by Faith Martin
‘Yes, sir,’ Steven said, and since Donleavy continued to look at him steadily, bowed to the pressure and said pleasantly, ‘I gave her the McRae case. Murdered housewife, back in 1990.’
‘Ah. Excellent.’
‘I was thinking that it would probably have been kinder to give her something a bit more recent, perhaps. Or not such a dead end. The original SIO on the case was pretty sure he knew who the perp was, but simply couldn’t prove it. And after all this time, I doubt Hillary can do anything positive with it.’
‘Oh don’t you be too sure,’ Donleavy said, spearing a bit of soggy salmon and chewing it doggedly. ‘She’s always at her best when she’s up against it.’
‘If you say so, sir,’ Crayle said mildly, and turned the conversation to increasing the CRT’s budget, a gambit that Donleavy parried with equal skill.
The group of uniforms who left the table nearest to them at that moment and moved towards the door attracted the attention of neither man.
But one of them left with excited green eyes, and a spring in his step.
So it was true, Tom Warrington thought, as he followed the others down the large, wide concrete steps and into the lobby. He’d heard that Hillary Greene and commander Donleavy were friends, with the Commander really rating her. And now he’d heard it from the horses’s mouth, so to speak.
Tom had always admired the senior brass. Unlike a lot of the other lads, who were more than ready to talk disparagingly about them, Tom saw himself as one day joining their rank. And Donleavy was just the kind of man he was going to become one day. People looked up to Donleavy. And Donleavy was Hillary’s champion.
Just one more proof, if proof was needed, that Hillary Greene was worthy of his devotion.
Now all he had to do was set about proving it to her.
In her flat, Lucy McRae said goodbye to her aunt, and stood in the doorway, hearing her footsteps ring hollowly on the stairway. Then the scent of urine wafted in, and she wrinkled her nose and quickly slammed the door.
She knew who was responsible for the smell, of course – that old duffer who lived two doors down. Drank like a fish, and was seventy if he was a day. She wouldn’t put it past him and his weak bladder to piddle in the corner halfway up the stairs because he was too knackered to make it to his loo in time.
She really had to get a different flat. She could hardly bring any decent man back here. One look at this place would tell him just how desperate she was, and that gave any man the advantage over her. Not to mention putting him on the alert.
Lucy walked through to the single tiny bedroom and thrust open the wardrobe door, needing the comfort of checking her own image.
Yes, as she’d thought. She soothed down the top and nodded. Breasts still big and pert. Well, she needed a good bra nowadays, but then men liked a good handful, didn’t they? Waist still good – not quite as waspy as when she’d been in her late teens and early twenties, but still good enough to give her a classic hourglass figure. Hips and bum were as good as ever – her exercise classes saw to that.
Hair still long and blonde, face still good.
Yes. She could find herself another Gerry, all right.
But that still left the problem of the flat. She had to get the cash together to find somewhere halfway decent. A six-month lease would be all she’d need. Maybe in one of those posh little maisonettes up by the Cross? She could laugh and say she’d only taken one because she was a Lady Godiva fan. Although nobody was quite sure that the famous Banbury Cross was anything to do with her, of course. But it was a good flirting line.
How to get some cash together though, that was thing. She hadn’t been joking with her aunt when she’d told her that she loathed working.
Suddenly, her thoughts sharpened, as the unexpected visit by her aunt gave her an idea.
She slowly closed the wardrobe door and wandered back through to the living room. There was someone she could tap for a ‘loan’. There always had been. And of course, by loan, she meant no such thing. She just hadn’t tapped this particular source before, mostly because it had never really been necessary. And also because something surprisingly squeamish in her nature made her reluctant to take such a big step.
But things were getting desperate, and surely now was the ideal time to do so? If Aunt Debbie was right, and they were reopening mum’s old case, the pressure would already be on.
But she’d have to be careful. Not that she was in any danger, of course. Even so. Yes. She’d still have to be careful.
Thoughtfully, Lucy McRae reached for the phone and then hesitated. No. She needed to think about it first. Rehearse what she would say. And how she would say it.
Hillary walked from her stationery cupboard and through into the main office and glanced at Jimmy. Then she gave a reluctant mental shake of the head and looked at Sam Pickles instead.
‘Sam, got anything on?’
‘Nothing urgent, guv,’ Sam said eagerly, ignoring the knowing, pitying glance that Vivienne shot his way. She’d been ragging him about Hillary Greene ever since Commander Donleavy had introduced her.
But so what if he was desperate to work with her and learn? That didn’t mean he was like a dog panting after his master, like Vivienne taunted.
‘Good. We need to question the family of Anne McRae, and I don’t have a car yet. The son, Peter, lives just up the road in North Oxford. By the way – Sam, Vivienne, a good job on updating the files. I’ve just called him, and he’s in this afternoon. Fancy coming?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Yes, guv,’ Vivienne mocked him softly, but just loud enough for Hillary to hear her.
Sam Pickles blushed red, but reached for his jacket. Hillary rolled her eyes at Jimmy, who was grinning over some paperwork.
‘Do you want to come too, Vivienne?’ Hillary asked patiently.
‘Sorry, Hillary, I’ve got a job on from Sergeant Handley.’
‘Fine.’
Ten minutes later, she and Sam were approaching the Woodstock roundabout, Sam driving a neat little Mini Metro in racing-car green. Hillary was consulting the file.
‘According to this, he lives in a place called Oakmead House,’ she said, frowning. ‘There’s no number given, but I imagine it must be one of these big places up here somewhere.’
‘Nice. He must have done well for himself,’ Sam said, with more than a hint of envy in his voice. He himself would be lucky if he could afford a mortgage on a housing association semi, when he left uni, let alone one of these North Oxford mansions.
‘What’s that one? Does that begin with an O?’ she asked, peering down a short but leafy driveway and trying to see the name carved into a piece of driftwood attached above a large oak door.
Damn it, she’d have to get glasses.
‘Yes, guv,’ Sam said, indicating to turn in, and making the car behind honk its horn in anger at the sudden manoeuvre. Sam gave it the cheerful finger. Hillary smiled.
‘Practising for when you’re in traffic then, Sam?’ she chided, and the youngster grinned.
‘Sorry, guv.’
The house had a short, gravel-lined drive, bordered by speckled laurel bushes. It was white-painted, with diamond-paned windows and would have sold for more than a million easy on the open market.
Sam was right. Anne McRae’s only son had done well for himself.
Hillary walked up to the imposing oak doors and rang an old-fashioned black iron bellpull. Discreet chimes sounded from within. A large black and white cat emerged from the bushes, and pressed his cheek against her calf, purring loudly.
The door was answered quickly by a man with a lot of blonde hair and wide brown eyes. He wasn’t quite six-feet tall, and was barefooted. Dressed in tight-fitting designer jeans with a plain white shirt worn outside the jeans, he looked at Hillary without interest, but his gaze lingered longer on Sam, who began to blush.
The cat rushed in, and disappeared up a wide wooden staircase, set back in the hall.
‘Hello. You rang ea
rlier. About Mum’s case?’ he asked tentatively, and Hillary nodded, showing him her ID.
‘Yes, yes, come on in. Please just follow the corridor down to the right. Do you mind talking in the kitchen? I’m just in the middle of a complicated recipe and don’t want to leave it.’
‘The kitchen’s fine, Mr McRae,’ Hillary said, and indeed it was. More than fine. It was huge, with marble work surfaces, an island with a double sink, a beautiful shining cherry-wood dining table with six matching antique chairs, and was outfitted with beautiful contemporary cupboards. A huge fridge and freezer were tucked discreetly away in one corner, and brightly shining copper pans hung from what looked like original wooden beams over a vast range cooker.
‘It’s one of Jamie Oliver’s recipes, but I’m trying to give it my own twist.’
‘You’re a chef, Mr McRae?’
‘Good grief no. Just an amateur. But Sebastian, my partner, is a bit of a foodie, and cooking relaxes me, so it suits us both for me to play mother. Coffee?’
Hillary accepted with alacrity. She had a feeling any beverage served up in this household would be good, and that was confirmed a few moments later when Peter McRae went straight to a percolator and set it working.
He returned to the island, where he began to slice aubergines length wise, and turned on a grill.
‘So, you’re opening Mum’s case again, is that right?’ he asked quietly.
‘Yes. That is, it was never officially closed.’
Peter nodded. He glanced at Sam, who was sat at the table quietly taking notes, and turned back to Hillary. ‘Have you got new evidence? You know, has he done it again or something?’
‘No sir, not that I know of. Nothing like that.’
‘Oh right.’
He put the vegetables under the grill, and began to wipe down the chopping board.
‘Can you tell me about that day?’ Hillary asked quietly. ‘You were at school is that right?’
‘Yes. I left school on the bus as usual, and went round to a friend’s house. Brian Gill. Hell, I haven’t seen him in ages. I wonder what he’s doing now? Funny how you lose touch, isn’t it? At the time, Brian was my best friend in all the world.’ Peter sighed and shrugged. ‘Anyway, we watched some telly, I can’t remember what, then I went round home.’
‘Brian lived in Chesterton as well?’
‘Yes. Down the road a bit. Anyway, when I got home, Lucy was there – she must have gone home straight from the bus, I suppose. She wouldn’t let me into the house. She was all pale and shaky and she talked funny. I realize now that she must have been in shock, of course. But at the time, I was a bit angry – you know, thought she was trying to boss me about.’
‘So she was outside the house?’ Hillary already knew all this from the original report, of course, but it didn’t hurt to check.
‘Yes. Standing just by the front door. I suppose she didn’t want to stay inside the house knowing … well … she’d have seen Mum, and …’
He removed the browning aubergines and put them to one side, then moved to the fridge, coming back with some milk, cheese and cream.
‘Seb loves his sauces. He’s a curator at the museum on Parks Road. We’ve been together nearly ten years now. Can you imagine?’ Peter laughed, but it somehow didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Where does the time go?’
He was obviously trying to change the subject, but she had to keep him to the point.
‘I understand how painful all this is for you, and that you don’t want to dredge it all up again, sir,’ Hillary said softly. ‘You were, what, only fifteen when your mother died?’
‘Yes. But Lucy was only thirteen. I can’t help but think that if I hadn’t gone to Brian’s house first, then she wouldn’t have been on her own. She wouldn’t have had to find our mum like that.’
‘I understand. You feel guilty,’ Hillary said simply.
‘Yes. Well, there’s not a lot more that I can tell you – I’m sorry. Lucy said she’d called the police from the phone in the hall, and I asked her what she’d done that for. Then she said something had happened to Mum, and she wanted me to take her to Mrs Wilkins’s house. She was the woman who lived a few doors down. A nice old soul – Lucy always got on well with her. So I did, and we waited there, and the police came, and questioned us. Then Dad came, and they took Mum away, but we went to stay the night at a hotel in Bicester. We stayed there for a couple of days, in fact. I don’t know why.’
‘The police would have wanted to seal your house off until forensics had finished with it,’ Hillary explained softly.
‘Yes. Yes, of course that’s it. I knew that. Or rather, I would have known that, if I’d thought about it. But I tend not to think about it. About Mum, I mean.’
Peter continued to make a supper fit for his foodie lover, and answered everything Hillary asked of him. But nothing he said helped her, or gave her a better picture of their murder victim.
Which was not surprising, really. Peter still saw Anne from a 15-year-old boy’s point of view. She was his mother, which meant a rather sexless person, who was the ultimate authority in the home, since his father was mostly absent. She was pretty, and let him watch football late at night if it was an important match; she washed his clothes and fed him and he’d had no idea she was sleeping with his uncle Shane.
They left just as rush hour began to set in, and then had to sit in traffic at the roundabout for ten minutes.
Hillary took the time to sit and brood. So far, all she was doing was covering the same old ground that Squires had already covered twenty years before her.
She just had to keep plodding on and hope that there was something out there that he had missed, and that she would recognize it when she came across it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Debbie Gregg rose early after a fitful night, and made her partner’s breakfast. He was fairly easy to feed, and this morning’s fare consisted of cornflakes, toast and marmalade, and a strong pot of tea. She herself could eat nothing.
She kissed him goodbye at his usual time, and then glanced at her watch. She had a part-time job in a dental practice in town, but she wasn’t due to start until 1.30.
Best to get it over with now.
She picked up the phone, and reached for the card the woman copper had left with her yesterday. She rang the CRT department and was instantly put on hold. Nervously, Debbie paced about the room with the phone in her hand, going over and over again in her mind what she wanted to say, and how she wanted to say it, and then abruptly sat down.
She gave a short bark of near-hysterical laughter. This was just like Anne, to be ruining her life, all over again.
‘Hello? Mrs Gregg?’ Hillary Greene’s voice in her ear made Debbie jump and she leaned forward, hunching her shoulders protectively and suddenly wishing that she still smoked. Right now, she could just do with a fag.
‘Yes. You called round my house yesterday. About my sister’s case,’ she heard herself rasp, and took a deep breath.
‘Yes, I remember who you are, Mrs Gregg,’ Hillary said softly.
‘Well, I’ve just remembered something, see. Something we probably talked about yesterday must have triggered it off in my mind, because at about half past three this morning, I suddenly woke up and thought of it,’ she lied, then wondered if she was talking too fast, and tried to relax a bit.
She had to spin it, so this canny copper would swallow it.
‘It’s funny how things like that can happen, isn’t it? I mean I wasn’t thinking about our Anne, particularly. But even if you think of something else, I suppose your subconscious mind carries on worrying about it. Chewing it over, so to speak. Or that’s what they say, isn’t it?’
On her chair, Debbie cringed. Now she was definitely waffling. Why the hell didn’t she just say what she’d phoned to say and get it over with?
‘Yes, it very often happens that way,’ Hillary replied patiently. ‘Why don’t I pop over to see you and we can talk about it? It won’t take me much more than hal
f an hour or so to get there.’
Debbie shot off the chair and began to pace again.
‘Oh there’s no need for that,’ she said quickly. ‘I mean, it’s a fair old way to come, and it’s probably nothing. Well, nothing important. It’s just that—’
‘If it’s all the same to you, Mrs Gregg,’ Hillary said, doing something she very rarely did, which was to interrupt a witness in mid-flow, ‘I’d rather do this in person. I’ll start out right away, and should be there by ten.’
There was something in her voice that didn’t brook much argument, and Debbie felt her temper flare for just a second, before she quickly got it under control. Her mother had always said that her eldest daughter had her infamous Granny Webber’s temper, and would often regale her with tales about the trouble her grandmother’s temper had led her into.
Determined not to lose it, she swallowed back the angry retorts that crowded into her mouth, and took a deep breath instead. The last thing she needed right now was to start a barney with the likes of this one. She had to remember just who she was dealing with. She might have her Granny Webber’s temper, but she also had her famous instincts, and they were all telling her that Hillary Greene was no Andrew Squires; she might have been able to run rings around Squires. She wasn’t half so confident that she could do the same with the competent red-head.
‘OK fine, but I still think we can just use the phone. It won’t take me two minutes to say my piece,’ she persevered, careful to keep her tone light.
‘About ten then, Mrs Gregg,’ Hillary said, and suddenly Debbie was left with just that annoying disconnected telephone buzz in her ear.
She hung up with an explosive bang and prowled about some more. Damn, she needed a fag. But Colin wasn’t a smoker either, so there were no fags in the house.
She swore and paced some more.
Back at HQ, Hillary stuck her head in the communal office, but only Jimmy was in.
‘I need a lift to Brackley again. Debbie Gregg’s just phoned with some new information for us.’ And added softly, ‘Or so she says.’
