Complete Detective Stephen Greco Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  * * *

  “Did you hear that comment?” Grace asked Georgina once the two had left the office. Our leader seems to have a jaundiced view of marriage.”

  “He’s recently divorced, that’s why,” Georgina Booth told her. “Something I overheard when he was chatting to the DCI.” She shrugged. “But that’s all I know; he doesn’t give anything away.”

  Grace was well aware of that. Stephen Greco kept things to himself — not something she appreciated. Grace liked to know exactly what was going on in her colleagues’ lives, and that included their new DI.

  All she knew was what she saw. He was young, well, youngish; certainly no more than forty; and — the icing on the cake — he was something of a dish. He was tall, well built, with the sort of physique that suggested he worked out. He had blue eyes and blond hair that fell in a boyish fringe that half covered his forehead. He was always immaculately dressed: suit, crisp white shirt, and tie. If he was free and single, then Grace wanted to know.

  Her mother was always going on at her to get herself a man, someone permanent who would be a father to Holly. Grace wasn’t sure. She liked men, but did she want one in her life all the time? She had managed perfectly well on her own for the last six years. Not that it was easy, because it wasn’t. It was wing-and-prayer stuff most of the time, where work was concerned. Something else her mother was critical about. Grace knew she’d like nothing better than for Grace to give up, take time out to raise Holly properly, as she put it. But in Grace’s opinion that was a load of rubbish. Grace needed the money, but she also loved the job and given half a chance, she’d be good at it.

  “Do you reckon he’s seeing someone? Is that why his marriage failed?”

  “God no! His marriage failed, idiot, because of how he is. He’s a complete dork. All that tidiness and obsessing about the cleanliness of the place.” Georgina shook her head. “He was here this morning well before it was light. When I arrived, he was checking the waste bins had been emptied and cleaned. He gave Dora the one from the kitchen and asked her to bleach it.”

  The two women started to laugh. He was different, that was for sure.

  “Perhaps the love of a good woman could change him — make him loosen up a little.”

  “It’ll take more than that — he’ll have been like that forever, believe me.”

  “Still, if he asks . . .” Grace smiled.

  “You’ve got enough on your hands as it is. The job, your little girl; you’re a single parent, isn’t that tough enough without taking on him as well?”

  Georgina was right. It was all Grace could do to keep up as it was. It was only a matter of time before Greco would be hauling her over the coals too because of her timekeeping. If Holly was ill, or Grace’s mother cried off then Grace often didn’t come in until after lunchtime, if at all. The previous DI had turned a blind eye — he’d understood, up to a point. But Grace couldn’t see Greco being as lenient.

  * * *

  The Hirsts lived just on the outskirts of Oldston centre. The houses were little two-up two-down cottages crammed together with no front gardens. In contrast to the rundown area the Hirsts’ house looked neat and tidy. There was newly fitted double glazing, and the brickwork had recently been re-pointed.

  A middle-aged man answered the door.

  “Mr Hirst?” Greco asked, flashing his badge. “DI Greco and DS Quickenden from Oldston Police. May we come in?”

  The man looked upset. His face was drawn and his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. “Have you heard anything? She’s been gone nearly all weekend. Have you found her?” Jack Hirst asked the pair hopefully.

  Greco shook his head — sadly that wasn’t the case. “Sergeant, go make us a cup of tea,” he suggested, nodding towards the kitchen.

  Hirst led the way into the small sitting room and gestured for Greco to sit down.

  “She’s never done anything like this before. I don’t understand,” he said running a hand through his greying hair. “She doesn’t go anywhere much, apart from the knitting circle and work.” He shook his head. Greco could see that this had him stumped.

  “We’d talked about having a holiday this year. Brenda had said the Channel Islands, but I wasn’t sure. When she was late back on Saturday I thought perhaps she’d gone to get some brochures. She’d said she’d call in at the travel agents after work.”

  Hirst looked unkempt. His clothes were crumpled and marked as if he’d worn them night and day all weekend. He hadn’t shaved either.

  “I rang them, the travel agents, but they haven’t seen her. She left work at the usual time so why didn’t she come home? Why no word? This isn’t like Brenda at all.”

  Now for the hard part. “Mr Hirst, Jack, earlier today we found the body of a woman on the canal bank . . .” There was no prettier way to wrap up news like this. It was better to tell it straight.

  Silence.

  The man stared at Greco as if he hadn’t understood the words, and then he seemed to fold, to crumple, his entire body shrinking into the sofa as he wept softly. Greco watched. It was obvious that Jack Hirst couldn’t get his head around this at all.

  “Accident?” he asked finally, sobbing into a hankie.

  “I’m afraid not, Jack,” Greco replied gently. “The woman we found had been murdered.”

  Jack Hirst covered his face with his hands, howling with a mixture of what sounded like disbelief along with the grief. “Then it won’t be Brenda,” he cried emphatically. “It can’t be, there’s been some mistake. Who’d want to murder Brenda? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “We found her ID badge from work in her coat pocket. It had her photo on it and her name.”

  “I still say there’s been some mistake. I want to see her. If I see her then I’ll know. But it won’t be her; no one would do that to my Brenda.”

  “Jack, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions. We want to catch whoever did this as quickly as we can.”

  Hirst stared at him blankly. Had he even heard?

  “When she left home, was everything okay?” Greco asked, taking his notebook from his coat pocket. “No problems that you are aware of? She wasn’t upset about anything?”

  “No, of course not, everything was fine, we were fine,” he assured him. “We’re always fine. There was nothing going on, everything was, well, just ordinary,” he added.

  “I presume your wife has a mobile phone?” Quickenden asked, entering the room with the tea.

  “Yes, and she had it with her. I’ve been ringing it constantly but it goes straight to messaging.”

  Quickenden put the tray of tea on a small table and handed the cups around.

  “Did she use a computer, laptop or tablet?”

  Greco noted that his sergeant was asking the right questions. If he could smarten up his appearance and get up in the mornings, then perhaps there was a career for him yet.

  Hirst shook his head. “We don’t have anything like that. She has enough technology to deal with at work. When she gets home, Brenda likes to relax. She likes her telly programmes and she knits, well, knitted.” He picked up her knitting bag from the side of the chair and clutched it to his chest. “She won’t be knitting any more now, will she?” He began to sob again.

  “Do you have a recent photograph of Brenda, Jack?”

  The room fell silent as Jack Hirst put his teacup on the table and took a silver photo frame from the sideboard and handed it to Greco.

  The DI looked carefully at the image in front of him, seeking out resemblances between it and the body they’d seen earlier. It was difficult. This photo showed a pleasant-looking woman with dark brown hair, a wide smile and a plump face. The body had taken a beating — the bones of the face had been broken and the eyes were missing. However, the photo did match the ID they’d found.

  “What was Brenda wearing that morning when you saw her last?”

  “It was wet; she had on her raincoat, the shortish one with the belt around the waist.”

  �
��Colour?”

  “Beige,” he replied. “She had on the skirt she’d bought at the market the week before, the black one.”

  In normal circumstances, Greco would have asked him to identify the body but he couldn’t put this man through an ordeal like that. He’d see if there was anything the pathologist could do. The last thing he wanted was to upset this man any more than he had already.

  “Is there anyone who can stay with you, Jack?” Quickenden asked.

  “We have no children and no siblings either, it’s always been just me and Brenda against the world.” He attempted a wan smile.

  “I can arrange something, a PC to stay. They would keep you up to date with our progress.”

  “Yes, okay, but not a woman. If I have to have someone, then make it a bloke.”

  “Rest assured that we will do everything in our power to catch whoever did this.”

  “I still think it’s a mistake.”

  “There will be more questions but we’ll try not to upset you more than necessary.”

  “If this is right . . .” He paused for a moment. “If my Brenda has been murdered then you can ask anything — you don’t have to spare my feelings. I want the bastard catching. Do you understand?”

  Greco nodded. “The ID was from Webb’s. Is that where Brenda worked?”

  “Yes, she’s — was — a receptionist there. They’re on the High Street; the coach holiday company. She’s been with them over ten years. It’s hard work and she gets frustrated with it at times but mostly it suits — suited her.”

  “How did she get there and back, did Brenda drive?” Quickenden asked.

  “No, she always walked. It’s not far really, just down the road then onto the High Street.”

  “Did Brenda contact you at all on Saturday — any missed calls for example?”

  He shook his head. “She doesn’t ring me from work; it would be odd if she did.”

  “Where do you work, Mr Hirst?”

  “I used to work at Frasier’s. You know the engineering works on the industrial estate by the canal. Before they went bust.”

  “So, you’re currently unemployed?”

  He looked at Greco and coughed. “No — breathing problems; COPD,” he explained. “Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, got from years of working in a fume-filled workshop, and smoking, of course.” He coughed again.

  “Do you have any financial problems because of that?”

  “No, none — we’re okay for money. We live simply and we’ve always saved. We just get on with things.”

  “Can I take this?” Greco asked, holding up the photo.

  Jack Hirst nodded.

  “Do you know a woman called Rose Donnelly?” Greco asked, removing the photo from the frame. “Could she have been a friend of Brenda’s?”

  “I don’t know the name. Should I?”

  Greco shook his head. “No matter, it was just a thought.”

  * * *

  “D’you believe him, sir?” Quickenden asked when they were outside.

  “I don’t disbelieve him, Sergeant, but I prefer to gather evidence and analyse it before I make up my mind about anything.”

  Quickenden groaned inwardly. Now it was starting. Greco had a reputation for being methodical, but it was more than that, he was finicky. He checked every little detail — sometimes twice.

  “He’s really cut up about what’s happened. He wasn’t putting that on, sir.”

  “Of course he wasn’t, Sergeant. His wife was murdered. How would you react?”

  “Point taken.”

  “But we can’t let him see her, not like that. The image would stay with him forever.”

  So he had a heart. He’d been okay with Jack Hirst too. He’d used his first name at least once, Quickenden had observed. Perhaps the boss was a closet softy after all.

  “Nonetheless we must keep an open mind until the evidence tells us different, Sergeant. He could be emotional for any number of reasons.”

  “True. It could be a domestic, but I doubt it somehow.”

  “Your instinct twitching, Sergeant?”

  Quickenden didn’t know how to answer that, but the DI was right. He didn’t think Hirst had anything to do with the death of his wife and it had nothing to do with proof.

  “Is it back to the nick, then?”

  “No. I think we’ll go and speak to Brenda Hirst’s employers — see what they have to throw into the pot.”

  “Sir . . .” the DS began and cleared his throat nervously. “Sorry about this morning. I know I wasn’t up to the mark. After the weekend I’ve had, I didn’t have my mind in gear.”

  “That happens a lot, doesn’t it?” Greco observed dryly. “You were going in the right direction back there. You asked a few well-chosen questions. But you are a long way from being a reformed character. Look at the state of you. Your shirt looks as if you spilt your breakfast down it and you’re bleary eyed from last night’s drinking session. Bet you didn’t get to bed before the early hours, did you?”

  Quickenden sighed and turned away. If your face didn’t fit, the inspector was a bastard. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” It was unconvincing.

  “That’s just the trouble, son; it will, and we both know it,” came the blunt reply.

  Chapter 3

  “This will be about Brenda’s disappearance.” Caroline Dulwich greeted both detectives with this announcement as she led them into her office.

  While they had been waiting, they’d been treated to the rumours circulating about the new office manager. Greco was told that Caroline Dulwich had embraced the post at Webb’s Travel with more enthusiasm than her colleagues were comfortable with. She was bossy, a woman full of her own importance. She’d taken over the role from an individual she’d considered to be inept and totally wrong for the job. Apparently, Brenda had felt intimidated by her.

  The current receptionist at Webb’s Travel had been only too happy to give the pair chapter and verse. Greco didn’t like gossip as a rule, but in this case it did give an insight into the work side of Brenda Hirst’s life.

  Now they understood the staff’s complaints. Her attitude grated. Once the office door was firmly shut behind them, she sat down behind an imposing desk and with an imperious wave of her hand, gestured for them to sit on the other side.

  “She’s wasting everyone’s time, you know,” Mrs Dulwich continued. “She’ll have gone off with that chap of hers, and who can blame her. Life with that bore she was married to was turning her into a frustrated old bat. Believe me he was driving her into an early grave.”

  Greco felt he should stop her now, but this was quite a revelation. Jack Hirst had painted such a different picture. The woman he’d described was a stay at home wife who loved her husband and was happy with her lot. One of them had got it very wrong, but which?

  “You know for sure that there’s another man?” Greco asked, fishing his notebook out of his pocket. “Only Mr Hirst isn’t aware of anything untoward in their marriage.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t, would he?” Brenda replied scornfully. “She isn’t stupid. Brenda’s careful, secretive,” she confirmed, with a nod of her head. “But there’s definitely someone. There’s the phone calls, regular as clockwork and she always goes out into the yard at the back to take them.”

  “So this person, whoever it was, rang her on her mobile?”

  “Mostly, but he rang the main office phone too, once or twice, that’s how we know,” she explained. “I believe one of the girls did try to speak to Brenda about it but she wouldn’t divulge anything. Very suspicious if you ask me — that’s when the rumours started.”

  “Did she know that her colleagues were talking about her?” the sergeant asked.

  Caroline Dulwich pulled a face, “She must have done, and there was enough teasing. You see, Inspector, we were all surprised. Brenda isn’t the type. She’s not glamorous; she doesn’t wear fancy clothes or much make-up. Frankly, I was gobsmacked when I found out that she, of
all people, had got herself another man.”

  “Do you know who he is, would any of her colleagues know?”

  She shook her head. “I doubt it, Inspector. Tight-lipped, that’s Brenda.” She shook her head. “You’re wasting good money and resources looking for her. They’ll have gone off somewhere warm together, mark my words, the woman has done a runner.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Greco sighed, wishing it was true. “You see, Mrs Dulwich, Brenda Hirst was found dead this morning. We are looking for her killer, not investigating a missing person.”

  She went pale. The news sank in and she fished in her desk drawer for a tissue. “That’s dreadful,” she whispered. “The others will be devastated. I know I can waffle on, but we’re a tight-knit crew really.”

  “Was Mrs Hirst popular?” Greco asked. “Did she get on with the other staff and the customers?”

  “Yes, after a fashion. I mean we all tried to like Brenda,” she replied guardedly. “I know it’s going to sound churlish given what’s happened but Brenda wasn’t easy to like. I don’t enjoy saying it but it’s a fact. She was hard on the coach drivers when it really wasn’t necessary. But then it’s no picnic, you know, standing out there day after day dealing with the folk around here. They’re rude, and they swear a lot. If you can’t sort their problems at the speed of light they complain,” she told them.

  “You’re busy then, your holidays are popular?”

  “Yes and for very good reasons. We give value for money. We offer people travel in the UK and Europe. We run a fleet of luxury coaches and accommodation at decent hotels, and all for a fair price. But what makes us different is that we offer our customers a payment plan and that’s popular. But things are tough. People pay the deposit, a couple of payments, then renege on the balance. Mr Percival says if there’s no insurance, we should sue, but we’d be suing half the town if we did that.”

  There was resentment in her tone. Was it because of a particular incident, Greco wondered?

  “Had Brenda upset someone recently?” he asked.

  “Not enough to kill her, if that’s what you mean.” Caroline Dulwich shrugged. “But she was a cold fish. She couldn’t help it. It was just her way. We see a lot of upsetting stuff, poverty you know. People see our adverts, the offers we have and they forget it all has to be paid for. But Brenda had no sympathy. They want to book a holiday, so that’s what she does and she’d pile on the extras too. You know — sea views, extra excursions, stuff a lot of folk round here definitely can’t afford.”