A Narrow Margin of Error (7 page)

She thought for a moment he was going to turn around and acknowledge her, but when he didn’t, she made a great play of reaching out for a tray in the pile nearest to him, letting her hand just brush his arm as she reached past him.

She watched him select a fish and salad option and quickly did the same, although she was not particularly fond of seafood. She ignored the desserts – although if she’d been on her own the chocolate mousse would have been her first port of call, and selected a bottle of mineral water instead.

Vivienne was just a few steps behind him as he stepped out into the main body of the room. She was about to come abreast of him and suggest they find a table together, when he suddenly veered off to the left, and took the last seat available at a table for four. One was a DI from Juvie whom she vaguely
recognized
, and the other two also had that higher-rank air about them.

A vexed flush flashed across her pretty face as she glanced around forlornly. There were plenty of empty tables this late in the lunchtime stint, so why the hell couldn’t he have sat at any one of them?

Just then, she saw a man sitting at a table for two half rise, and smile at her diffidently, indicating the empty chair in front of him with the air of a man who was expecting her to ignore him. He was obviously making a play, which was much more what she was used to, and, feeling slightly mollified, she walked towards him, her eyes assessing him quickly.

He had a really good body, but he was a bit younger than she
liked. And he was just a humble PC in uniform, too. Small fry for her. But he had really good hair – thick and dark, and his eyes were really pretty hot. She’d never had a man with green eyes before.

‘Hello, I saw the big chief ditch you. The man must be mad,’ Tom Warrington said quietly. ‘Don’t know why you’re wasting your time on him. He must need glasses, if you ask me.’

Not bad for a quick, spur-of-the-moment pick-up line, but she didn’t like to hear someone criticizing Steven.

Vivienne tossed her head. ‘He didn’t realize I was behind him, that’s all,’ she said sharply. ‘Otherwise it would have been different.’ She set her tray down and held out her hand. ‘I’m Vivienne Tyrell.’

Tom grinned and shook her hand. ‘Tom Warrington.’ He glanced at her healthy-option tray and nodded. At least she knew how to treat her body right. Perhaps this wouldn’t have to be so tedious after all.

‘You look too young not to be in the same boat as me,’ he said, patting his uniform with a wry smile.

‘Oh, I’m still a civilian,’ Vivienne said. ‘Just making my mind up whether or not I want to join up. I work for Superintendent Crayle at the CRT.’

‘Wow. I’m impressed,’ Tom lied.

Vivienne preened and picked at the unwanted fish on her plate. ‘It is pretty cool,’ she conceded.

‘Good, is he? To work for? Crayle, I mean. My sarge is a right pain in the arse, I can tell you.’

Vivienne smiled smugly. ‘He’s amazing.’

Tom’s green-eyed gaze flickered. Another female who was
gaga
over bloody Crayle. He just couldn’t understand what they all saw in him. Suddenly, the need to make contact with Hillary washed over him. To actually feel his arms around her, to hear her voice.

It was dangerous, he knew, but the impulse was almost
overwhelming
. Soon, he promised himself. Soon.

He forced himself to smile at the girl in front of him, a wide, white-toothed smile. ‘So, tell me all about how things are in CRT,’ he said.

T
he next morning, Hillary awoke to the sound of a pair of newly arrived chiff-chaffs making their iconic calls in the willow tree opposite her boat. She lay awake for a while, listening to the fragile feathered creatures that had migrated thousands of miles to come to England, and wishing that all that flying had tired the noisy little sods just enough not to call right outside her porthole window.

With a sigh, she rolled out of bed, pulled on an old terry-cloth robe that had seen much better days, and made her way through to the small galley kitchen where she set the coffee pot boiling. She contemplated toast, then decided not to bother, and instead reached for yesterday’s
Oxford Times
.

She turned to the financial section, but there was no report in it by Terence Pitt. But then, just how often would a financial
correspondent
be called upon to write an article? This was Oxford, not London. She wondered if it could be Darla who was the main breadwinner in that family, despite her husband’s high-falutin’ family connections. She sighed again and drank her coffee, then had a one-and-a-half minute shower and dressed.

By her watch it was nearly 8.35 when she stepped out onto the towpath, and the chiff-chaffs flew off in alarm. She had just a short walk past the rest of her neighbours’ narrowboats before the pub car park hove into sight. But as she approached Puff the Tragic Wagon her steps slowly faltered.

What the hell?

Her car was usually a pale-green colour (with creative swirls of rust here and there) but for some reason, her eye kept straying to the colour pink. And red. And yellow. And orange. And white. All of which seemed to be crammed against every window in the car.

For a moment she thought some hooligan had sufferered from a touch of creative originality, and instead of spray-painting foul slogans over the outside, had for some reason gone for a more abstract theme, and confined himself to the windows only in some show of minimalist reticence.

But as she cautiously approached her car, she saw instead that it was literally stuffed full of roses. Bunches and bunches of them. She walked slowly to the driver’s side door and looked inside. She couldn’t see the foot pedals for red roses and ferns. Carnations, roses and other frothy greenery was piled high on the driver seat, and the passenger seat beside it. The back seat and the rear floor was also submerged by roses and other flowers of every hue that reached, literally, to the ceiling of her car.

Hillary bent down and squinted at the lock of the door handle. Tiny scratches showed where someone had picked the lock.

She stood up again and glanced around. Most of the cars that were left in the car park on a regular basis were gone now, but that was only to be expected. It was a working day after all, and most of the villagers and boat owners had a longer commute than she did, and would have left earlier. She wondered what they’d made of the sight of her rainbow-hued old rustbucket. They’d probably just grinned and thought she’d struck lucky with some romantically minded new partner.

But she’d have to track them down and ask them if they’d seen anything or anyone lurking around. Not that her admirer was likely to have let himself be seen, and there were plenty of hours of darkness once the pub was shut for him to have left his gift unnoticed.

But it had to be done, since you just never knew. The thought of other people knowing she might have a problem wasn’t
pleasant, however, and she was in no hurry to start questioning her neighbours.

Instead she reached into her bag and called Steven Crayle.

It was answered on the second ring with a curt, ‘Crayle.’

‘Steven, it’s me. Are you at work yet?’

‘Just approaching the turn-off. Why?’

‘Can you come on down to Thrupp for a few minutes?’

There was a brief moment of silence, and then he said, ‘I’ll be about five minutes.’

Hillary thanked him, then snapped shut her mobile and stood looking at the floral bouquets inside her car. She tried to tot up the cost of them, but found it almost impossible. All the bouquets were wrapped in the clear plastic cones that came from florists shops, and most had ribbon around them, so they looked
professionally
done. So it wasn’t someone who was a keen gardener who grew their own and thus saved much moolah by making up their own offerings.

And even if the flowers underneath were the cheaper offerings, like chrysanthemums and daisies, saving the roses and carnations for the more visible bouquets on top, she guessed she must have been looking at easily £500-or-so worth of flowers. If not more.

She’d been assuming that her admirer was in the lower-income bracket, but perhaps that wasn’t so. But at least she had some place to start now – no florist getting an order this big was likely to forget it. Unless, of course, he’d boxed clever and had simply taken the time to order three or four bunches at different shops around the shire until he had enough for his grand gesture. Just how many florists were there within easy driving range?

And if he paid cash for them, there’d be no paper trail. Would he have the patience to have done that? Hillary was just gloomily contemplating the fact that he probably was when Steven’s very nice BMW pulled up beside her.

He slowly climbed out, all lean grace in a silver-grey suit,
dark-blue
shirt, and electric-blue tie. His black shoes shone in the late April sunlight, and there was the glint of gold at his wrists.

Hillary had an involuntary flashback to the other night, in the pub car park when, well aware of the watching eyes of the voyeur from Traffic, he’d pulled her into an embrace and kissed her.

And very nice it had been too.

He was tall enough to have to stoop just slightly to reach her lips, and he’d smelt of something gorgeous and expensive. It had been a long time since Hillary had been held in any man’s arms and his kiss had literally taken her breath away.

No two ways about it, the man knew how to use his lips.

‘I take it you’re going to be late for work?’ Steven asked drily, as he came to stand beside her and look at her over-stuffed car.

‘Just a bit,’ she agreed just as drolly, and opened the door. Several colourful displays toppled out onto the gravel and landed dramatically at her feet. She gave them a brief nudge with the toe of her sensible, reinforced-capped shoe.

‘I’ve got a mate with a van,’ Steven said, already reaching for his mobile. ‘He can help you shift them.’

‘I’ll need to go through them for messages or florists’ names and receipts first,’ she said. ‘After that, he can pick out the best of them for his mum or girlfriend or significant other, and then deliver the rest to some old folks’ homes or whatever he likes.’

She walked around the car, checking for any mistake her stalker might have made whilst Steven gave his friend directions. After he hung up, she had circumnavigated the car and was back beside him.

‘Anything?’ he asked briefly.

‘Nothing worth having. There’s a faint scuff-mark trail where he’s parked his own vehicle, and you can see a clear trackway through the gravel where he’s gone to and fro with armloads of flowers, but the gravel’s too thick for the mud beneath to take tyre tracks or shoe-marks. No dropped cigarette butts or
chewing-gum
wrappers or what-have-you, but even if there were, they could have been there for a while, or dropped by anyone. The pub is fairly well used.’

Steven nodded. It was what he’d expected.

‘You think he’s watching now?’

‘He might be,’ Hillary agreed mildly, without lifting her head or looking around. It was one of the first things she’d thought of. ‘It’s human nature to want to stick around and see how well a grand romantic gesture goes down. I dare say right about now I’m supposed to be smiling radiantly, a look of joy on my face, and holding my trembling hand over my fast-beating heart.’

Steven grinned. ‘Can’t manage the smile of joy, huh?’

‘Seems to have escaped me for the moment.’

‘If he’s watching, don’t you think we should do something to make him good and mad?’ Steven asked, trying to keep any inflection out of his voice.

Ever since he’d kissed her, he’d found himself reliving the moment at the most inconvenient of times – during budget
meetings
, driving home, in the shower, and most of all, alone, in bed.

Since his divorce there’d been the odd date or two, of course, but nothing that had really touched him. The sexual encounters had been pleasant enough, naturally, and mutually satisfying, but hardly important.

Now, at the thought that he might be about to kiss her again, he found himself tensing up like an excited schoolboy about to get his first grope. It made him feel both elated and uneasy.

Hillary glanced across at him thoughtfully. He was totally unable to read her expression, and he felt a cold but oddly not at all unpleasant sweat break out on him practically everywhere.

‘I suppose we’d better,’ she said finally, and stepped towards him.

Steven Crayle obediently took her in his arms and kissed her.

And then again.

And then again.

It was nearly 10.30 by the time Hillary pulled into the Thames Valley HQ car park. Her car, which still smelt better than it had in years, bore traces of the odd detached colourful petal. After she’d parked she walked quickly through the foyer and down into the
bowels of the building, where the rabbit warren that housed the CRT was located.

She’d found no receipts amongst the flowers and had made up a list of over fifteen different florists, the names of which had been incorporated in colourful logos on the polythene wrappers.

At some point she was going to have to run up her phone bill contacting them all, but she could already sense it wasn’t going to lead anywhere. In these days of the internet and modern
technology
there were so many ways he could have ordered them electronically without leaving a trace. And if his ‘romantic nature’ had led him to buying each and every bloom in person, what was the likelihood of a shop assistant remembering him specifically from all the other customers?

‘Guv,’ Jimmy called, looking up from his desk as she passed by the open door on her way to the stationery cupboard that everyone else euphemistically liked to call her office.

It was the first time he could remember her being late to work and, sensing that she was distracted, assumed that she’d gone somewhere else in relation to the Thompson case before coming into the office. ‘Anything for the murder book?’

Hillary shook off thoughts of florists, and shook her head to match. ‘No. Neither of the youngsters in?’ she asked, seeing he had the small office all to himself.

‘No, Sam’s got lectures and Vivienne’s doing something for the computer nerds,’ Jimmy said.

The larger team who used computers to search for crime patterns in the statistics carried out most of the CRT’s work. They also had a large liaison team with the forensics department, and such painstaking and detailed work required a lot of manpower. Not surprisingly, they often poached an extra pair of hands from Steven Crayle’s investigative team when needed.

So long as they didn’t call on her, she didn’t care. But she knew the likelihood of that happening was practically zero. Commander Donleavy wanted her doing detective work, not number crunching.

‘That’s fine. We’d better get on with the next of the witnesses,
though. Where’s Dwayne Cox hang out nowadays? Darla told us he encouraged Rowan’s sexual exploits, remember? He seems the logical one for our victim to have boasted to, or confided in if something had backfired on him.’

‘Wouldn’t he have told Gorman about it if he had, guv?’ Jimmy asked, reaching for his coat.

‘Not necessarily. It depends. If he dared or egged Rowan on and involved him in something that later led to him getting killed, he wouldn’t be in any hurry to confess to it, would he?’

Jimmy smiled. ‘Suppose he wouldn’t. And he lives and works in Reading now.’

Thinking of her sweet-smelling car, Hillary said firmly, ‘Grab your car keys. We’ll take yours.’

Hillary didn’t know Reading particularly well, and was happy to let Jimmy both drive and navigate.

‘Tell me what he does now?’ she said as the urban sprawl began to surround them.

‘He works at the Reh-laxe Clinic, guv. I googled it – it’s one of these health-spa-cum-retreat-cum-touchy-feely places for the well heeled who are feeling a bit glum.’

Hillary couldn’t help but smile at the scarcely hidden disgust behind Jimmy’s tone. ‘My generation was taught to just bite the bullet and get on with it,’ the ex-sergeant continued
phlegmatically
, letting a boy-driver in a souped up Mazda cut him up at an approaching roundabout. ‘Nowadays, it seems if you stub your toe you can suffer from depression and need professional help to get you through the trauma. Always supposing you can pay through the nose for it,’ he griped.

Hillary ran briefly through the notes she’d been reading since leaving HQ. ‘Cox was in the second year of an experimental psychology course,’ she murmured. ‘Unless I miss my guess, that’s more to do with science and arcane knowledge for the sake of it, than any practical use in the world of psychiatry. Did your googling say exactly what he did at this clinic?’

‘Some sort of therapist, I think, guv. I understood about one word in ten of their blog. Too new age for an old-age pensioner like me.’

Hillary grinned. ‘He must either have gone on to do another course, or he decided that there was more money to be made in the private sector. You have his address?’

‘Yes, guv.’

‘We’ll go to the workplace first. This time of day, he’s not likely to be at home. Let’s just hope he can fit us in. If not, perhaps we can sample some of the Reh-Laxe’s facilities. Care to submerge yourself in a cold seaweed-and-mud bath, Jimmy?’

Jimmy Jessop gave a very short and pithy answer to that.

Hillary was still savouring it when they pulled up outside a Victorian villa on the outskirts of town, set in a large acreage of flowering cherry trees and neatly mown lawns. A stone terrace ran along the front, complete with a balustrade bearing urns of bright geraniums. As they parked the car and climbed out, she saw that several bath-robed clients were sitting on the terrace in the full sunlight, drinking from glasses that seemed to hold a range of beverages from disgustingly healthy-looking green slime, to gin and tonic.