With a Narrow Blade (16 page)

Frank Ross would be pleased.

Hillary pulled the pile of paperwork generated by the Jenkins case so far into several stacks around her, and reached for the first file.

Her stomach was rumbling, having long since dealt with two meagre slices of toast, but lunch was still more than an hour away. She refilled her coffee mug, grabbed a fresh pad and, trying to push all petty worries and niggling doubts to one side, took a deep breath and started from the top.

She’d done this before on cases that seemed to have stalled. Sometimes it shook something free, sometimes she got nothing more out of it than wasted hours and a raging headache. The thing was, until you did it, you could never be sure which it was that you’d get.

Janine, recognizing the signs, kept her head down and cast a surreptitious glance at her watch. Barrington, on the phone to the Kirtlington chairman of Gold Diggers Anonymous diligently confirmed Paul Glennister’s alibi.

Hillary opened the file and stared at the picture of the dead woman. Flo Jenkins still looked as if she was asleep in that chair – only the protruding handle of the narrow-bladed paperknife showing that she wasn’t.

Right, Hill, she admonished herself grimly, start at the beginning.

On her pad she wrote: ‘Florence Mavis Jenkins, née Miller. Date of birth 9/12/30.’ Beside it she wrote the date of her death. Then the date of her marriage: ‘14/2/49’, and the name of her husband. She probably didn’t need to bother with the name of her school and …

Abruptly, Hillary stopped writing and stared down at her pad. A funny feeling gripped her stomach, making her swallow hard. She blinked.

The numbers. There was something about the numbers. What the hell? She’d seen them before somewhere. Somewhere recently. She shook her head, telling herself not to be a mope. Of course she’d seen them before. If she’d read Florence Jenkins’ file once, she’d probably been through it a hundred times.

But there was something about the numbers, written like this … What the hell was it? Her palms felt sweaty and she took a deep breath, knowing that she was on the verge of a breakthrough. She’d felt like this once before, when investigating the murder of a young French student. The sense of scales about to tip over. Of revelation hovering just on the edge of her vision.

She reached for the pen and wrote the sequence of numbers again: 9,12,30,14,2,49. Not quite right. She tried writing them backwards, then randomly, then without the commas. Still not quite right.

Think damn it, think. Six sets of numbers. Not a telephone number, not a National Insurance number. Damn it, she could feel her body almost buzzing. Where had she seen those numbers before? When?

And then, in a flash, she remembered. Tuesday morning, before she’d even got the call-out to Florence Jenkins’ house.

And then she knew.

She knew who had killed Florence, and almost more importantly, why.

‘I’ll be a son of a bitch!’ Hillary snarled.

Barrington’s head shot up from his desk, and Janine swivelled her chair around.

‘You stupid, barmy, brainless dunderhead!’ Hillary chastised herself. ‘It was right there all along, staring you in the face. An idiot with the IQ of a gnat would have seen it.’

‘Boss?’ Janine said sharply.

Hillary glanced at her, self-disgust written all over her face. ‘Janine, I want you to get a warrant for a murder charge.’ She stood up and then abruptly sat down again. Wait a minute, they’d need a second warrant. Not such an easy one to get, because this time they’d be up against a big and powerful corporation. And judges always thought twice when that happened.

‘What name?’ Janine asked. Beside her, she felt Barrington get slowly to his feet. ‘Boss, who should I make the warrant for?’ Janine repeated loudly, seeing that Hillary was thinking furiously and hadn’t heard her.

Hillary glanced at her. ‘What? Oh, for Caroline Weekes.’ Then she got up and moved quickly towards Paul Danvers’ office.

Janine let her breath out in a whoosh. ‘Weekes?’ She hadn’t even seriously considered Weekes as a suspect. And she was damned sure Hillary hadn’t really rated her either. So what had changed?

‘The guv OK?’ Barrington asked nervously.

Janine glanced at him, saw the worry and guessed the reason behind it, and laughed out loud. ‘Don’t worry, she hasn’t gone doolally. She’s just had a brainstorm, that’s all. It happens that way sometimes with the boss. You’ll get used to it.’ She reached for the phone. ‘And don’t fret about Weekes either. I’ve never known the boss get it wrong yet.’

Paul Danvers glanced up as Hillary Greene knocked on his door and, without waiting for a reply or gesture to come in, entered.

Paul had had a bad night. He’d lain awake for many hours, wondering just how serious it was between Hillary and that git from Vice, Mike Regis. And just when had Regis moved in on her? Why had Hillary been so coy about it? Surely she couldn’t really rate the man. And how was he going to split them up?

Now, seeing her coming through his door, he wondered how he should play it. Then all such personal considerations took second place, as Hillary said crisply, ‘The Jenkins case. I’ve cracked it. But I’m going to need a warrant for disclosure, and I don’t think they’re going to be pleased about it. We might need to gear up the legal eagles.’

Danvers, who wasn’t aware of anybody, even on the fringes of the Jenkins case who might have such serious juice, sat up straighter. ‘Who are we taking on?’ he asked sharply.

Hillary, taking a seat in front of his desk, smiled grimly. ‘Camelot.’

Janine glanced at her watch, and swore. It was nearly 1.30. She had half an hour to get to the registry office. Damn, why did the case have to break now? Hillary had spent nearly twenty minutes in Danvers’ office, and then a team of lawyers had arrived. Danvers had come out and given Janine the necessary facts to get the warrant to serve on Weekes, and she’d sent Barrington over to get it. Once it arrived, she knew Hillary would be going over to Bicester to serve it and bring Weekes in. Janine was dying to know what the hell was going on, the whys and wherefores, and sit in on the interview. The case had been going nowhere ever since it started and now, just when she couldn’t possibly get in on the act, it broke. She felt like screaming.

Then she looked up and saw Detective Superintendent Philip Mallow standing outside the door of the main office, tapping his watch. He was dressed in a beautiful steel-grey suit, and had a pale pink carnation in his button hole. He looked handsome, successful, wealthy and happy.

Janine sighed, grabbed her bag, and left. Somehow, she didn’t think Hillary was going to make it to her wedding.

An hour later, after being processed, Caroline Weekes was ushered into interview room three.

Hillary looked up from her position seated to one side of the table and glanced behind her. Where was her solicitor?

Just as Janine had predicted, she had gone to Bicester, with Keith Barrington, to make the formal arrest and charge. She’d expected either her mother or husband to be at home, and wasn’t particularly happy to find the woman alone.

Caroline Weekes hadn’t said anything whilst her rights were being read out to her by the word-perfect DC Barrington, and had been similarly silent on the drive to Kidlington, a fact that Hillary was grateful for. The back of a police car was no place for chit-chat. By-the-book-barristers had been known to get cases thrown out of court because of idle conversationn, carried out without the presence of the accused’s legal representative.

‘DC Barrington,’ Hillary said quietly. ‘Has Mrs Weekes’ solicitor arrived yet?’

‘No guv,’ Barrington said. And Caroline Weekes spoke for the first time.

‘I don’t want a solicitor. I waive my rights to one. That’s the correct term, isn’t it?’ she asked listlessly.

Hillary glanced at the tape recorder, whirring obligingly on the table. She sighed, and introduced herself for the tape, with Keith following suit, and said firmly, ‘Mrs Weekes, I must ask you yet again, for the record, if you want to call a legal representative. If you can’t afford to hire one, we can appoint one for you.’ She repeated her rights in this matter again.

But Caroline Weekes shook her head. She was sitting opposite Hillary, lightly resting her hands on the table, her fingers looped to make a double fist. ‘I don’t want a solicitor,’ she said stubbornly. She looked exhausted and ill. She was wearing a long black and grey dress and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wasn’t wearing make-up. Her eyes stared blankly down at her hands.

‘Your husband then?’ Hillary pressed, and saw Keith Barrington look at her with a slightly puzzled frown. Hillary knew they now had Caroline Weekes safely on tape, eschewing the need for a lawyer. Legally they were covered. But she wasn’t going to take any chances.

‘Oh no. I don’t want my husband here,’ Caroline said quickly, her voice rising to a squeak.

‘As you wish,’ Hillary said calmly. She was determined to make sure that everything was as watertight as it was possible to get. There would be no retraction of any confession later, not on her watch. Nobody would be able to listen to the tapes, either, and even hint that there had been any coercion or even a breath of bullying going on in this interview room.

‘Mrs Weekes, do you understand that you’ve been arrested for the murder of Florence Jenkins?’ Hillary continued, softly softly.

Caroline nodded.

‘Mrs Weekes has just nodded her head,’ Keith Barrington said automatically for the tape.

‘Can you confirm that please, Mrs Weekes,’ Hillary prompted.

‘Yes.’ It came out slightly strangled, and Caroline Weekes cleared her throat. ‘Yes, I understand I’ve been arrested for killing Flo,’ she repeated clearly.

‘And I have to tell you now, Mrs Weekes, that you will almost certainly be charged, the moment this interview is over. Do you understand that also?’

Caroline’s eyes filled with tears and she nodded, then gave a little start, looked at the tape, and leaning forward said huskily, ‘Yes. I understand.’

Hillary let out a slow breath. Right then. No wriggling room there. Taking her time, she eyed Caroline thoughtfully. There were two possibilities here. Either she knew the game was up, and had decided to act for all she was worth, and try to lay down a case for mitigating circumstances. Or she really was as defeated as she seemed to be.

Hillary was inclined to think it was the latter, but she was going to keep a sharp eye out for any signs of the former. ‘We know you used to do errands for Florence Jenkins, Mrs Weekes,’ Hillary began carefully. ‘You did the odd grocery shopping for her. Ran her into town to collect her pension, that sort of thing. You said as much in your original statement. Do you remember that?’

Caroline Weekes nodded. Then, when Barrington said flatly, ‘Mrs Weekes has just nodded her head,’ winced.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Caroline said, making some effort to sit straighter in her chair and pay attention, as if determined to pull her socks up and get things right.

Hillary nodded. In the observation room, she knew that Paul Danvers was listening carefully. ‘And did these errands sometimes mean that you got Florence’s lottery ticket?’ Hillary asked softly.

Caroline Weekes drew in a harsh shuddering breath. But speech seemed suddenly beyond her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her eyes flooded once more and tears oozed out, but she never sobbed. She simply stared at Hillary, like a cow facing the man taking her to the abattoir.

Hillary opened the folder in front of her, and said quietly, ‘Do you remember telling me how much Florence was looking forward to her birthday party? It would have been today, wouldn’t it? She would have been seventy-seven?’

Caroline licked her lips and nodded. ‘I was going to make her her favourite chocolate cake,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, that’s right. She was born on 9 December, 1930.’ Hillary wrote three numbers on a blank piece of paper. ‘Do you know what day Mrs Jenkins celebrated her wedding anniversary, Mrs Weekes?’

Caroline Weekes shook her head, then, remembering the tape, said, before Keith Barrington could respond, ‘No, I don’t.’ She spoke it rather loudly, and looked surprised at the strength of her own voice.

On the table, the machine carried on recording the interview, oblivious to the tension in the room.

‘It was on Valentine’s Day, in 1949,’ Hillary said, writing three more numbers on the piece of paper. This she then turned around to show Caroline Weekes. ‘Do these six sets of numbers mean anything to you, Mrs Weekes?’ she asked, then added, ‘For the benefit of the tape, I am showing Mrs Caroline Weekes a piece of paper with the numbers, 2,9,12,14,30 and 49 written on it. The mixed numbers of Mrs Florence Jenkins’ date of birth and wedding date.’

Caroline Weekes stared at the paper. ‘No,’ she whispered again.

Hillary nodded and, reaching into the folder, withdrew a sheet of newspaper. ‘For the tape, I’m now showing Mrs Caroline Weekes a copy of last Monday’s
Oxford Mail
newspaper. In it is an article that concerns an uncollected lottery win.’ Hillary went on to describe the story, about how the ticket had been bought in Oxfordshire, and how the time was running out for whoever held it to collect the jackpot. When she was finished, she carefully folded it up and put it back in the file.

Caroline Weekes watched her, as if fascinated by her neat, precise movements.

‘Florence always used these same numbers, every week, for the Saturday lottery draw, didn’t she, Mrs Weekes?’ Hillary asked. ‘Her neighbour, Mr Walter Keane, confirmed as much for us just this afternoon.’

Caroline Weekes nodded. ‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘And you sometimes got the ticket for her, didn’t you? If she felt too unwell to get it herself?’ Hillary carried on gently.

‘Yes.’

‘And you got the ticket for her that week, didn’t you, Mrs Weekes? The day those numbers came up?’

Caroline Weekes said nothing.

‘We’ve contacted Camelot, Mrs Weekes. They’ve confirmed the serial number of the winning ticket.’

‘Yes.’

Hillary tensed. ‘Yes, what, Mrs Weekes?’