by Faith Martin
She glanced across at Findlayson, who was busy tapping away on his own keyboard. He had a stack of files beside him and was going through them one by one, obviously entering old case files on to a database. A soul-destroying task if ever there was one. At some point, surely, he’d have to go to the toilet, or nip up to the cafeteria, or wander out to give his eyes a rest and have a gossip and a fag with someone. It was simply a case of waiting him out.
Hillary kept scribbling notes, feeling more and more sick as she did so. This was bad. As bad as she’d ever known it to get – on so many levels. Cops didn’t grass on cops, that was a given. And what father wouldn’t want to kill the man who’d poisoned his daughter to death? She hadn’t joined the cops so that she could stand in judgement on people. This shouldn’t be happening to her. Self-pity and anger raged, neither winning. For two pins, she could have got up and walked out. She might even have done so if, at that moment, the records clerk hadn’t got up and walked instead.
Hillary couldn’t help but twist her lips into a grim smile. Was that a sign, or what?
Never give a sucker an even break.
Quick as a flash, she selected the most relevant documents and headed for the photocopier.
When Findlayson came back a few minutes later, she was sitting at the terminal, scribbling notes. She kept at it for another twenty minutes, then sighed, folded her notebook, stretched and got up. ‘Well, that’s me finished,’ she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘Thanks.’
Findlayson nodded and watched her leave. He went to her terminal and checked that she’d logged back on to main menu. She had. He typed in his code and was about to switch it off when the red flag appeared.
Findlayson silently whistled. He’d worked in records for ten years now, and only occasionally had he seen a red flag appear. He immediately used the mouse to log on to the symbol and clicked.
Flags were put in place for many reasons, but mostly they were used on ‘sensitive’ or ongoing files and nearly always requested the records clerk to contact a certain officer if the files were ever opened. Sure enough, an instruction appeared on the screen, giving him the name of a superintendent at HQ, and phone number.
Findlayson wondered what was so special about an old, solved drugs case, then shrugged. His was not to reason why. He lifted up the receiver and punched the outside number and got through to the switchboard in Kidlington.
‘Hello? Can you put me through to Superintendent Jerome Raleigh, please?’ he asked politely.
In his office, Jerome Raleigh listened to PC Findlayson, thanked him, and hung up. Then he got up and walked restlessly to the window. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. With the lucky find of that secret bolt-hole behind the Aga at Fletcher’s farm, he’d been sure everything would work out just fine after all. He wouldn’t need Ross as a fall guy, and nobody would be any the wiser to what had really gone down that night.
For some minutes he watched the comings and goings in the car park, the movement of squad cars, the groups of young uniformed constables chatting over their fag break, the civilians parking and walking into the building, distinguishable by their nervousness or curiosity. His world. His life. But not for much longer.
Would Hillary Greene have got on to him so fast if she hadn’t been shot that night? Would she have been so curious if she’d still been working on a murder case and didn’t find time hanging heavy on her hands? Perhaps not. Finding the killer of Malcolm Dale would have been her top priority, he was sure.
He sighed heavily. Well, it was no good standing here playing the game of ‘what if’.
It was time he got cracking. He had things to do. He was glad now, after searching her boat, that he’d come up with such a good plan B.
It sure beat the hell out of his original plan A.
Hillary went back to the internet café in St Giles to write up the report. She wanted to leave no trace of it on her office computer, and she sure as hell didn’t want it on her personal laptop.
As she ordered a latte and opened up a file, she was beginning to feel as if the café was becoming a second home. Certainly the waitresses were beginning to recognize her, as were some of the regulars.
How sad was that?
For a couple of hours she solidly typed, re-read and rewrote until she was satisfied she’d included everything. She even made an index for the photocopied documents. She’d toyed with the idea of waiting until she could obtain her own official copies of Elizabeth Burns’ birth and death certificates, but knew that she would just be putting off the inevitable. Instead she ran copies off the internet and added them to the index.
By the time she was finished, she had a neat, carefully itemized report that charted the whole sorry story from start to finish. Some of it was speculation. For instance, she didn’t know who had helped Raleigh find out so much about Fletcher’s network; she had no idea who his source was. And she was pretty sure that somewhere down the line, Raleigh must have had help from inside the force, but that was somewhere she was not about to go. And how had he come to be such a sure thing to get the superintendency here in Thames Valley? Again, not something she touched on.
Hillary stared at the dark blue folder she’d bought from WH Smith before coming in here and smiled grimly. Not even the stationery could lead back to her. Of course, once the investigation started, Geraldine Brewer might come to light, and give a description of the nice reporter who’d interviewed her. As would Marilyn Forbes. And if it came to an identification, she’d be in the shit. But at least Ophelia Gosling could be trusted to keep her mouth shut, and tell the plod nothing!
Hillary almost laughed out loud. Almost.
She was probably committing professional suicide. She knew it, and still she was going to do it. Why?
Was she really such a moralist? Or was she just so pissed off that she’d been shot in the arse – well, nearly – that she was out to get revenge? Did she really care that Fletcher was dead? Didn’t he deserve it after all? And just what did she have against Jerome Raleigh exactly?
None of the answers to these questions helped her out. She simply knew, as she got up with the report clutched tightly in her hand, exactly what she was going to do with it. It was really quite simple.
It was a stick of dynamite, and what did any self-respecting DI do with a stick of dynamite?
She would toss it into some other poor bugger’s lap. That’s what.
She waited until the night shift was coming on, then went back to HQ. She let herself in, telling the desk sergeant she’d left her bag behind. The report was carefully tucked down the back of her knickers, and it rested warm and rustling in the nape of her spine as she took the lift, not wanting to crease it by walking up the stairs.
She was careful to go to her desk and bend down, as if looking for something. She knew that HQ was monitored by CTV cameras and didn’t want to get caught out in any obvious lies. When she left the big, open-plan office, however, she took the lift all the way down to the bottom floor. The mail room was deserted, as she’d expected, and she stuffed the report, now in a plain brown envelope marked ‘Chief Superintendent Marcus Donleavy. Personal and Confidential’ into a pile of internal mail. First thing the next morning, it should find its way to Donleavy’s desk.
When she got back to Puff the Tragic Wagon, she slipped off the cotton gloves she’d worn all that afternoon when making up the report, and stuffed them in her pocket.
Then she went back to the boat and got drunk.
It wasn’t until she was on her fourth glass of wine that she noticed the Dick Francis book was back on her shelf.
She stared at it for a moment. Then thought about it a lot. Then said, ‘Huh,’ and poured another glass of wine.
Next morning, complete with her first major hangover in years, Hillary saw the in-house police doctor. Dr Franks, as opposed to Doc Steven Partridge, was not trained as a pathologist, or in forensic medicine, and was mainly on call to attend to suspects who might be ill or came in from bar
fights and pub crawls with the usual cuts and bruises. He was also on call for any officer who might need him. But as well as removing beer glass from faces, and stitching up constables who got on the wrong side of Millwall supporters, he was also in charge of overseeing the mandatory medical for serving officers.
The moment she walked into his office, he knew what she wanted, and began to shake his head. ‘Oh, come on, DI Greene, it hasn’t even been a week yet! I’ve been taking bets with some of the lads on how long you’d last and had you down for early next week. I think it was PC Grover who said you’d be in today. The pot’s nearly two hundred quid. Give me a break!’
Hillary grinned. ‘Sorry, Sean. Look, I’m going mad. I’m walking fine and the district nurse said the last time she changed my dressing that I was healing fast. You wouldn’t want me to go doolally just over a little nick in my hip, would you?’
‘Oh, perish the thought,’ he drawled with a sigh. He was a tall, thin man, with nine children and a wife who was always threatening to divorce him. ‘Come on then, let’s look at it.’
Hillary quickly stripped off her skirt, and pulled her pair of very serviceable, very clean white Marks & Sparks knickers off her hip. Franks looked at the wound, doing the usual muttering doctors did under their breath, then re-attached the gauze. ‘Well, she’s right. You do heal fast.’
‘Good hardy peasant stock,’ Hillary said. Her father had always healed fast too. ‘And look – I’m walking without a stick and everything. Have been for days.’
‘You look terrible,’ he said.
‘Too much wine,’ she shot back. ‘Nothing to do with the hip. Come on, if I promise to stay tied to my desk with my feet up, and send my lackeys running hither and yon while I sip tea and read reports, can I come back? Just part-time?’
‘Oh, all right,’ Franks said. ‘I hate to see a grown DI grovel.’
Mel looked up as Hillary tapped on the door to his office and walked in, flourishing the doctor’s get-out-of-jail-free card. Mel read it with a cynical smile. ‘Turned on the famous Hillary Greene charm, huh?’
‘Never fails,’ Hillary said. Now that she’d put the whole Raleigh/Fletcher thing to bed, she was feeling better. It was probably only the calm before the storm, but what the hell? At least she wasn’t agonizing anymore. ‘Come on, Mel, don’t say you don’t need me. How’s the Dale case going?’ she asked slyly.
Mel grunted. ‘You know damned well how the Dale case is going. It’s going nowhere. You realize I’ll have to put you back in charge? Janine will flip.’
‘Not my problem,’ Hillary said bluntly. ‘And you were a prat ever to make it yours.’
‘Nice to have you back, DI Greene,’ Mel snapped right back.
Hillary slowly sank down into the chair opposite him. ‘So it’s all over between you two? Officially, finally and all that?’
‘It is. She moved out the last of her stuff and gave me back my key. I only hope it’ll all be worth it.’
Hillary shook her head. ‘All men are bastards,’ she said flatly, and when Mel shot her that look, shook her head again. ‘Come on, we both know you would never have tossed her out of your bed if you didn’t think Raleigh was on his way out, putting you in with a chance of his job. Again.’
Mel flushed a little, then shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, it looks as if the joke’s on me. Word has it they’re about to wrap up the Fletcher case. Put the killing down to an unknown perp, and give our beloved super no more than a slap on the wrist for being a bit previous. What?’ His eyes narrowed suddenly as he saw her tense. ‘What do you know?’
Hillary widened her eyes innocently. ‘Me? Why should I know anything? I’m out of the loop, remember?’
‘Hell, Hill, you always know everything,’ Mel said flatly. ‘Besides, you’re wearing your poker face. You never wear your poker face unless you’re hiding something.’
‘Like what?’
‘How the hell should I know? You’re wearing your poker face.’
They both laughed, but Hillary wouldn’t be drawn, and got up. ‘I need to get familiar with the Dale case again,’ she said. ‘See what Janine’s been up to. I’ll bet she’s been working hard.’
‘She has,’ Mel said, wearing his own poker face.
‘I suppose I’ll have to break it to her that I’m back on the case? I thought so,’ she added, as her old friend gave her his hang-dog look. ‘It’s like I said. All men are bastards.’
When she got back to her desk, Frank Ross looked up. He seemed almost relieved to see her, which made her scowl.
‘Frank.’
‘You back then?’
‘Yes.’
Ross nodded. ‘Blondie should never have been put in charge,’ he grunted. ‘She’s out interviewing the animal rights suspect I put her on to. She’ll be mad as hell to see you back,’ he said, and grinned happily.
That was better, Hillary thought sourly. ‘Don’t you ever get fed up with being universally hated, Frank?’ she asked, pulling out her chair and sitting down with a small sigh of relief.
This was better too. Back in her own chair, surrounded by old friends and enemies.
‘Never, guv,’ Frank grunted, and looked at her. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. No, he’d be daft to talk to her. He didn’t know why the hell he’d even want to. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut. The truth was, though, however galling, that he trusted her judgement. She might be a right pain in the arse, but when it came to it, Frank couldn’t think of anyone he’d trust more.
Then he shook his head and turned away. Nah, it would be daft. Like the super said, all he had to do was keep it buttoned. With Raleigh owing him so big-time, he was in clover. He might even get promoted.
Still, he glanced across at Hillary Greene and found her staring at him. Quickly he hunched his shoulders against her, as if from physical attack, and picked his teeth with a fingernail.
Hillary watched him and shook her head helplessly. She had a good idea now what was eating him and he was right to be worried. Boy, was he ever right.
Then a sudden thought hit her. Perhaps it was seeing Ross hunched over so defensively like that. Perhaps her subconscious had been eating away at her without her realizing it. But suddenly she was back in Bicester, outside a garden supplies office, waiting for a gun raid to get under way. It seemed like a lifetime ago now. But it all came back. Finding the gun after Tactical had left, giving it to Ross and telling him to log it into the evidence locker.
Had he, in fact, done so?
‘Frank, you stupid …’ she began, realized she was talking out loud, and quickly snapped her lips shut. Ross heard her, of course, and shot her a look, but she was already up and walking away.
The evidence locker comprised a big, steel-lined room in the basement of the building, and she approached the sergeant behind the steel mesh in the kiosk, and gave her ID and badge number.
‘I need to check the register,’ she said flatly, her mind counting back the days to the Bicester raid, and adding, ‘for the week starting the eighteenth.’
‘Hey, you’re back. I thought you were still off sick?’ The sergeant, a big woman who’d worked as a family liaison for many years before heading downstairs, handed over the large blue evidence book that covered the date in question.
‘You know how it is,’ Hillary said, running her finger down the line, half expecting to find nothing. She felt, therefore, a vast shiver of relief when she noticed Frank’s signature. There, sure enough, was evidence of the gun being admitted. So she’d been wrong. She’d thought for a minute that the gun from Bicester had been the gun used to kill Fletcher. That somehow Raleigh had persuaded Ross to loan it to him.
For a second, she almost closed the register and forgot all about it. For a moment. And then she had another sudden thought. One that would explain why Raleigh, right from the start, had been so pally with Frank Ross.
She glanced across to the description of the article, flipped open her notebook and wrote down the serial number of
the gun, thanked the evidence clerk, and left.
She was beginning to wish she’d stayed on sick leave.
Back at her desk, she pulled up the file on the Bicester gun raid on her computer. If memory served, the gardener-cumgun runner, had kept meticulous records of all his transactions and stock.
For several minutes she checked his list of serial numbers against the one in her notebook – and couldn’t find a match. She grunted, tried not to panic, and started again. After all, the eyes tended to go batty after looking at so many numbers in succession.
But it wasn’t there.
It was easy enough to guess what had happened. Raleigh had either asked, or tricked, Frank Ross into logging a different gun into the evidence locker. And a simple check would prove that the gun now resting in evidence downstairs had never passed through the hands of their Bicester gun runner.
She closed the file and leaned back in her chair. Damn. Damn. Damn!
All this time, she’d been trying to keep a low profile, and now it turned out that the murder weapon that had killed Fletcher had actually been in her possession for a short time. If found, it would lead straight back to the Bicester gun raid, and to one DI Hillary Greene.
Hillary glared across at Ross. Of all the stupid, idiotic pricks! ‘Frank,’ Hillary hissed, then stopped as she saw Janine push through the door, Tommy right behind her. And the sight of her team, as yet unaware of the potential disaster staring them in the face, killed her fury stone-cold dead.
‘Well, that was a waste of time, Ross,’ Janine said, scowling at Hillary as she spoke. ‘The suspect has an iron-clad alibi. Apparently he was out picketing a night-time angling match, or some damned thing, when Dale got it. Boss.’ she nodded to Hillary, very much as a grudging afterthought.
