A Narrow Return

by Faith Martin

  She started to cry in earnest then, and the paramedic said quietly, ‘All right, that’s enough for now.’

  Hillary nodded and sat back in her chair. She had enough to be getting on with.

  More than enough, in fact.

  At the Horton Hospital, she hung around long enough to find out what ward Lucy was being assigned to, and had a quick word with the examining doctor, who didn’t anticipate any real trouble. Then she stepped outside and got back on the phone.

  First she called Crayle, who was back at his office.

  ‘Sir, it’s Hillary. Lucy McRae’s going to be all right. The doctor wants to keep her in overnight to monitor her for shock and to make sure that her throat doesn’t swell up and give her any breathing difficulties. But he doesn’t think she’s too badly off. I got a partial statement from her in the ambulance, I’ll fill you in on that when I get back to HQ,’ she added, mindful that she was on her mobile. ‘But we need to get forensics to her flat right away. I have reason to believe we’ll find valuable evidence there.’

  ‘We were all witnesses to the attack on her, Hillary,’ Crayle pointed out, ‘but forensics are already on their way as we speak.’

  Hillary didn’t bother to correct him over the phone. She’d tell him the good news about the corroborating evidence for Anne McRae’s murder when she got back to the office.

  Speaking of which, she thought grimly, as she hung up, she was stranded in Banbury without a car. With a sigh, she started to hoof it to the nearest bus stop.

  This civilian consulting lark might have its benefits, but right about then she could have done with having her old authority back, allowing her to order up a jam sandwich to take her back to HQ in style.

  It was barely five o’clock, when Hillary returned to interview room three.

  Inside, looking like a limp lettuce leaf, Phil Cleeves watched her approach the table and his shoulders slumped as she once more went through the routine for the tape.

  In the obs room, Steven Crayle watched. Jimmy, Sam and Vivienne were all still in the office, trying to sort out the blizzard of paperwork that the fast-moving case had suddenly generated. Nobody wanted the case to falter now because evidence was mishandled, or warrants weren’t properly worded.

  ‘Mr Cleeves, I have to tell you that we have, this afternoon, arrested Peter McRae for the murder of his mother,’ Hillary began, and saw the geography teacher go paper white. For a second, she thought he was actually going to pass out.

  ‘No! You can’t have. I mean, you’ve made a mistake. Peter’s a good boy. He wouldn’t do something like that!’ Cleeves protested.

  ‘You know him well then?’ she asked casually.

  ‘No. Yes. I mean, I knew him. He was one of my students, I told you.’

  ‘But he was more than that, wasn’t he, Mr Cleeves?’ Hillary said, careful to keep her voice flat and unjudgemental. ‘In fact, I think you loved him, didn’t you?’

  Cleeves went rigid, and said nothing.

  ‘He’s a good-looking man now,’ Hillary went on. ‘As a 15-year-old I imagine he was especially golden. Just beginning to fill out, all gangling limbs, still innocent, but with the promise of the mature man yet to come. Am I right?’ she pressed gently.

  And the geography teacher folded. ‘He wasn’t that innocent,’ Cleeves finally muttered. ‘He knew what he wanted. And he was golden, yes.’

  Hillary nodded.

  ‘His mother found out about you.’

  ‘There was nothing to find out,’ Phil contradicted quickly. ‘OK, so I’m gay. But I never laid a hand on Peter.’

  Hillary sighed. ‘Mr Cleeves, if we start asking around all your pupils, do you really think one of them won’t eventually give you up? You’ve been lucky so far, flying under our radar, and being careful. And I daresay you were very careful to only choose the boys who made it obvious that they were gay too. Left the really young ones well enough alone, did you?’

  Phil Cleeves swallowed hard but said nothing.

  ‘Right,’ Hillary said, as if he’d in fact agreed with her. ‘But you know as well as I do, that one of them will talk. He’ll be older, wiser, maybe a little bit bitter. Perhaps you and “one of your boys” parted not quite as well as you’d hoped? We only need to find one willing to dish the dirt. What do you do – drop them when they leave school?’

  From the way the geography teacher’s hands clenched into sudden fists, she knew she’d scored a direct hit there.

  ‘Eventually we’ll find some “golden boy” who doesn’t remember you quite so fondly. Someone who’d be willing to get a little payback for the way his life hasn’t worked out quite how he hoped, by making someone else’s life a misery too. Namely yours.’

  ‘I was always careful,’ Cleeves said sadly. ‘I always made sure they made the first move. And I took it slowly and carefully. It wasn’t about sex, you know, it was about love. All my boys will remember me with affection.’

  Hillary was careful to keep her face blank and her voice flat. ‘Yes, sir, I’m sure they will. I dare say Peter will too.’

  ‘Yes he will!’ Cleeves said, with a spurt of sudden defiance. ‘What we had was special. He was nearly sixteen when we first made love. And I was kind and gentle and he was grateful. It lasted for nearly four months. Four wonderful months.’

  Cleeves suddenly slumped back in his chair. ‘Oh, what’s the point. You won’t understand. Your sort never do.’

  ‘And then his mother began to suspect what was happening, didn’t she?’ Hillary said firmly, ignoring the self-justification and self-pity. ‘What happened? Did she phone you? Did she come to the school to talk to you?’

  ‘Not the school,’ Cleeves said quickly.

  ‘Your house then,’ Hillary pounced, and he reluctantly nodded.

  ‘But she only suspected,’ Cleeves said. ‘I could tell she was on a fishing expedition. I told her that nothing like that was going on. I told her that I thought Peter saw me as something of a father figure. I made her doubt herself, I could tell.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you were very erudite, sir,’ Hillary said dryly. ‘I need you to write out a statement, detailing everything about your relationship with Peter McRae, and everything you can remember about your conversation with his mother, Anne. I’ll leave you alone to get started,’ she said firmly, pushing a large writing pad and a pen in front of him.

  And as he opened his mouth to demur, she added firmly, ‘It’s by far your best option, Mr Cleeves.’

  ‘I want a solicitor,’ Cleeves said.

  Hillary nodded. ‘By all means, sir. And I think, when he realizes that you could be facing charges of aiding and abetting murder, he’ll tell you the same thing.’

  Cleeves went pale. ‘But I don’t know anything about that!’

  Hillary didn’t try and reassure him, although in fact, she believed him – about that, anyway. She simply turned her back on him and left him. But in the obs room, she slumped wearily down into the chair next to her boss.

  ‘Thing is, sir, I don’t think he did have anything to do with the murder. He might, in his heart of hearts, have wondered, when he first heard about her death, whether his golden boy might have had a hand in it,’ she mused. ‘But he’s obviously convinced himself over the years that it was a passing maniac who killed her.’

  Crayle nodded. ‘I agree. Still, it’ll be a good lever to use to get him to get cracking on his statement,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘That was good work. You look beat. You want me to take McRae?’

  Hillary shot a glance at him. Was he trying to muscle in on her collar?

  But as she met his level brown gaze, she realized that he wasn’t.

  ‘No, sir. I’ll take him,’ she said firmly, and Crayle smiled and nodded.

  He had expected nothing less.

  ‘All right then, I’ll have him brought through. And call me Steven.’

  Hillary nodded.

  ‘All right, Steven,’ she said. And this time, she liked saying his name.

&
nbsp; After all, if she was going to drag him kicking and screaming into her tiny single bed, they really did need to be on first name terms.

  Commander Marcus Donleavy walked briskly down the stairs and into the foyer, on his way to the interview rooms. He nodded and passed a knowing, cheeky grin with the desk sergeant as he went by and slipped into the obs room.

  By now it was all over the station that Hillary Greene had cracked her first cold case, and all those who’d had a bet down, were hanging around and wondering what their chances were of scooping the prize.

  A female DI from Juvie was happier than most, since she’d got it down to the day, although several male colleagues were chivvying her that it didn’t count unless Hillary got a confession today as well. They’d both opted for a day in the third week, and were holding out to win on a technicality.

  Inside interview room one, Hillary Greene and Steven Crayle sat in front of Peter McRae. Steven, as the senior officer, went through the routine for the tape, and then leant back slightly in his chair, obviously handing the initiative over to the woman beside him.

  In the obs room, Marcus Donleavy smiled in approval. He was looking forward to this. Now that she had her first taste of success under her belt, Marcus knew he had her back for good.

  Just wait until they all went to her local for a celebratory drink tonight. He’d rib her something rotten about her so-called retirement!

  Then he leant forward, concentrating hard, as it began.

  ‘So, Peter, you might like to know that your sister is going to be all right,’ Hillary began. ‘Or maybe not. I went with her in the ambulance, and she was able to talk to me a bit. Of course, she was still shook up. She couldn’t quite believe that you’d just tried to kill her.’

  Peter McRae was sitting forward in his chair, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. He looked utterly tired and defeated, and he looked up at her as she began to speak, his brown eyes bright with unshed tears.

  ‘Of course I’m glad that she’s all right,’ he said. ‘I never meant it to happen. None of it. I just panicked, that’s all. When Phil called me and told me about you matching the hair to his DNA I knew the game was up. I had to go and see Lucy, just to beg her not to say anything. I don’t know how it all got so out of hand. I just got so scared. I didn’t want Sebastian to find out you see.’

  With that, Peter McRae’s eyes filled with water. ‘I love Sebastian, and he doesn’t know anything about … well, any of it.’

  Hillary nodded.

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning shall we, and get things straight?’ she said gently, determined to get him to stick to the facts. ‘When you were at school, you had a relationship with your geography teacher, Mr Phillip Cleeves. Is that right?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘For the tape please, Mr McRae,’ Hillary said gently.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We have Mr Cleeves in custody, and he’s making a statement now,’ she informed him.

  Peter managed a somewhat trembling smile. ‘Poor Phil. He’ll hate all this.’

  ‘How old were you when it first started?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Fourteen. Well, nothing physical till I was fifteen, and then really only heavy petting. It was all so stupid!’ he burst out. ‘Mum took it far too seriously. We weren’t hurting anyone, for Pete’s sake. It’s not as if Phil was some dirty old man pervert who was corrupting me. I was fifteen! I was learning who I was, and what I wanted, and Phil was kind, and, well, like a father to me. He was good to me. And it’s not as if I didn’t know that I was gay. I’d known that for some time. But Mum never would accept that. She thought it was all his fault. As if Phil could make me gay! I mean, how stupid is that?’

  Hillary bit back her anger, and firmly squashed the response she wanted to give. At fifteen, Peter McRae had been in no position to know what he wanted. And a man in authority over him had no damned business taking advantage of his naivety. Whether he was gay or not.

  ‘When you left school that last day, you didn’t go to your friend’s house straight away, like you told us, did you? You went straight to your house.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Your friend, Brian Gill, inadvertently told me. He said that he remembered he was watching Blue Peter when you showed up at his house. And I phoned the BBC. They said that Blue Peter aired at a quarter to five in those days. But you’d have got back from school at 4.30 by the latest. Yet when you showed up at Brian’s, the programme was halfway over, meaning that there was half an hour to account for in your version of events.’

  Peter shook his head in amazement. ‘If you say so. I can barely remember much of what happened that afternoon. I was in a daze after … after it all happened.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘OK. Let’s see what you do remember. You went straight home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your mother was in the kitchen, baking?’

  ‘Yes. She told me she’d been around to see Phil, to have a word with him. She made me so angry, bossing me around, telling me I had to stop seeing him. She threatened to go to the head, which would have meant Phil lost his job! Just how spiteful was that?’ he asked, his voice rising with remembered indignation. ‘She was hateful. You’ve got to understand, I was in love with Phil. Well, I thought I was,’ he qualified, almost at once. ‘Back then I was just fifteen. It was all so new to me. Everything felt so intense, do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I understand,’ Hillary said softly. ‘You wanted to protect him?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Peter said, looking relieved. ‘You understand. But Mum was like a force of bloody nature when she was riled. She just wouldn’t listen to me. I told her over and over that nothing had happened – well, nothing really physical. I told her that I loved Phil, and he loved me, but she just got angrier and angrier, and said that I didn’t know what I was talking about. She said she was going to fix everything. I began to see red. She just wouldn’t listen to me!’ his voice was almost a shout now in remembered anger and frustration, and Hillary let him get it all out.

  ‘She was your mother, and you’d do as you were told,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Yes. That’s it exactly. I was just so damned angry. She was going to ruin Phil’s life, and mine too, and she just wouldn’t listen to me!’

  ‘So you made her listen,’ Hillary said quietly. ‘With the rolling pin?’

  Peter McRae looked at her, his big brown eyes wide with horror. ‘You won’t believe me, but I don’t even remember picking it up. The rolling pin I mean. But I must have done – it was there on the table. And then Mum was on the floor and there was this sticky red stuff all around – on my hands, on my shirt. I just dropped the rolling pin and ran.’

  Hillary let him get his breath back. He was breathing hard now, and looking genuinely bewildered. ‘I just wandered around for a bit, and then went to Brian’s. I thought he’d take one look at me, and everything would be over. The police would come, and I’d go to prison. I didn’t know if Mum was dead, or what. But he acted like nothing had happened,’ Peter said, the remembered wonderment of it still in his voice. ‘So I pretended that nothing had happened as well. I didn’t know what else to do. So I sat with him watching the telly, and at some point, I wondered why he wasn’t asking about the blood on me, and then I realized that I wasn’t wearing my sweatshirt.’

  ‘You took it off,’ Hillary said, and glanced quickly across at Steven. She’d told him about Lucy McRae keeping it, and they’d had word just before starting the interview that forensics had retrieved it from Lucy’s flat.

  ‘Oh, did I?’ he asked, without interest.

  ‘Anyway, everything then happened pretty much the way I told you it did when you first talked to me,’ he carried on, sounding exhausted now. ‘I went back home, and Lucy was there. She never said anything about seeing me, but I know she must have done. Because a few days ago, she called me to ask for some money. And then … well….’

  ‘Pretty much blackmailed you when you said n
o.’

  Peter nodded miserably.

  ‘So when you heard from Mr Cleeves this afternoon, telling you that his DNA had been matched to the hair found on your mother’s body, you panicked?’ she prompted.

  ‘Yes. I knew it was only a matter of time before you’d figure it out. You see, I remembered saying that I never went into the kitchen that afternoon – and Lucy would have confirmed that she kept me from going into the house as well. So how could you find one of Phil’s hairs on Mum? I hoped you might think Phil had done it, but I wasn’t sure that that would hold water. I realized what must have happened, of course – that one of his hairs got on to me, and that when I … when Mum died, the hair must have fallen off me and on to her.’

  ‘We call it secondary transfer,’ Hillary said helpfully.

  ‘Right. Anyway, you could ask me, and I could deny everything until the cows came home. But if you put pressure on Lucy, I thought she might crack.’

  ‘So you decided to kill her,’ Hillary said flatly.

  And it was then that Peter McRae started to cry in earnest.

  Tom Warrington hung around the car park until it was starting to get dark, but his patience was finally rewarded.

  He saw Marcus Donleavy first, then Steven Crayle. All the big men, gathered around her, like little satellite moons orbiting a bright shining sun. He barely acknowledged the presence of the old man, Jimmy Jessop. And Sam Pickles, that long ginger streak, was no competition. Vivienne Tyrell barely registered on his consciousness at all.

  He had eyes only for Hillary. There they were, in a group, all headed for their cars and ready to meet up again at Hillary’s local for a celebratory drink. It was the tradition, whenever a murder case was successfully closed, he knew that.

  And it was all over the station that she’d secured a confession from the killer – the murder victim’s own son. Who’d have thought it? Well, except for Hillary, of course.

  She was brilliant.

  Amazing.

  As the group split up, his eyes followed her hungrily. She looked tired, but triumphant. A conquering heroine. She looked so beautiful. He wanted to go to the pub too, but knew he couldn’t risk it. Not quite yet.