by Faith Martin
MURDER
IN THE
GARDEN
A gripping crime mystery full of twists
(DI Hillary Greene Book 9)
FAITH MARTIN
Revised edition 2018
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
FIRST PUBLISHED BY ROBERT HALE IN 2009 AS “ACROSS THE NARROW BLUE LINE.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Faith Martin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to [email protected]
We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.
©Faith Martin
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DI HILLARY GREENE SERIES
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Glossary of English Slang for US readers
CHARACTER LIST
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CHAPTER ONE
Hillary Greene took a deep breath as she turned into the car park of Kidlington’s Thames Valley police headquarters. It was a rather dull Monday morning at the beginning of October, and it had been nearly two months since she’d last seen the place. It did not feel good to be back.
It had been a hot day in August when someone with a rifle had shot and killed her oldest friend, and her superior officer, Superintendent Philip ‘Mellow’ Mallow. Right here, in this very car park, and right in front of her and her team. They’d just solved their latest murder case, and the mood had been one of celebration. Doubly so, since Mel’s third wife, her one-time sergeant, Janine Tyler, had just informed her husband that she was pregnant.
Now, Hillary parked her ancient Volkswagen Golf beside a rather racy-looking Mazda, and climbed slowly out. She wasn’t officially due back to work until tomorrow morning, but she wanted to say hello to everyone and cast a quick look over her in-tray before once more going into battle.
A clock somewhere in town struck eleven as she used her key-card to gain access to the foyer. As she’d expected, the desk sergeant called her over the moment he spotted her.
‘Inspector, good to see you,’ he said, eyeing her carefully. Like most desk sergeants seemed to be, he was middle-aged, cheerful and totally unshakable, but even so, Hillary sensed his wariness as she approached. She didn’t like it. She understood it, but didn’t like it, and the sooner she could dispel any ideas he had that she was made out of bone china, and was sure to break with the least little delicate tap, the better.
‘Sarge,’ she said amiably. ‘What’s new?’
The desk sergeant grinned widely. ‘Now how would I know? Nobody tells me anything.’
Hillary laughed. It was a well-known fact that desk sergeants were the biggest gossips in the station house, and if you ever wanted to know the latest little dirty secret doing the rounds, you went straight to the front desk to find it out.
‘Thought you weren’t due in until tomorrow,’ the desk sergeant said, leaning his elbows cosily on the desk and bending his back to get into a more comfortable position.
‘I’m not. You haven’t seen me,’ Hillary said flatly.
The desk sergeant nodded, then looked uncomfortable. ‘We’re all so sorry about Mellow, ma’am,’ he said gruffly. ‘Well, you know.’
Hillary did. The whole station house had been in shock at the time, and the fact that his killer had yet to be apprehended hadn’t helped the healing process much. Two months later, things were still feeling raw.
‘You hear anything from the London mob?’ she asked casually. When Superintendent Mallow had been shot, a task force team had been set up, primarily consisting of Oxfordshire officers not assigned to Kidlington and officers from the Met, headed up by a big shot named DCI Gawain Evans. She’d met him once, during his debriefing of her, nearly two months ago. London born and bred, despite the very Welsh name, she’d sensed both a keen intelligence and enough grit to get the job done. It had reassured her enough to trust him with the job in hand, but ever since then, she’d been out of the loop, surprising a lot of people by taking the compassionate leave she’d been offered.
‘Not a bloody peep,’ the desk sergeant said grimly. ‘You ask me, they can’t make up their minds whether it was Myers or a copycat sniper killer.’
Hillary sighed heavily. During her last murder case a nutter with a rifle had been busy in the country, shooting and killing policemen and women with a single rifle bullet. Just before Mel was shot, a police officer in a nearby town had become the latest victim, but the sniper killer had been caught shortly afterwards. Ironically, everyone at Thames Valley HQ had heaved a sigh of relief, only to see one of their own gunned down barely forty-eight hours later.
Many thought that a man called Clive Myers was the culprit. An ex-army man, he’d seen the rapists of his daughter walk free from court due to a clerical error on the part of the police. His wife had subsequently committed suicide, and his daughter remained in a mental institution to this day. Mel, as nominal head of the investigation, had taken most of the flack.
But, as far as she knew, Clive Myers had been leading a blameless life ever since, and although his premises had been searched thoroughly, and his movements on the day of the shooting meticulously investigated, no charges had been forthcoming. And it didn’t look likely that they would be any time soon.
‘Well, can’t stand chatting all day,’ Hillary said. ‘I’d better go and see how my DS is getting on. Any gossip about how she’s been doing since being left in charge?’ She cocked an eye at him, but the older man grinned and shook his head.
‘Nobody’d dare say anything against DS Fordham, ma’am,’ he said drily. ‘Too scared they’d be wearing their goolies for earrings.’
Hillary was still smiling grimly over that one as she climbed the stairs and entered the huge open-plan office on the second floor, where she and her team had their cluster of tables. She was aware of a slight stir rippling throughout the room as her presence was noted. Just inside the door a big man rose and smiled at her. DS Sam Waterstone held out a hand, and she quickly took it. ‘Hillary, glad to see you back.’
‘Thanks, Sam.’
She didn’t linger, and he didn’t keep her, but it had broken the ice, as he’d intended, and several of her colleagues called out greetings and sympathetic murmurs as she passed. The whole station house knew she and Mel went bac
k for ever, and that her loss, perhaps more than any other’s (save for Janine Mallow’s, of course), was almost certainly the greatest of them all. For Mel had been both a pal and her boss, a combination guaranteed to cover her back should she ever have needed it.
And now that she had returned, she was feeling the cold draught of his absence more than ever. When she was halfway across the room she saw that her team was already on the move. At first she thought they were coming to greet her en masse, which made her feel distinctly wrong-footed. But as they got closer she realised that she’d mistaken the mood. The tall woman in the lead was wearing her trademark trouser suit, and her bony, striking face was set in stone. Her short blonde hair was as spiky and in-your-face as ever and, as she acknowledged her DI’s presence, her eyes flickered with something that looked remarkably like chagrin.
‘Guv,’ Gemma Fordham said, with a curt nod. Behind her, DS Keith Barrington grinned with genuine happiness, his red hair brighter than she seemed to remember it. Last, as always, was DS Frank Ross, who nodded at her wordlessly and looked at her curiously. He was wearing a nearly clean white shirt and loose grey trousers. As ever, he smelled faintly of beer and cigarette smoke.
‘Can’t stop, guv,’ Gemma Fordham said, barely breaking stride, and Hillary’s eyebrow rose. Keith shrugged meaningfully, and Frank Ross grinned wolfishly. Ever the troublemaker, he was no doubt hoping for fireworks, but Hillary merely nodded and moved a little to one side to let them pass. Well, she’d hardly expected the welcome wagon and a brass band. For cops, work always came first.
Before she could carry on to her own desk, however, she saw the door to DCI Paul Danvers’s cubicle open and he beckoned her in.
‘Hillary.’
Paul Danvers, at thirty-eight, was a good seven years her junior, and always looked as if he’d just stepped out of a photograph for a mail order catalogue. With his thick, perfectly barbered blond hair and expensive suits, he reminded her of an insurance salesman.
‘Sir, I just thought I’d pop in to get a head start on the paperwork,’ she said blandly, not wanting to have to stay and chat. The fact that Danvers had always fancied her, and hadn’t yet seemed to give up on his very discreet pursuit of her, left her feeling both impatient and wary.
‘Word’s already got out that you’re in the building, I’m afraid,’ Danvers said, and Hillary cursed the desk sergeant’s grapevine under her breath. ‘The chief super wants to see you.’
Hillary sighed slightly and nodded.
Chief Superintendent Marcus Donleavy’s office was situated on the next floor up. After knocking on the outer door and being greeted warmly by his secretary, Hillary looked across as the door to the inner office opened and she was beckoned in.
Marcus Donleavy wore a silver-grey suit, which perfectly matched his silver-grey hair and silver-grey eyes. He’d always been a calm and crafty boss, and was well respected at HQ. He’d always rated Hillary’s detective abilities highly, and his faith in her judgement had never wavered, even all those years ago when her soon-to-be ex-husband had been killed whilst being investigated for corruption.
‘Hillary, sorry to nobble you like this. I expect you wanted to get a head start at the grindstone.’ Marcus Donleavy smiled briefly as he stood aside to let her enter his office. ‘I won’t keep you long, but thought we might as well take this opportunity for you and your new super to get acquainted.’
Hillary felt her face tighten. She forced herself to smile slightly and nod. This, more than any other, was the moment she had been dreading. The moment she had to come face to face with the man who was replacing Mel.
Donleavy moved to his desk as a slim, brown-haired man rose to his feet. ‘DI Greene, Superintendent Vane.’
Hillary forced her eyes across the few yards that separated them to meet those of Brian Vane. He hadn’t changed much since she’d last seen him, when he’d held the same rank that she held now. He still had the same flat brown eyes and beetling brows. And no doubt he still had the same relentless drive to succeed, as his current rank proved.
He smiled briefly. ‘DI Greene.’
Donleavy glanced from one to the other, and in her peripheral vision she could see him begin to frown. ‘I believe you two have met before?’ he said cautiously.
‘Yes, sir,’ Hillary agreed briskly. ‘I was a newly made sergeant, assigned to DI Pullman’s team.’
‘Pullman and I used to work some cases together,’ Brian Vane put in. ‘Back in the days when we weren’t so stretched for senior officers.’
Hillary nodded and looked blandly at Donleavy, who smiled but cursed silently under his breath. Nevertheless Hillary — who knew him well — could almost hear him doing it. She knew that Donleavy wanted to keep her happy, especially after the trauma of what had happened to Mel, and assigning someone as her new super whom she’d worked with before had probably seemed like a good idea.
Too bad he didn’t know as much about Brian Vane as she did. Or perhaps it was just as well. Depending on how you looked at it. But the truth was, when she’d been informed nearly a month ago just who had taken over Mel’s job, she’d sat down and instantly written out her letter of resignation. At least she’d had the good sense not to post it off straight away, and a few sleepless nights thinking about it — and one or two stiff margaritas — had persuaded her to tear it up.
Now, face to face with the man again, and seeing the resentment hidden carefully behind his eyes, she was feeling strangely ambivalent.
Coming back had felt weird from the moment she’d stepped through the door. Her abortive meeting with her team had only served to make her feel even more unsettled. And now, here in Marcus Donleavy’s office, she was in two minds about whether to stay or go. Just walk out of the door and never come back.
‘Well, I won’t keep you,’ Donleavy said heavily. ‘Hillary, I don’t have to tell you, do I, how we all feel about Mel?’
Hillary shook her head. They’d all been through most of this at Mel’s funeral. Like all funerals of a ‘hero’ cop, it had been a bit of a media circus, but afterwards all those in the know had met back at The Boat, Hillary’s local in the small village of Thrupp, where she lived on a canal narrowboat. There they’d toasted Mel, and reminisced, and talked themselves out until exhausted.
Now there was little more to be said, or done.
‘If you need to speak to the grief counsellor at any time, DI Greene,’ Superintendent Brian Vane said cordially, ‘just take all the time you need.’
Hillary’s lips twisted wryly, and she saw Marcus Donleavy shoot him a quick, surprised, and not very pleased look. ‘Thank you, sir,’ Hillary said drily. In his dreams would she ever speak to the company shrink. She nodded blandly at Donleavy, whose own bland face hid his growing dismay, turned and silently left.
She walked slowly back to the main office. She supposed she should be feeling angry, or hard done by, or upset. But in fact, she felt very little at all. Good, bad or indifferent, she’d done her grieving for Mel, and the nightmares that had plagued her for weeks after seeing his lifeless body hit the tarmac were now getting less and less frequent. It would take more than Brian Vane’s sour, oily presence to even reach her, let alone affect her.
She wondered uneasily whether this listless indifference was normal, or a bad sign, and then shrugged. It didn’t much matter either way. No cop willingly consulted a shrink; even in this day and age of so-called enlightenment, it was still regarded as a sign of weakness. As Superintendent Brian Vane knew only too well.
She had no doubts at all that he wanted her off his team at the earliest opportunity. Knowing that she was around must be a constant thorn in his side, but if that was his opening salvo in getting her promoted sideways or shuffled off into early retirement, she had very little to worry about.
Always supposing that she didn’t want to be shuffled off, of course. At the moment the jury was still out on that one.
Financially she was in the perfect position to leave the force. Not only had she
put in just about enough years to qualify for her full pension, but since selling off the family house, the small fortune it had netted her had just been sitting in a high-interest bank account accruing yet more money. And living on the Mollern, her narrowboat, she could tour the country and simply relax. What was more, she was still young enough to retrain for a second career if she felt like it. Perhaps make use of her literature degree, earned from a non-affiliated Oxford college.
The options were there, if she wanted to take them. She pushed through the door into the large open-plan office again, but was once more waylaid by Danvers.
This time, however, he was all business. ‘Hillary, we’ve got a suspicious death out in the sticks. It was called in barely an hour ago. Little village called Steeple Knott. You know it?’
Hillary did. ‘Just off the main Oxford to Banbury Road, on the way to Duns Tew, right?’
Danvers shrugged. ‘If you say so.’ He was originally from Yorkshire, and had only come down south when he and a fellow officer had been assigned to investigate Hillary Greene’s possible involvement with her husband’s illegal animal parts smuggling operation. An unfortunate circumstance that he was hoping like mad she didn’t still secretly hold against him.
‘That’s where Gemma and the others were off to in such a hurry, right?’ Hillary asked, nodding. No wonder Gemma hadn’t been pleased to see her. She’d no doubt been hoping to be left as acting SIO for the day at least. With Hillary due back tomorrow, it was unlikely Danvers would assign another DCI to it for just twenty-four hours. It would have given her the chance to shine, if only briefly.
‘Yes,’ Danvers agreed. ‘Gemma’s perfectly capable of doing the preliminaries, of course, but if you want to go out there, it’s up to you. If you prefer to ease in gently, that’s OK too.’ Hillary wondered whether Danvers, like the desk sergeant, was worried that she was going to crack under the slightest pressure. If only they knew that the appointment of Brian Vane had already piled more pressure upon her than they ever could, they wouldn’t be so worried.
