Narrow is the Way (19 page)

Terry Orne blinked, suddenly coming back to the garden shed. Back to life and reality.

The man was fat, with a full-moon face, shabby-looking suit, piggy eyes and a surprisingly benevolent look. No, he couldn’t be a burglar. Not in broad daylight, surely? But he was up to no good. Of that Terry was sure.

Suddenly, Terry Orne felt a burning tide creep up his throat, making his face burn. Was this the bastard who had phoned yesterday?

He’d come home early from his work at the garage. His right-hand man had assured him that there’d be no problem with the bloke from Walsall who was coming down to inspect their classic Humber. Terry hadn’t cared if there had been. What was the point? He no longer had a son to pass the business on to, and he doubted if his daughter would be interested. But from the moment he’d walked into the kitchen, and heard Vivian’s tense, fraught voice coming from the lounge, he knew something was up.

Vivian had heard him by then though, and had quickly spoken something and hung up the phone. She had refused to discuss it ever since. He knew it had been a man on the other end of the line, because he’d heard as much before the
conversation
had been so abruptly terminated.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew his wife, and never once
suspected an affair. No, he suspected something far more dangerous.

Vivian was one of those women who never let go. Never gave up. She’d been tireless all through Barry’s illness, ever since his leukaemia had been diagnosed two days after his sixth birthday. Whilst he had reeled and lurched from one crisis to another, it had been Vivian who’d dealt with the doctors, Vivian who’d done her own research on the internet when the doctors had begun to give up on their son, Vivian who’d lobbied charities, foreign doctors and hospitals, always badgering for a bone-marrow donor to be found, never giving up hope. It had been Vivian who’d all but arm-wrestled doctors into trying the latest medicines, and had even, on one occasion, raided their bank account to pay for
illegally-obtained
experimental drugs from America.

And who knew what else she might have been up to since? Terry certainly didn’t. Though he guessed that she had become involved in something during those final few weeks of Barry’s life, something that now seemed to be coming back to haunt her. But what? Barry was dead, for no bone-marrow donor had been found.

He supposed Vivian could have been talking to some shady character who’d promised her the world back when they still had a living son to try and save, but had then failed to deliver and was now – what? Threatening her? Was he demanding money? Threatening to go to the cops? As the episode with the illegal drugs had shown, Vivian would have gone to any lengths to try and save their son, and Terry was right there with her.

But the world was full of bastards, and he only wished she’d confide in him. It was just that, since losing Barry, the stuffing seemed to have gone right out of her. She’d been too listless to care. It was only on the phone yesterday that the old angry spark had flared briefly back to life, only to die again when she’d spotted her husband watching and listening, and had quickly hung up the phone.

Terry had wanted to kill somebody, there and then. Now he felt the same way again.

Months of rage and frustration were coming to boiling point. Weeks of watching his 8-year-old boy fade to white and die. Nights of wondering when, when,
when
, would that final breath be taken? Visions of his boy’s eyes, watching him without blame, without hope, ran together in one stream of never-ending guilt. Barry had never once asked them to save him. It was as if, even at only eight years old, he’d known what it would do to them if he had.

But how could you fight death? What was the point of railing against fate? Against the big question, ‘Why Me? Why Us?’ there was no come back.

Now, though, here was flesh and blood to pound. Here, Terry Orne was suddenly sure, was the man on the other end of the telephone line. The leech who had somehow got his hooks into his wife.

Terry lifted the clean spade further into the air, the knuckles of the hand that clutched the handle going white with tension.
Come on, you bastard, just a bit further. Do a bit more snooping. Yeah, that’s right. Look through the lounge window.

Was Vivian inside, or was she in the kitchen? Or upstairs?

Soundlessly, Terry Orne stepped from the garden shed and began to make his way to the fat man who was peering into the window, his grubby, chubby hands cupped either side of his eyes, shutting out the light and to let him see in.

There was no privacy in death, Terry Orne had learned. Doctors, prodding, poking, prying. Relatives supporting. Friends commiserating. Undertakers asking what casket you wanted. Now, here, in what should be a quiet time for them both, somebody else was snooping. Butting his ugly head into what should be private.

He didn’t know what Vivian was keeping from him. He didn’t care. He just wanted it all to stop.

Slowly, carefully, spade raised, Terry Orne got closer to the man violating his home, his wife, his life and his all-important grief.

Hillary passed on the last of the sheets to Tommy and slowly leaned back in her chair.

It was all there.

Vivian Orne had first contacted Gregory Innes six months ago. Her son, Barry, was dying from leukaemia, and was desperately in need of a bone-marrow donor. So far, it seemed, no match had been found. But a nurse at Barry’s hospital had inadvertently said something that had started the desperate mother wondering.

Had a donor been found after all? A donor who had then proved unwilling to go through with the surgery needed to remove bone marrow? It seemed impossible. Who would refuse to save a little boy’s life? Yet the doubt must have been terrible, for she’d gone to Gregory Innes to check it out.

Even Hillary had to admit, the PI had done a thorough job. Of course, the nurse, when approached, had denied hinting at any such thing, and the PI had been met with a stone wall at the hospital. But that hadn’t stopped him. Illegal wire taps, an unnamed source within the donor system, and the payment of a £1,000 ‘finder’s fee’ by Vivian Orne had led Gregory Innes to one Dr Lincoln Crowder, and a surgery near Oxford.

Reading Innes’s report on their conversation, Hillary had at last understood what it was that had worried the health
official
so much. He had not exactly confirmed that a donor in the Oxford area had been found who would prove a suitable match for the desperately ill Barry Orne, but he hadn’t denied it either.

Moreover, Innes had found out that Julia Reynolds had had her appendix out a year before. How had he known that that fact was significant unless the GP had intimated to Innes that it might be? How else had the PI got on to the surgeon, and thence to Julia Reynolds’ medical records?

Hillary couldn’t find it in her heart to blame Dr. Crowder. As a GP, he’d know all about the heartbreak the Ornes must have been going through. His sympathies would have been with the boy – as were her own. Perhaps he thought that the boy’s mother would have more success in persuading Julia
Reynolds to donate her bone-marrow. Obviously, the combined weight of the medical profession had failed.

Yes, she could understand only too well why the doctor had taken such a risk, but no wonder he’d been so scared when the police had come calling.

Innes’s files had been very careful to make no mention of how he’d got his hands on Julia Reynolds’ medical records. Certainly the copies in the folder were bad photocopies of yet other photocopies, but they were still clear enough to show that Julia Reynolds had indeed been thrown up by the medical register of donors as a high-ratio match to Barry Orne.

And from there on in, it got really ugly.

Doctors had at once contacted Julia Reynolds, told her of the match, and tried to schedule a time for her to go in for the necessary surgery. But Julia, with her phobia of hospitals, needles and illness, had flatly refused, and had continued to refuse, despite all entreaties, until the boy had died, just over two weeks ago.

‘Shit, guv,’ Tommy said miserably, as he read the last page and looked across at Hillary. ‘How could she just let a little kiddie die?’

Hillary shook her head helplessly.

She’d had a friend at college once, with a phobia of swans.
Swans,
of all things. Barbara had known in her head that the big white birds weren’t evil. That whenever she walked by a river, they weren’t going to come at her, hissing and breaking her bones with their big wings. She explained all this to Hillary once, and even admitted that she could see why others thought them beautiful. But she herself could never see one of the birds without breaking out into a cold sweat. Couldn’t walk past one unless it was well out on the water. Just the thought of them reduced her to trembling terror. She’d even thrown up once, when they’d been walking past Magdalen College, and a swan, flying low across the bridge, had suddenly startled her. Hillary had only been able to stand by helplessly while her friend was sick, then lead her, still shaking badly, to the nearest pub and a big, comforting brandy.

So she knew something of the stranglehold phobias had on people; of the illogic of them; of their very real power. Even so. But then again, who was she to judge? If she had a paralysing fear of something, how did she know that she would have the strength to overcome it?

No.
She
might not have reason to judge, Hillary thought grimly, but what of the boy’s parents? If Innes had gone back to them with the name of the donor, what judgement might
they
have felt entitled to bring down on her?

She remembered the face powder in Julia’s hair, the size 8 shoe and shook her head in self-disgust. All along she’d got it wrong. Even with Vivian Orne’s car spotted outside the vic’s house, she’d still missed it. Right from the first, she’d assumed that they were after a jealous lover, a male, when all along it had been a grieving mother. She’d almost blown it, big time.

‘We’ve got to go and see Innes,’ she said, grimly.

They were at Gregory Innes’s office within five minutes, Tommy wondering nervously if the PI would try to make a break for it, or try any rough stuff, if cornered. He didn’t look like the type who’d put up a fight, but he could run like a rabbit, as Hillary already knew. So when they reached the top floor of the converted Victorian house, he went through the door first.

Hillary let him.

Gregory Innes’s office was surprisingly light and airy, due to the high ceiling and large windows. He’d kept the walls painted a clean white, had laid down hard-wearing
neutral-coloured
carpeting, and kept the furniture to a minimum. Grey filing cabinets glowered gloomily against nearly all four walls, and an old-looking computer took up space on what was
obviously
a desk that had been recovered from a skip. It certainly didn’t need ‘distressing’ at any rate.

‘Detective Inspector Greene,’ Gregory acknowledged unhappily, his eyes darting from the big constable to the woman he’d hoped never to see again. ‘I must say I never expected to see you here.’

‘Cut the crap, Innes,’ Hillary said, walking straight to his desk and pulling out one of the two facing chairs. ‘Tell me about the Ornes.’

Gregory Innes sat back down, hard, and gave a somewhat cheesy grin. ‘They were clients of mine. Not that I see what business it is of yours.’

Hillary slowly sat down, keeping her dark eyes fixed on the PI as she opened her briefcase and pulled out the Orne file. Innes paled as she put it on the desk before them. ‘And before you ask,’ she said softly, ‘this was retrieved from the safe deposit box you rented this morning, with a court order, all nice and legal.’

Innes licked his lips and wondered how he’d missed the tail. It couldn’t have been that fat slob who’d trailed him the first time. They had to have put a second man – or woman, onto him. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

He felt the sweat break out under his armpits and told himself not to panic. ‘I never thought otherwise, Inspector,’ he said with a smile. ‘Perish the thought that a copper would ever overstep the line.’

‘I told you before,’ Hillary Greene said curtly, in no mood for playing games, ‘cut the crap. Right now a search warrant is being sought for both this office, your house, your car and your bank records. I’m betting we’re going to find that you’ve been banking substantial sums of money just recently. Unless you’ve kept it as cash? And I wonder what the corresponding bank records of Mr Orne will show?’

‘Now just a minute,’ Gregory whined. ‘I told you, the Ornes were clients. If they’ve been paying me money, it’s only my fee.’

Hillary smiled. ‘Really? So you’ve no objection if we
question
the Ornes then? Ask them what you were hired to do?’

The greasy skin on Gregory Innes’s nose and upper lip shined obscenely in the afternoon light. He seemed to sense it, for he rubbed his mouth with his hand, trying to think of a way to find out just how much they knew.

‘That would be rather cruel. They’ve recently lost a child,’ he mumbled eventually.

‘Yes, I know,’ Hillary said, tapping the folder. ‘A little boy in need of a bone marrow donor. They came to you to track down a rumour that a donor had been found, but was refusing to go through with the surgery required.’

‘That’s right,’ Gregory said. ‘When the mother came to me, it broke my heart. I agreed to it right off, even though I knew
the chances of success were low. Medical records, donor details, all that sort of stuff, is guarded like gold, you know.’

Tommy Lynch shifted uncomfortably on his chair. During his short time in the police he’d seen many things that had disgusted him, outraged him, or moved him to pity. Pregnant mothers hooked on dope, killing the babies inside them or dooming them to be born with addictions too, whilst peddling their bodies for more money to feed more junk into their veins. Foreign women sold into sexual slavery. Paedophiles. Batterers of eighty and ninety-year-old women. Any manner of grubby, dirty, petty, vengeful episodes that made him wonder if the human race would ever survive. But Gregory Innes was making his flesh crawl in a way that was peculiarly new to him.

‘I’m sure you did it all out of the goodness of your heart, Mr Innes,’ Hillary said sardonically. ‘How much do you charge an hour? Or should I say, how much did you charge the Ornes? Desperate people pay well, I expect?’

Innes flushed an ugly red.

‘So, you traced the donor, right. It was Julia Reynolds.’

Innes stuck out his chin. ‘Whatever your opinion of me, Greene, I’m a good PI. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. But I did it.’

‘Hmm. And reported back to Mr Orne?’

Gregory Innes opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. ‘Well, I wasn’t going to keep it a secret from my client, was I?’

Hillary nodded, wondering why he had just prevaricated. ‘And when you heard that Julia Reynolds had been killed, you were naturally curious? A little worried perhaps? A man with a conscience might feel as if he’d delivered up the woman for slaughter?’

Gregory again wiped his hand across his mouth. Hillary found it almost impossible to guess what he was thinking. She strongly doubted he felt any personal responsibility or remorse for what had happened to Julia Reynolds. But what else was going on behind those self-pitying eyes?

‘Naturally, I was anxious to see if the Ornes could have been
responsible. That was what I was doing on the farm – trying to establish, one way or the other, any possible involvement by my former client. If I’d found anything, of course, I would have brought it straight to you.’

Hillary laughed. She couldn’t help it. Beside her, she saw Tommy look away, and out of the corner of her eye she could see his big fists clenching and unclenching in hidden anger. But she had no real worries that Tommy would lose control.

‘So what did you find out, Innes? You being such a hot shot PI and all? Sherlock Holmes having nothing on you, and all that. Were the Ornes involved?’

‘No. No trace of them.’

‘So when the search warrant arrives, we’ll find no records of any telephone calls to their house, say? After all, you finished with their case – what was it – two weeks ago? According to your files, it was all paid for, done and dusted. And if you found nothing to worry about at Three Oaks Farm, you’d have had no reason to call them back. Right?’

Innes felt the sweat begin to trickle down his back. This cow just wasn’t going to leave it alone. But Vivian Orne wouldn’t talk. She couldn’t. They could prove nothing. All he had to do was brazen it out.

‘I might have called, just to see how they were doing. Their little boy died, you know.’

‘Ah. A condolence call. How nice,’ Hillary said. ‘Tell me about Dr Crowder. Did you break into his files to find out the name of the donor, or just bribe him?’

Innes shrugged. ‘You’d have to ask him that.’

Hillary smiled grimly. ‘He wouldn’t happen to be someone else you’re thinking of blackmailing, would he, Mr Innes?’

Gregory flushed. How did the bloody bitch know? Was she reading his mind? ‘I think I’ve said all I’m prepared to say, Inspector. I’d like you to leave now.’

Hillary smiled. ‘I’m sure you would, Mr Innes. Knowing a search team, and a search warrant, are on their way, I’m sure you’d love to have some time to yourself. But I don’t think so. DC Lynch, stay here with Mr Innes. If he attempts to leave or
use the telephone, you may arrest him on the charge of conspiring to pervert the course of justice.’

She rose, reached for the folder, and put it back in her bag. ‘I’m off to visit Mr and Mrs Orne.’

Tommy stood up. ‘Guv, you’ve got no back-up,’ he said, a shade desperately. He’d seen Hillary in this mood before. ‘Let’s wait until the locals get here. Take a couple of bobbies with you, at least.’

Hillary hesitated. ‘Tell you what, use the phone, and ask for a patrol car to meet me at their house.’

‘Right, guv,’ Tommy said, much relieved.

Hillary drove fast and made surprisingly good time to the Ornes’ address. She was pretty sure a local patrol car would have got there ahead of her, and hoped they hadn’t jumped the gun, but when she pulled up outside the house in the leafy suburb, there was not a sign of a jam sandwich in sight.

She got out of her car and checked her watch. She’d heard on the radio that there’d been a big smash up on the motorway not far from here. Could be her call had been given low priority – baby-sitting coppers from another force was hardly a plum job. Might be that the patrol car had simply got snarled up in traffic. It happened.

She’d just have to wait.

She reached into her bag for her mobile phone and checked back at HQ, where a bemused Janine filled her in on Mr Max Finchley’s entrepreneurial spirit.

From what Tommy had told her about Mrs Finchley, Hillary could guess what had driven the construction worker to such extremes. Men married to monied women who never let them forget it, tended to do stupid things. In Max Finchley’s case, playing – literally – with dynamite.

She grinned and wondered how many more such bad puns Janine had had to cope with from the others at the station. Word would have got around like wild-fire about her unusual bust.

She gave Janine a quick run-down on the situation and
asked her to pass it on to Mel. Not surprisingly, the pretty blonde sergeant was spitting mad at not being in on it with her, and Hillary wouldn’t be surprised to see her turn up some time later that afternoon, depending on how things went.

It was as she was putting away the phone that Hillary spotted Janine’s car, and had one of those brief Twilight Zone moments, when she wondered if her junior officer had somehow magicked herself north.

Then she realized that it was Frank who was been using Janine’s car today.

Frank!

Shit! What was he doing here? Now she thought about it, he’d been conspicuous by his absence at the bank. But how the hell had he known to come here? He hadn’t been able to see the file in the safe deposit box. Or had he?

‘You stupid git!’ Hillary whistled between her teeth, and quickly sprinted for the gate. If she knew Frank – and
unfortunately
for her, she did – she wouldn’t put it past him to have pulled a fast one. Do a bit of the dirty, trying to get ahead of the investigation and put one over on her. Frank would dearly love to be able to show her up in front of the team – and anyone else who might be watching. Like the new super for instance. But if the Ornes were killers, the stupid clot might just have got himself killed. And think of all the paperwork she’d have to do then!

She ran along the side of the path, instinctively forgoing the front door. She was sure that Frank wouldn’t have gone in all guns blazing, and she wasn’t about to either. She slowed down as she rounded the back of the house and, her back to the wall, took a quick peak around the garden.

In spite of everything though, she wasn’t really expecting trouble. Not real trouble. She expected to see a garden as well kept as the front patch was. A shed, maybe some garden
furniture
. A cat. A woman pottering about with the autumn pansies. Something of that nature.

She didn’t expect to see her sergeant peering in through a window, hands cupped around his face to keep out the light,
while someone else sneaked up behind him, eyes fixed on the back of his exposed head with a raised garden shovel in his hands.

‘FRANK!’ she yelled, launching herself around the corner, and heading straight for the man with a shovel.

In her time, Hillary had come in for her fair share of
physical
confrontation. By far the worst had been back in the old station house in Headington, when she and two other
constables
had confronted a man with a six-inch long butcher’s knife. He’d sliced one of her fellow constables’ forearms right to the bone, and she could still remember his angry cry of pain, and the sickening sight of gushing blood.

But this seemed almost as bad.

In spite of the rush of adrenaline to her head, she could plainly hear the voice of the retired sergeant major who’d been her physical training instructor back in the old days. His method of fighting had been dirty and extremely politically incorrect. And he’d taught her to think just like him. So she was going through her options even as she ran.

She saw Frank jump out of his skin and turn, but his gaze stopped on her as she hurtled towards him. He looked guilty. No doubt he knew he’d been rumbled, and must have always dreaded his boss catching him out in something really bad.

The silly sod! It wasn’t her he had to worry about for once.

‘Behind you,’ she yelled in clarification, still pelting forward full tilt, wondering if she should do a slide and ram her thighs into the back of the perp’s knees, up-ending him, or go straight for the raised arm. The shovel was the immediate threat, but her upper arm strength would be no match for a man’s. She might not be able to prevent him from delivering a blow.

At least she had one thing going for her. Terry Orne had frozen on the spot. Her yell had had as paralysing an effect on him, as it had on his intended victim.

Now Orne’s mouth gaped stupidly as a smartly dressed woman in a dark two-piece suit, with a sleek cut of brown hair and a fiercely angry face, rushed at him like an approaching valkyrie on speed. Terry Orne, like most decent men, wouldn’t
have dreamed of hitting a woman. So he quite simply had no idea what to do next.

Hillary, however, did.

A man with both arms upraised over his head was just asking for it. Still running, Hillary turned sidewise, jamming her two hands together to form one huge fist and, swinging back, hit Terry Orne with a massive whump in the middle of his belly.

Orne dropped the shovel with a gurgling ‘ooofff’ and dropped to his knees. And promptly began to lose his meagre breakfast of conflakes and toast.

Frank, now turned all the way around, saw the man drop the shovel and went white. He abruptly sat down on the patio, ignoring the dampness seeping into the seat of his trousers and sucked in a huge breath.

Frank had seen what a shovel on the back of someone’s head could do. He had never been that close to death before. A punch up at a football pitch with your colleagues at your back and a hoard of pissed off Millwall supporters in front of you was fun. But unless a bastard pulled a knife, not
life-threatening
. Handling antsy suspects at the nick could be exhilarating, but you knew you always had back up, if you called for help. Negotiating domestics was a pain, but Frank knew how to handle himself with the worst of boozed up,
fist-happy
husbands.