A Narrow Margin of Error (11 page)

But again Barry Hargreaves shook his head. ‘Like I told that Gorman at the time – it didn’t happen. I always kept a careful eye on the girls when they came to see me, just because I knew what Rowan was like. Don’t get me wrong – he was a nice lad in some ways. Had a good enough sort of heart really, but he was a typical lad. Thinking with his cock – sorry, excuse the language. So I never trusted him as far as I could throw him, see? I made sure he never got his hands on Nat or Rommy, don’t you worry. No matter what anybody else thought.’

Hillary looked at Barry Hargreaves thoughtfully. He certainly
seemed to believe what he was saying, but Hillary had read the files. Gorman had interviewed several witnesses and friends of Rowan, who had sworn that the murdered man had told them that he’d had both of the Hargreaves twins in a twosome on several occasions.

‘That’s not the information Inspector Gorman had, sir,’ Hillary pointed out, as diplomatically as possible.

Barry smiled. ‘No, I don’t suppose it was. But people like to talk, don’t they? I suppose it made a better story to say that Rowan had seduced the girls, rather than the more boring truth – that he’d lucked out. Who knows, maybe he boasted that he’d bedded them. Or maybe some busybodies saw them out and about and put two and two together and came up with five. Who can say? But
I
know there was nothing in it. I tried to tell Inspector Gorman that, but he didn’t seem to hear me.’

Hillary ruminated on that for a bit. Was Hargreaves just blowing so much smoke? Did he, in fact, know that Rowan, that avaricious Romeo, had had his girls, and even now just couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the fact?

Or did he actually believe what he was saying?

Or was he, in fact, right? She couldn’t see someone like Rowan admitting defeat. Maybe it had been just idle bragging on his part.

Then again, Barry Hargreaves was nobody’s mug. Admitting to knowing that his fifteen-year-old girls had been corrupted by Thompson put him well and truly in the frame when it came to looking for the young man’s killer. Given the fact that he lived in the same house, had access to the murder weapon and, like the rest of the house’s occupants, didn’t really have an alibi put him right up there on the suspect list.

It might make even an innocent man gulp and start stretching the truth a bit when put under questioning.

‘Besides, I asked the girls, afterwards, right out, if they’d slept with him. Both denied it. And Romola especially wouldn’t lie to her old dad.’ Barry grinned. ‘Nattie, now she could be a bit tricky,
sometimes, I admit. But I know both my girls, and I know when they’re telling the truth.’

Hillary barely gave that much of a thought. Since when did teenage girls ever tell their daddies the truth about their sexual shenanigans? She knew she bloody well never had.

‘I see. Tell me about the morning Rowan died,’ she asked, changing tack slightly.

‘Well, like I said at the time. I left about twenty past eight or so. I saw the two girls in the hall – Darla and Marcie. I said a quick hello and we had a brief chat about what we had planned for Christmas – you know, that sort of thing.’

‘Right.’ Mrs Landau had said she’d heard both female and male voices in the hall that morning, so that fitted.

‘I had stuff to do – I needed a quick chat with my tutor so I went to college, then I picked up an artificial Christmas tree to take back to Swindon with me. When I got back to the flat the cops were already there, and Ma Landau was in a bit of a state. That’s about it.’ He shrugged his powerful shoulders helplessly.

He certainly had the build to overpower a smaller lad like Rowan, Hillary thought. But then, with a sharpened pair of
scissors
, was that really significant? According to the ME, anyone would have been able to land the killing blow – especially if Rowan had been taken by surprise, as seemed to be the case, given the lack of any defence wounds on the body.

‘Did you see anyone hanging around outside when you left?’ She went through the by-now familiar list of questions without much expectation of anything useful. Which was just as well.

‘No.’

‘Did Rowan ever confide to you that someone was making threats against him? Did he seem scared of anybody or anything in particular?’

‘Rowan? Good grief, no.’

‘Do you have any idea who might have killed him?’

And with this question, finally, she felt something of a nibble. For a brief moment, Barry’s easy manner seemed to stiffen just
slightly. The blue eyes didn’t quite meet hers so openly. He went, just for a fraction of second, rather still. Then he shook his head. ‘Sorry, no.’

Hillary knew it would be pointless pressing him now. Once a witness had committed him or herself, they very rarely went back on their story right away. But she’d be back. Barry Hargreaves, of all the housemates so far, interested her the most. But maybe not for the same reasons as he had attracted the attention of the rather two-dimensional-thinking Inspector Gorman.

‘Well, if you think of anything else, sir, please call me,’ she said, handing him her business card with her name, and the CRT’s
telephone
numbers and email address.

With the fretful Mary hovering nervously in the background, Barry Hargreaves showed them out.

Back in the car, Hillary sat staring thoughtfully ahead as Sam did up his seatbelt.

‘When we get back, I’d like you or Vivienne to check into Barry Hargreaves’s work history after he left Oxford.’

‘Yes, guv.’

‘And find me the addresses of his daughters – both of them. I want to have a word with them.’

‘Yes, guv.’

‘And did you have time yet to do a background check on the landlady, Wanda Landau?’

‘It’s a bit sad, really. They only had the one child – a girl. I can’t remember her name right off, but I’ve got it all down in a report ready for the murder book. She got involved in drugs at a young age. Her boyfriend was a bad sort, and died of an overdose before their baby was born. Mrs Landau tried everything to help her – paid for rehab any number of times, but it was no good.’

Hillary nodded glumly. ‘Let me guess. Prostitution?’

‘Yes, guv. She did time for shoplifting and theft as well. Mugged an old lady and broke her leg when she wouldn’t let go of her handbag, and she was pulled over onto a pavement. Social services took the kid off her, and Mrs Landau petitioned the
courts to take her grandson on and raise him herself. Won, too. Not easy that, considering her age at the time.’

‘Good for her,’ Hillary said, and meant it. ‘And the daughter?’

‘Don’t know. Went off the radar when she was released from gaol.’

‘Which means she’s probably dead somewhere. Lying
unidentified
on a slab, or buried in an anonymous grave, courtesy of whichever borough council she ended up in.’

Sam sighed. ‘She might have got off the gear inside and gone straight, guv,’ he said.

Hillary said nothing about his
naïveté
but it touched her, none the less, making her smile sadly. ‘Yes, maybe. OK. So, what do you make of Mr Hargreaves, Sam?’ she asked briskly.

‘He seems straight enough.’

‘Yes, he does, doesn’t he?’ she mused.

But she was sure that Hargreaves, if not actively lying to them, was definitely not telling them all that he knew.

As Sam turned the key in the ignition and started the drive back to Oxford, battling against rush hour all the way, she wondered what it was that Hargreaves knew or suspected.

And who it was he was protecting.

T
he next morning, at just before 8.30, Tom Warrington leaned forward in his car and checked the scene through the viewfinder of his favourite camera. He had a lot of camera
equipment
, including a large lens for distance work, but for unobtrusive outings like this one he preferred the little
common-or-garden
Canon. It was small enough to fit into his jacket pocket if someone spotted him, and yet it had a zoom facility and being digital, recorded good, clear shots.

He was parked in Hillary’s preferred area of the car park at Thames Valley HQ, and had an open folder splayed out against the steering wheel. To a casual observer, he looked like someone catching up quickly on some paperwork before venturing inside. It also allowed him to keep the camera out of sight between his knees in the steering well when not in use.

Just before a quarter to nine he saw her car pull up and park a few spaces down. He frowned, as right behind her, a familiar saloon car also hove into view.

Crayle. It almost looked as if they’d come together, but he knew that couldn’t be right. Hillary’s boat in Thrupp meant she came in via a different route than Crayle, who had a house on the other side of the town.

It had to be a coincidence that they arrived at the same time.

He waited very carefully, making sure that neither of them was looking his way, before taking out the camera and taking
photographs
. He already had some good shots of Hillary taken with his
long-range telephoto lens, but he preferred getting the closer shots. It felt more personal, somehow. More intimate. He liked her to know that he was always close, always watching over her.

Today, she was wearing a pair of black slacks, with a cream, black and mint-green blouse, and a matching mint-green jacket. The cool, classic colours complemented perfectly her dark russet hair. She hardly ever wore jewellery, he’d noticed, and she was wearing only her usual, plain, black-strapped watch today. Her make-up was minimal – but then, she didn’t need it. Her classical bone structure would make her beautiful, even when she was eighty.

She was class, through and through, Tom thought with pride, as he took another illicit snap and watched her turn and wait for the approach of Superintendent Crayle.

Her face looked thoughtful, composed and wary, as it usually did, but he didn’t like the way she smiled as the tall, elegant man approached her.

‘Hello, what’s up?’ she asked, as he reached her. ‘Why the rendezvous?’

He’d called her that morning, asking her to wait for his car on the Oxford road just this side of the turn off, and then to follow her in.

‘I just thought it would be a good idea for us to start showing up at the same time a couple of times a week,’ Steven said, reaching out and offering to take her briefcase.

‘Oh, the desk sergeant,’ Hillary said wisely. Through the big glass-fronted double doors in the foyer, the desk sergeants always had a good view of the car park and the various comings and goings. They liked to be in the know, and it added to their kudos of being the all-seeing, all-knowing heartbeat of the station house. And it wouldn’t take the eagle-eyed sods long to start noticing how Hillary and her boss were starting to arrive – albeit in
separate
cars – on each other’s heels.

‘Good thinking,’ she agreed with a smile, and handed over the briefcase to his waiting hand. ‘But isn’t that pushing it a little too
far?’ she asked, nodding down at her case. ‘Gallantry of that kind went out with the fax machine.’

Steven smiled. ‘Well, we’re not exactly trying to be subtle, are we?’ he pointed out. ‘And just in case your friend is watching, we want to be sure he gets the message.’

In his car, Tom Warrington lowered the camera back under the steering wheel. He didn’t want to take any photographs of his Hillary now that
he
was in the frame.

He watched, morosely, as the smarmy superintendent took Hillary’s briefcase from her and they walked together into the building.

He
should be the one carrying her case for her, of course. It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have let Crayle take it. He sighed heavily. Why did they always make it so difficult?

He could see that the text messages weren’t going to be enough to remind Hillary that she belonged to him now. He was going to have to think of something else. Something more worthy of her. After all, flowers and cards and texts were so predictable. He had to be original. To think up something unique and creative. She was Hillary Greene, the station-house legend. The best damned detective on the force. The smartest, the bravest. The best. He needed to think of something to engage her attention, to entice her out to play with him, to remind her that he was always thinking of her. Something unique to Hillary that would warm her heart but engage her spirit and mind as well.

He’d have to think about it. What did she like doing? What would please her? What would make her remember him, her true love, when the likes of the handsome, elegant distractions like Steven Crayle came her way, tempting her to stray?

With a sigh, Tom put away the camera and the folder and traipsed in to do his stint at the coal mine. He would ask Vivienne Tyrell out to dinner tonight, and see what she knew about Hillary’s current case. That way, he might be able to predict her movements, and maybe even arrange to ‘accidentally’ bump into her somehow.

She would like that.

Back inside his office, Steven Crayle paced about restlessly. He had a hard ache between his shoulder blades that was part tension and part unease. All throughout his conversation with Hillary in the car park he’d felt a bit jittery, as if he could sense hostile eyes watching him.

But the car park had been full of people coming and going, and cars parked with people in them having the first cigarette of the morning before entering the no-smoking zone of the office, or catching up on paperwork. There’d been groups of people, some in plain clothes, some in uniform, coming off night shift and
chattering
away, and a regular stream of people coming in, some of them looking at Hillary and himself, some of them not.

It had been impossible to pinpoint exactly where the trouble was. And maybe it was only the situation beginning to tell on his nerves anyway. Maybe there’d been nothing wrong at all. But if he was feeling this antsy, what the hell must Hillary be feeling like?

And yet, nobody would know there was anything wrong to look at her. None of her team was aware that she was under stress, of that he was sure. And so far, he hadn’t reported the
situation
any higher either – although if things did start to pop off, he’d have to tell Commander Donleavy. Although he and Hillary hadn’t discussed it yet, there was a tacit agreement between them that they wouldn’t bring the brass into this unless it became absolutely necessary.

He sighed and went to his desk, but only to swing restlessly from side to side on his chair as he did so.

He didn’t like to think of Hillary alone on that boat at night, for one thing. Although there were other boats moored up and down from her, it just felt so isolated. And the
Mollern
, whilst charming, was so restricted. If her stalker got inside, where could she run or hide? She wouldn’t even have much room in which to put up a decent fight.

Perhaps he should start staying the night? He was sure the seating arrangements in narrowboats could be transformed into single beds, so there’d be room. And it would certainly help their fake romance along if her neighbours saw him as a regular
presence
on the boat and started spreading it around.

The trouble was, he just couldn’t see Hillary going for it. She valued her independence too much.

Besides, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to be that close to her either – not on a regular basis. She was beginning to seriously get under his skin. He could recognize the signs. Already her welfare meant far more to him than that of a boss’s natural worry for a member of his team.

There was only one solution that he could think of: he reached for his phone and pressed two digits, giving him an internal line, and then pressed another two digits. He listened to the brief burring on the other end, and then tensed as the summons was answered.

‘Jessop,’ the voice said simply.

‘Jimmy, it’s Steven. Can you spare me a few minutes?’

‘Sir.’

The line went dead. Steven smiled. The ex-sergeant might be a man of few words and no social charm, but Steven had no doubt that he was reliable and, just as importantly, could be counted on to keep his mouth shut.

A moment later, he heard the knock on the door. ‘Come in.’

Jimmy Jessop looked worryingly old as he stepped through the door, but his eyes were wary and alert, and he walked like a man at least a decade younger than his grey hair and baggy face would indicate.

‘Jimmy, sit down.’

The superintendent waited until the older man was seated, then carefully marshalled his thoughts.

‘Jimmy, a situation has arisen that needs some delicate handling. And by that, I mean discreet handling. Off the record.’

Jimmy Jessop blinked and looked even more wary. Steven
smiled a shade grimly. ‘Don’t worry – it’s nothing bent.’ He wasn’t sure that he liked it that Jimmy was still so unsure of him that he didn’t know he played things strictly straight. ‘It’s Hillary,’ he carried on, seeing the surprise in the older man’s eyes. ‘She’s picked up a stalker.’

Briefly but leaving nothing out, Steven brought him up to date on the situation so far.

When he’d finished, Jimmy nodded slowly. Several people had approached him in the last two days who wanted to pump him for information on the Crayle/Greene romance, and he’d
laughingly
denied it.

Now, at least, it made sense.

‘And you’re sure it’s one of us?’ he asked glumly.

‘Someone working at HQ, yes. We think it more likely than not,’ Steven said.

‘I think you’re right,’ Jimmy agreed reluctantly. ‘And if Hillary thinks he’s probably done this kind of thing before, she’s almost certainly right, guv. She usually is.’

Steven nodded. Jimmy was obviously another Hillary Greene fan, which didn’t surprise him. The whole station was a Hillary Greene fan. In fact, he realized with a not-exactly amused inner smile, he was becoming one himself, wasn’t he?

‘You want me to see if I can find other victims of her stalker?’ Jimmy asked. The CRT records were the best there were, and if there was a serial stalker around, especially one who operated on their patch and right under their noses, the boffins and
number-crunchers
should be able to winkle out the names of other victims.

‘We’ve thought of that, but asking for official help makes it an official problem, and we’re not ready to do that yet,’ Steven said. ‘No, what worries me more is that in trying to make our pal jealous, we might just force his hand too far. And Hillary’s alone on that boat at night. It makes me nervous.’

‘Ah. Got you,’ Jimmy said at once.

‘Of course, I can’t just order some uniforms to keep obbo. It
would be all over HQ by the next morning, and besides, I don’t have the budget for it. And again, it would make it official.’

Jimmy nodded. ‘Don’t worry, guv, I know what you need. I’ve got three or four pals from the old days who are bored stiff with fishing, or hanging out in their allotment sheds. A bit of
night-time
obbo will relieve the boredom. And it’s nearly May now, so it’s not as if we’ll freeze our balls off. And, besides, they’d do it for Hillary Greene even if we were up to our necks in snow.’

‘I haven’t told her I’m bringing you in on this, Jimmy, and I don’t intend to. Her instinct will be to keep you all out of it. So whenever you take your turn watching her, be sure she doesn’t catch you at it. And that goes for your pals, too. She’s sharp, don’t forget, and she’s already on the alert, looking out for chummy, so you’ll all have to be extra careful.’

Jimmy Jessop smiled grimly. ‘I know she’s smart as a whip all right, guv. Don’t worry – me and my mates might be old, but we’ve got plenty of experience under our belts. She won’t know we’re there.’ He only hoped he was right. Just how embarrassing would it be if his guv’nor nabbed one of his mates, thinking he was her stalker? He’d never hear the end of it – from either of them.

‘Good. I want you to both look out for her, and see if you can spot anybody tailing her. Check the faces around her and see if you can spot one that you see more often then you would expect to. Oh hell, you know the drill – I don’t have to spell it out.’

‘Yes, guv. I take it you don’t want us to apprehend?’

‘Hell, no. If you get a lead on someone, trail them, get a picture if you can, any details, but leave well alone. Well, unless there’s any clear and present danger to Hillary, naturally.’

‘Got it, guv,’ Jimmy said. ‘We’ll start tonight.’

‘Good. Oh, and Jimmy, don’t forget: he’s broken in to her car, her locker and her boat. If you can find enough mates to help, it might be useful if they keep watch on her property when she’s not around. Unless he changes his MO, we might just be able to catch him in the act.’

Jimmy nodded. ‘Good idea.’

Once outside the office, he began making a mental list of his pals best suited to the job. They had to be fairly fit, and still fairly young. Well, the right side of seventy, anyway.

And they had to know how to handle themselves without making a mess of it. Because they’d have to be tooled up – there was no way around it. Stalking tended to be a young man’s game, so chummy would already have an advantage over them.

But there were ways and means of evening the odds. Hammers, a weighty length of chain, even a good old-fashioned police baton. The choice of weapon would be down to
individual
choice. He himself had always preferred a stout hazel stick with a nobby end that had been soaked over and over again in a handed-down family recipe, until it had the density and weight of iron.

In her office, and oblivious to the arrangements that were being made to watch over her, Hillary checked through the murder book. It was well stuffed with the most recent and up-to-date facts and interview notes, but it didn’t provide much by way of inspiration.