With a Narrow Blade (2 page)

The older man held his gaze for a moment, then smiled briefly. Perhaps something about the youngster reminded him of a stag at bay, because he suddenly felt rather sorry for him. ‘Look lad,’ he said quietly. ‘Hillary Greene’s one of the best there is. She’s clever, she’s fair, she knows the ropes, and if you treat her right, she’ll do the same to you. Do yourself a great big favour and just watch, listen and learn. Keep your head down, get some good years in, and things could look up. Know what I’m saying?’

Keith smiled grimly. ‘Sure,’ he said.

Well. They would see.

‘Flo, love, you not up yet?’ Caroline Weekes called through the letter box she’d just opened, and squinted into the empty hall. She waited, called again, then, conscious of the neighbour across the street still watching curiously, stood back a little and looked up.

The terraced houses were simple two up, two-downs, and all the windows at number 18 had curtains drawn firmly across. Even the ones downstairs.

‘She not up yet then? That’s funny, Flo’s usually up by now,’ the woman with the milk bottles called.

‘I know,’ Caroline called back. She could almost remember the woman’s name, but not quite. ‘I wanted to ask her if she needs me to bring anything back from Tesco’s for her.’

The neighbour, another old-age pensioner who had always envied Flo a friend like Caroline – someone young, willing, with a car – frowned, obviously beginning to get a little worried herself now. Flo Jenkins had lived across the road from her ever since the council had moved her into her house just over ten years ago, and she had always been a friendly soul. ‘She’s not been very well recently,’ the old woman said nervously, and Caroline bit her lip.

‘No, I know,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll use the spare key she gave me. Just to make sure. She’s probably just overslept.’ And so saying, Caroline Weekes reached into her bag and withdrew a large set of keys. On it were her own house keys, her car keys, and Flo Jenkins’ front door key. She inserted a silver Yale key and pushed open the door, calling loudly, ‘Flo? Flo, it’s me, Caroline.’ She shut the door behind her, noticing that the old woman across the way hadn’t gone in, even though it had now begun to rain in earnest.

DI Hillary Greene parked Puff the Tragic Wagon, her ancient Volkswagen, as close to the entrance as she could get and swore softly at the rain as she ran across the car park. As ever, she’d left her umbrella somewhere, and made a vague mental promise to buy a new one soon. She shook herself off just inside the door, where a growing wet patch signalled that she wasn’t the only one to have done so recently.

‘Mornin’,’ the desk sergeant said cheerfully as he spotted her. ‘Your new DC’s just reported in,’ he added, opening his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. It probably wouldn’t do to tell her that he and Ted had already warned him what was what. Hillary Greene was well able to take care of herself, and probably wouldn’t appreciate it.

‘Oh, right. About time I got some help,’ she said, but with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. The desk sergeant watched her go, then shrugged. If anyone could handle the likes of Keith Barrington, it was her. The brass around here seemed to have got into the habit of sending her the lame ducks, the unknown quantities and ‘sensitive’ appointees. But with Barrington, they might just have taken it too far.

Hillary climbed the stairs, having forsaken the lift years ago, when the size of her hips and thighs threatened to match her age. Which was in the forties. Now, as she climbed the stairs, she was thinking about her new DC with just a tinge of unease.

She used her key card to get into the main office, and was instantly hit by a barrage of noise. The big open-plan office held clusters of desks that housed uniform and plain clothes alike, most of whom were busy on the phone, typing up reports, scanning computers or chatting over the first morning cup of tea. One of them, a DS who’d migrated over from Juvenile Crime Squad, waved her over as she came in. Sandra Pierce was about Hillary’s age, and they had known each other since the year dot. She was at Sam Waterstones’s desk, and Sam, another old friend, grinned at her as she approached.

‘We were just talking about our mystery millionaire,’ Sam said, and added, in obvious mimicry of someone else, ‘It could be you!’ He pointed dramatically at Hillary, who looked back at him blankly.

‘Huh?’

‘Crikey, don’t say you haven’t been following the drama,’ Sandra said. ‘Don’t you read the local papers?’

Hillary grunted wryly. ‘I don’t read any papers if I can help it. I’m depressed enough as it is.’

‘Ah, but this is a good-luck story for a change,’ Sam said, then grinned. ‘Well, not so much good luck really. Somebody around here’s won the lottery.’

Hillary blinked. ‘Around here? You mean in this nick?’ she squeaked. ‘Who? And how much can I touch him up for?’

‘No, not here, you nit. Well, maybe here,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Someone in the “Oxfordshire area” had the winning ticket a while back, but never claimed it.’

‘Nearly 180 days ago, to be exact,’ Sandra corrected. ‘Apparently, Camelot give you exactly 187 days to claim it, the stingy sods. The
Oxford Mail
came out with a piece about it yesterday. You really not seen it? You know, “Do you have the three million pound ticket in your coat pocket?” sort of thing.’

‘Yeah. Here, Hill, you checked your old tickets lately?’ Sam asked. ‘The missus has had the drawers out at our house, I can tell you. Driving me barmy. Even looking in flower vases and everything. I mean, who’d put it there, even if we had it? The numbers you want are,’ he picked up yesterday’s edition of the paper, which had run the numbers, ‘2, 9, 12, 14, 30 and 49.’

‘Yeah, do those numbers ring a bell, Hill?’ Sandra said.

‘Nope,’ Hillary grunted, glancing across to her nest of desks near the side wall. She could see Janine Tyler’s blonde head bent over some paperwork, and, sitting beside her in Tommy Lynch’s old place, an unfamiliar, red head. Her new DC.

The one who liked to beat up his superior officers.

‘Just think, if whoever it is knows it’s their numbers but can’t find the ticket …’ Sandra was saying. ‘I’d feel as sick as a dog.’

‘Don’t bear thinking about,’ Sam agreed. ‘Hey, Hill, you sure you ain’t got an old ticket lurking about? If it’s yours, you can treat us all to a holiday in Bali.’

‘Yeah, Hill, what about it? Wouldn’t you be surprised if you went back to that boat of yours and found the winning ticket tucked up in a letter rack or something?’ Sandra teased.

‘Surprised? I’d be bloody astounded,’ Hillary said, beginning to walk off, then saying over her shoulder with perfect timing, ‘I don’t play.’

The wave of laughter that shot across the office lifted Keith Barrington’s head. The woman he saw walking towards him was dressed in a plain dark-grey skirt and blazer, with a white blouse and flat black shoes. She carried a large, black leather handbag, and her chestnut-tinted brown hair was cut in a long, bell-shaped bob. She had a surprisingly lush, hourglass figure. The fact that she was headed straight for their group of desks, and hadn’t taken her eyes off him, told him that he was about to meet his new boss. The one who’d recently been awarded a medal for bravery after being shot during the take-down of Oxford’s most notorious drug dealer. The one who could make his life hell, or give him a second chance.

He rose carefully to his feet and waited for her to make the first move.

The house was totally quiet, and Caroline Weekes paused in the hall at the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t go up them, but instead walked a short way down the little hall and pushed open the first door on the right, which, she knew, would take her into the lounge.

The curtains were drawn and the electric lights were on. The telly was turned down low, showing a couple sitting on a sofa as breakfast telly in all its glory was beamed into the living room. Facing the telly was an old but comfortable armchair. On it, sat a grey-haired woman. Her feet were encased in comfortable carpet slippers, her nylon tights a little wrinkled and baggy around the calf. She was wearing a dress of some heavy, rather itchy-looking material that was probably very warm, and a hand-knitted cardigan in the same colour as the flowers on her dress. She seemed to be watching the television. But Caroline Weekes knew that she wasn’t. Her eyes didn’t move, her chest didn’t rise and fall. She sat in her chair so incredibly still.

A gas fire burned in the grate, and the room felt hot and stuffy. She was finding it hard to breath. Caroline stepped a little further into the room and stared down at her old friend. She seemed to be wearing what looked like some strange, large, ornamental metal pin, right in the middle of her chest.

Caroline Weekes turned and walked out of the room into the hall, and out to the front door. This she opened, then walked a little way down the path, then stopped for a moment, then walked a little way more until she reached the gate. There her knees seemed to give way, for she found herself clutching at the gate to stop herself from falling over.

A car went by in the road, the sound of the tyres hissing on the wet tarmac loud in her ears. Across the road she thought the old woman, still standing in her doorway, called out something, but she couldn’t seem able to make out what it was.

After a few moments, she reached into her bag, only then aware that she was getting soaking wet, as the rain ran off the red leather of her bag and dripped onto the concrete beneath her feet.

With shaking hands she got out her mobile phone, turned it on, took a deep breath, and dialled 999.

H
illary Greene put her bag down on the table and held out her hand. ‘You must be DC Barrington?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Guv.’

‘Yes, guv.’

From his file, Hillary knew he was twenty-five years old, but he looked younger. It was possibly his colouring that made him appear so, for his sandy hair bordered on the ginger, and he had very pale skin with the usual smattering of freckles that went with it, reminding her of a schoolboy Just William type. He also had round, pale green eyes that looked disproportionately large in a triangular-shaped face. But looks, in this case, were almost certainly deceiving. There was nothing innocent about this young man.

‘I see you’ve met Sergeant Tyler,’ Hillary said, glancing down at Janine, who didn’t appear to hear her. She was reading a file, probably on her battered wife case, but Hillary got the feeling that the younger woman wasn’t really paying attention to that either. She’d noticed this air of distraction about her before, and had assumed it was down to pre-wedding jitters. Now she was not quite so sure.

‘Janine is getting married on Friday.’ She turned back to Keith Barrington, a definite warning in her voice now. ‘To Detective Superintendent Mallow. He’s known around here as Mellow Mallow, or Mel for short. Our Super,’ she added, just in case he hadn’t twigged yet. ‘It means she’s leaving us to go to Witney nick, so we’ll be short-handed. I hope you like hard work.’

Keith smiled. ‘I like it better than being bored, guv,’ he admitted.

Hillary nodded, not missing the quick, assessing look he shot down at Janine, who, at last, had realized she was being talked about, and was staring right back at him. Good, he’d got the message. The last thing the new boy wanted to do was run foul of his superior’s soon-to-be missus.

‘Ross phoned to say he’d be late, boss,’ Janine said, and Hillary raised an eyebrow. Frank Ross never usually bothered to explain himself.

‘He say why?’ she asked curiously.

‘Of course not,’ Janine said, as if surprised she should even ask.

Hillary grunted, then seeing the new boy follow this byplay, nodded to a chair. ‘Sit down, let’s have a chat. I like to keep things up front and clear. That way we can avoid sticking our foot in it.’ She took her own seat, pushed her towering In tray to one side, and regarded the London boy closely.

‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard about my late husband, Ronnie Greene, or not,’ she began, seeing by the fleeting look of surprise to cross his face that he either hadn’t, or hadn’t expected her to mention him. She smiled wearily. ‘I don’t want you putting anyone’s back up because you’re not up to speed, that’s all. I was on the point of divorcing my husband, when he was killed in a car crash and allegations of serious corruption against him came up. These were investigated and substantiated.’ She stated the facts boldly, and without any emphasis.

Keith blinked, but said nothing.

‘I also was investigated, as was DS Ross, who was my husband’s bosom pal,’ she added dryly. ‘I was exonerated, and no mud was able to stick to Frank Ross.’

Janine, listening with half an ear, smiled thinly. Nicely worded, boss, she thought grimly. It made it clear that she was innocent, whilst Frank Ross was as guilty as hell, without her actually saying so.

‘You’ll soon discover that Sergeant Ross is not popular around here,’ Hillary went on flatly. ‘But from time to time you’ll have to take orders from him,’ she added. ‘Your predecessor, Tommy Lynch, had to, and his before that, so you’re not coming in for any unusual treatment.’ She stressed the last few words just enough for a delicate wash of red to colour the youngster’s cheeks. ‘Tommy’s now a DS out of Headington. He kept his cool, worked hard, learned and studied. If you do the same, I don’t see any reason why your story should be any different.’

She paused and looked across at him steadily. She doubted she could make things any plainer than that, but added, nevertheless, ‘If you think you’re going to have any problems taking orders from someone you may not personally respect, it would be better if you just up and left now. I won’t stand for any insubordination here.’

Janine raised an eyebrow, but wasn’t particularly surprised that Hillary had thrown down the gauntlet so early or so clearly. Mel had told her all about the new boy, and how he’d decked his old sergeant back in the Smoke. Rumour had it that the sergeant had it coming, which was why Barrington wasn’t prosecuted, but still. Hillary couldn’t have been any too pleased to learn that Blacklock Green’s troublemaker was being seconded onto her team.

Keith Barrington met Hillary Greene’s dark brown eyes without flinching. ‘I don’t think it’ll be a problem, guv,’ he said. But he had to wonder. Had the brass back in Blacklock Green arranged for all this? Did they know DI Greene’s resident sergeant was a wrong ’un, and deliberately made sure he got posted here, just to see if he’d lose control and clock this Ross character too? Were they
that
determined to get him booted off the force? Because his career would never survive another incident like that last one.

If so, they were in for a nasty disappointment, Keith thought grimly. He was damned if he was going to let them get him down.

Especially since his new boss seemed to be all right. He found himself inclined to like her, but first impressions weren’t always reliable, he knew. And there was still that problem with her bravery award. It worried him. It worried him a lot. If she was the gung-ho sort who liked to take chances and grab the glory, and sod the consequences to those around her, then it might not be Frank Ross he felt like clocking.

Hillary’s eyes narrowed slightly. It was almost as if she could read his mind, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t know it, but he was only one of a long line of people who half-believed Hillary Greene could do just that. Many was the villain, and underling, who’d faced her questions and felt as if he was being read like a book.

Hillary abruptly nodded and reached for a folder from her In tray. ‘OK then. Janine, bring … you want to be called constable, Barrington or Keith?’ She turned back to the new boy, who hesitated a moment, then replied.

‘Keith’s fine, guv.’

Hillary nodded. ‘OK. Janine, bring Keith up to speed with our ongoing cases. Your paperwork all up to date?’

‘Boss,’ Janine said flatly, giving her a hard-eyed look. She’d never referred to Hillary as ‘guv’ and, in truth, resented just a little having to work with another woman. But she’d never given DI Greene cause to complain about her standards of work. And just because she was getting married in a few days’ time didn’t mean she’d been slackening off either. A few months ago, she’d failed her first sitting of the Inspectorship Boards, exams that she thought she’d aced, and she was still smarting from that. But she knew she could do her job standing on her head, even with all the hassles from her anonymous bloody friend. The bastard might have succeeded in distracting her now and then, but she could handle it.

Hillary, used as she was to Janine’s prickly character, wondered again what was eating at her, because something definitely was. Far more than usual. There was little chance of the blonde woman confiding in her, she knew, so she’d have to keep an eye out and see what she could discover. Right now, however, work beckoned. She opened the folder containing a hit-and-run case that was almost certainly going into the ‘open’ file before long. A young lad on a bike, on his way to Technical college, had been knocked off it into the roadside ditch, and lain undiscovered for several hours. Luckily he was making a good recovery, but with no witnesses and very little by way of forensics except for a paint scraping that could match over a hundred thousand vehicles, she couldn’t see it going anywhere. Reluctantly, she signed off on it, then glanced across at Janine. There were dark patches under her eyes, and she’d noticed for several weeks now that she seemed jumpy, and far more aggressive than usual. She dreaded to think who the brass would assign to replace her. What she sorely needed was an experienced sergeant, preferably without any baggage. Ross was useless, and the new boy was very much an unknown quantity. She found herself missing Tommy Lynch more than ever.

She was just reading her notebook on an arson case she was due to testify on in court next week, when she saw Chief Inspector Paul Danvers come out of his cubby hole and walk quickly across towards them. He was a tall man, lean, blond and classically handsome, and today was wearing a dark blue suit so severe it must have cost a bomb.

He was also the man who’d once investigated her for corruption. And was now her immediate superior.

He was already smiling at her as he approached, though a paradoxical frown seemed to tug at his eyebrows. Danvers stopped at her desk and held out a piece of paper. His eyes skimmed over her with their usual welcoming warmth, which Hillary habitually ignored, hoping it would go away.

‘This just came in,’ Danvers said. ‘Report of a suspicious death in Bicester. I’d like you to take it.’

Janine perked up instantly, and Keith felt his heart beat quicken. He’d not been here an hour, and already they had a possible murder on their hands. Some action already. Unless the new boss made him stay and play catch-up.

But Hillary Greene was already reaching for her bag, and her look took in the both of them as she said, ‘Right. Drop everything else. Guv, if DS Ross comes in, can you point him our way?’

Danvers nodded, glanced at the new boy, seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. Instead he merely nodded, turned, and went back to his office. But he wasn’t happy. He’d argued strongly against Barrington being foisted on Hillary Greene, but had been overruled. Just let the violent little sod lay one finger on her, he thought, and he’d be out on his ear so fast he wouldn’t touch the floor on his way out.

As Hillary lead the way through the large open-plan office towards the exit, Janine said to Barrington out of the corner of her mouth, ‘Unless you missed that, Danvers has the hots for Hillary. Everyone knows it, but she’s got her head stuck in the sand at the moment, so don’t get in the middle of it. Danvers might look like a walking advertisement for the Chippendales, but he doesn’t take no for an answer. He’ll wear her down, and he won’t want any interference from the likes of us. So watch your back.’

Keith, who hadn’t missed the way the CI had eyed up his new boss, sighed deeply. This was just great. He felt like he was stepping into a bloody soap opera. Tyler was marrying the Super, the CI had the hots for his immediate boss, and Frank Ross was probably going to be a twin of his bastard of a sergeant back at Blacklock.

So much for a new start.

‘I don’t suppose you know the area just yet,’ Hillary said to Barrington as they dashed across the wet and squally car park towards her car. ‘So I’ll drive.’ It was usual protocol for the senior officer to be driven. Once inside the car and buckled up, she started the engine, and added, ‘But if I were you, I’d spend some of my spare time just riding around, getting a feel for the geography.’

‘Guv.’

As she pulled out of the car park, headed to the roundabout, then motored quickly down the main road towards Bicester, she gave him a quick lesson. ‘Bicester’s one of several market towns that fall in our catchment area, about ten miles from here. It’s grown a lot in recent years, and is popular with commuters, being close to both Birmingham and London with the motorways right on its doorstep.’

She glanced in the mirror, saw Janine’s ‘new’ mini close behind and swore as the wind took the car and pulled it towards the centre of the road. She fought it back, and reluctantly lowered her speed a little. The windscreen wipers of the old car battled to keep the glass clear as the rain suddenly became torrential. She swore under her breath again, and lowered her speed even more, knowing that Janine, behind her, would probably not approve. Janine was the kind who liked to get where she was going fast.

Barrington, however, relaxed a little as she reduced speed, and inside, he felt a lessening of the tension that had been building up ever since his hostile reception at his new nick. At least his new boss wasn’t going to wrap them around a telegraph pole.

‘Know anything about the vic, guv?’ he asked a few minutes later, but Hillary shook her head.

‘Not much. Female, the only resident of the house where she was found. It might turn out to be a domestic accident or suicide.’

Barrington nodded, looking out of the streaming windows nervously. More green fields. Bare twigged hedges. Cows. Actual cows, grazing. Now sheep. Apart from the road ahead, with its steady stream of oncoming pale headlights, there wasn’t a manmade thing in sight. He sighed heavily, caught his new boss looking at him, and clamped his lips hard together.

Hillary gave a mental shrug and concentrated on driving. In front of her a Peugeot started to aquaplane, and she touched her brakes gently.

This was going to be a long morning.

The house was a small two-up, two-down, in a row of terraced council houses in the King’s End area of Bicester. She found it by asking a postman, who’d parked up and was staring gloomily out of his window at the sky.

The rain was easing just a little as they parked behind a patrol car. The uniform posted at the door watched her approach, nodded as she showed her ID, and entered her name into the log. Behind her, she heard Janine and then Barrington go through the same procedure. Inside, the tiny passageway was dark, and plastic sheeting already covered the carpet, put down by SOCO to preserve any signs of footprints on the carpet. She moved towards the first open door and glanced inside. Here, also, protective polythene had been laid, and the flash of a police photographer briefly lit the dim grey light filtering into the room.

A man dressed in white overalls was dusting a mantelpiece for prints. She was slightly surprised to see SOCO already in place. Contrary to popular public belief, almost any death was labelled ‘suspicious’ until a senior investigating officer had declared it otherwise. He or she usually relied on a mixture of experience, common sense, and the initial report of a police doctor, before deciding on how to proceed. The fact that SOCO was here meant that there could be very little doubt that this was a murder. The uniforms who’d first arrived at the scene must have reported it in as such.