A Narrow Return

by Faith Martin

  Jimmy didn’t need to be told twice.

  As he drove to the small market town in Northamptonshire for the second time in as many days, Hillary stared thoughtfully out of the window.

  She’d been determined to do the interview with her witness face to face simply because she needed to watch Debbie Gregg’s body language. People lied to you all the time – and they lied even more if you happened to be a cop investigating a crime. And it was far easier to get away with it on the telephone. But face to face, she’d be able to watch the older woman’s eyes, her hands, the way she sat, and be in a better position to gauge whether or not any hesitation in her voice meant prevarication or a genuine attempt at recall.

  And if it did turn out to be nothing important after all, as she was so careful to maintain – well, they got paid for the petrol. And any time spent out of that stationery cupboard that was masquerading as her office, the better.

  When they pulled up outside Debbie’s modest little house, Hillary saw the curtain move and knew they were expected. Nevertheless, Debbie let them ring the doorbell, then wait a few moments before she answered the door.

  Playing a power game, or just taking time to get all her skittles lined up in order? Probably both, Hillary decided, as the door opened, and a totally blank-faced woman looked back at her.

  ‘Hello again,’ Hillary said pleasantly. It took effort to school your face into showing no expression at all, and she wondered exactly what it was the older woman was trying to hide.

  Debbie nodded, and glanced beyond them. It was a dull but dry day outside, not too cold, but there was nobody out and about. She shut the door firmly behind them. Again, there was no offer of tea or coffee, and she led them straight through to the same room as they’d occupied yesterday. She waited until they had seated themselves, once again side by side on the sofa, then sat down herself. Hillary wondered if she was the only one feeling like she was trapped in a time warp.

  ‘I’ve got to go out soon,’ Debbie lied, still annoyed by having to do this face to face.

  Ever since visiting her niece yesterday, Debbie had been wracking her brains for something to feed to the cops to keep them off her back. It had to be genuine, otherwise the sods would probably do her for wasting police time or something, and in the end, what she’d remembered wasn’t much of a crumb, but it should give them something else to gnaw on.

  Or so she hoped.

  ‘It was just after Anne’s funeral. You know, it was delayed a bit, because of the coroner holding on to the body for so long,’ she began cautiously.

  Hillary nodded. ‘That sometimes happens.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, it was written up about in the local papers, like, and they had a photographer there, at Anne’s funeral. It upset Melvin something terrible, it did, to have some strange bloke snapping away as if he was at a wedding. Sorry, that’s not the point, is it.’

  Debbie’s eyes once again began to wander around the room. Hillary had noticed this habit yesterday, and had wondered then if it was a way of deliberately avoiding eye contact. Now she was far more inclined to think it was a nervous habit of long standing.

  And not necessarily significant.

  ‘Anyway, I was in Tesco’s, doing a bit of shopping, when this woman came up to me. Funny enough I knew her, sort of, because she used to work on the tills – in Tesco’s I mean, although she didn’t then. When she came up to me, I mean. I suppose she’d found a better job somewhere else, but still did her shopping there,’ Debbie gabbled confusingly, but Hillary was following what she meant. Just. What Jimmy, who was taking the notes must be making of it, she wasn’t sure, but she could trust him to keep quiet until later.

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Hillary said. ‘Go on.’

  As if aware that she was making a hash of it, Debbie suddenly coloured and bit her lip. ‘I’m just explaining things, so’s you’ll know why I remembered her name, even though I didn’t know her.’ She sighed and gave a brief laugh. ‘It was because when I used to see it on her name tag, you know, the ones they wear on their uniform lapel, it was the same name as a girl I went to school with. Diane Burgess.’

  Debbie paused for a breath, then glanced at Hillary briefly before turning her gaze back to inspect a lacklustre print on the wall behind her. ‘It wasn’t the same Dianne Burgess that I knew, of course. She went to Australia with some bloke she married. I’m just explaining, like, how I came to know a stranger’s name. Well, not a stranger, exactly, like I said, I used to go to her till, sometimes, and we’d chat a bit.’

  ‘I understand,’ Hillary said again, wondering why Debbie, who yesterday had been rather defiant and not exactly garrulous, now felt the need to say quite so much.

  ‘Anyway, I was in the bakery section, looking for some of these rolls I liked, when she sort of sidled up to me and said how sorry she was for all my trouble. Meaning Anne, of course. That was all anybody meant, back then.’

  Debbie’s tone took on a bitter note, and as if aware of it, she suddenly shook her head.

  ‘Anyway, usually when people came up wanting to “pay their respects” – and what a laugh that is – what they really wanted to do was pump me for information, or get a cheap thrill talking to a murder suspect.’ Debbie’s lips twisted into a grim smile. ‘Anyway, I was just about to say something pithy and leave her to it, when she suddenly put her hand on my arm and said she knew what I was going through. Well, that stopped me in my tracks.’

  ‘Yes, I can see how it might,’ Hillary agreed. ‘So let’s just make sure I’ve got this right. A woman called Diane Burgess, who used to work in Tesco’s, came up to you just after your sister’s funeral and said she knew what you were going through?’

  ‘Right,’ Debbie nodded. ‘So I said something like, “Oh, you’ve had someone in your family murdered too, then?” or something sarky like that. Well, of course, she blushed a little bit, because obviously she hadn’t, had she? But instead of walking off in a snit, like most of them did when I told them what to do with their phoney pity, she looked around, quick like, to see if anyone was listening in on us, and then said, no, it wasn’t that. It was just that she knew what it was like to find out that Anne had been sleeping with your husband.’

  Hillary felt herself stiffen slightly. This was new information indeed, for Andrew Squires hadn’t been able to find any evidence of Anne McRae’s infidelity with anyone other than Shane Gregg.

  ‘I see,’ she said quietly, trying not to let on how interested she suddenly was. ‘And what did you say to that?’

  Debbie smiled grimly. ‘Well, not a lot, as it happens. I mean, what can you say? It was embarrassing enough to have everyone know me and Shane’s private business, and let me tell you, the whole world knowing that your husband’s been shagging your little sister on the sly is humiliating enough,’ Debbie again paused to take a deep breath. ‘But to have some virtual stranger come up and commiserate with you because that self-same little sister has been banging her husband as well – well, that takes the wind out your sails, let me tell you. I mean, what could I do? Or say? I could hardly invite this Diane Burgess woman back to my place for a coffee so that we could have a good old chinwag and slag off Anne, could I? She’d just been murdered for Pete’s sake! Besides, what good would comparing notes do either one of us?’

  ‘So what did you say?’ Hillary repeated patiently.

  ‘Nothing much. I think I said sorry, as if it was somehow all my fault. And muttered something embarrassing and lame, like how I hoped things worked out for her. And then I scarpered.’ Suddenly, Debbie gave a sharp laugh. ‘Never did buy the rolls I wanted, neither.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell this to DI Squires?’ Hillary chided gently.

  ‘No,’ Debbie said shortly. And seeing the red-headed woman’s eyebrows rise in silent query, she sighed grimly. Bloody coppers were all the same. They all wanted their pound of flesh. ‘By then, I’d wised up, hadn’t I?’ Debbie carried on grudgingly. ‘Squires had had me down at the bloody station answering quest
ions a dozen times or more by the time we’d buried Anne, and I’d got sick and tired of it, and got myself a solicitor. And every time he pulled me in, I kept quiet until my brief got there. And so by the time this woman came up to me in Tesco’s I wasn’t talking much to the cops any more.’

  Hillary sighed. She could see how that could happen. And no doubt there was also a hint of one-upmanship in Debbie not passing on the information to the SIO in charge of her sister’s case. It was human nature to get resentful and bloody-minded when pressed too far, after all.

  Even so, she must have understood that it could have been significant. Debbie was not stupid. She must have realized that uncovering another lover for her sister meant that there was now another murder suspect for DI Squires to question.

  Unless, of course, Debbie didn’t care whether or not her sister’s killer was ever caught. By her own admission, she was angry with Anne, and resentful of her youth and good looks. Perhaps keeping the information to herself was her way of exacting some measure of revenge.

  ‘And then I just forgot about it, as time went on,’ Debbie continued. ‘It wasn’t hard – there was so much going on back then. Me and Shane were splitting up and getting divorced. I was looking around for a new gaff, and what with one thing and another, I never gave it much of a thought until last night. I dare say you coming around and raking it all up again – about Anne, I mean – jogged my memory, like.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad it finally did, Mrs Gregg,’ Hillary said. ‘It could be a very important piece of evidence.’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ Debbie said dubiously. ‘Don’t see how, though. I mean, I can’t see her, that Diane Burgess, being involved. She was a bit of a mouse, if you ask me. And definitely not the sort to take a rolling pin to somebody.’

  ‘Well, we’ll certainly try and track her down and talk to her,’ Hillary said. ‘Can you remember anything else she might have said?’

  Hillary carefully talked through the encounter once again with Debbie, but she could add nothing more. After all, as the exasperated older woman pointed out, it had all happened twenty years ago. She could hardly be expected to remember it word for word, could she?

  In her inadequate flat in Banbury, Lucy McRae sat on the sofa, with the phone in her lap. She could put it off no longer. With a brief nod of determination, she dialled a number from memory, and listened to the ringing tone, half hoping it would go unanswered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, it’s me,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Hello, you.’

  ‘Listen I need to talk to you. The cops have been to see me, and—’

  ‘Wait!’ the other voice interjected sharply, and Lucy felt her stomach clench in a small spasm of anxiety. ‘This is an open phone line. Anyone could be listening in. Be very careful what you say.’

  ‘I know that,’ Lucy lied huffily. She hadn’t, in fact, given the idea that they might accidentally be overhead a passing thought. ‘I’m not going to say anything stupid.’

  ‘Good. Now what did they want?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Lucy said smartly. ‘They’re reopening the case. What else? Do you think I regularly talk to the cops or something?’

  ‘Sarcasm doesn’t become you.’

  ‘Screw you.’

  ‘Charming as ever.’

  Lucy sighed. ‘Look, I didn’t call just to argue. We need to get together. To talk about this.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘Well I do!’ Lucy shot back, beginning to feel more confident. After all, she had the upper hand here. ‘Besides, I need to get out of this poky flat. Why don’t we meet somewhere nice. It’s been ages since you stood me lunch. What about that fancy restaurant we went to before – you know, the one run by that famous French cook – the one that’s been on the telly.’

  The speaker on the other end of the line sighed heavily. ‘Fine. How about next week?’

  ‘How about lunch time today,’ Lucy countered.

  ‘I have plans.’

  ‘Cancel them.’

  There was a rather ominous silence, and Lucy felt compelled to rush to fill it.

  ‘Come on, you know whatever it is, it can’t be more important than this,’ she wheedled.

  The silence lengthened.

  ‘It is murder you know,’ she said flatly.

  ‘I thought you were going to be careful what you said,’ the other speaker reminded her grimly.

  ‘All the more reason to get together, then,’ Lucy pounced. ‘We can be sure we won’t be overheard then.’

  A long-suffering sigh sounded over the telephone line. ‘OK. I’ll see you at 12.30 at the restaurant.’

  ‘You’ll have to pick me up from the bus station. My car failed its MOT and I had to sell it, virtually for the scrap.’

  ‘Ah,’ the voice said simply.

  Lucy smiled grimly. ‘So I’m a bit cash-strapped.’

  ‘Yes. I thought it might be something like that.’

  ‘You always were quick.’

  ‘How much are you going to touch me for?’

  This time it was Lucy’s turn to hesitate.

  ‘You might as well tell me now,’ the other speaker said. ‘If you want me to bring cash, I’ve got to take a trip to a cash machine. The restaurant might take a credit card, but I don’t suppose you’d like a cheque?’

  Lucy laughed. ‘You know me so well.’

  ‘Yes,’ the other voice said grimly. ‘I do, don’t I?’

  ‘Well, there’s quite a few things I need, actually.’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  ‘Well, I need more of a loan than just a few hundred in cash,’ Lucy said, careful to keep her voice nonchalant. ‘So actually, a cheque for, say, five thousand, would be nice.’

  Silence.

  When they got back to HQ, Jimmy set about trying to track down Diane Burgess. With only her name to go on, it might have been a bit of a pain, but the added knowledge that she’d worked in Tesco’s in Bicester at the time of the Anne McRae murder case would probably help.

  The supermarket was his first port of call, and he rang the head office to get the permission needed to access personnel records.

  If that failed, there were other avenues. The tax people, census, and various Records Offices. If Diane Burgess was local, he’d find her. Of course, she could have married a local boy, and come from Bognor Regis herself for all he knew.

  Jimmy sighed as he was put on hold by a computer-generated voice, and then sighed again as he was given a list of buttons to press, depending on various options. He listened to the end of the spiel, but as he’d expected, there wasn’t an option for coppers who wanted to access data-protected files. He pressed the button to list the options again, and tried to pick out the one that would come closest to getting him to connected to someone who could actually help him.

  As he listened to a machine talking to him, Jimmy Jessop wondered just what the world was coming to.

  In her office, Hillary Greene – who had a fair idea of just what the world was coming to, and didn’t much approve – perused the updated file for ex-DI Andrew Squires’s current home phone number. She needed to speak to him at some point, and get his first-hand memories of the case, and his take on it. She could only hope that he wouldn’t take her being handed his old case as some sort of comment on his ability.

  Some people could become very possessive about what they saw as ‘their’ cases – especially the ones that got away from you.

  But when she called his number, he was out.

  Ex-DI Andrew Squires, as it happened, wasn’t more than a quarter of a mile from where Hillary was sitting. The Black Bull had been his local for years when he’d been on the force. And since retiring, although there were several pubs closer, he still made his way there two or three times every week for a lunch time pint and a bit of a natter with any of the lads who were willing to pass the time of day with him.

  So whilst Hillary was trying to contact him with a view to having just such a natter,
he was watching his favourite pint of Hook Norton brew being pulled for him into a glass, and sorting out the change in his pocket.

  The pub was filled with a mix of people on the job, and regular civilians. Andy Squires wasn’t quite sure which camp he belonged to now. As a retired gent of nearly seventy, he was hardly a copper any more, and yet he didn’t think of himself as being a civilian either. So when a couple of familiar faces came in, he raised his glass and his eyebrows, and was glad enough when they came up to him to greet him before ordering a pint for themselves.

  One was a sergeant from traffic, Dave Olliphant, who was obviously clocking off from his shift. He was a good twenty years junior to Andy, but they’d been stationed in St Aldates for quite a few years before they both got transferred to HQ. The other man with him was a few years younger, and Andy vaguely remembered him as a green-behind-the-ears constable. He’d been seconded onto Andy’s team once or twice when they needed extra manpower.

  Andy couldn’t quite remember his name. He wore a sergeant’s stripes now, though, and must be coming up to retirement age himself, if he wanted to take it early.

  ‘Bloody hell, where does the time go?’ he said out loud, as he offered to pay for the round.

  ‘Cheers, Andy,’ Dave Olliphant said, taking a quick gulp of the precious nectar. ‘I needed that. That bloody M40 will be the death of me yet.’

  The man beside him grinned. ‘You’ve been saying that since they built the bloody thing, Dave. And it ain’t killed you yet.’

  ‘Give it time. You remember Andy Squires, right?’

  ‘Course I do. Will Hogg, sir. I was with you on the Burke case. Your final do, wasn’t it?’

  Andy leaned against the bar and took a swallow of his beer. ‘Yeah. Got him for it too, I seem to remember. Aggravated assault. Got ten years. Should have got double that. Vicious little bastard.’

  Dave sighed. ‘Bloody courts are always too soft.’ It was a familiar lament, and for the next ten minutes, the three men happily talked shop and slagged off solicitors they all knew and hated. The barman kept the pints topped up.