By a Narrow Majority

by Faith Martin

  ‘Do the Dales have a good marriage, do you think?’ Hillary asked flatly.

  On the way over here, she’d wondered if Marcia and the victim might have been having an affair, but that idea she now more or less scotched. Of course, Marcia Brock could be lying her head off, pretending an animus or disinterest that she didn’t really feel, but somehow Hillary couldn’t see it. And from what she was beginning to learn about the personality of the victim, she doubted if Malcolm Dale would have been stupid enough to start an affair with his secretary anyway. Especially such a physically unprepossessing one.

  ‘Yeah, it seemed to work, from what I could see of it,’ Marcia said after a thoughtful pause. ‘I mean, I didn’t really see a lot of Mrs Dale, but she seemed the type.’

  ‘The type for what?’

  ‘To be a Tory politician’s wife, of course, what else?’ Marcia said, with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘She had the right look, the right voice, the right connections. Oh, I’m not saying that she was one of these dragons who push hubby on, but she was certainly behind him. Attended all the rallies, pressed the flesh, flattered the matrons, and so on. Part of the reason Malcolm Dale was put forward as a candidate was because he had the right wife to back him up, believe you and me. Nowadays the Tories are very keen on family values.’ Marcia couldn’t resist the dig. ‘And make sure their candidates tow the line. And I think Valerie knew it and knew her own worth. And, of course, with good old Daddy behind her, Malcolm knew he had to keep her happy, because there was nothing to stop her from walking if he didn’t. And he’d be the real loser if she went.’

  Hillary nodded. So it looked less and less likely that Valerie Dale might want to be rid of her husband due to financial reasons. But that didn’t rule out other motives. More personal ones.

  ‘And do you think he kept her happy?’ she asked calmly.

  Marcia Brock shifted uncomfortably on her chair. ‘I expect so,’ she said quickly. ‘Look, like I said, I’m just his campaign secretary, not his bosom buddy. Or hers.’

  There’s something there, Hillary thought, but now was probably not the time to push it. It was getting on for the early hours of the morning, and her witness was getting cranky. And she herself was feeling the pull of her bed.

  ‘OK, Ms Brock, we’ll leave it there for now. But I’ll be getting back to you within the next day or two for a follow-up interview. You will be available, I hope?’

  Marcia Brock gave a wry smile. ‘Don’t leave town, huh? Don’t worry, I won’t be going anywhere. My lease on this place doesn’t run out until the beginning of the next academic year for a start. If I’m not here, you’ll probably find me down the job centre,’ she added wryly, climbing wearily to her feet, but with relief evident in her eyes as she let them out.

  Hillary had purposely not asked her anything about the actual finding of the body, knowing that Janine would already have covered it. Instead, she’d wanted to get her first real feel for their victim. And, boy, did she have it.

  ‘Didn’t like him much, did she?’ Janine said wryly, once she’d joined her outside. She’d asked for and taken Marcia Brock’s clothing, and would get it over to forensics first thing in the morning.

  ‘No,’ Hillary agreed thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think she even believed in his politics, either.’

  Could you be a campaign secretary for someone whose politics didn’t match your own? If you were a desperate student, eager for experience and to get a foot on the political ladder, she supposed you could. But could that dislike escalate and fester, leading you into banging someone over the head and killing him out of sheer frustration? She didn’t think so.

  No, if it was a woman who’d killed their vic, surely the motive was likely to be more personal than that.

  ‘You noticed how she shied off when I asked her about the state of the Dales’ marriage?’ Hillary asked, following her sergeant up the path to their waiting cars. If Malcolm Dale was unfaithful, perhaps the mistress had got fed up with his promises to leave his wife, and had finally realized it was never going to happen. Or perhaps Malcolm Dale had chosen tonight to give her the elbow, and the woman had had other ideas.

  ‘Oh yeah. One or the other of them was definitely playing away, I’d say,’ Janine snorted.

  ‘Or maybe both,’ Hillary said. Could it have been a lover of Valerie’s who killed Malcolm Dale? It wouldn’t be the first time the husband was killed by the other man. Could Valerie have put him up to it? Or aided and abetted. She really didn’t like this flat tyre business.

  Luckily, finding the body so soon had helped narrow down the time of death. Theoretically, Valerie could have killed her husband, changed her clothes, maybe even showered, and then left for her bridge club, arriving only a little late.

  She sighed. ‘I’m beat, and my head’s spinning. Let’s get some sleep, and tackle it head on in the morning.’

  ‘Get no argument from me, boss,’ Janine said. This was her third murder investigation now, and she’d learned, from the previous two, the need to pace herself. Night, boss,’ she said, climbing into her Mini and roaring away.

  Hillary got into Puff the Tragic Wagon and drove more sedately away into the night.

  The tiny hamlet of Thrupp, where her narrowboat the Mollern was permanently moored, was hunkered down for the night, with not a single light showing. Parking in the deserted car park of The Boat pub, she locked her car and then walked up the muddy towpath towards her boat.

  A sudden flap and splash from beside her told her she’d startled a sleeping duck or moorhen. With a fast-beating heart she cursed it softly under her breath, then climbed on to the back of her boat and reached in her purse for the key to the padlock.

  Once inside the familiar, narrow space, she didn’t bother turning on the light. She wasn’t sure when she’d last charged the generator, and besides, the moon was still shining brightly enough for her to see all she needed to.

  She opened the door to her microscopic bedroom, shrugged off her clothes and let them fall on the floor, then climbed into the narrow, single bed.

  Within moments she was asleep.

  chapter four

  * * *

  Perhaps not surprisingly, Hillary awoke late. Outside she could hear the male thrush that was nesting in the willow tree overhanging her boat singing loudly, and a passing craft rocked the Mollern gently. Either one of her neighbours was taking to the open water, or the very first tourist boats of the spring season were out and about.

  She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Ideally she could do with a shower and a hair wash but a quick glance at her watch showed her she just didn’t have the time. She got out of bed, flung yesterday’s clothes into the tiny hamper under the small round porthole and stood up. She didn’t need to take even take a single pace in order to open her wardrobe door, where she selected a smart, chestnut brown skirt and matching jacket with suede lapels. A cream-coloured blouse and low-heeled cream shoes completed the ensemble. She was out of fresh tights, so she grimaced and retrieved yesterday’s pair out of the hamper. She splashed on some perfume and drew back the sliding door.

  She walked quickly down the narrow corridor to the kitchen area and put the kettle on, wondering if her water tanks were low enough to make a visit to the communal taps worthwhile.

  Another job she’d have to do tomorrow.

  A cup of instant and a rather stale biscuit completed breakfast, and as she climbed the steps, careful to duck her head as she did so, she felt her stomach rumble a protest.

  Outside, the March day was bright and sunny. Her neighbour’s boat, Willowsands boasted three tubs of daffodils, which were cheerfully swaying in a chilly breeze. A tiny Jenny Wren flew low across the water, and zipped right in front of her as she stepped off the boat on to land. She glanced down at the towpath, wondering if her cream shoes were ever going to survive the short muddy walk to her car.

  Probably not.

  Puff the Tragic Wagon started first time for a change, which was just as well, for the mom
ent she walked into reception, the desk sergeant nailed her. ‘DI Greene, the man from the Met wants you in his office pronto.’

  Hillary groaned slightly at the summons, and waved a hand in acknowledgement as she headed for the stairs. The big electric clock on the wall told her it was nearly a quarter to ten. Well, sod ’em. She made her way to her own desk in the open-plan, large main office first and quickly checked there was nothing urgent, then walked the extra flight up to DS Raleigh’s office. His secretary ushered her through at once. Inside were all the usual suspects – Mel, Regis and Tanner – and, seated to one side of Raleigh’s desk, a tall, silver-haired man dressed in a dark grey suit. Hillary felt a slight sense of shock at the sight of him, but hid it quickly.

  ‘Sir,’ she said to the older man, wondering what had brought Detective Chief Superintendent Marcus Donleavy into the fray. And she quickly found out.

  ‘DI Greene,’ Raleigh greeted her pleasantly, without so much as a glance at his watch. Hillary nodded, not about to explain her late showing. If Mel hadn’t done it, the super could just bloody well ask.

  ‘As I was just telling the team, we’ve had something of a breakthrough. As you know, our source in Fletcher’s gang had caught a whiff that the big man himself was going to be getting his hands dirty in the near future. He confirmed last night that a big shipment of “squaddie” was coming in, and this time he had a definite timetable – namely, nine tomorrow night.’

  ‘Squaddie?’ Hillary said, with some alarm, for she’d never heard of it.

  Mike Regis shifted on his seat. ‘It’s brand new. Vice have only been able to get our hands on a few examples just recently, but the chemists tell us it’s almost certainly a derivative of E, but with another kick, something from the amphetamine family. It’s quick-acting and nasty. There’s some talk among the medicos of possible brain damage in long-term users.’

  Hillary sighed heavily. Great. This was just what she needed.

  ‘So, as I was saying,’ Raleigh said, again without even a hint of remonstrance towards the latecomer, ‘the raid is definitely on for tomorrow night. We’re almost certain it’s going to be delivered to a farm owned by Fletcher, near the village of Bletchington. The location is perfect – the nearest house in the village is out of sight behind a small group of trees, and access to the farm is by a single track, leading to a narrow country lane that in itself lets out by a B road, so hardly any passing traffic. Fortunately for us, there’s another farm on neighbouring land that can be accessed by another B road. The farmer is sympathetic and has allowed us to set up surveillance. Brian Doyle, the farmer, isn’t a big fan of Fletcher, it seems. There was some dispute about land access. Course, we know why Fletcher doesn’t want his neighbours too close. There was some talk last year, I believe, that Fletcher had set up a bootleg workshop there for CDs and such?’

  Mel nodded, but didn’t go into details. He’d led the raid on the farm on that particular occasion, and although he’d found some wrappers for a recent video release of a big box-office hit, they hadn’t found enough evidence to convict. Fletcher had evidently been tipped off.

  ‘Yes,’ Raleigh said heavily. ‘For that reason, we’re keeping this raid very close to our chests. Apart from the people in this room, and the officers on surveillance, of course, nobody, but nobody is to be told. Furthermore, I don’t want a gathering of the clans here tomorrow either. I want you all to put in a normal working day, then we meet up at the neighbouring farm in Bletchington at 1800 hours. We use our own personal vehicles, and park them out of sight in a barn the farmer has let us use for the night. Is this clear?’

  It was, and everybody nodded. It was a gloomy moment, as the super was all but stating openly that somebody at the nick had to be feeding Fletcher titbits, and nobody liked the thought of that.

  But at least Raleigh sounded as if he meant business, which was heartening. Hillary watched him closely as he detailed the plans for the operation. Once more, she’d be working with the Tactical Firearms Unit, for it was almost certain that Fletcher and the rest of them would probably be armed, or have quick access to arms, but it was not her old friend Dobbin who’d be leading it this time, but a younger man she didn’t know.

  Raleigh’s eyes were gleaming as he spoke, and as the sunshine outside picked up the more golden highlights in his light brown hair, Hillary could sense the tension in the man. Her mother had once had a Yorkshire Terrier called Nero, who all but quivered with intense concentration whenever his ball was about to be thrown for him to fetch, and Raleigh suddenly reminded her of the animal. There was something almost inhuman about the energy he seemed to exude.

  Once again she wondered what drove him. And how he’d got so close to Fletcher so soon. But perhaps she was just nitpicking. She knew that, although the raid was an exciting development, and might well lead to nabbing Fletcher red-handed at last, she herself would be something of an also-ran at the event. It was obvious that Raleigh and Regis were to be the two main driving forces behind it. On the other hand, her own murder case was hers alone, where she was the big fish in the small pond, and was champing at the bit to get back to it. Could it really be that she was feeling nothing short of dog-in-the-mangerish about the whole affair? Was that why she was so sceptical? She didn’t like to think so.

  Just then she glanced across and saw the heavy-lidded, pale-eyed gaze of Marcus Donleavy on her. Although he turned away the next instant, she had the definite feeling he’d picked up on her unease.

  She glanced surreptitiously at her watch, wishing the briefing wouldn’t take much longer. Although the whole force would celebrate if they actually nailed Fletcher, including herself, she had things to do and people to see.

  As it happened, it was nearly eleven o’clock before she went downstairs to her own desk, and Frank Ross, the poisonous little git, made a great show of looking at his watch. Janine, who probably knew from Mel that her boss had been upstairs in the big man’s office, looked at her with far more interest, but Hillary merely sat down in her chair, and reached for the pile of reports in her in-tray. As expected, there was a full background report on both Malcolm and Valerie Dale, which she read quickly. Next came the preliminary forensics report – with nothing too startling. Most of the dabs taken at the scene had been eliminated as belonging to either the Dales, Marcia Brock, or a cleaning woman from the village who came in twice a week. But there were traces of another person, recently present, who hadn’t yet been accounted for. These prints had been run through the computer, but matched nobody with a criminal record. Tommy was now running them through other databases that required fingerprinting – the armed forces, prison staff, etc. – but Hillary had no great hopes of a match.

  Still, the dabs would come in useful if they zeroed in on a suspect. Providing, of course, they didn’t belong to a local plumber who’d been called in to unblock a sink, or any other stray person who might have had a legitimate reason to be in the Dales’ kitchen recently. Nowadays, most killers wore gloves as a matter of course.

  Unless the killing had been unpremeditated, Hillary mentally amended. And yet the lack of murder weapon at the scene made that decidedly unlikely. Unless the killer had snatched up a nearby object, then retained enough of a cool head afterwards to take it with him or her when they left?

  ‘Janine, get Mrs Dale and the cleaner to check the kitchen and see if anything’s missing,’ she said, turning the last page over and closing the file shut with a slam.

  ‘Already done it, boss,’ Janine said, with quiet pride. ‘I dropped in first thing this morning and found the cleaning lady in. It wasn’t her usual day, but you know what it’s like.’

  Hillary did. People generally reacted to murder in one of two ways; either they went out of their way to avoid the scene and members of the family, or they homed in on it like pigeons returning to the coop.

  ‘Get anything out of her?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘She was pretty sure there was nothing missing from the kitchen, other than what forensic
s had already taken away,’ Janine replied. ‘But she was a fount of gossip about the Dales – some of it interesting from our point of view. She thought, on the whole, that if either of them had been playing away it was more likely to be the hubby, but she didn’t have any candidates for a possible mistress, and you could tell that that almost caused her pain.’ Janine paused for breath, and to give a cynical smile. ‘She said the kids were spoiled brats, although the little girl was still a quote “sweetheart” unquote.’ Janine, who had no desire to have children of her own, couldn’t understand some people’s attraction to the little horrors. ‘The bridge night was a regular occurrence, so there’s nothing off there,’ she carried on, reading out of her notebook. ‘But she reckoned the missus might drink a bit more than was good for her. I’m inclined to take that with a pinch of salt, though,’ she added, glancing up over her notebook at her boss. ‘I noticed the Dales went in for really high-quality wine and spirits, rather than quantity. And I got the feeling the woman was just envious. She seemed to sort of resent being one of the have-nots.’

  Hillary knew the type. ‘She have keys to the house?’

  ‘Nope, another thing that put her nose out of joint. The missus was always there to let her in and out.’

  Hillary nodded, but could tell the cleaning woman hadn’t roused anything on Janine’s radar. She’d probably have to have a word or two with the woman herself, of course, but for the moment pushed her to the bottom of the list.

  ‘OK. Tommy, I want you to get on with Mrs Dale’s tyre-changing alibi. Until that’s sorted one way or the other, we’re just spinning our wheels.’