A Narrow Return (21 page)

Just what the hell was it?

‘So …’ she began, and then something else hit her hard. It was something so basic and fundamental, that she couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to twig to it.

Hell, she
was
out of practice.

In the obs room, Steven Crayle tensed.

Hillary slowly straightened up in her chair. ‘Mr Cleeves,’ she said calmly, ‘can you tell me what your last lesson was for that day?’

‘Geography. I only teach Geography and Environmental Studies.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry I should have been more specific. I mean which form, which class, did you teach last of all?’

‘4B.’ Phil Cleeves said at once.

Hillary nodded. ‘That was quick, Mr Cleeves. Why do you remember that so easily?’

Cleeves went pale again. ‘I just do, that’s all. I remember, because Peter McRae was in that class, and when I heard about his mother being killed, I sort of went over it in my mind, trying to figure out what the poor boy must have been doing when it was happening. And it must have been around the time when he left my classroom to catch the bus to go home. And, well … I realized what would be waiting for him when he got there. It sort of stuck in my mind.’

‘Yes, sir, it would. Would you excuse me for a moment?’ Again for the tape, she signed herself off and switched off the recorder.

In the obs room, Crayle was on his feet. The moment she stepped inside, he shook his head in frustration.

‘Damn. You’re thinking secondary transfer, aren’t you?’ he said.

Hillary nodded, and just then, Jimmy came back in with Sam and Vivienne in tow behind him. Both the youngsters looked excited. This was their first big case, and it was obviously hotting up.

‘Sorry, guv, he phoned a pay-as-you-go mobile. No way we can trace it,’ Jimmy spoke first.

Crayle sighed. ‘We think the DNA sample could be a case of secondary transfer,’ he explained, and Jimmy swore softly.

‘What’s that?’ Vivienne asked eagerly.

‘Peter McRae’s last lesson was a geography class, which Phillip Cleeves taught,’ Hillary explained. ‘Any good barrister could argue the case that Phil Cleeves could have shed a hair onto Peter McRae’s jumper, and Peter McRae then consequently shed it in the kitchen later. Which means….’

She trailed off, unaware of Vivienne’s moan of complaint.

‘I get it,’ Vivienne wailed. ‘We’ve just lost our best suspect.’

‘Except he couldn’t have,’ Hillary heard herself say. ‘I’ve been so bloody dense! No, he couldn’t have,’ she said, turning to look at Crayle urgently. ‘Because she said he never went into the kitchen.’ Her voice was sharp with anxiety now.

‘Who didn’t?’ Vivienne asked, baffled. ‘Who didn’t do what? What are you talking about?’

‘Lucy McRae!’ Hillary yelled, still holding Steven Crayle’s eye. She grabbed her bag and ran for the door. ‘We’ve got to speak to Lucy McRae! Right now, before it’s too late.’

L
ucy McRae sat back on her heels and wiped a hand over her warm forehead. Around her were ten big cardboard boxes, containing the bulk of her belongings. Tomorrow was removal day, and she couldn’t wait to get out of this dingy flat.

She grimaced at the sweat on her hands, then told herself it was all good aerobic exercise; whether you worked out at a fancy gym, or hefted goods about, it came to the same thing. It kept the fat away.

And that reminded her – now that she had some spending money, she’d have to find a good expensive gym, and join up for a month or so. Not so much to keep in shape, but because it was a good way to meet a well-heeled man.

Now that she’d got her deposit on a decent flat, a steady source of income had become a priority.

She sighed in annoyance when she heard the doorbell peal.

Visitors, when she was surrounded by such a mess. That was all she needed.

Reluctantly, she got up off the floor and traipsed to the front door.

Jimmy, Hillary and Crayle all piled into the super’s car. Of course, Sam and Vivienne had wanted to come too, sensing the case was about to break wide open, but Hillary had had to veto it in no uncertain terms.

They were both too young, and more importantly still, untrained to tackle anything that might turn nasty.

Now as they buckled up, with Steven behind the wheel of his expensive dark blue saloon, he turned to look at Hillary in the passenger seat.

‘Where to?’

‘Lucy McRae’s flat. Banbury.’

‘Right. Now perhaps you can tell me what the hell’s going on?’

Jimmy Jessop, sitting in the back seat, thought with a wry grin that he’d quite like to know that too. Things seemed to have happened at the speed of light.

First they were interviewing their prime suspect, Cleeves. Then they get hit with the secondary transfer problem. Then the boss suddenly reacts as if someone’s lit a firework under her and they’re heading out of the door as if they’re fully paid up members of the Sweeney, instead of the more staid and sedate CRT.

‘I think Phil Cleeves’s phone call might have put her in danger, sir,’ Hillary said, an eye on the speedometer. ‘Do you think you can hurry?’

Crayle put his foot down.

‘Why?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Because of the hair,’ Hillary said, holding on to the side of the door as the powerful car overtook three cars in succession and slid back onto the side of the road just in time to avoid an approaching BT van.

But even though she was fighting back a growing sense of panic about Lucy McRae, another part of her had to admire the man’s driving skills. She felt perfectly safe, even if they were hammering along at eighty miles an hour.

In the back seat, she heard Jimmy phone in their destination back to HQ, and ask that they not be pulled over by any traffic patrols. Hillary silently blessed him for not having to be told to do it. ‘Do we need backup, guv?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure. It wouldn’t hurt, if there’s someone available.’

‘Right, guv,’ he said, and relayed the message.

‘I don’t get it,’ Crayle said, as Jimmy closed shut his mobile. ‘What’s the hair got to do with it? I thought you’d decided it had to be secondary transfer.’

‘I have. I don’t think Cleeves ever set foot in that house, and I believe him when he said that he and the vic were never personally acquainted. In fact, if I’m right about all this, then the thought of Cleeves and Anne McRae ever being lovers is downright laughable.’

Crayle cursed a slow moving lorry, and quickly negotiated a way around it. They were now approaching the traffic lights at Hopcroft’s Halt and they were on red.

He didn’t reduce speed quite yet, gambling that they were about to change.

In the back seat, Jimmy checked his seat belt was secure.

Hillary eyed the upcoming lights – which were still on red – and glanced at her boss. His face was tight with concentration, his prominent cheekbones touched with white, a sure sign of tension. But his hands on the wheel were steady, and her heart rate did a little skip that had nothing to do with fear of imminent death by RTA.

‘Go on,’ Crayle said, about to touch the brakes, when the lights changed to amber. They roared through at nearly eighty-five. There was a dual carriageway up ahead, he knew, and he could gain even more time there. The speedometer crept closer to ninety.

From the way Hillary was sat tensed forward in her seat, he had a feeling they might need every second they could gain.

It was odd, considering the fact that he might be putting his promotion on the line, that he never once thought that she might have got it wrong. After all, breaking the speed limit and going personally into a potentially risky situation would all be frowned upon by the top brass if he didn’t get a good result out of it.

‘I think Phil Cleeves is gay,’ Hillary said flatly.

Crayle nodded, his eyes and concentration still fixed to the road ahead.

‘Does that necessarily concern us?’ he asked, and in the back seat, Jimmy wondered the same thing. They were, after all, into the second decade of a brand new millennium. Granted, school-teachers might still have a hard time of it being openly gay, but as far as he could tell, Cleeves was still in the closet, which meant a blind eye could be turned.

‘It is if he likes his partners young,’ Hillary said flatly.

Crayle swore. ‘You think he’s a paedophile?’

From the back, Jimmy spoke up. ‘He’s not on the radar, guv. I started checking him out as you asked me to, and nothing even remotely pointing to that has shown up.’

‘No, I expect he’s been very careful. But I think someone, a long time ago, might have got on to him.’

Jimmy and Crayle got it at the same moment.

‘Anne McRae did,’ Crayle said, being forced to slow down at last as they approached the village of Deddington.

‘Yes, I think so,’ Hillary said.

‘Then … you think, her son, Peter?’ Jimmy said thoughtfully, from the back seat. ‘The trouble he was in at school? It was with Cleeves?’

Hillary nodded grimly and glanced at her watch.

Crayle saw her do so, and swore at the next set of red traffic lights ahead.

‘Look, Pete, it’s not as if I’m not glad to see you and all that,’ Lucy McRae said, pouring her brother a glass of orange juice from the fridge. ‘But as you can see,’ she waved a hand around the box-strewn flat, ‘I’m in the middle of packing. And thanks for that, by the way. The new flat’s great.’

Peter McRae glanced around nervously. The block of flats had been pretty quiet when he’d arrived, and he guessed that most of the tenants were out at work. But there’d be bound to be someone around. Old ladies, or new mums with babies. Was it safe?

‘Thanks, sis,’ he said ironically as he accepted the glass of juice. ‘I should hope it is. I had to practically clear out my bank account for it. Just because Seb’s loaded doesn’t mean to say that I am. I have to be careful, you know?’

For a moment, the two siblings looked at one another in perfect understanding.

Then Lucy shrugged. ‘Not to worry, you’ll be able to fill the coffers again soon. At least you’ve still got your meal ticket. I’ve got to look around for another one.’

Peter’s free hand clenched hard into a fist. ‘I happen to love him, Luce,’ he said grimly.

‘Yeah sure, whatever.’

Peter forced the rage back and he took a brief swallow of cold liquid. She’d always been so damned cavalier. He just couldn’t seem to get it through to her that this was his
life
they were talking about.

He’d always suspected that Lucy knew about their mother. And when she’d come to him for money, just when the cops had reopened her case, he’d known it for certain. But even then, he hadn’t felt all that threatened. After all, she was his sister, she wouldn’t grass on him.

But now, now all that had changed.

He glanced around the tiny flat again, and outside the window. Traffic moved on the busy streets below. He’d have to keep her away from the window. He couldn’t risk being seen. Or should he lure her away from the flat? But take her where? The thing is, Lucy wasn’t stupid.

That was the problem.

Lucy had always been the brightest of all of them.

‘We’re coming up to Banbury, Jimmy. Do you know the road where Lucy’s flat is?’ Hillary asked.

Jimmy did, and leaning forward between the two front seats began to give directions.

‘So you think that Phil Cleeves and Peter McRae had a fling going when he was still at school, and that Anne McRae found out about it?’ Crayle said, wanting to get things straight.

‘Yes. And she wasn’t happy,’ Hillary said, in what she imagined was probably a gross understatement. ‘You remember, Jimmy, how everyone said that Anne was fierce about protecting her kids. And that she was the disciplinarian, what with the father being out of the picture so often, and was always the one who took care of any problems the family might have?’

‘Yes, guv,’ Jimmy agreed.

‘So if she found out, or suspected, that one of his teachers was interfering with her son, she’d take the bull by the horns and not think twice about it, rather than waiting for Melvin to get home or going straight to the cops. You agree?’

‘Yes, guv,’ Jimmy said. ‘I reckon she’d go straight to the source of the problem. Cleeves himself. Then, if she got no joy there, the school and probably only on to us as a last resort.’

‘Right,’ Hillary agreed. ‘She’d be reluctant to make it official until she knew all the details. She probably wasn’t sure how far it had gone, and her instinct would be to protect her son, and the family, from the trauma of a trial and any publicity unless it was strictly necessary.’

‘Especially since she must have known that her son was gay anyway,’ Jimmy said. ‘He is openly living in a same-partner relationship now, right?’

‘Yes,’ Hillary agreed.

‘So you think that Cleeves called Peter McRae just now,’ Crayle said, nodding his head at the latest directions Jimmy was giving him.

‘Yes. I think when we pulled him in on the DNA evidence, he panicked. I think he probably called Peter to ask him to verify that they’d had a last lesson together at school that day,’ Hillary confirmed. ‘And it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that they’d been in touch before this. At least, since the inquiry had become active again anyway.’

‘Yeah, that would make sense. Even if whatever they’d had going together must have quickly fizzled out, once Anne McRae died, they’d tend to stick together once the case became active again. If only to get their stories straight, should they need to.’

‘Yes, but they’d have had to be careful. And, by the way, I don’t think for one moment that Phil Cleeves knows what’s really going on,’ Hillary said grimly.

‘Which is?’ Steven said. He knew where she was going with this, but as they pulled up in a small parking area near Lucy’s block of flats, he wanted to hear her confirm it.

‘That Peter McRae killed his mother,’ Hillary said flatly.

‘Peter, what the hell are you doing?’ Lucy asked, turning around from taping up the last of the boxes, to find her brother standing behind her with a pair of her tights in his hand. ‘You a tranny or something?’ she laughed.

Then she saw that her brother, her taller, heavier, stronger brother, was twisting the tights into a silken rope, and all thoughts of laughter fled.

She had just a brief moment of disbelief, before he was on her.

As she felt his hands on her arms, roughly turning her, she kicked backwards and heard him swear. But then saw the tights come down in front of her face, and she wondered if her mother, twenty years before, had felt the same sense of panic and bewilderment as she herself was feeling now. That Peter, Peter of all people, could be doing this to her.

And then sheer terror took over as she felt the tights close around her windpipe, cutting off her air supply.

‘This is it,’ Jimmy said, stopping outside the door and putting his ear to the wood. Crayle reached over him and was just about to ring the doorbell, when Jimmy raised his hand.

‘Stop,’ he said quietly. ‘I think I can hear something.’

And then they all heard it – a muffled female shriek of sheer horror.

‘Shit!’ Crayle said, and tried the door. It was, of course locked. ‘Out of the way,’ he ordered Jimmy, who was more than glad to oblige. He was way too old, and his bones far too suspect, to go around breaking in doors.

Crayle stood back, and kicked the door with tremendous force.

Hillary hadn’t expected anything to happen at the first attempt. It was only in badly-made films where the hero could kick open a door with a single blow. So when the door splintered and flew open she looked as surprised as she felt.

Crayle noticed.

‘Karate,’ he said tersely, even as he was running forward into the heart of the tiny flat. Hillary was still standing there with her mouth open when Jimmy went in next, and she pulled herself quickly together and followed them in.

She looked around at once for a handy weapon in case it was needed, and picked up a large black furled, steel-structured umbrella standing beside the ruined front door.

When she stepped into the tiny living room, umbrella ready to hand, the adrenaline was already kicking in, and her eyes instantly relayed everything it saw to her brain.

Lucy McRae, half-facing them, her congested face beginning to turn puce, the tights biting deep into the skin of her throat. Her eyes were open, but were beginning to get that glazed-over look that told Hillary she was about to lose consciousness.

Over her shoulder, the handsome face of her taller, blonde-haired brother. His eyes were wide and startled, as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

And launching himself at him, Crayle, whose foot came out and hooked around the back of his right knee, making the younger man fall backwards. He tried to save himself with his hands, and instinctively let go of his sister, who sagged onto her knees and into Jimmy Jessop’s competently waiting arms. He quickly half-dragged, half-carried her out of the affray.