Beside a Narrow Stream (2 page)

‘No, not really,’ Tris admitted reluctantly, then said ‘Ow, yuck! I’ve stood in it!’ He lifted one, now slimy, green sneaker in disgust whilst his friend doubled up laughing beside him. The smelly brown muck, courtesy of one of the Jersey cow’s sisters, clung tenaciously.

‘Go and wash it off you dope,’ Jaime finally managed to
advise, over his shrill giggles, and Tris, hopping like a lame giraffe, quickly headed for the stream.

The bank of the stream was eroded where the cows regularly went down to drink, and with just a bit of deft leg-work, the boy was able to dip the sole of his sneaker into the shallow water. On the bank, his friend, now bored with the
entertainment
, was pushing squishy bread down into a jam jar.

Tris Winters put his foot back on dry land, turned back to face his friend, and then froze. ‘Oh heck, there’s someone already here!’ he hissed to his friend, who looked back, alarmed.

‘Where?’

‘Over there, look. He’s sunbathing,’ Tris hissed back. His friend quickly joined him, and looked to where he was pointing. Sure enough, about ten yards further upstream, a man lay on his back on the grass, his face turned away from them.

‘Hey mister, we’re just catching some minnows, all right?’ Jaime shouted, then frowned as Tris grabbed his arm. ‘Wassup?’

‘You shouldn’t have shouted,’ Tris whispered back
frantically
. ‘What if he’s – you know – a perv or something. A kiddie killer?’

Jaime Gould paled, making his freckles stand out even more on his face. The lads both knew about kiddie killers. Every now and then, some child’s picture appeared in the papers and on telly, and everybody’s Mum and Dad got all jittery, and nobody was allowed to play outside for a while, or go to town on their own on the bus.

‘We could run for it,’ Jaime hissed.

Tris nodded, but scowling, said, ‘I don’t think he heard you anyway.’

‘Or he’s pretending he didn’t,’ Jaime said nervously. ‘You know, to fool us.’

‘Hey, Mister!’ Tris shouted, and this time his friend scowled.

‘You just told me off for doing the same thing!’

For a while, both boys stood by the bank, watching the sleeping, sunbathing man, wondering if they should run or not.

‘Perhaps he’s drunk,’ Jaime said at last, and giggled. ‘Last summer, Uncle Tom got drunk and spent the
whole
night on the sun lounger in the back garden.’

‘Let’s go see,’ Tris said intrepidly.

‘You go. Not me,’ Jaime immediately replied.

‘Wuss,’ Tris taunted contemptuously. ‘I’ll go a bit closer, you stay here. If he grabs me, run for the nearest cottage and scream blue murder.’

Jaime swallowed hard. And when his friend moved off, took a few reluctant steps after him.

Gemma Fordham followed Hillary Greene across the crowded, open plan office. ‘We’re over here, by the side windows,’ Hillary said over her shoulder.

Gemma nodded, aware of the eyes following their progress across the room. Small clusters of desks stood in no particular order, manned by uniformed and plain clothes alike. A lot of them were working the computers, or on the phone, but nearly all were watching her. She knew it was only to be expected, since she was the new girl in town. She wondered what the scuttlebutt was about her, but knew there could be nothing tasty. There’d been no scandals in
her
past, after all, which is more than could be said for her new boss.

Probably that old chestnut about her being a lesbian was doing the rounds, Gemma conceded. It was almost inevitable, given her martial arts, tall lean figure, gravelly voice, and the fact that she only ever wore slacks and jackets. But it would soon fizzle out when it became common knowledge that she was shacked up with a man.

‘Frank, Gemma Fordham,’ Hillary’s voice brought her back to the manner in hand, and she felt herself tense up as she turned to look at Frank Ross.

Her only real worry was that Ross might recognize her. Not that they’d ever met, she was pretty sure. But he might have caught a glimpse of her, maybe, when Ronnie was picking her up or dropping her off. It was even possible that Ronnie had shown him a photo of her. But she’d have been much younger then, with longer hair, and more baby fat. Chances are, he wouldn’t recognize her face. But he might know her name.

Could she bluff her way out of it if he did?

‘Judo girl, huh?’ Frank Ross said, not bothering to get up. He was a short man, with greying hair and blue eyes, chubby, with a surprisingly cute Winnie-the-Pooh type face. Appearances, she knew, were utterly deceptive as far as Frank Ross went. Ronnie had often talked about him, and described him in various ways – a vicious little git, back-
stabbing
bastard, good old-fashioned copper, or the kind you’d want in your corner during a football riot, depending on Ronnie’s mood at the time. Whatever – the fact was, Frank Ross had been Ronnie Greene’s acknowledged sidekick for many years, and she found herself curious to meet him, after all this time.

‘Judo, kendo, karate and kung-fu girl, actually,’ she corrected, and saw Ross snarl a grin.

‘Don’t cut no ice with me, luv,’ he drawled. ‘And where’d you get that voice? Cigs-’r-us?’

‘Childhood accident,’ Gemma said, relaxing. He didn’t have a clue who she was. ‘Damaged the voice box.’

So that explained it, Hillary mused. She hadn’t really believed that the whippet-like Gemma Fordham and nicotine could ever be best buddies. The woman moved with the economical grace of a true athlete, making Hillary feel like a contented cow in comparison. Is that why she was feeling so anti? Did Gemma Fordham make her feel, subconsciously at least, somehow inferior? If so, she needed to get over it, pretty damned sharpish, Hillary told herself firmly. She needed to find some sort of common ground with this woman if they
were going to work comfortably together. And the sooner she did it, the better.

‘Barrington not in?’ Hillary asked, surprised. It was gone ten. It wasn’t like him to be so late.

‘Nope,’ Frank said, with a sly grin. He was so used to being the last one in, it was nice to see someone else in the shit for a change.

Hillary saw Gemma pick up on the spite and give Ross a long, measuring look.

No two ways about it, Hillary mused, Fordham was sharp. And ambitious. Perhaps she saw a stint on Hillary’s team as nothing more than a useful leg-up on the career ladder? It was widely known that the Chief Super, Marcus Donleavy, rated her highly. She’d probably work here a year, maybe a little more, then sit her boards and get transferred somewhere with a bigger profile. Which was fine with Hillary. As far as she was concerned, the force didn’t have enough good, strong, ambitious women officers in CID. As long as she did her job, did what she was told, and gave her no hassles, everything would work out fine.

Gemma caught Hillary looking at her, and thought, without any surprise, ‘She doesn’t like me’.

‘Right, well, this is your desk,’ Hillary said brightly. ‘Get settled in, set up your computer, and then check in with DI Danvers, our immediate boss.’

Ross snorted. ‘The Adonis of Thames Valley.’

‘Frank,’ Hillary said wearily.

‘He ain’t breathing,’ Tris Winters whispered, his eyes round and wide with awe. He was stood about six feet away from the supine man, leaning forward gingerly and prepared to spring back and leg it, should the man so much as twitch a nostril.

‘Go on! How can you tell?’ Jaime Gould asked, feeling a little braver now, and sidled up to join his friend.

‘You just stare at his chest, twit,’ Tris said scornfully. ‘It ain’t going up and down is it?’

Jaime Gould blinked. ‘Crikey. It isn’t, is it? Do you think he’s dead?’

‘Duh!’ Tris hit his bony head with the palm of his hand. ‘You think?’ But in truth, and in spite of his brave show of
sophistication
, Tristram Winters was feeling just a little bit sick. ‘Perhaps he
is
just sleeping it off. Drunks do that. Sometimes people
don’t
breath very deep if they’re really fast asleep.’ He didn’t know if that was true or not, but he wanted it to be.

‘Hey mister!’ he called again, loudly.

The man lying on the grass didn’t stir.

‘What’s that on his tummy?’ Jaime asked.

‘I dunno. I was wondering that too,’ Tris agreed. The stranger was wearing faded denims and a pale mint-green shirt, but on his chest was what looked like a big red paper heart. It was held down by a flat, pale stone.

‘I think we should go,’ Jaime Gould said, his voice a little tremulous now.

‘Yeah, he might need an ambulance,’ Tris agreed, backing away. The two boys walked a little away, then turned back to look again.

‘Has he moved?’ Tris asked.

‘Don’t think so,’ Jaime gulped.

‘One of us should stay with the body,’ Tris said, because he’d once heard someone say that on an episode of ‘Morse’.

‘Well, I ain’t,’ Jaime averred quickly.

‘You’ll have to go and get somebody then,’ Tris said
reluctantly
. ‘Someone in the cottages is bound to be home and have a phone.’

‘I ain’t asking someone on my own,’ Jaime squeaked. ‘What if one of
them’
s a perv or a kiddie killer?’

‘Well, take your bike and go home then,’ Tris said,
exasperated
. ‘No, wait, there’s a phone box at the end of the road. Use that.’

‘I ain’t got no change,’ Jaime wailed. ‘If only Mum would let me have a mobile, we could have used that.’

‘You don’t need money to dial 999 you twit,’ Tris said. ‘Don’t you know nothing? Just dial, and tell them we need the police.’

‘OK,’ Jaime said, and walked a few steps away, whilst Tris stayed where he was.

‘Go on,’ Tris hissed encouragement, seeing that his friend had stopped and was looking uncertainly back at him.

Suddenly, Jaime Gould turned and ran.

He ran across the meadow, disturbing all the butterflies and trampling the buttercups, and vaulted the gate in a scrambling heap. His hands shook a little as he unlocked his bike, and he wobbled a bit as he first raced off. When he got to the phone box, he felt both unaccountably shy, and in equal measures, undeniably proud, as he dialled the famous number.

A bored woman’s voice asked him which service he required.

‘Police,’ Jaime Gould said importantly. Just wait till they heard about this at school!

When he told the operator on the other end that he and his friend had found a dead body in a field, he hoped they believed him. Sometimes, he knew, adults didn’t believe you when you were telling the truth, but
did
believe you when you were telling lies. If they were the kind of lies they wanted to believe.

But the man who’d now been put on at the other end of the line seemed a reasonable sort. He asked him his name, and his age and where he was, and when he told him that his friend, Tristram William Winters was still in the field watching over the body just in case, the man told him, rather sharply, not to go back, but to stay by the telephone and wait for a police car.

This, Jaime did.

He didn’t have to wait long.

D
CI Paul Danvers put down the telephone and walked quickly to the door to his cubicle. Glancing across the large open plan office, his eyes quickly narrowed on his DI, Hillary Greene. As always when contemplating her, his first knee-jerk reaction was physical, and his eyes automatically took in the soft caramel-coloured jacket and skirt she was wearing, today
complemented
by a pure silk cream blouse. The sunlight streaming through the large glass windows gave her bell-shaped dark brown hair a reddish, almost gothic halo, and as he walked across the room towards her, he felt the expression on his face become bland.

A few months ago she’d agreed to go out to dinner with him, but since then, nothing. Worse yet, she was still seeing that pillock from vice, Mike Regis. And until
that
fizzled out, and he was sure it would, at some point, he was playing a waiting game.

‘Hillary,’ he greeted her the moment he was in range, his eyes only then going across to the desks surrounding her. It surprised him that Frank Ross was in, whilst Detective Constable Barrington was absent. It was usually the other way round. But it was the tall blonde-haired woman rising at the sound of his voice that his eyes lingered on the longest.

The new girl. Mel’s choice, but he hadn’t found anything in his interview with DS Gemma Fordham that worried him. She smiled at him now briefly.

‘Sir.’

‘Sergeant.’ He turned once more to Hillary, and saw her cast a speculative glance at the younger woman. He hid a wince, knowing exactly what she was thinking. But she was going to be disappointed. There was nothing about Gemma Fordham that appealed to him. She wasn’t going to shake him loose that easily. ‘We have a suspicious death in Deddington,’ he said crisply, his voice all business. ‘Fancy it?’

‘Of course,’ Hillary said at once.

‘Somebody dead in Deddington. Stop the presses,’ Frank Ross chortled, which, for him, passed as wit. Everybody else ignored him.

‘Got the call from a schoolboy,’ Danvers carried on. ‘He and his chum were playing in one of the meadows on the outskirts, and came across a man lying in the grass. According to dispatch, the boy was adamant that he wasn’t breathing. Still, it might turn out to be just a drunk after all, or maybe a heart attack victim, or death by other natural causes. Assess the
situation
and take it from there.’

Hillary nodded. ‘Right sir.’ She glanced across at Gemma. ‘DS Fordham, with me. Frank, you’d better take your own car,’ she added reluctantly. She’d rather leave him behind, but he’d only whinge.

‘No Barrington yet?’ Danvers asked, staring at the constable’s empty desk.

‘I gave him permission to come late,’ Hillary said at once, making Ross snort in disbelief. Gemma Fordham shot her new boss a thoughtful look, but said nothing. Keith Barrington, although relatively new, had proved himself to be a hard worker, bright, and willing not only to take orders but to learn. And Hillary was not about to drop him in the shit without hearing his explanation first.

‘Fine,’ Danvers said, not believing her, but not prepared to make an issue of it yet. Barrington had been at the nick for six months now, and as far as he knew, this was the first time he’d been late. No doubt Hillary would handle it.

‘Report in first chance you get,’ he added, already turning around and heading back to his desk.

‘Our glorious leader,’ Frank Ross whispered in an aside to Gemma, as he grabbed his jacket. ‘Your predecessor, Mel Mallow’s missus, would have it that he has a thing for our Hillary.’ He slipped into his jacket, which had a fried egg stain on the lapel. ‘Can’t see it myself,’ he added snippily. ‘She’s a bit long in the tooth for him, don’t you think?’

‘Really?’ Gemma asked, her curiosity instantly aroused, and glanced back to the retreating DCI. Danvers, fair, good-looking and dressed in what looked like a hand-tailored suit, had instantly caught her eye, for she liked good-looking men, but she usually preferred them with a serious flaw – something their boss obviously lacked. No doubt a shrink would have made something of that, but she wasn’t into self-analysis. So whilst Danvers hadn’t rung any of her bells, it was interesting to know that he had the hots for Hillary Greene. Once upon a time, long, long ago, she would have been obsessed with anything to do with Hillary Greene’s love life, and it irked her that she still felt such spurious curiosity, even now. Although in her mid-forties, Hillary Greene could certainly still attract them, it seemed, and the knowledge made a sharp little pain lance through her.

‘Ready?’ Hillary asked crisply, making Gemma turn her head sharply and focus on business.

‘Yes guv,’ she said smartly. All she had to do was pick up her bag, which she did, and follow Hillary towards the exit.

Hillary, taking the lead down the wide, concrete staircase, could feel the younger woman’s eyes on her back, and made a conscious effort to ignore the itch between her shoulderblades. She gave the desk sergeant a sketchy salute as he
acknowledged
her, and called over briskly, ‘When my DC gets in, point him to Deddington would you Jack?’

‘You bet.’

Once outside, however, the first thing Gemma saw was a
tall, red-haired man jogging towards them across the car park, and from behind, heard Frank Ross’s jeering greeting.

‘Thought you’d come in then?’

So this was the errant Detective Constable Keith Barrington. Gemma hoped he would give her no problems. A sharp-eyed and curious DC might just put a spoke in her wheels, and that wasn’t something she was prepared to tolerate.

Hillary glanced pointedly at her watch, but only said mildly, ‘Keith, ride with Frank. I’ll talk to you later.’

The pale-faced man flushed slightly, and said unhappily, ‘Guv.’

Gemma walked silently beside her new boss until they drew level with an old Volkswagen Golf, her boss going around to the driver’s side. Gemma stared at the car for a flat few seconds and smiled inwardly. Hillary Greene certainly didn’t believe in flash motors, which boded well. If she couldn’t afford a new car it must mean that her late husband’s ill-gotten gains were still stashed somewhere, untouched and safely hidden.

Good.

‘It doesn’t look much, but it won’t bite, Sergeant,’ Hillary Greene’s dry voice snapped her back to attention and she cursed herself inwardly. She’d have to stop letting her mind wander like this. Greene was too good, too clever, not to pick up on it. And start wondering about it.

‘I used to have one just like it, guv,’ she lied, smiling brightly and opening the passenger door before sliding in. ‘Brought back memories, that’s all.’

Hillary took her own seat behind the wheel and said nothing. But as she pulled out on to the main Oxford-Banbury road, and headed north, she wondered why her DS felt the need to lie to her.

‘I think it must be the other side of the village, nearer Adderbury,’ Hillary murmured, nearly twenty minutes later.
They’d approached the village of Deddington from the south side, but there were no signs of patrol cars. Driving at the 30 mph limit on the main road, she glanced curiously at either side of the main street. Ironstone buildings, the colour of rust, lined the wide avenue, many playing host to rambling roses and other climbers. Outside a hotel, large colourful hanging baskets added to the rainbow hues, making the village look like a tourist board official’s dream come true. Hillary seemed to remember there was some vague rumour of a castle too, and a splendid church with a four-tower turreted spire. Or was she thinking of Bloxham?

‘Up ahead, guv, turn right at the lights,’ Gemma Fordham said, having contacted the switchboard for further directions.

Hillary nodded, and indicated. Once on the narrow road, the village proper was quickly left behind them, and sure enough, up ahead, parked on the side of the road, was a ‘jam
sandwich
’. The driver, looking in the mirror and seeing a car pull up behind him, got out. He straightened up, just a bit, as he recognized the woman getting out of the car.

‘DI Greene,’ Hillary said, introducing herself to the uniform, who instantly added her name to the running roster. Apparently, they weren’t the first to arrive by a long chalk. It must be looking a bit more interesting than a mere drunk then, Hillary mused, feeling her heartbeat quicken.

‘Ma’am,’ the uniform nodded. A large, comfortable-looking man, he was sweating a little now that the sun had burned away the last of the morning mist. ‘Over the five-barred gate at the end of the track, and straight across the meadow towards the stream. The ME’s already here.’

Hillary, who hadn’t spotted Steven Partridge’s nifty little sports car, looked surprised. ‘That was quick off the mark.’ It was usually left to the Senior Investigating Officer, in this case herself, to call out the cavalry.

‘DC Tylforth, first on the scene, called him in, ma’am,’ the constable said, his voice so deadpan it made Hillary’s lips
twitch. Reading between the lines, no doubt DC Tylforth was a young eager beaver who’d probably jumped the gun before. No doubt his ears were already burning.

‘I see,’ Hillary said non-committally. ‘I don’t see the doc’s car.’

‘Out of commission ma’am. He got a ride in a jam san— In a patrol vehicle.’

Hillary nodded, and walked off towards a row of pretty cottages, shaded by a towering, and majestically flowering, horse chestnut tree as Gemma and the others signed in behind her. It was nearly eleven now, and in the green hawthorn hedges that lined the narrow farm track, she could hear chaffinches, blackbirds, hedge sparrows, a yellowhammer and a corn bunting, all vying for territory. A large lime-
green-yellow
, brimstone butterfly flew past, heading for a patch of cow parsley growing nearby. Already she could feel the top of her head beginning to tingle, and knew the hot sunshine was probably going to give her a raging headache before the day was through. She should have brought a cap. She reached the gate quickly, but since she was wearing her usual comfortable flatties, didn’t bother to open it, but merely clambered over it. It amused her to find Gemma Fordham doing the same, with perhaps a little more ease and grace. Frank, being Frank, had to open it, cursing and grunting as it stuck in the dried mud ruts either side, forcing Keith Barrington to give him a hand lifting it up and over.

Walking across the meadow, Hillary could see a small knot of men several hundred yards away, crouched down and looking busy. One was already taking photographs, but there was no other sign of the white-suited boffins that comprised a scene-of-crime officers’ unit. Presumably DC Tylforth hadn’t called them out yet, Hillary thought with a wry smile.

‘Shit,’ she heard Frank Ross mutter viciously, and with feeling, behind her.

‘That’s exactly what it is, Frank,’ she heard Gemma
Fordham say cheerfully, and grinned. As a country girl, born and bred, Hillary had been picking her way carefully through the cow-pats without even thinking about it.

Keith Barrington, having lived in London all his life, wasn’t so adept, but at least he had the sense not to complain about it.

Hillary’s pace quickened as she approached the possible crime scene. Incongruously, it had to be one of the most
beautiful
she’d ever attended. A narrow, fairly shallow stream, obviously a tributary of a much larger river, had cut a
meandering
path through the lush green water meadow, and a pair of grey wagtails, nesting on the far bank, were flitting back and forth in agitation, long lemon tails wagging frantically. Picturesque-looking Jersey cows, standing some way off, watched curiously. Buttercups and daisies, some low-growing purple orchids and other wildflowers like speedwell and scarlet pimpernel gave the meadow a wild-garden appearance. With the bright sunlight shining down on it all, it looked like the last place in the world you’d expect to come across death or human tragedy.

But as she approached, Steven Partridge was kneeling down over the supine body of a young man, and frowning in such a way that made her hackles rise.

Hillary, always mindful of the practicalities, immediately glanced down at the hardened, cow-trampled grass and decided she might as well approach the body too. No doubt the two boys who’d found the body, the initial call-out
constables
, and now the ME had all left traces at the scene. But with the heatwave they were currently experiencing, there’d have been no chance of footprints anyway so it probably didn’t much matter.

Steven Partridge sensed her arrival and glanced up. He was dressed in pale powder-blue slacks, and a light-weight
cream-knitted
jersey. His dyed black hair was shining and quiffed, making him look a lot younger than his fifty-something years. He smiled the instant he saw her.

‘Hillary, glad it’s you,’ he said, by way of greeting, and Hillary felt her heart give a little leap, then settle down. So it wasn’t a heart attack then. Or any other natural causes.

‘What have we got?’

‘Death by drowning, I think,’ Steven said. ‘But don’t quote me until the autopsy’s done. But see this dried foam around the mouth?’ he turned the corpse’s head very slightly, and Hillary, after a quick check for cow-pats, knelt beside the body, the better to see. She easily spotted the dried-bubble marks around the full lips and nodded.

‘Classic sign of drowning,’ the medic said flatly. ‘Once we get him to the lab we can compare the water in his lungs to the water from the stream,’ he nodded towards the narrow channel of water not far away, ‘but I’d be surprised if it wasn’t a perfect match. I haven’t come across any signs so far that the body’s been moved.’

Hillary nodded. The corpse in front of her looked to be in his early twenties. He had a long, lean body, and she guessed that, standing, he must have been tall – six foot at least. His
dark-brown
, almost-black hair, looked mussed and dirty, but his face was still classically handsome, with high cheekbones and firm jaw. He was dressed in casual designer jeans and what looked like a raw-silk shirt. Very classy. He must have really looked like something, before death had glazed his blue eyes and left his mouth slack and almost foolish-looking.