A Narrow Victory

by Faith Martin

  ‘So she’s kept all the power for herself?’

  ‘Looks like it, guv.’

  Which made Hillary wonder whether bringing in her spouse had been a case of simple expediency, or whether Greer Ryanson, on finding herself in sole charge of the enterprise, had simply not wanted to give up her hold on the reins of power to anyone else. No doubt an unemployed hubby would be more easily manipulated than an outsider.

  The office was located in the Osney Mead area of Oxford, which had probably suffered some flooding a few years back, when a particularly soggy summer had rendered large parts of the city underwater. There was no sign of that now, however, as they parked up outside a rather elegant, converted Edwardian house with large sash windows. Olligree Interiors had the entire top floor to themselves. On the bottom floor was a staffing agency, and a firm of quantity surveyors, but as they climbed the stairs and emerged into the large, initial reception room, she could see that someone had made sure that the décor now represented a good advertisement for their wares.

  Light and spacious, in neutral earth tones that were pleasing on the eye, several large ferns competed for attention with a single, stylish piece of modern art on the far wall. Behind an art-deco-inspired desk, an ash-blonde in her early fifties, dressed in an impeccably tailored power-suit of powder blue, rose and smiled at them, with a question in her eye. The question clearly had something to do with them not having an appointment.

  Hillary, suppressing the urge to sigh impatiently, reached for her ID, and went into her usual spiel. As she did so, the look on the receptionist’s face went from politely puzzled to something far more human.

  ‘This is about poor Felix, isn’t it?’ she said, when Hillary had finished and asked if Mrs Ryanson and/or her husband would be free for an interview.

  ‘Yes. You knew him? You were working here when he died?’ Hillary asked, never loathe to talk with someone who knew the victim.

  ‘Oh yes. I’m Joyce Weatherspoon. I was here nearly from the beginning, when the firm first started. It was Felix who got me this job, bless him. I was a neighbour of his parents, and when my husband left me when my youngest was only ten, he recommended me. He was such a thoughtful, nice man. It’s not fair, what happened to him.’

  Hillary nodded. So far she hadn’t yet been able to find a witness who had a bad word to say for their murder victim, and she wasn’t yet so cynical that she simply couldn’t believe that everyone had been fooled. In fact, she could see no good reason to suppose that Felix Olliphant had been anything other than a good and decent human being.

  And yet somebody, somewhere, had wanted him dead. Unless it was a case of mistaken identity? He had been attending a costume party, after all. But even as she thought it, she dismissed it. He had not been wearing any kind of a face mask that night, his costume not calling for one.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know of anyone who might have wanted to do him harm?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Felix? Oh no. No one would want to hurt Felix,’ the receptionist said with clearly misplaced confidence, given the circumstances.

  ‘I understand that Olligree was doing well at the time of his death?’ Hillary asked smoothly.

  ‘Oh yes. The company’s always been strong. Well, perhaps lately things have fallen off a little. In this economy, with money tight for nearly everybody, even the well heeled aren’t spending like they used to. But I’m sure we’ll ride it out. But back in Felix’s day, oh yes, we were very successful. Felix was such a wonderful designer and decorator, you see. So is Mrs Ryanson, of course,’ Joyce Weatherspoon added quickly, but rather perfunctorily, Hillary thought.

  Nor did Hillary miss how it was ‘Felix’ but his partner, even now, was ‘Mrs Ryanson’.

  ‘Did he get on well with Greer Ryanson?’ Hillary asked next, careful to keep her voice strictly casual.

  ‘Oh yes. Felix got on well with everyone.’ Joyce’s face finally broke into a small smile. ‘Not everyone gets on with Mrs Ryanson, mind, but she’s as nice as pie with the clients, which is what matters, isn’t it? And Felix always said that she was good at networking. So with Felix’s flair, and her contacts, they made a good team.’

  ‘And how are things now?’

  ‘Well, perhaps Olligree Interiors is more known for being a safe pair of hands rather than being … well, innovative or original. That was one of Felix’s strengths as a designer. But there’s a market for safe but up-to-the-minute, and Mrs Ryanson and her husband are usually good at predicting the next big trend. It keeps us ahead of most of our main rivals.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘So you never heard any arguments between Felix and Greer Ryanson?’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘And did Mrs Ryanson have any money worries that you know about? Perhaps that Felix wasn’t aware of, even?’

  But that was obviously going a step too far because Joyce Weatherspoon’s face closed down to a polite smile, and Hillary could feel the woman withdraw back into her polite shell. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say. I only answer the telephone, make the bookings, and fetch and carry. I have nothing to do with the financial side of matters. Mrs Ryanson saw to all that. So I’ll just buzz through and see if she’s available, shall I?’

  Hillary smiled gently. ‘Yes. You do that.’

  Greer Ryanson, it seemed, was available, for after a moment’s silence when Joyce had announced the presence of the police, they all heard her instruct the receptionist to show them straight in.

  If the woman was surprised to see a deputation of three arrive in her office, nothing on her face showed it.

  According to the files, Greer Ryanson had been thirty-nine at the time of her business partner’s death, which now put her in the near mid-fifties. But it would have been hard to guess at her age without those pointers. She was still very slim, with a chic jet-black geometric-shaped haircut. She had big, near-black eyes, and her face was carefully made up to look as if she was wearing no make-up at all. She had probably had a nip and tuck in the recent past. She was wearing a long, loose-fitting white dress of a deceptively simple and no doubt breathtakingly expensive cut, and a string of amber beads that reached nearly to her waist.

  Hillary noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that fact didn’t surprise her. She rather thought she knew who wore the trousers in the Ryanson relationship.

  ‘Police, Joyce said?’ Greer Ryanson asked coolly, as she rose from behind a large green marble-topped desk. On the desk there was no computer or paperwork of any kind, only a large green old-fashioned angle-poise lamp, and a vase of flowers containing a riot of sweet-smelling, multi-coloured freesias.

  Très chic, Hillary mused.

  In fact, everything in the room was très chic, from the plain white walls, steel-grey deep-pile carpeting, and the green and turquoise accents, via the curtains, chair covers and the series of Arts and Crafts framed mirrors lining the walls, reflecting the already bright daylight.

  ‘Yes. We’re taking another look at the murder of Felix Olliphant,’ Hillary said, with deliberate bluntness.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ Greer said, a shade blankly. Then added somewhat stiffly, ‘Please sit down.’

  Her eyes went to Zoe and took in the goth hair (blue-tipped today) and her black leather bustier over what looked like a cobweb-draped multi-layered black skirt and chunky black granny boots, and dismissed her totally.

  Her gaze lingered longer on Jake Barnes, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she liked what she saw. Young, fit, good-looking and dressed in expensive designer-labelled gear from top to bottom, what was there not to like, Hillary mused, feeling, for some reason, suddenly vastly entertained.

  ‘We were hoping you might have some insights for us,’ Hillary began, as she and the others drew up several jade-green painted chairs and sat down in front of Greer’s impressive desk.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have no idea who killed Felix. Or why. I didn’t understand it then, and I don’t now. Coffee?’ she offered briskly.

  ‘Please.�
��

  Greer leaned forward and spoke into the intercom, ordering coffee for four.

  ‘From what I’ve been able to learn, Felix was very greatly liked and admired by nearly everyone who knew him,’ Hillary began neutrally. ‘Tell me, how did you and he come to meet and form Olligree Interiors?’

  ‘My best friend graduated from the same uni at the same time as him. We met at one of her parties. We found that we both wanted to do interior design, but didn’t want to work for a boss or a big conglomeration that was only interested in making cash. Oh, we wanted to earn money, don’t get me wrong,’ Greer laughed, a tight, hard sound that sat oddly with her elegant image, ‘but we wanted to do it on our own terms. Anyway, we got to talking and realized that we were chasing the same goal, but had different strengths and ideas, and decided to see if we could make a go of it together. I had some capital to put into it – from my parents – and Felix had some too – from the same source, I expect. And so we gave it a go. We formed the company name from a mix of our names, and decided to give it six months and see.’ Greer paused for a moment, and frowned at a freesia that had dared to drop one of its petals onto the marble-topped desk. Hillary could practically hear her debating whether or not to pick it up and drop it in a wastebin or leave it.

  She decided to leave it.

  ‘I don’t think, to be perfectly honest, we ever really thought it would become as successful as it did,’ she carried on smoothly. ‘But we seemed to complement each other wonderfully. I was very good at organization, overseeing workmen, that kind of thing. And Felix was good at understanding exactly what it was the clients wanted, and finding a way to make their vision come true.’

  Greer paused for a breath, and then laughed again – that same hard, tight, unattractive sound. ‘Not that that was always easy. The ideas some of our clients had – well!’ She threw up her hands in despair. They were well-manicured hands, Hillary noticed, with clear polish on the nails.

  At that point, Joyce came in with a coffee tray, left it on the table with a brief, all-encompassing smile, and promptly left. Hillary poured for herself and the other two members of her team, leaving Greer to see to her own.

  The other woman, though, didn’t seem interested in a caffeine fix, for she made no move towards the tray, and carried on talking instead. ‘After a while, our reputation grew, and more and more people came to us. And Felix gradually got to do more and more of the stuff that he wanted to do, since more and more people trusted him and gave him carte blanche. And I kept the cash flow going, did the PR, made sure our name spread, and before long, we were riding high.’

  She turned and glanced out of the window, where anonymous traffic flowed beyond the windows. ‘I never thought it would end,’ she said flatly, sounding, even now, faintly aggrieved. ‘It shouldn’t have ended. Not like it did.’ Her lean, not-quite-attractive face suddenly clouded and she looked positively angry. ‘Whoever killed Felix should rot in hell.’

  It was not the first time someone had said that to her during the course of the investigation. But in Greer Ryanson’s case, Hillary thought that the sentiment probably had more to do with the fact that she was angry that someone had killed her goose that had been laying the golden eggs for her rather than out of any sense of empathy. Or justice.

  ‘You were at the party that night, yes?’ Hillary brought things back on track.

  ‘Yes. Querida had invited both me and Felix – and our plus ones, of course. I brought my husband, and Felix came with that vapid woman he was seeing at the time. I can’t remember her name.’

  No, I don’t suppose you can, Hillary mused. ‘Did you see him drinking heavily that night?’

  ‘Felix? The original goody-two-shoes? Good grief, no. I was as surprised as I’d ever been in my life when it was read out in the coroner’s court that he’d been drunk. After that awful car crash, I never knew Felix to have more than a single glass of wine at most. Not that he was exactly a boozer before then, either.’

  ‘Did you see him arguing with anyone?’

  ‘Felix wasn’t the arguing sort.’

  ‘I understand that you had an insurance policy that paid out in the event of Felix’s death?’ Hillary threw in casually, seeing that questioning the likes of Greer Ryanson on what she had seen or heard at the party would be virtually pointless. If the woman had seen anything significant, she was obviously not going to say so at this late date.

  Greer flushed slightly. ‘That was strictly standard business practice, I can assure you. If I had died, then Felix would have got the payout, and my share of the company. It was all completely above board, and overseen by our solicitors.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. But the money must have come in handy?’ Hillary persisted.

  Greer gave the woman opposite her a long cool look of dislike. ‘I would have preferred Felix alive and well and earning good money for us. We were doing well, with every prospect of doing better. I can assure you, Felix was worth far more to me alive than dead. I’m sorry if that sounds heartless, but it’s also undoubtedly true. Besides, I liked Felix. He was a friend, and I don’t really have many of those.’

  No kidding, Zoe Turnbull thought, and had to bite her tongue to stop herself from saying so out loud. Beside her, she could sense Jake Barnes smiling.

  ‘Tell me what you remember about that night.’ Hillary tried a more open-ended approach to finding out what this woman might know, but wasn’t holding out much hope.

  As she’d expected, Greer sighed heavily. ‘I’m sure I went through all this with that man Varney.’

  ‘I’m sure you did, Mrs Ryanson. But please indulge me.’

  ‘Well, Felix was already there when we arrived. I saw him dancing with Querida – she was dressed as Lady Godiva of all things! Some women have no … never mind. Of course, it was a fabulous party – that type of big country house just lends itself to that sort of thing. Some of the costumes were really theatrical-quality stuff. And the food was good, and the drinks were varied, as you might expect from someone like Querida. You could order anything from some of that ghastly alco-pop stuff to vintage champagne. As time went on, people got louder and more drunk, as you’d expect, and then midnight came and we had the countdown. I think the fox who was tending the bar left around about then because everyone started helping themselves, which is typical of that sort of party. The hostess certainly didn’t care about being conventional! And then, at some point, that pair of young identical twins came running in, all hysterical, and we realized that some sort of crisis had occurred.’

  Greer’s lips thinned ominously. ‘Of course, we had no way of knowing then that it concerned Felix. Then the rumours started to circulate that someone was dead, and then the police came, and an ambulance. We all had to give our name and details. I still didn’t know for ages that it was Felix who was dead. Or that he’d actually been murdered. I think we were all thinking maybe one of the older guests had had a heart attack, or one of the young silly set had taken some bad ecstasy or something like that. You hear about that sort of thing all of the time, don’t you? But no, it was Felix, and he’d definitely been murdered. It was all just so … unbelievable.’ She spread her hands in a helpless gesture.

  Hillary sighed. ‘Yes. And you saw nobody who was acting oddly that night?’

  ‘No. Well, to be honest, we didn’t know that many people there. Querida Phelps knew all sorts of people, from the titled aristocracy down to, well, near down and outs, it almost seemed. One man there I swear had been living on the streets! But that was what she was like. Duke or pauper, if she liked you, you were in. She was the arty type, you know? I think she used to do a bit of modelling in the late sixties, and never got over being a sort of hippy. Comes from a fabulously rich family and all that. Well, one way or another, we didn’t really socialize in the same bracket, as it were. So how could I tell who might have been acting “oddly”, as you put it?’

  Hillary ignored the attempt at one-upmanship, and kept on track. ‘So Felix didn’t know anyone
there either?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. He certainly didn’t act as if he did. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t being friendly though, and getting on with people. But then he was the gregarious sort.’

  ‘You must have met up and talked to him a bit. He never mentioned anyone there coming on to him, or maybe acting weird around him? Pressing drinks on him maybe?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. And the only one that I saw getting him drinks was that limpet of a girlfriend of his. And then, the few times I noticed, it was only fruit juice – Felix’s usual tipple.’

  ‘Right.’ Hillary sighed. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Ryanson. We may have to get in touch with your husband at some point, just in case he can shed any light on things.’

  Greer Ryanson’s delicately arched, plucked dark eyebrow rose sharply to show just how unlikely she thought that scenario might turn out to be.

  Back in the car, her two newest team members were unusually silent, which gave Hillary plenty of time to think. Zoe didn’t seem to find it difficult to handle Puff, so she let the goth drive while she sat in the passenger seat, watching Oxford’s remote and beautiful colleges pass by the window.

  She did a quick mental review of their progress so far, and had to conclude that they’d learned nothing new. Or so it seemed. Yet somewhere at the back of her mind, Hillary felt a nagging little worry that someone, somewhere, might have said something significant. Nothing mind-blowingly obvious. But important. And she rather thought that it might have been Querida Phelps. But try as she might, Hillary couldn’t bring it to the forefront of her mind.

  She sighed, and decided not to push it. With a bit of luck, if she ignored it, her subconscious would chew it over and eventually spit out whatever it was.

  As Zoe negotiated the Banbury Road roundabout, Hillary continued to let her brain mull over the case. The business about Harry Fletcher had cleared up the Felix-might-be-gay rumours, and also solved the problem of the worrisome phone calls and why his friend’s death had upset him so much. Which might be satisfying to know, but didn’t help them get any closer to solving Felix Olliphant’s murder.