Beside a Narrow Stream (7 page)

‘That’s one of Col’s. It took me and Jude all year to save up for it, but we had to have it. Didn’t we, Jude?’

‘I love it,’ the younger woman confirmed with a grin.

‘Do you have any of Wayne Sutton’s paintings?’ Keith asked, and again the two women exchanged meaningful glances.

‘Well, no,’ Marion said, somewhat uncomfortably. ‘We’re not really into his style, are we, Jude?’

‘What Mum means,’ Jude said, eyeing Keith carefully, ‘is that we’re not members of his fan club. Wayne sold almost exclusively to … er … older, middle-aged women. Fairly
well-heeled
women.’

Keith smiled and nodded. ‘Yes. We know about that. And were there any such women in the club?’

‘Well, only Denise Collier,’ Jude said, somewhat defiantly, ignoring her mother’s gasp. ‘Well, it’s true. She only joined the group to meet Wayne. Once he’d signed her up for some of his “private art lessons”,’ here Jude Druther held up her hands and crooked her fingers to make speech marks in the air, ‘she soon dropped out, didn’t she?’

Jude seemed to be speaking more to her mother than to Keith. But he didn’t mind. He was learning a lot. If Marion Druther hadn’t fancied being one of Wayne’s ‘clients’ he was a Dutchman’s uncle. And the fact that the daughter didn’t approve couldn’t have been made more clear if she’d been wearing a T-shirt sporting a logo that said as much.

Marion toyed with one curl of her hair, refusing to meet the policeman’s eye.

‘Going to pubs and drinking real ale was all a bit too plebeian for our Denise, Constable,’ Jude said, as if
determined
, now that she’d started, to be as catty as possible. ‘She was supposed to be interested in pen-and-ink sketches, but she never showed us any of her examples, did she?’ Again this seemed to be addressed to Marion, who shrugged.

‘Those of us who did work small enough to be shown at the pub crawls brought it along to be “critiqued”. Wayne liked to do quite a bit of that,’ Jude said sardonically, and from the way she flushed, Keith got the distinct impression that, at some point, their murder victim had said something less than complimentary about a piece of Jude’s work.

‘I don’t suppose you have Mrs Collier’s address?’

‘No. But she lives in Lynn Sutton somewhere,’ Marion said. ‘Please, Constable, don’t think our club was all about
backbiting
and nastiness. It isn’t. Most of us have a good time.’

‘Did Wayne?’

‘Well, he was, how shall I put it – a bit more serious about everything than the rest of us,’ Marion sighed. ‘Take Jude and me, for instance. We get by selling our stuff at craft fairs, and some of the antique shops in Woodstock and Bourton-on-
the-Water
, places like that, take our lampshades and stuff, strictly to sell to tourists. Hand-made, local glass; Americans
especially
go for stuff like that. And it pays the mortgage on this place, and keeps us in shoes. But Wayne … well, he was a
serious
artist. I didn’t much like his stuff, it’s true, but it
was
talked about.’

‘Yeah, this little student rag did a write up about him once,’ Jude said, smiling. ‘You’d think it was one of the major art review mags from London the way he went on about it, instead of some little back-room, two-man outfit from Wadham College.’

‘But he had a piece shown at the museum of modern art,’ Marion said. ‘Once.’

‘It was a public exhibition, Mum,’ Jude said, exasperated. ‘You know, members of the public got to show off their stuff to a panel of so-called judges, and the museum displayed a selected few for a summer show.’

‘It was bought though,’ Marion said.

‘Yeah, and you know who by?’

Marion flushed.

‘Denise Collier,’ Jude crowed.

Keith glanced at Marion curiously. He got the impression that mother and daughter were close, but had Wayne Sutton put some kind of serious wedge between them?

‘And Colin Blake? Did he sell many paintings?’

‘Oh yes,’ Marion said, obviously relieved to change the subject.

‘And to real punters too,’ Jude put in, not so willing to it let go. ‘There are one or two galleries locally that regularly take his work and sell it,’ Jude mused. ‘I’ve seen some of his stuff in the Woodstock galleries. And the one in Summertown, in Oxford. Wayne was always furious about that. You should have heard him go on about it. He claimed Colin only managed it, because of his “friends in aristocratic places”. That’s how Wayne put it. Real sarky he was. Remember mum?’

Marion sighed heavily. ‘Yes. I think Wayne was a bit jealous, poor boy.’

Keith frowned. ‘What did he mean by “aristocratic friends”?’ he asked. ‘I thought Mr Blake was a butcher by trade.’

‘And so he is,’ Jude said. ‘And what’s wrong with that? Wayne used to make fun of him, as if there was something wrong in selling sausages. At least Colin works for a living, which is more than Wayne was ever prepared to do.’ Jude’s voice rose indignantly.

Marion coughed gently. ‘I think Colin was friends with someone out Duns Tew way. Or was it Heyford Sudbury? You know, one of those pretty villages almost in the Cotswolds. They’re all becoming rather touristy nowadays.’

‘That’s right,’ Jude said, snapping her fingers. ‘I think Colin first met him when he bought one of his paintings. I can’t remember his name, can you, Mum?’

‘No. But he’s something of an anachronism. That’s how Wayne put it, anyway. You know the kind – almost landed gentry, but of course, they’ve all lost their land now. I believe his family used to be important once, but now they’ve sort of, dwindled down, somehow. They live in these big, rambling houses but can’t afford to pay the fuel bill.’

‘I think I get what you mean,’ Keith said.

‘Anyway, Wayne said Colin only got half his commissions because this upper-class pal of his put his name about amongst his set,’ Jude carried on. ‘I think this friend of Col’s had an ancestor who used to live in Bath a few hundred years ago, and
gave parties for the rich and famous. You know, Wellington slept in his spare room before going off to Waterloo, that sort of thing. It made Wayne wild.’

Jude suddenly giggled, and Marion winced.

‘I remember him once, at that pub in Wolvercote, when he heard Colin had just sold an oil to some gentleman farmer type. “Just because he’s got a pal who’s great-great-great-
great-great-
grand-daddy showed Beau Brummel how to tie a cravat or something.” He said it was pathetic. He went on and on about how he sold his own stuff on the merit of the paintings themselves. Which was a laugh of course. His women only bought his canvases because …’

‘Jude! Please, that’s enough. I’m sure the constable can’t be interested in any of this.’

But Keith was very interested in all of this. What’s more, he thought his boss, Hillary Greene, would be too. Before he left, he asked, as casually as he could, ‘And where were you two ladies, say between six o’clock and midnight, on the last day of April?’

Marion Druther blinked. ‘Here, I think. We tend not to go out much.’

‘You live together?’

‘Can’t afford to rent a place of my own,’ Jude said with a sigh. ‘And yeah, we were here. We stayed in and watched that programme on the telly you were so keen on,’ she added to her mother, who nodded.

Keith wrote it all down and left. It wasn’t much of an alibi, and both, in his opinion, would back the other up without a second thought. Of course, it was possible that they could have killed Wayne together. Two women would have a better chance of overwhelming a man, than just one.

But Keith couldn’t see it somehow.

Hillary Greene tapped on the door to Detective Superintendent Philip ‘Mellow’ Mallow’s door and went in without bothering to wait for a summons.

She and Mel had been friends since her first days at Kidlington, and when she took the seat in front of his desk, she sighed heavily. ‘You don’t still have any of that decent Colombian blend left do you?’

Mel grinned and walked to the coffee pot kept constantly perking on a nearby shelf. Tall, lean, classically good-looking, he was wearing a dark blue suit and red tie.

‘How’s Janine?’ she asked automatically, accepting the mug he offered her. Janine Tyler had been her DS before embarking on an affair with Mel that had nearly proved disastrous for them both. It had resulted in Mel being overlooked for a promotion, and his career seemed doomed to fizzle out. And then, out of the blue, the pair had decided to marry, which meant that Janine had been transferred out of HQ to Witney.

‘She’s resitting her Boards next month,’ Mel said. It had come as a shock to his confident, ambitious wife, when she’d failed her Inspector Boards at first try.

‘She’ll get there,’ Hillary said soothingly. ‘But you didn’t call me in to chat about the wife.’

Mel smiled. ‘No. The murder case, how’s it shaping up?’

Briefly, Hillary filled him in. Mel frowned when she was relating the finding of the red paper heart on the victim’s body, and when she’d finished, it was the first thing he went back to.

‘You did a check, to see if any other killings fit the MO?’

Hillary smiled grimly. ‘My new DS did. Relax, there were no matches. I really don’t think we’re dealing with a serial killer. Well, not yet. But if another young Lothario turns up dead with a paper heart attached to his body, you won’t forget to let me know, will you?’

‘Don’t!’ Mel shuddered, then narrowed his eyes
thoughtfully
. ‘Did I detect a bit of angst back there? When mentioning your new DS?’

Hillary smiled blandly. ‘No.’

Mel regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Gemma Fordham gave an excellent interview. She’s experienced, smart, and can
obviously
work without supervision. After the year you’ve had, what with a new DC, and with Frank like a constant albatross around your neck, I thought you’d welcome someone
competent
and quick on your team.’

‘And so I do,’ Hillary carried right on smiling blandly.

Mel watched her for a moment more, then smiled slowly. ‘Miaow?’ he said thoughtfully.

‘You carry on like that,’ Hillary said amiably, ‘and I’ll scratch your eyes out, Mel.’

Gemma Fordham walked into a room full of dead flesh and looked around with a vague sense of distaste. The butcher’s shop was located in tiny side street off an already narrow lane, which was typical for a market town that went back to medieval days. There were places in Banbury where you could still walk down ancient cobbled streets and come across a fifteenth-century coaching inn.

Inside Blake and Waincott, however, all was modern strip lighting, refrigerated units, and EC regulation meat products. She hastily turned her eyes away from bright red piles of minced beef, and turned her head towards the back, where a young man with red cheeks and a white wrap-around hat, appeared.

‘Yes, madam?’

‘I’m looking for Colin Blake please.’

The youngster looked surprised, then hurt, as if he suspected that she didn’t trust him to be able to fillet a joint. ‘Hey, Col!’ he yelled, turning his head to face towards the opening, the better to be heard. From out the back came the steady thunk, thunk, thunk, of a cleaver on wood. The noise stopped abruptly, and a moment later, another man stepped into the serving area. ‘Hello?’

Colin Blake was about the same height as herself, with
well-kept
, dark-brown hair that Gemma instantly suspected was dyed. He had dark, chocolate-brown eyes, a large, Roman nose
and extremely well-shaped lips. He was sexy, even in a white apron spotted with blood.

Another reason why Wayne Sutton would instantly dislike him. Not only did Colin Blake rival him in the painting stakes, he could probably turn a few ladies’ heads himself.

Gemma showed her card. ‘It’s about Wayne Sutton, Mr Blake. Is there somewhere we could talk?’

‘Oh, sure. Let’s step outside. There’s a nice place just across the way.’

He walked from behind the counter, taking off his apron and leaving it just inside the door. Outside, the closeness of the other buildings blocked out the worst of the dazzling sun, and he led her to a small area, centred around a large tub of
flowering
pansies, with a baker’s on one side, and a charity shop on the other. He sat down with a sigh, and spread his long legs out in front of him.

‘I heard about it on the radio,’ Colin Blake said at once. ‘At first I thought they must have been talking about another Wayne Sutton. Then they mentioned he lived at Deddington, and I realized they weren’t.’

‘I understand you were both members of the Ale and Arty Club, sir,’ Gemma said smoothly. ‘We’ve been interviewing all members, asking for background really. Anything you can tell us about the victim?’

Colin Blake jerked on his seat. ‘You know, it’s really odd to hear him referred to like that. As a victim, I mean. Wayne always struck me as one of nature’s survivors. He had a hard edge to him. You know, ambition, drive. He was young, of course, but I always felt he had an old head on his shoulders. I simply can’t imagine someone getting the better of him.’

Gemma blinked in surprise. Now that was something she hadn’t considered before, but she should have. Oh yes, she definitely should have. Because Wayne Sutton was a taker. A man who played on people, especially women; who read them and used them. That kind usually were wary.

It was very astute of the butcher to pick up on that. And she knew, right then and there, that Hillary Greene would probably want to reinterview Blake herself, once she read the report on him. It made Gemma more determined than ever to do a good job of it herself, first time around.

‘So, Mr Blake,’ she said brightly, eyeing the butcher closely. ‘What can you tell me about Wayne Sutton?’

T
hursday dawned bright and clear, giving no sign that the spring heatwave was going anywhere in a hurry. Hillary got into the office early, and quickly read through the updates.

She gave Gemma Fordham’s interview notes with Colin Blake a second reading, and made a note to herself that a follow-up interview might be called for. With both Barrington and Fordham coming up with evidence of a rivalry between the two men, it needed looking into. But that red paper heart, found on the victim’s body, kept intruding into her thoughts, and just before nine o’clock she lifted the receiver of her phone and dialled Steven Partridge’s number.

An assistant answered, telling her that he was currently doing the autopsy on a nine-year-old girl found mysteriously dead in her bed, and didn’t want to be disturbed. Hillary left a message, gently but firmly emphasizing that she needed to know, as soon as possible, the contents of the soggy note found on their murder victim, Wayne Sutton. She carefully recited the case number, and hung up, just as Barrington walked in through the door.

Hillary got up and grabbed her bag, and met him halfway across the floor. ‘Come on. We’re going to interview Denise Collier,’ she said crisply, not surprised when Barrington looked pleased.

It was one of the leads he’d picked up himself, and he was glad his DI was letting him follow up on it.

As they drove to Lynn Sutton, a small village near Banbury where Denise Collier was currently living, she had him go over the interview with Marion and Jude Druther again. By the time they were making the final turn-off towards the small village, he’d finished.

‘You got the impression then, that this Collier woman was possessive?’ Hillary asked, after a small silence.

‘Yes, guv. She was obviously one of his women, but from what the Druthers were saying, it sounded as if she fancied herself as being well and truly a cut above the rest. It’s why I ran a preliminary check on her before I left the office last night. No known priors. Married in ’91, to an airline executive, divorced ten years later. No kids. Typical middle-class
background
. Mother, a small-town solicitor; father, a headmaster of a small private prep school.’

Hillary nodded. Just the sort of woman who’d end up in a genteel village like Lynn Sutton, in fact. They were approaching the village now, a small village of perhaps a hundred or so houses and cottages, clustered around a large church with a Norman tower. A village school, now closed down and turned into a private residence, rubbed shoulders with what had once been a large vicarage, probably now converted into large, desirable flats. There was the obligatory village pub, called intriguingly The Angry Cat, but there were no signs of any sixties-construct council house cul-de-sacs. For some reason, the council town-planners must have overlooked Lynn Sutton. Cottages, some thatched, some not, ran the length of a dog-leg main road called, not so surprisingly, Freehold Street. Avillage square, rather than a green, had planted firmly in its centre a gloriously green oak tree. Probably planted for Queen Victoria’s jubilee or coronation.

‘Collier lives at 31, Freehold Street. Green Acres. See it?’ Hillary asked.

‘Not yet, guv.’

She parked her ancient car under the shade of the oak tree
and got out, glad to stretch her limbs. From above her came the raucous calls of jackdaws. ‘You walk up, I’ll walk down,’ Hillary instructed, wishing she’d thought to bring her sunglasses. Already the glare was making her eyes ache, and before long, she’d have a headache.

A small stream, almost running dry now, ran down one side of the street, and clusters of the palest-of-pink cuckoo flowers grew alongside it. Hillary hadn’t gone far, however, when she heard a sharp whistle. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Keith beckoning her over.

Green Acres wasn’t set in many green acres, but the garden it did have was impressive, in a modernistic, low-maintenance kind of way. Low-lying evergreen shrubs, designed to provide the patch with winter interest, gave way to large, impressive tubs, each holding a single banana plant, fern, or other
dominating
specimen. Most of the garden was landscaped in shale, patio bricks and gravel, off-setting a tinkling water feature, with not an inch of grass that needed to be mown.

The house itself was large, and had probably once been two, or maybe even three tiny cottages now converted to one roomy residence; large picture windows and a pair of French doors to one side had been added. Hillary rang the bell and waited.

The door was eventually opened by a short woman, no more than five feet one or two, with a cap of rather startlingly red hair. Snapping green eyes went straight from Hillary, fixed on Barrington assessingly, then moved back to Hillary. From Keith’s background check, Hillary knew that Denise Collier was 51-years-old, but this woman could easily have passed for thirty. She was wearing a pair of white slacks, with four-inch, high-heeled sandals, and a silver lamé top. Platinum and diamond earrings sparkled at her lobes, and a large diamond ring glittered on the third finger on her right hand.

‘Yes?’

Hillary held up her ID card, and Denise Collier’s face closed down. It had, somehow, the effect of highlighting her make-up,
which was heavy but cleverly applied. Her green/silver eyeshadow seemed to glitter that bit more, and her
plum-coloured
lipstick turned garish. The blusher on her rounded cheeks looked faintly ridiculous.

‘This is about Wayne,’ she said abruptly, almost accusingly, her voice breaking on the first syllable of his name. ‘Come in, then,’ she added, with obvious reluctance. She stood aside to let them pass, and led them, not to a lounge or living area, but to the kitchen.

It was a well-appointed kitchen, and had obviously been arranged by a designer’s hand. An old Aga, lovingly restored, stood cold and aloof in pride of place. Copper-bottomed saucepans, that looked as if they’d never been used, hung down from a low, black-painted beam. An oak ‘island’ stood in the middle of a terracotta-tiled floor, and it was to this, and the tall chrome and black-leather stools placed around it, that Denise Collier headed. She drew up a stool and with a little hop that reminded Hillary of a robin, seated herself.

Hillary followed suit, and, after a moment’s hesitation, so did Keith Barrington. Denise Collier rested her slim white hands in front of her on the counter. Hillary noticed her nails had been painted plum, to match her lipstick. She could see that this woman probably spent two to three hours, at least, on grooming herself before starting the day.

‘I loved him, you see,’ Denise said at once, looking out of the window to where a small patio gave way to a seating area incorporated into a small garden wall. ‘I was the only one who did.’

Hillary settled down to watch the performance. That Denise Collier was acting, she was sure, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was being untruthful. Some women, Hillary knew, needed to play their own starring roles in a melodrama, and the death of a lover was simply too good an opportunity to pass up. And Hillary didn’t mind being the audience. You could learn some interesting things from watching a performance.

‘Oh, I know all about his other women,’ Denise went on, still without looking at her, and waving one hand limply in the air, as if swatting at a vaguely annoying fly. ‘They meant nothing. An artist needs fawning sycophants. And women especially flocked to him. Well,’ she gave a short, sighing laugh, ‘why wouldn’t they? He was an Adonis. But I was his only true lover.’

Hillary let her get on with it, and glanced around. As she expected, a large canvas hung on the main wall, above a small dining table and chairs. It was a painting of the sky. Nothing else was in it. Just blue sky and a variety of white clouds. But the clouds, of course, weren’t clouds. They were double decker buses, spanners, dustbins, hubcaps, washing machines, computer keyboards. All white and fluffy.

‘He called it
Skydiving
,’ Denise said, finally dragging her tragic gaze away from her patio, and finding the eyes of the detective not on her, but on the painting. ‘I have others of his. Do you want to see?’

Hillary, now that she’d got her full attention, wasn’t about to let it go. ‘Perhaps later, Mrs Collier. Let’s start with a few basic questions first,’ she kept her own voice firmly matter-of-fact. ‘Where were you on the night of the thirtieth of April, from say six, until midnight?’

Denise Collier laughed dryly. ‘So I’m a suspect, am I? How Wayne would have laughed! He had a wicked sense of humour, Sergeant, really wicked.’

Hillary let her demotion down a rank, slide past. She had no doubts at all that Denise Collier knew exactly her correct title, but didn’t intend to get drawn into any little power games. ‘I’m sure,’ she said blandly, instead. ‘Were you out that evening?’

Denise Collier blinked, then turned her gaze back to her patio. ‘No. Not that night. I was here.’

‘Alone?’ Hillary persisted patiently.

Denise sighed heavily. ‘Yes, alone. I saw Wayne mostly on
the weekends you see. Friday and Saturday. Sometimes we’d go away, book into a quiet hotel somewhere.’

Hillary didn’t bother to ask who paid the bills. ‘Do you know of any enemies Wayne had, Mrs Collier?’

‘Oh, not really. I mean there were people who were jealous of him, of course there were. His silly women, and their even sillier husbands. And other so-called artists, who were eaten up with envy of his talent. But nobody who’d want to
kill
him.’ Her voice broke on the last two words, and she hung her head and sobbed.

Barrington started to look around for tissues, but Hillary, after a quick glance, could see that, though the narrow
shoulders
were shaking up and down, no actual tears marred the make-up on her face. Keith eventually settled for a roll of kitchen towels, which he awkwardly placed on the work top beside her. Denise took a strip off and daintily dabbed her eyes – careful not to smear her mascara.

Hillary pursed her lips thoughtfully. Of all the people in the case so far, Denise Collier was the only one she could see leaving a red paper heart on the corpse of her lover. It would no doubt appeal to her sense of the dramatic. But was she the kind actually to kill?

Well, if Wayne Sutton really had been the ‘love of her life’ and if she’d found his cavalier womanizing too much, Hillary supposed it was possible. Sutton wouldn’t ever regard Denise as a threat, so she might just have taken him by surprise. But was she tall enough to have committed this particular murder? To swing a stone at a tall man’s head and reach his temple, even in high heels, would have been an effort. And did she really have the physical upper-body strength necessary then to drag his inert dead weight to the stream, hold his head down until he was drowned, and then drag his corpse back on to the river bank?

It didn’t seem likely somehow.

And if she
had
been wearing high heels, even with the sun-scorched
ground trodden by cattle, wouldn’t SOCO have found some trace of tell-tale little round indentations?

‘Tell me about his girlfriend, Mrs Collier,’ she said flatly, deciding on shock tactics, and saw Denise’s whole body go rigid. A moment later, she shot her a scornful look.

‘He didn’t have a
girlfriend
.’ She said the word as if it was something vile.

‘Monica Freeman?’

‘Never heard of her,’ Denise hissed. And there was
something
just a shade … demented, just a bit … touched … about her voice that gave Hillary pause for thought. She was
trembling,
very slightly, all over, her pretty made-up face almost snarling.

She’s crazed with jealousy, Hillary thought. Utterly
possessive
. Maybe just a little delusional? No doubt Wayne Sutton used her as a never-ending source of money, but he’d have had to earn his pay with this one. She must have clung like a limpet. Had he finally had enough and told her it was all over?

Maybe. But she had the feeling he liked his easy money too much. Still. If he
had
dumped her, it could have been enough to send Denise over the edge and …

The sharp, shrill sound of a mobile phone shattered the moment, and Hillary glanced around sharply. She’d turned her own phone off automatically before ringing the doorbell. It must belong to the suspect. Then she saw Keith Barrington’s pale, freckled face blush red with mortification, and she shot him a half-angry, half-disbelieving look.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, stepping off the stool and hurrying outside into the hall. Hillary, turning back to Denise Collier, was just in time to see a look of relief cross her face. Evidently, she must have realized that she was in danger of loosing control and giving herself away, and was quickly burying the rawness of her emotions behind a vague smile.

There’d be no getting to her now. She was too alert to danger. Hillary mentally cursed Keith Barrington and his
mobile. Time to take the witness through her movements the night of the killing.

In the hall, Keith pressed the answer button, lifted the gadget to his head and heard a familiar voice.

‘Kee, listen, I’ve got to talk to you. Something awful’s happened.’

‘I can’t talk now,’ Keith said brutally, glancing anxiously towards the kitchen. ‘I’m in the middle of something.’

‘But it’s urgent. I have to see you. Meet me somewhere during your lunch hour. The plod do let you eat, don’t they?’

‘OK, fine,’ he whispered quickly. ‘The Bread Oven at
one-thirty
. Now I gotta go.’ He hung up and returned to the kitchen, where Hillary Greene was writing something up in her notebook.

‘And did you receive any telephone calls, or did a neighbour drop by to visit you? Did you go out in the garden at all and see anybody walking past, perhaps taking their dog for an evening stroll?’

‘No, no, nothing like that, I’ve already told you,’ Denise Collier said peevishly. ‘I just stayed in, listened to some blues, a little jazz. Read a few magazines.’

Hillary sighed, not believing a word of it. But with Denise Collier in this sort of mood, there was no point pressing it. She’d have to come back and try again later. ‘Very well, Mrs Collier, that’s all for now,’ she said flatly, and Keith felt his heart plummet. He knew it was his own fault the interview, that had begun to get so promising, had fizzled out so abruptly.