Authors: Faith Martin
Yes, she knew Mark Burgess’s kind all right.
‘How long were you together?’ she asked curiously.
‘A couple of months.’
‘You were still having an affair when she died?’
‘Well, it was petering out a bit,’ he said, a shade reluctantly.
‘Perhaps she was finding Mr Gregg more amenable,’ Hillary asked, just to see what sort of a temper he had.
But Burgess merely grunted. Obviously, being dumped for his lover’s own brother-in-law hadn’t worried him that much, and Hillary could guess why. With an ego as fragile as his, it should have rubbed him on the raw, and there could only be one reason why it didn’t.
‘Well, that’s all for now, sir,’ Hillary said turning away. Then she quickly swung back, ‘I would appreciate it if you didn’t discuss this conversation with anyone else, sir. We don’t want people alerted or made curious unduly.’
‘Don’t you worry none about
that
,’ Burgess muttered with feeling. ‘I’m not about to go blabbing about something like this, am I?’
‘No, I don’t suppose you are, sir,’ Hillary conceded.
‘’Sides, who am I gonna tell? The missus?’ Burgess asked rhetorically, needing to get in the last word. Then, for good measure, he guffawed falsely.
As they walked back to the car, they heard the van doors slam, and a moment later, the van roared away past them and back up the hill.
Hillary sighed. She’d forgotten to get the steak. She could have done with a nice sirloin.
‘What do you think, guv?’ Jimmy asked.
‘Well, I think he can remember exactly where he was when Anne McRae died for a start,’ she surprised him by saying flatly. ‘He was lying about that.’
‘You do?’ Jimmy blurted.
‘Yes. And if you think about it for just a bit, Jimmy, I expect you’ll get it too.’
Jimmy climbed in behind the wheel and unlocked the door for her. By the time Hillary was settled in the passenger seat, he was grinning widely.
‘He was in bed with some other bored and lonely housewife, wasn’t he?’
‘In Wendlebury, I expect,’ Hillary agreed. ‘That’s why he wasn’t more disgruntled that Anne McRae had got bored with him. He was getting his ego stroked elsewhere. Well, that and other things that I don’t even want to think about.’
She shuddered theatrically.
Jimmy sighed. ‘So he’s scratched from the suspect list?’
Hillary smiled widely. ‘Oh, I never scratch anyone from the list, Sergeant,’ she said, using his old title without realizing it. ‘Let’s just say he’s demoted to somewhere near the bottom. For now.’
Jimmy nodded and turned over the engine. ‘So where to now, guv?’
Hillary glanced at her watch. ‘Now we go and see the cuckolded husband.’
Melvin McRae opened the door to find a good-looking redhead and an older man on his doorstep. Neither of them being what he expected, he stared at them silently for a moment.
‘Mr McRae? I’m Hillary Greene – we spoke on the phone yesterday?’ Hillary prompted. ‘This is my colleague James Jessop.’
Both of them held up their IDs, but Melvin barely glanced at them.
‘Oh yes. Come on in. My wife’s at work,’ he said, confusing Hilllary momentarily, until she realized that he meant his current wife. For a moment there, she’d wondered if he was mentally ill, and then had a brief but disturbing image of Anne McRae’s ghost beavering away in some office somewhere.
He showed them into a small but pleasant room, with a view of a large church.
‘So, what can I do to help?’ Melvin asked, indicating a couple of armchairs, but sitting down himself in a small, hard-backed chair beside a table. Once there, he leaned forward, letting his arms dangle along his thighs, with his large-knuckled hands hanging above his knees. He looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept well, but he was neatly groomed and his clothes were clean and freshly laundered.
‘This is really just a courtesy call, Mr McRae,’ Hillary said, making Jimmy’s mental eyebrows go up. So she was going to go with the soft-soap routine here, was she? Interesting.
‘As you know, I’ve been assigned to re-investigate your wife’s case, and I just wondered if you had any questions for me?’
Melvin shot her a quick glance. Whatever he’d been expecting from them, it hadn’t been that.
‘Questions? No. About what?’ he asked, clearly confused.
‘I just thought that you’d like to be given the opportunity to speak to me, sir, that’s all,’ Hillary said smoothly. ‘Have you had any thoughts on who might be responsible for your wife’s death in the intervening years?’
‘No. I’d have been on to DI Squires if I had.’
‘Inspector Squires has retired now, sir,’ Hillary said softly. ‘Anything you want to say, you can say to me.’
Melvin sighed. ‘I just don’t want you bothering the kids none, that’s all,’ he said finally. ‘It really cut them up, their mum going like that. Young Jenny – well, it really sent her off the rails, even now, she’s having a bad time of it.’
‘We haven’t even spoken to your daughters yet, sir,’ Hillary said gently. ‘And we will be careful. We don’t want to rake up bad memories, and we’ll be as brief as possible.’
‘I know it’s been a long time, and all that, and you probably think I’m fussing, but I know Anne would say the same.’ Melvin looked at Hillary from eyes that were watering with tears now. ‘Some people said a lot of bad things about Anne – you know, about how it turned out and all that business with Shane and what have you. But she was a good mum to her kids – they always came first. You can ask anybody – even her detractors have to admit that. She always put the kids first – like a tiger defending her cubs she was, a proper dedicated mum, and she wouldn’t want you worrying them now, not even on her own account.’
‘I believe you, sir,’ Hillary said softly. ‘Her sister says the same thing.’
‘Debbie? You’ve already spoken to her?’ Melvin asked sharply.
‘Of course, sir, she was first on our list,’ Hillary said simply, and putting no undue emphasis in her tone at all.
But Melvin McRae quickly gave a sighing grunt. ‘Of course she was. Inspector Squires thought she did it, didn’t he?’
‘He said as much?’ Hillary asked, surprised.
‘No. He didn’t have to. Debs was beside herself at one point. She was sure she was going to go down for it.’
Hillary couldn’t detect much bitterness in the man’s voice, and she looked at him curiously. ‘Do you think she did it, sir?’ she asked simply. And beside her she felt, rather than heard, Jimmy take a deep breath.
Melvin McRae leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand wearily across his face. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t. I don’t like to think it. Debbie’s family after all, isn’t she? Anne’s big sister and all that. You don’t like to think someone you’ve shared countless Christmas dinners with has murdered your wife, do you?’
Hillary smiled noncommittally.
‘On the other hand, Inspector Squires seemed certain. She had no alibi at the time Anne died. And she had motive.’ Melvin shrugged. ‘I just don’t know. She swears up and down that she didn’t, though.’
Hillary nodded, but she was not about to comment on that. The number of times she’d heard villains swear to their innocence didn’t bear thinking about.
Still, it was interesting that Melvin McRae seemed to bear the chief suspect in his wife’s murder no obvious ill will.
‘Were you surprised to find out about the affair, sir?’ she asked carefully. It might be more than twenty years since he’d first learned of his wife’s infidelity, but it had been in such horrific circumstances it was bound to leave a massive scar.
‘Of course I was. I couldn’t believe it, not at first,’ Melvin confirmed grimly. ‘I was gutted.’
‘You had no inkling?’
‘No. I never thought Anne was like that.’
Hillary believed him. So he probably had no inkling about Mark Burgess either.
‘Well, sir, if you can think of anything you want to tell us, you can call me any time.’ She handed him a card with the CRT’s number on it. Her name was scribbled on the back.
‘Thank you.’
Once outside, they walked thoughtfully back to the car.
‘DI Squires never liked the husband for it, guv,’ Jimmy said, ‘and I can’t say I do either. Even without the airtight alibi, he just doesn’t strike me as the kind. I know you never can tell, right? But still….’
Hillary knew what he meant. ‘You get a feeling for it.’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Well, I can’t say as he’s my number one suspect either.’
Jimmy grinned. ‘But he stays on the list right, guv?’
‘You’re learning Jimmy.’
Back at HQ, Hillary and Jimmy found the communal office more or less deserted.
‘You can send Vivienne and Sam out to Wendlebury tomorrow, see if they can track down any candidates for Mark Burgess’s bored housewife,’ Hillary gave out the instructions without hesitation, but Jimmy knew she wasn’t trying to throw her weight around. She was, quite simply and inevitably, going to be the operational boss of this outfit, and he had no trouble with that. He didn’t think Sam would mind either – she was obviously going to be a great teacher for him. He wasn’t so sure about the young madam though.
‘It won’t hurt to get confirmation of Burgess’s alibi,’ Hillary continued, unaware of the ex-sergeant’s thoughts. ‘Don’t forget, his butcher’s van was regularly seen in Chesterton, so he could have parked it up somewhere and nobody would have thought much about it. Plus, he was known to the victim, so if he’d come calling, she’d probably have let him into the house, even if it wasn’t one of his regular days.’
‘Right, guv. That should please our Vivienne. It’s been twenty years, so it’s likely the woman in question has moved house long since, or even been dead for years. Talk about a wild-goose chase.’
‘It’ll be good practise at door-stepping for both of them,’ Hillary said, without sympathy.
‘Yes, guv,’ Jimmy grinned.
‘And you can set about getting a warrant to compare Mark Burgess’s DNA with that one stray, unaccounted-for hair they found on the victim,’ she added, lest he think he could get away with any of the scut work.
‘Guv.’
‘That should please the super at any rate,’ she added, and when she caught his questioning look, added, ‘I daresay having something solid, like DNA evidence to go on, will be right up his street. After all these years, we’re going to be hard pressed working up a case with just witness statements and circumstantial corroboration.’
‘Right. But he’ll still go to bat for you if he thinks you’ve cracked it, guv,’ Jimmy predicted.
Hillary blinked. She hadn’t put Steven Crayle down as someone who’d be willing to go out on a limb for anyone or anything.
‘If you say so, Jimmy,’ she said blandly.
Jimmy opened his mouth to say something, then obviously thought better of it, and closed his mouth again. It was obvious that she didn’t rate the super very much just yet.
But Jimmy reckoned she’d learn. She was smart. It wouldn’t take her long to realize that, ambitious and careful though he undoubtedly was, Steven Crayle was also one of the good guys.
With a sigh, he set about finding a judge who’d be sympathetic to the cause of comparing a single human hair to a very lightweight suspect indeed.
But that evening, as the sun began to set, and the daytime staff at the Kidlington HQ began to make way for the night shift, Jimmy Jessop wasn’t the only one contemplating the merits or otherwise of human hair.
Long silken strands of auburn hair, to be precise.
The locker room in the CRT was situated at the end of a particularly torturous set of rooms in the rabbit warren that was the basement. It was also a unisex affair, and Hillary Greene’s locker stood beside that of Sergeant Handley, the computer-loving technophile and someone the newest member of CRT had not yet met, a Sergeant Sheila Young.
But neither Crayle nor Young’s locker interested Tom Warrington much.
With a set of lock-picks that he’d ‘confiscated’ from a collar a few months ago, he set about opening Hillary’s locker, and eventually succeeded only due to luck rather than to skill. He didn’t know it, being an amateur, but he left clear scratches and marks of his lock picking behind on the new brass padlock. Blissfully unaware of this, he eagerly opened the metal door in the deserted room and was bitterly disappointed at the meagre pickings inside.
A spare coat hung from a solitary hanger, and a duffel bag proved to be largely empty. But a half-full perfume bottle had him spraying the air and sniffing appreciatively. The scent, like the woman herself, was classy, subtle and pleasing.
He reached up to the top shelf and removed her comb – a plain and simple black affair, and his heart tripped a little faster at the sight of the long, red hairs stuck in the comb’s teeth.
He had to have it.
He pressed the comb into the top of his shirt pocket, where he could feel it resting against his heart. He was sure it was getting warm, setting his breath coming faster and faster.
A sound coming from a little distance behind him made him hastily close and re-lock the door, but it was only someone passing by the outer door on the way to the loos.
Tom was careful not to be seen as he left the locker room, and made his way back upstairs into the main area of the building, which was now largely deserted.
The comb in his breast pocket now felt hot and secret against his ribs, making him smile and want to shout for joy.
This was going to be so good. This time, he could feel it, things would finally go the way he needed them too. And she’d realize he was the man for her.
She’d better.
Tom Warrington didn’t take rejection well.
D
iane Burgess was a small woman, rounded and rosy-cheeked, with a fading modest beauty that reminded Hillary of everyone’s generic favourite aunt. She lived in what had probably been a council house at one point, but which was now almost certainly bought and paid for, in a pleasant but dull little cul-de-sac in Bicester’s King’s End.
The garden was neat and well tended, and when Hillary and Sam Pickles introduced themselves at her doorstep, they were immediately invited in.
Hillary could tell by the nervous, puzzled and just faintly excited look on her face that her husband had not told them about his interview with the CRT representatives yesterday. So a visit from the police was the last thing she’d expected.
Hillary knew she was about to ruin the woman’s day.
‘Mrs Burgess, there’s nothing to worry about,’ she began warmly if not altogether truthfully, as the older woman settled them down in a small living room done out tastefully in shades of mint-green and amber. ‘We’re re-investigating the murder of Mrs Anne McRae. You may remember it?’ she began cautiously.
Diane’s rosy cheeks paled suddenly, and she put a hand up nervously to her hair, which was mouse-brown, with streaks of grey, and swept back in a rather untidy bun at the back of her head.
‘Oh, er, yes?’
‘She was the mother of three who was bludgeoned to death in her kitchen in Chesterton, about twenty years ago now,’ Hillary prompted with a reassuring smile.
Diane blinked, her round pale blue eyes becoming gradually more and more frightened. They shot to Sam, who unnerved her further by looking away with a guilty expression that made Hillary want to kick him.
She hid an inner sigh carefully. Women like this always made her feel like a bully in a schoolyard, no matter how kind she tried to be. But she knew from past, and sometimes bitter, experience that pussy footing around wasn’t always a kindness when dealing with life’s innocents.
‘I remember,’ Diane said, her voice so low, it was almost a whisper now. She fixed those big blue eyes on Hillary like a dog expecting a kicking.
Hillary smiled bracingly. ‘I don’t suppose you knew her?’
‘Oh no. But I read about it. We all did,’ Diane said quickly, as if anxious to be seen to be ultra-honest and truthful.
‘All?’ Hillary asked casually.
‘Oh, you know. My friends, the neighbours around here, my sisters and all. It was a local murder, you see, and not something that you expect to happen to us. I mean, someone like us. I mean, living here, and not in a big city. I mean, you expect drug pushers and, well, women who walk the streets to be in danger. But a housewife from Chesterton….’ Her voice trailed off helplessly.
‘Yes. I understand,’ Hillary said softly. And did. Something like the murder of Anne McRae would have been totally outside of Diane Burgess’s experience. When something that shocking and unexpected happened, rocking that little bit of your own personal world that you had always felt to be safe before, it tended to leave a scar.
‘But you knew her sister, I believe?’ she pressed on.
Diane looked puzzled.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
And she wasn’t lying either, Hillary thought instantly. She knew this type of witness. All her life, Diane Burgess had respected the law – she’d probably been taught it by her respectable working-class parents, and then had it reinforced by her school teachers, and would no doubt have dubbed the same mindset into any children she may have had. Added to that, she was a genuinely timid soul, and they tended to avoid confrontation out of habit. More than anything else, she would be uncomfortable lying, especially to someone in authority. It was far easier for someone like this to simply tell the truth. It required less effort.
Hillary would have bet her first pay cheque – when she got it – that this woman was going to answer anything and everything put to her as honestly and as simply as she could hope for.
‘You used to work at Tesco’s didn’t you? In the town?’
‘Oh that was years ago.’
‘But you used to serve Anne McRae’s sister often. Her name, though you might not know it, was Debbie?’
Diane smiled and shrugged her rounded shoulders. ‘I must have served lots of people.’
‘But you remembered and recognized your regulars?’ Hillary persevered gently.
‘Oh yes. People are usually friendly, aren’t they?’ Diane said simply. And meant it.
Hillary nodded. Yes, she could imagine that most people were friendly with Diane Burgess. She was that kind of woman. Beside her, she could feel Sam practically beaming. No doubt she reminded him of his good old mum.
‘I’m sure they are. And I think this is how you knew Anne McRae’s sister. Maybe not her name, not as a friend, exactly, but as someone you were friendly with, say.’
‘Well, perhaps that’s so,’ Diane said, sounding puzzled once more. ‘But….’ she broke off, and looked at Hillary a shade helplessly.
Hillary smiled. ‘But what am I asking this for twenty years down the line, that’s what you’re wondering, isn’t it?’
Diane blushed. ‘Oh I wouldn’t like to say that. I’m sure it must be important otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Yes. It is rather important, Mrs Burgess, because, you see, Debbie Gregg remembers you. And she remembers one incident very clearly. It was just after her sister’s funeral. She was in Tesco’s, when you approached her to offer your condolences.’
Any colour left in Diane’s face suddenly fled completely. A look of definite and unmistakable shock passed swiftly across her plump features and left them looking slightly foolish.
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘You remember the incident now as well?’ Hillary prompted softly.
‘Yes.’
‘You felt sorry for her, and not just because of the murder of her sister. Isn’t that so?’
Diane was once again looking at Hillary like a dog that was expecting an undeserved kicking from its master. Beside her, she could feel Sam shifting uncomfortably. She understood his unease, of course. Questioning hard-headed, cold-hearted villains was one thing. Badgering a nice lady was something else again. But he would soon learn that you couldn’t pick and choose. If he wanted to become a copper, he’d have to.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Diane swallowed hard, and in her lap, her hands began to shake. She folded them together, fingers linked, and Hillary watched her knuckles turn white.
The sense of strain was now palpable.
‘You told her that you understood what it felt like to be a wife who had been betrayed by her husband,’ Hillary was careful to keep her voice calm, almost conversational.
‘Yes,’ the voice was back to a whisper now.
‘You told her that you knew what it was like to have a husband fall under Anne McRae’s spell too.’
‘Yes.’
‘Her specifically, I mean. Not just any woman willing to cheat with a married man.’
‘Yes.’
‘That your own husband, Mark, had in fact also had an affair with Anne McRae.’ Hillary carried on, her voice soft and steady.
Diane continued to stare at her, like a helplessly hypnotized rabbit regarding a stoat. ‘Yes.’
‘That must have hurt, Mrs Burgess,’ Hillary pointed out reasonably, her voice sympathetic now, and inviting confidences.
But all the other woman could manage was her usual, softly spoken, ‘Yes.’
‘How did you find out?’ Hillary asked next, knowing that she’d have to get this witness talking. Monosyllabic answers simply weren’t going to cut it.
‘Oh, the usual way, I expect,’ Diane tried for a brave smile, but it came off as being distinctly wobbly about the edges. ‘A supposedly well-meaning friend told me, isn’t that how it usually happens? She was a next-door neighbour, who had a cousin who lived in Chesterton, who told her all about how my Mark used to deliver meat to Mrs McRae’s house in person. And took a half an hour to do so. She thought I’d want to know.’
Hillary nodded. ‘As I said. It must have hurt.’
‘It did. At first. But the kids were little, and he swore he wouldn’t do it again.’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘What could I do?’
Hillary nodded. ‘But you think he did do it again, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘With his other customers, as well as with Anne McRae?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s been doing it for years, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘And probably still is?’
Diane Burgess made another attempt at a brave smile. ‘The kids are all grown up and gone now. I keep telling him that the next time I’ll leave him. But I never do.’
‘No,’ Hillary agreed flatly. Someone like this wouldn’t. It was just far easier to take the path of least resistance and turn a blind eye. After all, her husband had been a good provider – he’d held a steady job, his wages had bought off the mortgage on the house. The kids had been well fed and clothed, and had probably done as well for themselves as their mother could have hoped for. Besides, women of this generation had been brought up to more or less expect men to wander, and it was up to women to turn the other cheek.
Hillary didn’t blame her for her attitude and she certainly didn’t judge her. After the farce of her own marriage, she knew she was in no position to cast stones. She’d been on the verge of divorcing her own husband, Ronnie Greene, a notoriously bent police officer, when he’d been killed in an RTA. And Ronnie, like Melvin McRae, had been a serial adulterer.
And when she’d finally realized the truth, she’d walked out on him faster than you could say that Robert was your mother’s brother.
But Diane Burgess was not that sort of woman. Which was why Hillary was now reasonably sure that she wasn’t facing Anne McRae’s killer. Diane Burgess simply didn’t have the gumption – or the passion – needed to kill a love rival.
‘Did you ever think your husband might have killed Mrs McRae, Diane?’ Hillary asked quietly instead.
At which the older woman gasped in genuine shock. ‘Oh no. Never. Oh no, Mark isn’t like that at all.’
Hillary nodded. In that, she rather thought Diane was right. She might not be the sort to take on a fight, but Hillary was willing to believe that, after forty years of marriage, she knew her own husband well enough.
Once back at HQ, Hillary wrote up her notes and dropped a copy of them into the internal mail to keep Steven Crayle updated, then checked in with Jimmy. She’d already packed Sam off to Wendlebury to see how Vivienne was getting on with trying to trace Mark Burgess’s alibi, but it now seemed to be hardly a top priority.
‘Guv, I’ve got a judge in mind for a warrant to compare Burgess’s DNA to the hair found on our vic,’ Sam said, ‘but I’m having trouble running him to ground. He’s always in court, or on the golf course.’
‘I’m shocked.’
Sam grinned. ‘I’ll keep on it.’
‘Right. Fancy giving me a lift into Oxford?’
‘’Course, Guv. Who we seeing?’
‘Jennifer McRae, the victim’s youngest.’
‘Right. A bit of a troubled girl by all accounts,’ Jimmy mused, shrugging into his raincoat.
Hillary nodded. As they trooped back upstairs and got into Jimmy’s car, Hillary contemplated what they knew of Anne McRae’s youngest child for herself.
Over the years, the file had been kept updated, of course, but it had been Sam and Vivienne who’d done the latest round, and they’d done a pretty thorough job, for novices. Of course, they’d used the computer for most of it, which in this case, had come up trumps, mostly because, of all the McRae offspring, only Jenny had a record sheet.
Mostly petty stuff – it had started off with shoplifting as a teenager. Then it had progressed into one or two soliciting charges when in her early twenties. She’d had two children by two different fathers by then, one of which had beat her regularly, until she’d found the courage to bring a complaint. He was currently serving five to eight at Her Majesty’s pleasure, but was due out soon. Since then she’d been busted twice in possession of class ‘C’ drugs, no time served, and had received a rap across the knuckles for a few other, mostly civil disorders.
She was currently living in a council flat in Headington, in the nearest thing to a high-rise block of flats that the suburb of Oxford was capable of producing.
As Jimmy parked up in front of the building, Hillary felt her spirits droop. The building was typical of its kind, in that it had probably been some architect’s dream of a suburban Utopia when it had been built back in the sixties. Then it had been all clean lines and fresh paint, a bold, brave new concept in social housing. Now the paint was peeling, a fair few of the big windows designed to let in all that natural daylight were broken and boarded over, and litter and dogs’ mess stained the concrete pavements and walkways.
Several large-sounding (and probably illegal) dogs snarled and snuffled under the gap at the bottom of the doors as they walked past, and from more than one flat, came the sound of babies crying. To make it all that more dreary, the day had turned damp and grey and drizzly, and Jimmy winced as they climbed the fourth set of outer steps.
Seeing her notice, he rubbed one knee. ‘Bloody cold damp weather plays havoc with ’em,’ he admitted with a sheepish grin.
‘None of us are getting any younger Jimmy,’ Hillary said, making the old sergeant give her a disbelieving double take. Today, she was dressed in a sage-green skirt and jacket with a lemon-yellow blouse. Her rich auburn hair seemed to be the only spot of fiery life within miles, and Jimmy thought she looked smashing.
Getting old my arse, Jimmy thought indulgently. No wonder Steven Crayle noticed whenever she was around, he thought, with a sly grin.
She knocked on Jenny McRae’s door and waited.
Nothing.
She knocked again.
Still nothing. They were about to turn away, when suddenly they heard a door open and close inside, and then the front door reluctantly opened. It was on a chain, and the girl who peered out at them through the gap looked tired and suspicious.
‘Yeah?’
Hillary held out her ID. ‘I’m with the CRT, Ms McRae. We’re looking into your mother’s case?’
‘Oh. Right. Dad called. Said you’d probably be dropping by. Hang on a mo’.’