Walk a Narrow Mile (3 page)

‘Max, my husband, is in the back garden tying up the runner beans. Since he retired he’s been growing all our own
vegetables
. They all say that it’s so much better for you, and good for the environment too.’

Frances Yelland opened the door and stepped back. Hillary and Jimmy entered, glad to get into the relative coolness of the tiny hall. From another room, they could hear tiny snouts sniffing under the door, and Jimmy for one was glad that the mutts had been shut away.

Without another word, they were ushered through to a small, tidy lounge in shades of apricot, cream and mint green. ‘Please, sit down. I’ll make us some tea and get Max.’

Hillary glanced around, her eyes halting on the mantelpiece, where a whole range of family photographs was arranged. She saw a wedding photograph of a much younger Frances and a handsome man staring solemnly at the camera. There were several baby pictures, then those unmistakable school
photographs
, where a travelling photographer comes and takes a head-and-shoulders shot of every kid, regardless of whether or not they wanted their photograph taken. The Yellands had three children, she knew from the file, but there were only
photographs
displayed of two of them: a boy and a girl.

And the girl was not Judith. Did they already think of her as dead? If so, did they know something that she didn’t? Or was it just too painful for them to be constantly reminded of their missing child?

‘You notice there aren’t any pictures of our MisPer?’ Hillary said quietly to Jimmy, who followed her gaze and grunted quietly in assent.

Just then Frances came back with a tea tray, and an older version of the man in the wedding picture.

‘My husband, Max,’ she introduced him nervously. Hillary
could tell by the way that she looked for approval from her husband, that Mrs Yelland had lived all her married life very much under the thumb. It made Hillary’s hackles rise, and she forced herself to smooth them back down.

She was not a marriage guidance counsellor, she reminded herself firmly.

Maxwell Yelland was lean, not particularly tall, and had silver hair and pale-grey eyes. He was still a handsome man, even though he’d never see sixty again. He glanced at Hillary, then at Jimmy, and then back at Hillary again. He took a seat, and then accepted a cup and saucer from his fluttering wife.

‘I understand this is about Judith? Do you have news of her?’ he asked, but without any sense of urgency. He looked, if anything, more wary than concerned.

‘No, sir. I’m afraid not. But we’re investigating her case, along with that of several other missing women, and we just have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.’

Hillary sensed Frances Yelland was now hovering nervously behind her, and wished that she could see her face. ‘Mrs Yelland, perhaps you’d like to take a seat?’ she said, half turning in her chair and indicating the sofa space available beside her husband.

‘Oh yes, of course.’ Frances Yelland responded with
immediate
obedience and sat down beside her husband, then took a sip from her teacup.

Hillary could feel Jimmy tensing up beside her. Just as she had, he’d picked up on the atmosphere in the house. And didn’t like it.

‘When was the last time you saw your daughter before she disappeared?’ Hillary asked, directing the question at Mrs Yelland, but in fact watching her husband closely.

‘Oh not for a while.’

‘A few weeks?’ Hillary hazarded.

‘Oh no. Much longer. Months, wasn’t it, Max?’

‘Yes. Nearly a year, I would have said.’ He spoke with a
concise flat tone that was probably designed to hide some strong emotion. But what it might have been, Hillary had no clue. But Max Yelland’s grudging co-operation wasn’t about to put her off.

Instead she nodded. ‘That seems rather a long time. Had there been some sort of a problem?’ she asked delicately.

Max Yelland smiled bleakly. ‘Nothing specific, Inspector.’

Hillary didn’t bother to correct him about her lack of official status. ‘But you would say that matters were somewhat … strained … between you?’ she persisted doggedly.

‘My daughter was always a wayward child, I’m afraid,’ Max finally admitted, pausing to take another sip of his tea. ‘Unlike our other children, she became difficult. Defiant. It started when she was a teenager and, alas, she simply never grew out of it. When we heard she’d left her flatmate in the lurch with the rent and gone off somewhere, frankly, we weren’t really surprised.’

Hillary glanced across at the missing girl’s mother, wondering what she had made of this harsh assessment of her daughter, but she was studiously sipping her own tea and avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes.

‘I see,’ Hillary said. ‘So you don’t know if her behaviour had changed in the months before she disappeared.’

‘No,’ Max agreed shortly.

‘And she never talked to you about being afraid of anyone, of being pestered by strange phone calls, or letters or gifts?’

‘I doubt Judith would have objected to being given gifts, Inspector,’ Max said, still in that same pedantic, careful tone. ‘She always was materialistic. We tried to drum that out of her, but without success. Sunday School was wasted on her, I’m afraid. Meredith now,’ Max said, looking with pride at one of the photographs on the mantelpiece, depicting a beanpole-thin woman with her mother’s hair and eyes, ‘she volunteers at several different charity shops. I doubt that Judith ever knew the meaning of the word.’

Hillary smiled briefly.

No wonder it had been noted in her file that Judith Yelland had left home at the age of seventeen. ‘I see. And I take it you haven’t heard from her in the three years since she went missing.’

‘No. And I really rather doubt that she is in fact missing, Inspector,’ Max said with a tight smile. ‘I think you’ll find that she’s simply shacked up somewhere with some man. Judith always did take the easy options in life. Why work, if you can play, that was always her motto.’

Hillary nodded again. She could see that there was no way that Judy Yelland would have gone to her parents for help when she began to be stalked. Her mother was too timid to be of any help, and her father far too judgemental. She would have been well and truly on her own.

It was also as clear as day that she was going to get nothing of use in this arid environment.

‘I see. Well, thank you for your time.’ Hillary put her cup down, noting that Jimmy eagerly followed suit.

Frances Yelland shot up from the sofa and showed them out. But, on the doorstep, she cast a quick look over shoulder, then leaned forward and all but whispered, ‘When you do find her, you will let me know that she’s all right, won’t you?’

Hillary felt as if someone had just sucker-punched her, and she had to force a brief smile. ‘Of course we will, Mrs Yelland,’ she promised softly.

But never had a promise seemed so hollow.

‘B
loody hell, guv,’ Jimmy said, as they climbed back into the car. ‘That place gave me the willies.’

‘Yeah, me too. It’s not hard to understand why their daughter legged it, is it?’ she agreed.

‘If she wasn’t missing the way she is, I’d be inclined to say that she’d just written off her family as no-hopers, and decided to get herself a new life,’ Jimmy opined.

Hillary sighed. ‘Back to base. We need to get the admin underway. Set up a case file number, get the murder book started, and work out some way of relaying our data to Geoff. What we want him to know, that is.’

‘DI Rhumer going to be a problem, guv?’ Jimmy asked sagely.

Hillary sighed again. ‘Not sure yet. Let’s hope not.’

Vivienne Tyrell left Kidlington’s Thames Valley Police HQ that lunchtime with a spring in her step. She was twenty, pretty rather than beautiful, with long dark curly hair and
pansy-velvet
brown eyes. She’d been working in the CRT for nearly eight months now, still unsure whether the police force was for her and if she should apply to join properly when the opportunity arose. She was, however, still a little bit infatuated with Steven Crayle. But even there, she was beginning to see the writing on the wall as far as the handsome, sexy superintendent was concerned. He’d always played hard to get, and now she was being forced to admit that he hadn’t been playing, so much
as meaning it. He was never going to ask her out. And ever since Hillary Greene had joined their team, things had gone from bad to worse.

She simply couldn’t see what a gorgeous guy like Steven saw in her. She was older than he was for a start, and here Vivienne gave a mental snort. Who’d have thought the super was into cougars?

As she walked into the local pub, she began to smile in
anticipation
though. At least it wasn’t all bad news on the romantic front now that things were looking up. Tom might be just a humble PC, but at least he was young and fit. In both senses of the word! He must work out every day to get the pecs he had!

OK, having the hots for a forty-year-old had been fun while it lasted, but Tom was closer to her own age. And she loved his green eyes.

She glanced around the crowded bar and saw him stand up and lift an arm to attract her attention. He’d managed to snag a window seat, and through the open windows, a hanging basket of flowers provided some floral colour for the dark interior.

She approached at an easy hip-swinging stride, knowing that many male eyes had turned to look at her. She hoped Tom noticed it too. It wouldn’t hurt to remind him that she was hot, and that he was always going to have competition.

‘Hiyah,’ she said cheerily, slinging her bag onto the bench seat and sliding in beside him. She was pleased to notice that he that already had her favourite drink – a cinzano and lemonade – waiting for her on the table. ‘Boy, am I glad to get out of that place. I feel like a mole, working down in the basement like that. I tell you, as soon as I can get out of there and into somewhere better, I’ll be off.’

Tom Warrington smiled stiffly. And the moment you are, he thought silently, you cease to be of any use to me, you silly cow.

‘Have a drink, and tell me all about it,’ he said instead, forcing a sympathetic smile to his face and nudging her glass closer. ‘I asked for ice, just how you like it.’

He watched her sip the silly drink, wondering what it was that Hillary drank. It would be something classy and simple, he knew. Perhaps a good wine? Or something more
straightforward
and no-nonsense perhaps, just like herself. A G and T?

‘We’ve got this new guy in, but I don’t know why,’ Vivienne said, taking a sip and giving a sigh. ‘Him and Hillary and Steven were closeted together nearly all morning. But nobody’s telling us nothing.’

Tom forced himself to relax in his seat. ‘Oh? Who is he, then, this new bloke?’

Vivienne shrugged. ‘DI Rhumer. Geoff, I think I heard his first name was. Funny thing is, I got the feeling that he’s on the job. I mean currently, like, not a retired old fart like Jimmy.’

Tom felt his heartbeat quicken. Yeah, that made sense. The CRT only dealt with cold cases. But they would need to call in someone else to work on an on-going crime. Even so, he felt a shaft of anger lance through him. It should be just between Hillary and himself; that’s how she would have wanted it too, not to have some stranger brought in to spoil their fun. It couldn’t have been her idea to bring in an outsider.

He knew who was to blame – that bastard Steven Crayle. The superintendent wanted Hillary for himself – that was obvious. And because he was her boss, he could insist on them bringing in someone else to ruin it all.

But they wouldn’t let him. Hillary was more than a match for this DI Rhumer and Crayle put together, of that he had no doubt.

He smiled across at the silly, fatuous girl beside him, and forced himself to lean closer and put an arm around her shoulder. In deference to the warm May weather, he was wearing only a short-sleeved T-shirt under his police jacket, and he was pleased with the way his muscles showed as he flexed his arm.

He saw Vivienne notice, and saw the way her dark brown eyes registered admiration. Silly little twit.

The skin on his arm tingled, though, when he remembered it draped around Hillary Greene’s neck. Over and over again, he was reliving that moment when he’d stepped up behind her and held her hard against him.

He heard again her quick intake of breath.

The way she quickly realized she couldn’t physically fight him and had become quiet and clever.

The way she’d tried to play him.

The fun they’d had. The touch of his knife against her skin. She’d barely flinched as he’d drawn a fine, oh so fine, line of blood in her skin. Anyone else would have panicked, or started begging, or behaving in any number of disgusting ways.

But not his Hillary. She was class, through and through.

Tom Warrington felt a delicious warm wave wash over him as he remembered how magnificent she’d been, as he’d always known she would be, after all that time watching her and adoring her from afar.

Wanting her. Playing the delicious, torturous, waiting game.

The first move had been his. Now it was her turn.

‘So what’s the queen bee been doing?’ he asked, forcing himself to use Vivienne’s nasty nickname for her. Vivienne, who was nothing more than a wannabe, and who didn’t even have the sense to realize that she was being given the
opportunity
to learn at the feet of a master. Sometimes, Tom found it hard to keep from snapping her stupid, vapid little neck for her.

‘Oh, she and Jimmy went off this morning to interview some people over a missing girl. Oh yeah, that’s what we’re working on now apparently – not even a proper murder. But some missing girls. I mean, who cares?’ Vivienne said, taking a large gulp of her drink. ‘They’ve probably all run off to be with a bloke, right? I mean, that’s what usually happens, yeah?’

Tom absently twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. ‘What’s the name of the couple?’

Vivienne shrugged, and snuggled up closer. And to Tom’s
fury said smugly, ‘Oh, I can’t remember. It’s not important, is it? When are you and me going to get together seriously, then?’

Tom fought back the urge to slap her. But really, she was right in a way – it didn’t matter. Whichever set of witnesses Hillary had talked to, it meant the same thing: she’d made her move. She’d begun trying to track him down. She was on his scent.

The thought made him shudder with delight.

Beside him, Vivienne giggled, believing it to be a reaction to her flirting. Tom Warrington smiled with forced patience and reached for the menu. She was his eyes and ears in Hillary’s camp, he reminded himself, so he needed to keep her sweet. ‘What do you fancy to eat then?’ he asked.

Back at HQ, Hillary reached for the Vickary folder.

Margaret – known to all her friends as Meg – Jane Vickary. According to her file she was thirty-two years old at the time she was reported missing. Photographs of her showed her to be a rather glamorous woman with long, tawny hair that looked so casually untidy it had to have been carefully cut and arranged to look like that by a top flight hairstylist, and large grey-green eyes. In nearly every snapshot and photo they’d been able to accumulate of her in the last few days, she seemed to be always fully made-up with highlighter, blusher, mascara and eyeshadow. It was hard to see past the mask to the woman beneath. Did she secretly fear that she wasn’t as beautiful as she needed to be?

She’d been married but then divorced from one Brian Vickary. No children. Had the divorce undermined her self-confidence?

Hillary sighed, knowing from experience that it was pointless to speculate before getting the facts. But so far, the first of their missing girls had a bad family situation behind her. Now she needed to find out if the second of their missing women also had a difficult situation behind her, courtesy of a bad marriage and a messy, damaging divorce.

Perhaps her stalker liked damaged, vulnerable women? Or
was she just trying to force a pattern where there was none? After all, nobody could think of
her
as vulnerable, could they? A veteran, battle-hardened middle-aged ex DI with the hide and disposition of a grumpy rhino?

She picked up the folder and walked on through to the communal office. ‘Jimmy?’ she said, ignoring the quick, hopeful look that Sam Pickles gave her. He was a good lad and coming on well, and would be an asset to the police force once he’d graduated and been properly recruited and trained, but right now he was out of his league and needed to be kept on the
sidelines
.

‘I want you to keep on researching the three missing persons’ backgrounds, Sam. The more information we have, and the more diverse it is, the easier it’ll make our job in finding out what happened to them.’

‘Right, guv,’ Sam said, but looked enviously at Jimmy who was following Hillary out of the room. Although he’d worked with the police long enough to know that research and
paperwork
were the bread-and-butter of crime solving, like Hillary, he preferred to be out and about actually talking to people and getting a feel for a case.

Outside, Hillary followed Jimmy to his car and slipped into the passenger side, where she carried on reading the folder, relaying bits of information to Jimmy as he drove.

‘According to this, Meg was a legal secretary at Kane, Boltham and Kane.’

Jimmy whistled. ‘Top notch solicitors, those. Only cater to the well-heeled. If you’re an Oxford don caught doing something naughty, they’re the people you’d run to screaming “fit up”.’

Hillary nodded, also being familiar with the firm.

‘Want to stop off at their place first, guv?’ he asked, as he
indicated
to go around the Woodstock roundabout on one of the city’s northern-most main thoroughfares. ‘We’ll be going through Summertown any minute.’

Hillary thought about it for a moment, and then shook her
head. ‘Maybe later, when we know more about her. For the moment, I want to interview her flatmate, the woman who reported her missing in the first place.’

Georgia Biggs was still living at the same residence in a converted Victorian pile in Botley, but they were unlucky. Nobody answered the doorbell. However, a nosy neighbour was able to point them to the dental practice in town where she worked as a hygienist.

Finding the usual trouble parking in the fabled city of dreaming spires, they had to hoof it a quarter of a mile to the practice. And the moment Hillary pushed open the door to a narrow hallway with an even narrower flight of stairs leading upwards, they could hear the nerve-grating high whine of a drill. When she pushed open the door at the top of the stairs, the smell of disinfectant, peculiar to dental surgeries everywhere, set her teeth automatically aching. Beside her she heard Jimmy mutter something dire about hating these places.

Hillary grinned. ‘Never mind, Jimmy. At least you’re not here to get your root canals a good seeing too.’

The old man muttered something even less repeatable, but Hillary was already smiling at the receptionist and reaching for her ID.

‘We were hoping to speak to a Miss Biggs. Strictly routine, nothing to worry about,’ she said automatically.

The woman, fifty-something with a fine coiffeur and deep crows’ feet around her eyes, smiled uncertainly. ‘Georgie? She’s got a patient in with her at the moment, but she should be out soon. Would you like to take a seat and wait?’

Further in the room, a guppy confronted her, swimming
bug-eyed
and fan-tailed in a large fish tank. Watching him, and several of his piscine friends, was a wide-mouthed boy of about five, who began to wail piteously when a door opened and he was beckoned inside by a patient-looking man in his sixties.

‘Poor little bugger,’ Jimmy said, then reaching for a magazine on dog-breeding, added heartlessly, ‘rather him than me though.’

Hillary was still grinning about that when a door opposite opened, and a plump blonde woman wearing the prerequisite white coat ushered out a man and walked him to the reception desk. She then gave a classic double-take towards them as the receptionist whispered something to her, and then approached them warily. She had the slightly puzzled, worried but
intimidated
look a lot of members of the public wore on their faces when confronted by the police. Well, the innocent ones, anyway.

‘Police?’ Georgia Biggs asked tentatively. She had a round, pleasant but just a touch plain face, with somewhat protruding blue eyes.

‘Yes. We’re here about your flatmate, Meg Vickary, Miss Biggs,’ Hillary said at once, hoping to allay at least some of her anxiety.

‘Oh Meg.’ Then she went pale. ‘You’ve found her. She’s dead, isn’t she? That man did something to her.’

Hillary felt Jimmy snap to attention beside her, like a pointer suddenly spotting a pheasant in the undergrowth.

Hillary smiled gently. ‘No, we haven’t found a body, Miss Biggs. I work for the CRT, and we’re currently reinvestigating Meg’s disappearance. We just have a few follow-up questions for you. Perhaps we could talk in your office?’