect a few have tried,’ the barman smiled, checked that the man sitting down the other end didn’t want another drink, and turned back to her. He smiled flirtatiously.
‘You might be his type. Care to give it a go?’ he asked, flashing that white grin at her.
Hillary gurgled over him lemon and lime. ‘Too old for all that.’
‘Never!’ he said gallantly. ‘Mind you, he’s not there at the moment anyway. Left suddenly a few days ago. According to the lady who “does” for him, he went abroad for a holiday. Must be nice for some, huh? To just swan off whenever the fancy takes you.’
‘Who knows? Perhaps he’ll come back with some dusky young Polynesian bride?’ Hillary mused. ‘So, what about you? Surely there’s some rich matron you can marry, who can whisk you away from that three-bed semi of yours?’ She blinked her big brown eyes at him and he laughed.
‘I wish! But nah, nothing doing. All the birds around here are already married to their sugar daddies and wouldn’t give a jobbing bartender a second look.’
‘What? No sugar mummies around here at all?’
‘Nope. Well, not unless you want to count the countess,’ he laughed at the unintended pun. ‘She’s one of those Germanic types. She’s available – lives in the big barn conversion at the bottom end of the village. Trouble is she’s eighty if she’s a day.’
And somehow, Hillary didn’t think her name would be Annie. Damn. She chatted and flirted some more, and discussed various other villagers, but no obvious contenders stuck out.
So just who the hell had their murder victim come here to see? And just how had he expected to make his fortune in this unlikely oasis of carefully-guarded money?
She had the idea that once she knew the answers to those questions, her case would be all but solved.
chapter eleven
Gemma Fordham woke early the next day. She rolled over in bed, scowled at the electronic ‘talking’ clock, and saw that it wasn’t yet six. She sighed and yawned, and felt the man beside her stir.
She watched him reach out a hand that touched first the table top, then the cord of the clock and, finger-walking along it, reached the clock itself, counted the buttons carefully along and pressed one.
An electronic voice said ‘The time is five, fifty-two, a.m.’
Guy Brindley sighed. ‘You’re awake early.’
‘It’s this case I’m on. I think it’s going to break soon.’
‘Got a lead?’
‘It’s not that so much. But Hillary Greene thinks it is, and I’ve been watching her. She’s good. So, naturally, I think it is too.’
Guy’s sightless dark-brown eyes frowned up at the ceiling. ‘You sound as if you trust her judgement, and you’ve only known her a week. It’s not like you to make up your mind about someone so quickly.’ It also wasn’t like her to give someone, especially another woman, so much credit, either. But, of course, he never said so.
He felt her shrug and curl on to her side, her long, lean length pressing against him. ‘I researched her before I transferred on to her team. I know DS Donleavy really rates her as a detective, and her conviction rate is impressive. I can just see why, that’s all. She’s smart, methodical, careful, and well-organized. But she’s also good with witnesses, and intuitive. I’d back her instincts any day of the week. And Barrington fairly worships the ground she walks on, she’s best friends with the Super, and Paul Danvers, I reckon, fancies her and gives her a wide scope, so she’s got plenty of room to play her own game her own way. Why shouldn’t she be successful? Given all that, I’d be successful as well.’
Guy smiled. That was more like it. That was the girl he knew and wouldn’t let himself love. For his own instincts were fairly good too, and he’d known within one month of becoming Gemma’s lover that if he ever let himself fall for her, she’d tear him to pieces. She had ferocious ambition, and a love of the good life, and guarded herself and her emotions as carefully as Fort Knox cared for its gold. As long as he played the game by her rules, things ticked along nicely.
But after nearly three years together, he wondered exactly where a relationship such as theirs could possibly go. But again, he never voiced it. When it came time to leave, he knew, it would be Gemma who did the leaving.
‘Well, I’m as good at my job as she is,’ Gemma insisted now, and Guy’s hand grappled to find hers and squeeze it.
‘I know you are, sweetheart. You don’t have to keep proving yourself to me.’ He was of the opinion that Gemma’s family was largely to blame for her emotional make-up. Her father and all four brothers were firemen. Gemma, the youngest, was something of a cuckoo in the nest. The youngest and only girl, her mother had died when she was ten, probably just when she needed her the most. To go through puberty and teenage angst, in an all-male, testosterone environment, probably accounted for a lot of things in her nature. Her hard-headedness and cool heart for one. Her martial arts for another. She’d refused to enter the fire service, choosing the police as being different enough to be rebellious, but tough and challenging enough for her to sneer at any sibling who might take pot shots at her chosen career. It was, he knew, her ambition to be a superintendent by the time she was forty, and commander by fifty. He thought she’d almost certainly make it. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised to see her as chief constable one day.
Now he felt her roll out of bed and get dressed. ‘Not going in already, surely?’
‘Like I said, the case is breaking. I want to get an early start. I’m still not sure where Greene is heading though. She keeps her thoughts to herself.’ She paused in the act of slipping on a pair of dark-blue slacks. ‘I don’t think she likes me,’ Gemma added. She didn’t sound worried, or even uneasy, but, nevertheless, it made Guy frown. It was simply not like her to care what anyone thought.
When she’d told him she was transferring from Reading to Kidlington, he’d instantly asked her to move in permanently with him, hoping, perhaps, that this was some sort of a sign that she’d decided to settle down with him permanently. And why not? His tenure at the college, plus the money he made on lecture tours and a private income from his father’s side of the family, meant that he was always in funds. He lived in a big house, and they took holidays abroad every time her working schedule allowed. He knew she enjoyed the lifestyle he could provide. But now that she was here at last, he was beginning to feel as if there was far more going on than he knew about.
He still wasn’t sure why she’d been so set on transferring to Hillary Greene’s team, for instance. And the way she seemed to be almost obsessional about her new boss was making him feel distinctly
uneasy.
‘Does it matter if she doesn’t like you?’ he asked, cautiously. He knew, from bitter experience, that Gemma would shut down if she thought for one instant he was probing into her life – or, even worse, her psyche.
‘’Course not,’ Gemma said flatly.
‘I mean, is she the sort to make life hard for you, just because you don’t get on? Is she the spiteful sort?’
‘No,’ Gemma said, her voice sounding, to his acute ears anyway, almost disappointed.
‘Do you like her?’ he asked casually, and from the sharp movement the mattress made, realized that she must have turned to look at him more fully, perhaps sensing just a little too much curiosity on his part for her taste. He kept his face bland. Or at least, he hoped he had.
‘Don’t know yet,’ she said at last, and stood up, slipping a matching blue jacket over her shoulders. She finger-combed her hair, and slipped on her watch. A quick brush of her teeth, wash of her face and hands, and she’d be ready. Gemma despised women who took an hour to prepare themselves for the day. She doubted Hillary Greene, for instance, took much longer than she did herself.
Hillary Greene.
Just how did she feel about Hillary Greene now that she’d known her for a few days, and was working a murder case with the woman?
Once, of course, she’d hated her, though they’d never met. Then she’d pretended that she meant nothing. Now, working with her, watching her, always watching her, Gemma wasn’t sure any more what she felt.
She shrugged, leaned over the bed and kissed Guy hard, on the lips. ‘See you tonight.’ It sounded more like a threat than a lover’s promise, and Guy smiled wryly.
He listened to her leave, then put his fingers over his tingling lips. He sighed heavily, turned over, and closed his eyes.
But he never slept.
Gemma’s early start paid dividends almost at once. At her desk, she read through the murder book, then made a check list of all the ‘stay outs’ still pending. At seven thirty, she was fairly sure of catching most of them having breakfast, and was lucky in two cases. She made an appointment to see one later tonight, after he’d finished work, but the other, a Mrs Sylvia Mulberry, was going to be in all day, and agreed to see her at once.