by Faith Martin
‘And when I did, I thought it only prudent to get the background checks in place before coming to you.’ She wondered if she should add something about his workload, and merely doing her own job, but something in his eye told her not to push her luck.
‘Very thoughtful of you, DI Greene, I’m sure,’ Mel said, although his sarcasm seemed to be tinged with a trace of humour. ‘Don’t try and kid a kidder, Hillary. You know as well as I do that you can’t stay on as SIO now. You were just holding out. Come on, might as well admit it.’
Hillary didn’t like liking Mel Mallow at that moment. Normally she had no beef with liking the DCI. He worked so hard, after all, at being likeable. But right now, she felt as if she was doing herself no favours by liking him, since he was in the process of snaffling her case.
‘Sir,’ she said, which was as much of an apology as he was ever going to get. Let alone an acknowledgement that he had things right.
Wisely, he merely nodded. ‘Right. So, what have we got?’
With a sigh, Hillary told him what they had, knowing that with every fact, she was handing over her case to him on a silver platter.
When she’d finished, including her thoughts about the possibility of using narrowboats as an ideal smuggling vessel, Mel sighed.
He had to hand it to Hillary. She was doing a first-rate job.
And a DI needed a break, they all did. His own break as a DI had come when he’d been left in charge as SIO on an arson case. That had all but ensured him his rise to chief inspector.
If it wasn’t for the Yorkie Bars and their particular sword of Damocles hanging over Hillary’s head, he rather thought that he could have made a case for her to Marcus.
But no, perhaps not. Not when Fletcher was involved.
‘You know Superintendent Donleavy would have put me on the case the moment he heard Luke Fletcher’s name mentioned, don’t you?’ Mel said.
Gloomily, Hillary acknowledged the fairness of his comment. Her misery was palpable, and Mel, who really did hate to see good officers done down, sighed with her.
‘Look, Hillary, as far as I’m concerned you’ve done well. Bloody well. And that’ll be in my report to Marcus. In fact,’ he added, ‘I’m going to need an “assist” in this case anyway. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be big. And since you’re already up to speed, you’re the obvious choice. Fancy it?’
It was an olive branch, she knew. And although she winced internally at the thought of his pity, she was far too much of a pragmatist to turn down an offer like that. Even an “assist” job on a big case was a career booster. And once the Yorkie Bars had departed the scene and the spectre of her bloody husband had shuffled decently off into the woodwork, she didn’t see why a DCIship shouldn’t be in the offing.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘Thanks, sir.’
Mel nodded and followed her out to inform the team that from now on, he was SIO.
It pleased Frank Ross, anyway.
And while Janine quite liked the thought of being on a case with Mel, getting to know him better and learning from him up close and personal, she didn’t like the fact that Hillary had been side-lined.
Tommy Lynch said nothing, but felt plenty.
* * *
‘Another shitty day comes to an even shittier close,’ Hillary muttered to herself as she turned into the tiny narrow lane that led to Thrupp. She parked the car as far away from the Boat pub as she could manage and locked it angrily. She slung her bag over her shoulder and traipsed up the towpath, only looking up when a cheerful voice hailed her.
‘Hey, Hill! You look like you need a good long G and T.’
It was Nancy Walker, the woman who owned and lived on Willowsands, the boat moored next along from hers. ‘I’d offer you some company, but you’ve already got it, I see.’
Nancy was a cheerful, lustful widow who liked to prey on the older-woman-fixated young male students that Oxford had in plenty. She turned her freckled face towards Hillary’s own boat, and the youth who was stretched out, bare-chested, on top of the roof, soaking up the last of the hot May sunshine.
She looked approvingly at Hillary, who smiled back, damned if she was going to introduce them.
‘Another time, maybe,’ she said, not wanting to turn down a gin and tonic and the chance to spend some time off the boat, even if it meant spending time on somebody else’s.
‘Hey, Gary!’
Her visitor, alerted by their talk, had already sat up and was busy putting his shirt back on. He was just Nancy’s type. Twenty-one, but looking younger, he was tall and slim with a face that only just managed to stop itself from looking pretty.
‘Hill,’ he muttered, wriggling down the roof and landing his sneakered feet on the deck with a lithe leap.
Hillary opened the padlock and pushed it open, going down the stairs. ‘Watch your—’
There was a “whump” followed by a yell and then a full-throated obscenity from behind her.
‘Head,’ she finished wryly. ‘How many times have you been on this boat?’ she asked, turning around and watching him duck-walk inside, rubbing his head furiously.
‘Too effing many.’ As usual, he was reluctant to swear in front of her. She was, after all, a policewoman. Not to mention a superior officer. Luckily, he didn’t work out of her station. That would have been just too much.
‘Want something to drink? There’s some Southern Comfort in the cupboard I think.’ Or was there? She had an uneasy feeling she might have finished it off last week.
‘No thanks. I just wanted to ask, you know, how things went. With the Complaints and Discipline people.’
Hillary snorted and slung her bag onto a chair. The lounge had only two chairs. She slumped in one, then had to take her bag off the other so they would both have somewhere to sit.
‘Oh, the Yorkie Bars. They’re all right. One of ’em fancies me,’ she said, finding it almost funny.
The young man sat down, still buttoning up his shirt. It was a curiously intimate gesture that would have had Nancy Walker salivating.
‘Oh. No word, then? About Dad?’
Hillary shook her head at her stepson. Gary Greene had been twelve when she’d married his father, too old to get a wicked stepmother complex. And since his own mother was still alive and well and waspish on the subject of Ronnie Greene herself, he’d come to look on Hillary as a sort of honorary aunt.
Now he looked at her miserably.
Hillary sighed. ‘Uh-oh. I don’t like that look. It’s your I-can’t-tell-Mum-but-I-can-tell-Hillary one.’ She knew it well. It usually meant a crisis of some sort.
Gary had lived with his mother until, much against her wishes, he joined the police force and moved out, so he’d never been a burden or a strain on Hillary’s marriage to his father. It was probably the reason they were still friends to this day.
Gary also, for some reason less obvious, considered Hillary to be something of an oracle.
‘Out with it.’ Hillary spoke crisply, in no mood to be playing nurse.
‘Do you think Dad was on the take?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Hillary said, firmly.
He blinked. Then sighed. ‘Yeah. So do I.’ His shoulders slumped. Since the allegations about his father had come out, Hillary supposed Gary’s life must have been pretty miserable. She began to feel the usual residue of guilt, having been very relieved that so far, Gary hadn’t felt the need to confide in her, or unburden himself.
Now she wondered what was coming. Because one look at his tight lips told her that something sure as hell was.
‘See, the thing is, Hill,’ he lifted his sandy-coloured hair off his forehead, and looked at her with woebegone eyes, ‘Dad once joked about this account he had in the Cayman Islands. Said he’d set it up so you didn’t need a signature, or even identification, just the number. At the time I thought he was joking. Then, later, I thought he was probably giving me a hint. You know. Son and heir, and all that. In case anything happened to him.’
As
it had.
Their eyes met.
Hillary wished she’d accepted Nancy’s gin and tonic. She wished she hadn’t finished the last of the Southern Comfort. She wished, in fact, that she could get nice and cosily sozzled.
‘Oh shit,’ she said softly.
CHAPTER 6
‘Uh-oh, here comes Vice,’ Janine muttered under her breath. Tommy heard her, though, looked up and scowled. Nobody felt particularly friendly towards cops who poached on their turf.
It was a bright new morning, still sunny, although the weather pundits were predicting the usual rain later. Tommy yawned, wishing he hadn’t stayed up to watch the late movie last night, but Jean liked sci-fi, and the classic 1950s movie had, apparently, been a must-see.
If his mother hadn’t been asleep in the next room, who knows? They might have got around to a little . . .
‘Right, listen up, everyone,’ Mel’s mellifluous tones cut across his vaguely lascivious musings, and he stiffened automatically in his seat as if he’d been caught out.
‘This is DI Mike Regis and Sergeant Colin Tanner, from Vice. I filled them in on our case last night, after our super had their super assign them to our case, since we think Vice might have precedence. I expect your full cooperation.’
Frank Ross was evidently less than impressed. In fact, Janine thought she heard a snort.
Regis looks like a tough sod, she mused, eyeing the DI warily. Short, but with that vicious look you often got with little dogs. Just ready to give your ankle, or anything else he could reach, a nasty nip. He was balding, and could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five. He had the craggy, couldn’t-give-a-monkeys look of the cop who’d seen it all and done most of it. They could either be the best bloody thing since sliced bread to work with, or sheer hell on wheels. Especially if you were female. She’d have to wait and see.
She couldn’t say that Hillary Greene looked all that apprehensive. Did Hillary know something about Regis that she didn’t? Or maybe she just had her armour plating already in place.
The other one, the sergeant, was as tall and lanky as a string bean, and just as ugly. He smiled vaguely at the room (nobody in particular, just the room) while Mel introduced them, then his face fell back into its crushed bog-roll look.
‘Morning, everyone.’ Regis spoke with the gravelly voice of the dedicated smoker. ‘I come bearing gifts.’ Here he waved a huge briefcase in the air. ‘Everything we have on David Pitman, Luke Fletcher and known associates.’
Hillary mused briefly on the warning to beware Greeks bearing gifts, but didn’t think that now was the time to air her Radcliffe College education. Radcliffe was still, technically, an Oxford college, and some people, especially male cops, could get very nervous when confronted with an OEC — an Oxford Educated Cop. Especially a female one.
Like Janine, she had Regis pegged as difficult, and a potential obstacle.
‘So far, our boy Fletcher seems to be unaware of the loss of The Pits.’ Regis had obviously guessed that the room’s single unused desk had been seconded to him and his sergeant, and he strolled over to lean against it, already looking right at home.
‘We haven’t had much time, but we’ve had a watching brief since last night, and nothing seems to be stirring at Fletcher’s. So far, we have only two others of his outfit currently missing in action. One Alfred Makepeace and one Jake Gascoigne. Makepeace is an old geezer, sixty-one last birthday, and waiting to retire. He’s got form, but none of it for violence. He’s a bit of a dog-of-all-trades. Joined the merchant navy as a lad, no doubt picking up a load of bad habits as well as useful tricks of the trade and contacts abroad. He has an HGV licence, and did most of his time for forgery and some highly inventive scams. He’s been working for Fletcher for some twenty years now, doing the jobs other villains don’t want, and reaching the parts other villains can’t reach.’
‘Huh?’ Frank suddenly looked interested.
‘He’s Fletcher’s eyes and ears,’ Hillary interjected.
Like the twin barrels of a shotgun, Mike Regis’s eyes swung her way. Janine felt herself tense and she began to sweat, even though Hillary herself simply stared back. And — wonder of wonders — was that a ghost of a smile crossing DI Regis’s face? Then Janine thought, maybe not.
‘Right,’ he said curtly. ‘We’ve long since supposed that Makepeace’s only real function nowadays is to keep a general eye on things and report back to Fletcher on anything naughty. Gascoigne, on the other hand, is a very different kettle of fish.’
He passed a pile of slim folders to his sergeant, who began handing them out.
‘As you can see from his mugshot,’ Regis carried on, hardly waiting for the hasty rustle of paper that indicated everyone was hunting out the relevant report, ‘he’s a good-looking bastard, who fancies himself with the ladies. More than that, he fancies himself with a blade. With good reason.’
Hillary looked down at a black-haired, brown-eyed face that most women would probably consider handsome, and flicked her eyes over his vital statistics. Two suspected murders using a knife — neither brought home to him. In and out of Juvie as a kid, natch, druggie mother, and currently employed by Fletcher, so Vice had it, as a kind of minder for Luke’s drug runs.
Nowadays, not even drug runners were immune from criminal acts. Just last year, a drugs baron from up Edinburgh way had had his shipment hijacked by some cockney chancers. Fletcher, it seemed, wasn’t keen to be made a similar laughing stock.
‘These two have been missing from their usual haunts for just over two weeks,’ Regis reiterated.
‘That’s when “The Pits” went AWOL,’ Hillary said. ‘Did the three of them operate as a unit?’
‘Yes.’ Once again Regis fixed her with a stare, and again seemed to nearly smile. Janine, for one, found it most disconcerting — like a dog that had a friendly wagging tail but was also showing its teeth. Which end did you trust?
‘They have been known to act together on at least three other occasions. Twice on lorries, working the continental route, and once doing something very odd with a fishing trawler. Makepeace, apparently, can drive, navigate or steer anything on land or sea. For all we know, the old sod might even be able to fly a plane. Though not officially — he doesn’t have a pilot’s licence anyway. Right now, we have no idea where they are or what they’re up to. Except for The Pits, of course. We know where he is all right.’
‘DI Greene has a theory about that,’ Mel put in.
‘Oh?’ Regis said, looking once more at Hillary.
‘Yes,’ Mel said, and went on to explain Hillary’s idea about a canal-network distribution scheme.
‘And since she lives on a narrowboat,’ Mel concluded, ‘we can take it that she knows what she’s talking about.’
Hillary wished he hadn’t said that. She might live on a boat, but that was all she did. She didn’t use the damn thing. Not as a boat, anyway.
Seeing Regis’s gimlet gaze on her again, she racked her brains for something intelligent to say. ‘There are areas of the country that aren’t covered by canals, of course. So the network might, at best, be fragmented. Still, there are plenty of places to hide contraband, and narrowboats are so low-key as to be almost invisible. The only thing that worries me—’
‘Is The Pits turning up in a lock,’ Regis said.
Hillary nodded, glad to be able to knock around ideas with someone so on the ball. ‘Right. If Fletcher is using narrowboats, why advertise the fact by leaving a body in one?’
‘Accidents happen,’ Regis said, and nobody quite knew whether to laugh or not because nobody could quite figure out if he was joking. Not even Frank Ross seemed to be sure.
Mel decided it was time to take control. ‘So, we have to get cracking and find out. Tommy and Janine, see whether Fletcher owns any narrowboats. Remember, his haulage firm was hidden under a barrage of paperwork, so be careful. And extra thorough.’
Regis folded his arms across his chest and watched his temporary co-workers sor
t themselves out. Quietly, Colin Tanner moved up to stand beside him.
‘Frank, you know the lowlifes around Fletcher better than anyone else,’ Mel continued. The bite to his voice had Tanner perking up with interest. ‘That can be your field. Get on to your snitches, find out if there are any rumours about The Pits or either of these other two — Makepeace and Gascoigne. If there are any fallings out between thieves, I want to know about it.’
‘Well?’ Regis said quietly.
Tanner didn’t hesitate. ‘Greene is narked at having the case taken from her, obviously. She seems to be the brightest of the bunch. Something else is going on here too, but I’m not sure what.’
Regis did. Before coming in this morning, he’d made it his business to find out about the people he’d be working with. He’d fill his sergeant in on the investigation into her late husband later.
‘The big black guy has got the hots for her, but is being careful not to show it. He’s being successful too. I don’t think anybody’s twigged to it yet. Ross hates her guts. The pretty blonde has plans for our DCI, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t coincide with his for her.’
Regis sighed. Usual mix, then. So long as none of it interfered with his plans to finally get Fletcher, he didn’t give a shit.
‘Sir, aren’t we rather taking it for granted that this death is drugs-related?’ Hillary said, not liking the way Mel was giving everybody except her prime bites of the pie. ‘After all, we’ve barely begun an even bog-standard investigation yet. And if this turns into a high-flying case, we don’t want to give the media, or anyone else, reason to point the finger. Pits might have had any number of enemies willing and able to kill him, people that have nothing to do with Fletcher.’
Frank snorted.
‘Right,’ Mel said. ‘Hill, you can cover that. You’re right, we shouldn’t assume it’s drugs, or Fletcher-related. You can get on to that. Check out his family, his personal life, look for the usual motive — money, love, hate, revenge, that sort of thing. That’s great,’ he added, looking away.
