By a Narrow Majority (3 page)

‘Lost something, DS Ross?’

Frank jumped, inwardly swore, then got up with as much dignity as his well-padded frame would allow.

‘No problem, guv. Just lost my car keys. Thought they might have fallen out of my pocket up here.’

Detective Superintendent Jerome Raleigh looked at Ross and smiled thinly. ‘I can hear them jangling in your back trouser pocket from over here, Frank,’ he said flatly. And opened the door behind him. ‘Come on through.’

Frank gulped and followed, frantically thinking up a good lie. One thing was for sure: no matter what, he was not about to tell the super that he’d misplaced a gun.

Hillary filled in the last form and shook her aching fingers. Her only consolation was that, somewhere, Dobbin was suffering from the same plight. Paperwork was the bane of every copper’s life. She glanced across the open-plan office and saw that the light was still on in Mel’s cubicle. She wondered if Janine was in there with him, or if she’d gone home. Word had it she was almost living permanently now at Mel’s des res in ‘The Moors’, Kidlington’s answer to Belgravia.

She’d just slipped into her coat when she heard the phone ring in Mel’s cubicle, then his voice answering. She grabbed her bag and was walking fast to the door when she heard him call her name.

Damn. Not fast enough.

She turned and tried to look interested. Mel smiled wearily, hardly fooled. ‘We got a call from a village called Lower Heyford. Know it?’

Hillary did, vaguely. She’d visited it once on a previous case.

‘Looks like a suspicious death – almost certainly murder. A local would-be politician. Want it?’ Mel asked, this time with a genuine grin.

Hillary nodded, all sense of tiredness abruptly gone. In truth, it had been a stupid question.

She always wanted murder.

DCI Mel Mallow watched Hillary head for the door and smiled grimly before turning back into his office and reaching for the phone. He called his own number first, and waited. As he did so, his eye fell on one particular photograph standing on his desk. It was not of his ex-wife, or even of his son, but a picture of himself and Detective Chief Superintendent Marcus Donleavy. It had been taken many years ago now, right after a police rugby match, after their division had just knocked seven bells out of those gits from St Aldates nick.

His fingers tightened around the telephone receiver as Janine Tyler’s voice suddenly sounded in his ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Janine, it’s me. I’ve just sent Hillary off to Lower Heyford – Tangent Hall. There’s been a suspicious death – almost certainly murder. Can you reach Tommy for me and get on over there right away?’

‘Sure, lover, consider it done.’ She hung up abruptly, and Mel winced. No loving words for him tonight, it seemed. He put the receiver down and walked restlessly to the window. Orange-coloured streetlights reflected the large car park and the surrounding environs of Kidlington. In the big pane of glass, his reflection showed him a handsome man, dressed in an impeccable suit. A man who should be superintendent himself by now.

Marcus Donleavy had made no bones about why the man from the Met had been chosen over him to get the job
Donleavy’s promotion had left vacant. Oh, the brass had made all the usual noises about wanting a fresh eye to look things over, and how new blood brought in from outside could only benefit them all, yada, yada, yada. But the truth was, they were uneasy about a DCI being shacked up with a DS in his own team. How could it not affect his decisions when assignments were being meted out, they wondered. And did it really show good judgement on his part to get tangled up with a woman a good ten years his junior in the first place, especially with two divorces already behind him. What did it say for his professional conduct when his private life was such a mess?

Mel sighed and leaned back against his desk. The simple truth was, if he’d known getting involved with Janine would have blighted his chances for promotion so damned effectively, he’d never have taken that first step and invited her out. But he also knew that he’d been lonely, and that Janine had filled a dull gap in his life. And yet another hard, ugly truth which had to be faced was the fact that he was going to have to dump her. And soon. With Jerome Raleigh proving to be so popular, it was almost a certainty that he’d never get promoted now, if he stayed at Thames Valley. Especially if the high-flying bastard actually succeeded in nailing Fletcher. He’d be the golden boy for now and evermore.

No, he was going to have to move on – maybe down south somewhere. Sod going north. Devon was nice, or so he’d been told. Hampshire too was possible; Dorset maybe. But wherever it was, he couldn’t arrive at a new nick with a liability like Janine in tow. Not that she’d want to move anyway.

Mel reached up and pulled off his tie. He didn’t particularly want to go home to an empty house, so he might as well make himself comfortable here. Besides, Hillary would be calling in with a preliminary report soon. He poured himself a coffee, and sat down wearily in his chair.

He didn’t really want to move, and he resented having to. Thanks to the divorce from his wealthy second wife, he had a beautiful house in an upmarket area in town, and was well
liked and well respected where he was. He felt settled, and until recently, well on the way to climbing the career ladder.

His chief investigator, Hillary Greene, was a good friend as well as a gem to work with – her success rate was second to none, and he knew for a fact that Marcus had always rated her too. He could leave her to handle this latest murder
investigation
without a worry, even if the political angle turned it into a hot potato. An old pro, she also knew not to make any office goofs that might land him, Mel, in the shit. Hell, he could even foist that pain in the arse Frank Ross on her and know she’d cope. But who could say who he’d end up with if he moved?

Still, if he wanted to get ahead, he had no choice. And he wasn’t ready to stagnate just yet.

But he’d miss all this.

Of course, Janine would give him grief. He knew her too well to expect that she’d go quietly. Donleavy would probably call him all kinds of a fool for getting himself into this situation in the first place, but he knew his old mentor would keep an ear out for a good position, then would put a good word in for him wherever he ended up. And, if there was any justice at all, Hillary Greene would get his old job as DCI. After all the hassle she’d had with that loser of a husband of hers, she was due some good luck for a change. He’d have to have a word with Marcus, when the time was right, and see if they could swing it for her.

He pulled the folder for that month’s budget out of the drawer and reached glumly for the calculator.  

Hillary turned off the main Oxford-to-Banbury road at Hopcrofts Halt and headed past the large hotel and down the hill into the valley proper. At the bottom of the hill she sat waiting at a set of traffic lights that spanned a long water bridge, and then found herself heading up and over the combined railway and canal bridge.

Over on her left, shut up and dark now, was the
narrow-boat
yard where she’d gone to interview a witness on her first murder case. She slowed down as she approached a small turn-off into a road simply called The Lane and found herself facing a beautiful village square, lit up from the lights spilling out of The Bell pub. A huge oak tree stood in pride of place, watching over thatched cottages and what had once been the village school.

Dispatch had given her directions to the crime scene, however, so she followed the road around the bend, then past an old-fashioned red-painted telephone box and round another steep curve. She peered ahead, looking for Mill Lane, which should be off to her left, found it, and turned down the narrow lane. Off to her right was a converted chapel, gleaming pale in the bright moonlight. The sky had cleared again, and once more a frost was in the air. At the bottom of the lane, Hillary found herself facing a metal drawbridge, and she drove over it gingerly, looking out of her window to the flat, dark expanse of the Oxford canal below. Right in front of her were a set of wooden gates belonging to Mill House, but leading off to her left was a muddy stone-paved road that followed the course of the River Cherwell. A few yards down, another set of gates, sandwiched between the two water courses, signalled that she’d arrived at her destination.

She parked behind an empty patrol car and climbed out. She didn’t need a torch to read the words ‘Tangent Hall’
glittering
in gold-painted letters on a slate-grey sign. She could hear the river gurgling away under a flat wooden bridge, and for a moment took in the quiet, dark night. Tangent Hall was not so much a hall as a big, fairly modern-looking bungalow. Worth what, half a million, given today’s market prices? As a woman about to sell a house, she supposed she should be pleased that properties in the area were worth such small fortunes. But she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the families of the native villagers who were being priced out of their own homes.

She sighed and straightened her shoulders as a figure at the
entrance to the large wooden gates suddenly stepped out and a torch beam found her face. Hillary instinctively held up a hand to ward off the intrusive beam of light.

‘Police, madam. Can I help you?’ The uniformed constable stepped closer as Hillary got out her ID.

‘DI Greene. I’m the senior investigating officer,’ she said simply, as he lowered the torch. ‘I take it I’m the first to arrive?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He was young but didn’t seem all that
overawed
. ‘The doc’s on his way. Forensics too.’

Hillary nodded and got out her notebook as he made his preliminary report. It was concise but left out no relevant facts, and after five minutes of rapid shorthand, she had the beginnings of the Murder Book.

The Murder Book was usually assigned to one particular officer who kept it updated with all the relevant facts, so that any member of the investigation could consult it to check on facts and keep him or herself updated. It was usually Janine Tyler who took on this task, but Hillary thought it was time that Tommy Lynch had the responsibility and made a mental note to give it to him when he arrived.

‘So, the victim is a Mr Malcolm Dale, resident here, who was found by his secretary, Marcia Brock, at roughly nine o’clock tonight,’ she recapped, just to make sure she’d got it right. Mistakes made at the very beginning of a murder investigation could bugger it up for weeks to come. ‘Mr Dale’s wife, Valerie, is absent, believed to be playing bridge at a friend’s place, a regular Monday night occurrence. Mrs Brock called 999 and remained on the premises. After a brief search to ascertain there was no-one else in the house, you called it in.’ Hillary glanced up at the dark figure in front of her. ‘Where’s Mrs Brock now?’

‘In the living room, ma’am, with my partner.’

‘And the body was found in the kitchen?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And he’s definitely dead?’ she asked quickly. She could still
remember being called out, as a DS, to a ‘murder’ scene where her governor had taken one look at the so-called corpse and radioed for an ambulance. The victim had later died in hospital, as it turned out, but it just went to show that it wasn’t always easy for an inexperienced person to tell the difference between dead and alive. And it always paid to make sure. Especially when the families of victims could sue you and the department if you didn’t.

‘No pulse, ma’am.’

‘And you only touched his wrist?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Didn’t want to touch anything else. He’s a bit messy. Looks to me as if he’s been hit over the head a fair few times.’

In the darkness she heard him gulp. Obviously, he was not quite so hard-headed as he sounded. ‘If you want to be sick, Constable, please go over there and do it in the grass.’

‘I’m fine, ma’am.’

Hillary nodded, and looked up as another car rattled over the metal drawbridge, the sound echoing hollowly and eerily in the night. She recognized Doc Partridge’s nifty little MG at once. ‘All right, Constable. Stay out here and direct personnel as they come in. You’ve started a checklist?’ It was standard procedure for everyone’s arrival and departure to be noted down. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ve already got you in.’

‘Fine. This is Doctor Steven Partridge,’ she added, as the police pathologist walked gingerly across the muddy road to meet her. His shoes, she guessed, would have cost her at least a month’s salary. Married to an ex-opera singer, Doc Partridge’s sartorial elegance was well known to the cops at HQ.

‘Hillary, glad to see you as always. Got something
interesting
for me?’ he greeted her, cheerfully enough.

‘Don’t know; haven’t been in yet.’ As a general rule, she tried not to contaminate the scene too much before the men in white overalls arrived. It tended to piss them off.

‘Well, you’ll have to let the dog see the rabbit,’ he
murmured, and Hillary hid a smile as she followed the doc inside.

Tangent Hall was as modern inside as out, decorated in minimalist style, in muted, neutral colours. She saw Steven grimace as he looked around. With all the instincts of a peacock, she doubted it would appeal to him. For herself, she hardly paid the décor a second glance. Since living in a narrowboat, things like tiles and fireplaces weren’t something that particularly mattered in her world.

‘In the kitchen,’ she said, glancing around for signs of disturbance. There were none. She could hear a woman and man’s voice off to the left – obviously the second uniform and the finder of the body. She nodded to a door that, logically, should lead to either a dining room or kitchen, and followed the medical man through.

The kitchen, unsurprisingly, was big, open plan, and had the latest in gizmos and gadgets. But as well as a hanging set of expensive woks, an aga, electric oven, microwave and genuine Welsh dresser complete with blue-and-white plates, there was a man’s body stretched out on the terracotta-tiled floor. Darker patches of red at his head oozed between the cracks in the tiles. That was going to be a bugger to get clean.

Doc Partridge stepped gingerly around the prone figure and knelt down carefully. She was sure this had more to do with keeping the soles of his shoes and the knees of his trousers clean, than it did his desire not to disturb the forensic evidence. Still, Hillary had a lot of respect for the small, dapper man. He knew his business, and she knew she wouldn’t have to wait long for his report. Most pathologists liked to hum and haw for days. At least Doc Partridge was more sensitive to a copper’s need to get started with at least a well-informed guess as to cause and time of death.

The victim, she knew from the constable’s initial report, was thirty-five years old. He was thickly built, but not yet running to fat, although his dark hair seemed to be already
thinning. He was dressed casually in designer jeans and a chunky-knit cream-coloured sweater that was stained with his blood at the shoulder, where it was pressed down on to the floor. From what she could see from where she was standing, there were no obvious defensive wounds or bruising on his hands. Probably hit from behind then, in situ which probably indicated that he knew his attacker, although that was not necessarily so.

‘Well, he’s dead,’ Doc Partridge said flatly, making a note of the time and writing it down in his own notebook. ‘Not more than two hours, I should say. And, strictly as a
preliminary
finding, death occurred due to a blow or blows to the head, delivered with what appears to be a smooth, probably rounded object.’

Hillary nodded, looking around. There was no obvious sign of the murder weapon left behind. Smooth and rounded. If she was in one of those American cop shows, she’d
immediately
say ‘baseball bat’. And, sure enough, she knew some villains who, lacking an imagination of their own, had taken to using baseball bats as their weapon of choice. So could Mr Dale have surprised a burglar? But it was a bit early for thieves, surely? Or was he usually out on a Monday night as well? Did he usually join his wife at her bridge game? Already she could feel the need to gather information itching away at her.