A Narrow Margin of Error (20 page)

Then he remembered that it had been the only place she could afford when she was divorcing that bent waste of space, Ronnie Greene. Obviously she must have got a taste for living on the canal, since he was sure she could have found a house to rent by now, if she’d been of a mind to.

A mate of his who owned a boat had told him that once you’d lived on one, you didn’t want to live on anything else. Addictive they were, he’d said.

Simon couldn’t see it himself.

He grimaced at the stewed, lukewarm taste of the tea, but drained his plastic cup anyway, then decided he needed to make room for it and quietly stepped out of his car. In one far corner of
the car park he found a convenient tree and relieved himself. Not easy, with a large police truncheon tucked down into the small of your back.

Being a modest man, he’d chosen a spot well out of sight of the car park and any possible eyes that might have caught sight of him from the few scattered cottages that overlooked the canal.

He wasn’t sure what made him stand slightly behind the tree after he’d finished and check the car park again with his
binoculars
before going back to the car. Perhaps it was sheer luck, or maybe it was the result of a once-acquired, never-lost, copper’s instinct.

But he was glad he did.

At first sweep, nothing seemed to be out of place. Then, a sense of movement had him swinging his binoculars back again to a particular patch of dense shadow. Had something moved? Maybe a branch, swaying slightly? But there wasn’t much of a breeze.

And then a figure stepped out of the shadows and approached the old Volkswagen Golf, which was parked at the far end of the tarmac area, nearest the entrance to the towpath.

Simon felt his heartbeats rack up a notch and that old tingle of excitement rush through his bloodstream. He’d almost forgotten how good that sudden surge of adrenaline could feel. Yes! Got you, you bastard, he thought.

But Simon now had a problem. He’d gone to take his leak well away from his car, and hadn’t thought to bring his mobile phone with him. So he couldn’t ring Jimmy for backup.

Plus, it was still a bright full moon, and there was little cover in the open expanse of the tarmac-covered car park. Worse still, he now found himself at the far and opposite corner of where he needed to be. Which meant he’d have to do a long
circumnavigation
of the car park, picking his way through the trees and the back gardens that bordered the area, in order to get to Hillary’s car.

Swallowing a growing sense of misgiving, Simon Riggs slipped back behind his tree and stepped further back into the
shadow of the trees. There he paused to let his eyes adjust and get his natural night-vision back. He’d been using the binoculars looped around his neck, but now he needed to use his own eyes.

He let the binoculars fall back to his chest, and set off slowly and quietly.

In the back of his mind, the cold hard voice of reason was
insistently
calling a warning. He was over seventy. His wife was waiting at home for him, blissfully ignorant, and thinking he was safely out on a river bank somewhere, catching carp. Jimmy had told him that the man they wanted could be dangerous. He had no backup coming. And his back was beginning to hurt, due to the tension.

Against that, he was damned if he was going to let the creep get away, not now that he’d finally stuck his neck into the trap.

Simon stopped, aware of a small, grating, metallic click, over to his right, where he knew the car was.

The stalker had popped the lock on the Volkswagen.

He moved off again, slowly, even more carefully now that he was edging closer.

The screech owl chose that moment to call again, making him nearly jump out of his skin. He had to smile. How many times had he seen something like that happen on a film – usually one of those hammy old horror movies, and, laughed at the cliché? Now he swore softly at the owl under his breath and carried on.

He took his time – the last thing he wanted to do was fall victim to yet another cliché by standing on a broken twig or branch, and frightening off chummy.

A few minutes later, and he was at the right end of the car park at last. Cautiously, picking a spot in the densest patch of shadow he could find, he raised the binoculars again and took another look.

His copper’s eyes noticed everything.

The suspect was bent down at the driver’s door, which made guessing his height difficult, especially in the dark, but he didn’t look overly tall. About five feet ten or so, Simon reckoned.

He looked bulky, and solidly built, but again it was hard to tell in the dark, especially since he was dressed from top to toe in black. Black denims, Simon guessed, and a black anorak of some kind. And black leather gloves.

He couldn’t see his face.

Briefly, Simon contemplated his options. If he waited, chummy might turn around, and let Simon get a good look at him. On the other hand, he might leave at any moment, in which case, he needed to get closer if he was to be in with a chance of making an arrest.

Silently, Simon Riggs stepped back into the shadows and carried on inching closer. He came to an old tumble-down wall, probably backing on to one of Thrupp’s cottages, and needed to climb over it in order to carry on. He didn’t like losing sight of the perp, but he had no choice. He was still not close enough to be sure of apprehending him, if his presence was spotted. His tricky back meant that he couldn’t run as fast as he once could.

He climbed the low wall as quietly as he could, and emerged back onto the fringe of the car park within three minutes, at a rough estimation. He should now be within a few yards of Hillary Greene’s parked car.

He felt the muscles in his legs and arms tense in preparation for sudden, physical effort. His heart rattled in his chest, and Simon Riggs tried to convince himself it had more to do with an
ex-copper’s
excitement than an old man’s fear.

Taking a deep, steady breath, he picked his spot, raised the
binoculars
, and checked one last time. If the perp had his back to him still, he’d rush out fast and give him a good whack with the old
truncheon
that he now transferred comfortingly into his right hand.

If the perp had turned around…. Well, then they’d see.

The old Volkswagen sprang into view. It was totally alone. The front driver’s door was shut. It looked untouched.

‘Shit,’ Simon Riggs said. His binoculars quickly swung around, and he was just in time to catch sight of the perp disappearing into the road entrance at the pub.

Even from that distance, and in the dark, Simon Riggs could tell that the man moved fast and well. He had the look of a strong, fit man about him.

Simon pretended not to feel the relief that swept over him, and moved instead to Hillary Greene’s car. He checked the door. It was locked again.

He didn’t have a torch, so he couldn’t look inside. Torches were a strict no-brainer for night-time obbo. A villain could spot a moron using a torch from miles off.

Feeling gloomy now, and with a growing sense of failure, Simon Riggs returned to his car, and reached for his mobile, which was sitting on the front dashboard. And regardless of the fact that it was now 1.30 in the morning he rang his pal Jimmy Jessop to report the sad tale of his cock-up.

Jimmy listened, sympathized and reassured his old mate that he’d done all that could be expected of him. Nobody, he said sharply, expected Simon to take on the perp single-handed. And at least the stalker hadn’t attacked Hillary or tried to gain access to the boat, which was the main thing. Simon happily agreed to spend the rest of the night on obbo, although both of the
old-timers
doubted that the stalker would be back.

After hanging up, Jimmy called Steven Crayle.

‘Any chance of there being any worthwhile forensics on the car?’ was the first question Steven asked. Despite being woken in the middle of the night, he sounded alert and calm.

‘No, sir, Simon reckoned he was wearing black leather gloves.’

‘And he didn’t see what the perp had been doing inside the car?’

‘No, guv, no torch. I could ring him back and ask him to check. But if Hillary’s awake, she might spot someone hanging around. And I don’t think Simon can cope with any more action tonight.’

‘No. Best to leave it. I’ll ring her first thing in the morning and give her a head’s-up about what she might find in the car. I’ll also
send a techie over first thing to see what he can get from it anyway. You never know your luck.’

‘Right, guv,’ Jimmy said. He didn’t bother to ask if Crayle would go over there himself first thing in the morning, just to be with her when she found whatever ‘present’ the perp had left for her.

They could both guess how well she would take to being
babysat
.

The phone woke her before the birds had the chance to do so. Back when she’d been a full DI, getting an early morning summons hadn’t been unheard of, but she’d grown used to her lie-ins.

But as she rolled over in her bed, squinting at her watch in the dawn light, she felt her pulse rate pick up a pace, as she reached for her mobile.

‘Greene,’ she said flatly.

‘Hillary, Steven.’

Hillary thrust back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Sir?’ she said cautiously. This didn’t have the feel of a lover’s solicitous enquiry.

‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ Steven began.

He’s married, was her first instinctive thought. Which was quickly quashed. No way would he have been able to keep secret a second marriage – not from the nosy gossip-mongers at HQ.

‘Oh?’ she said cautiously.

‘Since you came to me with the cross, I asked Jimmy if he and a few friends could keep an eye on you and your property at night. Last night, we had a near-miss.’

Briefly he explained what had happened. When he finished, there was a brief silence.

‘You mad at me?’ he asked.

Hillary thought about it, then sighed. ‘No. I’d have done the same if one of my team had the same problem. I wish you’d told me, though.’

‘Well, I’m telling you now,’ Steven pointed out, a smile in his voice. ‘I’ve got a fingerprints man on the way over there now. I don’t suppose he’ll come up with much, though. Get some kit off him and bag up the evidence and bring it in with you. I haven’t gone to Donleavy yet, and I still want to keep this under the radar as much as possible. The dabs man owes me a favour, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut.’

‘I hope Jimmy’s pal does too,’ Hillary said sourly.

‘He assures me all his old pals know to keep schtum.’

‘I’ll get dressed and go see what’s out there,’ she said flatly. Then added in a softer tone, ‘I’ll call you back in a bit. Thanks.’

She dressed in a warm pair of black slacks and a cream
polo-neck
jumper. It was still chilly first thing in the morning, and she felt in need of some added warmth.

The towpath was quiet, as she’d expected. Nobody was up at this hour except for herself and Jimmy’s pal. Wherever he’d hidden himself.

As she approached the car park, she saw a car pull away, and guessed that Jimmy had been told she was up and about and had warned his pal to scarper. That was fine with her. Whatever the stalker had left, she didn’t want the whole world and his granny knowing about it.

Puff was parked just where she’d left him. A pale mint green, with just a few rusting patches for added character, he looked harmless. Of course, the likelihood of a bomb being planted inside him was remote in the extreme. They had no evidence that her stalker was an explosives expert, and even if he had been, she doubted that the perp would have had time to install it in a place where she wouldn’t immediately see it. And according to the report that Jimmy’s pal had given he could only have been in the car a few minutes at most.

Even so, she felt a cold hard fist clench in her stomach as she drew closer to her car. She took a few deep breaths.

She stepped up to the driver’s side door and looked in.

And there, on the front driver’s seat, was another cross – a
duplicate of the one she’d found on her desk. Made of the same wood, it looked like, and carved into a point, it was the same size, and had three black initials poker-burned into the cross section.

Only this time the initials were MJV.

Another missing girl.

Another possible murder victim?

Just how many crosses, and how many sets of initials could there be?

‘Oh, shit,’ Hillary said softly.

It was gone nine by the time she pulled into the HQ car park, since the techie had taken his time and had been more than
thorough
. He’d taken plenty of samples from the car, hair, fibres and prints, but he and she were both pretty much convinced that they would all belong to herself, or maybe Sam, Jimmy or Vivienne.

She’d phoned Steven back the moment she’d spotted the cross and described it to him, so she wasn’t surprised to see his office door standing open, waiting for her, as she came past.

She knocked briefly and stepped inside. He was already studying the paperwork in a folder. He looked up at her, his clear brown eyes also quickly reading her face. She knew she looked a little pale and a little tired. And probably a little tense too. ‘It’s nothing I can’t handle,’ she said flatly, reading his mind.

He nodded, respecting her professionalism in a way that both reassured her and, if she was to be honest, miffed her, just a bit. It would have been nice to be cosseted just a little – if only so she could tell him to leave it off.

‘I had Handley run the initials straight away,’ he said, by way of greeting.

She didn’t really need to know if he’d had a hit, because he was already handing the file over to her. She took it and sat down, and he gave her a brief summary of what they’d found.

‘Her name is Margaret Jane Vickary, known to her family and friends as Meg. She’s been missing for four years,’ Steven recited from memory. ‘Divorced, no kids, she was a legal secretary with
an Oxford firm. She had a flat share in Summertown with another professional woman, a dental hygienist. She had no family to speak of, both her parents being dead. It was her flatmate who reported her missing. She was believed to be having an affair with her married boss – this, again, from the flatmate. According to her, Meg was getting fed up with all his promises to leave his wife and kids and never delivering. The MisPer team thought it likely she’d simply given up waiting around and decided to leave for pastures new.’