by Faith Martin
‘Rachel. She’s ill, isn’t she? You’ve seen her, haven’t you? I reckon it must be something serious, but Eddie would never talk about it much. I reckon he was just being a typical man. You know, stick your head in the sand and the problem will go away.’
Hillary nodded thoughtfully. ‘You mentioned a meeting?’
‘Yes, the Forget-me-Knott club. The old folks’ club. We’re meeting this afternoon in Little Tew.’
‘Oh, Mr Philpott was a member?’
At this, Mabel Mobbs let rip with a loud guffaw. ‘Eddie, a member of the old crones’ club? Not on your life. He said the day he went to the seaside on a day trip in a coach with a load of old fogeys was the day he’d have his head tested.’ Mabel wiped the mirth from her eyes, then suddenly sobered, as she realised that the man she was talking about would never be going anywhere again.
‘No, he was going to give us a talk about growing your own fruit and veg,’ she said soberly. ‘Well, he was well qualified to, wasn’t he, and he had lovely colourful slides and everything. A lot of old folk are trying to make ends meet nowadays, and I put it forward at the general meeting that a talk like that would be more use than how to arrange dried bloody flowers.’
‘And Mr Philpott was happy to do this, was he?’
Mabel looked a shade crafty now, as she shrugged. ‘Well, I had to twist his arm a bit,’ she admitted with a sly grin. ‘But I don’t think he minded, not really. He laughed anyway when I reminded him about it, and he said he might forget, because when he got in the garden on a nice day, time just flew. I told him he’d better jolly well not forget, or I’d bring the whole club over here to pester him in his garden. That made him blanch, I can tell you! So then he promised he wouldn’t forget, and even put his watch on half an hour while he sat there, so that he’d be sure to be on time.’
Mabel sighed heavily and shook her head. ‘I’d better ring up Mrs Colchis and tell her the speaker won’t be coming after all. She’ll probably do a talk herself on crocheting quilts out of dog hair or some such thing,’ Mabel added gloomily, and Hillary hid a quick grin.
‘When did Eddie leave this morning?’ she asked next.
‘Oh, about quarter past seven, chick, somewhere round then. He had to get the kiddies’ breakfast on.’
‘Did you notice any strangers hanging around outside, or did you see a car you didn’t know parked up anywhere?’
‘No. No strangers, definitely,’ Mabel said firmly. ‘They’d stand out like a sore thumb in The Knott, wouldn’t they? And no cars neither. I know all the neighbours’ cars.’ Mabel’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Here, why do you want to know that for? Did somebody do for Eddie?’
Hillary gently confirmed that somebody had. She reached into her jacket for her handkerchief as the old woman began to cry now in earnest. Then, when the sobbing had abated, she went to the forgotten kettle and made them both a hot drink. She added plenty of sugar to Mabel’s tea.
When she was sure the old lady was recovered — and Hillary knew old ladies could be very resilient — she left Mabel to her memories, and stepped outside. It was now well past the lunch hour but her stomach wasn’t rumbling.
She hadn’t felt hungry in months. Not since Mel had been killed, in fact. Pushing that thought away, she went back next door, surprised to see Steven Partridge’s sporty little classic MG still parked on the other side of the road. As she went past the Philpotts’ cottage, however, she saw him coming out of the front door, and paused at the gate to let him catch up to her.
‘You still here?’
Steven nodded. ‘I don’t like the look of that young woman. I insisted on calling her own medic in, but he couldn’t get here until he’d seen the last of his patients. I waited with her until he arrived.’
‘She’s seriously ill, right?’ Hillary asked.
‘I’d say so. Though it’s hard to tell without knowing some facts,’ the medical man said with typical caution. ‘Some people can just look rough but not be all that badly off, compared to some. Conversely, some people can look as healthy as a horse and be on the verge of dying. But yes, I’d say she’s got something nasty wrong with her, all right.’
‘Will he discuss her condition with you? You know, professional to professional?’ Hillary asked hopefully.
‘Not bloody likely,’ Steven said glumly. ‘When I talked to her, she seemed very cagey about talking about herself, and I reckon she’s the sort who values her privacy. Which is something her GP would have picked up on. He’s not likely to go blabbing to all and sundry.’
‘Might he talk to me?’
‘Maybe, but I doubt he’ll have time right now. He was obviously in a rush, trying to fit in half a dozen things in his lunch hour. GPs nowadays work like maniacs. I tell you, Hill, I’m more and more relieved that I decided to work with the dead.’
Hillary nodded gloomily. ‘I’ll put in an appointment with him for later then.’
Reluctantly, she turned away from the cottage and trudged towards her own car. The sun still had a fair bit of power to it, and she felt a trickle of perspiration run down her back as she walked along the side of the road. She waved a hand as Doc Partridge tooted her on his way past in his low-slung car, and glanced around as she reached her own. She couldn’t see a member of her team anywhere, and she reached into her bag for her mobile.
She speed-dialled a number, then heard a crisp voice answer. ‘Gemma? It’s me. I’m heading back into the office.’
‘Right, guv,’ Gemma said smartly, obviously relieved to be left in charge of the crime scene once more.
Hillary hung up and climbed into the car. She had the beginnings of a major headache, and felt vaguely at a loss. She had the feeling that there was something she should be doing, but she had no idea what.
Frowning with disgust at herself, she started the car, and drove carefully back to Kidlington.
* * *
Inside the office, Hillary took off her jacket and stared morosely at the towering pile that was her in-tray. Of course, the murder case that had landed on her lap today was only one of many cases that Gemma and the team would have been handling.
She sighed, and reached for the first folder, spending several hours just bringing herself up to date. A long-standing charge of assault with a deadly weapon, which she’d been overseeing before her leave, had been successfully concluded, with the perpetrator plea-bargaining for a lesser charge in return for dishing the dirt on a suspected rapist. Gemma’s disgust at the CPS for doing the deal was easy to read between the lines. A succession of breaking and entering offences showed no sign of abating, or of being solved, though she could see that Barrington had been working hard on them, and even Ross had successfully closed a sexual assault case at an Oxford nightclub. She was just stretching her arms and shoulders to get some relief after hours spent leaning over the desk when she noticed Danvers step out of his cubicle.
Instantly, she was on her feet. He spotted her at once, of course, his eyes seemingly attuned to the dark-russet colour of her hair. As she came closer, he saw that she’d lost some weight, and mourned the lessening of her magnificent curves. But he’d schooled his face into a blank mask by the time she reached him, knowing that she didn’t like it when he ogled her.
‘Hillary.’
‘Sir. Got a minute?’
‘For you, always,’ he said, smiling to take the double entendre out of it — and not quite succeeding. He was glad that she was no longer seeing Mike Regis, the vice detective out of St Aldates, but he knew, for all that, that he was no closer to being able to ask her out on a date than he was before.
There was always something that seemed to be thwarting him. He wondered, with a vague sense of superstitious uneasiness, if something or someone was trying to send him a message. But he’d been pursuing Hillary patiently and persistently for far too long to give up now.
‘How’s the case looking?’ he asked, when they were both inside his office and he was sitting behind his desk.
Brie
fly, Hillary filled him in. ‘But that wasn’t really what I wanted to see you about,’ she finished impatiently. ‘It’s about Frank Ross. I want him gone,’ she demanded.
Danvers blinked at the vehemence of her tone. He leaned back in his chair, trying to deny his sudden feeling of fear.
‘Why now?’ he asked, careful to keep his voice mild. ‘You’ve put up with him for all these years, after all,’ he pointed out.
‘That’s just it,’ Hillary said. ‘I have, and I’m not prepared to do it any longer. He’s eligible for retirement under the new rules, isn’t he?’ she asked, almost belligerently.
Danvers nodded. ‘Yes, he is.’
‘Then I want you to have a word in his ear. Tell him how it is. I know Donleavy will back me up on this. Hell, the whole station will celebrate.’ Hillary smiled grimly.
Danvers laughed. Well, that was true. Cops and villains alike universally loathed Frank Ross. And yes, there were always ways and means of making it clear to an unpopular officer that it was time to retire.
It was the fact that Hillary was demanding that it happen that concerned him the most. It was not like her to be vindictive.
‘Why now in particular?’ he asked, watching her carefully, trying to track down the root cause of her anger.
‘Why not now?’ Hillary countered. ‘There’s change at the top, so we might as well make a clean sweep of it. And besides, with Vane being the new boss, I don’t need Ross on my back as well.’
Danvers now felt a distinct chill creep up his back. ‘What’s the matter with Vane?’ he asked sharply. He’d been reporting to the man for over a month now, and he seemed fairly OK. True, he was no Mellow Mallow, but who was?
Hillary frowned and shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she lied quickly. ‘Just forget I said anything. Look, I’m just not prepared to put up with Ross any longer, OK? Perhaps I’m running out of patience and forbearance in my old age.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Maybe I’m just treating myself after going through a bad patch. I just need you to turf Ross out for me. You can do that, can’t you?’
And with that appeal, Paul Danvers’s heart began to swell. For the first time since meeting her, she was actually asking him for a favour; to do something for her. Treating him almost like an equal. And he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Although he hadn’t missed the fact that she obviously had some kind of a problem with the new super.
‘Of course I can. I’ll go now and get the paperwork started, and I’ll talk to Ross when it’s been processed.’
‘Fine,’ Hillary said. She smiled briefly and left.
When she was gone, DCI Paul Danvers stared at the door and tried to convince himself that he was making progress with the woman at last. And that it was only to be expected that she’d want to get rid of Ross, now that at last she had the chance.
But he couldn’t quite ignore the little voice inside his head that said that Hillary Greene was acting out of character. That she’d come back to work hard-hearted, instead of merely hard-headed. A voice that warned him that she was a woman still in mourning and, ergo, a woman who didn’t need any kind of added pressure right now. Unfortunately, with a job such as hers, that was impossible to ensure.
He got up abruptly and walked across the large open-plan office to her desk. She was just putting the last of the folders into her out-tray.
‘You look like you’re all caught up,’ he said casually.
‘I am at last. I thought I’d head back out to Steeple Knott and see how Gemma’s getting on.’
Danvers glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly five. And you’re not even supposed to be here until tomorrow. Why don’t you head back home and make an early night of it? DS Fordham is more than able to cope, you know.’
Hillary smiled wryly. Oh yes, she knew just how competent and able Gemma Fordham could be. She looked up at Danvers, about to tell him to forget it and that she was needed at the crime scene, but something in his face alerted her just in time.
She forced a brief, bright smile to her face instead, and said calmly, ‘OK, sounds like a good idea. See you tomorrow.’
She felt his eyes on her all the way across the room as she walked to the door.
In the foyer, she nodded at the desk sergeant, then went through the door and walked across the sun-warmed car park to her car. It only took her five minutes to drive home. She felt tired, and her headache was worse. She thought that she might just have a glass of wine and stretch out on her bunk for an hour or so after all.
But as she walked along the towpath and saw a familiar figure waiting for her beside the Mollern, she knew that any respite would have to be postponed for a while yet.
Her face felt stiff and tight as she forced yet another smile upon it. When she was just a few yards from her narrowboat, the blonde-haired visitor heard her and turned to watch Hillary approach, her pretty face pale with tension.
‘Hello, Janine,’ Hillary said wearily.
CHAPTER FOUR
Philip Mallow’s widow was now five months pregnant, and it was beginning to show, although the woman herself had none of the bloom or look of wellbeing normally associated with her condition. Janine managed a brief smile as Hillary stepped on to the rear of the boat.
‘You’ve been in to HQ?’ her one-time sergeant Janine Tyler, now DI Janine Mallow, asked flatly. ‘I heard you weren’t officially due in until tomorrow.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Hillary agreed, reaching into her bag for the key to the padlock that kept the Mollern’s metal doors firmly locked. ‘But I just wanted to touch base, then we had a murder case come up and,’ Hillary shrugged helplessly, ‘you know how it is.’
‘This is a bad time then,’ Janine said, knowing exactly how it was. ‘I’ll push off and let you get your breath.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Hillary countered. ‘Come inside. I’ve got some fruit juice in the fridge.’ In point of fact, she was dying for a glass — or two, or three — of wine, but wasn’t going to open a bottle in front of Janine.
‘OK,’ Janine agreed, and stepped carefully on to the back of the narrowboat. She was wearing tailored cream slacks with a matching jacket, and a large sky-blue blouse that accommodated her growing bump. She followed her ex-boss down the few narrow steps, careful to duck her head, and into the cramped corridor below.
Hillary led her straight to the small lounge area at the front of the boat, slinging her bag and jacket into her bedroom as she passed it. Once inside the lounge, she indicated the one good armchair to Janine, then went into the galley for the cranberry juice.
When she came back, Janine was sitting down and glancing out of the window. Because narrowboats are low in the water, her face was almost level with the towpath, where somebody was just going by, walking two golden retrievers.
‘We haven’t chatted since Mel’s funeral,’ Janine said when Hillary handed over her drink. The older woman nodded in reply, and reaching for a folded deckchair stashed against one wall, opened it up and sat down.
‘No. I thought you’d probably want some time and space, and you know my number.’ The words could have sounded brisk, even curt, but Hillary said them simply and from the heart.
Janine nodded. The two women had never been friends, as such, but Janine had — somewhat reluctantly — developed an immense respect for Hillary Greene. And she appreciated her straightforward strength and reliability. It was, in fact, why she was here now. From Hillary, at least, she would get no bullshit.
‘Mel’s case squad has been liaising with me, if you can call it that,’ she began, without preamble. ‘And it seems to me that for all it’s been two months now, they’re no further forward.’
‘They’ve still got Myers under constant surveillance, and they’ve had him in to give him a grilling a number of times,’ Hillary pointed out, but even to her own ears it sounded flat and pointless.
‘And had to let him go again,’ Janine shot back. ‘They just can’t seem to find any evidence linking him to Mel’s shooting. Bu
t the more time that goes by with no other cops getting shot at, it’s looking less and less likely that it could be a copycat sniper killer. Unless the bastard got cold feet after shooting Mel.’
Hillary sipped her fruit juice miserably.
‘Do you think it was Myers?’ Janine asked her sharply. Like everyone who knew and worked with her, Janine had a deep respect for Hillary’s instincts.
Hillary glanced at Janine carefully. She did, in fact, think that it was Clive Myers who’d killed her best friend, and had thought so right from the beginning. But the fact was that even now, after two months, she still had no idea what she could do about it, and her feelings of helpless frustration were often unbearable. How much worse it must be for his pregnant widow, she couldn’t imagine.
She glanced away from Janine to the window, not knowing how to reply. It seemed to her that no matter what she said, it would only inflame the other woman, and the last thing anybody needed was impetuous behaviour by the hero’s widow.
And Hillary knew of old just how impetuous Janine could be.
‘You do, don’t you?’ Janine demanded, an edge to her voice now.
Hillary sighed. ‘What I think is largely irrelevant. We just have to let the squad get on with it,’ she said, and gave a mental wince. Even as she spoke the words, she could hear how defeatist and inadequate they sounded.
‘That bloody Evans,’ Janine muttered grimly. ‘I don’t trust him. He’s supposed to have brains, but I haven’t seen any evidence of it so far. He never even knew Mel, so how motivated is he going to be to catch the bastard who killed him?’ Janine twisted her hands together in her lap and laughed bitterly. ‘I wish you were heading the case.’
Hillary did too. Desperately. But that was, of course, impossible, and they were both just going to have to deal with it. ‘You have to be patient,’ Hillary heard herself say, and wondered why it was that she seemed to have nothing but clichés to utter.
‘You know how much all this is costing, right?’ Janine asked. ‘And you know as well as I do how tightly the budget is stretched. How much longer do you think it’ll be before they’re forced to scale down the squad, cut the hours, and finally put the case on the back burner?’