With a Narrow Blade (6 page)

‘Guv.’ Barrington swivelled his chair around, rode it to his own desk a few feet away, and reached for the computer keyboard. Time was, he’d have had to wear out his shoe leather, and he might still have to make a personal visit to the vic’s bank, armed with a warrant.

Hillary continued to sit and stare vaguely ahead of her, her mind racing. With the money angle being checked out, what other reasons could there be for Flo’s murder? Sex? Hardly. Unless she was a flirtatious tease, and had pushed Walter Keane too far. Hillary smiled grimly at the image, and moved on to the other classics.

Revenge? Could Flo Jenkins have done something to somebody that had so pissed them off that they’d resorted to murder? On the face of it, it seemed very unlikely – there was so little a frail old lady could do to anyone. Blackmail wouldn’t be beyond her of course. But blackmail had a certain smell about it that Hillary was sure she would have picked up on before now.

Flo might, of course, have done something long, long ago, that was only now catching up with her. But that was venturing way too far into Agatha Christie territory. In reality, the blast from the past coming back to wreak havoc very rarely happened.

Not revenge then. Probably not money, and almost certainly not love or sex. What did that leave?

Restlessly, she went back to reading the list of house contents, and paused, frowning, over Janine’s carefully typed list of Flo Jenkins’ medicine cabinet. Along with the usual Milk of Magnesia tablets, aspirin, and various creams promising to relieve the usual aching muscles and joints that tormented the elderly, were several long-sounding, unfamiliar names that raised her eyebrows.

She knew, from her own mother, that seventy-somethings could be struck down with all sorts of things requiring no end of pills. Diabetes, thyroid problems, angina, high blood pressure. Even so …

She was vaguely aware that Janine had returned to her desk as she picked up the phone and dialled the morgue. ‘Hello. Doctor Steven Partridge please. DI Greene. Yes, I’ll wait.’

She leaned back in her chair, watching Janine carefully, but the blonde woman made no move towards her in tray. Seeing her boss on the phone, she simply slung off her coat, settled herself in front of the computer, and began to type up her case notes, breaking off now and then to enter things of significance into the ‘Murder Book’. This was a folder that she was usually responsible for, which detailed every significant fact about the case as it became available, and that any member of the team could consult. It was a way of keeping everyone up to speed, without constantly reporting and repeating information.

‘Hello?’ Steven Partridge said in Hillary’s ear, and she sat up straight in her chair.

‘Doc, got a pencil? I’ve got a list of drugs our vic was taking and I wondered if they meant anything to you. They don’t look run of the mill to me.’ So saying, she rattled them off, more often than not simply spelling them out rather than trying to pronounce them. When she’d finished, Steven Partridge whistled thoughtfully down the line.

‘Well, I can tell you straight off, our poor old dead gal had something seriously wrong with her. One of those is a serious painkiller.’ He mentioned one of the more easy ones to say, and carried on. ‘The other two can be used for a variety of conditions, none of them good.’

‘The painkillers,’ Hillary said sharply. ‘Worth much on the open market?’

‘Oh, there’d be a market for them, all right. Mix them with some downers, you’d be zonked for up to forty-eight hours.’

‘I’ll have to get on to her GP then,’ Hillary mused, squinting at the list. ‘It looks as if the bottle she had was fairly full, but if she’d been prescribed more than one bottle, we could be looking at a junkie hit.’

‘I doubt the GP would have prescribed too many in one batch,’ Steven cautioned her.

‘Oh,’ Hillary said, with instant understanding. ‘And the other stuff? Much market for them would you say?’

‘Not so much.’

‘OK, thanks, doc. Have I tempted you to move her up your schedule any?’

Partridge laughed. ‘You don’t get me that way. I’ve still got a death by drowning, a probable suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning, and two RTAs to get through yet.’

Muttering to herself, Hillary hung up, then glanced at Janine. ‘Yes?’

‘Old lady across the street, confirms Flo Jenkins had a paperknife that fits the description, boss,’ Janine said. ‘Thinks it was dangerous. Apparently our vic cut herself badly on it once.’

Hillary nodded. It bore out what Walter Keane had said. ‘So, either the killer didn’t go there with murder in mind, or the killer knew about the paperknife and intended all along to use it. It was no secret how sharp it was, apparently. And it would be a smart move. How many times have we nailed someone by pinning the murder weapon to them?’

Janine nodded. ‘From what the old gal had to say, Flo Jenkins didn’t have two ha’pennies to rub together, boss. Telly was rented, and the only sound system she had was a radio and ancient tape recorder. Found that in the cupboard under the window in the living room. All the appliances were old and well used. Cooker was probably twenty years old if it was a day. According to the neighbour, Flo’s grandson used up any money left over from her old-age pension. Although she did say Flo was determined to hold on to her money this month in order to do herself proud on her birthday, and have a nice Christmas.’

‘Right. And perhaps that didn’t sit well with … what’s his name…?’ she reached for her notes, but Barrington was there first.

‘Dylan Hodge, guv,’ he said, from memory.

Hillary nodded, not missing it, but not about to start lavishing praise just yet. ‘Right, Hodge. If he’s used to relying on granny as a banker, he might have gone round for his usual handout, and not been pleased to be sent away with nothing. Her pension money was not in her handbag, so it must have gone somewhere. If she was determined to spend it on herself for a change, she might have felt the need to hide it somewhere. Keith, when SOCO give the all-clear I want you to turn that house upside down. Little old ladies can find clever hiding places sometimes. Think of it as a test for you ingenuity.’

‘Guv,’ Keith said.

Just then, Paul Danvers came out of his office, saw Hillary was at her desk, and headed over. She gave him a quick, precise and full report of her case so far. She left nothing of importance out, and managed to convey, without being obvious, that everyone was pulling their weight.

Maybe, for once, even Ross.

‘You’ll be pulling this boy Hodge in then?’ Danvers asked, and Hillary nodded.

‘First we’ve got to find him. I don’t think we’ve got an address. It’ll probably be tomorrow before uniform roust him out of whatever squat he’s found. But it won’t do him any harm to have a day free and clear. Maybe find a score. That way, he might be in a mood for a nice chat about his granny,’ she said, grinning savagely. He wouldn’t be the first junkie, high from his place in nirvana, to blissfully admit to murder.

‘OK. Reason I called over was to invite everyone out for an early Christmas drink. Maybe tomorrow, or day after, depending on how free you are. What with Janine leaving us, and our new recruit just coming in, it seemed like a good time for a social get together.’

Hillary hid a sigh. ‘Sounds nice, sir. I’m sure we can all make it.’ She glanced at Janine, who grinned, and Keith Barrington, who looked a shade nervous. ‘Frank might be too busy, though.’

‘Hell yes,’ Danvers said, with feeling. ‘Oh, and feel free to bring a date, if you want. I’ve just split from my partner, unfortunately, but Janine, if you want to bring Mel, or Barrington, if you’ve got a girl, feel free.’

‘Only just moved here, guv,’ Barrington murmured, and Danvers nodded and looked casually across at Hillary.

Hillary smiled briefly, and said nothing.

Danvers, after a moment, nodded and went back to his cubby hole. Janine shot Hillary an admiring look, but had to wonder why she was giving him such a hard time. Danvers was single, good-looking, and a rank above her. What was holding her back? She was free and single. With a mental shrug, Janine turned back to her desk, shot a tight, hard look at her In tray, then reached for the printouts waiting for her, from her background research into their victim. She’d collate them for Hillary then head off for home. Maybe she’d cook Mel something special. She’d be Mrs Mallow in a few days’ time, after all. But somehow, she was finding it hard to feel the old excitement.

She studiously avoided her In tray, and reached for the stapler.

It was nearly eight o’clock that night before Hillary finally put away the last of the reports and stretched out in her chair. Danvers had just left, and her team had long gone – Barrington being careful to be the last of them to leave.

At some point she was going to have to ask him flat out why he’d lost his cool and decked his sergeant. But that could wait. One problem at a time.

She put on her coat and walked out into a windy, wet night. On the main road, the council had already put up the Christmas light decorations, and they cast a cheerful, multicoloured hue in the background. The rain had come back with a vengeance however, so she dashed to her car, and once inside, delved into her handbag for her oldest filofax. The name she was looking for went back many years now. Finding the number she wanted at last, she punched in the buttons, hoping the man hadn’t moved. Or died.

‘Hello, Titchmarsh residence,’ the precise female voice took Hillary by surprise for a moment, before she remembered that ‘Mitch’ Titchmarsh’s missus was supposed to be from the upper crust. An old desk sergeant had once told her that she’d been a primary school teacher in Windsor before she’d married Mitch from Bunko, and living so close to the royal family had given her airs.

Now she bit back a grin as she said cheerfully, ‘Is Mitch there please?’

There was moment of painful silence, and then the voice said, ‘Certainly, Thomas is here. I’ll just get him.’

Thomas. So that was Mitch’s real name. The legendary Mitch the Titch. Tom Titch. Well, well.

‘Hello?’ the voice asked cautiously, and Hillary felt herself grin.

‘Don’t worry, Mitch, this isn’t some old lag with a grudge.’

‘Hillary?’

‘Thought you might have forgotten me.’

‘Not you, you’re unforgettable, girl. Still got all those curves? I used to watch you go by in that tight little uniform and salivate.’

‘Pervert! But I’ve got even more curves than ever nowadays. I need to go on a diet.’

‘Don’t you bloody dare!’ And then, some of the laughter dying out of his voice, he said craftily, ‘You need something, gal?’

Hillary sighed. ‘Couldn’t I just be ringing up an old pal, a departmental legend no less, just for the hell of it?’

‘Course you could,’ Mitch Titchmarsh said stoutly. Then added, ‘But I bet you ain’t.’

Hillary nodded in the dark of her car. ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ve got a problem, Mitch. A particularly nasty, dirty problem. I might need your help. The kind only you can provide. Know what I mean?’

There was silence for a moment, then he said thoughtfully, ‘OK. Want to meet for lunch? You remember the old pub?’

‘That fleapit? Didn’t public health and safety close it down long ago?’

Mitch gurgled with laughter. ‘Hell yes. But it got resurrected. It’s respectable now. Well, almost.’

‘Can you make it tomorrow?’ Hillary asked anxiously.

‘For you, darlin’, anything.’

‘Don’t tell your wife that,’ Hillary shot back. ‘Tomorrow lunchtime then. Not sure when I can get away – I just caught a bad one. Old lady stabbed to death. You know what the first forty-eight hours are like.’

Mitch did. ‘So it’ll mean I have to hang around the pub for hours waiting for you to show. Might have to have a game of darts, a pub pie, watch the football on telly. Poor me.’

Hillary laughed, said goodnight, and hung up. Then she glanced thoughtfully at the big, well-lit HQ building behind her. Maybe their stalker had gone home for the night, or maybe he was working the night shift. Perhaps he was laid up in a lay-by somewhere with a speed gun, or parked outside a pub with a breathalyser unit.

He may not know it, but wherever he was, Hillary had just taken herself a big step closer to nailing him.

H
illary awoke slowly the next morning, aware at once that something was wrong.

She opened her eyes warily, and stared at a ceiling. A large, white ceiling, that had recently been Artexed. She stared, bemused, at the fan-shaped pattern over her head, and slowly closed her eyes. Ahh, she wasn’t on the
Mollern
, her narrow boat and home for the past five years. There was no reassuring swaying motion caused by the high wind raging outside. There was none of the silence that came from living in a hamlet in the middle of the countryside in the depths of winter.

Instead she could hear a council rubbish collection lorry outside, giving its usual and annoying bip-bip-bip as it backed up, and a corresponding flashing orange light intermittently lit up the wallpaper on the far wall.

She was curled up on a double bed, which was far more space than she was used to, even with another body pressing next to her own. Slowly, she yawned and stretched, her cold toes making contact with a warm, hirsute calf, and she heard the man beside her draw in his breath sharply. ‘Bloody hell, Hill, why don’t you wear socks?’

Hillary gurgled with laughter, pressing her nose into a lavender-scented pillow case. ‘How very romantic,’ she said drily. ‘You want me to buy those fluffy powder-blue bedsocks little old ladies favour? Maybe I should buy one of those big, tent-like flannelette night dresses to go with them – the kind with bow ribbons under the chin. You’ll be taking a hot water bottle to bed next.’

‘Oh very funny,’ Detective Inspector Mike Regis grunted, rolling onto one side, bending his elbow to lever himself up, and resting his chin in the cup of one hand, the better to look at her. ‘Mornin’ gorgeous.’

Hillary sighed. She doubted she looked gorgeous. Her hair was probably tangled, she hadn’t got on a scrap of make-up, and she still felt absurdly self-conscious.

Even though they’d been seeing each other for nearly two months now, she rarely spent the night at his place, and it still made her feel slightly uneasy to do so. Regis, recently divorced, lived in a decent-sized flat, converted out of a large, 1930s villa-type house in Botley, one of Oxford’s many suburbs. It was clean and spacious, and pleasant enough, but it had no personality. She much preferred her boat. And her old, single lifestyle. Mind you, there
were
certain compensations to being part of a couple again.

She settled herself more comfortably against the pillows, and eyed Regis thoughtfully. He was not most people’s idea of a handsome hunk, being just a little on the short side, with thinning dark brown hair and, at the moment, a five o’clock shadow that could rasp the skin off a rabbit hide. But his eyes were spectacular, Hillary thought, a shade of emerald green that sizzled with intelligence, or, at the moment anyway, good old-fashioned lust.

He worked out of Vice, his home station being in St Aldates, in Oxford itself. They’d met on her first murder case where she’d been acting SIO, and their paths had crossed once or twice since. Their attraction had been immediate and unmistakable, each recognizing in the other someone who thought as they did. Their views on the job, criminals, the justice system, and life in particular gelled very nicely. But he’d been married, and Hillary, having survived the marriage from hell with Ronnie Greene, had had no intention of being ‘the other woman’.

But with his divorce finalized, Mike Regis had become a very different proposition. He was good company, liked more or less the same music as herself, had her taste in theatre, films, the arts and – some of her preferences in literature. Hillary, being an OEC (Oxford-educated cop) had graduated from a non-affiliated college with a degree in Literature, and if the man in her life couldn’t truly appreciate Jane Austen, well, it was hardly an obstacle that couldn’t be overcome.

Nevertheless, as rosy as things seemed, she was aware of clouds on the horizon.

The last two months had been great, much better, in fact, than she’d anticipated. When Regis had asked her out to dinner two months ago, she’d been celibate for nearly three years. The death of her estranged husband, and the fall-out from it, had put her off men, she’d thought, almost certainly for good. It had taken a fair bit of nerve for her to accept the offer, and even more nerve, a week later, to repeat the date, and accept his offer to stay the night.

But Regis wasn’t without experience, or tact, and her fears and nervousness had quickly dissipated. And so far, their affair had been both tender, satisfying and a huge boon to her ego. But there was no getting around certain problems. As a rule, the brass didn’t particularly like marriages within the force, and their disapproval of Mel and Janine was just a case in point. Of course, Mike and herself weren’t on the same squad, or even worked out of the same nick. Even so. They hadn’t actually discussed it as such, but both of them had been careful to keep their relationship discreet. They weren’t exactly secretive, but they never went to a pub or restaurant that was known as a cop hangout, for instance. And they were careful with their phone calls, never putting through a personal call whilst at work.

So far it seemed to be working, and nobody had yet twigged, but it could only be a matter of time. So far as she was aware, the only one who knew about them was Colin Tanner, Mike’s DS for the last noughty-nought years. They’d worked together for so long, and knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses so well that rumour had it they were telepathically linked. She knew for a fact that neither of them seriously considered working with anyone else. Tanner was married, she’d learned, since picking up with Regis, and had a disabled daughter. He had no real ambition for promotion, but their arrest and conviction rate at Vice was so high, neither of them had any worries on the work front.

It wouldn’t be such a disaster, Hillary supposed, when the rest of HQ finally twigged that Hillary had got herself a man. But then there was the problem of Paul Danvers.

Hillary hadn’t missed the way he’d invited them all out for a drink, using it as a way of finding out her current status. How long before he found out about them? And how would he take it?

‘You’re frowning,’ Mike chided, running a finger across her forehead.

Hillary sighed. ‘You’d frown too if your boss fancied you.’

‘I certainly would. My super is a twenty-stone ex-rugger play from Newport Pagnell called Kneebreaker Burgess. He’s sweet, but he’s got two cauliflower ears, and his nose has been broken so often it sort of sits to one side of his face like a dowager duchess sitting side saddle. Definitely not my type.’

Hillary was still laughing as she swung her legs out of bed and slowly sat up, yawning down at her watch. She had plenty of time, but she wanted to get in early.

Regis ran a hand tenderly up her back. ‘You really worried about Danvers?’ he asked quietly. Life, he knew, could get really complicated, really fast, for female officers who fell foul of Casanova superior officers.

Hillary sighed. ‘No, not really. I think he came down from Yorkshire to Thames Valley for his promotion prospects all right, but, I think he also came down partly to see me again. I’m not convinced his getting Mel’s old job as my direct boss was as much of a coincidence as he’d have me believe. And he dropped some very broad hints yesterday that he’d just split from that barrister woman he was seeing.’

Now it was Regis’ turn to frown. Ever since he’d first met Hillary, he’d known they’d be good together. They had just clicked. She was smart, courageous, practical, experienced, and capable. As a police officer, he’d admired her at once. As a woman she had curves that a man could admire, gorgeous nut-coloured hair and the dark chocolate melting eyes that made a man go gooey inside. She was straightforward and yet warm-hearted, and he felt that she was somebody he could trust in both his professional and his private life. Which was such a rare thing, he was determined to protect it.

Things had been a bit rocky between them for a while, after she’d learned he was still married and had told him to go paddle his canoe. But his marriage had been on the rocks long before he met her, and he hadn’t let her rejection hurt his pride.

He knew she hadn’t been exactly over eager about starting their affair, and he didn’t need a degree in psychology to know why. Her marriage to that bent bastard Ronnie Greene had really screwed her up. Greene’s penchant for blondes with loose knickers wasn’t exactly a secret, even when he’d been alive.

He’d seen the worry in her eyes, even as he’d picked her up for that first date – dinner at the Trout in Wolvercote, followed by a production of an Ibsen play at the Playhouse. The play, it had to be said, had gone over his head, but Hillary had obviously enjoyed it. He’d chosen it, knowing she’d taken a literature degree, and he’d been glad she’d had a good time. Even so, relaxed as she’d been, she’d tensed up yet again when it came time for the goodnight kiss. He’d handled it well, putting no pressure on her, and keeping it light, and was relieved when she’d agreed to another date.

It had taken patience and understanding on both their parts, to get where they were now – comfortable in their own skins, and each other’s beds. And it rankled deeply that her DCI was trying to put a spoke in the wheels.

‘You could always ask for a transfer,’ he said, but without much hope.

Hillary, reaching for her navy blue skirt, slipped it under her feet and glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘No way. I worked hard to get into CID. Besides, I’ve just landed my sixth murder inquiry. What do you think? I’m going to transfer to the sex crimes unit, or the fraud squad now? No way.’

‘I know,’ Regis sighed. Hillary was right. She was made for CID. ‘But you can’t let Danvers twist your arm either. Just tell him to sod off. Mel will cover your back, right, if he tries anything on?’

‘Of course he will.’ But her heart fell at the thought of going down that route. So far in her career, she’d managed to avoid filing any sexual harassment suits. No matter what the civil and equal rights pundits said, it was still counted as a black mark against you
. Women not being able to take care of themselves.
That was still the attitude, and it stank. But Hillary was nothing if not a realist. ‘Look let’s not get ahead of ourselves, all right? It’s probably nothing. Danvers seems to be a decent enough bloke.’

Regis slowly leaned back against the pillow, folding his arms behind his head. ‘Sure,’ he said casually.

Hillary slipped into her bra, pulling on yesterday’s white blouse, giving it a cautious sniff as she did so. She’d have to go back to the boat to change.

Regis, catching her out, smiled and said, even more casually, ‘You know, you could always leave a few things here. There’s certainly plenty of wardrobe space.’ As a single male, he felt that he tended to rattle around the large flat like a pea in a pod. Not that he wasn’t lucky to have such a place. Oxford being Oxford, affordable accommodation was at a premium. He could only afford this place because he got the rent cheap – most landlords liked to have a senior police officer on their premises. It tended to give burglars and car thieves pause for thought.

Hillary got up and slipped into her shoes. She shot Mike a brief smile as she picked up her jacket. ‘We’ll see,’ she hedged, and blew him a kiss.

Outside, she took a deep breath of fresh air, shivering as the strong, near-gale force wind whipped around her as she walked to her car.

She hadn’t missed the flash of disappointment that crossed his face when she hadn’t leaped at his offer of storage room. But leaving a change of clothes at Regis’ place was tantamount to taking the first step to moving in, and she wasn’t ready for that just yet. Not nearly ready.

At the back of her mind was a distinct warning note. Just why had it felt ‘wrong’ to wake up at Regis’ flat? Was it just the grumpy reaction of a home body who’d been lured off her home patch? Or was it something more fundamental? What would a shrink make of it?

Hillary sighed, unwilling to go into it now. With the Flo Jenkins case looming large on her mind, now was not the time to start contemplating her navel.

To her relief, Puff the Tragic Wagon started first time, and she had no trouble getting to Thrupp, since the rush hour had barely started. As she walked along the muddy towpath towards her grey, white, black and gold painted narrowboat, she glanced sadly at the gap next to her boat. Nancy Walker, on
Willowsands
, had been her next-door neighbour for nearly four years, and she missed her. Of course, the barge community was always on the move – by its very nature, it tended to be transitory. But Nancy had left nearly five months ago to chug her steady way up to Stratford-upon-Avon and Hillary felt her absence. A fifty-something, who liked to hunt the shoals of young men who congregated around any university town like a predatory hammerhead shark, Nancy had wanted to try her luck with the wannabe actors in Shakespeare’s home town.

Now why couldn’t
she
have that casual, fun, attitude to men, sex, and the whole emotional mess that was the dating game?

With a sigh she let herself onto the boat, noting that her other next-door neighbour, moored off her prow, had already put tinsel up in the windows.

Early as she was in to work, the first thing Hillary saw as she got to her desk, was Janine’s blonde head bent over her paperwork. She was updating the Murder Book, Hillary noticed, and on her computer VDU was a neatly typed report awaiting printing. Her In tray was studiously empty.

Janine glanced up as Hillary slung her bag under the desk and sat down. ‘Boss, Jenkins’ bio,’ she said without preamble, holding out a beige folder.

Hillary grunted, wishing she’d had a second cup of coffee, and reached for it, blinking.

Sensing the lack of caffeine that her superior seemed to need to jump-start her day, Janine rattled off the salient highlights to save her having to read it. ‘Flo Jenkins, seventy-six, born 9 December. Her birthday would have been in just three days’ time.’

Hillary nodded. ‘Yes, I remember. Everyone who knew her commented on how much she was looking forward to it. That and Christmas.’