A Narrow Return

by Faith Martin

  Hillary nodded, her mind working hard.

  ‘Was Peter in any trouble at school that day? Or had he been recently?’

  ‘No. Not that I knew of, and he would have told me if he had been.’

  ‘Who was his favourite teacher at school, do you know?’

  Brian Gill laughed. ‘His favourite? Well, I dunno. Maybe Miss Rodgers, the English teacher. We all liked her. And we didn’t mind old Chewed-up Bones. Sorry, Tudor Jones. He was a nice old fart – always telling us stories about the war. Bit odd, since he wasn’t the history teacher.’ He laughed at his own joke, then suddenly sobered. ‘Sorry. I haven’t seen Peter in years. We lost touch after we left school. I hope he’s doing all right.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, I think so. He’s living in north Oxford now.’

  ‘You’ve seen him? Oh, right, course you have. Sorry, I can be a bit dim sometimes.’

  ‘On the contrary, sir, you’ve been very helpful,’ Hillary said with a bland smile.

  Jimmy returned to HQ to drop off the DNA samples before finally calling it a night and found Sergeant Handley still manning the computers. He often wondered if the technophile ever actually went home, since no matter what time of day or night Jimmy happened to be in the office, Handley could be found at his desk.

  When he handed over the three DNA samples, he asked if there was any possibility of a rush job and Handley cracked the usual jokes.

  But Jimmy rather craftily told him that he could have Vivienne Tyrell’s services for the rest of the week if he pulled a few strings, and Handley admitted that he knew someone at the lab who suffered from insomnia, and owed him a favour. And the simple comparison of DNA samples was actually a very simple procedure nowadays.

  ‘I ain’t promising nothing, but if Omar is in, I’ll ask him to do them tonight,’ Handley had finally promised.

  Jimmy thanked him, not mentioning that, in fact, nearly all of those in Steven Crayle’s team would be more than happy for the luscious Vivienne to be poached away from them for the next few months, if they wanted the little madam that long.

  At his station several floors up, Tom Warrington stared down at the pink requisition slip that had been handed down to him along with a pile of others.

  Part of his new duties involved helping out the store clerks, and the name of Steven Crayle had caught his eye.

  It wasn’t often CRT requisitioned camera equipment.

  It made him wonder what they could possibly want it for. The items they’d asked for made it clear that they wanted to place a hidden camera with a back-up battery somewhere. They’d also asked for a motion-sensor device.

  As he set about getting the gear together, Tom Warrington wasn’t sure whether to feel elated, angry, or disappointed.

  Of course, Crayle could want the equipment as part of one of their investigations. But somehow he doubted it. He’d always had good instincts – it was what had kept him safe and out of trouble all this time, and right now his ‘spider’ senses were tingling a warning.

  Besides, if CRT was launching an observation on a possible suspect, he would almost certainly have heard about it from scuttlebutt. He made a point to keep his eyes and ears open.

  Which meant only one thing.

  Hillary must have told Crayle about his gifts. Perhaps the super didn’t like the thought of his star asset being left flowers and cards. Perhaps Crayle was worried that Hillary would get married and leave the CRT, which wouldn’t suit him at all. Everyone knew that Hillary Greene was set to lift the CRT’s solve-rate through the roof – that was why the commander had recruited her.

  Or perhaps Crayle’s reasons for being unhappy weren’t professional at all; perhaps the superintendent was jealous and wanted to find out who Hillary’s lover was.

  But why would Hillary tell him about their affair at all? That wasn’t very nice of her.

  But maybe she hadn’t. Perhaps someone else in her team had snitched on them.

  He’d have to find out. And from now on, be extra careful.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next morning, Hillary arrived at HQ on the dot of nine. She was still trying to train herself to keep strictly to the nine-to-five office hours specified in her contract, but couldn’t shake a vague feeling of guilt as she glanced at her watch and hurried past the desk sergeant.

  In her stationery cupboard down in Hades, she reached for the phone and telephone directory.

  Her first call was to the BBC. Once connected, she spent about the next ten minutes playing ring-a-ring-around-the-roses with various departments and individuals, until someone in programme planning was finally able to put her in contact with a junior admin assistant in the department she actually needed.

  This individual sounded at first amused by her request, then much more interested as she explained who she was and why she needed the information. And with the help of a database, he was able to tell her exactly what she needed to know. It only confirmed something she was already fairly sure of, but it was good to get it verified. Things were beginning to come together.

  Hillary thanked him and hung up, then re-read several of the interviews logged in the murder book.

  Yes. She was remembering it right. Something about the afternoon of Anne McRae’s murder wasn’t ringing true. Either someone was confused about their timing, or someone was out and out lying.

  And Hillary thought she had a good idea of who it was.

  But not, yet, why?

  She leaned back in her chair and frowned. She’d have to re-interview several people again, and get them to sign fresh statements. That way, once the lie was nailed, the liar would have to do some fancy back-tracking. But by then it would be down in black and white. Not that that in itself might amount to much, unless she could find out the motive behind the lie.

  And therein lay her problem. A massive problem. Because as things stood, it just didn’t make much sense. Not murderous sense, anyway.

  She sighed and walked through to the office. It was totally empty. She sighed again, and walked down the corridor and tapped on Steven Crayle’s door.

  ‘Come in.’

  When she went in, the super was already on his feet and holding some electronic equipment in his hands.

  ‘This is just in,’ he held up the tiny camera towards Hillary, who nodded. ‘I thought we’d fit it up in the locker room before the rest of the place got too busy.’

  ‘Right, sir. I hope you’re a bit of a techie, because I’m useless at that sort of thing.’

  Crayle smiled. So, she actually admitted to not being perfect, did she? Well, that was something.

  ‘No problem, it shouldn’t be that difficult. The hardest thing is going to be to make sure it records your locker and only your locker. I don’t want to set the CRT up for a sexual harassment suit because someone thinks we’re getting our jollies from watching them change their clothes.’

  Hillary grinned briefly. ‘After you, sir.’

  They made their way through the torturous rabbit warren to the locker rooms, where they found they were in luck. No one was there. True to his word, Crayle quickly found a good location for a hidden camera and the back-up batteries, and set it up.

  Hillary, meanwhile, went to her locker, opened it, and froze.

  ‘Shit. We might be too late.’

  Crayle quickly joined her, and watched her take out an old-looking, square book. It had long-since lost its dust jacket, and was a faded blue in colour with gold-gilt lettering on it.

  ‘Not yours, I take it?’ he asked flatly.

  ‘No,’ Hillary said, reading the title and opening the cover. The Romantic Works of Byron, Shelley and Wordsworth. She sighed heavily. Her admirer wasn’t exactly an original thinker, it seemed. First roses, then valentines, now romantic poetry.

  ‘The Romantics aren’t particularly my cup of tea. I’m a metaphysics kind of girl myself,’ she said. ‘Now if this had been the collected works of Dr John Donne …’ she opened the next page, and glanced at the printed information.<
br />
  ‘It’s a first edition,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘Worth a lot?’

  ‘Perhaps, but maybe not. It depends on how rare the book is. It looks like a pretty standard tome to me, though,’ Hillary mused. ‘I’ve got a friend who’s a rare book dealer – I’ll pass on the details and ask him.’

  Crayle nodded. ‘Your stalker knows about your degree in English then?’

  ‘It would seem so, yes. But he doesn’t know me well enough to know my personal tastes.’

  ‘So he’s not someone you’re likely to know well – or even have met casually?’

  ‘Right. Which is going to make catching him all that much harder.’ Hillary glanced through the book thoughtfully, but nothing was written on it and there were no personal messages. So no handwriting sample.

  Both she and Crayle knew that the majority of stalking victims had some prior knowledge of their stalker. A man they’d dated perhaps, and then rejected. Or a fellow worker at their job, who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Stalking by strangers was usually the preserve of celebrities.

  ‘No messages?’ Crayle asked, going back to the installation of the equipment.

  ‘No. At least he has respect for books,’ Hillary grunted a laugh. ‘If he was the sort to deface literature, I’d be inclined to throw the book at him,’ she came out with the atrocious pun deadpan.

  Of course, she knew that she was just desperately trying to downplay the sick sense of unease that was escalating inside her, and was grateful when her boss did the same.

  ‘Nice to have a stalker with some ethics,’ Crayle agreed lightly.

  ‘I’m wondering if the timing on this is a coincidence though, sir,’ Hillary said.

  When Crayle had finished with the job in hand, and was satisfied that the equipment was working properly, he dusted down his hands fastidiously, and turned to look at her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked curiously. He was wearing a dark grey suit, with a mushroom-coloured shirt and dark maroon tie. A neat gold watch shimmered at his wrist and he was looking particularly lean and elegant.

  Hillary wished, somewhat sourly, that the man would develop a great big red spot, right on that classically handsome chin of his.

  ‘Did he leave the poetry book in the locker just because it was time for his next little “gift” or did he know that soon he wouldn’t be able to do so?’ she explained.

  Crayle glanced up at the now placed and hidden camera and frowned. ‘You think he might know about the surveillance?’

  ‘It’s a thought,’ Hillary said. ‘We suspect he must be either on the force, or have civilian access down here. And if he was on the force, and he’s done this sort of thing before, he’d have had plenty of practice.’

  ‘And this does have the feel of someone who’s done this sort of thing before, doesn’t it?’ Crayle agreed, rubbing a hand thoughtfully across his spot-free chin. ‘And if he was a desk jockey, he’d have access to all kinds of info. Especially if he was in admin.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘So who would know that you’d ordered some camera equipment?’

  Crayle sighed heavily. ‘Store clerks, requisition clerks, office supplies, maintenance, the techies….’

  Hillary nodded glumly. ‘Right. It would be impossible to narrow it down much. Not to mention what would happen once they got a whiff of what we were after.’

  Crayle nodded. ‘It wouldn’t take a clever little lad long to figure it out. And if they thought we had a witch hunt on for one of our own….’

  Hillary shuddered. ‘No. We can’t go down that route. I don’t want everyone looking over their shoulder because of me.’

  She’d left the force in the first place because she didn’t want to be the one who might possibly bring it into disrepute. And the last thing she wanted to do now was bring dissension to the ranks.

  ‘So we’ll just have to wait and see. Keep our eyes and ears open,’ Steven said reluctantly. He knew it was stupid, but he felt the absurd desire to be her knight in shinning armour, and rescue her from the villain.

  He gave himself a mental head-slap, and nodded to the door. ‘We’d best get out of here before we start the gossips going in a totally different direction,’ he grinned. ‘If they find us both in here, having a secret little get-together, it’ll be all over the place before we can say sod off.’

  Hillary smiled grimly. ‘So long as it doesn’t get back to your girlfriend, sir.’

  ‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ Crayle said deliberately. ‘And call me Steven.’

  ‘Yes si … Steven.’

  ‘By the way, it isn’t your ex-sergeant’s stalker we’re dealing with here. I’ve tracked him down to Barrow-in-Furness. He’s got a job as a car mechanic. He hasn’t been back our way since he left the force.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘That was always a long shot anyway.’

  They were passing the communal office now, and as they approached the level of the door, she could hear the raised excited voices of both Jimmy and Sam Pickles.

  She paused in the doorway, Crayle directly behind her.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘Guv, we’ve only gone and got a bloody match on that hair!’ It was Sam who spoke first, too excited to hold back and let Jimmy do the honours, as protocol dictated.

  But it was to Jimmy that Hillary looked for confirmation.

  ‘Guv,’ he said happily. ‘After I took the last samples, I brought them back here and joshed Sergeant Handley a bit, sort of betting that he couldn’t get the results back overnight.’

  Hillary blinked. Normally lab results could take days, or even weeks.

  ‘Who’s the match?’ the voice came over her shoulder, and Jimmy’s attention snapped up to that of the superintendent.

  ‘It’s the geography teacher, sir. Phil Cleeves.’

  ‘Who the hell’s that?’ Crayle asked ominously, and Hillary sighed. Jimmy shot her an apologetic look, but it was hardly his fault.

  ‘I’m sorry sir,’ Hillary said at once, half-turning around to face her boss. ‘I haven’t had a chance to update you on that yet. The lead only came in yesterday, and it seemed a long shot.’

  Crayle’s eyes narrowed briefly. He was not about to upbraid her in the front of the troops, but it was clear that he was not happy.

  ‘A long shot that seems to have paid off, it seems,’ he said tightly. ‘Why don’t you come to my office and fill me in now?’

  ‘Sir.’

  This time he didn’t suggest that she call him Steven, she noticed with a grimace.

  Jimmy grimaced his support back, and Hillary called briefly over her shoulder, ‘Jimmy, take Sam and go and bring Cleeves in.’

  ‘Right, guv.’

  In Crayle’s office, Hillary quickly took him through the details. And as he listened, he began to feel more mollified. The break in the case had come suddenly, as she’d claimed. And he knew that sometimes that was the way of it. You could slog away for weeks, and nothing, and then suddenly some little spark sets something off that hands the case to you on a platter.

  And she had been following his orders to keep him regularly updated.

  ‘Sorry if you think I was a bit slow off the mark to tell you, sir,’ she concluded. ‘But I didn’t expect to get any DNA results for days yet, and the connection seemed tenuous at best. In fact, if Phil Cleeves hadn’t offered to give a sample, there was no way a judge would have given me a warrant for one. I was operating on gut instinct and hardly anything else.’

  Crayle nodded. ‘No, you’re right. It makes me wonder why he volunteered to do it – Cleeves, I mean.’

  ‘Me too,’ Hillary said flatly. ‘Even the most dozy villain nowadays knows that you don’t volunteer anything – especially DNA samples.’

  Crayle glanced at her quizzically. His thick dark hair was doing that bouncing around on his forehead thing again, and his brown eyes looked far softer than they had done just a few minutes before. She could feel her heart rate pick up a bit, and when his ha
nd rose to rub his chin lightly again, it picked up just a bit more.

  Hillary wished he would give over.

  Then she wondered why she was so obstinately trying to fend off her libido. After all, there was no real reason for it. He didn’t have a girlfriend. And he’d been very careful to let her know that he didn’t.

  And she herself was unattached.

  He wasn’t even technically her superior officer anymore – she was a civilian, no longer a DI, so her self-imposed rule about not having a relationship with a boss or fellow police officer didn’t even hold water any more. Besides, it had been nearly three years since her fling with Mike Regis.

  And that was a long time for a gal to be celibate. No wonder the handsome and available Steven Crayle was pushing all her buttons. So why not…?

  ‘You don’t like him for it, do you?’ Steven said, making her reign in her horses abruptly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, caught on the hop by the blunt question.

  ‘The DNA match puts him at the scene,’ Crayle pointed out. ‘And he denied knowing her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He also denied ever having been at the house at all, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he must be lying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the moment you heard about him, you wondered if he might be a potential lover of Anne McRae’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you learned about him from one of the McRae children?’

  ‘Jenny McRae, yes,’ Hillary confirmed.

  ‘She said, I believe, that she thought a teacher at school was giving her brother trouble, right? But she wasn’t sure of the exact details?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So she could have got it a bit muddled. Perhaps she thought her brother was in trouble because she happened to see her mother and this Phil Cleeves together. She was only, what, eleven years old at the time? Perhaps she misunderstood the situation – thought they were arguing about something, when really they were indulging in a bit of foreplay?’