With a Narrow Blade (15 page)

‘It was just a photo. An obvious fake,’ Martin said desperately, staring at Hillary like a mouse would stare at a snake. ‘A naked lady, with her face on it, nothing more. Nothing major. It was taken in the canteen, for Pete’s sake. Just a lark, see?’

‘And who else did you send these joke pictures to?’ Hillary asked quietly, thinking how mortified Janine must have felt. Fake or not, having your family, friends or colleagues see images of a naked body with your face on it would be hard to live down. For a serving police officer, saving face and maintaining the respect of others was essential. As this little bastard knew only too well.

As did Mitch. ‘If any of those pictures show up, Pollock …’ he said softly, and Martin Pollock abruptly bent forward and threw up all over his shoes.

Mitch stepped smartly back, as did Hillary. When he was finished, Pollock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened up. He was now visibly trembling. ‘I’ll delete them off the computer,’ Pollock said, his voice little more than a whisper.

‘Then you’ll write a letter of resignation,’ Mitch said, and when Martin Pollock’s head shot up and around, his eyes narrowing with half-hearted defiance, Mitch smiled grimly. ‘Oh no, I can’t make you,’ he agreed, as if Pollock had actually said the words aloud. ‘But if you don’t, I’ll have a few words in a few ears. And you know how many ears listen to me, don’t you, Pollock? You won’t be able to function in this nick or any other.’

Martin Pollock began to cry.

‘And Pollock,’ Hillary said, waiting until he’d turned and looked at her. ‘I’ll be keeping tabs on Janine. If I even get so much as a hint that you’ve gone anywhere near her …’

Mitch shook his phone in front of Pollock’s face. ‘This makes its way to the desk of a woman DI I know in Sex Crimes who’s always happy to put away one of her own. Her ex made her very bitter.’

Hillary nodded. ‘And you don’t want to do jail time, Pollock,’ she advised softly. ‘You really don’t.’

‘Now piss off out of our sight,’ Mitch said, withdrawing his arm. When Martin moved to step around him, he added, ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Pollock looked at him blankly, and Mitch opened the locker door a bit wider. ‘Tiddles?’

Without a word, Martin Pollock collected his dead cat and crept away.

‘My treat, what you having?’ Hillary asked pushing open the door of the Boat and glancing around. Her local at Thrupp wasn’t very busy on a week night, but the first person she saw was Mike Regis.

She saw his eyes widen as he realized she was coming in with a man, then smile as he recognized the legendary Mitch the Titch.

‘A friend of mine from Vice is in,’ Hillary said quietly, as Mitch let the door close behind him.

‘OK,’ Mitch said, understanding at once that she didn’t want anyone else to know about Janine’s woes. ‘Do I know him?’

‘Mike Regis,’ Hillary said casually.

‘Only by rep. Seems solid,’ Mitch agreed.

Hillary led the way, and made the introductions. ‘Mike, Mitch. An old friend from way back. We meet up for a brew every now and then and to have a good moan.’

Mike shook hands, smiled and said, ‘What you having?’

‘My shout,’ Hillary repeated, wondering if she sounded as awkward as she felt. ‘Mitch?’

‘Pint of cider, thanks.’

Mike indicated his still full glass and Hillary went to the bar. She was just ordering herself a large gin and tonic when she spotted a flash of blond hair out of the corner of her eye. She turned around and felt her heart do a little jig. She almost groaned out loud. This was not good. Not good at all.

Chief Inspector Paul Danvers spotted her at the bar, and smiled. ‘Hello. I was hoping to catch you. Just a quick word about the Jenkins case.’

‘Sir,’ Hillary said, wishing she’d made the drink a treble.

With no other option, she led Danvers and his pint of Guinness to the table where Mitch sat and who lifted an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

‘DCI Danvers, ex-Sergeant Mitch Titchmarsh. Mitch, my boss.’

Danvers nodded, but if he was aware of Mitch’s legendary status, he gave no sign of it. Being originally from York, he might genuinely not have known him. Instead his eyes went immediately to Regis, and the smile on his face stretched just a little bit wider.

‘Chief Inspector,’ Regis said unenthusiastically.

‘Paul, please. It’s DI Regis, right?’

As if he didn’t remember, Hillary thought, wondering why men had to play such silly buggers. Mitch, who could never be accused of being slow on the uptake, looked from Danvers to Regis, then gave Hillary a sly wink.

Hillary kicked him sharply under the table.

She awoke the next morning feeling deeply unhappy. She stared at the ceiling, barely a foot above her head, and frowned. Talk about getting up on the wrong side of the bed.

Then it all came back. That ugly business with the pathetic Martin Pollock. Then the fiasco in the pub. With a groan she pushed the covers aside and took a step to the right, coming out into a tiny narrow corridor, and then taking two steps forward and one to the left, which put her in the tiny cubicle that was her shower. She’d got the two-minute shower down to a fine art, and five minutes later she was dressed and heading down the narrow corridor to her tiny galley.

At first living on the boat had seemed like a nightmare, but now she couldn’t imagine herself living in a house. All those acres of carpets to hoover. All those dirty, inaccessible windows to wash. Now she spent about half an hour a week on housekeeping, if that. And, come the summer, all she needed was a few days off, and she could push off from her mooring and tootle off to Oxford for a spell, or head out towards the Cotswolds, taking her home with her. Instant stress relief.

She put on the coffee pot and popped two slices of bread into the toaster, trying not to remember last night. Not that that was possible. Regis and Danvers had been like two fighting dogs sniffing each other’s backsides, each getting ready to launch into the fray and land the first bite. Only the presence of the highly entertained Mitch, and Hillary’s warning, flashing eyes had stopped them.

Well, one thing was for sure. Her romance with Regis was now well and truly out of the bag. Danvers could hardly have failed to read the signs, even if Mike hadn’t gone out of his way to drop hints the size of house bricks that he and she were now a couple. And Mitch would certainly foghorn the news all over the county. Like all men, he loved to gossip.

Hillary had felt so cheesed off, she’d refused to go back to Mike’s place last night, even though he’d practically begged, and she wondered now with a flash of defiance if she’d ever go back again.

She didn’t like to be claimed, as if she was a mining stake in the Yukon. She was nobody’s property. Damn it, what was it with men?

She got to HQ early, and was in no mood to find Keith Barrington already there. Not that he said much by way of greeting. In fact, he seemed uncharacteristically preoccupied.

When Janine came in, dead on time, a small ragged cheer went up. Anyone who could make it was invited to the registry office that afternoon at two o’clock for the ceremony, and most of her colleagues were genuinely happy for her and Mel. Some, no doubt, would be glad to see her go to Witney, but on a girl’s wedding day, most people were willing to give her a break.

She grinned widely and gave the room a general good-natured finger, but Hillary saw the tension around her eyes. The moment she sat down at her desk, Hillary handed her a large card. ‘For you.’

Janine smiled a somewhat awkward thanks and opened it, reading the inscription without much thought. Then her face went pale, then red, then pale again.

Inside, written underneath the usual Hallmark pleasantries, Hillary had scrawled:

Janine swallowed hard, and felt tears flood her eyes. She swallowed them back, and when she finally looked up, her face was shining. ‘You’re the bloody best, boss,’ Janine whispered hoarsely. ‘Sometimes I think there’s nothing you can’t do.’

Hillary grunted and shook her head. ‘I wish! This Jenkins case has got me baffled for a start.’ She didn’t know, then, that she would solve the case before the day was out.

K
eith Barrington gave his computer the command to print, and watched the piece of paper go through the machine. His thoughts, however, were firmly back at his bedsit, and his unexpected visitor. He blinked when the machine beeped at him, letting him know that the function had been completed, and he keyed back onto his screen-saver and collected the sheet of paper.

He glanced across at Frank Ross’ desk, more than usually relieved to see it empty. He knew only too well what the likes of Frank Ross would have had to say about Keith’s visitor. And although he was almost sure that Hillary Greene wouldn’t agree with him, Keith had no desire to put it to the test.

He was already treading on thin ice as it was. So far, it seemed that the fiasco back at Blacklock Green wasn’t going to be held against him here. But that didn’t mean that he wanted another question mark, if not a black mark, held against him so soon.

‘Guv, I’ve got the name of Roger Glennister’s nearest living relative – a younger brother called Paul.’ He handed her the piece of paper and recounted his researches.

‘Glennister’s parents both died in the sixties, and his brother moved to Fife. Now he’s retired, and moved back to his old stomping ground. The Glennisters did live in Bicester, as you thought they might have, but now Paul’s retired to a dot on the map called Northbrook. Know it?’

Hillary did. ‘It’s a tiny hamlet not far from here. Funnily enough, my first murder case involved a body found in the canal near there.’ She took the sheet of paper and read it through quickly. The Glennisters were a typical working-class family, the father a roofer, the mother a home help. Paul had been the only one to go to university, and had subsequently gone into the oil industry. Hence his move to Scotland, she supposed. Married, but now widowed with one child, a boy, who was following in daddy’s footsteps.

‘OK, let’s go and talk to him,’ Hillary said. They might as well – they had nothing else to do. Ominous thought for a murder case that was nearing the end of its first week. ‘Janine, when Frank gets in, if he ever does, tell him I want a full report on the Hodge case to date.’

Janine rolled her eyes. ‘You know he’ll be stringing it out from here to eternity, right boss?’

Hillary did. It wasn’t often she left him in charge of anything, much less gave him so much carte blanche to spend time away from the office. Still, it kept him out of her hair. ‘Just do it. If you need to take a long lunch break, you go ahead.’ With the ceremony at two, she might appreciate it.

‘Thanks boss.’

Keith was staring at his screensaver when Hillary turned back. ‘Ready, constable?’ she asked sharply, and Keith leaped to his feet.

Janine grinned and hid her face in a forensics file.

Driving back to Northbrook brought back only a few memories of her first case as SIO in what turned out to be a murder case. But then it had been high summer, with wheat gleaming under bright sunlight, and the sounds and sights and smells of the canal at the height of the boating season. Now, as they turned off onto the single lane that led down into the valley, the fields were ploughed brown, heavy-looking and waterlogged. Trees were bare, raising blackened, stick-like forms against a buffeting grey sky, and the only sound was that quintessential sound of winter in England – that of arguing crows. Or was it rooks? The hamlet of Northbrook looked utterly deserted, with not even a dog or cat trotting in the lane.

‘Canal cottage, guv,’ Barrington said, peering through his car window, trying to make out the name on the building opposite him. He couldn’t imagine living in such a tiny settlement, nestled in such a remote valley. What on earth possessed a man to move from a city to a place like this?

‘Up on the left,’ Hillary said, suddenly spotting it.

Canal cottage had a low, grey-tiled roof, and was built of Cotswold stone. A large porch, also with a grey-tiled roof, guarded a pale lemon-coloured front door. Newly installed double-glazed windows gave the old house an incongruously modern look. A neat, well-tended garden added to the air of modest affluence.

Hillary, who knew the cost of house prices after recently selling her own marital home, whistled softly. ‘Not bad for a working-class boy from Bicester,’ she said to Barrington, who looked at the cottage and shuddered. He might only have a bedsit over a laundromat, but he still preferred his place. At least it had a touch of life. In the mornings, he could hear Lal, the owner of the shop, opening up and cheerily greeting his customers who were dropping things off for dry-cleaning before heading off to work. In the evenings came the loud and sometimes humorous catcalls of those just turfed out of the pub up the road. But what did anyone get to see around here? Unless it was those noisy black birds, kicking up a racket in a large, dead-looking tree?

‘Engineer, guv,’ Barrington said. ‘Must be money in oil.’

Probably not for much longer though, Hillary thought gloomily, and sighed. She shut the car door behind her, mindful that Puff the Tragic Wagon couldn’t always be relied upon to be totally waterproof in bad weather – and definitely not if the wind was in a certain direction.

Barrington led the way to the front door, and rang the bell. The Westminster chimes could be heard clearly inside, and the sound brought on a sudden and savage pang of homesickness, which made Barrington half shake his head. He knew why he was feeling so unsettled of course. His visitor had brought more than potential trouble and strife. Now nostalgia bit him like a hungry dog. But there was no going back to London. No matter what.

‘Something wrong, constable?’ Hillary asked mildly, and Keith jerked a half-panicked glance in her direction. Shit, she was quick on the uptake.

‘No guv,’ he lied brightly.

Just then the door opened, revealing a man who couldn’t have stood at more than five feet five. He was dressed in slippers, which didn’t help, and wore a chunky-knit, Arran sweater and beige slacks. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Paul Glennister?’

‘Yes?’ he answered a shade more sharply.

Hillary displayed her ID card. ‘DI Greene, Thames Valley Police. DC Barrington. Nothing to be alarmed about, sir, we’re just making routine inquiries. Mind if we step inside? It’s a bit damp out here.’

Paul Glennister nodded wordlessly and stepped aside to allow them access. Once they were in the tiny foyer, however, he firmly barred the way. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d just like to ring Kidlington myself and confirm your identity. There’s been a spate of robberies locally, people talking their way into people’s homes and then robbing them and so forth. I’m sure you won’t object to that.’

Hillary smiled. ‘Not at all, sir. I wish more people were like you.’ She waited patiently, listening in as Paul Glennister called HQ, using the landline phone resting on the hall table. She showed him her card again so he could quote the serial number then hid a smile as the home owner demanded a physical description of both DI Hillary Greene and DC Keith Barrington.

Once he was satisfied that they had the necessary bona fides he hung up and, without apology, led them through into a small but pleasant lounge. He made no offer of coffee though.

Hillary took a seat near the grate, where a real fire crackled a welcome, and nodded to Barrington to sit in a harder, wooden-backed chair by the wall and take notes.

‘Now, what can I do for you?’ Paul Glennister asked, sitting on the sofa opposite the fireplace. He had thinning sandy-coloured hair and rather dark circles under pale blue eyes. His hands, she noticed, were very gnarled, and she wondered if arthritis was the problem.

‘It’s to do with your brother, sir,’ Hillary said.

‘Roger? Good grief, he’s been dead for over fifty years!’

‘Yes sir. Can you tell me when he died exactly?’

‘March fifth, 1951.’

So he had survived the war then, after all, Hillary mused. ‘And how did he die, sir?’

Paul Glennister glanced down at his hands. ‘Can I ask what all this is about?’ he demanded shortly.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t say. I can only tell you that his name has come up in an ongoing inquiry. I’m sorry if this is dragging up bad memories, but I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

Paul Glennister regarded her silently for a few moments, then sighed heavily. ‘Very well, I must accept that, I suppose,’ he replied grudgingly. ‘My brother killed himself.’ He answered her question flatly.

Hillary blinked. ‘I see. That must have upset your parents very much.’

‘Of course it did,’ Paul said with some asperity. ‘Mother never really got over it.’

‘May I ask … how?’

‘Hung himself in the garden shed.’

‘This would be at the family home in Bicester?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must have been very shocked as well?’

‘Yes.’ Then, as if aware that his monosyllabic answers weren’t going down too well, sighed. ‘He was my elder brother, I looked up to him. Things had been difficult for some time. Roger was a conscientious objector in the war. Oh, he wasn’t interned, and he worked for the medical corps, with some distinction, on the battlefields. But he wasn’t really cut out for that kind of thing. He’d always been a shy, sensitive boy. He felt things more than most. He was never what you might call all that stable. He was shy, a loner. Never one for joining in things.’

‘Yet he played football for Fritwell?’

‘How the blazes did you know that?’ Paul asked, amazed, then nodded. ‘Yes, that was Dad’s idea. Thought it would toughen him up. Dad was born and bred in Fritwell you see, before his family moved to Bicester. I don’t think it really worked. He wasn’t a very good football player.’

‘Does the name Florence Jenkins mean anything to you, Mr Glennister? Or Florence Miller.’ Miller was their vic’s maiden name.

The older man finally smiled, a genuine smile with real warmth. ‘My word, you are bringing back old times. Florrie. Yes, she was my brother’s girlfriend for a short time. I think Mum had despaired of Roger ever having a girlfriend, so she almost fell on Florrie’s neck when Roger brought her home. I was only a boy at the time, of course, but I remember Florrie all right. She was a pretty thing. Laughing, full of life. Even made old sober-sides – that’s what I used to call Roger – even made him see the funny side of things every now and then. When they got engaged, Mum was over the moon.’

Hillary nodded. ‘What happened?’

‘Oh, it never happened. Just sort of petered out. Well, I think it was only to be expected really. Roger never had any pep, any sort of get up and go. He used to have the night sweats, remembering the war. Couldn’t hold down a job from one month to the next. I think Florrie eventually wised up and dumped him. Some time later, Roger killed himself.’

Hillary glanced at Barrington, who was scribbling furiously in his notebook. ‘I see. Did you blame Florrie for what happened? Did your parents?’ She hoped her voice didn’t sound as tense as she suddenly felt. Because, right now, this was the only sniff of a motive they had.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Paul said, after some thought. ‘Roger, like I said, had been having problems all his life. He just didn’t fit in. He wasn’t all that bright, to be honest. He was the sort of man other people looked at and just wanted to kick. Defeatist through and through. Nobody was really surprised when Florrie dumped him. It was almost inevitable. She was only eighteen herself, and probably only felt sorry for him. But a young girl’s got to look out for herself, hasn’t she?’ Paul, who was now leaning back against the sofa, his face looking thoughtful, and softer somehow with reminiscence, sighed and shook his head. ‘We heard she married someone else soon after. Obviously some man called Jenkins.’ He looked questioningly at Hillary, who nodded.

‘Did your brother leave a suicide note, Mr Glennister?’ Hillary asked softly.

Paul shrugged. ‘Probably. But nothing I was allowed to read or hear about. I was packed off to an aunt up North for a couple of weeks, right after it happened. In that day and age, it was instinctive for people of my parents’ generation to protect the young. Nowadays, of course, they’d have sent me to a counsellor and urged me to “talk about it”.’

‘So you don’t know if your brother laid the blame for his actions on anyone or anything in particular?’

‘No. But I can assure you, Mum and Dad never blamed Florrie. I’d have known about it if they had. You can’t live in a house with someone until you’re eighteen and not know what they’re thinking and feeling. Has something happened to Florrie?’ he asked abruptly, then frowned. ‘Wait a minute. Jenkins. Didn’t I read in the paper earlier this week that some old woman had been murdered in her home in Bicester? Was that Florrie?’

Hillary didn’t deny or confirm it. ‘Could you please tell me your whereabouts last Tuesday night, Mr Glennister? Say, from six o’clock to midnight. Strictly routine,’ she added, before he could object.

But Glennister, strangely enough, showed no signs of objecting. For someone who was obviously officious, he’d become almost suspiciously compliant. ‘As it happens I can. Tuesday night is Finds Night.’

Hillary, having no idea what he was talking about, repeated gently, ‘Finds Night?’

‘I’m afraid I’m one of those people who go about the countryside with a metal detector, inspector. Caulcott, just up the road, has a Roman road, and I’ve found quite a few coins since I returned to Oxfordshire. Our club meets at our chairman’s house in Kirtlington, every first Tuesday of the month. We compare notes and findings, make sure every find is meticulously logged, trade areas of expertise, give advice on treasure troves and all that sort of thing. Fascinating. We meet at seven, and break up about ten. Or thereabouts. I can give you the chairman’s name and number. Before and after those times, I was here. Alone.’

Hillary accepted the piece of paper he wrote on and thanked him. Outside in the car she passed it over to Barrington, telling him to check it out. Not that she seriously suspected the alibi would prove to be false. The old photograph of a past lover had only led to yet another dead end. She was going to have to go back to HQ and start right from the beginning again. Like it or not, it was starting to look as if the dead grandson was now the only contender in the running.